What am I?
Yesterday I thought I knew. I was Michaela Glasgo, a Petroleum Engineering grad student at UBC, a quiet feminist who believed I could carve my own way on my own abilities. I hated my body, I had been a gangly redheaded tomboy until the titty fairy came, waved her magic wand, and left me with two pumpkins on my chest that cut me off from the self image I knew and was comfortable with. They cut me off from being “one of the guys”, they cut me off from being “one of the girls” just as hard as everyone assumed big tits equalled big slut, and from then on any of my academic achievements were assumed to be earned through something other than merit. When I had no intention of being a big slut I got called a frigid bitch instead and that was at least enough to give up on friends altogether and focus on my studies. I didn’t need to date pencil dicked entitled misogynists, and in Northern Alberta lesbian was a porn catagory guys watched, not something anyone admitted in public.
Then I began working for Vivek, a pot bellied laughing eyed middle aged Hindu man at his curiosity shop called Ashlil Vishar. I looked it up last night. It means “Obscene thoughts” in Hindi. I wish I would have known that.
He looked at me openly, like a race enthusiast eyeing a prime filly he enjoyed watching, and wanted to see put through her paces, or like a farmer looking upon the herd in his care. I didn’t feel threatened, I felt protected and exposed at the same time. I felt his gaze undress me and found myself posing to tease him, wanting his approval. He was a surprisingly good trainer. I learned not just how to deal with the merchandise and stock system, but the more difficult task of dealing with people. I like science, I like engineering, there is one right answer. People are slippery, they don’t have stock reference values and responses, and the tests almost always fail to tell you the truth about what they mean, even if you understood what they say. Vivek was my rock.
When people were nervous he put them at ease, when they were touchy, he calmed them, when they were abusive or disrespectful he transformed from jolly old uncle to majestic and terrifying king, a presence that beat the air like a storm. I felt both safe beyond words, and aroused beyond comfort at each occurence. Maybe that is when I began flirting, a flirting that lead to a bet. A bet about how he would measure up to one of the sex toys we sold.
A bet that ended with me on my knees, his cock in my mouth, and a cow bell collar locked around my throat.
I had two days off to think about how it ended. Me on my knees, having stripped off my shirt and bra, now covered in his cum, and him stroking my hair, calling me his Good Girl.
God, every time I remembered looking up at him from my knees, every time I remembered him stroking my arm, my hair, my ass, and calling me Good Girl, I got more enflamed. What was I? He was married, I wasn’t going to be his wife, his wife laughed and told me to be careful or I would fall in love with Vivek the first time he spanked my ass in front of her for shorting a customer on his refund (an accident neither myself or the customer noted). What was I to him, what was he to me? What am I? What do I want to be?
Vivek was at the till sharing a coffee with Devesh, the owner of Delights of Goa who had recommended me to Vivek. They both smiled at me as I came in. I looked for the judgement, ready to feel humiliated and ashamed, ready to see the contempt in their eyes. I didn’t find it.
Vivek mimed clutching his chest. “Stop it Micheala, your beauty has intensified again, my poor heart will give out. I am an old man and can only take so much beauty.”
Devesh nodded sagely and slapped Vivek on the back. “You will surely die, for Michaela grows as beautiful as she is intelligent. I will console her at your funeral, as many times as it takes. Good luck in your next life, noble Vivek!”
I giggled and curtseys like I was back in ballet curseying for my examiners. It wasn’t weird anymore. Whatever it was, it was Ok. It was safe. I was safe.
I went to the back room and saw my collar with cowbell was where I had hung it on the time clock. My heart started to race. I clocked in and just stood there. I remembered how I felt with Vivek’s cock in my hands, in my mouth. How I felt every time he put his hands on me, possessive not in the harsh sense, but like a farmer caring for his stock, gently, calm and confident in their ownership without any need to prove what was simply and obviously so. I felt a rush to my pussy and my blush got bad. Perif of the redhead, we can’t hide. Against the dark Indian skin of Vivek and Devesh, I was an open book and they, a tightly rolled Sanskrit scroll in a protective cover.
I remember how I felt when Devesh calmed me by putting his hands on me when I was having my panic attack. How I felt when he called me a Good Girl. How Vivek called me a Good Girl every time I reported my exam or lab marks, every time I completed a tiresome task, or a difficult customer, and when I sucked his cock. I stopped thinking. I couldn’t think or I would chicken out. I had to not think, not think, just act. I was terrified I would back out. More terrified I wouldn’t.
I walked out to Vivek and Devesh. I knelt before Vivek, my cowbell collar in my hands. I raised it to him. To Vivek, the old pot bellied Hindu shopkeeper, to my Vivek, my jolly, laughing, calming, and wildly passionate Vivek, my rock, my protection, my sanity, and one other secret thing.
“Please collar me, Sahib.” I cast my eyes down, and offered the collar palms up.
Devesh chuckled softly. Vivek brushed my hair from the nape of my neck, and gently fastened my collar on. I was panting, like I was in the middle of running a race. My heart was hammering in my chest. What would my pastor say, what would my family say. A good white Christian girl like me, on her knees before two Hindu men, begging one of them to collar me? They would be so ashamed, but their hard eyes had never made me feel safe, never made me feel valued, feel treasured, feel owned.
Vivek cupped my cheek, and raised my head. He looked down on me, his eyes like dark pools of eternity I could get lost in, seas of masuline power that I could sail through, seas of masculine lust that would fill me, guide me, protect and empower me.
“Good Girl Michaela.” Vivek said I smiled and knelt to kiss first one foot then the other. Devesh sighed appreciatively and complained.
“How is it that I find such a Good Girl for you, and it is only you that benefits?” Devesh said wistfully as he studied my yoga pant covered ass as I kissed his friend’s shoes.
Vivek looked down at me and asked me softly. “You were such a good girl for me yesterday, would you like to be a Good Girl for Devesh too? If you do, I promise to fill your womb tonight when work is done.”
I crawled to Devesh, slowly, making a production of it, making a seduction out of it. I crawled to his feet and kissed them. I kissed up his trousers to the large bulge half way down his right thigh. I looked up at Devesh and asked him softly.
“Would you let me show you how I can be a Good Girl sir?” I asked as I pressed my cheek against his hardening Hindu cock.
The sound of Devesh’s zipper and the sound of Vivek’s laughter mingled as I answered the question that had been bothering me.
What am I?
I am a Good Girl. Sahib Vivek tells me so.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/uemof8/ashlil_vichar_3_obscene_thoughts_mf_mdom_bdsm