First Anniversary, 

	I like to think of myself as urbane, and I like to think of Chicago as the
ultimate urbane city.  It really is just the way it looks in movies.  Slick. 
Clean.  Great architecture.  Lots of live music if you know where to look.  But
I also like to daydream too much.  I was at my favorite Japanese steakhouse,
thinking about how good the city looked at night.  Fortunately my girlfriend
didn't notice.  She just sat there on the right side of the secluded
booth...nibbling at nigiri sushi.
	The last time we were here was a year ago, after we first met.  And just like
the first time, our booth was very out of the way.  A little darker and cozier
than the rest, the low cushions lining the side and back walls just a bit more
plush.  I sat in the center, my attention less focused on my own food than how
she enjoyed hers...the chopsticks sliding over her lips, the demure way she
dabbed them dry.  I never understood why she was so dainty about food or
anything else, as Michelle is nearly eight inches taller than me and quite the
soft butch.  Well, tall or not, she's cute when she's eating.
	My food was lukewarm (as opposed to being properly chilly), and I had lost
interest in it some time before.  I just watched her eating, savoring the rice
and sake.  And her lips...they've always been very full, and red, even without
makeup.
	Instead of letting her use the napkin, I leaned in for a kiss, licking the
sweet liquor from her lips.  She paused, setting down her cup; accepting my
lips, and then my tongue, and then returning my interest with her own.  Her
right hand caressed my face, but her left...there were fingers.  Soft ones. 
And they were up my skirt.  Michelle keeps her fingernails manicured and
painted silver, but short.  For me.
	I couldn't even feel her nails inside me, only firm, insistent flesh.  And
her thumb pressing my clitoris.  My panties she had pulled aside, and now she
got to the point.  She pulled my panties down to just above the hem of my
skirt...her right hand still on my face, she stopped kissing me.  She looked me
straight in the eyes, as a predator might taunt its next meal, and was no
longer simply touching.  Her fingers began sliding in and out as she
unashamedly, unabashedly began to masturbate me.
	I stared into her eyes in disbelief.  We were in public.  And she was so
matter-of-fact...she didn't care where we were.  Part of me wondered who would
walk past the booth, but there had been no traffic in 15 minutes.  I let go,
kicking my heels off and sinking my head onto her shoulder.  For a few moments
she kissed my face...and surprised me again.  She took her right hand from my
face and went back to eating her food and drinking her wine.  Her left hand
didn't miss a beat.  Consistently, laboriously, she began to press against my
G-spot.
	She kept her thumb on my clitoris, stroking it up and down, massaging my clit
with my own sheath.  I turned my head, still on her shoulder, to face her.  To
look at her expression, you'd think she was just enjoying a regular meal.  Her
face was...not just blank.  Smug.  Sinister.  This diabolical bitch was going
to make me spill all over her hand without breaking a sweat.  God, yes.  I
wasn't ashamed.  Not at being masturbated in public, not for lubricating all
over these fine cushions.  If I was a slut, I was her slut.  I held onto her
shoulder with my right hand, my left around her waist.
	I buried my face in her shoulder, finally free and able to simply enjoy her
ministrations to my sex.  Her smooth, round fingertips sensed me tightening,
and pressed upward, the pressure on my G-spot so insistent I thought I might be
lifted off my seat.  For her part, she remained deadpan, almost clinical. 
Simultaneously, she intensified her stimulation of my clitoris, and took
another sip of wine.  I was sobbing, ready to scream, and this was just child's
play to her.  She looked in my eyes (which had widened to the size of saucers),
smiled, and went back to her sushi just as my body started heating up.  My
pussy was on fire, I was afraid that when I came I would crush her hand.
	I quickly forgot that concern.  Her hand's every motion startled me with both
its gentleness and its strength.  Her hand, only a few fingers of it really,
had tamed my sex, mastered it.  While the other nonchalantly stuffed her face. 
The heat in my pelvis began to toast the rest of my body, and seemingly the
whole room...I managed to relax my muscles, knowing that release was
imminent...
	And it was.  My toes curled and my hand spasmed around her arm as the first
shuddering waves of tight hot sweetness came.  She inserted more of her
fingers' length, more warm flesh for my pussy to hold onto as it lost
control.  I was soaking wet, spilling more than enough juice onto her fingers
to let her slide against my G-spot.  She combined this with alternately rubbing
the shaft of my clitoris and the exposed tip.  I squeezed her forearm between
my thighs, gasping, trying not to make a sound as my body betrayed me...
	As the orgasm finally began to subside, she finally turned from the meal.  She
looked at me with the amused expression of a cat owner seeing her pussy chase
its tail.
	"You see what I can do to you?  Imagine if I'd had both hands free.  Now I
think you've been finished with your meal for some time, and I've finished
mine.  So...I think you should put yourself back together, wipe your juice from
your thighs, and I'll take you home so you can see what happens when I'm really
imaginative."
	I hadn't been to her place in some time, probably a few weeks.  She had been
telling me off and on about some remodeling she'd done to her apartment. 
Nothing major, just new furniture and things.  Not that her apartment really
needed improvements.  The Lake Point Towers in downtown Chicago were already
pristine.  For eight grand a month, hers certainly had better be.  But I was
still interested in the changes.  These thoughts were not absent from my mind
as I collected myself.
	I had no idea silk napkins were so absorbent.  Or at least they felt like silk
as they cleaned my inner thighs off.  She had stepped out of the booth to pay
our bill at the maitre'd's desk, while I cleaned my vulva and pulled up my
panties.  Finally she parted the curtains and stuck her head back in.

	"Ready to go?"

	I replied in the affirmative, slowly finding the composure to stand and smooth
my skirt.  As I stepped out of the booth, I felt as if my forehead had "slut"
written across it.  I held onto Michelle and she held onto me as I
half-stumbled to the car.  I guess it doesn't take alcohol to get me drunk. 
Fortunately there were no excessively odd stares from the patrons, although God
knows what the waiter found when he got back to our booth.
	Finally we got to her sedan, and she set me in the passenger seat.  I watched
her as she walked around the front to the driver's side.  She moved like a
predator, like a tigress protecting her cubs, even in something so mundane as
taking me home for more desperate fucking.  All of the fifteen minutes it took
to drive to her place, I was squirming in my seat.  Half from the residual heat
in my pelvis, and half from what I suspected would be done to me when we
arrived at her place.  Which after what seemed like ages, we did.  I stood
close to her in the elevator, nuzzling her arm like I'd never been out in the
world before.
	I hadn't.  Not with my pussy threatening to drip onto my shoes, at least.  We
got to her floor, and she led me to her apartment.  At first, I couldn't point
to any specific changes.  The living room looked the same.  Maybe the kitchen? 
No, that was the same, olive oil bottles and everything.
	I asked about the remodeling, and she innocently replied..."Oh, all of the
remodeling was in the bedroom, sweetie."  I've got rather pale skin, but I'm
sure I turned even whiter when she said this.  I didn't even ask, I just let
her lead me into the bedroom...and was presented with a sight that made my
heart leap into my throat.  This was no longer a bedroom.  This was, however
soft and plush, nothing less than a sex dungeon.  The king size bed was still
present, still centered to take full advantage of the breathtaking view of
downtown Chicago.  But the sheets were now black satin, and the pillows dark
red chenille, apparently inspired by my suggestions a few weeks earlier.
	To the head and foot boards were tied two sets of fur-lined leather
cuffs...for wrists and ankles.  On the wall next to the bed hung various and
sundry toys.  And set in the middle of the bed was some sort of...seat.  It was
elevated slightly, and affixed to the sides of the bed by thick metal rods. 
Michelle tossed me over one shoulder and carried me to the bed, setting me
down.
	She removed her clothes for me, letting me drink in the sight of her as my
thighs involuntarily held my forearms to my glowing vulva.  Her breasts, larger
than mine.  Her hips, wider.  Her pubic hair thick and luxurious, trimmed only
near the center to allow easy access.  Once she was nude she stood me up and
began to undress me.  My shirt, my slightly damp bra.  Her height placed her
breasts almost at eye level for me.  She knew I loved her breasts, and moved
closer, just close enough that they were almost touching my face.  She slid
down as she slid my panties down with her.  She lifted each foot out of them,
tossed them aside, and as she stood back up, she licked me.
	Her tongue started at my clitoris, slowly trailing upward.  My tummy, my
breastbone, until she arrived at my lips.  She paused there, kissing me with
the taste of my own need on her lips.  She took my bottom in her hands, and
lifted me onto the bed.  We began to make out, her hands gently caressing my
breasts as she kneeled on the floor in front of me, my own small hands on her
shoulders.
	After drinking in each other's lips for several minutes, she took me in her
arms, moving me farther up onto the bed.  Finally I arrived with my bottom on
the strange cushion fixed in the center of the bed.  It was molded to support
my bottom and lower back.  And there were restraints I hadn't noticed before. 
They were wide strips of soft fabric, designed to fold over my legs as I sat in
the cushion.  A third such strap was under my waist.  It was wider, and
slightly tapered like a corset.

	She looked me in the eyes.  "What's our safe word?"

	"California."

	"Okay."

	First she affixed my waist with the corset.  This centered my bottom on the
cushion.  It was snug, but soft, and supported my back comfortably.  The straps
at my thighs, when she secured them, held my thighs open at about a 45 degree
angle.  Just enough to fully expose my genitals.  My pelvis was completely
immobile, elevated, and I couldn't close my thighs.  Fortunately she had placed
a huge towel under the seat, knowing how leaky my body would get.  Of course, I
could reach down and fumble the straps and corset open if necessary.  She fixed
this rather quickly, as I felt the fur-lined cuffs being secured around my
wrists and ankles.  Only when I was comfortably restrained spread-eagle on the
bed did I notice the mirror on the ceiling.
	I watched myself strain against the bonds to no avail.  I couldn't move my
thighs a single degree closer together to cover my private parts, and I
couldn't move my pelvis an inch.  Mercifully, she didn't start with my exposed
genitals.  She left me lying there, the warm air brushing my skin, and went to
get something.  Restrained as I was, I couldn't turn very far to see her.
	She came back to the satin bed with a set of two small plastic cups connected
to flexible tubes.  She generously licked my left nipple and areola, coating
them in her mouth's wetness, and set the cup upside down on my small breast. 
Looking into my eyes as she moved to the other breast, she repeated the process
with my right nipple.  The tubes leading from them she then connected to
something under the nightstand I couldn't see.  I heard a low humming sound,
and the soft rubber edges of the cups pressed into my breasts as the cups began
sucking my nipples.  The device under the nightstand must have been a breast
pump.  We had been experimenting with making me lactate, by various hormones
and massage techniques.
	Some months before it had started to pay off, as I began to lactate whenever I
was sufficiently aroused.  I could feel my milk leaking through my erect
nipples as the pump did its work.  Michelle helped the process by gently
rubbing warm cherry-scented oil into my breasts around the edges of the nipple
cups.  As she did this she gently kissed my lips.  "Are you okay?"  I nodded,
trying to arch my back as my breasts began to throb with pleasure...
	The pleasure from my breasts radiated to my genitals, but I could not rub my
thighs together to stimulate myself.  I tried to look down, and Michelle
realized I needed something done to my pussy.  She moved her right hand from my
breast down to my swollen vulva, not focusing on any one part, but cupping my
sex.  She firmly pressed the palm of her hand into my genitals, giving me a
surface to press back against as I closed my eyes and let go.
 	Keeping her hand there, she stretched to turn off the breast pump.  She
removed first one nipple cup, then the other, tossing the plastic cups off to
the side of the bed.  I continued leaking milk, the thin smooth white nectar
streaming down the sides of my breasts, as much as was possible on my back.  As
she drank from my breasts, she began gently to massage my labia.  For a moment,
she brought her hand back up, soaking it in my milk before returning it to my
pussy.  Her masturbation of me continued...slow, gentle, pleasurable but mild. 
She wasn't going to make me orgasm too soon.  I moaned in gratitude as she
relaxed my body and mind, licking the milk from my chest and whispering her
love.
	Once I was lubricating freely, unable to contain my moaning, she moved from
the bed...I heard her getting something, but  I didn't see what.  When she came
back, in her hand was a thick silver vibrator.  She turned it on by twisting
the bottom end, but I could not quite make out any sound coming from it.  But
when she brought the smooth, warmed, tapered end to my leaking nipple, I knew
it was working.  Slowly she dragged the milk-dipped vibrator down my body.  Its
vibrations pleasured first my small breast...then my tummy...finally she began
teasing my clitoris.
	My body was screaming for more, but I couldn't move at all.  I needed
desperately to press my clitoris against the vibrator, or at least to feel it
inside me.  But my clitoris's only steady comfort was the warm air, punctuated
by intermittent kisses from the vibrator.  I began sobbing, and finally she
relented and gave me what I needed.  I was slowly, gently filled by the
vibrator, and she slid back up to kiss my lips before moving back down.
	Once there she began to massage my labia with her fingers as she sucked my
clitoris.  My genitals felt raw, hypersensitive.  Every touch was extremely
intense, but she knew how to stimulate me just enough to avoid causing me pain.
 As she sensed I was close to orgasm, she took her tongue from my clitoris and
left me with only the vibrator and her fingers on my labia.  She changed
techniques on my labia, using them to stretch the skin leading to my hood.  My
clitoris couldn't feel anything directly, only the pressure and stretching near
it.  I would not be able to orgasm without her tending to my clit.
	My body was ready, my vagina lubricating openly, but she would not take care
of my clitoris.  She angled the vibrator upwards, pressing against my
G-spot...and I could just feel the vibrations in my clit.  This would not let
me come, but I was getting closer.  Just as my insides began to heat up, she
began sliding the vibrator in and out.  A plateau was coming, but not an
orgasm...I began to actively grip the vibrator.  I began crying out amid the
intensifying pleasure...and she delivered the coup de grace.  She gently pulled
back my hood, squeezed the shaft of my clitoris...and slowly dragged the length
of her wet soft warm tongue directly across the exposed tip.
	My pelvis exploded.  My pussy went from simply being warm and twitchy to
convulsing uncontrollably.  I began screaming, and she quickly undid the straps
on my thighs so that I could press them together.  As my legs wrapped around my
spasming genitals, she undid the wrist cuffs...and finally I was able to hold
my pussy and ride out the convulsions.  She opened the corset, letting me sit
up, and sat behind me...she took my hands away from my private parts, replacing
them with her own and expertly stroking me to prolong the orgasm.  Her fingers,
longer and more skilled than my own, made my softest flesh throb in ways I
never could on my own, pulsing and quivering, the pleasure intensifying in ways
I couldn't fathom despite having experienced her love before.  It was almost
frightening, beyond my understanding, but a perfect vindication of the trust I
placed in Michelle every time I exposed myself for her and confessed my need. 
She owned me.  I needed her to own me, needed to be her plaything, her pet. 
Her domination of me meant bliss, meant safety, meant satisfaction.
	Finally I collapsed in her arms, smiling, coughing, my body spent, unable to
lactate or lubricate any more.  She leaned over to disconnect the cushion, and
swung it off the bed.  It was followed by the milk and lube soaked towel.  She
had another towel ready, and used it to wipe the sweat from my forehead and the
juice from my pussy.  As I snuggled up to her, pressing my back against her
breasts, she pulled the heavy comforter from its folded position at the foot of
the bed and wrapped us in it.  And we lay there, her hand cupping my swollen
vulva with the soft towel, until I fell asleep in her arms.

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