I swallow hard and unfasten my pants, sliding them down in a puddle at my feet. According to Mistress' directions, I am wearing a pair of pouch briefs, and between Her ministrations earlier and my position here, my cock is filling the pouch.The woman, looking bored, takes out a cloth tape measure and runs it around my waist, jots a number down, then wraps it around my hips, sliding the tape across the front of my pouch and catching it under the head of my cock. She writes down another number, then holds one end of the tape just under my navel and slides the other end down between my legs and up through the crease of my ass. She holds it there for a few seconds while I try not to squirm too much, then releases it with a curt "You may go." I'm blushing at my uncontrolled erection, and I hurry to put my pants back on.When I get back out into the shop, Mistress is standing by the cash register and I join her there. She re-attaches my leash as the clerk comes out of the rear of the store. Her UC trying to get its conclusions out.'If all else is eliminated, what remains must be the answer.'Yes, yes. A Sherlockian answer. She thought. So what remains?She looked around, and unthinkingly picked up Spats. She began to pet him, the loud 'Purrrr' calming and reassuring her. Her hand paused on the way down his spine for the umpteenth time, as she froze.Unlikely. But he hasn't been checked for intruders. Spats remains.She put him down, walked to her office, and shooed the cat out the door. A few keystrokes and she was set up. She grabbed a felt-tipped pen and wrote on a piece of paper rescued from her printer.Then she opened the door and held the paper where Spats could see it."Email me at [email protected]"The Traveler operated under an assumed name: Greg Harrison. That was the name registered in MPC. No one could look him up or find him under that name, even if they could break his passwords, because it wasn't his real name.He looked at the image that popped up on the.
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