Undercover Whore Ch. 09

This story contains offensive language. Enjoy! Tyrell "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Emmanuel asked when I walked in the kitchen. After driving around all last night trying to keep myself from cursing Bassir out I ended up at his house. No fucking body was home so I drove back home and went to sleep. I've been up all night thinking about this one nigga. I ain't never been pressed over a bitch so to be pressed over a nigga is mind blowing to me. I can't possibly want to be with him even though that's what every fiber in my being is telling me. "Nothing nigga leave me alone. All in my shit like you the damn cops." He flipped me off walking away. I'm not in the mood for his shit. I got class anyway and I'm ready to curse Bassir out. I tucked my gun in my pants and left out. I got to class before everybody else. Bassir hadn't even come in yet. He still wasn't here when people started rolling in. That's not like him. "Hey I&

Miss Penny's report outlines some of how we all reached the point where I was presenting my open arsehole to her and Dame Suzie at the instruction of my owner, Bella, but stops there. It is my duty to continue it. Even reflecting now, a blush comes to my cheeks. There is a fine line for a submissive between humiliation, which on the whole is what we crave, and degradation, which some of us crave, but also fear. As I have explained to Bella, that moment would be where I would fix the line. Crawling into the room on a leash wearing nothing but my kitten ears and a collar, my hair dyed pink was humiliating. Miss Penny and Dame Suzie seeing me like that pushed the notch up several degrees. From my position on all fours, I could see that Miss Penny's knickers had a wet spot, and that underneath her kimono, Dame Suzie had no knickers on. I was close enough to smell their scent and know what, or rather who, it was inspired it. Being told by my owner to get the bag with the tail and

The restaurant was busy. It had taken forever for the food to appear and I was feeling bored and restless. My husband went on and on about the conference he had just attended in Florida, but I had tuned out long ago. All it took was the occasional nod from me for conversation to keep flowing. Idly I pushed my food around the plate and concentrated on my glass of chardonnay, conversations around us provided a steady hum of background noise. I listened as a woman next to us chatted to her friend about her recent vacation in Italy and I hung on to every word. Her stories were far more interesting than the same old conference chat. A soft Scottish accent caught my attention and I immediately began scanning the room to see who had spoken. A good looking man with long dark hair sat at table close by with a blond woman. He was leaning back in his chair, a glass of red wine in hand while the woman talked about a wedding she had gone to. It was immediately obvious he was bored by the expressi

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He closed on the house in January, but there was still no time to waste in setting out the slutgarden. The winter had been a mild one, even by Alabama standards, and he was able to begin to laying out the first flowerbeds the day he moved in. Thankfully, he didn't have to spend any extra time building a privacy fence-the house he found, at the end of a winding road in a suburb of Dothan, already had a big yard and a tall wooden fence painted a cheerful white. Even so, the ground was hard and he had a lot to do to get ready for first planting. He didn't have any sunlight to waste. In the evening, after he finished raking and tilling the new beds, he began setting up his grow lights in the attic. He brought in pots filled with jasmine bushes and clumps of valerian, lavender seedlings and tiny passion flower sprouts just barely sticking their heads up from the soil. He took gardenias and roses and a few hybrid plants he'd never even bothered to name, placing them all in neat