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If he could just remember the name of the place. She said it was a fairly new salon on the main street, which was not of much help because he did not often frequent that kind of establishment. “Paris hairstyle” - looked promising, he went in, but could not see Rita, instead there was this blonde knockout lady in her 30’s. Nice medium sized tits, straining against the material of what looked like a long teeshirt with a large print of the Eiffel tower. The base was at the hem mid-thigh, and the top ended at the cleavage between the tits. Was she wearing a bra at all, he started and could barely make the dark aureoles. Hey, she said, it is flattering that you like my tits, but if you lift your eyes just a little bit you might recognise my face? He looked up, rather bewildered, sorry, he said, I’m terrible at recognizing people out of context. We met at the diving charter a couple of months ago, she offered. Ah, yes, I would have remembered you on the deck of the diving boat, you had. But my master and my mistress make me wonder if that self-superiority is an act as well. I'd thought at first they were just more cocky rich idiots or weirdo swingers, but when they played with me like this, when they really went for it hard, they reduced me to putty in their hands. They took the smug and self-assured sexy girl I tell the world I am and reduced her to a moaning ruin, revealed the cocky smirk beneath the mask to be as false as the fawning servant's smile. Their combined affections punched down, broke through, touched a primal part of me that just wanted dominated, to be overwhelmed and blown away. In a sense I'd come full circle; my screams and cries and desperate efforts to keep up showed a respect, a submission that no smile or curtsey or honeyed 'yes, sir' could ever convey.My head was spinning, my vision filled with sparkling dots, and I felt like my limbs were about to go limp like some cut-down puppet. I didn't know how I was hanging on, how I found the breath to.
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