Patience and time. Never rush things. Let them develop at their own pace, take it slow and you can adjust to just about anything within reason. It’s all about comfort levels…
I didn’t hate him. What I felt was resentment, not to mention the awkwardness whenever our paths crossed, usually orchestrated by her. After all, he knew all about me and what we did together – or, rather, what I was to her and how she treated me.
I.
The first few times we had dinner together, the three of us, I admit to feeling territorial. He was the newcomer. She quickly cured me of that by treating me as she always did – as her pet.
“You’re overdressed.”
“I am?”
“Yes, and you know it.”
“But -“
She shushed my objections (plural) with a simple look.
Unless specifically told, I didn’t get to sit at the table. Instead, I knelt by her side. Naked. She would feed me from her plate with her fingers, my hands resting upon my thighs or on my lap.
Still, I tried again.
“Mistress, I -“
“Not another word unless you want to spend the rest of the evening over in the corner.”
I didn’t. Not even a little. In fact, I’d rather have eaten paste. Or worms. I shushed and undressed. At least he wasn’t there to watch. He was in the dining room. He got to sit at the table. I kept my muttering to myself, although I was pretty sure she was aware.
I spent the meal next to her, kneeling, hands folded on my lap, sometimes resting my head against her thigh, needing the reassurance of her touch as she brushed her fingers through my hair and told me I was a good girl.
She fed me. A morsel at a time. I took a perverse sort of gratification that he felt nearly as awkward as I did. And afterwards, after he’d left, she would reward me. Or so I hoped.
II.
Patience and time. Never rush things. Let them develop at their own pace, taking it slow and you can adjust to just about anything within reason. It’s all about comfort levels…
The dinners continued. They weren’t a constant, but they were somewhat regular. The awkwardness faded. Eventually, it started feeling natural to be sitting at her side, across from him, naked. My role evolved. Occasionally I’d serve them. Or cook. I enjoyed cooking, especially since it meant wearing a frilly apron – a gift from her. I looked adorable in it, or so she told me, which meant the world to me. I craved her praise as much as the orgasms she gifted me with. Or the pain she inflicted upon me.,
I wasn’t an equal. I never joined in the conversations, but then I had no desire to, quite honestly. I was a pet – Her pet – and I couldn’t have been happier.
As for him, he’d grown used to me being there. Once, he had done his best not to look at the naked girl kneeling next to his girlfriend, except that sometimes he couldn’t help himself. Sometimes it would be a quick glance. Other times he’d simply stare, losing his train of thought (which embarrassed me while amusing my Mistress to no end).
Eventually, he simply accepted my presence and would smile at me and say, ‘Hello.’ Twice he’d even fed me after She had me urged to crawl over to the other side of the table. The first time I didn’t like it and growled a bit – at her, not him. Just once, to show my displeasure, knowing I could probably get away with it. Probably. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might explode. I decided, almost immediately, that should there be a second time, I’d not make the same mistake. There was, and I didn’t, much to my relief.
III.
Patience and time. Never rush things. Let them develop at their own pace, taking it slow and you can adjust to just about anything within reason. It’s all about comfort levels…
The conversations began to include me occasionally. Not that I joined in. I was merely the topic. I am not sure if it was meant to embarrass me. If it was, It achieved its purpose. Not that I minded. Quite the opposite, in fact. Blushing with every word, I’d listen to her talk about me with a sense of pride. Yes, I was a good girl. Yes, I was a slut. Yes, I was perverted and debauched. Yes, I liked to be whipped. Yes, I…
“She likes to hint at certain things. She thinks she’s being clever and, at the same time, knows she’s not.”
“What things?”
“She has a fascination for watersports.”
“Piss play you mean?”
A nod. “I’m not really a fan, but I indulge her once in a rare while. Probably shouldn’t, since it encourages her, but it’s a little too late now.”
His gaze shifted from her to me, smiling a little as he watched me pressing against her a little harder, taking comfort, obviously not comfortable with the conversation and, at the same time, incredibly turned on by it and the possibility that…
It was a game she liked to play. I knew it. He knew it. And she knew that we knew it.
“What kind of things does she… do you… do?” Genuine curiosity. He asked her, but he was still looking at me.
