This is a short piece I wrote for my online Mistress before meeting my current partner. While the MC and the events around her portion of the story are fictional, the descriptions in the notes left for her to discover are true and recount my real life experiences and relationship with the woman who held my heart at the time. The story came about because she really did give me a task to leave a few notes around my local grocery store for others to find. I imagined a version where I had expanded on the simple instructions to create a much more elaborate situation and then of someone finding those notes.
Unlike most of my other stories, this one doesn’t have any explicit sex scenes even though sexual situations are discussed. Also, due to the nature of this being a kind of love letter to my then Mistress, it is much shorter than my usual offerings. I hope you enjoy it.
Title: Scavenger Hunt
Length: 5k words
Tags: lesbian, romance
Download: PDF
I walked into the women’s restroom at my local grocery store, something I usually avoid at all costs, but I had no choice. You’ll just have to trust me on that. I went quickly to a stall and did what I had to.
When I went to wash my hands, there was a 4×5 notecard taped to the mirror. It was probably here when I came in, but I was in too much of a hurry to notice. I expected some notice to employees to wash their hands or a complaint about the lack of paper towels or something. What I found was not even in the realm of my consideration and would change my life.
As I scrubbed my hands, I read the card.
“Hi,
I am the submissive lesbian pet slut of a fantastic Mistress who I love dearly. She has told me to tell my story to whoever finds this note.”
What the hell? Something about the rawness and application of the label “pet slut” to herself gave me pause and made me a little warm. I looked around the small bathroom even though I knew I was alone before turning back to continue reading.
“I’ve hidden many more cards throughout the store. If the idea of reading about my willing sexual slavery gives you a tingle, take this card with you and find the rest. If not, please leave this where it is for someone else to find.”
There was a tingle. I looked at myself in the mirror and could see the heat rising to my cheeks. The note continued.
“On the back of this card is a set of numbers that you will need to locate the others. They are hidden well so that they shouldn’t be found by accident, at least for a while. The next card is in the produce bin number G.”
That was it. The message on the front ended there. Number G? What did that mean? Should I take it? The curiosity was killing me, and I hadn’t been this aroused by a note in, well, ever. I dried my hands while staring at the note as if it might escape. There really wasn’t a question that I would take it, but my hand still shook as I reached up and peeled the card away from the glass surface.
On the back was the alphabet written on a couple of rows with numbers under each letter. The numbers seemed randomly distributed, and a couple of the letters even had the same number. So, G was a 6.
Turning to leave, I tried to push the card into a pocket. That was a mistake. Why couldn’t women’s jeans have useful pockets? I managed to get most of it in a back pocket and then stepped casually out the door.
After retrieving my cart, which already had a few items at the bottom, I meandered back to the produce section. I had never actually paid attention to the fact that the bins were numbered, and it took me a moment to locate that on the small signs.
Bin six was bags of onions. I started moving the bags around inconspicuously, as if I were judging which one to purchase but couldn’t find a card. Was this just a joke and I was the victim? Picking up a bag, I set it to the side. I did that for another four bags, ignoring what this must look like to other shoppers. After relocating two more bags and revealing a pretty good portion of the bottom of the display, the white corner of something peeked out from under one of the bags.
Yes! I snatched it up and looked around. No one was watching, so I acted like I hadn’t just been rummaging through the onions and pushed my cart away while looking over the potatoes as I passed. When I was far enough away to not be suspected of the onion carnage, I held up the new card and read.
“I met my Mistress on a website dedicated to erotic literature. After enjoying the stories, I joined the forums and started virtually flirting with some of the other women there. I never expected to meet any of the people behind those fictional usernames. I was guarded but excited when I found a few women who seemed to click with my interests. Some of the flirting could get pretty explicit and then move to DMs. That’s how I met my Mistress. We got pretty hot and heavy in a group discussion, and then I DMed her. I’d had lots of people DM me, but this was my first time reaching out. There was just something about her intelligent quips and how she pushed my buttons just right that slipped past all my guards.”
The card ended there. Flipping it over, there were just the letters D and V. Looking back at the first card, I translated that to the numbers 8 and 22. Aisle 8, section 22? I started heading in that direction, again acting normal and having to keep myself walking at a leisurely pace.
Whoever this woman was, she had piqued my curiosity in a way that went beyond her words. My own sexuality came into question as I imagined flirting online with other women, and it sounded titillating. You should probably know that I have long considered the possibility that I might be bisexual, but society and circumstances never allowed me to explore that beyond the occasional fantasy. Now, this chance find had brought that back to the surface and shined a spotlight on it.
I reached aisle 8, canned vegetables, mostly. Section 22 was all green beans, but I didn’t see any card. Like the previous one, it was probably buried pretty deep. It took several minutes and the use of the flashlight on my phone, but I finally found the next card under cans of French cut beans way in the back of the shelf.
This time, I didn’t bother moving away before reading the new find.
“She was older than me by a bit and halfway around the world, but I didn’t care. She was sure of herself and knew just what to say to get me aroused. It was like she was in my head and strumming nerves that got me all squishy. We started doing online roleplay, which is like building a fantasy together and trying to make each other cum. We were making love with our minds, and she was SO good at it. When she started suggesting things I could do IRL, I didn’t hesitate. She would tell me to use a certain vibrator or how to fuck myself with a dildo just like she would if she were with me. When she had me suction cup my dildo to the mirror bolted to my bedroom wall and told me to imagine she was fucking me with a strap-on from behind, I could almost feel her hands on my hips. I squirted for the first time with her virtually fucking me like that. When was the last time you came that hard?”
When was the last time? Never. I thought that was just a myth cooked up by the porn industry so that women could have their own ‘money shot.’ What would that feel like, I wondered.
I looked down and could see my nipples poking out from my tight shirt. They desperately wanted to be touched, but there was no way I was going to even hint at anything like that in the middle of a grocery store. Another shopper was heading in my direction, so I grabbed a can of green beans and stuck it in my cart.
Where to next? On the back of the card was another pair of letters, N and M. Aisle 12, section 2. This one was six boxes of Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch back. A woman with a kid in the seat of her cart looked at me weirdly but didn’t say anything and just kept going. I smiled at her but then read the card.
“She asked me if she could take a more dominant role and, with butterflies in my stomach, I agreed. It got me excited to follow her suggestions, then her orders. I got used to her telling me what to do and anticipated the next task. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I found myself getting wet just seeing a notification that she had sent me a message. Our roleplay began delving more into my acquiescence to her, and I got more and more excited as she mentally guided me further down the submissive rabbit hole. The further I went, the more I was convinced that this was the real me, the element I had been missing. What are you missing?”
I didn’t think I was missing anything. My sex life was filled with short periods of dating followed by passable sex, some of it even good. I thought that’s what everyone had. Reading about this woman’s experiences with just an online relationship and how it stirred up so much passion made me question that.
Flipping the card over, I followed it to the next location.
“The whole time, she was also giving me RL tasks that scared and excited me simultaneously. I told her about my routine of walking around the neighborhood, and she told me to cum in my panties, then stuff them in my mouth and walk my route. I did it! All I could think about was how I was doing something so brash and naughty all because a woman thousands of miles away told me to. When I got home, my jeans were soaked. After all, I wasn’t wearing any panties. I came so hard imagining her praising me, watching me.”
I was having to hold myself back from running to the next card. Each one was well hidden; no one was going to chance on them without some notion that they were there, and I had the only key to know where to look.
“I started buying sex toys just so she could make me use them. On another occasion, she had me do my weekly grocery shopping, yes, at this store, with a butt plug in. Depending on your experiences, that might seem tame, but to the woman I was at the time, it was heartpoundingly risque. She never ordered me to do anything that would get me in any real trouble or put me in danger beyond my own embarrassment. And that was the point. She was conditioning me not to be ashamed of being my true self. I wonder how many people ever get that luxury. Are you being your true self?”
I looked around thinking about someone walking around sporting a butt plug. No one would be able to tell unless they had a problem walking. I understood what they were, but I had never even seen one in real life, and I most certainly had never felt one. I suddenly had the urge to tease my backdoor just to get an idea of what she might have been feeling.
On to the next.
“On another occasion, she had me fashion a thong from a length of chain that I bought at a pet store. Even the act of purchasing the leash chain at a pet store for me got me aroused. It had a clip on each end, like an extension rather than a handle. I wrapped it around my waist and then through my legs. I had to thread it over the waist chain and back through my legs somewhat before I ran out of length and clipped it back onto itself. Adding to that, I wore the butt plug again and headed back to this store. The chain rubbed against my clit and the jeweled head of the plug with every step, keeping me in a constant state of arousal while picking out broccoli and toothpaste.”
“The following weekend, she had me augment my metal bikini with small locks whose keys were left in my apartment. Physically, there was no difference, but mentally, I was locked in. Like a weird sort of chastity device that she had bound me with. Even though I had done it willingly to myself, it was because of her and her commands. She was giving me SO much by coming up with these tasks, not to mention the lengthy correspondence that wove such lurid visions of my time with her. We created our own fantasy world where I lived with her as her submissive girlfriend, just the two of us.”
“Our relationship wasn’t all sexual. We talked about our families, personal tragedies, and just daily life. We were friends and, if the term is defined a bit loosely, lovers. All the while, she was stretching me mentally, emotionally, and, well, physically. That’s where the whole idea of having me wear a butt plug to the store came from. Anal sex was something I had toyed with but never done beyond some mild fingering. I mentioned it to her, and she suggested I start slow. A finger became two fingers, then the small butt plug. That turned into larger plugs and her taking my anal virginity. Technically, I did it to myself but, in my mind, she had strapped on the dildo and gently taken my ass. We wrote to each other about it, and when the plastic dick popped past my sphincter, it was her soothing voice I heard telling me to relax and go at my own pace. When I came from being anally penetrated that first time, it was for her.”
Oh, wow. My heart was pounding and breathing heavy as I read about the tenderness of anal sex! Why was this getting me so aroused? I had had a boyfriend who really wanted to try anal once, and I let him. It was painful and not satisfying to me. He practically forced his way in and then moved so fast that I couldn’t catch my breath. When he noticed I was crying, he stopped, but I hadn’t even considered it after that. To have someone who cared for my experience, who was focused on making sure I was okay, might have made the experience…pleasant.
“We picked out lingerie for each other. We each bought our own, but we bought what the other picked out. It was exciting knowing that she was wearing my choice while I was wearing hers. When she told me to perform tasks, I started answering with, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ She liked that, and it felt right, comfortable. That progressed to ‘Yes, Miss,’ and eventually, ‘Yes, Mistress.’ I felt a strange giddiness and warmth using that term for the first time. It was an offer—an offer she denied. I was crushed until she explained that she had not collared me, so she would not accept the title. I didn’t know what that meant and had to do some research.”
“There were lots of descriptions of collaring online, and they were all different, although there were commonalities. It was a ceremony, like a wedding in many cases. Sometimes it included a Master/slave contract, but not always. Just reading through examples of those contracts got me horny. Not because they were explicit; they were most definitely not. But the commitment, passion, and, yes, love expressed in those documents was a nectar I desperately wanted to taste. Could I ever sign such an agreement? My heart beat out of my chest while considering it. Could I willingly become the property of another person? Could you? Would you take on the responsibility of owning someone who really wanted you to?”
Suddenly, the memories of an ex-girlfriend came to mind. We often used the terms of ownership casually, like terms of endearment. “Better not flirt with my girl”, “I’m all yours, baby”, “She’s mine, and I’m hers,” “Will you be mine forever?” It was on Valentine cards and fucking candies, for Pete’s sake. But this was something more, something real.
I couldn’t comprehend that level of trust, either in giving it to someone or having someone who trusted me to that degree. Looking around, I wanted to just sit down right there in the frozen foods and come to grips with this. While the store wasn’t busy, there were still too many people around for that, so I just leaned against the cold glass door.
Of course, those contracts wouldn’t hold up in court, I thought to myself, then realized how silly I was being. They were never meant as legal documents; they were a way of forcing the couple to think about their desires for the relationship and communicate them. How many marriages never went to that level of work to consider what each partner wanted out of their sex lives?
I found the next note.
“I wrote a long roleplay scene describing my vision of what a collaring ceremony would look like for the two of us. It involved a trail of rose petals that I followed from our bed, out the back, to a gazebo just as the sun was rising. There, my Mistress waited, looking so hot in a power suit but with only the jacket on above her waist. I left my part in the scene there and nervously waited for her response. Would she continue the scene and collar me or walk away?”
The card stopped there! It was short compared to previous ones, and I really wanted to know how it turned out. I started to rush to the next location but slowed myself. This was silly! I was getting emotionally invested in a woman becoming the sex slave of another woman. I wanted her to have her wish and find what she was looking for, having never met her. Something about the scribbles on those note cards, however, made me feel like I knew her. She was not just a fictional character in a story.
I picked up the pace despite myself.
“I had to wait overnight due to the time difference, but the message I got back made me cry happy tears. She finished the scene but not with a collar. In her part, she included a picture of a ring, a simple silver band with a smaller circle of metal where a stone might have been attached. It looked just like a slave collar sized for a finger. She offered it to me as a commitment to be my Mistress. What I found touching beyond just her words was that this was a one-sided offer. If I accepted, she would be my Mistress with all of the responsibilities that entailed, but I was not her slave. Not yet. She hoped that one day I would feel comfortable enough to offer her a similar ring, one offering myself. She was not going to let me just jump into anything; she wanted me to have considered the implications completely. Yes, it was all symbolic, digital images transmitted over wires and satellites and airwaves. But the emotions were real. The commitment was real.”
Such caring. This was so much different than my vision of the hard-nosed bitch of a woman barking orders to someone who wanted to be abused. There was deep affection between these two even without ever meeting.
“Of course, I accepted. I wanted to reply immediately with my own offer, but that would have cheapened her gift. Like saying, ‘I love you too,’ is never as powerful as the initial, ‘I love you.’ So I waited and planned. Making a decision that gave me chills, I ordered a real collar. Not a leather thing with a huge D-ring like people use in BDSM sessions, a solid, stylish, metal band not unlike the ring. I could wear this one out and, if I turned the small attached clip-ring to the back, it would pass as simple jewelry. A week after I received the collar, I hadn’t put it on. I wouldn’t put it on until the time was right. I sent my Mistress another scene. We are at the gazebo again. I come out in just a sheer nightgown, stand in front of her, and remove it, rendering myself completely naked, without anything of my own between us. Then I kneel at her feet and hold up the collar along with a slave ring just like the Mistress ring she gave me.”
That image was clear in my mind, and it struck a sympathetic nerve. A woman symbolically making herself vulnerable and kneeling at her lover’s feet. It was…romantic.
I didn’t understand my own reaction. I am a fiercely independent woman and consider myself a feminist. Why wasn’t I outraged at the idea of sexual slavery? Because both women chose their paths.
It got me considering my own choices. Had I really made any? Yes, of course, I chose the safe path, the one society laid out in front of me and every other person. I wasn’t sure if I was happy, just…stable. Content, not excited. Safe, not challenged.
I had to keep following this unknown woman’s path. More than ever, I needed to see if she had found what she was looking for.
“Mistress said that she cried at how beautiful it was and how beautiful I was. She accepted the ring and locked the collar on me. As I read her words, alone in my apartment, I locked the real collar around my neck. It took a little work since the two halves locked together with a hex bolt screw. It would be just as hard to remove it. In my mind, at that moment, she owned me. I had given myself to another person, another woman, who I had never physically met but who I felt like I knew better than almost anyone. We cried together even if time and space separated us.”
I thought that was the end of her story, the final card, but flipping it over, there were two more letters. Wiping away a tear from my cheek, I pushed my cart, barely filled, to yet another location.
“That was a year ago, and I haven’t regretted a single second. Ironically, through my submission and her tasks, I have gained courage and found out who I am. I am her slut, but I am my own woman. I have faced my insecurities, my fears, and the mask I fashioned around myself for the world to see. I haven’t thrown it away, but I no longer hide behind it like a scared animal. Now I own it, and I love it. I love her, and I love myself. There is one more card, but it’s not inside the store. Relax: FZY.”
FZY? Fizzy? I flipped the card over, but there was nothing on the back. Returning to the reverse side of the first message, F was a 20, Z was a zero, and Y was an 8. 20, 0, 8. 2008. It was a year? But how was that a location?
I paid for my few groceries without engaging with the teller in anything more than automatic niceties; my brain was elsewhere. She said that the last card wasn’t inside. Outside the doors to the grocery store, I stopped and looked around for anything that might relate to 2008. Not seeing anything obvious, I walked to my car and deposited my purchase, my head on a swivel, looking around like I was expecting a stalker. I must admit that the thought crossed my mind that this was some ruse to get me alone, but if so, there were a billion easier and less creative ways to do that. Even so, outside the relative protection of a trafficked store, I was a bit more wary.
One end of the shopping center was half dominated by the supermarket, with a bunch of other small stores on both sides. The opposite side of the parking lot also contained a few additional shops, including a few restaurants. Nothing I saw even hinted at a year. Maybe it was an address. It didn’t take much to locate the street numbers on the shops, but they were all in the hundreds. Wait, the word before the code was ‘Relax’ with a colon after it. Did that mean it was part of the clue?
Maybe there was a mattress store I hadn’t noticed? Another quick scan of the facade ruled out that possibility. I started walking back to the sidewalk by the market in hopes that a different perspective would give me a new idea.
I sat on a bench just outside the door and sighed. I’d come this far but couldn’t find the last card. Continuing to scan my surroundings, I noticed a small plaque on the top slat of the bench. It read, “Donated by the Class of 2019”.
My eyes went wide. That was a date, the wrong date, but a date! Were all of these benches donated by senior classes of the nearby high school? I got up and jogged to the next closest bench. Sure enough, “Donated by the Class of 2022”. So, not every class donated benches, but I bet the class of 2008 did – somewhere!
The years went up when I came in this direction, so I turned around and went the opposite. The next bench was donated by the class of 2017; the one after that, 2014. Yes, I was going in the right direction! I made it all the way around to a bench just outside a Mexican restaurant. “Donated by the Class of 2008.” Yes!
Now, where was the card? If I were going to hide a card that I didn’t want accidentally found, I would put it under the seat. Kneeling down and looking under, I hit the jackpot! There was a 4×5 card duct-taped to the underside of the seat. I retrieved it and sat down to read.
“My Mistress is kind and loving and demanding. She keeps me satisfied like no one ever has, even from thousands of miles away. I would do anything for her, and I wish I could be with her, but that’s not an option. This brings me to my final question to you. You who have followed this trail all the way to the end. I want to give my Mistress a surrogate – or a new slave. Would you want to be her hands, her tongue, her body that I could worship with her guidance? Or maybe a sister slave who would complete her tasks with me? I know this is a lot, and you can back out any time. We might not gel. This is only an opportunity, a door opening. You wouldn’t have to commit to anything. If you are still here in ten minutes, I will join you, and we can talk.”
I dropped the card, almost throwing it onto the seat next to me. I looked around, this time at the dozens of cars arrayed in front of me. Nothing jumped out; there weren’t any people just sitting in their vehicles watching. I picked up the card again and reread it. I stood up and took a step toward my car, now half a parking lot away, but stopped.
This was crazy. There was no way.
I took another step, then hesitated.
The unknown woman’s story intrigued me. More than that, it aroused me in a way I hadn’t felt in years, maybe ever. Could I open myself up to something so…so…what? Two women having a consensual relationship with a little kink thrown in? That probably wasn’t even that unusual. Everyone has kinks, but not everyone has the opportunity or courage to experience them.
I looked back at the bench. Did I want something like what the woman described in her notes? The tingle and heat coming from my sex argued that I did. Did I want it enough to take the risk?
With a lot of trepidation, I took the two steps back to the seat. And I sat. My brain kept giving me reasons to just walk away, but my body wouldn’t move. The reasons were all about what was safe, what was expected, what was right by society’s standards.
Fuck that. I was ready to choose my own path.
Minutes passed, or maybe it was an hour. It felt like forever. Then someone exited the restaurant behind me to my left. Turning, I saw a pretty young woman, probably in her mid-twenties, with shoulder-length blonde hair, wearing a somewhat short sundress that made her look like something out of a catalog. She walked toward the bench without acknowledging or looking at me. I watched her intently as she sat demurely on the opposite end of the bench.
Neither of us spoke for several seconds.
Finally, she looked up at me and smiled.
“Hi,” she said quietly. “Do you want to talk?”
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