#WankWednesday: Patience

For #WankWednesday this week, patience:


It’s another day at work, Justine answering emails, and watching the time on the clock melt away.  It’s 11:23 and her life is going to change today.  Her phone buzzes with the new email.  It’s from Her– Myra.  Her Mistress.

She opens the message, reads:


This message contains your flight confirmation number and a list of things you should bring.

She quickly scans the attachments– one’s a packing list, ordinary enough, the other is a flight confirmation in her name, final destination: IAD.  Washington. She goes back to the message.

You’ll have to leave work early so you can get home and pack your things.  What, if anything, you tell your employer is up to you.

What? Leave work early? She clicks back to the flight confirmation- it’s for today.  Departing at 4:45!  How am I going to explain this to my boss? she wonders fretfully.

You are to wear only a plain black dress, suspenders and stockings.  No bra.  No panties.  Bring a magazine to read on the flight.  We’ve arranged for a shuttle van to take you to the airport, and a car will pick you up when you’ve arrived.

Oh, that’s going to be real fun on an airplane for four hours. 

Thinking she could never do such a thing, she could never walk out on her job, she remembers that last Saturday night, the last night Myra was in town.  They’d been seeing each other for several months while Myra was here on business, spending the weekends together in Her hotel room.  The last night She was here, Justine remembers, when She said She wanted Justine to come live with Her as a full-time slave, they’d made love afterwards.  Her heart skips a beat thinking about it, about Myra whispering Her love across her skin, the way Justine’s body reacted to Her touch, Her fingers exploring every delicious… And then…

Justine stands up, drops her work Blackberry on her desk, gathers her things, and walks out.

She drives home under a haze, half expecting to be pulled over by the police for… for what, exactly?  For acting silly and walking out on her job? Emboldened a bit by the assurance that no one is going to arrest for her quitting without notice, she gets home and throws her clothes into a suitcase, changes into the dress as directed and looks in the mirror before walking out the door.  The dress is a bit clingy, but her other one is in the dirty laundry.  She’d worn it on Saturday, and well, now it is in no fit state to be worn until it’s been laundered.  Or boiled, she giggles to herself, thinking of all the cum that had covered her and her dress. With that, she grabs the latest Vogue that had just come in yesterday’s mail, peels off the plastic, and steps outside into sunshine, the waiting van, and clarity.

* * *

Sitting on the airplane isn’t much more fun than she’d expected.  But once these four hours are up, I’ll be Hers.  Myra’s.  Justine mouths her name silently, realizing she’s wet from thinking of Her; thinking of that last Saturday night, when her thighs were slick with her own cum.

She dawdles on that last thought, looks at the time, and realizes only two minutes have passed.  She squirms, her pussy wetter than before.  How am I going to be able to sit still?

She shifts in her seat, her skirt brushing against her naked pussy, the suspenders tugging at her thighs, feeling the stocking tops clipped, remembering it was Mistress’s idea to leave her with no underwear.  No panties, she thinks to herself, aroused more than irate now that it’s happening and knows it’s her Mistress’s will.  This is how she wanted me to feel.  Exposed.  Vulnerable. 

Maybe Mistress would flip up my skirt, bend me over, spank me, make me cum.  God that would feel so good.  She shifts again, realizing that if she keeps this up she’ll soak through her skirt in the wild anticipation of seeing her Mistress again. Five more minutes gone.  Only five?

Or, getting fucked from behind with the strap-on.  Or the double dildo, our pussies mashed together.  Eating each other, taking turns.  69. Tasting her cum on her Lady’s lips.

Her hand drifts down between her legs and there’s the barest moment of pressure on her clit before she’s interrupted.  “Ma’am?”

She catches herself, heart pounding.  Her eyes take in the flight attendant.  “Hmm? What?”

“Would you like anything to drink?”

Her mouth’s practically gone dry.  She manages to croak, “Diet Coke, please?” unbelieving that she was so close to masturbating in her seat, and worse, so close to getting caught.  Thank god this flight’s not crowded.  She takes a sip of the soda.

For a moment she thinks about getting up and heading to the restroom, but the beverage cart is blocking her way back.  Please!  You can’t masturbate in the airplane bathroom anyway!  Still three and a half hours to go.

And her mind drifts again.  Her hand settles down between her legs and she stops herself before she does anything untoward.  But it’s so sweet, being taken by Her.  Being loaned to that lesbian couple for a weekend.  The party where Her friends squirted on me.  Her heart is racing now, the Diet Coke forgotten.  Mistress squirting on me. 

And then she feels it.  A wet release she’s never felt before.  Oh fuck, yes.  She feels it and knows what’s happening before she even sees it.  Her skirt darkens with the growing puddle of her come, the orgasm still coursing through her body, slicking her labia, soaking her skirt, the chair.  She gives into it.  To Her.  Her heart feeling like it might pound through her breast, she stifles her moans as best she can.  Oh my god, yes.  The smell of her orgasm hangs heavy in the stagnant air of the plane, just sex and pheromones.

Trying to remain inconspicuous, she settles into her puddle with a smile on her face, the very picture of patience.  She opens her magazine, and starts to thumb through the pages, sipping her Coke.