Bound To Serve Pt.1

Sold to David Briggs (#CXETURYC)
Bound to Serve
Pt. 2
Misty MacAllister
MM Books
Bound to Serve Pt. 2
Misty MacAllister
Copyright © 2017 by Misty MacAllister

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever
without prior written permission of the author/publisher, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in reviews.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no
relation to anyone bearing the same name or names. Any resemblance to individuals known or
unknown to the author are purely coincidental.
If you have any comments, suggestions, reasonable/unreasonable requests, marriage proposals,

or if you’re just lonely, feel free to send an email to MistyMacAllister@outlook.com
Erotica, Satin Delight

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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Epilogue
A word from the author

Chapter One
Starter
Cary stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror, captivated. He felt as if something
inside him had been awakened. Inflamed. He was in Terry’s dressing room, having just dressed
for ‘the party’, and he couldn’t believe the get-up he was wearing–black heels, black thigh-high
stockings, black tutu skirt, short enough to give a peek of snow white satin panties with a sexy
black trim, and a lacy bustier top. The lovely top had a tiny white bow at the high neck, and it
was the bow that kept drawing his attention. It was so... feminine.
The outfit, the make-up, the long dark wig, it was almost too much. He looked like the
stereotypical sexy French maid–long, shapely legs, tight little ass, and lithe curves–but he was a
he, not a she.
His reflection said differently. His reflection screamed sexy, sensual woman.
He rocked from heel to heel.
That’s really me, he thought.
He lifted the tulle skirt and saw the obvious evidence of his manhood. So damn hard, his
bulging cock strained against the satin panties. He bit his lip. His hand trembled. He was flushed,
almost dizzy. His cock ached.

“What have you gotten yourself into?” he said breathily to his reflection, a reflection he
hardly recognized.
He was equal parts terrified and thrilled. Staring at himself in the mirror, he slowly ran
his hands over the lace-top of the thigh-highs and let his fingertips brush up on up his smooth
thighs. His skin felt electric. It was like touching another person.
Terry had spent the morning doing his make-up and fixing his new wig. Her ministrations
had been dictatorial, brooking no complaint or protestation. Taking complete control of him, she
had made him strip. She had watched him take off his clothes, intent and approving. Then she
had goaded him into slipping on thigh-highs, heels, satin panties, and a sexy satin camisole.
“Why do I need to wear heels and satin panties while you’re doing my make-up?” he had
complained. Complained, even though he had been so excited by the prospect he had been about
to cum in the panties.
“Because you look good in panties and heels,” she had said matter-of-factly.
Terry had a flat delivery, almost without inflection, but he knew she knew what she was
doing to him. Oh, it had been such wonderful torture to be wearing panties under her gaze. Her
looking at him had felt as tangible as a touch.
So he had worn the heels and the panties–his erection straining against the smooth, cool
material–and he had sat at her vanity while she had gone to work on him. She had wielded her
brushes like a master painter, emphasizing every brush stroke by sliding her hard nipples across
his skin, or leaning so close he had practically been diving down her wonderful cleavage–it was
maddeningly delightful–and when she had finished, Cary had become a different person.
He had been transformed into a woman, but not just a woman, an incredibly sexy woman.
“You can pull this off,” he said, doing a half turn so his tutu skirt flared high enough to
show off his satin panties. “You look damn sexy.”
“I completely agree,” Terry said, coming into the walk-in dressing room.
She was wearing a dark, body-hugging dress that was so tight he could see she wasn’t
wearing anything underneath. The material was like a second skin and he couldn’t help but stare
at her hard nipples protruding slightly outwards. She was like sex come to life.
She looked at him and smiled. She came closer, and he caught the light scent of perfume
mingled with her subtle natural scent. Just being close to him, she made him dizzy.
“It may work, as long as I don’t talk,” Cary said, using his most manly-man voice.
“Husky voices are sexy,” Terry giggled. “You’ll sound like the famous French maid, Yu-
kon Jack.”
Cary grunted, but his grunt turned into a wanton moan when she slid her hand under his
skirt and cupped his ass. She squeezed. He spread his legs farther apart. Her fingers slid across
the satin, pressing into his crack.
“You’ll do fine,” she said. “There will only be sixteen people, and they’ll all want to fuck
you.”
He was about to contradict her, when she slid her fingers farther into his crack and down
between his legs and rubbed his asshole. He let out a sigh and arched his back.
“They’ll all want my girl, but I’ll be the one to fuck you,” she whispered, and she pressed
her fingers to his asshole.

Cary groaned. She leaned closer until her chest pressed against his side. He could feel her
hard nipples poking against him. She pulled her hand up and slipped it under his waistband, her
fingers running down his bare ass.
“Does my good girl want to be fucked?” she whispered, cupping his ass and sliding her
middle finger across his eager hole.
“Yes,” he breathed.
“I’m going to...” she started.
The doorbell rang.
“It looks like the party has started,” she sighed, and she pulled back her hand.
Return to beginning
Chapter Two
Entree
“Welcome to my little party,” Terry said, opening the door to a stately old man and a
handsome old woman.
The couple were both rail thin, like old world vampires sprung from their gothic dun-
geons to terrify the land of the living in a new age. The woman was impeccably made-up, but she
was wearing a frumpy gown that hung on her like a shower curtain. The old man looked like an
ad for the well-dressed Englishman of the 19th century. He was wearing a three-piece navy suit,
a bowler hat, and he was carrying a walking stick with a large silver head.
“It’s good to see you, Terry,” the woman purred in a thick accent, and she and Terry blew
air kisses at each other. “We’re just back from Marrakech and the crossing was awful.”
“Trips can be tiring,” Terry agreed, and she leaned close so they could share a brittle em-
brace.
While the women made nice, the old man removed his bowler and handed it to Cary, his
rheumy eyes making a slow circuit across Cary’s body, up the legs, the chest, and the face, then
slowly heading back down.
Cary felt the gaze with a mix of terror and delight. Would he pass such a close inspec-
tion?
He took the man’s hat.
“You are a lovely little bite, my dear,” the old gentleman said, his eyes fixed low on
Cary’s legs.
Cary bit back a titter of relief–or excitement–and half turned to cover his grin. When he
turned, he twisted his hips and arched his back so he was slightly bent over, giving the old man a
perfect view of his ass peeking out from beneath the tiny skirt. He had to bite back a little cry
when he felt the old man’s hand slip beneath his skirt. Not knowing how to react, Cary froze.
The old man gave his ass a quick squeeze, then an appreciative pat.
“Terry always has the best looking help,” the old man said, turning back to the old
woman and Terry.
“They are always very enticing,” the woman agreed, looking Cary up and down with ob-
vious approval. “This young lady will get your guests’ hearts pumping.”
“You know me. I only use the best girls,” Terry said, and she slid her arm around Cary’s
middle.
Cary smiled–a smile he hoped was demur–but his heart was pounding and he could feel
the blush rising up on his neck. But the heat on his neck was nothing compared to the fire in his
panties. Fuck! His cock ached. The old couple looked at him and smiled, as if they could see his
arousal.
“This one is exceptionally toothsome, Terry,” the old man said. “If you’re not careful,
we’ll steal her from you.”
“Never,” Terry laughed, and she patted Cary’s ass.
Cary’s blush grew atomic, and he looked at his feet.

“We’re embarrassing her,” the old woman tutted.
“You are, you devils,” Terry chided happily. “Be good and leave my girl alone.”
“We’ll have to find someone else to torment,” the old man said. “At least, for now.” And
he winked at Cary.
“You’ll have to wait to find a victim. You’re the first to arrive,” Terry said. “But the bar’s
already open.”
“Perfect,” the old man said. “I need a drink.”
And the old couple bustled away.
“I think this is going to be a wonderful night,” Terry said.
Cary didn’t say anything. He was dizzy with excitement. He was Terry’s ‘girl’. He was
toothsome.
The doorbell rang.
Return to beginning
Chapter Three
Special
The next hour was a bewildering whirl for Cary. He greeted guests, served drinks, and
was pawed, pinched, and patted. It was like getting a pleasantly painful stamp of approval. By
the time Terry came to see how he was doing, Cary had been propositioned twice, kissed awk-
wardly once (after an equally awkward request for the kiss), and gotten four job offers, though
Cary wasn’t sure what kind of jobs were being offered.
“How’s it going?” Terry asked.
“OK, I guess. Are you parties always like this?” Cary asked, rubbing his sore bottom.
“Like what?” she said.
“Your guests come on kind of strong,” he said. “All the pawing! I feel like I’ve been
dropped in a cage full of hungry lions.”
She laughed. “They like you,” she said. “You’re sexy.”
“It’s harassment,” he said.
She shrugged. “Sorry. There is a consideration at my parties that this kind of behavior is
accepted, within certain bounds.”
“What does that mean?” Cary said.
“Usually I hire working girls,” she said.

“You mean you hire prostitutes?” he said.
She nodded. “Sex workers, yes. I hire sex workers,” she said. “And I pay them well. They
know the rules, and so do the guests. If anything goes past the rules, or beyond what makes them
feel comfortable, they tell me and it ends.”
“Don’t you think you should have told me how this works?” Cary said.
She smiled. “I thought you might...” She let her eyes run up and down him. “...Appreciate
the attention.”
Cary shivered as a thrill ran down his spine. He had appreciated the attention, had rel-
ished the pinches and the pats. In fact, he was riding a horny high like he had never had before,
but he wasn’t about to let Terry know it. She already had too much power over him.
“You like it, don’t you?” she said, as if she was reading his mind.
He flushed. She snorted.
“Come on,” she said. “I think you need a break.”
She walked away through the crowd. Cary followed her through the swinging doors into
the kitchen. The kitchen was a big space with cork floors, white subway tile walls, and brushed
steel counters. There were no cabinets. Everything was open. It looked like a kitchen in a restau-
rant, except this kitchen was empty.
“Where’s the chef?” Cary asked, looking cautiously around.
The chef was a middle-aged Spanish woman who had been eyeing Cary suspiciously all
evening. She either knew he was a man, or she didn’t like him.
“I gave Penelope a break,” Terry said. “There’s something you and I need to handle
alone.”
Terry was leaning against the far counter. Her feet were far apart, and her tight dress was
straining against her thighs. She watched him with an expression he couldn’t read.
“Um,” he stammered, feeling suddenly nervous. “What do you want me to do now?”
“I want you to get on your knees,” she said.
Cary watched her, looking for the joke. He didn’t see it. She looked deadly serious. His
heart started pounding.
“You’re not serious,” he said. “Here?”
The kitchen was empty, but the party was just beyond the swinging door. Anyone could
walk in.
“Do you remember the rules?” she said.
“I don’t remember there being any rules,” he said.
“Do you remember when you said you’d do whatever I told you to do?” she said.
He nodded.
“Are you backing out?”
His mouth was suddenly dry. He tried to work up some spit. She watched him, her gaze
unflinching. He melted under her attention, suddenly very aware of the outfit he was wearing, the
cool satin panties hugging his bottom, the garter, the thigh-highs, the tiny skirt, the lacy bustier.
He pushed back the long hair.
How had he gotten himself into this? Playing the ‘serving girl’ at Terry’s party?
The answer was obvious. He hadn’t gotten himself into it. Terry had gotten him into it.
She had caught him in panties and pushed him into doing it. True, he could have said no. But he
couldn’t say no. She had been right. He wanted to dress like a woman and he wanted to be seen.
He couldn’t back out now.
He shook his head. “No. I’m not reneging.”
“Then get on your knees,” she commanded.
He fell to his knees.
“Very good,” she said.
“What now?” he gasped.
Slowly, Terry pulled up her dress. He watched it slide up her thighs, up, up, until it slid
past her pussy. She wasn’t wearing panties. She was shaved, except for a thin, dark strip rising
up from her slit. He could see her pussy glisten. She was wet.
“Now come here,” she said, calling him with a crooked finger.
He didn’t wait to be asked twice. He crawled on his knees to her.
“You’ve been doing such a good job serving everyone. I think it’s time you serve me,
pretty girl,” she said. She reached out and put her hand on his head. She pulled him to her
crouch. “Lick my pussy.”
He leaned in and slid his tongue through her folds. She put one leg over his shoulder.
“Lick that cunt,” she growled.
She pressed her crouch down on his face, pushing her pussy against his lips. He licked.
She ground against him.

“Be a good girl and lick that pussy,” she said, sliding her hand behind his head and pull-
ing him to her.
He speared her with his tongue, and she let out a moan. He fucked her with his tongue.
She pinched her nipple through the dress. A flush ran up her neck.
“Make me cum,” she hissed.
She rubbed her pussy across his mouth and chin, grinding into his nose. He felt her pussy
spasming as she came, her juices flowing over his chin.
“You’re such a good girl,” she moaned, and she leaned back onto the counter.
Her body twitched. She pressed her wet pussy against his lips. He kissed and licked her.
Her body twitched again, and again, then she let out a long, satisfied sigh, and dropped her leg to
the ground.
“Whew!” she said. “That was nice. Now I have to get back to the party and you have to
get back to serving.”
She stood up and pulled down her dress. Cary stood up and started to wipe his face with a
dish towel, but she grabbed his arm before he could.
“Nope,” she said. “The pussy juice stays.”
He looked at her, and for the barest instant he considered saying no, but then he nodded.
“Good. I want my scent on you when you serve drinks,” she said.
Return to beginning
Chapter Four
Classic
“We could do great work together,” he said.
Cary nodded while he looked around for an escape route. They were in Terry’s bedroom. Cary
had been using the en-suite bathroom–it wouldn’t be good if a guest saw him peeing standing up–and
when he had come out of the bathroom, ‘he’ was there, waiting.
‘He’ was Daxton Riker, a photographer from New York. Daxton had been circling Cary all even-
ing, like a hungry shark circling a baby seal. Now he was moving in for the kill.
“The camera would love you, honey,” Daxton said.
Accosted by the photographer, Cary retreated, backing away until his retreat was stopped by a
bedroom wall. Daxton moved in until he was practically pressed against Cary. Cary was looking at
Terry’s big bed over Daxton’s shoulder. He didn’t like the setting for this conversation. It was too... inti-
mate.
“I’ve never done any modeling,” Cary whispered.
He had decided that it was easier to make his voice sound feminine if he spoke in a whisper, but
he hadn’t intended on having a sustained conversation with anyone.
“Modeling?” Daxton scoffed. “I don’t shoot models. I shoot life.” He got even closer. “I want
women who are real. I want authentic sexuality, and you’ve got it, baby.”
Cary gulped. Daxton Riker was so close that Cary could taste his toothpaste. He was almost close
enough to polish Cary’s hard-on with his jeans.

Wouldn’t that change the dynamic?
“I don’t know,” Cary whispered.
Daxton reached out and touched Cary’s cheek.
“If you’re not comfortable in front of the camera, we can shoot together,” the photographer said.
“It’ll be a sensual shoot. I’ll do everything to help you relax.” Daxton lifted an eyebrow. “I assure you
that I am a very accomplished lover.” The photographer pursed his lips in the pantomime of a slow kiss.
Cary let out a nervous laugh.
Did this work on women?
Was this guy even serious?
Daxton Riker carried himself as if he was a gift to all humankind, despite being short and a little
dumpy. It was his height and relative lack of fitness that made Cary feel a little more secure in the situa-
tion. Cary was certain he could take the photographer if it came down to it, but still, this was giving Cary
a completely different perspective on being a woman.
Why exactly would Daxton think this approach would work?
Cary was a damn sexy woman and Daxton was nothing to write home about. His only redeeming
feature was his glorious hair. It was thick and wavy, pushed back in thick curls that fell to his shoulders. It
looked like a lion’s mane. Which probably explained why Daxton shook his head so much. He was show-
ing off his hair. But great hair wasn’t enough to convince Cary to let the photographer ‘shoot’ him. Cary
was pretty certain that ‘shoot’ was a euphemism for ‘fuck’.
“Look,” Daxton said, and he grabbed Cary’s hand.
Before Cary could resist, Daxton had pulled him away from the wall and spun him, as if they
were dancing, until Cary’s back was pressed against Daxton’s front. Startled, Cary felt Daxton’s erection
pushing through his jeans. The photographer’s dick wasn’t huge, but it was insistent against Cary’s ass.
“You are a striking woman,” Daxton panted, and he put his chin on Cary’s shoulder.
They were standing on a plush shag rug in front of a large mirror. The room was dark, lit only by
a couple of lamps on the bedside tables, so the two of them were tangled figures caught in shadows.
“You are a beautiful woman, and I could take wonderful photos of you,” Daxton said. He hugged
Cary around the middle. “We could make beautiful art together.”
The photographer put his hand on Cary’s thigh, on the lace top of his thigh-highs.
“I could do things to you that would make your body sing, darling,” Daxton said, his hand slip-
ping up Cary’s leg.
Another inch and the photographer’s hand would reach Cary’s panties, then the man would feel
the thick, telescopic lens Cary had in his panties. Cary grabbed the man’s wrist and squeezed hard. Dax-
ton grunted.
“You’re very strong,” he said, as Cary pushed his hand away.
Just then, Terry walked into the bedroom. She looked at them and frowned.
“Daxton,” she said. She sounded disappointed. “I believe you were told not to be a dick to my
girls.”
The photographer stepped away from Cary.
“I was only asking this beautiful lady if she wanted to pose for me,” he said.
“You were being creepy, you mean,” she said.
“I wasn’t,” he insisted.
“Was he being creepy?” Terry asked Cary.
Cary nodded. “Yes. Very,” he said.
“Do you know what that means, Daxton?” she asked.

The photographer was looking at his feet.
“Daxton?” she said.
He nodded.
“That’s right,” she said. “No more parties for you.”
The photographer slumped.
“You can go now, Daxton,” she said.
The photographer slunk out of the room. When he got to the door, Terry stopped him.
“And Daxton,” she said. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you, so don’t be a dick to anyone else, ok?”
“Ok,” he mumbled, and he was gone.
“Sorry about that,” Terry said.
“It’s ok,” Cary said. “I was about to beat the crap out of him.”
“Maybe I should have come in later,” she said. “It would have taught Daxton a lesson.”
“It might have blown my cover,” Cary said.
“I think it might have been worth it,” she said. “But now you have other things to worry about.”
“Like what?” Cary said.
“It’s time for dinner,” she said, “and you have to serve.”
The dinner went without a hitch, if not for a few pinches. It wasn’t until after that he had his big-
gest surprise of the night. The guests were leaving when he was pigeonholed by a woman. She was attrac-
tive, in her late forties or early fifties. Cary had noticed her during the party, and her husband–a loud-
mouth in his sixties–had noticed Cary. His attentions had been punctuated by painful pinches on Cary’s
posterior.
“I’m Joy,” the woman said, putting her hand on Cary’s arm and getting very close.
“Cary,” he whispered.
She was very pretty, and her tiny breasts were extremely perky.
“My husband thinks you are very beautiful,” she said, turning to look toward her husband.
The man gave a stiff wave. She waved back.
“We have... an open marriage,” she said. “At least, open for him. He fucks whoever he can.”
“Um,” Cary stammered. “I don’t think...”
“No,” she stopped him. “He doesn’t get to fuck you. He’d like to, but it would be a surprise for
him if he did, wouldn’t it?” She looked at Cary and gave him a knowing smile.
“I don’t know...” he started.
She shook her head. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Nobody knows. I know because I was lying on
that chaise while they were all smoking those dreadful cigars and I saw up your skirt when you were serv-
ing.”
Cary felt himself blush.
“So, the agreement I have with my husband lets me sleep with women,” she said. “He doesn’t ob-
ject to that, so he won’t object to you.”
“Oh,” Cary said, finally understanding.
“He thinks I’m making a fuck date with a woman.” She laughed. “He thinks it’s hot when I’m
with another woman, but this time the joke’s on him. I’ve seen that big cock you’ve got, and I’ve seen
you looking at me.”
“You’re beautiful,” Cary said.
“So are you,” she said, leaning into him and giving him a kiss.
Their kiss broke. The husband was smiling.

“So, would you like to be my girlfriend sometime?” she said.
“I’d love it,” Cary said.
And she gave him her number.
Return to beginning
Chapter Five
Dessert
“I saw you chatting with Joy,” Terry called.
They had gone to her bedroom after the guests left. She was in the dressing room, changing. Cary
was sitting on the edge of her bed. His feet were aching.
How did waitresses do it?
“She seemed nice,” Cary said.
Terry laughed. “You mean horny,” she said. “She asked me about you.”
“Really?”
“She wanted to make sure that was a dick she saw under your skirt,” she said.
“And you told her?”
“What did you want me to tell her?” Terry said. “That you were carrying a banana in your pant-
ies?”
Cary didn’t answer. He was thinking that two people knew his secret now.
“Don’t worry about Joy,” Terry said. “She’ll never tell anyone. She just wants a deep dicking
every now and then.”
Cary grunted. That wasn’t a problem.
Terry came out of her dressing room. She was wearing the same outfit.
“I thought you were changing,” he said.

Then he did a double take. The dress was the same, but now there was a long bulge at her crouch–
he blinked–and the head of a cock was peeking out from under her dress.
Terry grinned.
“It’s time for me to fuck you,” she said.
Her look was wicked.
“I’ve never...” he stammered, but his voice trailed off.
He had lost his words in the trouble he was having finding his breath. He squirmed on the edge of
the bed. He pressed his knees together. He stared at that little head poking out of the bottom of Terry’s
dress.
“You’ve never been fucked?” she said.
She slipped her hand under her dress and pulled out the silicone cock she was wearing on a har-
ness around her waist. It was an average cock, about five inches, and had veins running down the shaft.
She stroked it.
“No,” he stammered, watching her hand slide up and down the strap-on’s shaft.
It was mesmerizing.
“Are you my girl?” she asked, still stroking.
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Then I’m going to fuck you,” she said. “You want to get fucked, don’t you?”
He swallowed. He felt weak.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Then come over here and suck my cock,” she said.

He went to her and fell to his knees in front of her. He looked up at her. She touched his cheek
tenderly.
“You’re my beautiful girl,” she said.
He put his lips on her silicone head. She nodded.
“That’s right. Suck my cock, baby,” she said, slowly thrusting her hips toward him.
He took her cock in his mouth, letting the head slide between his lips. She put both hands on his
head and slowly thrust.
“This is how I’m going to fuck you,” she said. “Slow and deep.”
He put his hands on her hips, letting her fuck his mouth. Suddenly, he wanted her cock.
No. He needed it. He looked at her. Their eyes met.
“I want you to fuck me,” he breathed, his lips on the head of her cock.
“Then get on your hands and knees,” she said.
“Ok,” he said.
“In front of the mirror,” she said. “I want you to see me fucking you.”
He got on the shag carpet, in front of the mirror, on all fours. His ass up. He looked back
at her. She was standing behind him, rubbing her cock.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” she said, and she kneeled behind him.
He swallowed. She pushed up his skirt and pulled his satin panties to the side. He gasped
when something warm splashed on his skin.
“What’s that?” he whispered.
“Just a little lube to make it better,” she cooed, rubbing her fingers through the lube.
Her fingers danced down his ass, rubbing and tickling. He let his chest fall to the ground
when her fingers brushed over his asshole. She rubbed.
“That feels good,” he said.
“You like it?”
“Yes,” he said.
She slipped her thumb in his ass.
“Ohh,” he sighed.
She pulled her thumb out and slipped it back in.
“How does that feel?”
“It feels good,” he sighed.
Very gently, she fucked his ass with her thumb until he was rocking with her, taking her
whole thumb.
“I want your cock,” he hissed, looking at her over his shoulder.
“You want me to fuck you, baby?”
“Yes,” he moaned. “Fuck me!”
She got behind him and put a hand on his hip. With her other hand, she guided her sili-
cone cock to his lubed back door. She pushed the head against his waiting asshole.
“Yes,” he gasped, as she pushed inside him.
He had never felt anything like that dildo sliding into his ass. It filled him. She put both
hands on his hips and slowly thrust until she was buried to the hilt.
“Is that what you want?” she growled.

“Yes,” he moaned.
She pulled out and slid back in.
“You’ve been such a good girl,” she said, pulling in and out.
“Fuck me,” he gasped.
She began to move faster and faster. His body began to contract, his ass squeezing the
dildo. Warmth radiated from his stomach. He started to twitch. She held his hips tight and thrust
harder.
“Fuck me! Fuck me!” he groaned.
His legs started trembling. She fucked him harder. Then he started shaking all over. He
grabbed fistfuls of the rug. He pressed his cheek into the floor. The sensations grew and grew,
then it felt like his whole body was clenching. It was like cumming without cumming.
“Fuck, yes!” he moaned, and he slumped down.
Return to beginning
Epilogue
Drinks
“Did you like that?” she asked.
“I did. It was intense,” he panted.
It felt like he had run a mile.
“Roll over,” she ordered, slapping his ass.
He rolled over, lying on his back. She pulled down his satin panties, and his hard cock
sprang out.
“My turn,” she said, straddling him.
“I think you wore me out,” he said.
She peeled off her dress.
“You can just lie there,” she said, and she grabbed his cock.
She directed his head to her pussy. She was soaking wet. She wiggled and rocked until
his head slid through her folds. Slowly, she lowered herself down.
“Ooo,” she moaned. “I needed this.” And she began rocking her hips.
“You’re still hard,” he said, reaching down and stroking the dildo.
“I’m always hard,” she said, grinning. “Don’t think I’m finished fucking you, yet.”
She rocked back and forth, letting his cock slide in and out of her wet pussy.
“Promise?” he said.
“Promise,” she said.
The End
Thank you for reading BOUND TO SERVE PT. 2. If you have questions, comments, story
suggestions, or anything else of interest you want to share, I’d love to hear it all at con-
tactme@mistymacbookstore.com. Visit my website, MistyMacBookstore, and leave a review, if
you feel like it. Reviews (of any description) are immensely appreciated. Or follow me on social
media for some random chatting: Instagram, Twitter, Tumblr.
Thanks,
Misty
Return to beginning
A word from the author
Hello dear readers,
I’m Misty MacAllister and I’m an erotic writer (this feels very much like an AA meeting). I
wanted to take the opportunity to say a little something about myself, the obligatory bio, but that
turned out to be harder to do than I thought, so instead I’m going to answer a few of the most
common questions I’m asked. Usually I get these questions on my social media, where you can
go and follow me—please, follow me on Instagram, Twitter, and Tumblr!
The number one question is: Do you write from experience?
The answer is no. If I did everything in my stories, when would I have the time to write? And if
somehow I had time, I’d be too sore for anything other than a long bubble bath and a glass of
wine. The only books I can think of that bear any resemblance to reality are “Pollinate My
Flower”, because I had an experience with a bumble bee hive when I was little, but those stings
weren’t nearly as erotic as the stings in the said story, and “An Intimate Encounter of the Fifth
Kind”, because I sometimes think that my husband is an alien, just without all the extra tentacles.
Oh, and “The Bride of Bigfoot”. I don’t know about you but my hiking experiences have been
pretty close to those described in “The Bride of Bigfoot” except for the Bigfoot part, naturally.
The number two question is: Why do you write erotica?
Why not is the easy answer, but the more Freudian answer would be that writing erotica is a
manifestation of one of my quirks. I like to peek into houses and hotel windows. I’m not a peep-
ing Tammy, mind you; I always stay on the sidewalk. What I’m really hoping to see is someone,
or preferably two someones, doing something naughty (hotel windows seem to me the most
likely to produce results). So I guess that’s why I write erotica, because not enough people are
doing naughty things in their windows and I have to use my imagination. So it’s on you, people.
Start getting frisky in windows if you want me to stop writing.
The other questions I get are as follows, in no particular:
Do you work out?

Are you married?
Do you want to meet?
Are you afraid of the dark?
Can you undo knots?
Have you ever been tied up?
Do you want to be tied up?
Etc.
If you want to know the answers, or if you want to check out my other books, go to my
bookstore, mistymacbookstore.com.
Sincerely,
Misty
Return to beginning

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Bound to Serve Pt. 2

Copyright © 2017 by Misty MacAllister

If you have any comments, suggestions, reasonable/unreasonable requests, marriage proposals,

Erotica, Satin Delight

Special thanks to my patrons:

You make my world smell like roses!

A word from the author

he, not a she.

He rocked from heel to heel.

That’s really me, he thought.

almost dizzy. His cock ached.

to cum in the panties.

looking at him had felt as tangible as a touch.

show off his satin panties. “You look damn sexy.”

the satin, pressing into his crack.

her fingers to his asshole.

fingers running down his bare ass.

middle finger across his eager hole.

“I’m going to...” she started.

The doorbell rang.

handsome old woman.

slowly heading back down.

He took the man’s hat.

woman and Terry.

we’ll steal her from you.”

“Never,” Terry laughed, and she patted Cary’s ass.

Cary’s blush grew atomic, and he looked at his feet.

“We’re embarrassing her,” the old woman tutted.

“Perfect,” the old man said. “I need a drink.”

And the old couple bustled away.

“I think this is going to be a wonderful night,” Terry said.

The doorbell rang.

Cary wasn’t sure what kind of jobs were being offered.

“How’s it going?” Terry asked.

“Like what?” she said.

dropped in a cage full of hungry lions.”

She laughed. “They like you,” she said. “You’re sexy.”

“It’s harassment,” he said.

accepted, within certain bounds.”

“What does that mean?” Cary said.

“Usually I hire working girls,” she said.

“You mean you hire prostitutes?” he said.

feel comfortable, they tell me and it ends.”

He flushed. She snorted.

“Come on,” she said. “I think you need a break.”

rant, except this kitchen was empty.

“Where’s the chef?” Cary asked, looking cautiously around.

“Um,” he stammered, feeling suddenly nervous. “What do you want me to do now?”

“I want you to get on your knees,” she said.

heart started pounding.

“You’re not serious,” he said. “Here?”

“Do you remember the rules?” she said.

“I don’t remember there being any rules,” he said.

“Are you backing out?”

He pushed back the long hair.

He couldn’t back out now.

He shook his head. “No. I’m not reneging.”

“Then get on your knees,” she commanded.

He fell to his knees.

“Very good,” she said.

“What now?” he gasped.