Molly

[jo****]

I once had a girl, or should I say she once had me. Her name was Molly. A cream-skinned redhead, with fulsome perky tits, a slim waist and legs. Her wholesome character shone through. Her big green-grey, innocent and demure eyes had a mischievous gleam that hinted at the adventures they begged for. I met her on the tramp. My immediate thought was to turn this elegant 19-year-old into my exquisite slave and bring forth the tarty tramp that I saw within her. I observed her initially from a distance and thereafter stepped closer to where she stood. Our eyes caught each other and we both gave a hint of a smile that betrayed what was to come. She knew, that I knew, that she knew, that something was about to change dramatically in her life.

The connecting of eyes stopped her in her tracks, and this was also her stop. She brushed past me in the crowded tramp to alight even though she could have taken the other exist which was close. As she did, she spilt a dash of hot chocolate from the takeaway cup she was carrying onto my shirt, as she shuffled by. It was the sort of teasing act that frisky big-titted girls engage in as they teasingly brush their tits again men they like, on the pretence it was an accident.

I exclaimed as the warm beverage seeped through my shirt and immediately warmed my cold skin on that fateful day. She immediately apologised and hurriedly brushed my chest with her handkerchief. "Desperately brazen, but creative", I thought to myself as I looked at her with a feigned hint of irritation. "I’m sorry Mister", she said. "Let me make it up to you." That was when "Molly had me", or should I say, "I had Molly". The rest as they say was history.

I would love to share with you the story of "The Making of Molly", about how Molly was willfully systematically violated, broken down and rebuilt by me into my perfect three-holes, two-tits and one-heart slave. But that is a story I will regale to you another day. Hopefully when you kneel at my feet, press your naked body up against my leg, hold up my whiskey, look up at me and hang on my every word, like the good lil slave-to-be that you know you were born to be for me.

The scene I will draw you into now was a whole year later. My molly, as she will henceforth be referred to, cause a slave’s name should never have the dignity of capitalisation, had been chaperoned by me to a bar to practise and hone her charm and subservience further.

We were in London. It was the low of winter and everyone was clamouring for a hint of spring. My molly had been dressed up in a green, red and white German beer girl dress with a design perfectly tailored to present her amble tits and at-attention nipples that visibly bulged from beneath the flimsy fabric. No underwear, just like she had been taught to be in my presence. It was a terribly inappropriate and standout outfit for an English tavern at Fleet Street, yet designed for her to be the centre of attention and of course to do as I had told her to.

For a year now, molly's purpose had been drilled so deep into her being, through auto-suggestive recordings and physical and psychological *** and brutal punishments when she even erred, that if her pussy could speak it too would whisper the words, "I have one purpose above all else: to please, serve and be of value to you Sire”.

With a nod from me to give her permission, molly kissed me deeply with love and gratitude and into the tavern she smilingly went. she had offered me her pussy to feel just a moment earlier. It was warm and moist with excitement even though it was chilly outside. Her task this evening was to, at my orchestration, create a memory nobody in the tavern would forget for the rest of their lives. I stayed outside enjoying the remaining half of my cigar, cozy in my black Burberry trench. I was in no rush to finish the Colombian, but did wish I had a whiskey to accompany it. Soon enough, I thought, as I nodded an acknowledging greeting to a couple walking by into the tavern.

I had trained my molly well and wanted to give her the time to draw attention to herself and thereafter be the stolen glanced focus of every man and woman in that tavern. It was going to be too easy for her. The poor disarmed folks were not ready for what was to come next. molly was about to demonstrate how good a pleasure slave she had become and bring out the tramp I saw in the tramp. Her objective? To prove to me that she was ready for the next stage of her further descent into my slavery. This was “Moly’s Proof to her Sire”.