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It's Sophia's birthday.

Naked in the dressing room at the department store, naked at 11AM during the biggest sale of the year. Fucking my cunt (he makes me call it that) with a banana while sitting in a (nearly) deserted movie theater watching the latest Star Wars - then eating the banana. Skirt hiked up in the car, blouse unbuttoned, on the way home from work, stuck in traffic on the freeway. Yes, people saw. Yes, they honked. Yes, I want more.

Today, if someone sees me, they're going to know I'm not a nature lover just wanting to strip down and enjoy the day. Now it's black - sometimes red - Sharpie permanent markers. Thick tips. Standing in front of the bedroom mirror, figuring out how to write backwards. "Slut" Big - three inch big letters is what he said, right on my stomach, in red marker. I know from last time they take two days to wear off - if I'm scrubbing my skin red every time I take a shower. "Whore" and "Cum lover" on my legs in huge letters. "Sex slave" - on the small of my back. "Spank me" on my ass cheeks.

I'm back at the car - still no one around. This is a generally unused area, I know - except for mountain bikers and rock climbers. It's taken me about 30 minutes to walk to the tree, another 30 back. Now it's 7:00AM. People will start showing up soon. Early risers mostly - the majority won't be here for at least a few hours.

Taking off my sundress and throwing it in the backseat. Changing shoes - he told me I could wear shoes, but what a joke - high heels. SLOW, in the desert sand/dirt. The magic marker obvious on my again winter-white skin in the morning light. The leash stays on, attached to the thick leather dog collar. I wonder idly if it will leave a rather unique tan line. No worries - it's locked on and the key is buried in the back yard at home.

I lock the car door and stand next to the car, attach the clothes pins, one to each nipple. I slam the car door and slowly, on the high heels, head back to the car key at the base of the tree, carrying a wind-up egg timer, a bandana, a small bottle of water, and a canister of mace, "Just in case," he wrote. The leash swings between my swinging breasts, and the chain rubs against my clit as I walk. I'm not allowed to cum until later today.

It's slow going in the heels. I'm dripping wet and wishing I could just stop and cum, then get back in the car and go home. But he'd know. I'd have to tell him. He wouldn't punish me - at least, not in the spanking and stuff - he'd know that ordering me to slap my ass 50 times with a hairbrush would just turn me on anyway. No, his punishment is harsh: no communication. That happened once. No matter how many emails I sent, begging, pleading, offering to do the wildest, riskiest things, he wouldn't answer until he knew I learned my lesson. I've learned! No, I'll keep walking, every sense straining to hear the approach of hikers, or mountain bikers (they're quiet and can sneak up on you!). I do have permission to hide - wherever I can, in this desert area, if I must. But I won't, I know.

Half the fun is the risk of being seen. Another 1/4 is the planning, the dreaming before and reliving after. The other 1/4 is actually being seen, the gasp from the person, the look of scorn from women, being called a slut or hussy from them, or the drool, the lust in the mens' eyes, the blush that starts at my face and quickly centers in my cunt - I've almost cum just from being caught. I still try to avoid it - I'm not stupid. But the excitement is just delicious.

The clothes pins hurt.

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