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Hotwife Madison tortures lunch companion. Slut Power.

"That's enough, my pretty little pussy." Commanded Victria from her perch on the kitchen counter, "Look at me. Nice. Lick that milk mustache off. You're so cute. Now get up and put your bowl in the sink please."

So Melody did.

"Now take each of your pretty little kitty titties and clean them all up with your tongue."

That too, Melody did, grabbing up each breast, coaxing her nipples to rise higher with each mouthful, making each gleam wetly, fervently eyeing her mistress as her tongue slid round and round. Victria looked on; a moist patch of vaginal sweat collecting on the counter top beneath her. She had in deed conquered her wench the night before; lavishing her with her tongue until Melody could hardly beg for mercy. And the very least she could do was allow her slave to return the favor. But, Victria had no interest in receiving such gratification, so she ignored Melody's appeals. It struck her slave as odd, but she eventually chalked it up to just another part of Victria's methodology of control.

3

"Good morning Victria!" Simon said after knocking twice on the partially opened door to her office.

"Simon." Victria Answered flatly as she busily interfaced with her desktop.

Advancing deeper into her office, Simon cleared his throat and checked the knot of his Monday tie; black silk, an air brushed under water scene of killer whales across the tie's broadest point.

"So how'd your shooting go this weekend?"

Oh what the fuck Simon, she thought; leave me alone.

"Fine." She said, "I was making three inch patterns; head shots and center mass. She fires nice; really nice."

Put on the spot, Victria contrived her report from the memory of the second time she'd been at the range. She'd met up with her fire arms course instructor, a gentle but firm soft eyed old marine veteran by the name of Sargent Dennis Macavoy. He'd shown her a few 380s, 9 millimeters, 40s and some 45s. She'd paid him three hundred dollars for a full day's session and he'd made it entirely worth it. Macavoy had Victria start with the smallest semi-automatics, the 380s, in order to get a feel for weight, posture and hand eye coordination. She'd done well, taken her instruction and gradually decreasing her patterns to three inches, not so much with the head shots, but very accurate at center mass. Then, by the time Macavoy had her shoot the 45 semi-automatics and revolvers, Victria could not, for the life of her, get properly re-steadied after the initial shot of each more cumbersome and heavier weapon. It was a concern for them both because he had convinced her that it was ultimately a 45 she should have for protection.

"The primary reason one becomes a gun owner is because they expect a guarantee that the fire arm they choose will immediately neutralize the threat;" Sargent Macavoy had said as Victria looked over the compact Sig he handed her, "Particularly if the threat happens also to be armed. So, avoid 22s. Properly placed shots into the eye is one thing, but not likely to happen under the stress of threat. A 380; fine if you're shooting hollow points and you're within less than ten feet. I suggest that you might purchase one for carrying concealed when away from home."

As Macavoy spoke, Victria gently turned the weapon between her hands; admiring its stout yet sleek frame, its light weight, polymer base, its black steel muzzle, its sights and the cris-cross etched custom rose wood grip.

"But, for home protection, when there's the potential of having only a split second to be sure you need to shoot because there's a single armed intruder or maybe more than one, and armed with shot guns, in your home; you'll want a 45.

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