Tiffany Gets Decorated

CHAPTER ONE

**Tiffany and David meet for her first humiliation in a restaurant.**

Tiffany looked at me, her big, dark, almond-shaped eyes staring at me over the rim of the glass. It was her third glass of water -- lukewarm, no ice -- and she drank it in one long draw. Then, she set the glass on the table and lowered her eyes.

"Does that please you...Sir?" she said softly. There was just the slightest hint of anger in her voice.  I smiled. It was silly, it still felt awkward, but it was feeling less awkward every time she said it.

"Yes, it does," I said nonchalantly. "Now, eat."

I took another slice of the veal and she poked her fork in her rice. After a few minutes, I noticed she wasn't eating.

"You're not hungry?"

She looked at me and I knew immediately I'd said the wrong thing, shown possible signs of weakness. I recovered quickly. In a harsh but controlled voice, I said, "I asked you a question. Hands down and answer."

Tiffany slowly lowered her hands to her lap, one over the other, palms up. "Yes, Sir."

"Now, I asked you, 'are you hungry?'. Are you?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're not eating."

"My stomach is feeling a big queasy, Sir."

"Eat," I said and looked down at my plate. It worked, she picked up her fork and started slowly nibbling at the rice and vegetables.

The first hour had been like that, starts and stops.

I got to the restaurant at five and she was there, exactly as arranged. I have to admit I was a little unsure what to expect, the photos she'd sent could have been of a younger Tiffany, retouched, or even of a girlfriend. But any doubts I had quickly vanished. In person, she was every bit as pretty as her pictures. It was her.

She was sitting at a table for two near a wall in the front of the restaurant. An untouched glass of white wine was centered exactly on the table in front of her, her white-gloved hands folded palms up in her lap. I stared for a while before walking over, drinking in how sexy she looked. No, more than sexy. There was something classic and iconic about her. Something classic in a cool and clean kind of way.

Tiffany was an Asian-American graduate student at USC -- half Thai and half Korean to be exact. She said she was twenty-two years old and I believed her. Her hair was long and straight, raven black, and hung down to her shoulder blades. Her bangs were cut straight across and her hair straight again in back. It looked almost like a plastic sculpture of some kind. She was about 5 foot 6 and very slim. I'm not good at guessing weights but she was on the light side of "appropriate for her height". Her dress was form-fitting and white, so tight I could tell she had nothing underneath. The only break in those lines were the small indentations where the elastic held the thigh-high stockings in place. The dress ended just below the knees. I'd given quite a bit of thought to that aspect of her uniform. I considered an ankle length sheath, a visual reminder to me of her Asian heritage. I  imagined handcuffs holding her ankles close, enforcing that Geisha walk. I know that's Japanese, not Thai but I was never much turned on by Asian women anyway so I was grabbing for anything that might work for me.

She, on the other hand, probably would have preferred a just-covering-the-ass outfit. One thing I'd learned over the months of emails, photos, and online chats, was that this woman was very, very proud of her body. Photo after photo showed her out with her friends, her skirt always a little bit shorter, her bathing suit a bit more revealing, her heels just a bit higher. She over-sexualized herself, used the brightest red lipstick and darkest eye shadow, lips always pouting, eyelashes fluttering, bottom sticking out bending over a table to kiss a boyfriend. It turned me on until she told me she was a virgin.

That was the first time things really turned for me. That was when I decided to go through with the blackmail. She was a Tease. A classic Cock Teaser, taking the free drinks and letting the boys in the bars touch her bottom but knowing that nobody was going to take her home. A small spot of anger started growing somewhere in the back of my mind, but I extinguished it quickly. I'm a writer, I write erotic stories, I'm not the campus stud who slips roofies to the stuck-up sorority girls at parties. But this girl needed to be taught a lesson.

I settled on a demure dress length, in between her tastes and mine. In the long run, I was sure I would enjoy this more. It set the groundwork for transforming her from an independent, well dressed college woman into something else.

I sat down and looked at the menu without speaking. Occasionally, I'd look over the top of the menu and watch her. It was amazing, her focus was incredible. She sat motionless the whole time, not a twitch, not a sway. Her eyes looked down at the table, lips parted so minimally that it's likely no-one but me noticed. But I did.

The intense focus was no doubt part of her upbringing. She'd talked about her strict, controlling parents, the ones who were paying for graduate school and required nothing less than perfection, the ones who'd taught her complete obedience, the ones who'd ultimately allowed me to control their daughter. Between the training they'd given her in submission to their authority and my threats to turn over our chats and photos to them, they'd helped bring her completely under my control. She'd showed me their scathing condemnations of the small ear piercing she'd allowed herself when she first arrived at college. I could only imagine what might happen if I sent them file after file of their daughter following me on cam from chat room to chat room, offering herself to whoever happened to be there when we arrived.

I lay the menu on the table and waited patiently for the waiter. Tiffany's eyelids fluttered a time or two and her steady breath caught once. As near as I could tell, she was getting turned on. I didn't know what fantasies she was running in her head, but I wished I was there. She'd had an hour to work herself up. If she'd kept to the deal, she'd arrived at the restaurant at four, had her first glass of wine between four and four-twenty, then a second between four-twenty and four-forty, sitting in that same position the entire time. At four-forty, she would have ordered the third but didn't touch it.

The waiter was in his thirties and looked like a used car salesman. Hair slicked back with some kind of grease, a pretty good-sized belly and an obvious fascination with Tiffany. "Are you dining with the lady tonight?" he asked in his best formal voice.

"Yes, thank you," I said calmly. Then, "can you tell me what she's had so far?"

"Yes, sir, she's had two glasses of chardonnay and this one," he pointed to the full glass in front of her, "is her third."

"Thank you," I said. "And did the lady arrive alone?"

Tiffany's eyes shifted at that and met mine for just an instant before she lowered them again.

"Sir?" the man muttered.

"Did the lady arrive alone or did someone bring her?"

The waiter was silent for a moment. I saw Tiffany's nipples stiffen underneath the dress. She knew what I meant. It was a reference from one of her favorite stories. In that story, the main character -- a submissive woman whose Master loved nothing better than pimping her out -- had her meet her appointments this way. Sitting in a white dress with a glass of wine in front of her. As each man finished with her, he would bring her back to that same table, then order the wine and place it in front of her. The next man would arrive shortly and that was how he knew she was the one. In the story, though, it was always red wine and there was a powerful undercurrent of tension: she stared at the glass, certain she was going to spill it and ruin the dress. It was something her Master had conditioned into her by having her spill the wine on herself again and again. He had her repeat the act hundreds of times at an identical table in his basement. In the story, it worked. She would often break out in a sweat or tremble there in the restaurant, afraid she was going to lose control and reach for the glass before the next man arrived. When he did arrive, her gratefulness for taking her away from the glass made her that much more pliable in his hands. Tiffany had told me it was a favorite story -- it made her "juice" she'd said -- so I'd insisted we meet this way.

"No, sir, the lady arrived alone." I looked at the waiter but didn't talk. He squirmed, certain something was going on but not knowing what.

"Will you be ordering now?" he said, finally.

"Yes. I will have the veal piccata. The lady is on a . . . special diet. Would it be possible for you to just boil some white rice and vegetables?"

The waiter looked at Tiffany then back at me. "Certainly, sir." He began to walk away.

"Oh, and waiter?"

"Yes?"

"Would you bring the lady two glasses of water. Twelve ounce. Lukewarm, no ice." The waiter stared for a second, looked at Tiffany again, then nodded. "Certainly, sir."

---

When we finished eating, I ordered dessert and port for myself and another glass of water for Tiffany.

She'd been silent through the entire meal, answering only when I asked direct questions. "How did you get here?" "Where did you buy the stockings?" "Describe the red shoes to me." I kept my questions focused very tightly on things that related to her body, that body, I wanted to keep her focus there by making her talk about it. "What is the name of that shade of lipstick?" "How much exactly do you weigh?" Then, "when did you last evacuate your bowels?" and "when was your last period?" She blushed but answered.

In her white dress, clear skin and makeup, she looked like a quiet, demure virgin. An offering of innocence and playfulness -- always front and center in her Facebook photos -- but an offering nonetheless. Inside her was another Tiffany, one who spent hours on the phone with me talking about defilements she'd never dreamed of.

The virgin presentation had served her well. And she was a virgin -- in the strict sense at least. But the picture was more complicated.

The silver and diamond necklace she wore, for instance, was worth at least $1,500 and was a present from a man who she regular serviced with her hand. The dress was new, but the money no doubt came from the same account she used to pay for her trips to New York and Chicago. She enjoyed her own version of jet setting, flying to the two cities where her childhood girlfriends lived. The money came from about six different lawyers in the Valley. While her parents were paying for her education, the men didn't know that. One of her professors had got her started after she cried on his shoulder about not being able to buy the kinds of clothes and jewelry she wanted and still pay her tuition. He connected her with exactly half-a-dozen men who enjoyed giving a long-haired Asian a spanking, followed up by a handjob or blowjob. She manipulated them expertly, she now had a steady revenue stream to buy the things her parents didn't provide.

Tiffany had managed to keep her virginity, and get her bottom spanked all in one tidy little package. And get paid for it on top of that. Life was good. Except that, after a while, the spankings weren't enough for her. That's where I came in.

When dessert came, I took a spoonful and let it sit on my tongue for a while before chewing. It was perfect. I've had probably three perfect mousse's in my life and this was one of them. I would have to remember this restaurant.

"Tiffany?"

Without moving, she answered, "yes, Sir?"

"Show me where your ear piercing was."

She turned her head and pointed with a beautifully manicured, deep red nail.

"Good. Now, where are we going to pierce you tonight?"

I watched her body change visibly, she sat up straighter and leaned back, her eyes closed and her hands went back to her lap. "We are going to..."

"Not 'we' dear."

Without a pause, she said,"Sir is going to have my..." She stopped, opened her eyes and leaned forward. "Please, do we have to do this here?"

I slid my hand quickly into my case and dropped two 8 X 10 glossy photos of her masturbating in panties into the middle of the table. She panicked, eyes darting around the room to see if anyone had noticed.

"Sir, Sir, I am sorry, I apologize, Sir is going to have my ears pierced, Sir," she stammered, leaning forward, eyes pleading. "Two piercings on each side, Sir, please, Sir, please, please..."

I flipped the photos face down. On the back, it only showed her name and the date. She sat back in her chair, tears running down her face.

"This is for real, Tiffany. Do not fuck with me."

She sniffed and said, "no, Sir." A drop of snot hung from the tip of her nose for a long time before it dropped onto the tablecloth. The tears were running down the sides of her neck. I handed her my napkin. "Clean your face."

Tiffany dabbed at her eyes and cheeks, careful to smudge the makeup as little as possible.

"Now, let's make sure we have the right girl here, shall we?" I said, picking up my case. I set it on the table and slid out a stack of papers. I took out one of our earlier emails and read her own words back to her.

I started reading from her email, "'...I so remember getting my braces. The dentist leaned over me to tighten them and I remember my pussy throbbing for some unknown reason. I was wet and I smelled myself and started crying. He asked me what was wrong but I couldn't talk. He stood up and looked at me for several seconds and I nearly came right there. I could tell he knew. He stared into my eyes and then sniffed the air and smiled. "Let me help you," he said and pulled a Velcro strap around each of my wrists, keeping them pinned at my sides. When he leaned back over to finish tightening my braces, he put his knee between my legs. I struggled to keep my body completely stiff, terrified that if I moved I would start humping his leg and cum right there. It was the feeling of bring put into bondage, humiliating, nonconsensual, by a man, that was so hot. When my mother came into the room to take me home, I didn't know what to do. She had to smell it too. I felt another wave of humiliation and almost came in front of them both...'"

I turned to look at her. She was obviously agitated. I wasn't sure if it was because she was turned on or scared that someone had heard me.

"Did you write that?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Come over here."

Tiffany got up and started to walk to me, felt the pressure of the wine and water inside her and stopped, holding the edge of the table. "Sir, may I..." I knew immediately from her face what was the problem. "No, you may not," I said in my steadiest voice.

"Lean down a bit," I said when she was next to me. She did. I pushed her lips back and ran a finger over her upper teeth and gums. "Yes, well, he did good work, didn't he?" She flushed and when I motioned, she went quickly back to her seat.

"How about this one?" I pulled another piece of paper.

"Sir, please, could we do this somewhere else?" she interrupted, eyes down, voice trembling. I watched her shoulders, hunched slightly, shaking, revealing her condition to me.

"Open your knees."

Her eyes popped open and she looked around the room. "Sir?"

"Just a few inches. Open your knees."

I watched her wrestle with herself. Everything she'd said and done with me over the last few months was coming home now. Her eyes looked at the pictures face down on the table. They could be in her parent's IN box at the push of a button and she knew it. She parted her knees.

"Shall I have you masturbate for me?"

Her eyes watered up again. "Sir, please."

"Push your wrist harder against your crotch, Tiffany. Then, just sit still." I opened another one of the folders. "'...taken and non-consensually pierced in other places...a nose ring, lip ring, nipples and pussy lips, aiiiiiii, locked for being sluttish, like in your story...i am so close right now, i could easily cum...'" I looked up at her. "Did you cum writing that?"

"I don't remember."

"Sir."

"I don't remember, Sir."

I turned back to the page. "'...ears pierced, hair cut so i cannot hide the piercing and collar...' and here, a few days later, '...big hoop earrings do not turn me on, only Hispanic sluts wear them...'. Do you have something against Hispanics, Tiffany? Are you better than them? Is that how you sorority girls talk?"

"Sir, I meant..."

"What kind of earrings do Asian sluts wear, Tiffany?"

"Sir, may I go to the ladies' room, please?"

"Show me your earrings, Asian slut."

"Sir, I am not wearing any earrings," she said, lowering her head again.

I raised the page again and kept reading, "'...and if I do get a nose ring or pussy rings, they have to be welded so it can never come off...' Do you remember writing that to me?"

"Sir, we were... yes, Sir."

"And your roommate. The Korean girl. What was her name again?"

"Kyung Mi. We call her Kaitee."

"You want to make love to her. You want her to dominate you."

Tiffany was silent but her breathing changed again. I read, "'...Kaitee can order me to dress totally sexi, which is the opposite of how I usually dress...'maybe black leather, hot pants, throw away my bras, aiiiiii!...maybe she even cuts my hair Goth or Mohawk so I cannot hide my piercings...'" I looked up at her, "then this, '...i wish i was at my place so i could cummmmmm....' Very hot. Very nice, well written. And this one, '...i was thinking of being colared and leashed and in heels and nude and being led by her into a public setting of some sort...'" I turned to look at her. "Does that still make you hot?"

She squirmed in her chair. I saw her eyes close slightly and knew she was fighting the urge to rub her crotch. "Do it," I said. She stared at me then said, "no". I smiled and slid my hand across the table toward the photos. Tiffany leaned forward and sobbed, but I saw her shoulders moving slightly as she rubbed herself. I let her go for a few minutes then said, "you know you are going to have a big wet spot on the back of that white dress when you stand up, don't you?" She leaned back quickly and sucked a quick breath. I smiled.

"Sir, please, I need to use the ladies' room. Very badly."

"Put your hands on the table, palms down. I don't want you touching yourself anymore."

She put her hands in front of her, slid forward slightly in her chair. I watched her face, her lip trembling slightly.

"Hard to hold it?"

She nodded. "Yes, Sir." Then, "please..."

I looked at my watch. It was nearly seven. I didn't know what had happened before four, but I knew she'd had four glasses of water and two glasses of wine. I picked up the photos and put them back in my case, taking my time. It's a fine line between pain and humiliation. I looked at her. Had she crossed it? As long as she knew she was holding it in because I wanted her to, it was humiliation. But how long to keep her like that? I watched her and noticed something odd. She was holding her breath.

"Does it help?" I asked.

"W...what, Sir?" she managed.

"Holding your breath. Does it help you not piss yourself?"

The waiter was standing across the room watching us. I wondered if he suspected. He must.  Our meal had been too ritualistic for him not to know something was going on. I motioned to him and he came to the table.

"We're finished. Can you bring the  check?" He nodded, staring at Tiffany the whole time. "Very good, Sir. Are you sure you don't need anything else?"

I looked at Tiffany. She raised her eyes slightly and looked into mine, pleading. "Do we need anything else, Tiffany? Is there anything you need that I am not providing for you?" The waiter turned to me with a  puzzled look, then turned back to Tiffany.

Very quietly, she said, "no...Sir."