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Lesbian Encounter at Mumbai Hotel

I entered the Oberoi Trident hotel lounge, and wandered over to the bar, looking over the room. It was somewhat dimly lit and about half-full of people at booths and tables. I took a seat on a stool, flipping my short skirt out behind me as I sat down, putting my bare rear on the leather of the seat. I hooked my heels into the rung of the stool, and let my knees fall open about a foot or so.

The bartender appeared in front of me, a cute fhirang blonde, and I asked for a glass of white wine. When it arrived, I took a sip, and looked into the mirror behind the bar, using it to scan the room. I noted that all of the current patrons seemed to be female, which surprised me a little.

I detected a movement out of the corner of my eye, and a low voice spoke into my ear. "So, who owns you?"

I looked to my left, my eyes widening slightly. A pretty lady was pulling herself onto the stool beside me. "What did you say?"

She looked me directly in the eyes, and said, "I asked who owns you?" In a lower voice, she added, "Slut."

I gasped slightly at the last word, but met her gaze, and asked, "What makes you think that someone owns me? Or that I'm a slut?"

She laughed a little in a rich, low voice. "I'd say it's pretty obvious. Shall I list the reasons?"

"Please do."

She spun her stool to face me more directly, and placed a hand on my knee, using it turn my stool a little more toward her. She squeezed my knee slightly as she began, but left the hand where it was. "Okay, we'll start from the top and work down. First, your blouse is open quite low. I'd guess that the first button that's done up is at the level of your nipples. Second, you're not wearing a bra."

As she spoke, she extended the index finger of her other hand, and moved it into the opening of my blouse, tracing her fingernail lightly down my breastbone, and into the valley between my breasts. As it reached the limit of the opening, she moved it across my left breast until it touched the nipple. She flicked the nipple back and forth a few times, waking it into stiffened attention, then withdrew her finger.

"A little brazen, aren't we?"

"Just verifying my hypothesis."

"Well, being braless and showing a little cleavage proves nothing. Many women don't wear a bra, and many women like to show some cleavage."

"True, although I'd guess you're a good C-cup, and that's a little big to flash without a bra. Even if they're quite firm, they'll still move quite a bit and attract attention."

"It's my choice, and still proves nothing."

"Your choice? Really? In any event, moving on, ... your skirt is short, but loose, so it easily flares out, and you're not sitting on it. It's flipped out behind you, and your ass is on the seat."

"Which proves what? That I don't like tight skirts, and that sitting on your skirt on a stool exposes more thigh than I wanted to show. You're not doing very well here."

"Next, your legs are spread pretty wide. Most women keep their knees together when they're wearing a skirt."

"So, I have lousy posture. I was also facing the bar, so there was nothing for anyone to see."

"Yes, but now you're facing me, and you still haven't closed your legs."

I looked at her level gaze, and swallowed hard, knowing that she had just scored a point that I couldn't refute. I took refuge in a mouthful of wine from my glass and looked at her again. "Anything more?"

The hand on my knee started sliding up my stocking. "I'd say that these are stockings, not pantyhose." The hand kept moving, crossing over the lace band at the top.

"I detest pantyhose. Many women do." My breath caught as her hand moved onto the bare skin at the top of my thigh. She was very close to something else that might give me away.

"True. But how many women wear a short, loose, skirt, and no panties?" Her hand slid into the crease at the top of my thigh, and her index finger traced a path over one of my labia. "Oh, and are shaved as well?" My breathing became a little ragged as arousal started to flare.

"You've still proven nothing." Her index finger was now sliding up and down my slit, and I realized I was wet. Her fingernail insinuated itself under the hood of my clitoris. She turned her finger a little, and began a rhythmic scraping of the tip of her nail back and forth across my clit. The sensation was exquisite, because it was both massively stimulating and a little painful at the same time. My flare of arousal began to grow hot, and a little moan escaped my lips.

"Well, I'd say the final nail in the coffin, ... or should I say, nail on the clit, ... is that you're about to let a strange woman make you come while you're sitting in a bar where all kinds of people can see you."

"I'm not coming."

As I said that, she brought her thumbnail onto the other side of my clit, then pinched it between the two nails, and yanked back, snapping it between the nails, scraping both sides, and sending a white flare of pain through my pussy and into my brain.

I stared into her eyes as the orgasm erupted, and she calmly said, "Don't make a sound. Or else."

I clenched my jaws, whimpering from the pain, moaning from the orgasm, and hissing air through my teeth. I grabbed the edge of the bar in a white-knuckled grip, and shook on the stool as the tremors flew through me. When I had finally calmed enough, I took a swallow of my wine, and turned to look at her.

"Well," she said, grinning. "I guess that takes care of the final proof. I think you and I will have some fun."


"Oh, actually it was pretty easy. I recognized all the signs since I've sent my slaves out dressed like that, but I liked playing the game. Plus, your mistress and I arranged a swap, and you're her part of the deal, so I already knew who and what you were. Come along slut, we have some unfinished business."

"Yes, Mistress." I followed her out, resigned to my fate.
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