Oh, Princess Frida. Do you have faint lipstick stains on your back this morning? Does your mouth carry the taste of my burgundy heels?
Last night, I had the pleasure of humiliating the Desert’s favorite princess, Frida. We started off in a dark corner–away from the prying eyes blinking back at us in the dimly-lit dungeon. We negotiated. I laid out a few choice implements: a strap that doubles as a light bondage toy, a leather paddle, a flogger, and two tubes of red lipstick. Inexpensive red lipstick, the kind with an orange versus a blue undertone. The best toy for our scene was secreted in my bra.
I wrapped the strap around Frida’s neck and drew her pretty face close to mine. She fell to her knees, and I crouched down there with her–and lifted her toward my breasts as I slowly stood.
“Take off your shirt.” She complied, and I shifted her body so that she faced the suspended bed, still on her knees. Her skirt swept across her upper thighs, and I swept my flogger against her back.
“Ready to be my bitch?” I hissed in Frida’s ear. She nodded.
I teased her flesh with my hands and fingernails, pinched her nipples, grabbed the secret jewels between her dark thighs. I chanted dirty whore in her ear, laid into her back with my flogger, lifted her skirt and spanked her like a naughty little girl.
Then I put all the toys down. I caressed her warm flesh–my now perfect canvas. Frida’s nipples stood at attention as I wrote between them in cheap–as in Wet n Wild–lipstick: “I Love to Fuck.” Frida’s dark eyes widened and I twirled one of my legs over her head. I breathed hard on her neck as I wrote, “Cheap Lipstick = Cheap …” on her back. As I formed the “W” for the final word, that lipstick broke.
“Oh, you’re gonna laugh when you see what I’m writing,” I told Frida. “Now give me your other cheap red lipstick.”
That tube held out to form the word “Whore” across Frida’s marked back. Now that I’d established just what kind of whore I was dealing with, I lifted my burgundy heeled foot. I barely hat to command Frida to worship it–her pink tongue was hot and ready. As she licked, I reminded her of the differences between us.
“I’m a Dior Whore,” I hissed. “A Chanel Whore. A Prada Whore running down a dark rain-slick street.”
Frida practically wet herself at those magic words.
The cheap whore deserved to earn a little money. Emphasis on little. Remember: I had the best implement in my bra. I took out four one dollar bills and one five dollar bill.
“You wanna earn a dollar, bitch?” I slid the dollar bill over Frida’s face. Her pretty brown eyes lit up at the smell and feel of cash.
I spit on the bill, crumpled it up, and threw it across the room. Princess Frida scampered like a happy puppy, ass in air, showing off her back’s decoration. I ordered her to put the money in her boot, and repeated the chase for each dollar. Then, I waved that five dollar bill in front the whore.
“Think you’ve earned five dollars?” I hissed. I dug deeper into my bra. “First, let’s see if you can get this quarter.”
I tossed the quarter at her, like one would a common whore. Princess Frida did her duty, and I had her hold onto that quarter for the rest of our scene.
That five dollars? I slid it against my pussy. And when Princess Frida retrieved it, I ordered to sniff the green paper. She seemed to want to lick it.
My whore had done well and earned all $9.25. I took her back to the dark corner in which we’d started, and I caressed her, ran my fingers through her air and my nails against her scalp. I allowed her to stand.
“Parade yourself over to the after-care area,” I whispered. “Turn for the folks sitting there, show off what I’ve written on you–and then our scene will be done.”
She did as she was told–happily, I’d say, ready to show off what she’d become, been reduced to.
Word has it Princess Frida’s lovely girlfriend spent a week getting that lipstick off Frida’s back. When the shoe fits …
