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The road to the door of this man's house had been long and fraught with frustration, but as I crawled across the threshold of his home, naked and with my wrists and ankles cuffed, I was virtually certain I would find here the training and the introduction to real slavery that I had sought for years.There had been several would-be masters, but I had not yet found one who really wanted the full Master/ slave paradigm, one who would take pleasure not just from whatever physical services I could provide him, but who also enjoyed the mere fact that he had another man, and a masculine one at that, at his complete disposal. And, most important of all to me, a Master who would understand and exploit the delicate dynamic that had brought me here. I was like the proverbial moth to the flame, attracted and repelled at the same time, and somehow, for some undefinable reason, compelled to seek out the humiliation that overwhelmed me when "forced" to serve another man, naked and bound, as his. I could tell Francine’s repacking was going to come in handy—the magic bullet dildo jumped to mind—but it left me short a set of clothing. Realizing I could find something at the airport, if necessary, I put on clean lingerie and the wrinkled dress. Temporary measures are rarely comfortable. Our guides were at the door. My unkempt outfit was the first thing Trina noticed. George was oblivious. He was keen on getting us to the airport, but the three of us overruled him. Having Sean’s backing, without needing to ask for it, was becoming one of my favorite things. George need not have worried. There was a suitable resale shop practically next door. The Clothes Line was a consignment shop, rather than a thrift store. As soon as I made it through the door, my camera came out. It was not large, but the array of bright colors was breathtaking. Francine would be jealous. It was the sort of place that deserved a whole afternoon, but I could spare 15 minutes tops. Since Trina had come in with.
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