Charity Work Ch. 02

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Over the few days that followed my humiliation in the depot, I found it very difficult to settle to anything; I could not take my mind off Blake. My husband noticed my restlessness and made a couple of comments, but I did not engage.

On the Saturday I went shopping for lingerie. I bought several new bra and pants sets, including a couple with suspender belts; I also bought both holdups and stockings: I wanted to be prepared for every eventuality. On the Monday evening, I set about removing my pubic hair. This was not something I had ever done before; however, I had acquired some hair removal cream during my Saturday shopping trip, and it turned out to be easier than I had thought. It felt very strange to be completely bald down there; the first thing I did when I had finished was masturbate. In fact, I had masturbated at least once every day since Blake had spanked me; prior to that it had been once or twice a month at most.

On Tuesday morning I waited until my husband had left for work, then had a leisurely shower and prepared for my day at the depot. I dressed in dark green skimpy underwear and hold-ups. I looked myself up and down in the full-length mirror and was surprised with what I saw: I looked rather sexier than I had expected. I chose an above the knee black pencil-skirt, a heavy cotton blouse (so that the green bra would not show through) and a pair of high heels. I was pleased with the effect.

I arrived at the depot slightly early, and so called at Starbucks for some takeaway coffees. Blake arrived on the stroke of 9:30am, as usual. He thanked me for the coffee, and we began the work of the day, sorting through the donations. He was back to his usual chatty self, making no reference to the events of the previous Thursday or to how I was dressed, which was a little disappointing. I began to regret all the effort I had put in, wondering if it had been a one-off; perhaps Blake was embarrassed by what had occurred and hoped it would go away.

An hour or so into the working day I moved to lift a box of books from the floor up onto the sorting table and realized that my tight skirt was all very well from an aesthetic perspective but was impractical in the workplace. To say that bending down was a struggle would be an understatement, however I managed to kneel and pick up the box by hitching the skirt up slightly and using the side of the table for leverage; it was not very elegant. It was only as I completed the manoeuvre and was straightening out my skirt that I realized Blake had stopped work and was watching me intently from the other side of the room.

“Is there a problem, Mrs Henley?”

“No, Blake,” I Responded. There was a silence, as he stared across at me, his eyes taking in every inch of me.

“Do you think that dressing like a slut is appropriate, when it hampers your work?”

I felt my face going bright red. I didn’t respond.

“Well?” he continued. “Is that the sort of apparel one should wear for lifting boxes istanbul travesti of books in a warehouse?”

“No, Blake,” I answered quietly. He continued to stare at me. “No Sir.”

“Take it off,” he instructed. I stood stock still, like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. “The skirt, Slut. Take it off.”

He was staring directly into my eyes, as if challenging me to disobey. Maintaining eye contact, I reached around, unzipped the skirt, bent down to pick it up from the floor and laid it neatly across a chair back.

I am not sure quite what I expected, but he just turned back to the box of books he was working on. I did the same, carrying on with my work, but without the skirt. I felt incredibly exposed.

Half an hour later, the doorbell rang. That meant a donation of books. Normally I answer the door, however I could hardly do that without my skirt. Blake looked across at me, half smiled, then said he would get it. Sometimes customers would come in carrying the donations, so I went to the kitchen to hide myself. He returned a few minutes later pushing a trolley, laden with boxes.

“Why are you hiding through there?” he asked.

“I was embarrassed. I didn’t want to be seen partially dressed.”

“And you thought I would bring someone in while you were like that?”

“No, Sir” I replied.

“Clearly you did,” he continued. “That shows a disappointing lack of trust.”

“I am sorry, Sir.”

“Very disappointing,” he repeated.

“Please Sir, it won’t happen again.”

I felt his eyes running over my body, lingering on my legs and my pants — the shirt did not cover much below my waist.

“I like your choice of colour, Mrs Henley. Dark green is very becoming for a blonde. Does the bra match?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Show me.”

I undid a couple of buttons so that he could see the colour of my bra.

“I think you can do a little better than that, don’t you Slut?”

“Yes Sir, sorry Sir.” I undid the rest of the buttons, removed my shirt, folded it neatly and placed it with my skirt. I stood in front of him wearing my bra and pants, my hold-ups and my high-heeled shoes.

“That’s better. Every inch the slut. No shame. No shame at all. Does that feel good?”

I didn’t know what to say. On the one hand I was very embarrassed, on the other I was extremely excited. “Yes Sir.”

“It feels good to be virtually naked in front of me?”

“Yes Sir.”

“You really are a dirty little slut, aren’t you? But what is it that you want, Mrs H? Another spanking? Or are you hoping for something more?”

“I don’t know, Sir.”

“You don’t know! You don’t know whether you want a firm hand on your pretty little arse or a hard cock in your pretty little mouth?”

“No Sir.”

“No Sir to which?”

“I mean I don’t know what I want, Sir. I don’t think it is my place to make that sort of choice, Sir.”

“You are absolutely right, Slut. I decide what you want istanbul travestileri from now on.”

He walked over to me so that we were no more than a foot apart, our eyes locked together. We stood stock still for at least a minute. I could feel his warm breath against my face. Then I felt his hand slide inside my pants.

“Clean shaven — you are an obedient slut. And all hot and wet too,” he said, as his finger penetrated me. But as soon as it had started it was over. He took his hand away and walked through to the bathroom to wash his hands. Then he went back to work.

“Come along Mrs H — we have work to do.”

Disappointed, I picked up my shirt to get dressed.

“What are you doing now, Slut?”

“I was just…”

“Well don’t ‘just’ anything. Except just do some work!”

And so, I continued working, dressed in only my underwear and high-heeled shoes. It felt faintly ridiculous. Blake just continued working, paying no attention to me whatsoever. In the next box I sorted were a couple of copies of Fifty Shades of Gray, which seemed very appropriate under the circumstances. I put them onto the pile for the shop and carried on sorting.

After about thirty minutes, Blake crossed over to my table and, spotting the books on the shop pile, asked me what I was thinking.

“Do you think that is literature, Slut?” he asked.” Do you think that is the sort of quality we are aiming for?”

As he spoke, he came around behind me.

“No Sir. Sorry Sir.”

“Put your hands flat on the table, Slut.”

I did as he instructed.

“Now keeping your hands still, take a step backwards.”

I obeyed.

“A little bit further”

I took another step backwards.

“Don’t slouch Slut. Keep your legs straight. Feet about a foot apart.”

I was now bent over as far as I could go, my hands stretched out in front of me on the table, my bottom sticking up in the air.

“That is the sort of thing to expect from Fifty Shades, Slut,” he continued as his hand began gently caressing my bottom. “Have you read it?”

“No Sir.”

“I will save you the trouble, Slut. I will let you experience it instead.”

With that, his hand left my bottom and moments later returned at speed, with a loud thwack, immediately causing a sharp stinging sensation. Then he was rubbing me again, massaging my bottom and easing the pain. Then came the second smack, harder and louder than the first. Then his hand was rubbing again. Then came number three, much harder and much louder. Involuntarily, I breathed in sharply.

“Problem, Slut?”

“No Sir. Thank you, Sir,” I responded.

“Thank you for what, Slut?”

“Thank you for correcting my errant behaviour, Sir.”

His hand returned to its massaging. Then I felt it slip inside the thin silky material.

“Take these off, Slut, then resume the position.”

I did as he instructed.

“Legs a little further apart, I think.”

Again, travesti istanbul I obeyed. There were a few moments of silence, dare I say peace, before smack number four arrived. Again his hand lingered, easing the stinging, but now exploring my nakedness just a little further. Slap numbers five, six and seven came and went, each time his hand exploring my bottom as it became hotter and hotter from the continuing blows. Number eight was much harder and as the hand returned it slipped straight between my legs and once again a finger slipped effortlessly inside me, quickly joined by a second.

“You have done very well, Slut. I think you have earned a reward, don’t you?”

His fingers were removed, and I realized he was removing his trousers. A few moments later his hands were on my hips and his cock was thrust deep inside me, with no warning. He held it there a moment, then gently almost pulled out. He held that position for a few moments then thrust back into me again, hard and deep. This pattern was repeated, each time he held back just a little bit longer before the next deep hard thrust, each time seemingly harder and deeper than the last. I found myself pushing back to meet each thrust, finding my way into his rhythm. I knew I was close to cumming but didn’t know whether that was allowed. However, as his pace increased, I realized there was nothing I could do about it, so let it happen. I bucked backwards against him, my whole body shaking. His grip on my hips tightened and his pace increased further. Then suddenly I felt him explode inside of me, over and over again he thrust into me until I thought he would never stop. Finally, he came to rest and his body draped over mine, as he recovered his breathing.

There was a silence, then he slipped out of me and without a word went to the bathroom to tidy himself up. When he returned, he walked over to the other table and recommenced his work. After a few minutes, he told me to tidy myself up, get dressed and return to my work. I did as instructed.

I removed the copies of Fifty Shades to the pile for sending to other charity shops, then with a sudden inspiration took one of them and slipped it into my bag; I could read it, then return it on my next shift. Blake began to ask me questions about my weekend, whether I had watched some or other program on TV, whether I was reading anything interesting at the moment. We were back to some kind of normality, though I was feeling rather battered and bruised under my pencil skirt and skimpy knickers.

Twenty minutes later it was lunchtime. He told me that I should work in the shop that afternoon as he had asked one of the new volunteers to take a shift in the depot. The day’s adventure was at an end.

That afternoon I worked in the shop, feeling very over-dressed compared to the other volunteers. I was pleased when the day finally drew to a close and I was able to rush home to change before my husband returned from the office.

That evening I began reading my stolen novel; I was going to say literature, but that would certainly be overstating the case. It was a toss-up between exploring the kinky relationship and becoming more and more angry at the woeful grammar and appalling writing style. Within half an hour the book was consigned to the bin.