Andre was more than a little miffed. I’d been quite specific in letting him know that the matronly outfit he’d designed for me was about as sexy as a burlap sack.
“I want to show boobs, dear,” I snapped, dumping the custom-made ’50s-style housedress on the neck of the naked, headless mannequin. “Mother’s naughty ‘little boys’ and girls’ need to be squirming in anticipation of a nice, comforting nipple to suck on, even before I turn them over across my knees.”
“As Madame wishes,” Andre sniffed, his beautiful green eyes flashing with righteous indignation as he tossed his short blond curls. In a flash of dramatic pique that only a former runway model could master, he turned and swept up the yards of atrocious yellow floral print. He froze in mid-pirouette when my hand snaked out and gripped his slender, denim-covered butt cheek. Hard. I wasn’t sure what Andre’s problem was today. His costumes were usually exquisite. But I was in no mood for an artistic temper tantrum when I had clients scheduled for that scene in less than a week.
“Madame damn well wishes,” I said quietly. “And if Andre has a problem with that, perhaps Madame should call Andre’s sweet, smiling lover over to give dear little Andre an attitude adjustment.”
Andre looked nervously over his shoulder, his eyes locking on the large bearded man hunched intently over the computer screen on the other side of the room. The only time I’d ever seen Bedford’s lips so much as curve upward was when he was paddling the bejeezus out of Andre’s ass.
Andre shivered as Bedford clicked onto a new screen, leaned back, and carefully stroked his chin. The latest design appeared on the webpage he was updating, and Bedford nodded once, so slowly that the long brown hair tied back at his neck barely moved over the flannel shirt covering his thickly muscled shoulders.
“That won’t be necessary,” Andre said primly, almost hiding his shiver as he carefully set the discarded material onto a side table. He glanced once more in the direction of his bearish lover. “Shall Madame and I sit down at the other workstation and discuss alternative design options?”
“The operative word being sit,” I snapped, releasing his ass-cheek. I managed to control my smile as Andre politely escorted me over to the computer, offering me a chair before he called up my profile with even more efficiency than usual. From the way his ass was twitching, I gathered that sweet, pouty little Andre’s entire snit had been staged purely to let Bedford know that he was hungry for a good, old-fashioned ass-warming. Despite Bedford’s apparent lack of attention, I had no doubt that he’d heard every word—and that a very sore and well-fucked Andre would be working standing up for the next couple of days.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been an unwitting prop in one of my friends’ private little scenes. I doubted it would be the last. I shook my head and bit back a grin as my voluptuous cyber-model filled the screen and a nervous, eager-to-please Andre and I got back to designing the perfect costume for my stable of submissive little boys and girls. Overall, I’d been quite pleased with Personal Fetish Attire, Inc. PFA had provided me with my first dominatrix outfits with almost off-the-rack speed—no mean feat, given my well-endowed size-2X proportions. As my clientele grew, Andre and I worked together to design some very chic leather teddies and harnesses that emphasized my Rubenesque curves for my hard-core “mistress” clients, as well as the flowing drapes of satin and lace that highlighted the ample padding so comforting to my naughty adult children. When I’d branched out into less traditional fetishes, PFA had quietly made some introductions to other clients, for whom they then also supplied costumes. Several of my fantasy scenes had even been Bedford’s idea.
“We’ve got this guy who’s really into horror flicks,” Bedford had said one fall afternoon. He was lacing me into my new black corset as Andre put the finishing touches on my Halloween vampire costume. “Cleavage” didn’t begin to describe the size of the valley developing between my boobs as Bedford cinched me into place. Andre had somehow managed to build in a truly comfortable support bra without losing the sleek lines of the corset. “This dude would think he’d died and gone to heaven if you had your way with him in this costume, Ms. Amanda, especially if you bit his neck a couple of times. Hell, if you let him nurse on these mamas, he’d pay whatever you wanted. And honey,” Bedford winked at me as he tucked the lacing ends under the intricately tied knots, “he can afford to pay whatever you want.”
In short order, I’d found out that Timmy could indeed afford my services. Frequently. From there, it was a short step to a half-dozen men who wanted to be spanked and diapered and fed a cup of warm milk, then held on Mama’s large, comforting lap to nurse contentedly on her huge ol’ boobs while they went to sleep. That costume was easy, too. I set the scene to be one of “baby” waking up at night, so the seductive peignoirs that, along with leatherwear, were the mainstay of PFA needed only a complementary pair of feathered satin mules to have baby’s hard, horny dick drooling into the neatly pinned cloth-cotton diapers Andre had custom-made for them. At the end of the scene, I’d sit in the oversized rocker Bedford had built and unhook my specially made “nursing bra,” one cup at a time, and let baby suckle my huge, dark red nipples until the heavenly stimulation—and the ben wa balls in my pussy—made me explode in orgasm. The sucking, along with my usual expert wrist action, usually had baby creaming into his diaper as soon as he’d sucked me through my climax.
My submissive and infantilist clients were an excellent match for me, as my breasts were about the most sensitive part of my body. After a good session of nipple stimulation and roasting naked backsides, all it took was a few quick flicks to my clit or a well-placed toy to make my cunt gush.
Although my clients paid well enough that I needed to have only a few regulars, I was interested in branching out again. For the first time, I also had a couple of women clients. One of the girls, Cherise, was into enemas. Because of her prior problems with bulimia, I’d had a long talk with her doctor before I accepted her as a client. With his permission, I’d written her a “prescription” for one enema each month, of no more than one quart, administered by the stern, uniform-clad Nurse Harriet, so long as Cherise kept her weight up and stayed completely away from laxatives in the interim.
Cherise had been following her program like a champ since we started, cuddling contentedly into my lap to nuzzle after a long medical session with prim, no-nonsense Nurse Harriet. Andre’s costume had combined an extremely short, starched, white hospital skirt with a matching low-cut top that unbuttoned to show a soft, white-lace bustier. Cherise had been so tired after her session and her overwhelming climax that she’d spent the last half hour of our time together dozing in my lap, my nipple resting on her thin red lips as I stroked her hair.
Cherise was not into infantilism, though. Spanking, yes. But at twenty-six, she saw herself more as a naughty high-schooler who needed someone to take her firmly in hand and to teach her to be good and do right—and to help her gain a healthy dose of the self-esteem she was fighting so hard to achieve. After her last visit, I’d told her that next week her mother wanted to discuss her report card with her—most specifically, her citizenship grades. And to be sure to wear her best school clothes and saddle shoes. Cherise had shivered, her face positively glowing as she kissed my hand and whispered, “Yes, Ma’am. I’ll be here right after school.” Which meant 6:30 P.M. sharp, after she’d finished work and eaten exactly as the doctor’s regimen directed.
Part of the success of our session, however, hinged on whether Andre got off his butt and got me a sexy enough loving-but-stern 1950s-middle-class Mom costume for Cherise. Andre hadn’t shown me the real design but he told me I’d be pleased. He also assured me that my costume would most definitely be ready by Thursday evening. I assured him that it had better be, or I’d be lending Bedford one wicked fucking Lucite paddle.