We check in. Or, actually, you check in, passing me one of the electronic
keys. Donna and I go upstairs to the bar on the second floor. Oh, there's a
sports bar called "Champions" downstairs, but to her and I, sports are just
a male bonding ritual, to be shunned at all costs. We both hate blaring
TVs, vacuous conversation. We wait twenty minutes. Then go up.
	You've had a chance to unpack for us, and get ready. You asked for a room
high up, with a good view of the city to the west and north. I imagine you
can almost see MIT across the Charles River here.
	You are a good slave. So you have opened the curtains fully, and you are
naked. You traveled here from the airport in your long gray coat, with just
your straps and rings under it. So it didn't take long for you to be naked
after the porter left. The coat is in the cupboard and you are sitting by
the window, feet up on the lounger, masturbating. The room smells good.
Donna and I both like the smell of cunt, much better than any room
freshener or flower display. On the bed, you've laid out a cane, a crop,
and various other simple devices for our pleasure and your discomfort.
	Donna walks over and pulls your hair, tugging your head back. "Slut," she
calls you. And, it's hard to argue with this judgment. She takes you,
cruelly, but refuses you any serious marking or blood until later. You're
begging her to hurt you, but she'll only twist your nipples and pull on
your labia and clit. From the tears in your eyes, she's doing a good job,
I'd say. I watch with amusement as she fingerfucks you, rams your vagina
with a fat dildo, diddles and fiddles you to several climaxes, chuckling at
your compliance, your willingness to submit.

	Soon enough, it's dinner time. Especially since we plan to eat early.
You're given a thin black silk dress. Low cut, almost transparent in the
right back-lighting. It has a very short skirt, spaghetti straps. It's hard
to imagine a place you'd wear a 'little black dress' like this other than
among dikes, or in certain parts of LA or NYC. It's not really decent
evening wear, except among friends.
	You are given big clumpy shoes, then black stockings held up with garters.
What a tart you look. We take you out, holding each hand. And walk you
round Copley Center, look in the shops. Late afternoon shoppers, office
workers going home, they're all goggling at you. We enjoy riding you up and
down the various escalators. Who won't see your bare pussy here, they way
we're showing you? You get lots of stares.
	Eventually, it's time to go out into the streets. It's still warm, so we
go on foot to Newbury Street. Should we go to some crowded bar, some dike's
hang-out? It's a thought. Or should we go to some bar where the preppy
traders, boy execs and their little girlfriends hang out, where you can be
propositioned, lusted over? That's tempting to us all. The idea of making
you a barstool slut, showing your cunt to strangers; that would be a good
direction to take you in. 
	No, let's try another restaurant, Donna says, after we've mulled it over a
while.
	Here's a good place. "Outdoors?" the chief waitress asks. She's tall,
dikey, and a friend of Donna's, it seems. Well, she used to lecture here,
and lots of her students have wound up in service industries. Outdoors
would be nice, I murmur, for the same old reasons, of showing you. We both
think so, but with a few gestures and twitches we decide ... well, let's
not share quite so much today. There's always time to expose you,
sweetheart. And we will, we will.
	Indoors, we get a booth. A very private one, in back of the restaurant.
There's some whispering between Donna and her waitress friend. We're
assigned a rather butch young waitress with a short boyish haircut.
	The booth is very quiet, and no one has a view of us. Only those going to
the restrooms have an opportunity to look in, and even then they have to
make an effort, be nosey.
	Donna is next to you. She hands you a small cotton towel, from her bag.
"Sit on it," she orders crisply. "Pull your dress up round your waist."
She's sitting next to you, and she wants the dress up far enough to see
your navel. Right up, so it's not just bare thighs on show. Hips, haunches,
we can see it all. She prods you until you are sitting in a way that meets
her satisfaction, with your legs wide apart, making a ninety degree angle.
She talks about the 'Story of O,' an idealized model of female behavior to
her. That's why the legs apart, the bare ass, she explains. 
	Her hand is between your legs as you both study the menu. I'm given some
cunty fingers to sniff, then you are made to lick them. The waitress
arrives, and blushes as she sees this.
	Soon, Donna wants you to unzip the dress, drop the shoulder straps and let
the front of the dress fall, so your tits are bare. That's easy enough. 
	She's handling them, threatening you in her usual calm, deliciously
sadistic way. She takes the candle from the table, drips wax on your
nipples. The waitress brings drinks, and is staring hungrily at this,
showing total disbelief at the ecstasy on your face. Donna produces nipple
clamps, screws them on tightly, and tells the waitress with a bright smile:
"She's a masochist. She wants to be pierced." Wax is dripped on to your
mons, and you're instructed to spread your legs wide to receive it.
	Before the second course, you're required to take the dress off. You are
naked. Knees up, touching yourself, while the waitress spoon feeds you.
Donna is spooning cunt juice to your mouth, as an extra sauce.

	By the time we are ready to leave, it's dark and breezy. You're in the
dress again, and the two waitresses - the tall one, and the butch one -
have joined us. People stare at this odd group. The sticky towel is in a
poly bag, for your later consumption.

	Tonight, you'll give up yet more of your dignity. It's a long sexy affair.
You, me, and three horny bisexual women. They want you. Which means
fisting, enemas, a hot bath, and a good spanking from each of us. I dwell
on spanking your ass, since the others are fascinated by your vagina and
its elasticity, and what can be forced into it. You're humiliated, forced
to lick each of them. 

Tomorrow, you repay their interest. You will be the main attraction at an
intramural sociology seminar, somewhere down Huntingdon Ave. A bi/lezzie
get together with a couple of hundred attendees. When you arrive, there'll
be cheers from the waiting crowd of students, who have been well prepared
for your visit. You will undress and lecture quite naked, sharing slides
and video clips of yourself. Their questions are sure to be vulgar,
probing, disrespectful. 
	Donna will step up to the mike after a while, and say: "She needs to be
paid, doesn't she?" She'll set you up in a framework and flog you, while
the audience grope each other and masturbate with pleasure. No, they'll not
be the usual gang of pervs, they're likely to be shocked, surprised even.
After all "Banned In Boston" still means something, it's a key word for
MrsGrundyism, and yet here you are going to be, front and center, your quim
dripping with desire, flaunting it all over town...like the slut you are,
dear girl.