The package was waiting for me on the landing leading up to my apartment. The landlady always left the mail there. It was a wholly unremarkable package, with no return address, postmarked from Detroit. I therefore immediately assumed it was from my fiancee, the only soul I knew in that wretched city. Grabbing the package, I made my way up the stairs, unlocked the door, and entered my apartment.
It was a small one-bedroom that I rented for cheap. I did not require a lot of space. I worked at a nearby laboratory until late every night, and when I was not there, I made the four-hour drive that separated me from Detroit and from Kyra. She was a graduate student there, and we had decided, a year earlier, that being apart for a short while was an acceptable price to pay for me to gain some work experience, and for her to continue her doctoral studies. The separation was difficult, but I made the commute to go see Kyra twice a month, spending up to five days with her at a time. Thank God for flexible work hours!
Curious, I set about to open the package, to find a videotape. No marking, no accompanying letter. Strange. Not sure what to make of it, I put the tape in the VCR. After a few seconds of snow, an image appeared, seemingly from one of those surveillance cameras you find in stores. However, the image it showed was of the inside of a house or apartment that looked vaguely familiar. I realized after a while that it was a shot from my fiancee's apartment.
Just then I heard voices on the tape, Kyra, and some man whose voice I did not recognize.
"... and you believe you can help me with this?" said Kyra.
"Of course, miss. This is what we do best," said the unknown man. "Let me show you what your options are."
They both entered the frame. Kyra, short and thin with long brown hair, straight as they have always been, dressed as she usually was around the home, sweatpants and a tee-shirt, concealing curves I knew were there. The man was older, perhaps in his forties, dressed professionally, a good head taller than my fiancee. He carried a folder full of papers that he proceeded to spread on the dining room table, as Kyra sat down.
"As you can see, miss, we have several color options. This one, for instance, is available in yellow, which I believe will nicely match your kitchen."
"Features include all those we discussed on the phone: fully automatic cycle, silent mode, spill safety..."
Dishwashers. Kyra had been bugging me to get one, claiming that she did not have time to wash dishes, and that besides, it was safer and more hygienic than hand-washing dishes. She must have gotten tired of discussing it, and decided to go ahead with the purchase.
"And, of course, we have the feature common to every WashAll model, by far our most popular in most households," said the salesman.
"Which is?" said Kyra.
"Conditioning level alpha" said the salesman.
That was an odd thing to say. But Kyra's reaction to it was equally odd. She stiffened, and her face went blank. The salesman, who had been leaning on the table pointing at various dishwashers advertisement sheets, straightened, smiling, and took a step towards Kyra.
He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, pulled them down to his ankles, and stepped out of them. He was wearing boxer shorts, white with a light blue design. He approached Kyra, his cock tenting the front of his shorts.
Kyra turned her head towards him, her expression clearing a little, and the salesman ran his right hand through her hair.
"Come on, baby, be a good girl," he said.
She lifted her hand to his crotch, and slowly started rubbing his member through his shorts. The salesman tossed his head back, sighing.
"Mmmm... that's it, baby. Go ahead, take it out."
Kyra pushed down his boxer shorts, letting his now rock-hard cock out, pointing at her face. She slowly, almost reverently brought up her hands, and slowly, teasingly, started caressing it. She wrapped one hand around the head, and slowly started pumping her fist, slowly at first, then faster and faster. The salesman got harder, his cock nearly poking Kyra in the forehead, as she had been inching closer and closer.
It was not until she slowly approached her mouth, slowly spread her lips, and put the salesman's cock in her mouth that I realized I had been holding my breath. I had no idea what was going on, on so many levels. I had always thought my fiancee was faithful, never giving me any inkling that she was straying or had any desire to stray. Then again, what she was doing did not at all look like she was on a kick to be unfaithful. She seemed... I could not quite describe it. Not herself. Besides, I knew for a fact that she hated giving blowjobs. Our sex life was anything but adventurous, much to my chagrin and despite my many attempts, and giving head was simply not something she did happily. Yet, there she was, sucking on some strange man's cock, sitting at her own dining room table.
"Oh yeah, baby, that's it, that's it. Suck it," said the man, caressing Kyra's face as she slowly sucked on his cockhead. She was slow, careful, barely bringing his cock out of her lips, only to engulf it a few inches. Her sitting position must not have been ideal for the act.
The salesman seemed to realize it as well. He suddenly pulled her head off his cock, stepped back, and pointed at the ground in front of him.
Kyra got out of her chair, and obediently kneeled in front of the salesman who once more put his right hand through her hair and guided her head to his cock. The cockhead touched her lips, which she pursed to let it in. Sucking him in, sucking him out.
After a few minutes of this, the salesman grew agitated. His hips were moving somewhat spasmodically, and his hand was jerking on Kyra's head. Finally, he groaned, let out a loud "Oh God!", grabbed Kyra's head with both hands, and violently pulled her head towards him, jamming his cock all the way in her throat. I could hear my fiancee first gag and then choke as the salesman slowly pulled his cock out before slamming it all the way in again. Despite the gagging, Kyra was busily deepthroating the man, who kept pulling her head with his hands, grabbing fistfuls of her hair.
I was floored. Up until then, I had watched the proceedings in a stunned silence, not quite knowing what was going on. This, however, completely threw me. As I said, Kyra had repeatedly made clear that she disliked oral sex, and on the few occasions when she deigned indulge me, she would snap at me if I ever so much as touched her hair during the act. To see her on her knees, deepthroating a stranger, and letting him completely control the blowjob was beyond my ability to comprehend.
Things were progressing on the screen. Amidst groans and impressive slamming of cock in throat, with Kyra barely being able to keep up with the rhythm, long strands of spittle running down from her mouth onto her shirt, the salesman was close to coming.
"Fuck, you're good! Hold on, baby, I'm close... close... Oh God! Here it comes! Han!"
With a deep groan and a fart, he jammed his cock deeper down Kyra's throat than I thought possible. Her eyes bulging, her nose squashed against his gut, she could do nothing but swallow his cum.
After he finished coming, the salesman took his cock out of Kyra's throat, letting her breathe, gasping and half-choking, globs of spittle and cum leaking into her shirt. The salesman wiped his cock in Kyra's hair, while she laid there, unmoving, still heaving from her effort.
"There, that's a good little cocksucker. You have a wonderful mouth, you know that, baby?" he said, once again running his hand on the side of her head.
Kyra lifted her eyes towards him, seemingly seeing him for the first time. "Thank you, sir," she said.
The salesman smiles, caressing her face, spreading around some of the cum that was leaking down from her hair. He then turned his head up to look directly at the camera that he must have known was there, and gave an exaggerated wink and a grin. I felt it was for my benefit.
At that point, the image on the screen froze, with my fiancee, cum running down her chin, on her knees before a strange man, looking up at him. A voice came on, strangely disembodied, a deep baritone with a touch of the melodramatic to it.
"I hope you will remain calm, Mr Steadman," said the voice. "At least, until you have a chance to hear what I have to say. As you can see, we have in our possession a tape of your fiancee that I am certain several people would be quite interested in getting their hands on. Other people, and here I am mostly thinking about family, would perhaps be less interested. I am venturing a guess, you understand. I trust you have enough wit to understand that just as we managed to get this tape in the first place, we can get more. May I say that your fiancee is quite the little spitfire, Mr. Steadman.
"Now, here is the game, Mr. Steadman. You will not try anything foolish, you will not get in our way, you will not cause any trouble. We have no ardent desire to hurt anybody, my associates and I, but we will do so if we need to.
"All we want is to have some fun with your fiancee. Until we tire of her. At which point we will move on. In exchange for your... cooperation, we will let you partake in our good fun. We have extensively researched you and your fiancee, and if you will forgive the impertinence, things do not seem very rosy on the sexual front."
I frowned. Inasmuch as I hated to admit it, our sex life, Kyra and I, had become very quiet in the last few years. Too quiet. It had started out nicely enough, like most relationship. But I supposed habit set in, and while I was ready to experiment and try out new things, she seemed much more resistant to the idea. Which was a shame, really, because she had a hot little body, built for perversions, as I liked to tease her.
"Looking at the previous scene," continued the voice, "you will undoubtedly have realized that we did something to your fiancee. It would be out of place for me to go into details right now, but suffices to say that we have thoroughly conditioned her. She responds to a few commands that we have programmed. You have witnessed one such command. Feel free to try it out yourself, at your convenience. There will be others, as you will discover in the future.
"Eventually, we will tire of her, and we will disappear from your life. We may or may not remove the commands at that point. Much depends on you, Mr. Steadman. Until then, your fiancee is ours. We will use her for our own satisfaction, and we will share her with friends. We will expect you to go with it all.
"Have a nice day, Mr. Steadman."
The image on the screen unfroze, to be replaced by typical blank tape snow. I was in a daze. I stopped the tape, and stared at the blank screen. I could not think. Which was just as well. Had I been able to think, I might have been tempted to call the police. As it was, I sealed my own fate that day: I rewound the tape to a particular spot.
"Conditioning level alpha" said the salesman on the tape.
I was a nervous wreck when I unlocked the door of Kyra's apartment. All was quiet in the hallway, not a sound coming from inside. This was my first weekend in Detroit since receiving the tape. I had talked with Kyra since then, and nothing seemed amiss. My fiancee was her usual self, and if not for the fact that there was a tape next to my television set that immortalized her on her knees blowing some bloke, I would have probably been tempted to chuck it all down to some particularly disturbing dream. This would not have been the first time one of my fantasies got out of hand.
All through the drive over, I had debated what I would do. I still had not reached a satisfying conclusion.
I was never given an opportunity to answer the question. Just as I put my travel bag down after entering the apartment, I heard a shuffling of feet, and I had barely enough time to turn towards the living room before Kyra burst out of nowhere and jumped in my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist. I mechanically registered her bare legs, and her white tee-shirt and light blue panties, before her lips closed over mine in a scorching kiss.
"Hi honey! I missed you!" said Kyra, after she broke the kiss, still in my arms.
"One day, you'll give me a heart attack, you know that?"
"You are my strong man," she said, sliding down to the ground.
"You must be starved. Did you get something on the road?" she asked. Before I could answer, she turned around, heading to the kitchen. I was given a wonderful opportunity to stare at her ass, barely contained in panties that looked a bit too small for her.
"No, nothing," I said. "And I can think of a thing or two that I would like to sink my teeth into right now."
Kyra looked up over her shoulder.
"Really?" She turned around, a twinkle in her eye, came back towards me, stretched to the tip of her toes, and gave me a soft kiss on the lips, long, with just a hint of her tongue flirting with my own.
"Then perhaps we can find a way to satisfy you," she said. She took my hand and pulled me to the bedroom, and onto the bed.
Much kissing, stripping, and rubbing later, after she had made her way under me, spread her legs and let me insert my cock in her, and we both had come after a slow, languorous fuck, we snuggled in bed, in the light of the dying afternoon. Kyra was sleeping. I was still awake, thinking.
Few things made me as happy as making love to Kyra. She was incredibly sexy, and I could spend hours licking her soft skin, kissing her thighs, squeezing her breasts. But lately, it was leaving me strangely unsatisfied. I had figured out why maybe six months ago. Kyra and I were sexually active, but mainly at her behest. And the sad truth was that her behest did not manifest very often. Of course, days like today, our first reunion after an absence, were different. But I was pretty sure that our next romp would be in a month, my next visit, after leaving and coming back again.
All of which I could live with happily if Kyra were more daring. But no, not only was sex infrequent, it was also strictly missionary stile, with a rare cowgirl thrown in for variety. She liked when I ate her out, but she rarely returned the favor. I loved her dearly, and I know she loved me, but we were stuck in an unpleasant sexual status quo.
A status quo that the people who sent me the tape seemed intent to resolve for me. Try as I might, I could not get out of my mind the image of Kyra on her knees sucking on a cock. I pushed the thought away, as I had done several times in the last two weeks. The only way I could deal with the situation was to try to block the whole thing out of my mind.
Three days later, Kyra and I were cuddling on the couch, watching some inane evening show on television. The last three days had been pleasant, and we had settled into the routine that followed days of effervescence.
"I got the munchies," said Kyra, turning to me. "You want anything?"
"No, thanks, I'm fine."
"Okay. Be right back."
She stood and made her way to the kitchen. Once again, I could not keep from staring at her ass as she walked away. It was more covered this time. She was wearing a pair of gray sweatpants, under a somewhat long tee-shirt. She was barefoot. A thought sneaked its way into my consciousness. Those were the same sweatpants that she was wearing on the tape. I blocked the thought, but not fast enough: in my mind's eye Kyra was on her knees, gagging on a large cock. I got hard instantly. Shaking my head, I tried to concentrate on some married man's antics on television.
Kyra came back, and sat next to me on the couch. Much to my dismay, she starting slowly licking a popsicle. No way, I thought.
"What?" said Kyra. I must have been staring. "Told you, I got the munchies. And it's hot."
Yes, it was.
"Is it bothering you?", she asked.
"No, no, sorry... I must be tired. Don't mind me."
We turned our attention back to the show. Or at least she did. Personally, I was busy watching Kyra from the corner of my eye working on that lucky popsicle. She was alternatively licking it slowly top to bottom, and putting the tip in her mouth and sucking on it softly. My hard-on became harder still. It did not take much imagination to picture her sucking like that on a cock. Okay, I did not need imagination. The tape was never very far from my mind. And here, now, with my fiancee cuddled next to me on the couch and oblivious to my struggle, slowly sucking on a frozen treat, the taped ceased to be a thought to be resisted and became a temptation to be embraced.
In other words, I gave in.
"Sweetie, what do you know about conditioning level alpha?" I asked, bracing myself for the response.
None came. Kyra slowly stopped sucking on her popsicle, her eyes losing their focus somewhat. A blink, two. I did not dare move. After what felt like an eternity, I touched her cheek. No reaction.
"Sweetie?" I asked.
No reaction. I hesitated still. This felt like a dream. What the hell, I thought. I stood, and took off my pants and underwear. I felt way too self-conscious to remove my shirt. I sat back down next to Kyra, who had not stirred. My cock was sticking straight up, harder than it ever was.
"Sweetie, would you mind helping me out a little?" I said, feeling foolish, not quite sure what in fact I should be saying. It is admittedly difficult to be suave when half naked and trying to ask one's fiancee for a blowjob?
Kyra's face cleared a little. After turning her head towards me, she leaned over to put a hand around my cock. I jumped. Her fingers felt burning hot. I was terribly sensitive.
This made the sensations when Kyra put the head of my cock in her mouth that much more intolerable. The feeling was fantastic. I had always liked the feeling of her pussy, soft, and warm, like velvet around my cock. Her mouth was even warmer, and her tongue... God, her tongue! She softly sucked on my cock, taking a little bit at a time in her mouth. After a few minutes, I could not help shifting my hips slightly, wanting to get more into her mouth. Kyra understood, let go of my cock, and straightened up. I was about to say something, "Hey, get back here" being my first candidate, when she kneeled next to me on the couch, ass sticking up in the air, and literally plunged onto my cock. I held my breath. Jacking me off with her right hand, she bobbed her head up and down, taking me deeper and deeper, until I felt my cock hit the back of her throat. That was it for me.
"Oh God! Sweetie, this feels wonderful!" Through either reflex or bad timing, my cock slipped out of her mouth just when I came, and I spurted a load then two then three right on her face. The first hit her eye, the second dribbled around her nose, and the last landed just above her upper lip. Kyra swished her tongue about, licking up the cum, then proceeded to thoroughly lick my cock clean.
After, when I was recovering, Kyra cuddled back against me on the couch, her attention focussed once again on the television. I stared as a drop of my cum made its way dow the side of her mouth, gone strangely unnoticed.
They say it is difficult to put a genie back in a bottle. I am ashamed to admit I did not even try. In fact, I wholeheartedly embraced that other proverb, there is no use crying over spilled milk. So while a small part of me felt guilty about my behavior, the largest part, and not the smartest, could not wait to feel her mouth again.
Kyra herself seemed completely oblivious to the whole thing. Right after the couch incident, we continued watching television, then chatted for a bit. She never noticed the cum that was caking her face, only washing her face before bed, as was her habit anyways.
I gave in to my urges once more the next day. Actually, this makes it sound like I put up a fight. I did not. It was late, and Kyra was getting ready for bed. She was standing in front of the dresser mirror in the bedroom, examining her face, and she was stretched up, standing on her toes. She was wearing a short diaphanous nightie, my favorite for several obvious reasons. It was translucent, but hid enough to be teasingly arousing. And it was short. It barely reached the top of her thighs, showcasing her long and perfectly formed legs.
And now, stretched as Kyra was, the nightie had ridden up her thighs and revealed a pair of perfectly formed ass cheeks, barely covered by a pair of tight panties. I quietly made my way behind her, slid my arms around her midriff, and cupped her breasts, while pushing my quickly hardening cock against her ass.
Too forward, I knew. Kyra jumped, and tried to turn around.
"Honey!? What are you doing?"
I let her turn around, feeling her body rub against mine, trapped as she was between me and the dresser. I sought her mouth. She kissed me quickly, dismissively, and moved her head away as I persisted in my attention.
"Honey... please, stop. I am really tired tonight...", she said.
Tired. Worried about something. Not in the mood. It was getting old.
"Kyra, conditioning level alpha."
She went blank. I pulled her lips to mine. She responded, not passionately, but responded nonetheless. I guessed that the conditioning trigger only controlled her blowjob abilities. I cut the kiss short, looked at her deep in the eyes, and put a hand on her shoulder. She understood immediately, and sank to her knees in front of me, while I stepped back to give her some room.
She was beautiful, kneeling in front of me, legs slightly spread, head back staring at my cock, long hair brought back in a simple ponytail. While I admired her, she pulled my shorts down, and gave a tentative lick to the tip of my cock, which shivered from the touch. A few more licks, then she used a finger to lift my cock against my abdomen and proceeded to lick the length of it with the flat of her tongue, in long broad strokes. I was going crazy; I felt like rubbing myself against her skin, dry humping her face.
Just when I thought I could not take it much longer, she let go of my cock, puckered up, and allowed my cock to part her lips as she pulled me in deep in one agonizingly slow motion. She kept me in her mouth for two beats before pulling me back out, squeezing her lips together and sucking the whole way out. She pulled my cock out completely, then dove in again. And again. And again. Whomever had taught her to suck cock had done an amazing job. Her tongue was doing wonderful things.
Despite my best attempt at remaining motionless and just enjoying Kyra's talented lips, I quickly found myself pushing my hips forward, seeking to go in deeper, matching the bobbing of Kyra's head with thrusts of my own. I had always thought of myself as a considerate lover, but now something else took over. I was thrusting harder and harder. Kyra did not make a sound, but her blowjob got sloppier. Just like on the video, saliva was roping down from her chin, falling and coating the top of her nightie, that was now almost transparent. She slobbered on my cock like a demure slut.
Slut! The word, Kyra on her knees in front of me, Kyra on her knees mouth-fucking a stranger on the tape, the fact and sheer existence of that tape, made me snap. I lifted my hands, which until then had been resting safely by my side, and grabbed a fistful of hair in each. I thrust in her mouth harder than before, practically ramming into her, using her hair to hold her in place. Kyra gagged as my cock bottomed out at the back of her throat, but the sound just added to my frenzy. I pulled out, and rammed back in, and again, and again. Still gagging, Kyra seemed to shuffle in place, and on my next thrust, my cock sank deep in her throat, encountering little resistance, snuggled in warmth like never before. Her forehead hit my abs, her lips the root of my cock. I was in her throat, deep.
I pulled out, slowly, and Kyra took a lungful of air, thick strands of saliva connecting her lips to my cockhead. Then she took me in all the way down once more. If I had thought I was frenzied before, then I did not know what this was. I did not know what to do with myself, cry, laugh, or fuck her. I rammed her throat again and again, my hands still on her head. Each thrust kept pushing her head back a little bit, and eventually the back of her head banged on the dresser. A thrust, a sloppy gagging sound, a bang on the dresser. I could not deal with it much.
Another thrust, harder this time, another gagging sound, a bang on the dresser. A thrust, a gagging sound, a bang on the dresser. My hands got tighter on Kyra's hair, I pulled hard, and thrust my cock deep in her throat, holding it there, Kyra's lips in my pubic hair at the root of my cock, her throat milking me, and I finally let go, coming deep in her throat, choking her. My hands were tightening convulsively in her hair, as I spurted load after load directly in her throat. I was not letting her breathe, forcing her to swallow, which massaged my cock in indescribable ways. Eventually, I was done, and I realized that I was still clenching her hair, holding her head against my belly. I let her go, and Kyra pulled back, breathing hard. She looked a mess, with her chin shiny with saliva, strings of cum stretching down to her chest.
I fumbled back, feeling weak. Resting on the bed, I looked at Kyra. On her knees in front of the dresser, short nightie sitting high on her thighs, left transparent around her breasts because of the spittle, showing red nipples that just asked to be sucked on, she looked so violently fuckable I was shaking. I caught myself hoping that further tapes would follow.
As another saying goes, be careful what you wish for.
The second package arrived the same way as the first. I found it on the landing of my apartment, a nondescript brown package. My heart raced when I picked it up. I headed up the stairs, entered my apartment, dropped the package on my coffee table, and sat down on the couch and stared. I was torn, suddenly unwilling to face new truths. I had spent my last weekend in Detroit with my cock stuffed in Kyra's mouth, taking advantage of any opportunity. First thing upon waking in the morning, I had her blow me in bed. Later, while out for a drive, I made her go down on me on a deserted road. Both times, I came in her mouth, and she swallowed without complaint. In fact, she was silent throughout. We never talked about what happened. It was clear that she was not even aware of her actions.
I had gotten used surprisingly quickly to having her mouth at my beck and call. I had also conveniently forgotten that her mouth was also at the beck and call of unknown individuals. The package sitting on the table in front of me now reminded me of this last bit. If this package was what I thought it was, someone else had once again used my fiancee.
After some more staring, I finally reached over, opened the package, and extracted the expected videotape. I put it in the player, and settled down to watch.
"So, you think we'll have to stay long at this gig?", I asked Kyra.
We were set to go to some party that evening, the second night of my next Detroit trip. Not that I felt like going - a bunch of people at her university that I could barely stomach. But it was important to Kyra, so I made an effort.
"As long as it takes to make my supervisor happy," she said, from behind the closed bathroom door. She sounded tense.
"All right," I said. I straightened my tie in the bedroom mirror. A fancy party, she said, dress nicely, so I had pulled my old suit out of mothballs. I wore it at every official function I had to attend.
"Well, here goes nothing," Kyra said. "What do you think?"
I turned to look. And nearly choked. She was breathtaking, literally. She told me that she had gone shopping for a new dress earlier in the week. It was a small red thing with white polka dots. It left most of her shoulders and neck exposed, being held up by two thin straps, and hugged her body close, drawing attention to her small waist and the curve of her hips. Lower, it spread out slightly, and stopped mid-thighs, revealing Kyra's perfectly formed legs, wrapped in translucent white nylons. Her legs went on forever, and ended in a pair of three-inch stiletto white pumps. I could not stop my eyes from traveling up and down her body, practically salivating.
"Wow!" It was all I could say.
Kyra blushed, and fidgeted in place. She never was comfortable with me admiring her, yet she clearly enjoyed it.
"How about giving it a little swirl, so I get a complete view?" I asked. She spun in place, slowly, and I got a great view of her ass, perfectly emphasized by the flare of the dress. "God, you're beautiful," I said.
She completed her turn, smiling. "Glad you like it," she said. "I hope others will like it too." She was still worried about her party. Personally, I had other things on my mind.
"I feel I must ask, " I said, getting closer. "What are you hiding under that dress?" I lightly touched her thigh, feeling the silky material of her nylons, and ever so slowly felt up to where her dress fell. "The ever central question: hose or stockings?"
Kyra lightly slapped my hand away. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
"I would, definitely. Frankly, you look stunning in this getup. I would love to see you dance." I put a not altogether subtle emphasis on the word 'dance'.
She looked up at me. "Oh, really? Well, if you behave, maybe we can arrange something later. But not right now." She took a step back and headed for the living room. I stared at her ass, swaying playfully because of her heels. I smiled to myself. Not right now, huh?
"Kyra, conditioning level beta."
She stopped abruptly. I could just imagine her face, the blank look she must have had. Perfect. We might be a bit late to the party.
Remembering the second tape that I had received now a couple of weeks earlier, I went to the entertainment center, and chose an appropriate CD. Shakira would be suitable, I thought, and plopped it in the player. As the beat started, so did Kyra.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
"Kyra, are you okay?" I asked, still afraid something went wrong.
"Oh yes, honey. I'm just in the mood to dance, that's all," she said, her voice husky, starting to move to the beat of the music. She still had her back to me, offering me a wonderful view of her backside.
"You just sit tight, and enjoy the show," she said, almost whispering it. And she started dancing. She whipped around a few times, swaying dangerously on her heels, arms in the air, head thrown back, hair spreading out. Her movements were alternating between slow and fast. I was mesmerized. Her dress was flying up, not showing anything until she was once more with her back to me, and, still gyrating her hips, lifted the hem of her dress to first reveal that she was wearing thigh-high stockings with a wonderfully wicked lace top, and then her ass cheeks, hugging the skimpiest white thong I had ever seen. Her ass was magnificent, and because she knew me, she starting swaying her body, bending over, her dress flipped over her back, her ass offered to me. I had to fight the urge to jump up, push her on her hands and knees, push aside the thin strip of the thong and fuck a pussy that I knew warm and tight and enveloping.
Kyra suddenly let go of her dress, which fell back on her thighs, whipped back around, and, still dancing to the music, reached up and slowly lowered the thin straps of her dress down her shoulders. Teasingly, looking straight at me, a slight smile on her lips, she pulled down the top of her dress, revealing that she was not wearing a bra, as her breasts popped into view immediately. A delicious pair they were, like small grapefruits, with red nipples pointing out.
Kyra kept on dancing, slowly pulling her dress down fully. It fell down to her feet, and she kicked it off, before standing, legs spread, in front of me, a vision of loveliness. She was only wearing her thong, and her legs were wrapped in white stockings, her feet in tall white heels. She had her hands under her breasts, holding them up as if offering them to me. She slowly tweaked a nipple between a thumb and forefinger.
Remembering the tape, trying not to think too much about the fact that another man had found himself in essentially the same position as I was with my fiancee half naked in front of him and offering her tits. I pulled out my wallet, fished a ten dollar bill, and waved it in the air.
"Nice! How about a little lapdance, sweet thing, while you got me all hot and bothered?" I said, trying to act nonchalant. Kyra positively purred, and came up to me with long cat-like steps. She thrust a hip forward. I reached up, and slipped the tenner in the string of her thong, feeling the satin of her skin in the process.
"Thank you, kind sir," she said, still with her husky voice. She slowly started moving her hips in wider and wider circles, her head thrown back, eyes closed, one hand on a tit, the other sneaking down her sides to play with the string of her thong. I went back to being mesmerized.
Kyra lifted a leg and set it down next to me. This put her crotch level with my face, and I could see the wetness spreading on her thong.
"You're wet, aren't you?" I asked, looking up at her.
"Oh God, yes, I am dripping. I wish you could feel..." She slowly sneaked a hand across her tummy, slid it slowly under her thong, where I could see it move. She must have been sensitive, because I saw her shiver, open her eyes, look at me directly and give me the dirtiest smile. Her tongue slowly licked her upper lip.
"Mmm, yes, I'm running my finger through my slit, and I've never been so wet before. Just for you, baby."
She pulled her hand up and, putting her finger in her mouth, started to suck on it. "Yum," she said, still looking directly at me.
A beat, then, still dancing to the music, Kyra turned around, slowly bent over, and started shaking her ass in my face. She then straightened and sat on my lap, massaging my cock with her ass, deliciously. I could not resist any longer, and brought my hands around her chest, and none too gently cupped her tits. They felt wonderful.
"Tut! Tut! None of that," she said, gently pulling my hands away, still massaging my cock with her ass. "No touching, you know the rules."
There was only so much I could take. My cock was ready to burst. Exploding in my pants would be a waste, when I had a perfectly good mouth to take care of it.
"Kyra, conditioning level alpha."
Her ass on my cock stopped abruptly. Kyra stood up, turned around, and kneeled before me. As I pulled my pants off, I looked at her. She was a delicious sight. There was my fiancee, all of twenty-two years old, kneeling in front of me, wearing a skimpy white thong, a pair of thigh-high white stockings, her ass sitting on a pair of white pumps. She looked like a virginal wet dream. As my cock jumped out, I reached over to grab her hair, pulled her to me, and as she engulfed me to the hilt, I could not resist adding "Now suck me, you little slut!"
Later that evening, at the party, watching her talking to one of her friends, I wondered whether she could taste my cum in her mouth. I also thought that every man here would love to see her stripping, especially as I have caught quite a few appreciative leers towards her legs throughout the evening. I had never had fantasies about watching my fiancee with other men, so my feelings came as a surprise, and I found myself having to resist the impulse to call out her conditioning trigger.
Needless to say, I made her strip again when we got home.
Over the following days, I found out more about her conditioning. For example, while she would gently swat me away if I tried to touch her while she was in what I now called stripper mode, I could ask her to wear whatever I wanted her to. I had her dance and strip in all my favorite outfits, and some new ones I discovered. She danced and stripped out of a silky black nightie that barely covered her crotch, wearing only a pair of black fuck-me pumps. She danced and stripped out of a very proper white shirt and short black skirt, wearing black stockings and black heels. I even went and purchased a red evening gown with a slit up the side, with matching heels and a set of Victoria's Secret red lace underwear that revealed more than it hid. I asked her that evening, when in stripper mode, to tease her hair up, put on some makeup, wear the red dress and accessories, and give me a slow bump-and-grind, teasing me mercilessly and talking dirty, telling me how much she wanted me to just "rip out my thong, spread my legs wide, and fuck me hard", or "grab me, throw me on the bed, sit on my tits and fuck my throat". That last sounded like a good idea, and she almost choked as I spewed in her throat, her head pulled tight against my belly, tits naked and nipples poking into my ass, her legs spread, covered in tan silk, five-inch stiletto heels digging into the bed. Bliss.
The third tape arrived a month later. I would be lying if I said I was not expecting it with trepidation. If nothing else, a steady dose of dancing and blowjobs had left me with a deep desire to fuck my fiancee to my heart's content.
Oh, sure, we made love a few times during my stay. But it was the rather chaste and uninspired lovemaking that we had settled into before the tapes showed up. I spiced our sex sessions somehow by triggering her conditioning after she came, straddling her chest, and fucking her mouth. Sometimes, I would have her down on all four on the bed, round ass sticking straight up in the air, and me once again gleefully fucking her throat.
Not unexpectedly, the third tape would change that. As I sat on my couch watching the image on the screen, a glass of whiskey in hand, I was in turmoil. On the one hand, seeing two well-hung black men on the video taking advantage of my fiancee sent sparks of jealousy down my spine. On the other hand, the show was incredibly hot, and I could not help pulling my cock out and jacking off as I watched. And when the two men on the screen came, one with his cock deep in Kyra's throat, and one spewing on her upturned naked ass, I came as well.
"So, what shall we do tonight?" asked Kyra. She was lounging on the couch, idly flipping through a magazine. She had been studying all day, some experiment with rats, as far as I could tell, and had been looking forward to the evening for fun and relaxation. So did I, although perhaps in a different way.
"Perhaps we can go out, get dressed up and hit some bar, somewhere. I'd love to see you in something short, as you know," I said.
Kyra looked up, peering over the magazine.
"I know what you like, you pervert! If it was up to you, I would be going around all the time in a pair of heels, some stockings, and not much else. No thank you. Do you have a real suggestion, playboy?"
Heels, stockings... I liked that. "Kyra, conditioning level beta."
Her face went blank. She put down her magazine, stood up slowly, and started to move her hips to some music only she could hear.
I looked at her. She was wearing a pair of jeans, relaxed fit, and a large tee-shirt. Perfect domestic attire. It would not do at all.
"Kyra, stop. Do you mind changing before dancing for me?" I asked, fully knowing the answer.
"Of course, honey, what would you like me to strip out of?" she asked, her voice deliciously husky.
"Remember what you were wearing to the party a couple of months ago? That red dress, white stockings, white thong, and white spiked heels? You looked simply scrumptious, and I would love to see that outfit again."
Kyra smiled a sexy smile.
"I remember. I'll be right back," she said, heading to the bedroom. "Don't go anywhere."
Disgustingly pleased with myself, I sat down on the couch, and idly started thumbing through the magazine Kyra had been reading, my mind wholly on the upcoming show and what I knew would follow, anticipation gripping me tightly.
Ten minutes later, after I had been dragged into a magazine story about the latest misfortunes of the rich and famous, I was snapped back to reality by the sound of music coming from the stereo system, a slow pounding music. Looking up, I saw Kyra, her back to me, facing the CD rack, her hands against the wall, hips slowly keeping the beat. Despite having seen this quite a few times over the last month, I could not help but be momentarily breathless.
Kyra was stunning, short red dress stopping short of the middle of her thighs, trapped in the same white stockings and the same white heels I had already seen her in. She had let her hair down from the ponytail she was sporting earlier, and she had brushed it and teased it, near as I could tell. And she was standing before me, leaning against the wall, slightly bent over, ass sticking out towards me, and swaying playfully against the musical backdrop.
She turned to look at me over her shoulder.
"This what you wanted, honey?" she asked, huskily, a smile on her lips. Not waiting for my answer, she turned her head back, pushed herself off the wall, and started dancing slowly.
And dancing she did. Keeping her back to me, she let her hands slide down her sides to her thighs, all the while gently swaying to the music. Rubbing the back of her legs and moving back to the front, she ever so slowly started lifting her dress, revealing once again the stocking tops I loved so much, and a notable lack of panties. As she lifted her dress over her ass, her cheeks were on display, round and delectable. Still swaying, legs slightly spread, she bent over deeply, presenting herself to me.
After a beat, she stood up, and slowly pulled down the straps of her dress. No bra. Covering her chest with her hands, she turned around, looking me straight in the eyes. My gaze was fixated on her hands, which slowly started rubbing her breasts, mashing them down. Licking her lips suggestively, she pulled one hand to her mouth, revealing a perfectly formed globe, as she slowly sucked on a finger before returning it to play with a nipple.
As she moved her hands to pull her dress down, I stopped her.
"Wait... Please keep the dress on. There's something wicked about you half-naked. I do have a special request, however...", I said.
"Mmm, what is it, honey? What can your little stripper do for you?" she asked.
"Could you lie on the floor, and give me a little leg show?"
"You do like my legs, don't you? You're always ogling them whenever you get a chance. Sure, I will give you a leg show."
Kyra lowered herself to the ground, sensually, on her back, and lifted her legs, together and bent at the knees, slowly tracing circles in the air. She looked the part of an exotic dancer perfectly. The conditioning was excellent. I watched her squirm on the ground for a few minutes, teasing me with her legs. Time to test other parts of her conditioning.
"Wow," I said. "You look good. You know, I wish you would just spread your legs, started fingering yourself, all the while begging me to fuck you like the slut you are."
"You wish! No, honey, this is strictly visual, and strictly business. You get what you pay for, you know. Besides, I'm no slut, just a poor working girl."
Oh yeah? Time to test that theory.
"Kyra, conditioning level gamma."
Instantly, she shivered, and gasped.
"Oh my God, I feel so hot," she said, putting her heels down on the floor and spreading her legs wide. "I need a good fuck right now!"
I smiled. I guessed the slut conditioning trigger worked as predicted.
"Hey sweetie, show me that slutty cunt of yours, would you?"
Her hands came down to her thighs, and slowly moved up her pussy, spreading the lips wide.
"Like this? You like to see my pretty cunt open for you? Does that make you want to fuck it? Would you like to fuck it? I'm told it's nice and tight."
That it was. It took a lot of control to keep from jumping her right then and there. But I had other kicks I wanted to explore. Anyone with an ounce of psychological insight could have seen this coming. Sexual payback, pure and simple.
"I don't know, how much do you want me to fuck your cunt?" I asked, settling back into the couch.
"I'm so horny right now, I'd kill for a cock. Please come here and fuck me." She slowly lifted her ass off the ground and gyrated it suggestively, all the while using a finger to fuck herself. I could see her pussy glistening with juices.
"Well, I don't know. You will have to make me want to fuck you. You know what I like? Shameless sluts, shameless sluts that would do anything for a fuck, shameless sluts that talk dirty to their man because it turns him on. Are you a shameless slut, Kyra? Are you a dirty-mouthed little whore?"
"Oh yes, I am a little whore," she said. She added a finger to the one already pumping away inside her. "Look at me. I am dripping wet just thinking about your big cock fucking my little cunt. I need you inside, deep. I'll do anything you want, just come here and fuck me."
"Anything I want?"
"Uh uh... anything you want. Look at me, don't you like this? You have me on the floor, legs spread, dressed like a porn star, finger-fucking myself. Do you want me to come like this for you, half-naked on the floor?"
She lifted her head, looking at me through her spread legs.
"Perhaps you'd like me to suck on your cock while you watch me? I was told I give really good head," she said, licking her lips. "In fact, forget about giving you a blowjob. You can just come here and fuck my mouth. Just use it like a cunt. I'll take it. I'll even let you grab my head and push your cock in down deep, push until it goes down my throat. I won't mind. I'll do it if you'll fuck me."
Damn, that was an attractive proposition.
"I don't know," I said.
Kyra pushed herself off the ground, and kneeled before me legs spread wide, one hand still rubbing her slit, the other cupping a breast.
"How about my tits?" she said. "I know guys really like it, having their cock sliding between a slut's tits. Would you like that? Would you like to tit-fuck me? They're not big, I know, but they should be big enough. Wouldn't you like to slide your cock between them?"
Hell yeah, I thought. I'd love to sit on your chest and fuck your tits.
"I don't know," I said.
Kyra actually pouted for a second, squirming in place as she rubbed herself. I know, from the tape, that she could not come until I came deep in her. She would just get hotter and hotter.
She smiled, and slowly turned around, still on her knees, and bent over, putting her head on the ground. She lifted her dress over her back, and spread her legs again. Oh boy, I thought, here we go.
"I know you like my ass," she said. "You're always watching it when you think I'm not looking, always grabbing it, rubbing it. So how about fucking me from behind, like this, so you can look at my ass all you want while you fuck me? Wouldn't you like to fuck me from behind, like this, me on all four, ass up in the air? Wouldn't you like to fuck me like a little bitch in heat, your little bitch in heat?" She was swaying her ass as she talked, fingers still rubbing her cunt.
She pushed a couple of fingers in, and gasped.
"Oh, I would love to have you fuck me like this. I bet you could go in real deep. You could just grab my hips and pull me to you, over and over again. The harder, the better. You can fuck me rough if that's what you want. Is that what you want? To hear me plead, beg you? Hell, you can even tie me up if it helps, tie me up so I can't move and defend myself. You could really do anything you wanted then, fuck me as rough as you'd like, use me in whatever way you wanted."
I gave up resistance. As she kept spewing her filth, I practically jumped out of my pants, kneeled down behind her, with her ass still in the air, pulled her hand out of her cunt, and speared my cock into her, slowly, until I was completed sheathed.
"Oh yeah," she said. "Fuck me! Oh God, I feel so full!"
The feeling was heavenly. Her cunt was tight, and warm. It felt like I had wrapped it in a heated velvet glove. I had fucked Kyra before, of course, but I could swear that this time it was different. Usually, when we fucked, she would be naked. Now, she was half dressed, still had her fuck-me pumps on, her dress was flipped over her back, and she was only lacking a pair of panties. But I also thought that her cunt was tighter; she must have been using her muscles to milk me while I was inside. Another side effect of the conditioning?
I took her previous suggestion to heart. I slowly pulled out, and when the head of my cock was just outside her cunt, I grabbed her hips, and slowly but forcefully pulled her to me, splitting her apart with my cock. She groaned, put her chest down on the carpet, and lifted her ass to provide me with greater access.
"That's it, fuck me deep, just like that," she said, gasping. She turned her face towards me. "Come on, don't be gentle. Use me, I'm your fucktoy."
I took her to heart, and pulled out, and slammed into her harder. And again. And again. It felt wonderful, out of control.
"Uh... uh... uh... That's it, fuck me... I want to feel you come deep in me. Please come, please come..." she said, turning slowly incoherent.
I was close. The sight of her, the feel of her, was bringing me to the edge. Kyra sneaked a hand through her legs, and gently started massaging my balls.
That was it for me. Seconds before exploding, I pulled my cock out of Kyra's cunt and came, spurting long jets of cum on her ass, all the way up to the dress flipped over her back. I collapsed next to her, spent.
Kyra lied next to me, pouting slightly. "I thought you would come in my cunt, honey? What happened?"
Eyes still closed, I took a breath before replying. "You will take my cum wherever I put it, you slut. Now if you want to feel me in that whorish twat of yours again, you will clean me up with your mouth and get me hard. And do a good job."
Kyra shivered noticeably at the mention of her pussy getting fucked again. She dove for my cock, cleaning it with long licks of the tongue before taking the head between her lips and sucking me deep in her mouth.
She got me hard again before too long, and we spent the rest of the evening fucking away. I used her in all the positions I could think of and physically achieve: she sat on my cock, fucking herself up and down, she leaned over the couch, head in the pillows, as I took her from behind again, she lay on her back on the ground, my favorite, legs bent back so her knees were next to her ears, white pumps in the air. I made it a point not to come in her cunt until the very end, to keep her from getting off. I came on her tits, on her face, in her hair. She had lost her dress at some point, but I had her keep her stockings and her heels. It was a glorious evening.
That whole week was glorious, really. I activated Kyra whenever I would get a chance, sometimes in public settings. I made her bring herself off in a restaurant, for a promise of a quick fuck in the bathroom. I had her suck me off sitting under her desk, in her office at the university. Once after a full day of fucking without letting her come, I drove her so wild that I took her for a drive and had her flash her breasts to some random college student.
At home, I often had her in some skimpy, vastly cliched outfit. She had a french maid costume that hardly covered her chest and barely reached her crotch. Her legs looked fantastic in that costume, especially with a tall pair of heels. I had a weakness for stockings, and often made her wear a black sheer pair held up by a thin black garter, nothing else, except for black heels. I made her fuck herself with a candle, a bottle of wine, a huge black dildo that I made her purchase.
Frustratingly, however much I begged, threatened, or manipulated, she would not let me put my cock in her ass. Her resistance was too deep, too strong. She would come out of her conditioned state when I pushed her too much on that point, her resistance was that strong. The most she let me do was stick my finger in her ass when she was really turned on. The feeling of her ass gripping my finger tight, tighter than I thought possible, made me fantasize about fucking her ass ever more.
My fantasies would eventually get fulfilled, but the price would be a steep one.
Flash forward two months. Two months of unbridled sexuality, where I used Kyra in every way I could think of.
She was right now on the bed, on her hands and knees, ass up in the air, looking like a wet dream in a black corset, black stockings, and patent leather heels. No panties, they would only get in the way. I had just fucked her, and her juices were dripping down her thighs. I had not come, though. I was saving myself.
"You don't wanna fuck me some more, honey?" Kyra asked, bottom undulating hypnotically from left to right.
Time to enact what I learned on the fourth and last tape. A few weeks ago, under the assumption that Kyra and I were being watched - I already knew that there were cameras - I tried to convey a message. Feeling self-conscious and vaguely ridiculous, I stood in the middle of our living room, and out loud, addressing whoever was behind what was done to my fiancee, I made a special request: her ass. A week later, a new tape was waiting for me back at my own apartment. It showed Kyra in her office at the university, leaning down on her desk, skirt lifted over her back, legs spread, getting fucked from behind by a large black man. There was no sound. The voiceover kicked in. "Mr. Steadman, your request was taken into consideration, and we have approved it." At this point, to punctuate the words rather dramatically, the black man said something to Kyra, pulled out of her pussy, spat on her asshole, and slowly entered her ass. I was mesmerized, and incredibly turned on. I pulled my own cock out, and started jacking off. That I might be disgusted or upset watching my fiancee losing her anal virginity on tape did not even register.
"However, Mr. Steadman, there will be a price to pay. You will find out what it is in due time; your little slut herself will tell you." The black man was slamming hard into Kyra, driving her into the desk. She appeared to be screaming.
"This will be the last time you hear from us. Enjoy the rest of your life, Mr. Steadman."
On the screen, the black stud had just pulled out and was coming on Kyra's ass, spraying semen all the way up the back of her skirt.
That was then, this was now.
"Kyra, conditioning level delta," I said, stroking my cock, still wet with her pussy juices.
"Mmm, baby, I feel like being naughty," said Kyra, exaggerating the sway of her hips.
She reached a hand down between her legs, dipping two fingers in her pussy, and started playing with her rosy asshole. She pushed one finger in to the first knuckle, then the second.
"Mmm, I wish this was a hard cock right now. Say, do you happen to know anyone who would be willing to put a nice cock up my ass?" She looked at me over her shoulder.
"I think I do," I said.
I positioned myself behind her, rubbed my cock against her pussy lips for lubrication, and put the head against her rosette.
"Is this what you want?" I asked, "A hard cock up your ass?"
"Oh yes, that's it... give it to me..."
"What do we say?"
She groaned, pushed her ass back against me. "Oh please! Please! Put it in. Fuck my ass, please!"
"And why would I want to do that?"
"Please! It's nice and warm and tight in there. And you've been wanting to fuck me there for so long. I've seen you, checking me out, and I'm sure you've fantasized about stuffing my ass whenever I've bent over in the past. And how many times have your fingers strayed to my little asshole when you put your hands down my PJs or up my skirts? And what about the time when... ooh!"
I pushed hard, and my cockhead forced her sphincter and penetrated her ass. It felt incredible. If her cunt was warm velvet, her ass was molten metal.
Kyra's head shot up, and she started moaning.
"Oh fuck, yes! You're so big; I feel so full! I think I am feeling every vein in that big cock of yours. I want more, all of it, in, hard! Fuck my ass, honey, hard!"
I obliged. Grabbing the top of her thighs, I used them as leverage to push myself deep into her ass. Her moans slowly turned into screams as I got deeper.
Finally, I felt her ass cheeks against my groin, and I was all the way in. I slowly pulled out, and pushed in deep again, faster this time. Before long, I was ramming in and out, while Kyra had brought a hand down between her legs and was diddling her clit, screaming all the while.
"I'm gonna come, my little ass-whore. You want me to squirt deep inside you?"
"Oh God yes! Spurt in me, deep in my ass. I want to feel it." She reached down between her legs, and her long fingers stroked my balls, squeezing them whenever I pushed into her. Between the tightness of her ass and her fingers massaging me, I came with a loud grunt, pushing into her and grinding myself against her ass.
Afterwards, I collapsed next to Kyra, my softening cock slipping out of her ass, and coming to rest on my thigh. Kyra snuggled next to me, facing me, and, wrapping her arms and legs around me, a lovely vision in her corset and stockings, tits sticking out and offered. She kissed me long and hard.
"Thank you, honey. I will be your ass-whore from now on. Whenever you want, just let me know. I just love your cock up my ass."
I was barely conscious at that point. Which is why I almost missed the changed look of her eyes, and the odd cheery tone of voice she used for her next statement.
"But there is a price to pay for my ass. Come see me tomorrow, at three o'clock, in my office at the university. You will get the bill then."
I showed up at the university slightly before three o'clock. I had no idea what to expect. I entered Kyra's building, a simili-gothic monstrosity, and made my way to the third floor, passing empty-eyed students and tired-looking faculty. Kyra's office was down the main hallway. She shared it with a couple of other graduate students. As I was about to knock, I heard the telltale sounds of coupling coming from inside. With dread, I quietly turned the handle, and pushed the door open enough to be able to glance into the office.
Kyra was kneeling, topless, breasts swinging rhythmically in time with the bobbing of her head into the groin of a guy I recognized as Gary, one of her officemates. He was sitting in an office chair, and his hands were wrapped in Kyra's hair on either sides of her head. His eyes were closed, a look of ecstasy on his face. Kyra was giving him one of her sloppy blowjobs, and I could hear the sounds from where I was by the door. Once in a while she would gag, following a particularly vicious pull of her head.
"I wanna come on your tits, babe," he said, pulling Kyra's head off his cock. She started jacking him off, faster and faster, aiming the stiff cock at her chest. After a dozen strokes, he convulsed and let out thick spurts of semen that quickly coated Kyra's breasts.
"Oh yeah... that's it... man! That was good. You're an incredible cocksucker, Kyra. I hope your pussy feels as good as your mouth does." He leaned back in the chair. "Now clean me up, Kyra."
Kyra dutifully obeyed, licking off the semen still dripping from Gary's cock. When she was done, the phone rang. Gary reached for it. Kyra was still on her knees, a familiar blank look on her face, semen dripping down her chest and staining her jeans.
"Yes, Gary here." He nodded into the phone. "Hey, Mike. Hi. Yeah, she's here. You heard? Yeah, I know. I couldn't believe it either. Figured it was just a bad joke. But no, I just tried it, and it worked. No shit, she's on her knees now, and she just gave me the best fucking blowjob I've ever got. Deepthroat, dude, she took me down all the way. She was gagging on it... No, not yet, but that's next on my list. Yeah, I know, she got killer legs and a sweet little ass... No, she's got jeans on today, but not for very long. Hey, I wanted to try her pussy out, but you're more than welcome to come up... The dude on the phone this morning said we could make her dance and strip and stuff, make her act like a whore that can't get enough... Figure by the time word finishes getting around the department, it'll be tough to get some time alone with her. Okay... Yeah, I know where she lives, so yeah, we definitely should go visit her sometimes. Now, quit yapping, and come up here. Meantime, I wanna get myself some fresh pussy... yeah, bye."
Gary hung up, looked at Kyra, and smiled a rapacious smile.
"Well, baby, looks like we've got ourselves a party. What did the dude say? Kyra, conditioning level gamma."
I silently closed the door, and made my way down the hall, too numb to think. In that alternate state, I made my way out to a little park next to the building, in the harsh sunlight. It was a beautiful day.
I eventually married Kyra. I still loved her, and that I could do essentially anything I wanted to her was an added bonus. But it was a strange life.
As I had gleaned from Gary's phone conversation, she became the departmental whore, for lack of a better term. The folks who conditioned her - I never did find out who they were - must have spread the news within her department that with certain triggers, she could be made to put out. And the members of the department took full advantage of the opportunity. Who knew there were so many amoral sickos around? She often came home with her cunt leaking cum down her thighs, breasts bruised and tender, breath smelling of semen. She was completely oblivious to it all. From what I gleaned, she was often called into a professor's office, made to kneel under the desk and give a sloppy blowjob. At other times, she would be called into the faculty lounge, made to lean over the couch there and being fucked by everyone present over the lunch hour. She was very popular at the annual Christmas party, dressed as an elf with a very short green tunic, and high-heeled boots, and doing a slow striptease that ended with her blowing and fucking the whole male contingent of the department, and quite a few of the women too.
As far as I could tell, I was the only one with access to her ass, although many tried their hands at fucking her there. But I was starting to find the price to pay for that privilege, namely shared control of my wife with fifty or so other men, a bit steep.
Summary: Justin, on a weekend visit to see his son, gets a visitor to his hotel room bearing a surprising offer. Keywords: MF, Mdom, mc, humil
There was a knock at my door around eleven that night. I had no idea who might be calling on me at that hour. Few people knew me in Phoenix, those that did did not really want to talk to me, and I would be seeing them tomorrow in any case.
I tied the hotel bathrobe tight around my waist, and opened the door. And just stood there, stunned. I took me a while to recover and stammer something.
"K ... Kristin?"
"Hi Justin, how are you?" Her voice was casual, as if she had just run into me at the supermarket, and did not hate my guts.
"I'm... huh... Kristin, what are you doing here?"
"I'll tell you if you let me in," she said, a smile on her lips. Even forgetting for a second the sheer fact of her presence here, that smile was enough to tip me that something was seriously wrong.
"Huh, sure, come in," I said, opening the door wide and letting her through.
There it was, the second shock of the night, when I took in how she was dressed. She wore a blue dress sprinkled with small white polka dots, held up by a pair of spaghetti straps, and tightly fitted on her body down to her waist, where it flared out to mid-thigh to reveal a long pair of legs with satiny skin that disappeared into a pair of black stiletto pumps with at least a three-inch heel. She looked fantastic, blonde hair cascading down to her shoulders, a bounce in her step as she walked into the room.
You had to know to understand. Kristin, my ex-wife, had always been a rather uninspired dresser. She swore by jeans, tee-shirts, and running shoes. Oh, there were times when she did dress up, the odd family wedding, the odd formal occasion, when she pulled out of her closet a dress or a skirt, and for an evening have a go at being a model. She had that sort of body. During our years together, I had lapped it up whenever the occasion presented itself; not only did Kristin have a perfect body, but I always had a soft spot for nicely dressed women, and a pair of high heels was often enough to get me hard. That Kristin's legs and ass were her best features did not hinder in the least. I shared that side of my psyche with Kristin, once a long time ago, in a hopeful attempt at getting her to make out with me while fully decked out after one of our formal sorties, and she was intrigued. I knew her enough by then to know that I would eventually convince her, and fueled my fantasies with visions of her in lingerie, stockings, and heels, all the standard trappings of sex-objecthood. It was silly, I admit it, and I never got to live out the fantasy. First, because Kristin became pregnant - a boy, Billy, now five - and then because after Billy was born Kristin and I started to drift apart and my life was shot to hell.
To make an uninteresting story short, Kristin caught me cheating with a colleague, got mad, left me amidst invective cursing my family for the foreseeable future generations, proceeded to sue me for divorce, obtained Billy's custody, and moved to Phoenix, a good four hours drive away, to start up a new life. Since then, every few weeks, I would come visit, and pick up Billy for a couple of days to maintain a semblance of contact. Kristin and I never exchanged more than the words necessary to perform the hand-over. She was still mad at me. It barely abated when she found herself a new beau two years ago, moved in with him, and eventually married. Hate is a powerful thing.
All that to explain why finding Kristin in front of me in this Phoenix hotel room, dressed like one of my wet dreams from long ago, was somewhat surprising. She still looked good, I could not help noticing, resisting the urge to look at her more fully. At thirty and with one kid behind her, she seemed to still have the body of a twenty year old. I never stopped lusting after her, even after the heated divorce settlement. In fact, that she was now married to someone else made her that much more attractive.
"Kristin, what can I do for you?"
She looked at me a moment, a strange look in her eyes, before answering. "I was told to stop by and give you something." She handed me an envelope. I saw her nails were polished bright red, another oddity.
Kristin stood still while I opened the envelope and pulled out a couple of golden sheets of paper filled with a tight script. I started reading, not knowing what to expect.
"Dear Justin," the letter went, "You do not know me, but I know you. At least, insofar as dear Kristin here knows you. She has been extremely forthcoming with the information. And she had quite a story to tell
"I will not introduce myself. And I will be brief. I have a gift for you: Kristin, to do with as you wish. She has been conditioned to be very, shall I say, obedient.
"I ran across Kristin several months ago; she was rude to me, and I thought I would make her pay for it. Simple as that. It is sufficient for you to know that I hypnotized here, and went on to have much fun. Let me just say that I enjoyed making her do things that she never thought she would ever do. Much to my delight, she had an exquisite body hiding under that drab clothing she favored. That has changed, as you probably observed. She will tell you about her adventures herself, if you so wish.
"I need to move on now, and I like to travel light. There was an interesting question, what to do with dear Kristin? I could clean her up, removing the conditioning, but that seemed like a waste. Revealing the conditioning to her new husband, letting him enjoy her like I enjoyed her seemed somewhat unappealing; the man is such a bore. I was just about to adjust her conditioning so that it would get inadvertently activated in the future by random people talking to her, when I had the illuminating insight of asking her a few questions and discover that you existed, the much-maligned, much-hated ex-husband. Oh, you should have heard what she had to say about you! Of course, that made you the perfect choice.
"And there it is. Your gift, Kristin, at your beck and call. The choice is now yours to accept it or not. However, you will not make this choice tonight. Kristin has been instructed to leave now, and to seek you out again in three days, when you will make your choice. If you want her, just say 'Kristin, you are my little wind-up fuck doll.' She will then tell you about her conditioning. If you elect to refuse this gift, simply say 'Kristin, you are yourself again.' She will then leave, and as far as you are concerned this exchange never happened.
"I hope you will accept this gift in the spirit it was intended. Best, S.S."
Confused, not sure what to think, I looked up to see Kristin, still standing silent and motionless in front of me. She did truly have an exquisite body, which the dress did nothing to conceal.
Before I could say anything, Kristin spoke up.
"I cannot stay. I was instructed to leave after you finished reading the letter." She slowly stepped forward as she spoke.
"I was also told to give you this." She stopped right in front of me, stood up on her toes and softly put her lips on mine. Before I could quite wrap my mind around what was happening, her lips parted and her tongue sneaked out to caress my own lips. Putting one hand on my neck and one behind my head, she pulled me close and hard and invested my mouth, kissing me with a passion that reminded me of the first days of our marriage. I kissed her back, bringing a hand up her back and she pulled up and molded herself against me. I could feel her body swaying softly under mine, her breasts, small and hard against my chest, her groin warm against my thigh.
After two long minutes of her lips and tongue exploring my lips and tongue, she stepped back, and looked up into my eyes.
"I will be back," she said, "in three days."
She left quietly, hips swaying tantalizingly as she walked, closing the door behind her. Her scent lingered in the air. I took my first breath in a long while.
I still did not know what to think when I went to pick up Billy the next day. I showed up right on time at Kristin's house, and Billy came out to greet me, jumping up for a gigantic bear hug.
"Hiya, big guy! My, have you grown some more since last time?" Billy giggled, and shuffled slightly to show me the new watch he had received as a gift.
Kristin appeared on the doorstep, frowning slightly. She was now the Kristin I knew: faded jeans, Boston Red Sox tee-shirt, hair in a rough ponytail.
"Hi Kristin," I said, a tentative smile on my face.
"Just make sure you bring him back Sunday night, seven o'clock. He has to go to bed early; school on Monday." She smiled at Billy. "See you soon, Sweetie! Mommy loves you."
Kristin gave me a frosty look before turning around and closing the door.
"Mommy and Dave had a fight last night," said Billy, trying to be helpful. He did not deal well with conflict since the divorce.
"Hey, don't worry about it. They'll be all right," I said. We started for the car. "So, what would you like to do today?"
A similar treatment greeted me when I returned Billy three nights later, following a weekend of ice cream, zoo, and generally goofing around and having fun with a five year old. Billy seemed to have enjoyed himself too, and we kept alive the uneasy rapport we had settled on over the years. Kristin made no mention of any meeting later, and generally gave me the cold shoulder, the way she had been doing since she moved here, addressing me only to remind me of my child support payments.
I returned to the hotel, took a long shower, poured myself a scotch, and sat down on the couch to ponder it all, taking a few minutes to re-read the letter from the mysterious S.S. Unbidden visions of Kristin kept creeping up in my mind; some came from our time together, memories of tender moments and of sexually charged encounters, memories of later less interesting times when had grown apart and she often rejected my advances with an almost aggressive ardor.
Equally unbidden came fantasies about what I could actually do. I hated to admit how much the scorching kiss she gave me three days earlier affected me. And the way she looked, it made me hard just thinking about it. I had spent the day trying not to imagine telling her to get down on her knees in her short dress and give me a blowjob. I wondered suddenly if she knew what was being done to her, and that through almost made me come on the spot - that the little tease who often refused to have sex with me while we were married, goddammit, would suffer by being forced to obey whatever I said, forced to do whatever I could think of, was only fair. She was such a fucking tease anyways!
I had worked myself up to a healthy righteous anger by that point, fueled by the scotch, when a knock on the door startled me. I went to answer, not daring to hope.
Kristin stood in the doorway. "Hi. May I come in?"
I nodded, letting her in, and taking her in at the same time. She was still perched on tall black high heels, but had traded her blue summer dress for a more formal but still head-turning ensemble consisting of a white sleeveless blouse and a tight black skirt that barely reached mid-thigh. Her hair was styled just right, her long hair falling on half-denuded shoulders. She was lightly made up, just enough to emphasize her fantastic blue eyes. On her ears dangled a large pair of loop earrings. Her lips were glossy, with a sheen of deep red lipstick. She looked beautiful.
"I am here for your decision," she said. I stared at her lips as she spoke.
Like there was any real decision to be made here. Oh, I suppose that I could have let her go, in a small moment of human pity, upon remembering that I once loved her deeply, and that she was the mother of my son. But three days of lustful images running through my head, combined with how she looked tonight, made only one response possible.
I took a deep breath. "Kristin," I said, feeling like a fool and fully expecting her to mock me and pull out a tape and tell me that I could kiss all further visitation rights goodbye, "you are my little wind-up fuck doll."
Kristin hardly reacted. I did not know what to expect. Just when I could not handle the silence any longer, her eyes lost focus, and she started speaking in a monotone voice, as if she were reciting.
"Justin, you have made the right choice. You will find little Kristin here extremely compliant while she is in this mode. Her conditioning involves a couple of triggers, and you are free to put in more. I have kept things simple. To activate the conditioning, just use the trigger phrase 'little wind-up fuck doll,' after which she will do essentially anything that you ask. She will come out of her conditioned state whenever you ask her to do so. When in her conditioned state, you should also be able to place post-hypnotic suggestions, which can affect her when she is not in her conditioned state. For instance, one of her running suggestions is that she cannot wear panties unless expressly instructed to do so. You are welcome to check. The beautiful thing is that her own mind will work around the conditioning and the suggestions, explaining away the periods of time when she is in her conditioned state, or any strange action she performs under the influence of a suggestion. Of course, you can change that to make her aware of what is going, if you so wish. You can change anything you want, really. It is all up to you. She is all yours now. Enjoy!"
Kristin's eyes regained their focus, and she stood, silent, relaxed, waiting patiently. I remained silent for a long while. Then, after a deep breath, I addressed her.
"Kristin, can you hear me?"
"Of course, silly, I'm right here," she replied, a smile on her lips.
"You're really gonna do anything I tell you?"
"Of course; it's what I'm here for."
"But how do you feel about me?"
"I feel pleasure in obeying you. Beyond that, I do not feel anything." She paused, frowning slightly. "Part of me feels like it should dislike you. But it is a faint, vague feeling."
"I see," I said. "Oh well, I should have expected it. Anyways, Kristin, how about you get down on your knees now and give me the best blowjob of your life?"
"Of course," she said, kneeling down before me.
God, I had fantasized of such a moment. Kristin, my ex-wife, on her knees, breasts sticking out, getting ready to pull my cock out of my robe and suck me off. She was sitting on her heels, her short skirt rising up her thighs, revealing wonderful expanses of flesh, mouthwatering flesh. Her skirt had risen high enough that I could almost see her pussy. She was indeed pantiless. The thought got me even harder.
Kristin sneaked her hand through my robe, and wrapped it around my cock. Her fingers were cool and soft. They started gently stroking, slowly, from the tip of my cock to its base. With her other hand, she parted the pans of my robe; she edged closer to me, pointed my cock to her face, and gently licked the head. I was exceedingly sensitive, and could not suppress a gasp.
Kristin had never been keen on sucking my cock while we were married. She had given me blowjobs once in a while, for special occasions, but they were usually fast affairs, strictly a prelude to more conventional love-making. Her technique was perfunctory, and it was clear that she did not enjoy oral sex.
Now, however, she seemed to get much more into it. She was licking my cock thoroughly, from base to tip, using the flat of her tongue, switching to using the tip on those hard to reach spots. She eventually parted her lips, and slowly, excruciatingly slowly, slid my cock into her mouth, cheeks sunken, her eyes locked on mine all the while. Her mouth was warm, soft, tight, and my cock kept going in. The head reached the back of Kristin's throat, and I could feel her gag around me. She did not stop, however. Looking me deep in the eyes, she tilted her head slightly, swallowed, and my cock entered her throat. It felt like nothing I had every felt before: hot, tight as a fist, smothering as a warm heavy blanket. She pulled me out, slowly, tongue twirling. When only the head of my cock was between her lips, she engulfed me once more, all the way down her throat, again gagging slightly.
As she kept on sucking me, I idly wondered where she had learned those new skills. She was amazing. My benefactor must have thoroughly trained her. I also wondered how much Kristin remembered of what she had done during his tenure. I cut those reflections short when Kristin deepthroated me again, but instead of pulling me out, kept me in her throat, and actually tried to push my cock in even deeper, despite her lips having reached the root of my cock and her nose being buried in my pubes. She must have been swallowing or something, because her throat kept massaging my cock. Spittle was running down her chin, and had started to soak her blouse.
I could not resist that for long, and my cock, after gorging itself and choking Kristin off, started spurting semen down her throat. In what was another first for me, Kristin swallowed greedily, and after she pulled my cock out of her mouth, proceeded to lick me completely clean. The sight was intensely erotic, one that until this weekend I had contemplated only in fantasies.
As I looked into her eyes, her deep blue eyes, which had never left mine and spoke of compliance, it finally hit me. Kristin, my ex-wife, was mine, all mine, to do with as I wished.
It was time to enjoy myself.
And enjoy myself I did. For the next two days, I had Kristin come and see me during the day while Billy was in school and her husband was at work, and we did everything I could think of. I liked her dressed in short skirts or short dresses and high heels. Sometimes she wore thigh-high stockings. She sucked me off many times, sometimes swallowing my load, at other times taking it on her face and in her hair. I fucked her in every position I could imagine and physically achieve: on the bed, sitting, standing, missionary-style with her legs wrapped around my body and her urging me on, on her hands and knees on the bed, ass in the air, taking me deeper than I remembered ever going, her cunt muscles squeezing me tight. I had her ride me to orgasm, naked, her tits bouncing up and down, head thrown back in ecstasy. I fucked her ass, something she had never let me do during our marriage. She was incredibly tight, and warm, and her asshole squeezed my cock like it had never been squeezed before. She was on the bed at that point, on all four, ass completely offered, legs spread wide, head down into a pillow that muffled her screams. I started entering her slowly, but eventually was ramming in and out with all I could muster, eliciting a scream every time I bottomed out. It was so much fun that I would fuck her ass like that at the end of every visit I would ever make, right before sending her home.
There were many other visits. As I said, I was set to visit Phoenix every two or three weeks to see Billy for a weekend. I would show up on Friday, spend the weekend with him, and elected to stay a couple of extra days to take advantage of my gift. I thanked God I had enough vacation days accumulated at work for it not to be a problem for several months.
Several weeks later, after a couple of visit where I fucked her over and over again, I took Kristin out. Once again, I asked her to come and see me after I spent the weekend with Billy. She showed up at my hotel dressed in the way I asked her to, in a tight black leather miniskirt, and a tight white silk blouse that did nothing to hide her body. She was not wearing a bra, and her small breasts were faintly visible through the silk. I knew she was not wearing panties, and she had a pair of black suede midcalf stiletto boots. She was stunning, and it took all my will not to fuck her on the spot. As a compromise with myself, I had her kneel at my feet and fucked her face until I came in her mouth. After I came and she swallowed it all, we went out to dinner. I had a blast seeing all the male patrons at the restaurant steal glances at the long legs of my date. I had Kristin flash several customers, crossing and uncrossing her legs. I had her suck on a pickle, after dipping it in her pussy and getting it nice and wet. I had her visit the restrooms a few times, ensuring that every male customer would get a good peek at her legs. I had her give a tit show to the waiter when he brought the addition. I almost had her give him a tip in the form of a blowjob, but decided that tonight was not the night for that kind of adventure. Back to the hotel, I fucked her thoroughly, after asking her to tell me what she thought the male customers in the restaurant must have thought. I finished off in her ass, as usual.
On my next trip a few weeks later, I indulged in a long-held fantasy. Again, I asked Kristin to come and visit me after my weekend with Billy, and this time to bring with her the wedding dress that she wore at her and Dave's wedding. She showed up at the hotel, disappeared in the restroom to change, and came out almost half an hour later looking like a wet dream in white. The dress was white satin, cut rather short for a wedding dress, showing a good amount of leg a few inches above her knees down, encased in white stockings that plunged into white high heels. I fucked her from behind, dress flipped over her back as she leaned over the dresser in the room. I called up some room service for us afterwards; when the clerk showed up, I made Kristin answer the door, and tip him with a sultry kiss that slowly morphed into a blowjob, with Kristin on her knees in front of that poor boy who seem not to know what to do. Before he could come, I stopped them, and whispered something in Kristin's ear. She stood up, turned around, and lifted her dress to reveal her naked perfect ass framed by white garters. "Do I look good enough to fuck?" she asked in her best vamp voice. The boy nodded, speechless, and Kristin bend over on the bed, and motioned for him to come closer. He stole me a look, and seeing that I was agreeable to this new development, he lined up behind Kristin and proceeded to shove his cock in her cunt from behind. He later came all over her back, adding new cum stains to her wedding dress.
I enjoyed seeing another man taking advantage of my ex-wife so much that on my next trip, I upped the ante. When she showed up for my post-weekend visit, we went out. I had asked her to wear a short dress with heels, stockings, and garter belt, and to overdo her makeup. I took her to a strip club that was holding an amateur night, and registered her for the contest. Most of the contestants were very attractive and altogether quite good; but none could beat Kristin, especially after my suggestion that she be completely uninhibited and do her best to give all the men in the audience the most unforgettable hard-on of their life. She was extraordinary. Moving lasciviously to the music, she peeled off her dress and danced most of the set in her stockings and heels, playing with her breasts and putting herself on display, on her back, legs in the air, pussy exposed to all, pussy lips glistening with what had to be arousal. She flirted shamelessly with the front row customers, asked them to dip their fingers in her cunt, and fingerfuck her. She sucked on many of those fingers. She won hands down. As a victory celebration, I made her blow and fuck the manager of that fine establishment. I had a quick chat with the mollified manager, and after negotiating a suitable arrangement, I modified Kristin's conditioning. She would not get an urge to come and dance here once a month, always putting on her best show. I made sure that she danced under her real name, to make things more interesting. Of course, part of the deal was for her to suck and fuck the manager and the bouncers.
Right before my next trip, Gary, a good pal of mine that lived near Phoenix called me up to tell me he was getting married. We shot the breeze for a bit, he told me all about his fiancee, and eventually we got around to the bachelor party. His best man was organizing it. He gave me the best man's phone number, and later that night I called up the fellow, telling him not to worry about the party's entertainment, that I could provide it. In a happy coincidence, the bachelor party was to happen the weekend of my next visit, so when I showed up in Phoenix, I pulled Kristin aside and, when conditioned, told her about the party. She happened to have a retreat scheduled at work that weekend. I made her cancel, with the suggestion that when she went back to work she would apologize to her boss by offering herself to him, if he was so amenable. I then gave her instructions for the party. Of course, she was to be the entertainment. I knew Gary's tastes fairly well, and I was pleased to see later that he was almost drooling when Kristin appeared, wearing a long red evening gown with a slit on the side that went right up to her waist, and a pair of impossibly high open-toed spiked heels, also red. Following her instructions, she danced for a while, bringing everyone to a state of intense arousal, teasing, almost stripping, flashing legs, tits, and even giving a sneak peek of ass when she was down on all four on the floor. Instead of stripping, however, she crawled to the future groom sitting on a chair before the makeshift stage, and straightening up in front of him gave him a torrid kiss on the lips. She then whispered something in his ear that made him blush a bright red, and they both stood up and disappeared in an adjoining room. I smiled, knowing full well that Kristin was blowing Gary and then offering the rest of her body. As I said, I knew Gary, so I made sure her asshole was properly lubed. Forty-five minutes later, they came out, disheveled, with Kristin's face dripping with what had to be semen. She put the music back on, and proceeded to complete her dance, this stripping completely. She ended her routine her back to the crowd, straight-legged, bent over at the waist with her hands on the floor. We could all see a trail of semen sneak its way down from her pussy and her ass, and the audience hooted loudly. The rest of the evening saw Kristin blowing all the guests at the party, many going for seconds to sample her amazing mouth. By the time the party wound down, she had given twenty-four blowjobs. When the time came to leave, she pulled Gary in a tight embrace at the door, and gave him a soul-snatching kiss that lasted a good minute. She then slipped a piece of paper in his hand, and she and I left. The piece of paper, which I had dictated, held a hastily scribbled message: "Dear Gary, thanks for a wonderful evening. If you ever feel lonely, call me, XXX-YYY-ZZZZ. I get wet just thinking about feeling your cock in my ass again. Kisses, Kristin."
Eventually, I had my fill. Not of sex with Kristin, obviously. Who would get sick of a pretty blonde with no inhibitions, ready to do absolutely anything you asked at the drop of a well-chosen word? It is the revenge bit that got old. I just did not have it in me anymore to think of new ways to humiliate her. My therapist would say that I had finally worked through my issues.
Not that I let her off the hook so easily. One weekend, I changed Kristin's conditioning so that she would actually be aware of what she did when she was conditioned, but be unable to resist or tell anyone about her situation. After the initial shock, she gave me a look that was pure hate. I smiled, and told her to get down on her knees and fuck my cock with her mouth. She obediently knelt and started to unzip my pants. She would have killed me had she been able to, and I kept on smiling as she dutifully pull my cock out and started sucking me off. And then I made a final conditioning change.
"Kristin, listen to me, but continue fucking my cock. You will hear what I say next and know it to be true." I took a deep breath. "Every week, for the rest of your life, you will get a craving for cock. The craving will start on Wednesday, it will get worse and worse until Saturday night, when the need to have sex with a man will be unbearable. You will have to have sex with a man and come before Sunday at dawn. There are conditions, however. The craving can only be satisfied by a man with whom you never had sex. Moreover, from now on, you can only come if a man comes deep in your ass, while his hips are pressed against your asscheeks."
Kristin's eyes widened in disbelief and fear as she absorbed what I told her. I had just condemned her to be a slut for the rest of her life, possibly destroying her marriage, not to mention her ass, in the process.
I continued. "One exception to the rule is me. If you see me on a Saturday before you have satisfied your craving, then you will need to get me to come in your ass to satisfy your craving." I figured it would be very interesting to see what she would do to seduce me, to get me to fuck her ass.
She suddenly pounced and sucked my cock deep in her throat, gagging slightly. I was soon overwhelmed by the sensations. God, she was a fantastic cocksucker.
The future was bright, at least for me. Plus, with a few well-chosen pictures from her adventures, it should not be too difficult to convince a judge to grant me full custody of Billy.
Summary: What would you do if the girl on an escort service ad reminded you of a long-lost college crush? Stevie decided to call, only to discover that the service provided was of a rather special kind. Keywords: MF, Mdom, mc
Stevie hesitates, finger poised over the doorbell ringer. This is ridiculous, he thinks: she knows I'm coming, it's all been arranged. Besides, were he to leave now, what would she think? That he was a douche, that's what. Which is ironic, at some level. He rings.
Light footsteps from the other side of the door. Stevie hears the bolt of the lock being pulled. The door opens.
"Honey, you're here!"
It's her. Good lord, it's really her. Laura. Before Stevie can say anything, she throws her arms around his neck, and hugs him tight. He feels her breasts against his chest. He is nervous. He must relax.
"Come in, come in. How was your flight?"
Laura closes the door behind Stevie after letting him in.
"I'm just finishing up in the kitchen. Care to keep me company and tell me all about your trip? Your emails were too short."
Stevie watches her go, long brown hair swaying as she walks. She is dressed casually with a light green tee-shirt and a pair of blue jeans, a tight pair of jeans offering her rear as a treat as she disappears through the swinging kitchen door.
Taking off his shoes, Stevie glances around the entrance. He stands at one end of a hallway, a living room opening to the left, warmly decorated in rich tones of red and brown. Stairs on the right lead up to what he figures are the bedrooms. The hallway proper leads to the kitchen, glimpsed when Laura went through its door. Stevie follows in, nervous in spite of the warm welcome.
"Here, I poured you a glass of wine, to keep you distracted while this finishes." She is stirring water into what smells like a mushroom risotto. Two glasses filled with red wine sit on the counter. He takes one.
"There, hold on, let me join you." Letting the risotto simmer, she picks up the second glass and offers a toast.
"To your being back, and to a wonderful evening." They clink, then drink. Laura looks at Stevie while she sips from the glass. Her eyes, wide and green, are as beautiful as he remembers.
After putting her glass down and licking her lips, she takes a step towards Stevie. She runs one hand gently along his chest. "A husband shouldn't leave his wife alone for five months. It's just wrong." Her voice goes down a few registers. "She has... needs... that must be satisfied." She punctuates her sentence by tilting her head up and kissing him, a slow lingering kiss. Her lips part, and her tongue timidly sneaks out to caress him.
Stevie can feel her body against his, can feel her breasts once again pressing on his chest, feel her thighs between his, not quite rubbing his crotch but not keeping away either. His free hand wraps around her waist, caressing it down to her hip.
"Mmm, I had almost forgotten how your hands feel." She leans out of the embrace. "You look tense. Don't worry, I won't bite you... much. Just sit down, drink, relax. We'll have a nice dinner, catch up, and wherever the evening goes, well, it goes, okay?"
"Be our guest? Put our magic to the test?"
Laura smiles widely. "Exactly!" God, she was beautiful.
* * *
Stevie came across the ad on craiglist early on a Sunday morning. "Brunette, 5'6, 112 lbs, 35C, 29 yo, smart, funny, cute. Flexible hours, in-call, city only. GFE, LWE. Laura."
There was a picture with the message, a shot of a woman, from the neck down, naked but for a white thong and a pair of tall white heels. Her back was to the camera, and something in the pose, the color of the skin or the line of the legs caught Stevie's attention. Twenty-nine years old, five foot six, brunette. That silhouette. Laura. It couldn't be. Portland was a big place. And that was eight years ago. Stevie paused, basking in old memories, old fantasies. Laura Metkins, the girl of his dreams back in his college days. Beautiful, funny, and with a body to damn one's soul. Every boy that met her had fallen in love with her, Stevie included. She was smart and friendly, and was studying psychology. She did not date a lot, or perhaps she had just been discreet about it. Stevie himself had been way too shy and intimidated to ask her out. They talked, were friendly, but nothing more. Stevie had kept pinning for her from afar, fueling his fantasies. He would often jack off to images of her, wondering what she was like in bed. Not that he himself had much experience in that domain to serve as a reference. While not a virgin since his late teens, he had not had as much sex as he would have liked, and certainly not as much as he had been led to believe he would have in college. In truth, college had been rather too much like high school for Stevie, but with harder classes. Laura, beautiful Laura, long-legged Laura, had seemed to breeze through it all though.
He looked at the picture again, and knew right then and there that his next jack off session would superimpose Laura's face on the luscious body posing in the picture. He especially liked the white. The perfect touch of innocence. Damn, he was hard already.
He noted the phone number, and searched a bit online. He logged into a couple of sites he knew that hosted forums on escort services in and around Portland with discussions and reviews. Nothing like the girl in the ad stood out. He confirmed what he thought he remembered. GFE was an abbreviation for Girlfriend Experience, an escort that for a suitable fee would behave like a good girlfriend. A more personal, more intimate, warmer experience: kissing, cuddling, playful love-making. What one would expect an escort to provide in the first place, really.
LWE, on the other hand, was a stumper. He could find no references to it anywhere, and when he posted a question on the forum as to whether anyone had any contact with this Laura and what LWE stood for, the responses were best summarized by one Slim Jim's "Sorry dude, can't help you. Tried calling a few times no callback. Never heard of LWE either."
Stevie's own phone call two weeks later was more fruitful than Slim Jim's.
* * *
"My sister sends you a hug, by the way, and she's sorry she couldn't be here tonight," says Laura between two mouthfuls of risotto.
"Oh, well thank you, and hug her back when you talk to her. How's she doing?" Stevie is relaxing. The wine is definitely helping, and the food is simply delicious. The conversation is going smoothly, surprisingly enough, without any real direction. He has talked about his trip, inventing details about Memphis and his customers there. As expected, Laura does not seem to pick up on the fibs.
"She's doing okay. She came to visit for a few weeks, and she was a real support through everything that happened these last few months. Thank God she was there."
"Why, what happened? You didn't say a thing."
"Yeah, I was kind of waiting for the right time... I didn't want to bother you while you were away and couldn't do anything." She looks at her glass. "Though I'm not sure I'm quite drunk enough yet."
"We can take care of that easily enough." Stevie smiles, and pours her some more wine. Laura smiles back, half-heartedly. "That bad, huh?" says Stevie.
She drinks her wine down in one gulp. "Pretty bad, yes." She takes a deep breath. "It was Rob, that little weasel of a supervisor at the office. You know, I told you about him, he came up from San Diego eight months ago, the one who's always sneaking glances at my legs..."
"Can't blame him, you have beautiful legs." Stevie is thinking of the craiglist picture. His cock hardens immediately.
"Thank you. Still. He also likes to talk to my boobs..."
Stevie eyes sneak down to Laura's chest. Her tee-shirt does not let him see anything, but he remembers how her breasts felt earlier when they kissed. Neither large nor small, but firm and full. He wonders what her nipples are like.
"Well, two months ago, he went from merely annoying to downright harassing. He crossed the line in a bad way... He..." she drinks again, has trouble continuing.
"It's okay, sweetie, you can tell me later, if you're up to it."
"I'm sorry. It's just that he made me feel so awful..."
"It's all right, let's switch to a happier topic. So, how's your mother?"
Taken by surprise, still a bit frazzled by the discussion, Laura guffaws, almost spilling her wine. "A happier topic?" But she's smiling as she says that, and goes on to tell the recent tales of the Metkins family.
Stevie, meanwhile, is thinking about Rob the harassing supervisor, lecherously lusting over Laura's legs as she leans over, firm ass towards the man, wearing only a pair of skimpy white thong and a tall pair of white heels.
* * *
It took six rings before the call was picked up. Stevie almost lost his vodka-induced courage after the fourth ring, but inertia saw him through.
Fully expecting an answering service, he was steeling himself to launch into his rehearsed speech. He could therefore only stammer when an actual human being, a man no less, answered. "Hello?"
"Huh, yes... huh... hi..."
"May I help you?" The voice was soft and deep.
"Hi, may I speak to Laura, please?"
"Laura is currently unavailable, but perhaps I can help. What is this about?"
"Well, huh... I saw..."
"You saw her posting on craiglist."
"Yes... and... well..."
"And you were interested and curious and were thinking of perhaps arranging a rendezvous of a sort?"
"Well... huh... yes... kindda..." This was terrible. Stevie, never the most forward of men at the best of times, was feeling small and ashamed and was madly hoping the man did not have caller ID. Fat chance, he thought, despairing. He was ready to hang up.
"That can certainly be arranged. You are lucky. I am actually in charge of seeing to Laura's appointments. I am her agent, if you will."
"Okay, well, I'm not sure how to go about this. I haven't done this much, you know, and..."
"All is fine. Not a problem. I can tell that you are a person of interest. Put bluntly, I like you. So here is what I propose: How about we meet, you and I, tomorrow, at a time and place of your choosing, and we can discuss this. What Laura offers is somewhat... unique, and requires a bona fide chat. Trust me, you will not be disappointed."
"That LWE thing, right?"
"That LWE thing indeed."
Stevie suggested a late morning drink at a quiet cafe downtown, and went to sleep thinking about the conversation. And he did jack off to visions of his Laura posing, on display with a wanton look on her face. He came as he imagined entering her from behind, her ass spread wide before him.
The man from the phone, it turned out, was in his late forties, a tall skinny gentleman with streaks of gray in his dark hair, impeccably dressed. He called himself Volpinex. Stevie thought he only lacked a British accent for the picture to be complete.
"I have a question, Mr Volpinex. Isn't this a lot of work for setting up a simple... rendezvous?"
"Well, yes, it is. But you have to understand that the service we provide is rather special. I view this as an investment. Most of our clients tend to turn into regular customers."
"Indeed, LWE, or Lou-ee, as we have come to call it, the Loving Wife Experience, the ultimate in escort service. All the benefits, none of the inconveniences of the real thing. It is no more and no less than a fully immersive fantasy, acted out within parameters you provide, and using several proprietary psychological evaluation mechanisms that ensure you the maximum satisfaction. This is what this interview is all about, Mr Saxx, to assess what you want."
Stevie was taken aback. "I'm not sure what you mean, what I want?"
"I understand, Mr Saxx, it is difficult to launch so early into such a difficult topic. Therefore, let us start slowly. Tell me about your life, who you are, where you are going."
And Stevie spoke. Hesitantly at first, but steadily. He told of his youth out in the midwest, a middle child in a fairly large family, neither abused nor smothered, mostly left alone. He told of his high school experiences, his tendency towards nerdiness that made social interactions difficult, his awkwardness with girls; he even told of his first experience with an older girl, who was not very attractive and was drunk at the time. He had been drunk too, and it was late, and it was dark in the little wood near the old mill where the end-of-year party was held that spring, and he lost his virginity with his pants halfway down his legs, an affair that must have lasted all of five minutes. Volpinex listened to it all, attentive, empathic.
Stevie told of his college days, studying business and computer science. He did not have the technical skills to be a star programmer, and did not have the attitude and self-confidence to become an entrepreneur. He would go on to work for a small computer support business. Social interactions had been difficult, but he had developed a small circle of friends, outcasts like him, and he had even managed to get involved with two girls over his four years. The relationships had not lasted. And, of course, there had been Laura.
Stevie sneaked a glance at Volpinex to gauge his reaction. Volpinex did not seem surprised by the name coincidence, even after Stevie described Laura in rather gushing terms that matched the picture in the ad. Volpinex simply remained attentive to everything Stevie said. Stevie continued explaining how he never had the courage to ask Laura out, and that he had settled for being on friendly speaking terms. She would come hang out with the CS folks once in a while, as she had a few good friends in the group. Stevie, who did not actually interact much with other CS students, would somehow manage to be there when she was. Then graduation had come and gone, and Laura had moved to Portland to work for a drug company, and Stevie had kicked around the midwest for half a year before also finding a job around Portland. He admitted that Laura was a part of that decision, but it had been seven years now, and he had never summoned the courage to call her.
Volpinex looked at Stevie quietly for several seconds before speaking. "Thank you, Mr Saxx, this has been very helpful. You have led a very interesting life. I do have a few questions for you now. First, what attracts you in a woman? What is it that makes you stop and pay attention?"
Stevie sat silent, not knowing how to answer.
"Let me give you an example," continued Volpinex. "Let me tell you what I find attractive in a woman. It is subtle. She has to be beautiful, of course, and I prefer them tall and voluptuous. Which you probably could have guessed. I also prefer redheads. But more importantly, much more importantly, I like strong women. Women that know who they are and what they want, and who are not afraid to take it. The quiet self-confidence that reflects itself in the angle of the head as they walk, the stride they take, the clothes they wear. And in bed, let me guarantee you, they are breathtaking. They are so comfortable with who they are that they can offer themselves without shame. The last woman I have spent the night with was a high-powered lawyer that made it through sheer force of will and hard work. We went at it the whole night; she was insatiable. I will cherish the memory of her with her short skirt bunched around her waist, legs spread, begging me to enter her and take her already."
Stevie's eyes were wide, his breath short. "And Laura, is she... is she strong?"
"Laura," Volpinex smiled, "is special. Laura can be anything you want her to be. And I do mean anything."
"But the question is, Mr Saxx, what would you like her to be? What do you like? Describe the perfect date. A movie with a scene you like with a girl you liked, a scene that made you think 'Yes, I want her.' Perhaps a scene in a book?"
It took a while, but eventually Volpinex managed to get Stevie to talk. Mostly through references to movies and books, Stevie talked about what he liked in a girl, physically as well as mentally. He talked about the women he had been attracted to, real or fictional. It took longer to get Stevie to open up about his deep-seated fetishes. But skillful Volpinex managed even that.
* * *
Dinner finished, Laura suggests they adjourn to the living room for coffee and desert. Stevie gladly agrees, mollified by a very pleasant meal.
"Please put on some music, I'll be right there," says Laura.
Stevie finds a wide selection near the sound system. Five shelves of compact discs, holding everything from classical music to jazz to folk music. After thumbing through the selection, Stevie picks up a Sinatra compilation, spends a few minutes figuring out exactly how the sound system works, and manages to get music coming out of the speakers, just in time to greet Laura bearing a tray with coffee and pastries.
"Ol' Blue Eyes, very nice choice," she says, putting the tray on the low coffee table. She kneels beside it, fussing with the sugar. "Two cubes, right?"
"Yes." Behind her, above her, Stevie is enthralled by her hair, a lightly waved curtain of hazelnut draping down to her shoulders. He gets the urge to run his hands through it, reaching down towards her neck to cup her face, lift it up, kiss her again. And he can, he realizes. He just can. And she may even welcome it.
"Earth to Stevie. You there?"
Stevie snaps back to the here and now. Laura is looking up at him, a smile floating on her lips, amusement glittering in her green eyes.
"Sorry, I was... distracted."
"Well, get over here and let me serve you some coffee."
"You don't have to..."
"But I like being on my knees, serving you."
Stevie near blushes, and Laura starts to laugh.
"Just sit down and get your mind out of the gutter."
Stevie obeys, and looks at her as she pours the coffee into two cups. She gives him one. Laura remains kneeling by the table, hands folded around her cup as if to warm them up. She is looking at Stevie, a steady gaze. After a while, she breaks eye contact, pulls the cup to her lips and takes a sip. Her eyes remain down as she continues the story she started over dinner.
"It was two months ago that Rob... crossed the line. I suppose it was my fault. Maybe I shouldn't have been dressing the way I did, or acting the way I acted. I guess it's all academic now, anyways. What's done is done, alea jacta est and all that jazz, right?
"I told you Rob was always looking at my legs. Of course, he was not the only one. I had quite a number of admirers that would swing by my desk under some pretext or another, to sneak a peek at my gams. And I was more than happy to oblige. It was all friendly fun, and I think they all realized it. I had made it very clear that I was married, happily so, and all the boys gawked and flirted but did not push the envelope. But boy, did they look, and did I let them! I would turn towards them when they came to chat me up, and cross my legs, and I could see their eyes unashamedly rise up from my high heels up my calves to my crossed knees, up my thighs to where my skirt would have risen, and it was usually fairly high. Sometimes, my legs were bare, and the boys had in front of them a nice expanse of white thigh; at other times, I wore thigh highs, and the lace band would often show. Partly because I would let it. I think the boys really like that. Why wouldn't they?
"You remember the skirts I liked to wear? Hell, you chose half of them when we went shopping. Most of them barely reached mid thigh, and many of them would flare up when I walked. I must have been quite a sight when I leaned over to pick up files in low drawers and believe me, I would bend at the waist not at the knees. I think that often my skirt rose enough for everyone to see my panties, and given that I usually wore skimpy thongs, they got quite an eyeful. It made me so hot to know they were watching, that they would go home and jerk off to my memory, or even better, fuck their girlfriends or wives while imagining that it was me under them, squirming, moaning, coming. It made me so hot I would almost go off to the restroom and jill off. But I held it in until I got home, so you and I could share in those stories. You remember the stories I used to tell you about what my coworkers would do to me? I had fun trying to get you to come before you'd even entered me.
"I kept it up while you were gone, I could not resist. Rob was the most fun to tease, and I think I pushed way too hard. I'd make sure to cross my legs especially high when I was in a meeting with him, sitting on the couch in his office, heels dangling from the tip of my foot. I got a sense quite early on that he liked bare legs, and that he liked breasts. So I made sure I had no stockings on those days, and that I was wearing one of my tightest blouses unbuttoned just enough to be decent and a pushup bra that would push my boobs up. I never had the gall to go without a bra. Not that it would have changed much anyways.
"Rob was the most avid leerer of them all, but he never once approached me, never once flirted with me, never made a pass at me. I suppose he thought I was out of reach, but then again he must have known I was fairly agreeable. I mean, he must have seen how I acted with the others. But no, he never made a move, never said a word. He only leered from afar. Eventually, the fun turned a bit sour with him. I would feel my skin crawl when he looked at me, like he was undressing me with his eyes and having particularly nasty thoughts. While having men fantasize about me turned me on, I got the sense that his private fantasies where especially demeaning. And, as I was to discover, I was right.
"One morning, about two months ago, Rob called me into his office, a not uncommon occurrence. I remember I was wearing a favorite outfit of mine, a white sleeveless blouse, tight, with a rather conservative neckline, and a black pencil skirt that ran down almost to my knees, with a slit on the side that went up my thigh to my hip. The skirt was so tight that I could hardly take steps long enough to walk properly.
"I shivered when Rob slowly ran his eyes from my heels up my legs to my boobs, staying there for a long while, drinking them in. I was surprised by his boldness. Only when his eyes went up to my face, taking in my hair tied up in a bun, did he look at me in the eyes. He had not asked me to sit yet, and he looked like a cat having caught a spider, savoring the moment before lifting a paw and eating the poor thing. I feared I was the spider.
"Rob did not waste any time before tipping his hand. He asked me to close the door. I did, feeling his eyes on my ass. 'Laura', he said, 'you have been with this company for how long, seven years?' 'Yes, seven year,' I replied. 'Yet it seems those years were not enough to cement loyalty, were they?' he said. 'I don't understand,' I said. Without saying a word more, he swiveled the flat screen monitor on his desk towards me. It was playing a video capture of the CCTV cameras in the office, and you could see me reaching into the petty cash box kept at the bottom of the boss' drawer.
"I was still struggling to try and understand. 'Yes, Mr Lutz, my old boss, would often send me off on errands. He'd ask me to take the money out of the petty cash box.' It's true. I loved doing favors for Mr Lutz. He was such a dear old man, reminded me more of a grandfather than a high-level manager. I was sorry to see him go, especially considering his replacement.
"Rob gave me a thin rapacious smile. 'Yes, well, since Mr Lutz is no longer with us, since he was asked to leave to avoid facing charges of fraud, you will understand that his word would not count for much, even if we were able to get it.' He steepled his fingers together in front of his chin. 'Now, the interesting thing, Laura, is that money has gone missing from the petty cash box pretty consistently for the past several months, long after Mr Lutz left us. And who happens to have keys to both this office and this desk, Laura?' I frowned. 'Well, I do, Rob, you know that, but I haven't touched the box since the last time Mr Lutz asked me to. I have no need for....' Rob interrupted me with an abrupt gesture. 'Save it. Between the missing cash, this video of you dipping into the box, and Mr Lutz's statement that he generously signed before he left implicating you in the whole sordid business, I have plenty enough to sack you and sufficient evidence to charge you with fraud. Fancy a trip to jail, Laura?' Rob was smiling, hands back to a steeple. It struck me then how much he resembled a rat with his thinning hair combed back against his head, small round glasses hiding beady little eyes, a long thin nose and pointed chin. This I noticed, without actually being able to process what he had just said. Jail? Did he say jail?"
Laura is gripping her coffee cup tightly at this point, her eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the table, beyond the floor. Stevie's cock is hard, harder than he remembers it ever being.
"I was near panicking. I did not know what was happening, all I knew is that I had done nothing wrong. Rob kept going. 'It's a lot more than just my word against yours, my dear little Laura. Still, it would be a shame to see you go. You bring such a... pleasant distraction to our dreary office life. Perhaps we can come to a little arrangement?' Shaken, I looked at him. I swear he had a gleam in his eyes, like they were watering, or something. He still had his hands steepled in front of his face, but they seemed tense. I did not pick up on this then, of course. I was way too out of it. 'An arrangement?' I said. Rob replied slowly, 'Yes, an arrangement. As in, you are nice to me and I am nice to you in return. As in, you are nice to me and I do not fire you and do not bring charges up against you. That seems eminently reasonable, no?'
"I felt dumb, unable to process anything. 'Nice? How do you want me to be nice?' Rob laughed softly, shaking his head. 'Laura, Laura, Laura. Do I really have to spell it out for you? You like to come to this office and tease everyone. All I want you to do is to cash in on your teasing, so to speak. With me. You do as I say, you keep me happy, and you remain here working, and out of jail. As I said, reasonable.'
"Sex. He wanted sex. Of course. The thought of touching him revolted me. I kept trying to think of alternatives, but I could see no way out. I had done nothing wrong, but no one would believe me, I was sure. As I stood there, motionless, trying to think everything over but really going in circles in my own head, Rob was staring at me. Finally, he spoke up. 'I don't have all day, Laura. You'll have to decide now whether this arrangement is agreeable to you. Please take off your blouse and bra. Now.' Oh God, I thought.
"I stood there for what felt like a long time before my fingers reached up for the buttons of my blouse, almost of their own volition. I was someone else. I was somewhere else. This body was not mine, it was just a shell. I undid all the buttons, and pulled the blouse off. I had worn a nice bra that morning, a white lace demi cup that barely covered my nipples. I reached behind me, unhooked it, and it fell on my feet. I went to cover my breasts, but Rob told me to stop and put my arms down my sides and push my chest out. The cold air made my nipples stick out. I was standing half naked in front of my boss, dressed only in a tight skirt and heels, and the shame of it all was burning through me. I had gotten off on teasing my colleagues, all in good cheerful fun for all concerned, but this was no teasing, and no fun.
"Rob was devouring me with his eyes. I got the feeling he was controlling himself, that otherwise he would have just jumped on me. I don't know where the thought came from, but it was there, clear as daylight, and I got scared. Scared of what that man could do to me.
"He stood up slowly, and walked around his desk towards me. I braced myself for him to grab me, but he did not. He circled me, looking at me and detailing me like I was some prized animal at an auction. He was behind me when I felt him lean over and whisper in my ear, so softly I had to strain to hear, 'You've been teasing me for the last several months, the high and mighty and untouchable Laura. And now you're going to pay up. You'll be doing all the things you've been promising with your body, all of them. You'll be my little whore, Laura. You thought you could flaunt your tight little body, flash some leg, show some tit, have us all drooling and then disappear to your safe little home and your safe little husband? Think again, Laura. Now, turn around and kiss me, and you better put some feel into it. You don't want to get on my bad side!'
"I swallowed, closed my eyes, then slowly spun around to face him. He was slightly taller than I was, even in my heels. He did not move, only looked at me. Taking a deep breath, I reached up and put my lips on his. I don't know what I was expecting, foul breath or what, but his lips were in fact soft and his breath smelled of spearmint. I kissed him very lightly at first, then remembered his admonition, and started tonguing him. I hated it, but I must have put in a good show, because he seemed to get into it, his tongue roughly invading my mouth, his teeth nipping at my lips.
"He pulled back abruptly. 'Damn, you kiss nice, Laura. Now, get on your knees, take out my dick, and suck me like the whore you are.' There it was, without sugar coating, without any pretense. I knew something like that was coming, but knowing didn't make hearing the words out loud easier. I wanted to scream that I was not a whore, but I was too scared. I also realized at that point that I would not be able to kneel in my current attire. I could not help but blush knowing what I needed to do. I reached down and with difficulty pulled my skirt up my legs; I would be damned if I disrobed further before Rob without him asking. He looked down, smiling, as my legs were revealed. He ran his eyes on my thighs as my skirt went up past them, and I felt almost naked, even though I had shown as much leg if not more on previous occasions at work. But this was different. With my skirt up to my hips, I slowly went to my knees. Rob had unbuttoned his pants and taken them and his shorts down. His cock was sticking straight out, angry looking. It was not very large, but it was long and thin."
Stevie is holding his breath at this point, the coffee cup in his hands all but forgotten, threatening to start shaking at any moment. He can just picture Laura slowly lifting her tight skirt up her long delicious legs before kneeling down in front of her boss. Stevie's cock is throbbing, straining hard against his pants. He wonders how she would look kneeling like that before him. He snaps back to the present to find Laura staring at him from behind the coffee table. A smile is hovering on her lips. But she says nothing, and continues her story.
"I must have knelt without moving for too long, because Rob got angry. 'Come on, you little whore, I told you to suck my dick!'
"Slowly, I reached with a hand, and softly pulled his foreskin back. He was not circumcised, and his cock head emerged, red, hard, puckered. I wondered about diseases. But I didn't have much time to contemplate the issue because I felt Rob pull my hair out of its bun, wrap his hand around it, and pull my head back forcefully. 'Listen, little whore, I said suck my dick, and you're going to do it, right now, and you're going to do it well. You're good looking, but I don't have any time to waste on you, so either you do it now, or you're out. Do you understand?' Still unable to speak, I struggled against his grip to nod. 'Good, now get to it.'
"He released his grip and in a bit of a daze I reached over and took his cock between my lips. Again, I was surprised by how clean it was. I guess I was expecting it to smell or taste awful, but no, it smelled like soap. That made it easier. I closed my eyes, and sucked gently. In and out, running my tongue on the underside of the head on the way in, sucking hard on the way out, all the while jacking off the half of his cock that I could not get into my mouth. In and out his cock went.
"Thankfully, he seemed content to stand back and let me drive. He barely moved, and did not try to shove his cock in me. I could concentrate on doing a good job. My goal was to make him come as fast as I could and get out of there. I gave him one of my best blow jobs. You would have been proud. I gave him a blow job that would make strong men fall to their knees."
Laura looks at Stevie when she says that, then pointedly shifted her gaze down to his cock, which is forming a tent in his pants. Stevie looks down, apologetic, and feels he must say something.
"I'm sorry... I know it must have been terrible for you. I'm sorry about... this reaction. It's just that... well... the story is pretty hot, and..."
"And it turns you on, doesn't it? Well, perhaps it's just as well. Perhaps there's a way to milk some good out of a bad situation. I mean, it happened, there's no changing that, and maybe this is a way to exorcise it."
Stevie looks up and stares into Laura's green eyes. She's still holding her coffee cup, and brings it to her lips, sipping slowly. A thin sliver of foam coats her upper lip, and Stevie fights the urge to lick it off. "What... what do you mean?"
Laura's smile gets positively wolfish. "Well, how about I show you exactly what I did to Rob? That would take care of your problem there," as she nods towards his erection, which responds by jerking twice. "And besides, I've been wanting to jump your bone ever since you walked through the door."
Stevie swallows. There is no decision to be made. His cock has decided for him. "That... that would be great." Way to go, loverboy. "How do you want me?" Yeah, real smooth.
Laura seems not to notice, or care. She puts down her cup and stands up slowly, seductively. "Oh, you just stay right there, nice and comfy, and I'll take care of everything." She makes her way to the couch. But instead of sitting next to Stevie, she kneels next to him. "I don't have quite the outfit in the story, though. I hope you'll forgive me." Almost shyly, she reaches for Stevie's hard-on, gently rubbing it through his pants. Stevie worries about coming right then and there. He is not sure he could live with the ensuing embarrassment.
Laura leans over, bringing her face to within inches of his. "Well, of course, I do have the outfit upstairs. Perhaps I should go and put it on? A reenactment of a sort, except with the man I love instead of an old dirty bastard?" Her lips find his, and they kiss. Laura's tongue is hard, aggressive, dominating. Meanwhile, her hand is busily unhooking his belt and unzipping his pants. Before long, Stevie is left panting and half naked from the waist down, cock pointing straight up in the air.
"Hello there," says Laura, wrapping her small hand around the throbbing erection. It jerks in response, and she lets out a giggle. "So where were we? Ah yes, I was on my knees in front of Rob, skirt around my hips, boobs out, and sucking on his cock and giving him the best blow job I could. Like this." She dives onto Stevie's cock and in one smooth motion sucks him in. The feeling is incredible; her mouth is warm and moist and soft. Then Laura starts sucking, and the sensation leaves the realm of what Stevie can make analogies to. He closes his eyes, leans back against the couch, and just revels in the feel of Laura's lips and tongue. She bobs her head slowly, methodically, once in a while reaching up with her free hand to push her hair from her face. Two silver bracelets on her wrist jingle every time she does so.
After a few minutes, Laura interrupts her sucking, and lifts her head up. Her mouth is shiny from her actions. She is slowly jacking Stevie's cock, equally slick and shiny, as she continues the account of her encounter with her boss.
"As I said Rob was happy to just get himself blown, and I could concentrate on sucking him off the best I could. I'd lookup once in a while, and he had his head thrown back, and I bet his eyes were closed. He was enjoying himself, the bastard. And I kept going, kept sucking him off. He must have been very aroused, because he did not last long. I started to feel the telltale signs that he was about to come: his cock was getting ever harder, his balls were tightening, and his hips were making little jerky movements in time with my mouth.
"'Fuck, gonna come, gonna come...' he croaked. 'Tits, gonna come on your tits...' Fine with me, I thought. I was worried he'd want to come in my mouth.
"I pulled him out, and started jerking him off rhythmically, pointing him at my chest. I was standing straight on my knees, bringing my breasts closer to him. With a groan, he finally came, and like a slo-mo movie I saw his jizz spurt out and hit me. There was quite a lot for an old guy. My chest was drenched. Rob staggered and reached to his desk for balance. I admit that through my disgust and shame, I was strangely proud that I had done well. I guess the mind grabs onto anything to maintain some sanity."
Laura keeps on playing with Stevie's cock as she talks, and he has no difficulty imagining tits covered with her boss' semen.
"I wonder if I can make you stagger too," says Laura, a twinkle in her eye. She then dives back onto Stevie's cock. And very nearly takes him all the way in. She raises her head up, takes a breath, then goes down again. Stevie can feel her gag a little as the head of his cock goes in deeper than he thought possible, but the feelings of her mouth on him are so overwhelming that any concern he might have soon evaporates under the onslaught.
If Laura was giving him a loving blow job before, she is now way beyond into the realm of professional throat jobs. She repeatedly forces her face down on Stevie's cock, taking him in all the way down until her lips hit his pubes, holds the position for a few seconds while her throat massages him before pulling out slowly, sucking hard and flicking her tongue under his cock. When only the head of his cock remains in her mouth, she forces her head down again, and the cycle repeats.
Stevie has never felt anything like that. He has lost control of his hips, which rise up unbidden to thrust against Laura's face as she goes down on him. Far from bothering her, it seems to spur her on as she moans and increases her rhythm to meet his thrusts.
Stevie does not last very long. He can feel his cock harden, seeking release. "Laura... I'm going to..." He doesn't have time to finish, but finishing is not necessary because Laura knows full well what is happening. She times herself perfectly and jams Stevie's cock deep in her mouth when he comes, and keeps it there, noisily swallowing the jets of come that pour out of him. That she does not choke is impressive.
When Stevie is emptied out and his cock becomes too sensitive, she slowly pulls back, using her tongue along the length of his still hard cock, making him shiver.
"Yum," she says. "That was good, thank you."
"No, thank you. That was... fantastic."
Laura laughs. "Glad you liked. And that should help you last longer later when we get to more serious business later." She grins as she says that.
Swinging around on the couch, she aligns herself next to Stevie and cuddles up next to him. "To finish the story of my first encounter with Rob, he basically told me that I had done well, and to get dressed. 'But don't wipe yourself. I like the thought that you'll be spending the day with my cum drying on your tits.' I did not relish the idea, but did not complain, and I put on my bra and blouse back on and tried to make myself presentable again.
"Rob was not done just yet. As I was leaving his office, he stopped me. 'Laura, as you can imagine, things will be different from now on. I want you to continue dressing like a little teasing whore, but now you'll also act like one. Every morning when you get in, you stop by to see me. And I will sometimes keep you after work for some... overtime. Remember, you do as I say, when I say it, without arguments. Your job now is to keep me happy. It's that, or the police.' Not knowing what to say, I said nothing, and just left.
"And that was the first day of my ordeal, two months ago." Laura falls silent. Stevie, despite having just come, is still turned on. Laura is warm next to him, and her skin where his hand is resting is soft to the touch. Incredibly, he feels himself slowly getting hard again.
Just at that moment, a bell goes off in the kitchen. Laura jumps up. "Aha, desert is ready. Well, part one of the desert, that is." She scampers off to the kitchen, and Stevie watches her go, finding even the way she moves sexy.
She comes back with a kind of hot chocolate pudding that Stevie has never heard of but discovers he likes. They chat a bit more, Laura having resumed her place sitting on the floor by the coffee table facing Stevie. They chat about everything and nothing, the latest movies watched, the latest books read ("I'm the hugest Kathy Reichs fan," pipes Laura), the latest blogs followed. Stevie wants to steer the conversation back to her supervisor, but cannot quite find the right way to do so.
Eventually, during a lull in the conversation, as Laura is serving herself another small portion of the chocolate pudding ("Gotta watch that waistline," she laughs, while Stevie tries not watch it any harder), he asks what he felt was a safe question.
"So, you said that everything's over, and you're clearly not in jail. Unless the cops are on their way over now..." He say this jokingly, but as he says it a creeping doubt makes its way down his spine and settles in the pit of his stomach.
"No, the police is not on its way. I wish I could say that I was brave enough to face up to Rob, but I wasn't. It was a colleague of mine that basically got him. That was three weeks, after more than a month of me... seeing him. I think he overreached himself. Maybe the power he had over me got to him. I mean, I really did everything he asked me to do, and I did a lot. I..." She stops, takes a breath, reaches for the glass of port that she had served to go with the pudding. "Anyways. He tried to blackmail another girl in the office, Serena. Except he did not scare her as much. Or she was stronger than I was. Whatever the reason, she did not take it. I don't know what happened exactly, but a few hours after she came out of his office, her hair disheveled and face flushed in a way that I had come to recognize as how I looked after I was done with a session with Rob, the police came barging in. I almost collapsed when I saw them, so sure I was that they were coming for me. But no, they came for Rob. They burst into his office, I heard a scuffle, and they escorted him out, handcuffed and looking small and miserable. Serena was watching him go by, triumphant, talking to an officer. I was rooted to my desk, stunned, not knowing what to do. I could feel Rob's jizz running down my leg from our session that morning. He had forbidden me to wear underwear at work, and as usual he had forbidden me from wiping myself off. I generally avoided cum stains on my skirts by simply lifting them before sitting down and using a towel on my desk chair.
"So there I was, trying to figure out what to do, staring blankly at my computer monitor, and I felt a presence and Serena was there, standing beside my desk. I glanced up at her, and I must have looked as scared as I felt, because she gave me a warm smile before handing me a large envelope. 'This is what the bastard had on you. It wouldn't have been enough to press charges, but you don't have to worry about it anymore. It's over, Laura. Over.' I didn't know what to say or how to react, it was all too much. I mumbled a thank you, staring at the envelope. Eventually, when everyone had gone and some suit from upper management appeared to take over temporarily, I grabbed the envelope, cleared up my desk, and made to quit on the spot. I don't know how much of what Rob had done had filtered up the management ladder, but they convinced me to stay, offering me a bonus and a transfer and a long vacation. I suppose they were worried I'd sue their asses off. Perhaps I should. But I was just happy to be out of there, to be done with it all. I called my sister, and spent the last few weeks recovering. And then you came back." She looks up at Stevie and smiles. "And you being around makes everything better."
Stevie returns her smile, unsure of the best answer. Laura stands up, and after circling the coffee table leans towards him to plant a kiss on his lips. "And to reward you for being such a good husband, I will go and prepare the second part of your desert. Just stay here until I call you." She kisses Stevie again, this time more forcefully, and he feels his cock respond. Laura looks down at it, smiles, then turns around and heads for the stairs.
* * *
Volpinex was not taking any notes while Stevie talked, but Stevie had the distinct impression that no notes were needed, that Volpinex was filing every scrap of information away.
"So, Mr Saxx, five years ago you stumbled onto online erotic literature, and you basically never looked back."
"You could say that."
"And you seem drawn to heavy control stories, where a woman is made to act against her will. Blackmail stories. Forced submission stories."
Stevie looked around nervously, fearing someone could overhear them. More people have been crowding the coffee house while Voplinex and he were chatting, but no one was paying them any attention.
"Do you have a favorite site, Mr Saxx, one that you feel reflects your likes well?"
Stevie was reluctant to say.
"Come now, Mr Saxx. My purpose here, my sole purpose is to help you get a better experience. Knowing what you like will make this process both easier for all concerned and more enjoyable for you."
Stevie looked at Volpinex a second. "I like Dijan's site."
"Dijan's Understories, yes. Any favorite authors, favorite stories?"
"Huh, I don't remember exactly... it's hard to... I guess 'Better Than Prison' comes to mind, I don't recall who by. I remember it 'cause it was never finished. But I've been hoping... And there's another one, by Marissa, I think, or Melissa..."
"Marlissa, yes, 'The Mortgage'. A good story. A classic. Yes, I see. I will ask you to send me a list, again to help me help you. Trust me, it will only make your experience that much more intense. Now, let's see if I can guess where this is going. In those stories, you do not identify with the strong alpha male, do you? The man in charge, who sees something he likes and just goes for it?"
Stevie could not keep from blushing, and for a second, a flash of anger sparked deep inside him, only to fade quickly. Stevie sighed, and took a long time to answer. Volpinex waited, patiently.
"No," said Stevie, at last, "I don't. In those stories, I am the boyfriend, the husband, who sees his girlfriend or wife being abused by some bastard and cannot help."
Volpinex's voice was soothing, almost hypnotic. "It is more than that, though, is it not? You could help, but really, you do not wish to. You enjoy playing the cuckold, do you not? You enjoy being made to watch your significant other abused. Do you know why, Mr Saxx? I believe I know why.
"An easy guess would be that, at some level, you feel you deserve to be treated that way, but that's armchair psychology at its worse. No, I believe you enjoy the role because you are angry, Mr Saxx. Angry at having been ignored, abused, treated as inadequate for most of your life, first by girls and later by women. And this is your revenge. Not the angry explosive revenge of a warrior, but the clammy slithering revenge of a coward. E tu, Iago? You cannot take your revenge directly, but instead let someone else do it for you. That is what turns you on, what makes you hard, Mr Saxx, the thrill of indirect revenge, the righteousness of transposed wrath. You fantasize about fantasizing that you are an abusing bastard by watching someone being abused by such a bastard."
Stevie felt it deep inside in gut, the burning. He wanted to respond, to tell Volpinex off, but he did not. The burning lingered while Stevie looked at Volpinex for several seconds before casting his eyes down and mumbling something indistinctive.
"There it was, Mr Saxx, there it was. The anger. You felt it, did you not, down there? But it would not come out. It never comes out. Even when someone purposely insults you, to your face. And you know what, Mr Saxx?"
Stevie looked up, silent.
"You know what? It is okay. I do not care. I do not care why you feel the way you do, all I want is for you to get your money's worth, to get the best experience of your life, so that you will come back again and again. I will be honest with you, Mr Saxx. I want you to be a satisfied customer, because a satisfied customer is a regular customer. And for me, that means understanding what makes you tick. Beyond that, you will get no judgments from me."
Volpinex leaned back in his chair, letting his words sink in.
"But it is more than that, is it not?" continued Volpinex. "If it were just revenge, it would be boring, would it not? No, there is more going on here. It is the cowardice that is key. You are fearful, Mr Saxx, scared. What you fear is Lilith, were I to hazard a guess. Lilith, the Feminine, Woman. Your mother did an impressive job on you."
Stevie reacted to that, but before he could voice an actual protest Volpinex stopped him with a wave of the hand.
"Again, no offense intended, Mr Saxx. I only wanted to point out that you are not responsible for what you are, what you have become. You are a product of your genes, as well as your childhood environment. And, I reiterate, it is okay. What is important to me are the conclusions to draw from this data. You have strong submissive tendencies, you especially enjoy when a woman takes the initiative, when she takes control, when she orders you around, but at the same time, you resent it. It is this contrast, Mr Saxx, this constant clash between your fear, your anger, your thirst for payback, and your desire for maternal love that sends your emotions into high gear. You get off on the desire, the hope, the knowledge that your partner, whomever she is, will love you and cherish you and want you, but also that she will get what is coming to her, not by you, by someone stronger than you, that she will be made to crawl, to surrender. Am I close, Mr Saxx?"
Stevie did not answer, but the flush of his face, not to mention the iron bar in his pants, spoke for him. Volpinex smiled.
"Perfect, Mr Saxx, perfect. I believe I have most of what I need. If you could send me the information I asked you earlier, the stories details, I can refine your experience. We will worry about payment later. Shall we set a date, then, when you can meet the charming Laura? How is this upcoming Saturday night looking? Dinner time? Wonderful. It is set, then."
Volpinex made to push back his chair, but stopped himself. "Actually, Mr Saxx, one last thing. Clothing. What turns you on?"
* * *
Stevie is still sitting on the couch fifteen minutes later, pants readjusted, thumbing through an old Kathy Reichs paperback, pondering the difference between Reichs' Doctor Brennan and Deschanel's interpretation of the character on television, when he hears Laura descending the stairs behind him. He stands, dropping the book on the table, and turns to face her.
And almost forgets to breathe. While she was the girl next door earlier, beautiful but accessible, now she is stunning and unapproachable, a model on her own private runway, with him a gawking schoolboy.
"You like?" she asks. "I went to get it a few days ago, when I learned you were coming back early." She strikes a pose.
Stevie nods, wordlessly, not wholly sure what he is nodding for. His eyes take in Laura from her feet nestled in a pair of white high heels up her naked legs up to the hem of a white baby doll nightie that barely reaches down the top of her thighs. The satin garment is tight on her body, translucent, exposing curves that Stevie had suspected but never saw and a taut stomach and perfect breasts jutting out for attention, and is held up by two fragile straps running over Laura's shoulders.
"My, that was an intense! You must really like it."
Stevie looks into her eyes. "Yes, I do. You know I do. Anyone would. You look beautiful."
She takes a step towards him, slowly.
"Thank you. And you know what? I feel beautiful when you look at me like that. And I am all yours." She takes another step towards him. "Or maybe I should say you're all mine." Stevie's gaze is glued to her hips, which swivel invitingly with every step. "I've been waiting months for you to come back so I could have my way with you." Another step, and she is within reach. He can smell her perfume, the scent of an untamed beast. His cock is hard, threatening to jump up and take over. Stevie is shaking.
"Oh, look at that." Laura is right in front of him now, and with her index finger traces the outline of Stevie's cock through his pants. Her perfume is stronger up close, not overpowering but heady. "Someone's trying to control himself. How cute." Stevie can see down the nightie's front, all the way down Laura's chest, her breasts framed, on display. "But totally useless. You see, my plan is to fuck you so hard your dick will fall off."
Stevie's cock responds for him, jerking violently once, twice. Laura feels it, and smiles rapaciously. "So, where were we? You don't mind if I keep this on while I suck?"
The innocent look on her face almost does it. But Stevie only nods. Laura kneels down before him, unzips and pulls down his pants before wrapping her lips around the cock pointing straight at her face and, without touching it once with her hands, drives her mouth upon it, angling herself so that the whole cock disappears, in one smooth unbroken movement. Eyes closed, she pauses a moment with Stevie's cock impaled down her throat. Stevie's knees almost give way, suddenly weak.
Laura pulls back slowly, completely, gives a teasing flick of the tongue to the now exposed tip, and sucks his cock inside again, and again, smooth controlled motions sending overwhelming shivers up Stevie's spine. Laura pauses with his cock down her throat on every downward push, holding him in for a few seconds before pulling out.
She looks up from her position at Stevie's feet and with only the tip of his cock between her lips smiles widely before giving it a big kiss and standing up, slowly, rubbing herself against Stevie's body the whole way up. A shoulder strap has slid down from her shoulder, uncovering a full round breast tipped with a hard red nipple. Stevie twirls it gently with a finger; Laura moans in response.
An eager kiss, lips parting, Laura's tongue darting out seeking Stevie's. She snuggles up against him, and he feels the heat and dampness from her groin on his naked leg. Either her panties are soaked through, or she is not wearing any, he realizes.
Laura breaks the kiss, and pushes Stevie down onto the couch. His pants are around his ankles, and he quickly kicks them away. Laura lifts her nightie to her waist, answering the panties question. Stevie gets an unfettered view of Laura's pussy, shaved smooth and clearly wet. She straddles his lap, and guides Stevie's cock against her pussy lips. Looking at him, eye to eye, an inscrutable expression on her face, she slowly sinks onto his meat. She closes her eyes to better appreciate the sensation; her mouth opens of its own volition. Stevie cannot believe that he is here, getting his cock squeezed by Laura's clinging snatch, something he has fantasized over several times in the past. But here she is, slowly fucking herself on top of him. He squeezes one of her breasts, hard. He feels her pussy walls clench him tighter in response.
Laura does all the work. Pushing herself up on her knees, she lifts herself off Stevie before sinking back down, faster and faster, harder and harder. Stevie has pulled down her nightie, baring her breasts, and he is busy kissing and licking them as they bounce. Laura is moaning louder and louder, impaling herself on his cock, at times rocking back and forth while he is deep within her.
Stevie's hands have reached around and are grabbing her ass, and he enjoys its fullness and the feel of her unbelievably smooth skin. He guides her motions, rubbing himself against her as she bears down, and the regular friction of her clit on his groin eventually brings her off, loudly. She comes and her pussy tightens its grip on Stevie's cock, nearly trapping him there. When her orgasm subsides, she collapses against Stevie, head resting on his shoulder, breasts pressing into his chest. He lost his shirt sometimes in the last ten minutes.
Stevie has not shot his load yet, not having recovered from the earlier blow job, and he just sits there, appreciating the feel of her body against his, and runs his hands over her ass and the smooth skin of her thighs spread out on either side of him. He feels handsome from having such a beautiful girl against him. He wonders if that's the reason why powerful men surround themselves with beauty.
"Oh, honey, that was amazing." Laura is coming out of it, slowly. She barely stirs as she speaks into Stevie's neck. Her breathing picks up, and she pushes herself off to look at him. The smile on her lips promises naughty things.
"We're not done. I'm not done. What do you say we move to the bedroom? We'd be more comfortable."
Laura pulls herself up, and Stevie's cock emerges with a suction noise that makes Laura giggle. "Poor fellow," she says, "he was trapped in there. Here, let me kiss it better," and she bends over and without pausing takes him deep in her mouth once more. Laura sucks on Stevie's cock for half a minute, bent over at the waist, legs spread and straight, hair falling around his waist like a curtain, hiding her from sight. But he can feel her mouth, and hear the sound of her slurping, a rhythmic beat that is arousing of its own right.
Laura stops and wipes her mouth. Despite being disheveled and wearing a nightie bunched up around her hips and pulled down below her breasts, Stevie is once more struck by her beauty.
"Come, follow me."
She moves off to the stairs. Stevie scrambles to follow her after picking up his pants and shirt from the floor. His cock is bobbing up and down as he moves, and Stevie feels vaguely ridiculous now. But Laura does not seem to mind or even notice. She pulls off her nightie as she walks, and casually tosses it on the floor. She is naked save for her heels, and Stevie's eyes fixate on her ass as she walks, an ass looking as smooth as it had felt earlier when he was squeezing it, high and tight, a perfect round backside to feast one's eyes upon. Laura's hips are swaying from side to side, enticingly. Stevie has a vision of just grabbing her, pushing her on the ground and taking her like that, from behind, violently, selfishly, making her scream in pleasure. But he does not. Laura heads up the stairs, and Stevie follows slowly, admiring her toned legs as she climbs up.
By the time he makes it to the bedroom, Laura is already lying on the bed. Her legs are spread, knees raised, and she is idly stroking her pussy with two fingers in slow circular movements.
"I've kept my heels, I hope you don't mind."
Stevie does not mind.
"Come on in, I'm warm and waiting for you." She pushes two fingers in as she says this, and closes her eyes and moans softly. She pumps her fingers in a few times while Stevie climbs onto the bed. Laura spreads her arms and beckons.
"Come here, honey, come here. There... there... yes, let me just... take a hold... My, you are hard. Is it because of me? Here, let me just pull this beautiful dick of yours in.. Oh... Ooooh, yes, perfect... Ah!"
Feeling his cock head spread the folds of Laura's pussy, Stevie pushes in, impatiently. After a short initial resistance, his cock sinks in the heated hole up to the root, deep inside Laura, who squirms and moans and squeezes him, reaching around his neck to pull him down and give him a scorching kiss, all dueling tongues and bruised lips.
Stevie then proceeds to fuck her, slowly at first but picking up speed on every thrust. Laura wraps her legs around him, urging him on.
She pulls his head down next to hers, and quietly speaks in his ear, her voice interrupted at regular intervals by the moans and groans that escape her under Stevie's now brutal assault.
"That's it, baby, fuck me, fuck me hard. I've been waiting to feel you inside me for a long time now." She squeezes him harder. "I have a secret to tell you." Her voice drops to a whisper. "When Rob was having his way with me, when I was at his mercy, I got so hot that I was almost constantly wet."
She pushes Stevie back a little to look at him in the eyes, a coy expression on her face.
"Does that make me a bad wife?" she asks, "to be aroused by another man dominating me?"
Stevie is ramming into her faster. Laura continues her monologue.
"That's not the worse, though. The worse is that even though Rob is gone, the urges remain. It's like part of me is craving the abuse, you know?" She kisses Stevie in the back of the ear, trailing kisses down his jaw line.
"What do you mean?" he manages to croak out.
"I just can't help it," Laura whispers in his ear, "I"ll be at the office, trying to get back to some sort of sensible routine, just doing my work, and some co-worker will be looking at me a bit too intently, perhaps staring at my cleavage if I happen to have a button-up blouse that day, or more often than not running their eyes up and down my legs, or maybe just eyeing my ass as I pass by, turning their head around to look at me without realizing that I can feel them detailing me, that I can feel their eyes on me like they were so many hands, and when their gaze travels up my thighs and they imagine what I must look like under my short skirt, it's as their hands were making their way up and I get so wet that I fear that they can smell my arousal.
"What I want is for one of them, any one of them, to have the guts to come up to me and tell me I'm theirs. No, scratch that; not even talk to me, but rather come up to me and just stick their hand on my ass, right there, in the office, with everyone looking. Before I can say anything, they ask me, loud enough for everyone to hear, to go to their office and wait for them there. Before I can protest, the boss shows up and tells me that the man pawing my ass has the best sales number for the week, and that I am his reward for a job well done. I blush at that, at the thought of being just a prize. My boss pulls me aside, perhaps whispering in my ear that he found Rob's stash of incriminating evidence, and that unless I want all the sordid affair to come right out, I better do as he says. I nod, defeated, and slowly head down the hallway with the salesman of the week, whose eyes are glued on my legs the whole time."
Laura squeezes Stevie's ass, while he ruts more and more forcefully into her, sweat pouring off his face. He is not used to such heavy exertion, and having come not a half-hour earlier ensures that he has difficulty coming again. But Laura's story and the images it triggers, coupled with how tight her pussy is, conspire to keep him hard and on the verge of coming.
"Can you imagine it, honey, your innocent little wife, turned into the office slut, or better, the company whore? Forced to do whatever her boss asks her to do, be it offering blow jobs and quickies to deserving colleagues, or spending evenings and sometimes whole nights with prospective clients as an incentive or with returning clients as reward for their fidelity? No limits, says the boss, I am to do whatever they tell me to do, wear whatever they tell me to wear, be sweet, caring, docile, eager to obey. The perfect fuck doll. Some of them actually like that I'm married, some even like the fact that I am forced to act the way I do. Some simply toss me over onto the bed, strip me or just flip my dress on my back and fuck me, hard, spewing in me what seems like gallons of cum, or coming on my face - they like coming on my face - others ask me to seduce then, to play the woman who desires and wants and initiates. Those make me work hard, flashing a lot of flesh, dancing for them, enticing them, often in public while we are out to dinner or for drinks. But it always ends the same, with me getting fucked and receiving their jizz somewhere on or in my body, the good corporate whore fulfilling her boss' wishes."
Stevie cannot take much more, and finally groans and pushes his cock deep in Laura, who encourages him noisily until he spurts deep in her pussy, an almost painful orgasm that leaves him gasping in her arms. She caresses the back of his head with one hand, while the other is way down his back.
"But I did not even tell you what my new boss is making me do. Rob was a leech, but all he wanted really was to fuck me, wherever he wanted, however he wanted. This new guy wants to humiliate me, to push me beyond what I have ever done. He has some nasty ideas too..."
Stevie groans again into Laura's shoulder. Pushing himself off her, he tells her to stop, that he cannot take much more. Laura smiles, and kisses him softly, a long lingering kiss. They cuddle for a while, Stevie having rolled off Laura onto the bed where he lies exhausted, his head against her shoulder. She pulls the sheets over their bodies, and settles down to caress his head, eyes closed, enjoying the moment, chest rising and falling with her breaths.
Stevie eventually gets off the bed, and scrambles around for his clothes. He finds them scattered around the room. He dresses slowly, methodically, in front of a dresser mirror decorated with a fringe of pictures from Laura's youth all the way to her college days: Laura with friends, Laura in front of monuments or attractions of various sorts, postcards, other mementos, the obligatory kitten hanging from a rope. Lots of pink. He takes in the decor as a whole. More pink. Satin sheets on the bed. Some paintings on the walls, mostly animals. A few teddy bears. The room felt young. Younger than it should be. Not the room of a successful woman, but the room of a teenager. Stevie feels a pang of sadness that he cannot explain.
"Stevie?" Laura is sitting on the bed, looking at him. The sheets are down to her waist, her breasts are out again in plain view, sitting high and proud. One of her legs is poking out of the sheets, and Stevie is distracted by the texture of her skin and the curve of her thigh. He feels his cock giving faint signs of life, despite having been pushed further than ever before. "Stevie, you know that what I told you, before, about Rob, and my new boss... You know it was all made up, right?"
Laura is worried, and she looks at Stevie, waiting for a reaction. "I mean, I know you've always wanted to hear about me and other men, so I figured I would embellish the story somewhat." She looks down to the bed, fiddles with the edge of the sheet. "Rob did try to put the moves on me, but I slapped him down, and after he tried the same with Serena, he was presented with a nice sexual harassment charge that ousted him. My new boss has been very nice."
"You're not upset, are you?" She does not look up. Stevie sits on the edge of the bed, reaches a hand to cup the side of her face and lifts it up.
"No, I'm not upset. I had a wonderful time, and you're the hottest woman I know, and I am proud to be your husband."
The smile that illuminates her face is a pleasure to behold. She hugs him, and kisses his neck all the way up to his lips, which she attacks hungrily, as if she had not spent the last hour in sexual bliss. Reluctantly, Stevie breaks the kiss before he gets fired up again. He does not think he can take a third round.
"Honey, I have to go, I have to head up to Seattle with Jeremy to meet a client for breakfast tomorrow morning."
"I understand. Thanks for taking the time to come and spend some time with your poor lonely wife. You'll be back for good soon, anyways."
"I can't wait. It's been too long. We can have more nights like this, then?"
"You'll be the death of me, you know that?"
"Oh, but what a good death it will be. Plus, I have to show you all that I learned while being Rob's toy." She winks at him.
Stevie smiles in response. "Sounds delightful."
Later, in his car, heading home, Stevie catches himself whistling, uncharacteristically. The evening was extraordinary. Beyond what he had hoped.
* * *
Volpinex put down his coffee, and considered eating the rest of his breakfast while half-listening to his cell phone. No, he was full, he concluded. Besides, it was so difficult to keep a trim physique these days.
"Well, Mr Saxx," Volpinex answered when he realized that his interlocutor had stopped talking, "I am delighted to hear that you will be coming back. As I have told you I thrive in knowing that my customers are satisfied, and that a customer one day is a customer forever." Volpinex paused, listened for a bit while idly playing with the remains of his French toast.
"Not so fast, Mr Saxx, we need to discuss a few things before we can proceed. How about meeting in person once more, perhaps this coming Friday, for lunch? Same place as last time? Yes, let us say twelve thirty. I will be seeing you then, Mr Saxx."
Volpinex put his cell phone down, unsure for a second about the wisdom of using a cell phone to hold such conversations. Oh well, it wasn't like there was anything illegal actually being discussed. And besides, his business model was to make his regular customers, Stevie the newest addition, pay for access to a site through which they could write down their fantasies, their requests. Then, on prearranged dates, they would show up at Laura's place, and she would fulfill those fantasies. Charging for web site access was not illegal, and Laura herself never handled the money. Never even knew there was money involved, or that anything odd was going on, for that matter. For those evenings, she was the required fantasy, the perfect co-worker, girlfriend, or wife, wholly and single-mindedly.
"Laura, my dear, I want you to know that you did a wonderful job with our new friend, Mr Saxx; he seemed quite taken with you on the phone just now, and apparently has some difficulty curbing his impatience at seeing you again."
Volpinex patted Laura gently on the head, and she momentarily looked up from sucking his cock. She was kneeling beside the table in her dining room, naked. "No, no, don't stop sucking, you need the practice."
Laura kept up the blow job, lovingly sucking the turgid member deep into her mouth, twirling her tongue around the head before pulling it out again, and on and on, taking it deeper on every stroke. Volpinex sighed in contentment. She was really an excellent cock sucker. Pushing down slightly on Laura's head, he sank his fat cock deep on the next stroke in, feeling her throat gripping him tight as Laura gagged uncontrollably. She did not make any attempt at dislodging the invader, however, remaining obligingly on her knees, one hand stroking his balls. Belying her actions, her eyes were locked in anger at Volpinex, who merely smiled as he pulled his cock out of her mouth.
"I know I have told you this before, but I love when you look at me like that, dear. Furious, and unable to do a single thing about it." He looked at her a second longer. "Now keep sucking. I think you will want me to be properly lubricated before I ream your backside, no?" Laura went back to work, eyes still glaring, her full red lips lovingly wrapped around Volpinex's cock.
Volpinex reached for the silver pocket watch on the kitchen table, the focal anchor of his control. Little had he known, eight years earlier, backstage after an hypnosis gig at her college, how susceptible she was to suggestions. Some people went alpha easily, he had known from experience, but Laura had taken to the alpha state like a fish to water. It had been a simple matter to convince her to trust him, and then to set up some deeper and much more intrusive controls and triggers. Now, eight years later, she was his, completely, to do with as he pleased. He kept her old personality around, for amusement, but most times he played with her conditioning so that she was... well, anything he wished, really. Over time, she had developed into quite the actress. He kept things fresh by finding new ways to enjoy his possession. Lately, for example, he had taken to sending her off to seduce high schooler, leaving just enough of her sense of morality at those times for her to be ashamed of what she was doing, but not enough to keep her from flirting outrageously and eventually offering her body and considerable sexual skills to one lucky teenager. She had made many a high school student happy. And Volpinex enjoyed taking her after those expeditions, forcing her to narrate and relive the experience. And, of course, there was this lucrative business of fulfilling fantasies.
"In any event," said Volpinex, as Laura, having paused her blow job to rub his cock on her naked chest, nestled the member between her breasts and slowly squeezed, "Mr Saxx will be back. It was a brilliant stroke of luck, if I may say so, to find him, a boy that used to have a crush on you in college; what a small and wonderful world we live in. He seems to have some interesting ideas for you. And I have to say I really liked what you came up with when he visited. That whole blackmailing business with your boss at work, pure genius. Even though your story meandered between blackmail and slutwife in a somewhat haphazard manner, it played its role well with Mr Saxx. I see that the reading material I gave you was not wasted. Giving you some leeway to exercise your judgment and imagination worked better than I had expected. I shall have to remember that and experiment further. Put my cock back in your mouth, dear. There.... that's it..." He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensations. His cock was rock hard, and he did not think he had long before coming. And her mouth was not the target this morning.
"I liked your idea so much, I think we shall put it to good use. I have been in contact with another potential customer, who seems much less able to articulate his wishes than Mr Saxx. However, I am starting to get a sense for what that hopeful customer may like, and he agreed to a sampler. We will need to hook him well. You see, dear, he is a senior partner at a local financial institution, Porter and Creps. I detected a strong dominant streak in him, although he himself does not seem conscious of it. Tomorrow, I will message him a set of documents showing that one of his employees has been embezzling some money, and suggest to him that there may be a better way for him to deal with the situation than calling the police, especially if said employee happened to be desperate, and beautiful. Of course, my dear, you will be that employee. We will spend some time tonight, you and I, and work on your new personality, just to ensure that when our prospective customer suggests that your lovely body might be suitable compensation for the damage and embarrassment you have caused, you will be receptive and react accordingly. What do you think?"
Volpinex smiled when he saw the look on Laura's face as she gently licked the full length of his cock with the flat of her tongue. Volpinex was genuinely surprised that she still had those sorts of feelings, considering what she had had to do since he appeared in her life.
"Do not worry, dear. By tonight, you will have forgotten this conversation and by tomorrow afternoon, when we send you off to Porter and Creps dressed like a good little financial advisor, albeit perhaps with a penchant for wearing heels that are too high and skirts that are too short, you will be that teasing little slut that will do anything to stay out of jail, and I do mean anything."
He pulled Laura off his cock. "Unless I am seriously mistaken, that should ensure another regular customer. Between him and Mr Saxx, that makes fifteen regulars. Good steady money. Should be enough for a while. We would not want to tire you out too much, would we? I want that ass of yours now, dear. Get up and bend over. There, on the table. Beautiful. You have the most perfect rear I have ever seen, have I ever told you?"
Volpinex stood and lined up behind Laura, who was standing, legs straight and spread out two shoulder widths apart, bent over with her chest resting on the table, head turned to the side, eyes closed, waiting for Volpinex to push his cock into her, most likely with one long continuous push. She could not resist. Following the conditioning that Volpinex had drummed into her, she reached back to pull her cheeks apart, offering herself.
Volpinex did not waste any time, and entered her just as she had expected. "You are so wonderfully tight, dear, I may never get used to it." He paused, look at his cock disappearing between her two luscious ass cheeks, rosy and so tight that rain might bounce on them. "But back to business." He started to fuck her. "And let us clear something up. Tell the truth now, do you really have a sister?"
The Girl from the Gym
Summary: Kurt Bauer, our mind chameleon, uses his ability on a blonde angel at his local gym. Keywords: MF, Mdom, mc
You don't crap where you eat, goes the saying. Wise words, if somewhat crude. Yet that's just what I'm about to do, and pretty much with a shrug and a smile.
I'm between sets at an abs machine in the gym of J*** University. That's my local gym. Not that I'm a student at J*** or staff or in any way have anything to do with the school. It's just a supremely convenient gym to patronize: just three blocks down the road from my office, reasonable rates for what they call "community users", and a wonderful supply of prime young coed bodies on display -- eighteen to twenty-five year old fit, toned, and scantily-dressed girls. Talk about motivation.
Looking around, I see young nubile women, buying into this society's view that to be pretty means to be slim and firm all over. Not that I really mind, of course. Male privilege, I think it's called. Sometimes that bothers me, but not today. I drink in the sights, and can't help but think that some of these girls are purposely on display. See and be seen, every gym's motto. Except maybe for that handful of regulars that show up day in day out, good weather or bad, holiday or not, and get on with their routine without talking to anyone -- hell, without noticing anyone -- there but for the grace of getting their arms bulging or their heart pumping.
I remember reading last year in one of the university papers last year this student's rant about my gym. In acerbic prose, she complained about all of these girls, and I quote, pimping themselves up in the locker room, makeup and everything. She was incensed after catching a girl adjust her thong to ensure it was visible over her track pants in a blatant attempt to lure unsuspecting and innocent boys, a praying mantis on the prowl for a mate and a snack. Innocent, my ass! Most gyms are, for better or for worse, meat markets. See and be seen. At least, one can still push a workout through all this nature channel mating behavior.
My name is Kurt Bauer, and I hit the gym four times a week, early in the morning. I've always found it to give a superb start to the day, working out body kinks before getting to the business of investing money and advising others on how to invest money. The world of international finance may sound attractive, even glamorous, but its day to day humdrum is just as boring as any other job. Unlike others, I'm not obsessive about finance, so while I am not a millionaire I make up for it with some amount of free time.
I have been out of town for much of the last few months, and decided that this week I should stay put and try to catch up everything that needed catching up on. And reclaim a semblance of workout schedule in a gym I knew and enjoyed and not some hotel gym equipped with a BowFlex and a treadmill.
And thus it came to pass that, a couple of day ago, I spotted this girl for the first time -- medium height, light blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, sporting the tight and toned body of a distance runner. She was straddling one of the StairMaster machines that line the way to the weights room, and like kids to an ice cream truck my eyes were drawn to her legs, exposed to great advantage by a pair of running shorts that bared much of her thighs, straining with her efforts. I wasn't the only one that had noticed either, if the many young men and not few women who sneaked a glance up the toned body as they passed by were any indication.
Admiring her curves, I idly wondered what her long legs might feel like wrapped around my head as I ate her out, or how the firm ass that anyone could discern through her shorts would feel like in my hands as she rode me to climax like a deviant cowgirl on a mad bull. I flushed that idea out of my head presto; it's never a good idea to entertain such distractions while lifting a couple hundred pounds over one's chest.
And it was not just the risk of debilitating injury that slowed me down. As a general rule, I try not to pick up women near where I live or work. With my idiosyncratic ability, it tends to complicate matters more than anything else. You see, I am what I like to call a mind chameleon. I can get some people to see me as some other people for a short period of time. In fact, let's not mince words here -- through some cosmic snafu, I can get girls to see me as whomever gets their motor running at the moment, if you see what I mean. So yes, I'm a freak, but a sexually satisfied freak.
Unfortunately, some kind of negative feedback seems to occur when a girl sees me after we have shared a, shall we say, experience with me. The details vary. Sometimes she will suddenly realize what happened -- that some sort of impersonation took place -- sometimes she will harbor an instant dislike to me without knowing why, and sometimes she will instead take a fancy to me, again without knowing why. Regardless, it is a problem, and I therefore tend to indulge only when I'm traveling. Once in a while, though, a girl will test my resolve. Today is such a day.
I'm between sets at the abs machine, and as I catch my breath, my eyes wander over to the row of elliptical machines and StairMasters. There among the breast-bouncing cuties happily climbing stairs that lead nowhere is my blonde angel with the tight runner's body. Her breasts are not bouncy; they are either nonexistent or she's wearing one of those sport bras that rival corsets of old. Considering that she does not seem to have a single ounce of unnecessary fat on her body, my money's on the former.
I must have been staring because I suddenly realize that she is looking right at me. I give her my best sorry-for-staring-but-wow smile, and she returns a small smile of her own before turning her attention back to her machine. She may have a magazine splayed out in front of her, but I doubt it; she seems too serious for that.
I finish my workout in the next thirty minutes, cycling through arms and back exercises. I keep sneaking glances at blondie as I move around the gym. She is near perfect, as if drawn by a seriously horny artist, and I even love the way her ponytail bobs up and down as she powers through the StairMaster's routine.
I finish my workout as I usually do, with a three-miles run on the interior track of the gym. Few people are running and the track, an engineering tour de force suspended over the squash courts below, is quiet. Through glass windows the row of elliptical machines and StairMasters is visible, and on every go-round the track I glimpse blondie's little rear energetically pumping up and down. I wonder if she's wearing a thong.
I sigh, not necessarily easy when out of breath, and make a concerted effort to quit my gawking. Yes, she is attractive. Yes, I wouldn't mind discovering what those toned legs of hers would feel like wrapped around my waist. Yes, I wonder how deep she could swallow me. The usual questions. But I have rules for a reason, and I'll be damned if I break them today. I put my head down, jack up the volume on my iPod, and focus on lap ten of twenty-five.
Damnation lies on an exercise mat in a corner of the track by lap thirteen. Elevated platforms fill the rounded corners of the track where people often stretch or do floor exercises, perhaps because those spots afford them more privacy than the large floor mats in the central part of the gym. Whatever the reason, my blonde angel, who evidently finished her routine, is currently stretched out on her back on a mat by the corner in which I am heading, and I have a long stretch with nothing to do but look right at her and take in the awesomeness that is her body.
I then get treated to a dozen laps of my own personal peep show, seeing as I am the only one on the track by that point. And what a show it is. Ever noticed how floor exercises, when done right, bear an astonishing resemblance to stripper routines?
I am reminded of that observation as I watch blondie stretch a taut body before me every time I take the last straight line of the track. She starts with simple stretches, lying on her back, legs extended, arms reaching up above her head.
By my next lap, she has shifted to her side, and she is lifting a leg up, extended straight, in a sort of scissor move. I get to take in the perfect line of her leg, and note how her skin is nearly golden.
Same move on my next lap, with the other leg this time, and facing away from me. My eyes are rather unwittingly glued to her shorts, which get pulled over her ass as her leg lifts, calling attention to its indubitable tightness. I can't believe I'm the only one around seeing this.
On my next lap, she has moved on to glute exercises, on her back with legs folded at right angle, knees up, feet flat on the ground, as she slowly lifts her hips, rotating her pelvis, keeping her knees together and her upper back on the mat. Given where my mind has been for the past half-hour, the movement is almost obscene. She looks as if she was reaching up to a lover, offering herself to his thrusts, urging him to take her faster, deeper, stronger. I try and fail to not look at where her shorts are stretched between her legs, imagining how her pussy lips look, how wet she gets when turned on.
The next lap brings her coup de grace. She is on her hands and knees, back straight, head down, and gives me plenty of time to admire her ass and how it leads into her upper thighs -- her shorts almost let her cheeks peek out. Too bad. She then lifts a leg away from her body, keeping it folded at right angle, like a puppy relieving herself against a wall.
By the time I make it around the track again, my blonde angel is up and picking up the mat she had brought with her. I take in her body as a whole yet again, and idly wonder whether she can feel my eyes roam up and down her legs. I suppose she does; I recall reading somewhere that girls are often perfectly aware of all those old creepy perverts hanging around gyms. At least I am not old.
When my eyes finally make their way up to her face, I realize she is looking at me. Caught again. I almost miss a step. She does not seem particularly bothered by my obvious attention; she gives me a little almost shy smile and steps off the corner platform, mat tucked under one arm, a towel in the other.
I only have a few seconds to make up my mind and throw all my sensible rules out the window. If not for that last look, I might have let her go, but that look held too much promise. Instead of rounding the track when I reach the platform she has just left, I step over it and keep on running, slowing down as I approach her. She's heard me, and turns around, smiling and frowning at the same time.
"Hi," I say, out of breath, and trying very hard not to sound too much the fool. Touchy, since I have no real clue what to say next.
"Hi?" she says. Nice voice. Lower than I would have guessed.
"My name's Kurt. Sorry to catch you like this, but I've been seeing you around for a bit now, and figured I'd introduce myself before you start thinking I'm nuts or something."
She's still smiling, a good sign. "Hi Kurt, I'm Sam... Samantha. Yeah, I've seen you around too. Your routine seems... intense."
"Oh, you know, gotta keep the old body up and running. And your routine is nothing to sneer at. You must have some of the most toned legs in this gym."
She blushes at that. Nice. Especially since my drivel, which would be ridiculed by the Neil Strausses of the world, is probably going to lead me nowhere very fast. Fuck, I must really like this girl. I'm usually not so shitty at this.
"Thanks, so... you don't look like a student here. You a prof, or --"
"No, no, I'm actually in finance. Got an office down the road. This gym's just the most convenient for me, plus it's pretty nice. What about you, student?"
She nods. "Senior in law school. Not as fancy as finance, I know."
"You kiddin' me? Finance is some of the most boring stuff around." And I'm not even exaggerating, sadly. "But it pays the bills, and I get to travel. And it does have its good moments. What kind of lawyer are you setting out to be?"
"I don't know about being a lawyer yet. I'm thinking about going into copyright law, the whole digital rights debate. It's been on my mind ever since the whole thing with the student sued by the music industry last fall."
Yes, a year ago, a student around here was sued by the RIAA for file sharing. That caused quite a stir, and the debates around campus were so vociferous that even I had heard about them. That was the opening I was waiting for.
"Digital rights - you know, I have clients that are looking to invest in digital media, but they are skittish for... well, for several reasons. And I admit that I don't know much about what's going on in that area. Perhaps I could pick your brain about it one of these days? Call it a working lunch."
"I don't know." she hesitates.
"Very low key, nothing fancy, just a quiet lunch and many questions. We can even talk about a consultancy fee. How about lunch tomorrow, at the Panera around the corner?" Near the university, and as unassuming a place to have lunch that I could think of.
She makes a decision, on the spot, and I can tell that it's not good for me. "Look, you're nice, and who knows, this digital rights thing of yours might even be true, but I have a boyfriend, and he might take me going to lunch with an admittedly cute finance guy the wrong way. So I'm going to pass on the invite, and I hope you won't be too mad."
Damn. Well, it was a stretch anyways. "Okay, I understand. No foul. Look, if you do decide to look into investments for digital media, please do get in touch. Bauer Consulting, just google it."
She nods and smiles, and my heart skips a beat. Fuck, she's beautiful.
"Well, I'll see you around." She heads down the row of StairMasters towards the stairs to the locker rooms. In the next four seconds, an amazing amount of processing goes on between my ears. My eyes shift down to Sam's ass, the way her shorts hug it tight, the way her legs just emerge from those shorts, tanned, strong, long legs with a skin promising silky softness. A voice in the back of my head points out that she has a boyfriend -- something I can use -- and another more insistent voice points out that she has the most delightful body I have seen in a long while, and she cannot be more than twenty years old, and do I remember how fantastic twenty-year old girls can be?
She stops to look at me. I catch her eye, holding her gaze without faltering until I feel a familiar tension build up behind my eyes that eventually spreads to my whole body. I tremble slightly, and then something just snaps and a warm wave floods through me. Like an orgasm, I think, not for the first time.
Sam blinks a few times, then looks at me as though she is seeing me for the first time. Her face splits into a smile, and almost run towards me, arms extended.
"Luke, what are you doing here? I thought you hated the gym."
Go with the flow, Kurt, you know the drill by now. She thinks you're Luke, presumably her boyfriend. "Well, figured I'd give it another shot, considering how much you like it."
"That's so sweet!"
"Plus I get to look at you in this outfit. You're breathtaking, babe."
Sam blushes. "Thanks. It's too bad I'm just finished my routine. I can stick around while you finish, then we can hang out. I've got nothing till one. We should be able to snatch a table at the student center."
Time to start taking chances, old boy. I step closer to Sam, and ever so slowly trail my fingers up her arm. She shivers at the touch, but does not pull away.
"Hanging out at the student center is not quite what I had in mind." I lean in closer, whispering in her ear. "Unless they've got beds in there that I don't know about."
Sam blushes further and tries to say something, but all that comes out is an incoherent stammer. I take advantage of her confusion to give her a quick kiss by the ear, lingering a second, feeling the soft skin, still salty from her workout.
I can feel her shiver, although we are hardly touching. "Luke, not here... People can see." Ah, so either Luke is a secret fling, or my blonde angel is uncomfortable with PDA. I suspect the latter, but the approach is the same in both cases. I spy a column, out of the way to our right.
I reach to the column, pulling Sam by the hand. She follows after a surreptitious look around. No one is paying attention to us, aside from the odd male casting a lingering look in Sam's direction, probably not even registering me.
I circle around the column into a small recess by the wall, where we are effectively cut off from view.
Sam's back is against the wall, and she looks at me with big blue eyes waiting for my next move, suddenly and I think uncharacteristically passive, although the slight quivering of her lips tells me all I really need to know. My ability at work, bless it.
Sam closes her eyes as I lean over to kiss her; her lips are soft, warm, hungry. It does not take long for her tongue to seek mine, for her hand to reach behind my neck and pull me closer, for her body as a whole to press against mine, skin to skin, thigh to thigh, crotch to crotch. Any passiveness on her part is now gone, as I feel her hands roam my back, go down to grab my ass, come back up my chest. She moans in my mouth.
I can't believe the contrast between her skin, warm, smooth, soft to the touch, and her body, tight, hard, strong. My own hands waste no time to find her ass, a reflection of her own gestures. I feel her weight shift through the thin gym shorts, and my right hand sneaks down to caress the back of her thigh. She obliges by lifting her leg off the floor.
As we get drawn deeper into the kiss, hidden away in our corner, Sam gets hotter and hotter; her hands are more active, the leg I am holding up is rubbing against my side, she is pushing against me, moving her hips, thrusting her groin with the music, seeking contact, moaning.
She pulls out of the kiss, abruptly, then traps my head in her hands, looking at me. She's shaking.
"I want you."
Perfect, I think. I just smile, and Sam stops me before I can say anything.
"I know I said I wasn't ready yet, that I still wanted to wait, that I was still afraid, but no more. God, I'm so horny right now, I could jump you right here and now."
Wait, what? Not ready, waiting? Good Lord, are you trying to tell me that I've run into the only virgin left on this campus? That makes me pause. Virgins are no favorite of mine; they are a lot of work. Those religions promising to send you off to Valhalla and its buffet of virgins? Not for this boy.
Sam must have felt me pull back. "I know this comes as a surprise, but I kindda hoped you'd be happy." She's looking at me with large hopeful eyes. Their blue is a pale one, and contrasts with her golden skin. I have no idea how such a combination of tones could come to be, but there it is, shining off a beautiful girl half-standing half-leaning against me, warm, loving, and ready to fuck.
She does not feel like a virgin. I can't explain it, just some sense you pick up over the years. I have been with many in the past, when I was honing my skill, and they all share certain traits, certain ways of acting and reacting to things sexual, a mix of desire and apprehension, tinged with trepidation or eerie calm, and Sam has none of these. That alone peaks my curiosity. Well, that, and Sam's hand that has just disappeared between our intertwined bodies and started to massage my cock through my shorts. Sam has a naughty smile on her face, a kitten happy to have found a toy to play with.
Reluctantly, I grab her hand to keep her from causing a mess I might have a hard time explaining. This is neither the place nor the time.
"Sam, Sam, please, okay, okay, you win!" Her look is all surprised innocence.
"Listen, not here, not now. Don't you want our first time to be special?"
Her pout is adorable, but she nods.
"Then, tonight, how about I stop at your place, and we can do this right?"
She frowns while she thinks, and soon breaks into a smile. "Ronnie is off to a play tonight, we should have the apartment to ourselves."
I kiss her neck, eliciting a moan.
"Wonderful. Eight o'clock, then? I'll call you before I show up, to make sure everything is okay. My cell phone's shot though. Can you remind me of your phone number?"
Touchy. As her boyfriend, I should know how to contact her. The cell phone trick has always been useful to get around that problem. Who under thirty remembers phone numbers anymore? Thankfully, when I use my ability, girls tend to not be as suspicious as they might otherwise be, a useful side-effect.
Sam obligingly gives me her phone number. A few more kisses, caresses, and moans before we finally break apart and get on with our day.
She has just started to resume her walk to the locker room when I call her name once more and stop her. I get closer, and whisper in her ear. "Tonight, would you do me a favor? Dress sexy? For me?"
A naughty smile is her only answer.
I watch her go, eyes fixated to her ass, until she disappears through the door of the women's locker room.
* * *
The rest of my day goes on as usual: meetings, lunch with a client, conference calls. I try to schedule my affairs so that I only need to be in the office a few days a week. The rest, I can do comfortably from home.
I can't help but have part of my mind returning to Sam, looking forward to our date later this evening. I wonder how she's spending the day. I wonder if she's spent some time with her Luke (which I naturally picture in my head as a Mark Hamill look-alike, a somewhat disturbing visual) and whether she's mentioned tonight's date. If so, then poor Luke must be a very confused boy right now. Perhaps I should have asked her not to say anything, to treat it as a game.
The nagging worry that Skywalker might show up at our little rendezvous tonight increases over the course of the afternoon. I wish there was a way I could ensure that he won't show up, but I don't know anything but his first name. Damn. And calling Sam about it would make matters worse.
At seven, after a spot of dinner, I call Sam. This is the decisive juncture. My ability is organic, fluctuating, affecting different people in different and unpredictable ways. I've gotten used to it since the ability first manifested itself when I was a teenager, and I have learned what pretty consistently works. But here I am kicking things into less predictable territory.
I'm nervous. The effect of my ability reliably lasts a couple of hours, and the likelihood of it fading increases with every passing hour after that. The longest I have ever seen it last is twelve hours. Of course, I can always prolong the effect by using my ability again, but that option is not available to me right now, as I haven't seen Sam since the gym this morning, almost ten hours ago, and I have no idea where she lives. A rookie mistake. I can only hope that when she picks up the phone, she is still under my influence.
Sam picks up after the third ring. I allow myself a sigh of relief when she recognizes my voice as Luke's, and points out in answer to a comment about having missed her all day that we could see each other now. I conclude she must not have seen her boyfriend today. One less problem to deal with. She gives me her address when I ask and tells me in rather colorful terms how much she is looking forward to holding me in an hour and "take her like the little girlfriend in heat she is." I like that plan.
Forty-five minutes later, freshly showered and casually dressed, I knock on the door of her apartment. The building is nice, clean, and unexpectedly quiet for being on the outskirts of the student ghetto. We're probably in grad students land. Good, last thing I want right now is the pounding of the bass from some undergrad frat party. Or the police. The police still makes me nervous, even though I haven't had to deal with them in years.
Sam's voice comes out muted from inside the apartment, telling me to come in, the door is unlocked. The apartment is dark, with a few flickers of candlelight about, casting a warm eerie glow. Sam's voice again, this time from down the hall: "Make yourself comfortable, baby, I'll be right there."
I take off my jacket, sit on the couch, and assess the surroundings. Typical student digs, perhaps with a touch more style than usual. Someone with taste and an eye for decoration has set this room up. I can't judge the colors in the candlelight, but I bet they match. The living room is spacious, and I like the thick carpet underfoot. Kitchen in one direction, and in the other a hallway that I presume leads down to the bedrooms.
There's a bottle of wine and two glasses on the coffee table. I pour the wine, smell it. Merlot, the default choice for many people. Not my favorite, but I appreciate the effort. I take a sip, focusing on the sting of the red wine on my tongue, trying hard to avoid thinking about what's coming. Part of the fun, I realized a long time ago, lies in not knowing what was going to happen. Anticipation can be intoxicating.
Sam's voice. I was lost in thought, and didn't hear her come in. She's standing at the hallway entrance to the living room. She's not moving, and that's just as well because it gives me sufficient time to drink her in, like the tallest glass of water after a scorching walk in the desert.
She is not wearing much, and what she is wearing plays with the light from the candles in magical ways. A short negligee is my best guess, something satiny, held up by two thin straps over her shoulders, and reaching down to the top of her thighs. She is not wearing anything else I can see. Her legs are exposed in all their glory, long and smooth and delectable. It's funny, she probably showed as much skin this morning at the gym, but the way the negligee is molded on her body is positively obscene. I can easily make out the outline of her breasts, and the mind fills in the blank of her waist, following her hips down to her thighs and the treasure that lies between them.
She looks at me look at her. "I hope you like. I did not have much time today to find something suitable."
"You look wonderful."
"Thank you. Is that glass for me?" She pulls off the nonchalance much better than I right now.
I hand her the wine-filled glass as she strolls across the room. "Her majesty's glass." My eyes are glued to her legs as she gets closer, walking silently over the carpeted floor. The quietness and fluidity of her stride is nearly feline.
Sam reaches for the glass. "Thank you, kind sir." She sips, maintaining eye contact. My eyes have made it back to her face.
She is smiling. She puts her glass down, heads to the shelves by the wall, and after fiddling with the sound system some soft nondescript mood music comes out of hidden speakers. I recognize the melody, it's been playing on the radio lately, but for the life of me cannot put a name to the singer. Not that that's anything new. I stopped paying attention to commercial music after Freddie Mercury died. But hey, tonight, if Sam's happy, I'm happy.
And she seems happy. The song has a slow but snappy beat, and Sam's getting into it. She still has her back to me, leaning against the shelves. I drink my wine, just looking at her. The view is beautiful. The negligee is cut low in the back, and I can see her backside move through the thin material. Sam's swaying her hips in time with the music, matching the rhythm. It is altogether hypnotic.
Sam pushes herself off the shelves, and starts dancing, a slow, sensual swinging to the music, arms raised, eyes closed. She moves like a dancer, and I idly wonder whether she takes classes. I'll have to ask her later. Sam's hands are roaming as she dances, traveling down her perfect runner's body, following the contour of her hips, skimming over her thighs. Playfully, she lifts one side of her negligee, revealing her upper leg straight up to her hip, and I don't see any indication that she is wearing anything under the silk.
She gestures me to come up and join her. I smile, shake my head, and hold my ground. I hate dancing. Unfazed, she bumps and grinds her way to me across the living room, before holding out her hand to me, a wicked smile on her lips. I stare at the offered hand for a beat or two before sighing and joining her. She puts her arms around my neck, hands loosely together behind me, and sways slowly, a foot away from me, eyes closed.
She smells fresh and clean and delicious. My hands are on her hips. The negligee definitely is silk, and thin silk at that. It intensifies the feel of her skin. I will my hands to move up from her hips to below her shoulders and then up her arms, which she obligingly lifts. I get closer as my hands reach hers high above her head, thrown back with eyes open and staring at me and lips parted. I lean over and kiss her lips. She melts into me, as she did in the gym earlier, except now it's only us in the darkened candlelit apartment,and the night is still young.
The kiss is scorching. Sam's body rubs against mine, and I feel all its details, her breasts against my chest, her stomach against mine, her groin pushing into my erection, her leg trapped between my legs. If this is how she feels when I'm still dressed, I worry about my reaction when I'll be naked against her.
Sam interrupts those idle reflections by pushing me back down on the couch before straddling me and resuming our kiss. Her hands are on my face, and her hips are dancing wildly on my lap. She's losing control, I can tell. She's getting off, rubbing herself against me, against my cock through my jeans. I feel warmth and wetness seeping through, and am tempted to let go and lose control as well.
My hands are on her thighs feeling the intricate muscle work under a skin as silky as her negligee. With careful movements, I tug on her shoulder straps, and the garment, with a little help, drops down to reveal two perfect breasts that seem to rise up to meet me. She must have been wearing the most excruciating of sports bra this morning, because her breasts are not at all what I was led to believe.
I dive in, and grab a nipple between my lips, hands reaching up to squeeze her other breast. Sam's breath catches, then she moans, pushing her chest out to give me greater access. I kiss and nibble and suck the offered globe like a starved man. She tastes like wild berries. I lean Sam back, straining her legs, and she has to hold on to me not to slide down to the floor.
We make out in that fashion on the couch for the better part of the following fifteen minutes. By that point her negligee is but a piece of fabric bunched around her waist. Sam has managed to take off my shirt, and took a few minutes away from kissing and caressing my chest to unzip my pants and massage my straining cock.
"I want you, bad. Now," she says, when we pause after a particularly heated kiss. She's back on my lap, rubbing her crotch against mine. I can feel her pussy leaking juice even through the material of my briefs. She takes a deep breath, seems to come to a decision, then leans over to whisper in my ear. "I want to feel your cock inside, stretching me out."
She's trying on the words out loud. Nice. I should be encouraging. I whispering back to her. "Funny, my cock also wants to be inside, stretching your little pussy out, whereas I want to make you scream." I pull back, look her in the eyes, smile. "I think we can come to some sort of arrangement here." She smiles back, an endearing mix of embarrassment and arousal etched on her face. I kiss her again.
"Where do you --" I start, but she doesn't let me finish. She stands up and shimmies out of her negligee. It was not hiding anything, of course, bunched up as it was around her waist, but somehow seeing Sam completely naked without a stitch of clothing breaking her lines gets to me. She is beautiful. I mentioned the tight runner's legs, long and smooth, right? And the flat stomach, and the gently curved hips? And the breasts, sitting perfectly proportioned high on her chest? Her shoulders, the shoulders of a model on which a designer would fantasize about hanging his latest fashion? She is simply breathtaking.
Sam kneels in front of me, reaches for my pants and briefs and pulls them off. My cock springs up to say hello. She strokes it softly. I close my eyes, taking in the sensations; they never get old. I probably let out a moan too, I'm not wholly sure.
She stops, and before I can jerk myself out of my reverie I feel first her hot breath on my cock, then her lips gently wrapping themselves around the head. She sucks me in, slowly, then out again. I open my eyes. Like a blonde curtain, her hair hides her face from me. She bobs her head up and down on my cock, slower than I usually like, but the rhythm feels right tonight, and her mouth is fantastic. I tell her so, can feel her smile.
Without warning, she lets me go and stands back up. "Hey, no! Please, don't stop!" I complain. She laughs, as she straddles my lap once more, grabbing my cock and aiming it at the wet slit between her legs. "Well, if you're a good boy, I'll get back to it later. But now, I have other things on my mind. I want that big cock in me." The head of my cock touches her pussy lips, and it takes a fair amount of self-control not to come right then and there. After the briefest pause, Sam sinks onto my rod, and down she goes swallowing me almost to the hilt, in one long swoop. She leans on me, and I can feel more than hear her moan against my shoulder.
"Fuck, this feels good, so full." I wholeheartedly agree. Her pussy is like a tight warm glove around my cock, squeezing it with every spasm that runs through Sam. Her pussy is tighter than most I have recently sampled, not surprising if she's a virgin. And I have to say that things went off much better than I had feared; deflowering is much more awkward in real life than on those fantasy stories one finds on the internet. There's pain, parts that don't fit right, sometimes a reinforced hymen. None of that tonight.
Sam is on my lap, having managed to take in my full length, and she is contently sighing as she moves her hips to and fro. She seems to enjoy the motion, if her regular "Mmmm... so good... feels so good..." are anything to go by. I take advantage of the soothing rhythm to run my hands over her body and nibble on her breasts, deliciously available at mouth level.
Sam straightens up, and almost completely pulls me out, remaining with only the tip of my cock nestled between her folds. She looks at me with a wicked smile. "I wanna fuck you." Sure, knock yourself out. "I wanna fuck you hard." From virgin to liking it rough in ten minutes. I didn't know I was this good.
The thought perishes as she slams down on my cock. On the spot, I'm not sure whether to feel pain or pleasure. For Sam, it's definitely pleasure. Her mouth hangs open but no sound comes out, only an abrupt exhaling as if she's not expecting what she's feeling. After a few seconds, she goes through it again: she pulls herself off me, leaving only the tip of my cock inside her, and then slams herself down. She settles into a grueling rhythm, repeatedly slamming herself down on my cock, and I fear that her stamina is no match for mine.
She mutterings under her breath, and it gets louder as she gets closer to orgasm. I strain to hear, happy for the distraction -- her pumping up and down is about to make me burst, and this is too much fun to waste. Damn, I think, suddenly, protection! I don't see parenting in my near future activities.
"Fuck... fuck... fuck..." is her litany, keeping tempo with her humping. "Fuck... big cock... want big cock... down in my dirty little pussy... so full... fill me... take me... ravage me... fuck... deeper... fuck..." All sotto voce, almost mumbled. A closet dirty talker, then. I need her to come before I let go. Stupid machismo. If she is indeed into dirty talk, then...
I lean towards her and whisper loud enough so she can hear despite the squeaky couch. "Come for me, my little sex angel. I want to feel you come all around my cock. Squeeze that tight cunt of yours right around my stiff cock."
She shivers upon hearing my words, her breath shortens, her motion on my lap become jerkier, like an engine misfiring. She slams herself down on top of me a few more times, hard. And then she comes.
She's a screamer, but she tries to contain it as best as she can, jamming her face in the crook of my neck, and biting down as tremors overwhelm her body. I hold on for dear life, trying to convince myself that the blinding pain in my neck is a tribute to a job well done.
Sam collapses against me, drained, a sheen of sweat on her skin, mumbling incoherently into my shoulder. Her breathing returns to normal, slowly. She feels good against me.
"Come on," I say, gently rubbing her back. "Let's go somewhere more comfortable."
Time to show off some of those gym moves. I just hope I don't throw out something in my back. It's a good thing Sam's not much bigger than she is.
I push off the couch, standing up, lifting Sam, still hooked around my neck and with my dick embedded deep inside her. Lift with the legs, Kurt, not the back. Sam lets out a moan and mutters something indiscernible. I disengage, pulling her off my dick, and then she's lying in my arms, a much easier position for me to carry her. She cuddles up against me like a child. I head for the hallway.
Without looking, she gestures to the far door. The hallway is dark, but I can still see enough from the candlelight in the living room. I navigate the door frame without ramming Sam's head into it. I put her down on the bed, and she seems to come alive somewhat, because she pulls me in for a scorching kiss. Her body seeks mine, reaching up, and my cock responds. But there are things I need to do.
"I'll be right back," I whisper, when I get a chance to say a word.
"Hurry," she says, eyes closed, still not wholly recovered.
I do. Step one, grabbing the pack of condoms from my pants in the living room. Step two, kill the candles. Visions of the apartment engulfed in flames dance in front of my eyes. I hurry back to the bedroom.
Sam's come out of it. She has turned on a soft nightlight, and a bluish glow suffuses the room. She is watching me, head raised up on pillows, legs spread, a hand leisurely stroking a pussy still swollen from out foray on the couch.
"You look very nice," I say, openly ogling. Sam blushes, but does not close her legs or take her hand away.
I join her on the bed and flutter a light kiss on the inside of her right thigh. She shivers, and moves her legs further apart. Lying fully down, resting on my elbows, I kiss up her thigh, inducing more shivers and a few moans as a reward. Her hand gets busier over her pussy, fingers having moved to caressing her clit directly. I can smell her arousal from where I am.
I have said it before, I will say it again, her skin is unbelievably soft. I assess this with my lips now instead of my fingers, which intensifies the feeling. When I reach the fold where her thigh runs into the silk surrounding her pussy, I jump to her left thigh and mirror my previous kiss trail. Sam moans in frustration at feeling me get away from where she wants to be kissed the most.
Before long, though, I am back at the hearth between her thighs, breathing in her scent, strong but sweet. She is using two fingers to rub one of her pussy lips towards the top of her slit. I blow gently, and when she feels it she pushes her hips up, no doubt to seek some sort of contact. I tease her by blowing on her pussy some more, then indulge in something I've been meaning to do ever since seeing her this morning: lifting myself up, I deposit a slow heavy kiss on her stomach, flat and taut and strong. I feel the toned muscles under her skin, and follow the hollows down her sides, basking in the taste of her skin, lightly salted after the sweat of our earlier exertions.
I return to her slit only to notice that her hand is nearly frantic now. If I let her be, she's capable of coming again without me. I find that completely unacceptable. Time to test out my earlier theory.
"Sam," I say, up on my elbows, face above her self-abusing hand, "stop."
It takes a few seconds, but Sam eventually stops. Her eyes are open and looking right at me. I have her attention.
"Do me a favor, will you? Spread your pussy lips and hold them out. I want a taste."
Small hesitation -- I can detect a faint blush in the glow of the nightlight. So she clearly has no qualms lying naked before me with her legs spread, wanton, but words do have an effect on her.
"I want to offer yourself to me."
A moan this time, and she moves her hands down to her crotch, and with two delicate fingers from each hand, she pulls apart her lips, revealing a wet, red, aroused slit ready to be entertained.
I proceed to thoroughly eat her out, starting with a few tentative caresses of my tongue alongside a fleshy lip, before moving on to her engorged clit. By the time ten minutes have elapsed, I am alternating between driving my tongue deep inside her as far as it will go, and sucking on her little love nub. She has come twice already, and is well on her way to a third orgasm.
It's time I get to play as well. I kneel up on the bed to Sam's cry of protest and reach for the pack of condoms. I fumble with one before managing to roll it onto my cock in one nice and smooth motion. If only it had been so easy fifteen years ago.
After her initial disappointment, Sam has picked up on what I was up to. Smart girl. She's back to caressing herself, staring straight at my cock, transfixed. I like seeing that expression on her face. I am not especially long, cock-wise, but I am wide. Pleasurably girthy, if you will.
I lie down on top of Sam, who reaches down between us and with a small warm hand grips a cock delighted by the attention. Sam shifts her hips forward, and pitches up for me to impale her.
Except she never makes it. I move out of reach, still on top of her. Her eyes shoot open, brows furrowed, a questioning groan on her lips. I smirk, feeling naughty.
"No," I say, "not yet. Before I do anything, you have to tell me what you want."
Sam shoots me a look of incomprehension, and then gasps, avoiding my eyes. I love making her blush.
"Go on," I continue, "If you want it inside, you'll have to tell me."
She hesitates, and very softly, whispers, "I want you inside me."
"Come on, Sam, you can do better than that. Louder"
"I want your... dick inside."
I lean over her, bring my mouth to her ear. "You want my dick, my cock deep inside you, don't you? You want me to spread you out, open you up. You want me to take you, ravish you, fuck you until you can't breathe anymore?"
Sam moans. I can feel her body sway under mine. "Yesss... Inside... Wanna feel you, wanna feel you inside." I kiss the side of neck, run my tongue up to her earlobe. "Wanna feel your cock inside my little hungry pussy." Her voice started low, but gains in intensity.
"Then what?" I ask. She has it in her, I know, she proved it earlier. Except she wasn't quite herself then. Now I want more. I want Samantha to speak, not lust.
Sam takes a deep breath. "Then I want you to... plunge your cock deep inside me and fill me up."
"And you want me to fuck you?"
She turns her head back towards me, the red of the blush purplish in the blur glow. Her eyes are sparkling.
"Then yes, I want you to fuck me. Is that what you want to hear, you bastard?" The smile flirting at the edges of her mouth belies the harshness of her words. "I want you to fuck me," she stabs her hips up to punctuate her statement, to get me to react, "I want you to ram your cock in me and split me open. Is that want you want to hear?"
"Yes," I say. "That's exactly what I want to hear." And then I kiss her hard on the lips, and as she responds to my kiss, as her tongue starts dueling with mine, I thrust into her, and she opens up like the most joyous of flowers on a warm spring day.
I inch my way into her, slowly, inexorably, until I can go no further, until I am embedded inside her as far as I can go. And then I stop. I keep on kissing her, but remain motionless on top of her, my groin flush against hers.
After a few seconds, Sam moans through the kiss, and the moan becomes more insistent as time passes. I'm just enjoying myself, wholly lost in the sweetness of Sam's lips. I can feel her trying to move her hips and get some friction going, but I remain pushed against her, unyielding.
She breaks the kiss and pushes off to look at me. I return her stare, slapping what I hope is a sufficient smile on face. I just look at her, really look at her, trying to express how much I am into her, how much she makes my blood boil, how much I want to hear her scream as I pound her, all without saying a word, all without moving.
I don't know if she gets it, but she just stares at me, mouth barely open, eyes wide, and I can see the lust in them grow. She strains to move against me, but as strong as she is, I am still just stronger. Not to mention in a better position.
"Luke," she says, finally, "please fuck me."
I smile. After pulling out, I pause, before driving my cock back in, all the way, with more power than the first time. Sam closes her eyes, savoring the sensation, gasping as I bottom out.
I stop again when I'm all in, enjoying the feel of her pussy grasping my cock, the sheer feel of having her around me.
"Fuck me," says Sam. She's looking at me again.
I pull out once more, and thrust into her.
I pull out, and ram back in. Her pussy is still tight.
"Luke," she says, grabbing my head in her hand, "take me, just take me, before I fucking KILL YOU!"
Who am I to argue with such a request? I pick up the pace, and Sam voices her appreciation. "Yes, come on, just take me, hard, you fucking bastard!"
We do not last a long time at that pace. Sam urges me on with increasingly explicit descriptions and demands, and I try to maintain a good regular beat, pulling out completely before driving into her, again and again. Sam has pulled her knees up by her chest to let me in deeper, and her breathing gets shorter and shorter. She's had a few orgasms in the last few minutes, and I feel disgustingly proud.
"Sam, I'm gonna come soon."
"Go on, come, I want to feel you inside -- God, I wish I could feel you spurt into me -- unless..." she looks devious, "unless you want to come on me instead? Like in the pornos? Would you like to come on me? On my stomach? On my boobs? On my face? Wouldn't you like that, to see your jizz drip down my face?"
I don't know about you, Luke, but I do enjoy coming on a pretty girl when she's into it. But not tonight. I want to feel the warmth of her pussy as I come. Which is exactly what happens. I stiffen as I feel my balls about to explode, and then they do and raw fire courses through my cock. Sam feels it, and pulls me close, hugging me fiercely, rubbing her legs against my sides, squeezing me with her cunt.
"That's it, baby, that's it, come in me, come in me. Oooh..." she stiffens herself, and has a last orgasm, a quiet one, a final flicker on a long evening of passion.
We're both spent, and we just lie down, collapsed in each other's arms. I pull out of her so that the condom does not roll off when my cock deflates, but I shouldn't have feared anything, as my cock is still hard. Still, I roll over on my back, and Sam puts her head on my chest, long hair spilled out all over me like a blonde fan.
"That was wonderful, Sam, that was... wow."
"It was," she says. "Thank you."
"Oh, hey, you know, I didn't do much."
She raises herself up on an elbow, hooks her hair behind an ear, and the gesture makes her look younger than she is. She's looking at me.
"You've been incredibly patient. I know it wasn't easy to wait so long before... you know..."
"Before fucking like bunnies? Don't be shy, you've said much more interesting things earlier."
She blushes. That girl is going to burn up from the inside one day. "Yes, I have, haven't I? I guess talking dirty turns me on more than I'd like to admit. Anyways! Your patience. Thank you."
"No problem." Ain't that the truth. I feel like Cyrano's Christian, plucking the ripe kiss from a Roxanne seduced by someone else. Not enough to feel guilty about it, mind you.
"And actually, for a first time, it went very well. I've heard horror stories about losing one's virginity, so I was a bit worried."
"I wasn't a virgin."
"Huh? Then... what... why?"
She sighs. "It's a long story, and not especially interesting. To keep it short, it involved an uncle, some clueless parents, a scared little girl, and a lot of pain. It was only one time, one Christmas, a long time ago, but that was enough. I've been scared of intercourse ever since."
"Sam, my God, I'm sorry... had I known..."
"Had you known, you probably would not have done what you did tonight. I don't know why, I don't know how, but being with you tonight, I felt none of the fear that was plaguing me in the past. Just overwhelming lust, like nothing could get in the way. I don't know how you did it, but it was like plunging through a thick fog and finally getting to the other side back in the warm sunshine."
I could guess what had happened. My ability, which tends to arouse deep lust fed by powerful fantasies, must have overwhelmed her fear-induced block. Amazing. The thought of launching into a prosperous sexual-hangup therapist career crosses my mind, before being dismissed as a stupendously bad idea.
"I don't know what I did either," I say, "but I'm glad I did it."
She grins. "Of course, now we have some catching up to do. Shall we go again?" She reaches down to grasp my cock, and I gasp.
"Wait... hold on. Still sensitive. Gimme a sec. I'll be right back." I get off the bed, and head for the bathroom down in the hall.
"Hurry back, there's something I want to try." I can hear the wickedness in her voice. Great, I created a monster, I think, not sorry for a second.
I take a quick leak in the frighteningly pink and fluffy bathroom, and then my life becomes real complicated real fast.
It starts with a key jiggling in the lock of the apartment door, and a deep-seated survival instinct makes me shut the light off in the bathroom and close the door but for a little sliver that leaves me enough of an opening to look out in the hallway. If I'm lucky, it's the roommate home early from a failed date. I can deal with someone of the female persuasion. "Sam, baby, you here?"
A man's voice. Baby. Fuck. Must be Luke. Or not. Either way, bad news. My ability doesn't work so well with men. And here I am, trapped in the bathroom, naked but for a spent condom threatening to fall off my now limp dick.
"In the bedroom, silly. I'm still waiting for you," shouts Sam.
"What do you mean, waiting?" I hear footsteps coming down the hall. A tall lanky boy, short blond hair, long leather jacket passes in front of the door I'm hiding behind. Hello Luke, pleased to meet you. Your girlfriend's a delicious lover.
"What the...? Sam? What... Fuck... Wow!" Okay, so Luke is no English major. Then again, I can't claim I wouldn't react similarly if my girlfriend was waiting for me naked in bed, looking like Sam did.
"Hope you don't mind," I hear Sam from the bedroom, "but I've always wondered what it'd feel like to be taken from behind. It is so... nasty. Slutty. Can I be your slut tonight, Luke? Do you want to fuck your little slut from behind? I sweat I'll make it good for you. Please?"
I'm sure you will, Sam, I'm sure you will. The visual of Sam on her hands and knees on the bed, tight little ass up in the air, perhaps swaying gently, waiting to be grabbed and penetrated gets my cock hard again. Great timing, pal.
I never hear Luke's reply, and there may never have been one. All I hear is sounds of someone disrobing, and I take it that he is doing the smart thing of shutting up and fucking the hot number on the bed. Fucking lucky bastard.
And indeed, I eventually hear Sam's sharp intake of breath and heartfelt "Fuck yeah, push that cock in me, fuck yeah, fuck me!" followed by the unmistakable sounds of flesh hitting flesh. Off they go.
I wait perhaps five minutes, then chance a look out the door towards the bedroom. Luke has his back to me, standing at the foot of the bed, and is hammering into Sam, who's indeed on all four on the bed, head down into a pillow, giving a running commentary of the thorough fucking she is receiving.
They are distracted enough that they never notice me sneak out of the bathroom. Trying to be as quiet as possible, although given the racket that those kids are making, I probably shouldn't have worried, I quickly get dressed in the living room, and negotiate the apartment door without bumping into a fragile vase or something.
The last thing I hear before I close the door and head back home is Sam's first doggy-style orgasm. The thought that it is the first of many makes me smile. You're welcome, Sam. Good luck to you.
The Girl from the Train
Summary: Kurt Bauer, our mind chameleon, uses his skill on a quiet evening train ride back to London. Keywords: MF, Mdom, mc
The train seems to be flying over the tracks, shrouded in darkness far below the English Channel. The Eurostar, connecting Paris and London, inaugurated nearly twelve years ago to great hubbub, is barely half full on this Monday night. I am heading back to the UK after a short fling in western Switzerland, and I figured I would take the long way back. Flying can be such a drag these days.
My name is Kurt Bauer, and I am more often than not on the road. In part, this is because of my work. I am a financial consultant, one of those jerks that rake in millions and don't seem to work for it. Well, I'm not raking in the millions, I am far too lazy for the kind of insane hours that actually requires, but I still make enough to live comfortably, and take advantage of that special skill of mine. You see, I am a mind chameleon; I have the ability to induce women to believe that I am whomever inhabits their fantasies of the moment. It is not an exact science, far from it, but I am getting better at it with every experience. And there has been many.
I sneak a glance at my fellow travellers. The crop is rather disappointing tonight. Mostly oldish couples back from weekend vacation. Not that I'm that young myself, mind you, but I wear my thirty years quite well, thank you. Certainly better than they seem to wear theirs. Ouch, I'm getting snarky. I must be getting hungry. Low blood sugar, curse of the modern man. Thankfully they serve dinner on this coach, and the friendly staff girl dropped off a menu a few minutes ago. Cute, but not really my type. Besides, I'm hungry, and that tends to take precedence over, well, pretty much anything.
The fellow next to me is giggling over his Blackberry. Not only vacationing couples then, I amend, but overweight over-the-hill businessmen too. Great. What next? I sigh. My stomach is growling, my feet hurt, and my head is buzzing with what I recognize as the start of a migraine. With my luck, the food will be inedible. I close my eyes, and try to push the world away.
I must have succeeded, because I start when I feel a light hand on my shoulder. I open my eyes to stare into those of a beautiful girl leaning towards me with a bright smile and the uniform of a Eurostar employee. In a whole different class from the menu-dropping girl.
"I'm sorry, sir; may I interest you in some dinner?" Her accent is not quite British, and I have difficulties placing her by it. My stomach growls loudly in response to her question.
"Care to take a guess?" I smile, all charm and puppy dog eyes.
She smiles back, and reaches down into the cart in the aisle, the same kind of cart you see on airplanes. They must have started to serve dinner while I was asleep. People ahead of me are eating already, and there is a buzz in the air only heard when several people are eating at the same time. Another employee working on passengers behind me points out the choice tonight between chicken with wild rice and pasta with roasted vegetables.
My beautiful girl with the indeterminate accent looks up from her position down by the cart. I answer just before she asks.
She smiles, pulls the small tray out, and puts it on my tray tablet. I peek at her badge: Maya. Spanish name. She does not sound Spanish, though. Doesn't look it either. I take her in, as she asks me if I am interested in something to drink. ("Wine, red, please." - "Here you go, sir, a Bordeaux, pretty decent too, if you ask me.") Short black hair around a beautiful face, tanned golden skin, high cheekbones, eyes tending to be almond shaped, perfect lips that seem to break easily into smile. She may have some African blood in her, somewhere, just slightly. She's tall, and thin. As she turns to pull the cart up the alley ("Enjoy your meal, sir"), my eyes trail down her body. Her breasts are not large, but nicely fill out her top. Small waist, curving into hips that merge into long legs wrapped in a fitted pair of uniform slacks. A quick look around confirms that she is the only crew member not wearing the long brown uniform skirt, at least on my coach. For once I don't begrudge the choice. The pants fit her perfectly, revealing more of her legs than the long somewhat shapeless skirt would, and I admire her ass in her tight pants as she pushes the dinner cart up the aisle. My stomach growls, reminding me that eating is the first order of business.
I eat happily, ravenously, like a starving man, which I am. The food is reasonable, a notch above airline food, and the wine is indeed pretty good. Say what you will, France does have some good points. I steal a glance to my Maya every time she passes by, and she must have noticed, for she gives me a smile whenever I catch her eye.
I overhear her talking with an older lady two seats ahead. The lady asks Maya whether she is from New Zealand, something to do with her accent. Maya laughs a bright laugh that sounds like rain falling in a late autumn (my cock stiffens upon hearing it, the stomach being satisfied other parts clamor for attention) and replies that she gets asked that often, or whether she's Australian, or from some Caribbean island, but no, she's British, born and raised just outside London, although she's been living in Brussels for the past six years.
Maya is leaning towards the questioning lady, pouring tea or coffee. The man sitting across the aisle from the lady is staring at Maya's ass. I can practically hear the thoughts going through his head, how he would love to rub his hands over the charming bum in front of him, caressing, squeezing, perhaps eliciting a wanton giggle, a moan, a groan. How he wonders what she would look like on her hands and knees in front of him, cheerfully taking his cock in, submitting to his ramming attack. How her boyfriend (husband? no ring on her finger) is one lucky fellow, bedding such a beauty every night, probably taking all sorts of liberties with her body. No mind-reading skill required here; these are the exact same thoughts running through my own mind. The only difference is that I can do something about them. And it has nothing to do with the admittedly warm smile she gave me earlier. It's all skill, baby, all skill!
"Would you like some tea, sir?"
"That would be delightful, thank you."
I have always enjoyed the expectation that comes from waiting for something good you know is about to happen. Think Christmas morning, only better.
So here I am, finishing my tea and debating whether to have the lemon pie slice or give it to my neighbor, who has devoured his in what I believe were quite literally two bites. See, I am nice when you feed me.
It is time to go and play with my new friend. I give my pie to my seat mate ("You sure?" - "Please... I can't eat another bite."), grab my empty cup, and stand in the aisle after dutifully folding my tray tablet.
I stop the first employee I see. Nice, but I have my heart set on someone else right now.
"Excuse me, miss, do you happen to know where I can find Maya?"
She eyes me suspiciously for a second. I put on my best charming and inoffensive smile on, and it seems to work. I have always been somewhat laid back, and it helps a lot. The whole not looking desperate bit goes a long way.
"Maya?" She has a cute French accent. "I think she's in the dining coach, two down that way."
"Thank you miss, very kind."
Laid back and polite. Oh, what the hell, toss in well groomed too. The secret of my success.
No difficulty finding the dining coach, and there is my muse, Maya, over in the corner, by one of those tables where you stand up to down a quick shot of espresso before continuing on with your day like a good European. She is going over some paperwork, her teeth gently nibbling on the eraser tip of a pencil as if it were a tiny fabulously lucky dick. Perfect. And no one around. Even better.
"Hello, Maya, can I bother you for a second?"
She looks up, eraser still in her mouth. She is nearly as tall as I am with her heeled boots, a perfect complement to her uniform. Man, can I choose them, or what?
Her eyes catch mine, and I see a smile forming on her lips. She likes me. Perhaps I can do this the old fashioned way? Oh well, I suppose I could but the erection currently building up in my pants suggests a more direct way.
"Hello, Maya," I say again, sliding up to her.
I look her in the eyes, and she looks back. Really look. I can feel it in the back of my head, a slight tremor, like a bow being strung. The rest, I have always had a hard time putting into words. I take a deep breath, and slowly relax. The tremor increases until it seems to break through; a flooding sensation sweeps over me, warm and comforting. Maya's eyes are closed. The flood recedes slowly, and Maya opens her eyes. She sees me, gasps.
"Jorge! What are you doing here?" She pulls me to her and hugs me close. I feel her breasts pushing against my chest, her body molding against mine.
"I missed you, baby. Thought I'd surprise you."
"Well, that's a wonderful surprise. Too bad I've still got to finish my shift here. But perhaps we can spend some time in London and play tourists when we get there; I know this place..."
She never finishes her sentence. I grab her head in my hands, pull her to me, and mash my lips against hers. Holding her breath for a second, surprised, she gives in and starts kissing me back hungrily. Her hands pull me closer, while she darts an exceedingly playful tongue in my mouth. Her hips start swaying against me, rubbing my already engorged member. She feels it, and lets a low moan escape. Jorge, Jorge, that's a hot little spitfire you got here, you lucky bastard. Hope you don't mind sharing some of your luck with me tonight.
Maya breaks off the kiss, breathing hard. She's looking at me intently. I can see the arousal in her eyes, undoubtedly reflecting that in mine. That's my cue.
"I don't want to wait, baby. I need you now!"
I punctuate this by kissing her again. She replies in kind, all scorching heat and searching lips. She pushes herself against me, rubbing her lithe body against mine. My dick appreciates the effect immensely.
"I can't... I'm working... Trouble, I'd get in so much trouble... Oh!" Her protests do not resist my hand sneaking up her side and gently squeezing her left breast. Perfect size it is, a handful, with a hard little nubbin of a nipple I can feel through her bra. This is going to be fun. What would Jorge do? Beg, or assert? Not that it's really important - girls tend to be quite pliable when I've worked my mojo. But I like to not break character. It keeps things real, you know?
I bring my hand up to Maya's face to caress her cheek, and she pushes back against my fingers like a cat seeking a petting. I slowly and softly run my thumb over her full lips, which part slightly. Maya's eyes are closed, and I swear she's purring.
"Well," I say, "perhaps we can find something quick to take the edge off?"
Her eyes open, still full of arousal, and she looks at me. Hers are beautiful eyes, big and brown, exceedingly expressive. Right now they convey pleasure and mischeviousness. They are smiling. She understands. And likes the idea. My thumb is still lightly running over her lips. Maya gently grabs the tip with her teeth, teasingly runs her tongue over it, and slowly sucks it in, looking at me in the eyes all the while. After twirling her tongue around my thumb a few times, she slides it out, cheeks hollowed out with the suction.
"I'm sure I can think of something."
Her smile promises wonders. Jorge, you definitely are a fucking lucky bastard. I hope you appreciate what you got here.
Surreptitiously looking around to check that no one is around paying attention, she grabs my hand and pulls me hurriedly out of the dining coach. I let myself be led, admiring her ass in her tight pants.
Hey, why be shy? "Maya," I say, as we cross through the door leading to the next coach, "have I told you how much I love your ass?"
She turns around, still pulling me, and smiles wide.
"Told me and shown me, repeatedly and in many different wonderful ways. And as you could tell, my ass loves you right back!"
She stops by a door with a small glass window at eye level in the back of the coach, fumbles through her pocket for a few seconds, and her pants are tight enough that she has to wiggle to get her hand in, and you can just imagine what that wiggle does to her backside. I decide not to resist, and just run my hand across her ass, taking in the tightness, the firmness. She must spend a fair amount of time at the gym, I detect not an ounce of fat on that ass of hers. Just to be sure, I thoroughly examine it with both hands, rubbing and squeezing. That seems to distract Maya, who has managed to get some keys out of her pocket, but is standing up tall pushing back against my wandering hands.
I lean over and gently kiss her neck where it meets her shoulder, between her hair and the collar of her uniform. She tastes fresh, sweet. The moment my lips touch her, she moans, arches her back, grabs my head with a hand thrown back. She pulls me closer, at the same time pushing her ass back against my crotch. She must feel my cock nestled against her cheeks through the thin material of her pants.
I hear keys jiggling, Maya swearing under her breath, a deadbolt clanging, but before we manage to open the door and go through, Maya turns around without breaking the contact of my lips on her neck (I'm still wondering how she managed that one), and seeks my mouth with hers. As we settle into a scorching kiss that has my cock throbbing, she pulls me in close, getting me to slam her against the door, and rubs up and down against me, almost climbing on top of me, barely supported by an overextended left leg, her right one wrapped around me, locking me in. The temperature around us seems to go up a few degrees.
I don't know if she reached down behind her or what, but the door suddenly opens, and we fall into the small compartment that lies beyond. She lets go at just the right moment, and I go flying in, almost colliding with a small desk against the coach's outside wall. We seem to be in some sort of controller's office. Maya managed to remain by the door, and while my balance, she pulls the lock, and draws a small curtain over the glass window. She turns back, looking at me in a way I can only qualify as predatory. She motions to my pants.
I can be a good boy sometimes. I smile and unbuckle my belt, looking right at her.
"And what about you?"
"No time, this will have to be quick."
I push my pants down, bringing my boxers down with them. My cock is hard, sticking out in a way that would be funny at any other time. Maya does not think it funny. She is fascinated, transfixed. That's not skill, just endowment, I'm afraid.
"Mmmm?" She nods, slowly, still fixed on my cock.
"Maya, take your top off. I'd like to see you."
That seems to snap her out of her trance. She looks up at me, a small smile on her lips. God, that woman has the most perversion-inducing smile I have ever seen, and I have seen many.
"Take my top off? You want to see my breasts?"
She grabs the bottom of her shirt and teasingly pulls up right below her breasts. This reveals a washboard stomach, without an ounce of fat there either. A lot of work at the gym there in those abs. And a strict diet. I admit I like.
"Yes, I want to see you. You know how much I like looking at you."
Seeing how Maya looks, Jorge would have to be a dunce not to like looking at her. And Maya does not strike me as a girl who dates dunces.
"You drive me crazy. You are so beautiful. And those tits of yours..."
She laughs at my comment, and in one swift move pulls her shirt off before reaching back to unclasp her bra. It is a functional bra, black, but with some nice lace work. Functional and nice looking. I could fall for this girl. She hesitates, playfully.
"You sure you want to see my breasts? You know they'll just be bouncing around when I'm blowing you. You think you can handle that?"
I don't trust my voice, so I just nod.
She smiles again, and lets her bra fall to the ground. I'm sorry I was dismissive of her breasts earlier. I am definitely a legs and ass man, so I tend to not focus on a girl's chest too much, but I have to say that Maya is something else. Her breasts are simply gorgeous. Not large, I was right in my assessment, but perfectly sized, standing very high on her chest, pointing slightly up, with perky little nipples. Ah, youth.
"Wow," I say, sticking to basics.
Amazingly enough, she blushes, and her hands shoot up to cover herself up.
"Don't!" I say. "You are just... wow."
Blushing still, she puts her hands down, and takes the few steps separating her from me. She's smiling, though.
"It's like you never saw them before," she laughs. She runs a finger down my face, down my shirt. "I remember you reacted the same way the first time," she says, softly. Attaboy, Jorge. Maya's finger reaches my cock which, with a mind all its own, is trying its hardest to get up close and personal.
"Oh, look, Little Jorge wants to play!" With the tip of her finger, she gently pushes my cock down and lets go, sending it bobbing up and down. Maya looks up at me, her mischievous smile back. "You think Little Jorge might like a kiss?" Said in that cute accent of hers, it sends shivers down my spine. Actually Maya, Little Jorge would like to slip between those red lips of yours and bury itself deep in that lovely mouth.
"Yes, I think he would like a kiss."
"Okay," Maya says, and gets down on her knees in front of me, her beautiful face just at the right height. She very softly wraps her hand around my cock, and I notice that she is perfectly manicured. Her long fingers have no problem with my girth; her touch is velvety. She gently exposes the head of my cock, and leans over to give it a gently kiss, her shiny bright red lips contrasting nicely with the darkness of my blood-gorged shaft. Her lips still on me, she looks up, eyes twinkling. I have no time to dwell on that though, because she chooses that moment, her eyes still locked on mine, to let my cock slide between her lips into the moist warmth that lies beyond. And she does not stop. She sucks me in almost completely, marks a beat, then pulls back, still sucking. The feeling is wonderful.
"Yum," she says, letting go of my cock.
"Baby, that felt wonderful." I may be an perverted opportunist, but I like to think of myself as a nice, encouraging perverted opportunist.
She smiles. "Oh, you haven't seen anything yet..."
Indeed. She proceeds to give me one of the best blowjobs of my life, gently sucking my cock in and out, jacking me off in counterpoint to her sucking. Her technique is near perfect. Deep strokes, mixed in with shallow ones during which her tongue runs circles around my cock head. The hand not stroking my cock is softly playing with my balls. Her breasts are indeed bouncing around, an arousing sight. I can feel them against the inside of my knees whenever she goes in deep. Her eyes are closed, and she seems to genuinely enjoy herself. She is beautiful. Jorge is definitely a lucky fellow.
Maya pauses after a few minutes of this and, stroking my cock enough to keep me hard but not enough to get me off (the little tease), she looks up again. My cock is shiny and there is a very thin line of spittle running from the head to her lips. I'm very visual, and I just love that image.
"So, how do you want it?" she asks.
"How do I want what?" Can't claim to be too coherent right now. The blood is a long way from my brain.
"Your blowjob, silly. How do you want it, how do you want me?" Her hand on my cock seems to keep rhythm with her words.
"Huh?" Smooth, Kurt, real smooth.
"Do you want a nice soft suck like I've been doing till now?" A gentle stroke on my cock. "Do you want a sloppy blowjob with lots of spit and gagging?" A harder stroke. My cock jerks. She smiles her mischievous smile again. "Or do you want to be in charge and just fuck my face?" A still harder stroke on my cock. "Mmm... you'd like that, wouldn't you?"
I suspect that yes, I'd like that, and I have a hunch that' Jorge-boy must indulge. Can't blame him, really. But I can find girls to face fuck easily enough, and that's not what I'm after right now. I like Maya, she has spirit, and I bet that if I put her charge, I won't regret it.
"Such generosity! Baby, I want you to do what you like, but the nastier the better. You know me..."
She flashes another beautiful smile. "Do I ever... One blowjob coming up, sir." She winks at me, puckers up, and leans down towards my cock, which is more than ready to resume playing.
Maya pauses an inch from my cock. I think I let out a groan, completely unconsciously. She leans back, sitting on her heels, and tilts her head up. Her breasts slowly rise and fall with her breathing, and it's hypnotic. I tear my eyes away; she is looking at me.
"Where do you want to come?"
Depends. "Where can I come?"
She smiles again. I don't think I can tire of her smiles. "You can come wherever you want: my mouth, my face, my tits. It's all yours, you know that."
"Well, where do you think I want to come?"
"Seeing how you were distracted a few seconds ago, I bet you might enjoy coming on my tits."
My cock jerks, nodding in agreement. Maya giggles, stroking my cock slowly.
"One sloppy blowjob with a finish of cum-covered titties coming right up!"
"Come ride the friendly rails..."
She goes down on my cock and swallows it up. If she gave me a great blowjob before, now she is just fantastic. She said sloppy, and she meant sloppy. She is pushing her head down on my cock on every stroke, and I can feel my cock head hit the top of her throat every single time. She imparts a furious rhythm to the blowjob, two medium strokes with a lot of saliva and tongue action followed by a deep stroke where she pushes down on my cock, wide-mouthed, spittle running down her chin, and making all sorts of squishy noises. She keeps that two-one rhythm the whole time. Her eyes are closed, her red lips wrapped tight around my cock when she is not trying to swallow it whole.
The spittle starts to drip down her chin and onto her breasts, which have become near shiny with it. I am sorry there is actually no time to properly strip her and fuck her. I bet she's a great ride.
The sensations start to get too much, and my cock is getting stiffer. Maya, clearly not a novice at this, senses it and shifts into the final act. On every stroke now she goes down deep, almost continuously gagging, again and again and again.
Without being able to control myself, my hands shoot out and grab her short hair and guide her head even deeper onto my cock. I swear that on one stroke I actually enter her throat, and she nearly chokes. I let go of her hair but she does not pull back, instead starting to swallow, making me shiver. A few seconds later, she pulls back, and resumes her original rhythm. I am so close to coming by this point that it takes but a few deep strokes of her mouth before I feel the cum push up from my balls and shoot out.
The first shot hits Maya in the back of the throat on a down stroke, whereupon she pulls back lightning quick, straightens up high on her knees, and furiously jacks my cock off pointing it directly at her chest. The next several shots of my cum land on her upturned breasts, mixing up with the saliva accumulated there, making a fine mess. Maya greedily starts sucking on my cock again before I am finished, swallowing whatever leftover I have left. The feeling of her mouth back on my cock is too much for me to bear, and I very nearly stumble down from my spot against the desk.
When I can't take it any longer - my cock gets very sensitive after release - I pull Maya off my cock. She smacks her lips, moaning. She tilts her head up to look at me, and makes a great show of scooping up some of the cum dripping off her breasts and licking it off her fingers. The rest she slowly rubs into her skin, methodically, missing nothing. "Moisturizing," she says with a wink. Despite being completely drained, I am fascinated by her hands on her breasts, rubbing and caressing her twin globes. I can see how firm they are, how full, and I regret not having the time to enjoy them more fully.
As if on cue, the overhead speaker kicks in. "To all passengers, we are now approaching London Waterloo station. Please ensure you take all your belongings with you when..." Blah, blah, blah. Maya stands up slowly, very close to me, I can feel the heat off her body. "Thank you for choosing Eurostar," finishes the overhead voice. You're welcome. And kudos, great service.
We have to go, people will start looking for Maya soon. Her hands are on my shoulders, her head leaning on my upper chest, positively purring. I gently push her head up, and seek her lips. She seems surprised, I guess Jorge-boy doesn't usually kiss her after a blowjob. Take this, Jorge, you lucky bastard. Not good, a whiff of jealousy. I'm glad we have to part now, or things could get complicated. And I hate complications. All of this in the midst of a tender, sweet, loving kiss by Maya, who seems to pour her soul into this kiss. It is hard not to respond in kind.
I run my hands down her back, pulling her closer against me. My hands reach down her ass, and I confirm that it is the tightest, firmest ass I have felt up in recent memory. I rub and squeeze through her tight pants while we kiss, and this seems to turn Maya on further, if her moaning and rubbing herself up and down against me is any indication.
I break the kiss, somewhat reluctantly. "Maya, we have to go, they'll be looking you." She does not seem to be quite there.
"But..." She blinks a few times, calming down. "Right... Train, London, right..."
Taking a step back, she breathes in and out a few times (my eyes are drawn to her breasts that enticingly rise and fall with the action) and becomes the efficient Eurostar employee once more.
"Right, back to work." She hunts down her bra and her shirt. I pull my pants back on. "Maya?"
"Yes?" She is making herself presentable in a small mirror conveniently hung by the door. "That was wonderful, thanks."
She turns her head to look at me, and flashes me her beautiful smile again. "Oh, the pleasure was all mine." Pause. "I love you."
I smile too. "Love you too."
"Now, scoot. I have to lock this place and take care of our arrival. I'll see you later in the station, anyways, right? Shall we meet at the Cafe Nero, as usual?"
We leave the small office, after she made sure no one was standing about outside.
"Actually, I probably won't have time to linger much in London. I must head back almost immediately. I just came to see you and surprise you."
"Oh. Well, that was very sweet, and utterly crazy! I guess I'll see you at home in two days, then? I'm coming back on the 16h40."
"Sounds good. Have a good time in London."
"Not half as good as if you were there."
She gives me a quick peck on the lips, turns around, and takes off for the next coach, towards whatever preparation an arrival in London entails. I watch her lithe form, long legs, impossibly firm ass. Oh, fuck it.
She stops, hand on the coach door, and turns to look at me.
"Where are you staying in London. You know, just in case?"
There's that luminous smile again.
Summary: During a group therapy session, a mind controller tells the story of how he set out to right a wrong. Keywords: MF, Mdom, mc
Written for Wesley King's 2009 Fabled February Free-for-all.
"This sucks big strawberry-flavored cocks! Why the fuck are we here anyway?"
"Dude, you suck lots of strawberry cocks in your time? Your momma had none of 'em nipples?"
"You shut your fat mouth you fat fuck or I gonna -"
"Please, everyone, calm down. James, sit down please, I will have no violence here, as you all know. There, thank you, James. Ferguson, I believe you owe James an apology."
Ferguson mumbled something under his breath that may have been an apology. He shifted his great bulk in the wooden chair, and refused to look up from the floor. James, sitting across from him, glared in his direction, but did not resume the verbal sparring.
"Thank you, both of you. Now, James, you were wondering why we were all here. Since you are still new to these group sessions, we should explain. Lazarus, would you mind explaining to James what is the purpose of these sessions?"
Dr. Valerie MacKenzie leaned back in her chair, and allowed herself some time to relax while Lazarus explained to James what these group therapy sessions were all about: to share their feelings and experiences, to discuss how their past behaviors could be understood and transcended in the light of calm rational introspection, and to build a path towards an eventual release and reintegration into society. Good old Lazarus, regurgitating the party line like a good boy. Group therapy helped, no doubt about it, but the illusion that once they got better they would be released was, well, just that, an illusion, reflected Dr. MacKenzie.
The tall brunette's lower back complained when she moved, and she tried hard not to flinch in response. Those patients in a circle around her could be very perceptive, and it would not do at all to have them realize her discomfort. Hell, half of them would probably be able to guess that she had spent most of the previous night getting thoroughly fucked, and they would not let it go.
The memories of the previous night awoke pleasantly tingling sensations deep down in her crotch. Dr. MacKenzie shifted in her seat, hoping no one would pay too much attention. A few patients glance at her questioningly, and she casually let the hem of her skirt slide down one thigh, contrasting with her primly crossed legs. As expected, that distracted them. She was playing with fire, she knew, but did not adjust her skirt.
"Fuck you, man, fuck all of you. I don't need no fucking group therapy. You're all a bunch of pussies anyways, sittin' 'round like girls at summer camp. I'd have fucked the crap out of you a month ago."
"James, please, calm down, or I will have to call the orderlies to take you away for timeout," intervened Dr. MacKenzie.
James mumbled something under his breath, echoing Ferguson earlier, and settled down in his chair, arms crossed, an expression on his face that was more a sulk than the tough guy's won't-take-no-shit stare he was hoping for.
James, our latest arrival, reflected Dr. MacKenzie. He had been caught outside a mall in Michigan a few weeks earlier, after someone had spotted strange happenings in the Victoria's Secret store inside. It seemed that James had been busy getting the employees to stage an impromptu fashion show for him and other store customers. Before he had known what was happening, James had been neutralized, brought to the Center, kept in isolation for a week, and treated by the phase one staff before joining Dr. MacKenzie's group.
The group was small with twelve patients. Most of them were drugged out of their mind and near catatonic. Considering the meds they were under, that was hardly surprising. Dr. MacKenzie wondered why the powers-that-be insisted they attended at all. They did not disrupt the proceedings at least, she thought, and they did serve as a useful graphic deterrent, an illustration of what might happen to anyone that did not behave.
Of the patients that could be considered active, four monopolized discussions. James Statler, full of attitude but wet behind the ears, Lazarus Rosencrantz, perpetually in need of acceptance and validation, the Great Mysticus, born Antoine Deville, a third-rate stage hypnotist with a first-rate side business corrupting young co-eds, and Ferguson Jenkins, the big man (the slob, thought Dr. MacKenzie) with an axe to grind towards everyone that had rejected him throughout his life, which included pretty much everyone he had ever met. All were more than eager to discuss their lives, their experiences, their perversions, what they had done with the powers they were given. It was Dr. MacKenzie's job to obtain a greater understanding of the psychology of mind controllers through this lot.
Dr. MacKenzie brought the meeting to order. "Good afternoon everyone. Today, let's do a roundtable. Anyone read anything interesting this week?"
There was the expected awkward silence before Lazarus weakly set forth.
"There... there was an interesting article on redemption in a magazine a few days back, in Heart and Soul."
"Heart and Soul is a fag mag, bub. Why the fuck you reading that crap?"
"James, please," said Dr. MacKenzie. "Lazarus, tell us, why did you like the article?"
"Honestly, at first because it had some pretty pictures, very... classic, black and white. About some fella going down to Hell with some ghost and meeting folks there, folks getting punished. But then I started reading, and it was... I don't know... it scared me. Made me think that I'm probably off to Hell myself, and that I should atone for what I've done."
"Bunch of catholic drivel just meant to make you feel guilty," spat Ferguson, disdain evident on his face. "Like there's some big guy up there who cares."
"Yes," piped in Mysticus after a pause. "the thought of a Great Puppeteer behind the scenes, directing the action, controlling destinies, is somewhat ridiculous when contemplated in the stillness of contemplation."
"Hey, Great Zamboni, weren't you like a big fuckin' puppeteer controlling things behind the scenes yourself?" said James.
"Well, yes, but I am the Great Mysticus, my young friend. That's different."
Ferguson was not easily distracted. "Besides," he said, heating up, "just look at sins. Can't avoid them. The deadly sins. All about emotions that can't be controlled, emotions we can't help but feel. It just guarantees that you're always doing something bad you have to feel guilty about. I mean, we can't all be frickin' Ghandi, we all get angry."
"Fuckin' A, man! 'Sides, everyone says it's unhealthy to keep anger inside."
"I don't know," said Lazarus, softly. "Maybe they are onto something. They've been around for a long time, after all -"
"Yeah, well, so have the pagans," interrupted Ferguson.
"- and the sin of lust is what landed us here," continued Lazarus, undeterred. "Lust is the bane for us all, lust of the flesh, lust of the carnal act, the carnal thought. Lust is the bane, of the worse kind."
"No it's not, kid."
Everyone else was shocked into silence. Dr. MacKenzie turned to the patient that had just spoken, trying to hide her surprise. He was one of the quiet ones, but not because of meds. He kept to himself, and had never spoken in her presence, or anyone else's. He fascinated her, so unlike all other controllers who tended to develop God complexes that produced expansive overreaching individuals. His file said his name was John Smith, but his real name and any other information had been kept from her for reasons she knew better than to question.
"Hey, look at that, Eastwood talks!" said Ferguson. Dr. MacKenzie had to admit there was a certain Sergio Leone aura about John Smith.
Smith reached slowly into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a cigarette. In his right hand he produced a wooden match, that he struck on the rough material of his jeans. The flame was bright. He approached it from the cigarette.
"Mister Smith," Dr. MacKenzie said, "we are in a no-smoking building, so I will ask you to put that away."
Smith, lit match poised an inch from the tip of his cigarette, looked at her. She held his gaze for a few seconds, and remained still as a long shiver traveled up her spine. Panic snapping at the heels of the thought, she feared that he still had his powers, whatever form they might have taken, and that he would just take over her mind. She had been lulled into a false sense of security by the umbrella of the Center, and she had forgotten how dangerous these people were. They were animals. I'm lost, she thought, hysterically. They'll just take turns with me.
Smith snuffed the match, the flicker of a smile tugging at his lips. Unlit cigarette still in mouth, he turned to Lazarus.
"Lust is not the worse, not by a long shot. Pride is." The words were careful, the cadence slow. His voice gruff, a machine unused for too long starting up again.
James scoffed. "Pride! What's this, fuckin' Doctor Phil? What next, we all hug and feel better? I'm with Doormat on that one: our game's lust. Hey, gotta love lust. That's why we're here, ain't it?"
A quiet look from Smith. "I don't know about the others, son, but you're here because you're an idiot."
He paused. His gaze shifted to the center of the room, lost its focus, and his voice grew softer.
"Let me tell y'all a story."
* * *
It was spring, started John Smith, and every pretty and not so pretty girl in the city had blossomed like a flower in the sun. It was a pleasure to walk around Central Park and just take in the sights, and I'm not talking about landscape here, although that was nothing to spit at, no sir.
I was at the bar of this upscale cafe, sipping a cold one after a nice lunch generously offered by a lady friend of mine whom I had every intention of bedding later that night. The lady in question was off powdering her nose in the restroom or something, and I was left to enjoy the buzzing of conversation around me. My lady friend would see to my needs for the next few months, so life was pretty good.
"For God's sake watch what you're doing you stupid cunt!"
I frowned at the commotion. A tall blonde, stunning in her business suit, had stood up quickly while shouting, banging her chair down onto the ground. She stepped quickly away from her table, on which a rapidly expanding pool of what must have been wine was threatening to spill onto the floor. Her male companion had simply pushed his chair back from the table, saying nothing. The waitress, who could not have been more than eighteen years old, was staring, looking not unlike a deer caught in headlights.
"Can't you pay any attention? Is that too hard? Dammit, you almost ruined... I'm gonna have your scrawny little... Hey! Be careful!"
The waitress was ineffectually trying to wipe off the spill, but only managed to spread the wine further, spilling much of it onto the ground.
"Are you totally incompetent? Your boss is going to hear about this..." She grabbed the poor waitress by the arm and shook her.
Before I had thought about it, my beer was down on the bar and I was on my way to their table.
"Ladies, please -"
The blonde turned to me. "Who are you?" I noticed two things simultaneously. She was as tall as I was, helped by what I figured were four-inch heels, and she was beautiful. Like every other man in the room and several of the women, I had seen the long blonde hair and the trim physique emphasized by the cut of her clothes, and her pants were tight in all the right places, suggesting legs that must been a pair of head turners, but up close, it was only her face that called for attention.
I stared at her perfect features, her lovely mouth with just enough lipstick to give it a wet look, her high cheekbones, thin nose, luscious blue eyes, long lashes. Even the frowning brow and the angry eyes did not mar her looks. And I am saying this after have seen my fair share of beautiful women in my days. Hell, doc, she was almost as beautiful as you are, and half as sexy, and that's saying something.
"Mind your own business, pal," said the tall blonde, before dismissing me with an angry wave of the hand.
Before I could reply, the cafe's manager materialized out of nowhere, and after assessing the situation started both apologizing to the tall blonde and scolding the waitress, who was still fumbling with her wiping cloth and getting more and more upset.
"Look," I said, "it was just an accident. I don't think -"
"Sir," the manager interrupted, "please, everything is under control here. May I will ask you to -"
"I told you to mind your own business," piped in the tall blonde, abruptly. "I don't care if you have a hard-on for the little cunt here. Go." She turned to the manager. I do not take well to being interrupted and then ignored. I do not hit women, but that tall blonde was a prime candidate for a slap if ever there was one. I took a deep breath. My lady friend had returned from the restrooms, and was looking at me from the bar with a question on her face.
I nodded to the manager, gave an angry glance to the tall blonde, and turned to go. The waitress (Nadine, said a name tag above her left breast) caught my eye when I did, and she mouthed a silent "thank you", and I could see fear in her eyes. That look touched something inside. I had seen that poor kid earlier while my lady friend and I were eating - she had been friendly with the patrons, got most orders right, and was altogether a small ray of sunlight in a place that was suddenly cold and dark. The tall blonde was arguing with the manager.
I returned to the bar, simmering. My lady friend was waiting for me, looking worried. I finished my beer, silently, thinking. The cafe was quieting down, the tall blonde and her companion were gathering up and getting ready to leave, the manager and Nadine were in a corner of the restaurant, Nadine with a tearful expression on her face. I watched the tall blonde and her companion leave, and decided to follow them. I told my lady friend to just go on without me, that I would see her that night. She told me she was looking forward to it, and made to kiss me. I'm afraid I didn't pay her as much attention as I should have. I simply nodded, then hurried out of the restaurant.
There were a lot of people outside, a typical midday in Manhattan, and I could just make out my tall blonde and her companion walking up Center Street. They walked fast, and it was clear that the tall blonde was leading. The crowd helped me keep up with them. They turned into the New York County courthouse. Lawyers. Of course. I followed them inside the building.
I spotted them heading down a hallway, stopping to chat with another couple that also looked like lawyers. I turned my back to the group and pretended to be interested in some billboard ("Have you been injured in an accident?...") but kept an eye on them. I had a more leisurely look at the tall blonde. I fancy myself something of a connoisseur, and let me tell you, she was beautiful and it was not all physical. Don't get me wrong, she was physically very attractive, at least if your style runs towards tall slim blondes with long legs, small waists, decently sized chest, and a face that would make angels damn themselves with envy. But mostly it was her attitude, her posture, the way she held her head. It spoke of strength, endurance, self-reliance, self-confidence.
I saw them enter a courtroom a little further down the hall. I followed them a few minutes later. In the course of the next hour, I figured out that my tall blonde was a defense attorney and that her companion was her assistant. I did not follow the details of the civil case she was defending - something to do with something that sounded like embezzlement. Why it was not tried criminally I had no idea. And did not especially care.
I kept my eyes on the tall blonde, who stole the show every time she was up. She was, as they say, tough as nails, and her questions for the various witnesses were searing. She was formidable. And there was glee on her face as she quite literally humiliated the witnesses, and managed to insult and demean the plaintiff at every opportunity. The judge, surprisingly, did not step in beyond a carefully worded warning or two.
I stayed in the back until the trial adjourned, and the courtroom slowly emptied. I could see the tall blonde and her assistant discussing up front, and noticed him first blanch at something she said, then turn red before nodding. The tall blonde took off at a quick pace. I could not hear the man from where I was sitting, but I could swear I saw him mouth "fucking bitch" as he watched her leave.
I asked an old woman sitting and knitting quietly a few seats from me if she knew the defense lawyers in the last trial. She nodded, never lifting her eyes from the needlework on her lap. "Oh yes, that was Amanda Russell," she said. I soon learned that Amanda Russell was one of the most feared lawyers in the county, the Russell in the James, James, and Russell law firm.
Amanda Russell was very much on my mind as I headed uptown to my lady friend's penthouse on the Upper East Side. She was waiting for me in her living room, a delightful sight that was surprisingly effective at clearing my mind of tall sexy blonde lawyers.
My lady friend had just stepped out of the shower - her short black hair was still wet and she was wearing a long plushy terry-cloth robe under which, she wasted no time to reveal, she was naked. I stared, her curvy toned body, large breasts, flat stomach and long legs as nice as the rumors had suggested. She was beautiful, and her eyes looked at me with longing. Like they had looked at me since the Waldorf that morning.
I took off my jacket and threw it on the couch. I moved to her, grabbed her face in my hands and kissed her, hard. I had a lot of pent-up frustration from this afternoon's adventure in the courthouse, and needed release. She didn't complain, and in fact surrendered to the kiss, pressing her body against mine; I could feel her hard nipples poking into my chest through my shirt and her thighs were rubbing up and down my legs. Oh, she was definitely a nice choice, I thought.
I should explain that for the previous dozen years, I had taken to support myself by seducing rich single women, staying with them for months at a time. I had been looking for a new sugar mommy for about a week, having decided to let my previous one go. While she had been beautiful and smart and all manners of good things, my powers of persuasion lost their effectiveness over time and repeated exposure. So I had started asking around, going to the handful of friends that passed along tips on the scene in exchange for services like convincing otherwise uninterested ladies to give them a chance, and they had pointed out this juicy little dish as a likely candidate. She was single, and had inherited a small fortune a year earlier following the death of her parents. There were rumors she was into girls, exclusively, but I knew from experience that that would not cause a problem.
And indeed, there had been no problem. She had been easy to track down, and after observing her a few days to make sure that she would be suitable, I had made my move that morning. I was leaning against a car outside the Waldorf when she stepped out, alone, and I caught her eye. People respond differently to being stared at, but the girl had guts, and she held my gaze for a few seconds. I focused on her, and saw the usual multicolored aura around her head. As I had done several times before, I manipulated the colors into a pattern I knew corresponded to trust and love, with just a hint subservience. I'd done the brainless doll bit in the past, and it's boring as hell after the first rush. I like my dames feisty. That's probably a flaw of mine, but I don't really care. After a quick chat in which I suggested that she might want to invite me over to stay at her place, to which she agreed with a huge beautiful smile, we took a walk and found a place for lunch, and, well, you know the rest.
The kiss lingered while I reminisced, and my lady friend's hands were now busy unbuckling my belt and fumbling with the buttons on my jeans. Her tongue was doing incredible things in my mouth, and her skin was smooth under my hands as they ran down her back to her buttocks. I knew she had an incredible body from my time observing her, but this was the first time I partook in its pleasures. I was looking forward to what was about to follow. In anticipation of this moment, I had refrained from screwing anyone in the previous week. I was rearing to go.
She managed to unbutton and pull down my pants, and I grabbed her arm to keep her from sinking to her knees. She looked at me, frowning, until I told her that we would be much more comfortable on a real bed. She smiled wickedly, and pulled me down a hallway towards what I assumed was the master bedroom. I almost stumbled before I could kick off the pants that had bunched up around my ankles.
We spent a good eight hours in the bedroom, most of it on the bed. My lady friend was insatiable, without me having to affect her reactions at all. Lesbian my ass. That woman could suck a basketball through a straw, and not one of those super slurpie straws either. She did admit to being bisexual, though, and regaled me with very descriptive accounts of various encounters she had had in recent years, as I hammered into her. She was a screamer, and must have scorched her throat raw as I dished it out. She asked me, begged me to take her every way I could, from the top, from behind, in her pussy, in her ass. I came on her breasts and on her face and each time she sucked me back to hardness.
It must have been around midnight, as we were lying in bed, my lady friend's head resting on my chest and me with a smoke going, that she sleepily mentioned the events at lunch.
"By the way," she said, "you know the waitress at that cafe place there, where we were today, the one that spilled the wine?"
She lifted her head, looking at me with an inscrutable expression. "Oh, you noticed her name, didn't you? Did you think she was pretty?"
"She definitely was cute, though a bit young. Nice legs, and a tight behind, if I remember well."
She smiled mischievously. "She was cute, wasn't she? Perhaps we should go back and ask her to join us one of these nights. I sure wouldn't mind having the little pixie between my legs licking me up. You can get behind her and fuck the daylights out of her while she did that. I bet she'd like that."
"Maybe..." I said noncommittally. Until I knew exactly how she would take to my control, I would play it safe. Mind control is not an exact science. But I'd be lying if I said the image did not have its attraction.
"Though she may be hard to track down what with her losing her job and all," she added.
"Oh, that's right, you left. Yeah, the manager it was, I guess, pulled her to the side and talked to her and fired her, on the spot. Something about embarrassing him in front of important customers, or some such. The poor thing was in tears, too."
Damn. The visual was way too clear on that one, way clearer than the mythical threesome. And just like that, the anger returned. Amanda Russell, bitch lawyer. I must have clenched something fierce, because my lady friend yelped. "Hey, what's wrong?"
I took a deep breath. "Nothing, it's okay. You go to sleep, or... do whatever it is that you do at bedtime. Mind if I use your computer?"
And thus I found myself online, looking up all I could uncover about Amanda Russell. And there was a fair amount available, and it made for some fascinating, infuriating reading. It seemed that Miss Russell - I could confirm she was not married - was a self-made woman, and her success went hand in hand with her attitude.
A graduate of the Harvard Law School, she had inherited none of the odd altruism from that faculty. She was snatched up upon graduation by a prestigious law firm that specialized in high-rolling clients, and had never looked back. At the tender age of twenty eight, she moved to New York City, and partnered with fellow lawyers James and James to form a high-profile firm that specialized in defending, for lack of a more polite way of phrasing it, rich assholes. Miss Russell herself took pride in what she called "defending the indefensible", and had an impressive tendency to be successful at it too. Her defense of companies in the face of litigations for failure to respect environmental agreements made her the latest enemy of the Green Left. Miss Russell seemed to suck up the hate and the scorn, however, and thrive on it. Article after article described her using variants of the same qualifiers: beautiful, ruthless, cold, stubborn, proud. An article in the Atlantic Monthly about the top twenty rising figures in the New New Right, of which Miss Russell was number fifteen with the distinction of being almost equality hated by both her enemies and her supporters, quoted her as saying "I will not be bested. Out there, in the courtroom, in the city, beyond that in everything I do, I am the best. It is my playing field. I own it. No man or woman will take it away from me." That even the individuals and companies she defended were leery of her was a tribute, although a tribute to what exactly no one was eager to say.
I leaned back in the study's chair, a picture of Miss Russell from the Atlantic Monthly's article up on the computer screen, her beautiful face framed with blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, with a wide smile that never quite reached her eyes and suggested hunger more than pleasure.
In my book, people are judged by their actions, not their words. And of all actions, those involving children and animals reveal more about the soul than any other. And actions involving helpless waitresses hardly more than children. My earlier anger, temporarily satiated by sexual release, was seeping back slowly. Miss Russell needed to be taught a lesson, I thought, a lesson of the kind I could convey. She will not be bested, she said. We'll see about that, I thought. You may think you are the best in your arena, but at my game, I am king. No one can resists my control if I put my mind to it. No one.
Two days later, I entered the lobby of the James, James, and Russell law firm. Getting past the receptionist was easy. While I could have controlled her, control was hard work, and tended to leave traces; frankly I liked to fly below radar. So I contacted a friend with connections, and I made it on the appointment calendar as the dashing Gregory Terrence.
The receptionist smiled at me and told me to wait a few minutes and Miss Russell would be out to see me.
I took the time I had on my hands to take in the office: modern furniture full of right angles and neutral colors, a lot of glass, a few black and white photographs on the walls. It was not a particularly warm environment.
I was interrupted in my contemplation by a voice I recognized from the cafe and the courthouse. I had a flash of worry that she might recognize me in return.
"Mister Terrence, I am sorry to keep you waiting," said a smiling Amanda Russell.
She extended a hand and I took it and shook it. Unsurprisingly, her grip was firm and conveyed much as far as first impressions.
"Miss Russell, glad you could see me on such short notice."
"Not a problem, Mister Terrence, not a problem. Shall we go to my office?" She gestured, pointing the way. I smiled at the receptionist as we passed her desk. She smiled back.
"Yes, Miss Russell?" I could not help noticing the slight tremor in the receptionist's voice. She must have been better attuned to her boss' inflections than I was.
"Mister Holland called about his last visit. Next time you tell him that he will have to wait, you're history, understood?"
"No buts, Nancy. One more complaint, and you are out on your lovely little ass." Miss Russell stared at her, hard.
Nancy the receptionist flushed red, but said nothing beyond a soft "Yes, Miss Russell."
"Good." Miss Russell turned to me. "Decent help is so hard to find. Please follow me, Mister Terrence."
I fell in step beside her, while Nancy the receptionist tried to hide her embarrassment by shuffling papers on the desk. I followed Miss Russell, thinking. The scene I just witnessed was so cliche it almost was funny. Were I writing a screenplay with a heartless boss as a villain, I would have refused to put in a scene where the boss threatens the poor receptionist, thinking it too over-the-top for good drama. But life is not drama, and it seemed Miss Russell was one of those rare beasts, a living cliche.
She was dressed along the same lines as she had been during the cafe incident, except her jacket was off, and her long-sleeved white shirt was starched crisp. She had traded her suit pants for a tight black pencil skirt that went down mid-thigh, revealing an exquisite pair of legs. Tall red stiletto heels completed the picture. It was hard to keep my eyes from roaming over her body. I was getting hard, half because of her ass moving in a tight skirt leaving very little to the imagination, and half because of what I was setting myself up to do. I felt a dark thrill deep within me, a feeling of power I had not felt in a long time.
Reaching her office, Miss Russell motioned me to a couch lining a wall of the office, closed the door, and picked up a candy-filled container from the glass coffee table.
"Care for a sample of a new M&M line of candies? We represented the company a few months ago, and they have been supplying us with sweets every since."
I grabbed a few, mindlessly, keeping the pretense of politeness for as long as needed. Just like she was, I suspected. The M&Ms were pretty good, and said so, making small talk.
"Yes, they are. But I find it difficult not to indulge. It is easier not to have any at all. It is hard enough for me to keep this line without adding chocolate addiction to the mix."
Miss Russell casually gestured to her body when she said that, and I felt obligated to look her over once more. I had a definite sense she was playing with me. It was probably what she did with all of her clients, ensnared them or at least mollified them with sexual innuendo until they were ripe for the picking. Or the crushing. She would find me a harder nut than her usual crop of victims.
Miss Russell sat down next to me on the couch, smiling.
"So, Mister Terrence, how can my firm help you?"
Her skirt had crept up her legs when she sat down, and exposed a mouth-watering expanse of tanned thigh. Nice, very nice. Of course, I was meant to appreciate.
"Well, Miss Russell, I'm actually here to see you about some events that occurred at the Lounge Cafe a few days ago. Do you remember?"
"I lunch there nearly every day I am in court. Good menu, although the service has gone downhill lately. I'm afraid you will have to refresh my memory, Mister Terrence. What are you referring to, and what concern is it of yours?"
I munched on M&Ms. "There was a slight... incident, involving spilled wine at your table, I believe."
Miss Russell made a show of remembering. "Ah yes, the wine spill. That little waif of a waitress nearly ruined my suit with her thumby hands. Stupid little girl. She had no business waiting tables."
"You should know she lost her job after the incident"
She looked at me, nodding her head. "Good, she had it coming. She was an incompetent goof, and if there's any justice she won't be working as a waitress again any time soon."
"Is that not a bit extreme? It was an accident after all."
Miss Russell stood slowly, all pretense at being friendly and seductive gone. She smoothed down her skirt, and made her way to a little bar in the corner of the room.
"Not really. I don't have to justify anything to you, Mister Terrence, but I will explain anyway. You see, I believe that the world is in such bad shape nowadays because of incompetents dolts that are too lazy to succeed and do something worthwhile with their lives. Only the strong survive in this world, or at least only they should. The rest are, well, fodder, really. To be used since that's all they're good for anyways. But let me ask again," she said, pouring herself a glass of water, "why do you care?"
"Because it is not fair," I said, seriously.
Miss Russell laughed a dry and unfriendly laugh. "Fair? Why should it be fair? Is life fair? When the cheetah snatches a gazelle, breaks its neck and feasts on the remains, is that fair? Fairness is an illusion born in the flames of ideological socialism. It is unnatural, it is against everything that this world is about. I did not get to where I am because of fairness, Mister Terrence. I got here because I am strong, because I wanted it the most. No, fairness is a mirage. So excuse me for not feeling bad for a little twit too stupid to manage even as simple a job as waiting tables."
Miss Russell had a mocking expression in her eyes and a smile of superiority on her lips.
"You may be strong, Miss Russell, but you are not the strongest."
Her smile got wider.
"Is that a threat, Mister Terrence?"
"I don't do threats, Miss Russell." This was starting to sound like a bad movie. Time to move on.
I caught her eye. She held my gaze, still smiling, and the familiar rainbow of colors emerged around her head. They were strangely muted, in a way I had never seen before. Perhaps she was indeed stronger than I gave her credit for. Good, I thought, darkly, this would make things more enjoyable.
Gaze still locked with Miss Russell's, I manipulated the cloud of colors around her head, which turned out to be more difficult than it had ever been for me. I did eventually manage, with much effort, to shift the colors to a more complacent aura, providing me with light control but keeping her aware of her actions. If I wanted this to be a lesson, she had to be in a position to learn from the events about to unfold.
My head started to hurt under the strain. A quick look at Miss Russell found her still smiling slightly, but she looked like she was waiting. I stood up and went to pour myself some water as well. My head felt slightly better after that.
Miss Russell had remained standing by the little bar, following me with her eyes, but otherwise not moving. I approached her, enjoying her smell, a subtle perfume with a hint of spice in it. I ran my fingers down the side of her face, pushed her blonde hair out of the way, exposing her neck.
"Nice," I said, and leaned over to kiss her there, hiding my face in the warmth of her neck. Miss Russell moaned softly, but did not pull away. I sucked on her neck, leaving a small red hickey. My mark, if you will.
"You are a beautiful woman. Miss Russell. I think you know that. But your attitude needs a little work, to be honest. Thankfully, I am here to see that justice is done, for Nadine, and for all the others you have trampled in your life."
I leaned over to whisper in her ear. "I will break you, Miss Russell. Of course, I do have a little advantage here, but hey, as someone told me recently, life isn't fair." I nibbled on her earlobe.
"Now, here's what I want you to do. You will be very nice to me today. In fact, you will do everything in your power to seduce me. If you think about it, you will find that I make you hot, I make you wet, and getting me to come deep inside you is now a priority. Isn't that right?"
She turned her head to look at me. Her smile had gotten wider, and her eyes had an adoring and aroused look to them.
"Yes, I want to be nice to you. I will do anything you want. Anything..."
She kissed me, hard, parting her lips and literally sucking me in, kissing me as if her life rode on the outcome.
I left my hands trail down her body, down her back and onto her ass, which she obligingly pushed out against my hand. It was rock hard, and there was no play between her flesh and the material of her skirt. She pressed her body against mine, leaning into the kiss.
"Very nice," I said, after having recovered. If this was a preview, then I would definitely enjoy the main event.
"Let's play a game," I said, making my way back to the couch. "Suppose you've invited me to your place, perhaps after picking me up in a bar, and you wanted seduce me and sleep with me, how would you go about it, dear?" I sat down, idly munching on some M&Ms.
Miss Russell smiled a rapacious smile. "Oh, that's easy. First, I'd probably flash you some pink, like this." She unbuttoned her blouse, revealing a pale pink bra that did very little to hide her breasts, and then reached behind her to work the clasp and free two beautiful delectable orbs of flesh, tipped with bright red nipples.
Miss Russell walked slowly towards me, a hand squeezing a breast, rubbing it, fingers playing with a hard nipple, her other hand down caressing her hip and her thigh.
"Men like my tits," she said, "and I'd show you how much I like playing with them. And they're so sensitive, too." She moaned slightly as if to punctuate her statement.
My cock was out by that point, and I started stroking it. I was hard, overwhelmed by the power I had over this beautiful heartless woman.
Miss Russell's eyes zeroed in on my cock. She stopped right in front of me, and without her eyes straying an inch, she dropped her hands to her sides, pushing her chest out, her opened blouse hiding none of her features.
"Then again," she said to my cock, "some men are less attracted by my tits than by my legs or my ass. And from the way you were look at me earlier, I would venture you are a leg man. Is that right? Do you like my legs?"
She was raising her skirt as she was asking the question, and I basked in the sight of her long legs slowly coming into view. With her skirt bunched up around her waist, I could see she was wearing a pair of thin g-string panties that matched the bra she had on earlier, not exactly what I was expecting from a high-powered lawyer, but what did I know, really?
"You have beautiful legs, Amanda. The kind that any man would love to feel wrapped around him." I figured we could drop the formalities. "And I bet that little pussy of yours is delectable too."
"No one's ever complained," she said with a smile. "But it's all wet right now, and making a mess. Do you mind terribly if I take these off?" she asked, snapping the elastic of her panties. I shook my head. "Please, go ahead."
She turned around, and pulled her panties down her legs the hard way, bending over at the waist and pushing her ass towards me. And what an ass it was. Firm, and with an unblemished skin that looked like it was made of satin. I reached with one hand and confirmed its softness. Miss Russell, Amanda, moaned when she felt my fingers rubbing her cheek, and hurriedly kicked her panties off, before falling back onto my lap, where she started moving her body in circles, rubbing my cock against her backside while leaning back against me. I put my arms around her and grabbed her breasts and squeezed, hard. Amanda yelped. "Mmm, yes, that's it, grab my tits. Fuck, your cock feels so good against my ass."
I could not agree more. The feeling was incredible. But I wanted something else.
"Enough of that," I said, "Let's see how arrogant you get with a thick one up that pussy of yours."
"Mmm, yes, please, fuck me."
"Turn around and face me."
She did, lifting herself up, half naked with her skirt bunched up over her ass, and then kneeled back on top of me, towards me, legs folded on either side of me, and she slowly lowered herself onto my cock, eyes closed.
"Mmm..." She was clearly enjoying herself. I liked to imagine her screaming inside, powerless to stop her body from responding to my attention, to keep herself from acting like fucking me was the brightest spot in her dim life. The thought got me even harder, and I reached over and unceremoniously pulled her onto my cock, ramming it deep inside her in one stroke. Amanda's eyes popped open, and a cry escaped her.
"That's it, my dear, that's it... Deep inside, where it belongs."
Amanda was having difficulty catching her breath. She was tight, pleasantly so. Thank God she was wet, or she would have scraped the skin off my cock.
"Now," I said, lifting her chin up so she could look at me, "fuck me".
And she did. She pushed herself off me and then dropped herself back down, repeatedly, tirelessly, her breasts bouncing with every stroke, her hair bobbing up and down. I was kissing her, biting her neck, nibbling her nipples, caressing her sides and gripping her ass. She was milking my cock with her pussy. It was fantastic. And this was just the beginning.
"I like you like that, boning yourself on me with no shame. Not so easy being all high and mighty with a thick one splitting you open, is it?"
"So tell me, Amanda. Since we have a little lesson to teach today, let's see what we have to work with. You know you are beautiful, right? Men must hit on you all the time."
"Mmm... Yes, they do." Amanda kept on fucking me throughout our little discussion, eyes half-closed, hips bucking back and forth.
"And how do you respond, usually? Come now, be honest."
"I will often play along if the man is good looking, but turn him down eventually, like I do most suitors. I like how it makes me feel, to know I'm untouchable and that a man must crawl to even come and talk to me. Or a woman. Women flirt with me too. They are even more fun to rebuff."
"So you are a tease, then? Why does that not surprise me?"
"Mmm... I tease them and I tease me. The buzz of sexual arousal gives me an edge here, in court, everywhere. People feel it, and it distracts them."
"Well, well, well. And what happens when the buzz gets too strong, when you yourself are too horny to think?"
"Then I go out and find myself a little boy toy to spend time with, someone that I can just grab, fuck, and toss away. They're so easy to snatch too. Wear a short dress, flash a little leg, a little tit, and they go all drooly mouth and vacant eyes. Studding, that's all they're good for."
"I see. Perhaps I should start there, then. How about we make little changes, Amanda? We can start slow, no point making people too suspicious. How about once a week, when some man hits on you - the more aggressive the better - you actually give in and do everything he asks? I'm sure you're sophisticated enough to pick out the kinky ones, aren't you? How do you feel about that, deep down inside?"
Amanda was rocking over on my cock even harder, as if her body at least enjoyed the idea. "It sounds like I will be treated like a fuck toy every week by men I despise."
"Yes, it does sound just like that, doesn't it? I wonder how long it will take for your reputation as a lawyer to suffer." I paused, savoring the feel of her pussy squeezing my cock on every down thrust. My headache had returned, muted in the background. Affecting her had taken a lot out of me. Still, work to do.
"About your job, perhaps we should do something about it. We can't have you continue protecting rich scum any longer. That's just wrong, frankly. Tell me, Amanda, have you ever slept with a judge to get a decision your way?"
"No, and I would never do that. Judges are old leeches, and they would enjoy it way too much, lording their power over me like that. Let them watch and lust and jerk themselves off thinking of me." There was some deep-seated anger there, and I wondered if some judge at some point did not cause her some trouble.
"Yes, you would feel that way about the one person in the courtroom with more power than you, at least nominally. Listen, Amanda, and listen well. From now on, you will do your best, subtly or not, to get favors from judges whenever you can using your body. You know how it works, perhaps a blowjob to help a judgement go your way, or a feel of these wonderful breasts of yours."
Amanda moaned on top of me, as I reached to grab a swinging breast. My headache was getting worse. But now was not the time to stop.
"In fact, how about you simply offer yourself up to a judge, once in a while? Perhaps when a particularly difficult case comes up. Tell me Amanda, how would you go about it? What would you do?"
Amanda was well on her way to an orgasm, and her answer was broken up by groans.
"Mmm, I suppose I could just ask the judge if I could see him at the next recess to discuss a point of order -"
"Isn't that a bit irregular?"
"Yes, but I would give him my most innocent smile, with just a hint of suggestion, and with the right judge and perhaps some cleavage, that goes a long way."
"I expect that some of the judges in the courthouse must have their eyes on you."
"Oh yes, Judge Jeffreys and Judge Williamson are two dirty old men that are rumored to have bedded more than one young pretty attorney. They certainly have tried to get their grubby paws on me. They would have a very hard time resisting me at my most... suggestive."
"I bet they would. Very well, then. Say Judge Williamson has invited you to his chambers during recess to discuss some point of order. What then?" I closed my eyes, my headache now a rhythmic pounding behind my eyes, in time with Amanda's fucking. She did not seem to notice my discomfort.
"I'd close the door behind me, circle around his desk, and lean against it, showing a lot of leg because Judge Williamson loves women's legs. I would then calmly suggest that if I could get a favorable judgment on this case, we could come to an arrangement. He would suspect a trick, so I would simply take his hand and run it over my leg, up my thigh, under my skirt. I'd tell him I could go and visit him tonight, after the hearing, and he could have me, the whole night, however he wanted me. However I wanted? he would ask, his hand finding the folds of my cunt, squishy with my juices. Yes, however you wanted, I would say. Then I'd sink to my knees in front of him, extirpate his now hard cock from his robes, and proceed to blow him my best, taking him deep in my mouth, making him squirm and wish he was pounding deep inside me, like you are doing now... oh... oh..."
She was starting to lose it, and so was I. My head was pounding with every beat of my heart, as was my cock. My vision was swimming a bit. God, she was good. Amanda was ready for her finale.
"I'd show up at his place later, and let Judge Williamson have his way with me. I'd call him sir, he'd like that. He'd probably get me to do all the work too, dance for him, debase myself in front of him. I suppose he'd make me pay for all the teasing and all the times that he had to endure my strutting around his courtroom. Oh, he'd have me with my ass high in the air, on my hands and knees, and he'd pound into me, and he'd take me and he'd make me scream and he'd want to come all over me all over my face he'd want me to drown in it revel in it and he'd want me to wallow in his... oh... oh... OH!"
And just like that she came, gripping me tight, biting my shoulder. Her pussy was pulsating all around me, squeezing me so hard that I could not resist and I pushed my cock up deep inside her, wanting to sink totally into her, and I let myself go, and the explosion went off in my head as well as in my balls, and stars sparkled in front of my eyes. I was spent, and so was Amanda, and she collapsed against me, limp.
An eternity later, she laughed softly. And whispered in my ear. I had a hard time understanding her, the blood was bustling in my head, and it was getting difficult to concentrate. I did not want to open my eyes.
"Of course," she was saying, "later that night, the police would show up, and poor Judge Williamson would be arrested on blackmailing charges, attempting to rape a poor female attorney too scared to defend herself. There would be incriminating evidence, of course, a lot of it, showing that I was not the first he so treated. Poor Judge Williamson. His kind does not fare well in prison. But a fitting end, don't you think Mister Terrence, or should I call you Mister Steele?"
What? How did she know my name? I couldn't think, the rush of blood in my head was like a torrent at spring thaw.
"I took the liberty of informing myself about you, Mister Steele, after I saw you following me in the courthouse the other day. You have been very good at keeping out of sight for a long time, but not quite good enough. Your life makes for a very interesting read, I must say. I was half-expecting your visit, to be honest, so I prepared myself. No, please, don't try to get up. With the amount of drug in those candies you ingested, you're liable to crash into the glass table and kill yourself. And we don't want that, Mister Steele."
She was pulling herself off of my lap, and I was powerless to stop her. My arms had stopped responding, light flares were going off in front of my eyes, my head was a giant bruise. Miss Russell adjusted her skirt, buttoned up her blouse.
"Turns out my firm sometimes represents a private research center that is deeply interesting in... people like you, Mister Steele. Thankfully, they have discovered ways to neutralize your kind of ability." She pulled out a cellphone from somewhere, dialed a number, then leaned over, facing me, triumphant smile on her face. "I guess I wanted to have some fun with you before taking you off the streets, you piece of scum. Thanks for the cock, jerk. And remember this when they fry your little dick brain. No one messes with Amanda Russell. Got that? No one."
Then the world faded to black and the pain stopped.
* * *
Smith, or Steele, sat silent and motionless in his wooden chair, staring at the floor in front of him.
Everyone in the room stood equally silent and motionless, staring at him. James was the first to break the spell.
"Fuck, man, then what happened?"
Steele did not reply immediately. When he did, he kept his eyes on the floor.
"Then I woke up strapped in a bed in a cell deep in this building, waiting to have doctors mess with my head, trying to figure out what made me tick. Cause that's the question, isn't it, Doctor MacKenzie?"
He looked up at her, and Dr. MacKenzie felt a stab of fear. She regained control almost immediately, but she could tell that Steele knew exactly what had just happened. She cleared her throat.
"Yes, well, thank you, Mister... Steele. That was a very illuminating experience you have just shared with us. I trust we will eventually get you out to apologize to Miss Russell for trying to affect her life the way you did."
Steele smiled for the first time, and it was not a pleasant smile. "Apologize? When I get out of here, and believe you me, I will get out, I will find dear Miss Russell, and fuck her over. Fuck her over good. She will be turning two dollar tricks at truck stops all the way down to Mexico, begging to be roughed up and abused like the bitch she is. I will make her crave it."
Steele's smile was gone. He was staring straight at Dr. MacKenzie. "No one bests me, do you hear me, doctor? No one bests me. Especially not that arrogant bitch. Pride will be her downfall. Believe you me."
Written for KhakiAchilles’s June 2011 contest, The Desert of the Real. Thanks to Pluto Knee Em for unintentionally providing me with the title and the inspiration for this story.
I had to leave. It has nearly broken my heart and torn my soul apart, but I had no choice. No choice at all. But I will be back. I promised Helena I would be back. I promised. And she will wait for me, for she loves me, as I love her.
I am feeling the madness fading in the background. It is still there, lingering, but this gives me hope, overwhelming hope, soul-stirring hope. I am more elated than I have any right to be: I am alone in the Syrian desert, on my way to Damascus, exhausted from the last four days’ ride, and yet part of me wants to laugh and sing and dance, for the madness is fading...
Lord Barnaby’s Journal, July 3, 1924
We arrived at the site of the archeological dig in the Syrian desert earlier this evening. The workmen I have hired through the offices of my friend Ibaq had already started digging through the desert sand, and much of the expedition’s camp had already been set up. I was pleased with the progress, and am very much looking forward to proceeding ahead.
I am excited. There is no other word for it. If this find goes the way I hope, we might reach, or even exceed, the notoriety that followed Carter’s discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb in Egypt two years ago. And I am absolutely certain that this is the location of the temple of Sik-Ladi, a fertility goddess generally thought to be Astarte or the Babylonian Ishtar, but which I believe and seek to prove is of even earlier origin. A passage in the Chronicles of the Sumptuous Sands and much subsequent research brought us to this region in the Western Syrian desert, the official British Sik-Ladi expedition, headed by myself, and Lord Pendleton. This should firmly establish our reputations.
Beside Lord Pendleton and myself, we have a crew of about thirty local workmen hired from Damascus, headed by Ibaq, which acts as our guide and liaison to the locals, since neither Lord Pendleton nor myself speak the language. Ibaq’s English is astonishly good, and we learned that he has been educated in England, through twists and turns of history that I shall perhaps recount later.
Probably more interesting is that I have the pleasure of being accompanied on this journey by my beloved, Lady Helena Barnaby, my wife of nearly a year now. She insisted on joining me on this travel, having no desire to remain by herself back in Devonshire. She took to the trip easily, and this is but one of the many reasons why I love her so dearly. She has been a pleasure to have around, and has marveled at everything on the way through the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. We are scheduling a stop in Italy on the return trip, for I so do wish her to see Florence, which I am certain she will fall in love with. She even took to riding a camel like a professional, laughing the whole way as she bounced up and down. I had a mind to warn her to restrain herself, but her amusement and sheer joy stayed my tongue and I let her be. I have a worry that she will find life in the camp rather boring after the initial novelty fades, as this dig is scheduled to last for several months, but she has assured me that she will find means to entertain herself. She will take is as an opportunity to further her painting skills, she told me, as well as sketching our finds. She is also taking an interest in archeology and is reading a tome on the history of the region. And if she truly experiences boredom, she said finally, she can always start to learn the local language. I am truly blessed to have found such a wonderful and intelligent wife. And I thank the heavens daily that unlike most ladies of my acquaintance, she mercifully decided not to travel with a whole retinue. Rather, she is accompanied by her servant, Janice. She is a black girl from Antigua, really lovely, dark where my beloved is fair, round where my beloved is thin, and she came into my wife’s family when she was but a kid, and grew up with Helena. Those two would be friends if their difference in station would permit such a relationship. But Janice dearly loves her mistress, and Helena could hardly do without her.
The one thing I may have to worry about is that Lord Pendleton seems to have taken quite a liking to Janice. It appears that the rumors I have heard back home in England were unfortunately accurate—he is an old lecher. I shall have to keep my eye on him. I do have to keep him in my good graces, seeing as he is financing the expedition. But that does not mean that I will allow him to indulge his twisted desires with impunity. Perhaps I should count myself lucky that Janice has attracted his attention and not Helena.
Lord Barnaby’s Journal, July 14, 1924
After a week of steady work, the workmen have uncovered a layer of pebbles a few yards deep in one of the areas that has been flagged as consistent with the presence of a massive structure like that of a temple. This gives us hope, as the size and shape of the pebbles suggests that they are building stone fragments.
Helena is adapting beautifully to the life in the camp. She is out early, before the stifling heat of the day settles in, and paints or sketches for a few hours while the workmen work. She has turned from painting the desert to the painting the dig itself. The resulting pieces will serve as wonderful illustrations for the article we are hoping to write about the results of the expedition. During the day, she remains within her tent with Janice, reading and discussing and writing letters home—we have a courier that makes the camel trip to Damascus once every two weeks to deliver and pick up our mail as well as bring us news from the civilized world. In the evening, Helena often joins Lord Pendleton, Ibaq, and me for a meal and participate in our conversations. Everyone loves her, including the workmen, who I was surprised to see are almost protective of her. Ibaq, especially, seems very fond of Helena, and has taken to call her our good-luck charm.
As I feared, Lord Pendleton seems to have been trying to seduce Janice. The girl has made it clear that she will not indulge him, however. She came within two steps of slapping him in the face two nights ago, after Pendleton tried to put his hand underneath her dress. I had to intervene, making sure that a scene would not arise. I spent several minutes coddling to Lord Pendleton, reminding him that while Janice was but a servant girl, she was my wife’s favorite, and my wife would be severely upset were her servant manhandled or unhappy in any way—I tried to emphasize the irrationality of women, an argument that I felt would be particularly effective with Pendleton—and that an unhappy wife would undoubtedly have its effect on me, and Lord Pendelton could see the uncomfortable position that this would put me in. Pendleton nodded, and told me he would try to behave, although not before offering me a few choice words about what he would do to poor Janice were he given the chance. The old bugger. He is fortunate that he has money, since I could not imagine anyone tolerating being in his presence otherwise. At least, he has the good sense of not interfering with the dig itself. Although I suspect he will claim most of the credit for any find we make. Ah well. Science is its own reward, is it not?
Lord Barnaby’s Journal, July 20, 1924
This is an incredibly exciting time. We have exposed what looks like the tip of a stone structure, and the general shape and carvings are unlike any I have ever seen before but still consistent with what we know of the third millennium before Christ. The discovery is exhilarating, and I have to keep from pushing the workmen too hard lest they damage the structure.
The workmen. They have been restless in the past several days, and I cannot understand why. Granted, the heat is stifling, and it may well account for the short-temperedness that befalls camp in the middle of the day. Everyone feels it to some extent, except perhaps myself and the ladies. Helena cheerfully paints and converses with Janice while the rest of the workmen snap at each other like cocks in a henhouse. Tempers settle once the sun dips below the horizon. Ibaq does not like it, not one bit, he told me. He cannot put words to his feelings, and I catch him sometimes frowning while looking at the desert that surrounds us.
Even though they seem unaffected by the heat, the ladies are behaving somewhat oddly. Janice has taken to stand at the entrance of Helena’s tent and watch the workemen dig, in the slow rhythm that is theirs, and the look in her eyes is difficult to assess. She startles every time I come by to see her and ask her what the matter is, and I can almost swear she blushes when I do that. Lord Pendleton laughed that she must have her eyes on one of the little runts, and that soon she would spread her fine nigger legs for them because, he claimed, that’s just what those people did, they coupled like the animals they are. His disdain of the locals is rather extreme.
An odd thing happened in the middle of last night. I woke up as Helena, who was sleeping next to me, shifted around in bed. I was about to ask her if she was alright when I noticed that she was still sleeping and yet she was moving. And then I noticed that her hand had slipped underneath her nightgown, and the movement of her arm suggested quite clearly what she was doing. The expression of delight on her sleeping face confirmed. I am ashamed to admit that I silently watched her pleasuring herself in her sleep, noting with prurient interest the way her body moved, the way her hips lifted up to facilitate what I imagined was the penetration of her own fingers in her treasure box. And I am ashamed to admit that I found it arousing to watch my wife act so debauchedly, and I idly wondered what she was dreaming about to titillate her so. When she finally climaxed her whole body tensed and her mouth opened in a silent frozen scream, and without ever waking up she turned in bed and slept the sleep of the just once more. It took me noticeably longer to get back to sleep.
Lord Barnaby’s Journal, July 27, 1924
The excavation continues, and we have dug out most of two large columns, where I expect we shall find an entrance to the inner chambers of the temple. The digging is going slower than I was hoping for, and the main culprit seems to be the occasional fight that arises, and always for a trivial reason such as two workmen reaching for the same tool at the same moment, getting in an argument, and finishing up wrestling on the ground, with the rest of the workmen gathering around to cheer. Ibaq is flummoxed as to what is happening. And it is not only the workmen. Lord Pendleton seems to suffer from a rather short temper as well, as he has taken to shout at me when a setback occurs in the schedule. Perhaps they are afflicted by some yet undiagnosed illness. I shall have to ask Ibaq about it tomorrow.
What astonishes me is that the ladies do not seem affected, or more accurately, do not seem affected in the same way. They are not aggressive, and in fact, dare I say, they seem downright coy. And I fear that the men will soon take advantage of Janice if she continues to be so reverential. Already I caught her kissing one of the workmen of a rather rough sort behind the small storage tent we have erected near the main dig. By the time I intervened, the man had already extirpated Janice’s breasts from her bodice, and was enthusiastically kneading them, while he and Janice exchanged a deep soul kiss. Janice certainly was not resisting, and if the movements of her hips was anything to judge by, she looked fairly worked up herself. She blushed fiercely when she heard me shout at the man, but did not pull away immediately, and the man just stared at me with a look I can only describe as antagonistic, all the while maintaining a firm grip on Janice’s breasts. I had to flash the knife on my belt and threaten him with immediate dismissal before he elected to leave, although not before snorting at me. Janice watched him go, her eyes looking glazed over, and I had to speak to her to snap her out of her trance, whereupon she refastened her dress and mumbled something that I took to be an apology before running away.
I debated but eventually told Helena the story after dinner. I was hoping that she might have a word with Janice, and also that she might take it as a warning that some of the workmen were somewhat crass. I felt a warning was needed because I had noticed how much time she was spending in the presence of those workmen, and they could not help but notice the beautiful blonde white woman that painted every morning. Sadly, I misjudged the effect of my story on Helena. She stood up and walked up to me and kissed me softly on the lips. Then she unfastened her dress and took my hand and pulled it inside, pressing it hard against her bosom.
“I think I know the man you are talking about,” she said, her voice low. “He was talking to Janice a few days ago, a very large very dark man?”
“Yes. Helena, love, what are you doing?”
“Show me,” she said, dropping her top. “Show me what he did to Janice.” She leaned over and kissed me, and squeezed my hand on her breast harder, and it felt so nice and soft and I was so surprised and aroused by her actions, in the middle of our dinner, that I did not move away, and simply fondled my wife shamelessly, while she kissed me like she was starving and I was a bountiful buffet.
I did protest when her hand left mine and made its way down my pants and pressed against my erection before sneaking down inside my pants and grasping my now hard shaft. She disregarded my admittedly weak protest. “What do you think they’d have done had you not interrupted them?” she asked, her voice still low, her hand working up and down. It felt amazing, and wrong, but I did not have the willpower to stop it. My heart was racing, my vision blurring.
“I think she would have sunk to her knees,” she continued, “and worshipped him with her mouth. With a body like his, I’m sure he must have been quite a mouthful.” Helena’s breath was warm against my ear. Her hand was rubbing me harder. Her breast felt fantastic in my palm, so young and full and firm. I wanted to lean over and take the hard nipple in my mouth and suck and bite and in a flash, in my mind’s eye, I saw myself throwing her to the ground and spreading her legs as wide apart as they would go and just take her, like that, like an animal. The intensity of those feelings scared me, and Helena took my shiver for one of bliss. She smiled.
“But she would not have let him spew in her mouth, I am sure. It would be such a waste. No, she would have flipped her dress over her arse and pleaded for him to take her like that, on all four, on the ground, from behind, like a trollop.” Her hand jerked faster and faster. Her voice was almost a whisper. “And you know, my beloved? I’ve been fantasizing lately about you taking me in just that way, from the back with my rear in the air, like a wanton woman. Would you like that? Oh, I can feel that you do. Even though I’m a lady, you would do me like a street girl, wouldn’t you? You are very... very... naughty...”
Three sharp tugs, and I exploded. It was just too much. I am almost ashamed to admit it. Helena kept stroking me even as I spread my seed all over my pants and her hand, laughing softly, and she let me go only when I started to deflate. She then floored me when she brought her hand to her face and licked off my spent from her fingers like it was the finest custard. But it was her eyes that spooked me. They were glazed over when she tasted me. The same expression that had been on Janice’s face earlier.
Lord Barnaby’s Journal, August 3, 1924
Digging is not going well, in no small part because of the fights that have been occurring with increasing frequency. Everyone is on edge, for no reason that I can discern. Especially Lord Pendleton, who has taken to screaming at the workmen so much that I have had regularly to advise him to retire to his tent. At which times he screamed at me as well, before leaving in a huff. Even Ibaq, he who is usually so stoic, has given signs of being short tempered, upset at the camp cook for over-cooking our meat.
We uncovered the main entrance of the temple a few days ago, and there was a noticeable intensification of the restlessness of the workers at that time. At first, I thought it was because they believed a curse might be upon them—stories of the curse of Tutankhamun are still fresh in everyone’s mind, and while I do not believe in the supernatural, the locals here are a superstitious bunch. But Ibaq shook his head when I asked, and he said the workmen were not worried about a curse. There were rumors going around about the Wild Man of the Desert.
“The Wild Man of the Desert. An old legend. What you English might call a boogeyman.”
“That’s what has the workmen stirred up?”
“They heard the blow of the horn three nights ago, and they have been hearing it every night. According to legend, the horn warns that everyone should leave lest death falls upon everyone.”
I had heard noises at night, and I remember thinking that the wind was louder than usual. I guessed that the sounds could be mistaken for a horn in the distance. I shrugged. “So it’s an old tale to explain the wind at night, and possibly to warn of sandstorms that are more likely under those conditions. We have similar tales in my country about the shape and color of clouds to predict weather patterns. I shall relay this information to anthropologist friends of mine back at Oxford that will be pleased to add this tale to their repertory.”
When I stood to leave, Ibaq added with a worried look. “My grandmother told me the legend when I was a youngster, and I never forgot what she said. She said the Wild Man of the Desert never killed. He would make the men kill each other.”
“She did not say. And the women...”
“They simply disappeared.”
Speaking of the women, I do not know what is happening with them, and it is really disconcerting me. Two days ago, I went to see Lord Pendleton to discuss the next steps in the management of the finds we have had until now—a few statues and relics have be dug up in the sand around the temple, and I feel that we should pack and crate them and send them out—but when I stopped outside his tent there where noises coming from inside, and I cleared my throat to announce my presence but there was no reaction and I thought of leaving but finally I pulled the flap open and Lord Pendleton was inside with, of all people, Janice kneeling before him, her chest uncovered and her big breasts bouncing around as she accepted the old man’s shaft into her mouth. He had his hands wrapped in her black hair and was using his grip for leverage to pull her head towards him in time with his thrusts.
“Take it all, you little whore!”
His thrusts were deep and hard, but Janice never protested, in fact looking up at him with what I can only qualify as admiration and subservience, the same look she gave Helena sometimes when she carried on an enjoyable duty. Saliva was streaming down her chin from the rough invasion of her mouth, dripping down to coat her chest with a thick slimy veneer. She choked a few times as Pendleton’s shaft sank in especially deep, something that he seemed to relish.
“Oh yes, just like that!” he groaned, “just like you did the other day—I saw you with those two men, shaking your bottom in their face, letting them fondle you and squeeze you, letting them suck on your big boobs and then rip off your dress and take you from both ends. You liked that, having a big one in your mouth and a big one in your cunt fucking you at the same time? You are such a whore. A good for nothing tramp, a depraved tart, a cum-eating harlot. Oh! Yes, like that, in your throat, you hussy. I’m going to come—do you want my cum? Do you?”
Janice pulled Pendleton’s cock out of her mouth, breathing hard, sweat and drool pouring down her face, and her hand worked back and forth on the saliva-coated shaft as she moaned. “Please, sir, please! I want your cum! Please”
“Where do you want it, you guzzling whore?” He reached down to squeeze one of Janice’s breasts, which made her moan.
“In my mouth, sir! I want to swallow all of your precious juice! Please feed me your cum, sir!” She wrapped her lips around the tip of his cock and jerked him harder.
“Ah! I knew it! Only whores want to drink a man’s cum!” He slapped one of Janice’s breasts, hard. “Here it comes, take it, take it all!” And then he pushed his cock in as far as it would go inside Janice’s mouth, and she took it all inside, her eyes closing, and it was clear that he came because his face tightened and his fists clenched in her hair and he made a guttural noise with his throat, and Janice took it all, swallowing with gusto, her hands on Pendleton’s rear, keeping him in place.
I left without making my presence known.
Again, I debated saying anything to Helena, but I refrained this time. I am still unsure whether that was the right thing to do—I hate keeping things from my wife.
And then last night, something even stranger happened. I woke up in the middle of the night, after a wonderful dream where I was lying in the sand on a perfect beach, with waves of warm water lapping over my legs. There was a delightful sensation on my crotch, and I opened my eyes, and the sensation did not dissipate, in fact started to feel even better, and I did not move and let my eyes accommodate to the darkness, and finally saw that it was Helena, lying down on the bed next to me, the back of her head towards me, her long blonde hair spread across my chest, and she was bobbing her head gently on my shaft, taking it in her mouth in a regular motion that I belatedly recognized as that of the waves in my dream. I was rock hard. I was feeling wonderful. And I was confused. Helena had very rarely been interested in oral sex except in those rare occasions where she felt it was necessary for preparing me for intercourse, for she much preferred feeling me inside her, enjoyed looking at me while we made love. But this was not a perfunctory act to get me aroused. She was lavishly sucking me, her lips and tongue and hands working in concert to elicit a heavenly sensation from the tip of my shaft all the way down to my toes.
I could not say why, but I did not move. I did not let her know I was awake. Maybe she was aware of it, I do not know. But I did not want to break the spell. It was already unreal enough as it was. And she was good. Where had she gotten so good? I have been on the receiving end of quite a few fellatios in my days, and I can honestly say that what my wife was doing to me last night was fantastic. I knew it would not take me long to come—the sliding of her lips up and down on my shaft combined with the way in which her tongue swirled around the tip was threatening to overwhelm me. Helena must have felt it, because her rhythm changed. She increased her pace, and took me in deeper, and the vision of Janice taking in Pendleton down to the root and gagging on his shaft flashed before my eyes and my hips jerked and pushed my own own shaft into Helena’s mouth and she just accepted it, sucking in hard, and I exploded, and she did not move and let me spurt in her mouth, hot jets that burned as they shot out of me like cannonballs. As near as I can tell, she swallowed everything, something she has never done before, and then she licked me clean, something which almost made me hard again. My eyes half closed, I saw her wipe her mouth on the cover, and lay back down on the bed next to me with what sounded like a satisfied sigh. As my wife fell asleep beside me, all I could think of was Pendleton’s words to Janice: “Only whores want to drink a man’s cum.”
Lord Barnaby’s Journal, August 6, 1924
My hope, ever since we found the temple, was to be able to uncover the entrance and find a way through that would not require us to destroy too much of the structure. My hope now has become simply to ensure that there are enough workmen left for us to actually uncover the entrance. Tempers are at an all-time high, and the fights are more intense, both in terms of frequency and violence. Someone sneezes a little too loudly and someone else will knock them to the ground. That no one has died yet is more a testament to luck than good sense. Pendleton is no help, as he seems to instigate more fights than he prevents. I found him brawling with a young man yesterday, about a topic that neither of them could recall after they had calmed down. I was surprised that Pendleton could keep his own against a much younger adversary. He is stronger than he appears. Even Ibaq, cool and level-headed Ibaq, seems ready to blow at a moment’s notice. He keeps it under control, but when I inquired he told me that he feels a fierce anger boiling just beneath the skin. Strangely enough, I remain unaffected. I do have to admit to the odd flash of annoyance about things that in the past would not have bothered me. Flashes that I would be happy to chalk up to fatigue and heat, but that after seeing the general status of our expedition I have to fear might have the same unknown source.
The Wild Man of the Desert. Ibaq has started to tell me some of the stories his grand-mother narrated to him when he was younger, and they go back centuries, tales from the desert folks that have been carried over from the olden days. Legend has it the Wild Man of the Desert came from a city that was destroyed through a massive civil was, and later traveled from city to city, bringing destruction with him, before finally heading out to the Neverland of the desert and remaining there, forgotten. My instinct is telling me that this is but a tale to explain an epidemic illness that must have swept through these regions centuries ago, borne by travelers and merchants.
The ladies are not helping cooler heads to prevail. I now wish they had remained back in England, and not simply because the situation here is turning out to be unexplainably volatile. I am wondering whether it might be more sensible to send them away, bid them return to Damascus and wait for us. They are inciting violence of their own. This evening, I came upon a ruckus in one of the recreation tents were the men play games before turning in for the night, and I thought it was another fight brooding, but it was Janice, surrounded by a half-dozen workmen, stripped naked and lying on a table, with one man thrusting into her between her legs, and another thrusting into her mouth while her head was dangling down from the table, affording him a deep penetration. Other hands were grabbing her breasts, pushing and pulling them roughly, or kissing and biting her legs, held high by the man entering her. The crowd surrounding them were chanting in their language, and while I could not understand what they were saying, their intent was clear. There was a lot of shoving and some punches exchanged, the tempers still running high. At first I thought Janice was protesting, and I considered intervening, and perhaps I should have anyways, even after realizing that she was in fact egging the men on, telling them to do her harder whenever she had a chance, that is, whenever the large shaft plowing her mouth pulled out to let her breathe. I remained put mainly because I feared I would be turned upon and attacked had I tried to stop them. So I watched them take her one after the other, cycling at one end of her body or the other, untiring. Janice seemed to relish swallowing their semen, claiming for more, asking them, begging them to come in her mouth and feed her their spent.
I am ashamed to say that I did not leave, but stayed at the entrance of the tent. And then Pendleton, seemingly from out of nowhere, parted the ranks of the workmen, pushed the man that was just finishing up between her legs, and without warning thrust his own erect shaft inside Janice, practically growling at the men that were looking at him with now clenched fists. Janice’s scream suggested that he used a different entry point than the men that had preceded him, but her resistance did not seem to affect him, and in fact probably spurred him on. Soon her screams had turned into groans of pleasure before they were cut short by another man pushing his own shaft into her mouth.
That’s when I felt a presence right behind me, felt a pair of hands slide around my waist, and a warm body press against my back. Helena. I could not believe my eyes—she was almost naked, wearing but a thin shift that left practically nothing to the imagination, the translucent material doing little to hide my wife’s beautiful body. She ran her hands up my chest, and kissed the back of my neck.
“Look at her—isn’t she beautiful?”
I did not know what to say, and merely nodded noncommittally. I was hoping she would keep her voice down, that the men would not notice she was there, as there was no way to tell how they would react were they to find another woman in their midst.
“Those perfect legs, those perfect breasts. I wish my breasts were half as nice as hers.” She pulled the top of her nightdress down over her chest, baring her own breasts, grabbing them, hefting them, massaging them. “Do you like my breasts? Do you think they look as good as Janice’s? Do they make you want to rub your flesh pole between them until your spurt all your delicious juice all over my face? Mmmm...” She moaned, brushing her lips lightly on my cheek, making me shiver. While one of her hands was still massaging one of her breasts, the other one reached down through my pants to grasp my erect shaft. “I’m so thirsty,” she said, her voice low. “I want to drink up all your delicious cum. Can I please suck you?”
“Look at her, she’s so lucky. She has all of those boys around her, spraying cum on her, on her face, in her mouth. I wish I had all of those boys around me wanting to feed me too.” She looked at the circle of men surrounding Janice with naked envy.
And that was when I realized that Pendleton had seen me, and more importantly, had seen Helena next to me, her negligible nightdress down to her waist, exposing her breasts and playing with them. His eyes bore on my wife with undisguised lust, and there was a leer on his face that made my fist clench. Helena did not seem bothered in the least by Pendleton’s look, in fact she let go of my shaft and stuck two fingers of that hand in her mouth and sucked on them, looking at Pendleton’s the whole time, while her other hand was squeezing her breast hard and tweaking a nipple.
I had to break eye contact, fearing either that Pendleton would come and grab Helena, or perhaps worse that Helena would walk to Pendleton and the circle of men. I grabbed Helena’s arm and gently but surely pulled her back out of the tent and made a dash with her for my own, praying that we would not be followed.
We were not. Helena, clearly still aroused from the experience, went down on me and sucked me down to the root in a show of extreme enthusiasm and skill and collected her desired juices in record time, smacking her lips with pleasure and lying down next to me afterwards, mumbling something about men coming all over her.
Lord Barnaby’s Journal, August 12, 1924
I believe the two words that are foremost on my mind this evening, as I write this under a starry desert sky, are “giving up.” I am so close to giving up that it frightens me. If it weren’t for Ibaq accompanying me, I would be burrowing into the sand out of despair.
We left camp five days ago. The first death occurred the morning we left, another fight between workmen that this time turned lethal. The sight of blood pouring from the severed neck of the poor decapitated workman turned the rest of the workmen into ravenous uncontrollable monsters. It was as if their bloodlust had been held in check by a strand of hay that had just snapped, and all hell broke loose. My first thought was for Helena, and Janice, and I feared what might happen to them. I raced to our tent, fending off the odd workman that thought me an attractive if not easily subdued victim, and I had to use my pistol to dispatch them. I found the tent empty. Helena and Janice were gone. The tent was undisturbed, so I discounted the possibility that they had been taken. I figured they fled once the violence started.
As I rushed out my tent, screaming Helena’s name, I ran head long into Pendleton, who promptly threw me to the ground, and knelt down on top of me, a knee on my chest. He had a long knife in his hand, and a crazed look in his eyes, exhibiting the same bloodlust as the other workmen, with a personal twist of his own.
“Where’s your wife, old chap?”
“Get away from Helena, you monster!”
He put his knife on my throat, the cold steel biting into my skin. “Not before I have a taste of those fine bosoms of hers, which she so enticingly exposed two nights ago. I shall rub my shaft between them, before ravishing her like she has never been before by the likes of you. I shall make her beg for me to do her harder, as hard as I can, and I shall oblige, and then I shall conquer her little hole and introduce her to the pleasures of buggery. I will turn her into a beggar for my seed, old boy. Lady Helena, begging on all four for a chance to swallow her new master’s spent.”
He was grinning madly as he recited his litany, and I am sure he would have slit my throat had Ibaq not hit Pendleton on the head from behind, felling him on the spot. The brave man pulled me up, and we ran to safety.
“Ibaq, have you seen the ladies.”
“No sir, but two camels seem to be missing. Were I to venture I guess, I would say they fled.”
“Where? Why would they go?”
I am not sure because it is so hard to tell given his dark skin, but I believe Ibaq blushed.
“What is it, Ibaq? What do you know?”
“The Wild Man of the Desert, sir.”
“What about him?”
“In the legends, the women all disappear. They say the the Wild Man of the Desert calls them.”
“It’s just a stupid tale! It’s not true! They’ve run to seek shelter, to find help! We can just follow their tracks!”
We found two camels and left, the sounds of destruction and murder receding in the background. And here we are, two days later, in the middle of the desert. The tracks ran east, away from the pass that leads back to Damascus, and we followed them for two days. Until they ran out. A sand storm, most likely. There is nothing in the area, nothing to suggests where Helena might have run away to. I do not know what to do. I fear there is but one lead to follow, a desperate irrational one. I look at Ibaq, sitting by himself near the camels, muttering under his breath. He has been more and more short-tempered since we left, indubitably subject to the same influences that the workmen back at camp have been. He is still keeping it under control, good man that he is, but it is hard work, I can tell.
“Ibaq, the Wild Man of the Desert—did the legends say how to find him?”
After a long pause, he stared at me with eyes of burning amber. He shook his head, “no.” Another long pause, during which he closed his eyes. Then, “My grand-mother said the legends were wrong... There is a way to find the Wild Man of the Desert... If you are foolish enough to want to...”
“Go where the arid winds blow,” he said at last, closing his eyes.
Lord Barnaby’s Journal, August 14, 1924
And so we followed the wind, or tried to. We ran out of water, and we suffered terribly. We were weak from thirst, which was not helping Ibaq’s control. He was getting worse, falling into an ill-tempered silence that testified the extent to which he was fighting to keep from attacking me. Ibaq was my friend, but I recognized the anger that was burning in his usually quiet eyes. It was the anger that had engulfed the workmen back at the camp, the anger that had consumed Pendleton when he was on top of me relishing the thought of slicing my throat. But Ibaq, faithful Ibaq, was trying to contain the rage. He rode his camel few hundred yards ahead of mine, tracking the wind, and I maintained a safe distance lest I antagonized him. Strangely enough, there was no anger in me, only despair at ever seeing my dear Helena again. And thirst, of course.
And then, sometimes yesterday, we came to a small oasis tucked away in the recess of a large rock formation. Ibaq pointed it out to me from the distance after stopping, and after I caught up with him, I saw how much he had deteriorated since the last time we talked. He was keeping his face clenched, fighting the rictus that threatened to distort his features, and his fists were gripping the reins tightly. He spoke in short clipped sentences, and I could tell that he was fighting the urge to leap at me with all his strength. I feared him and pitied him equally. I had no idea how to help him. After we had found Helena, and Janice, I would bid him leave so that he could find some remote place where he could rest peacefully.
“These rocks... Old place... Ancient oasis... Legendary... Thieves hideout... Lost for generations...”
“I’ll go check it out. You stay here.”
“No... I’ll go... Wild Man... language... dangerous...”
“Very well. I’ll follow you though. You guide the way, old friend.”
We directed the camels towards the trees lining the oasis, and I hoped against hope that Helena and Janice would be there. The odds were astronomical, but I clung to them the way a drowning man might cling to a life preserver.
Ibaq was on edge, that much was clear from how straight he held his back and how tight his shoulders seemed. He had unsheathed his long knife and was holding it across his lap, guiding his camel with one hand.
Ibaq’s attention meant he was the first one to spot the shape emerging from between the rocks. All I saw—before Ibaq’s scream of rage and his jump off his camel and his mad scramble towards the shape—was a shapeless brown robe the color of dry sand topped by a white mane of hair and holding a long rifle. And when Ibaq was close, still screaming like a mad man and brandishing his long knife clearly intent on impaling the robed figured, that figure slowly raised the rifle and one shot burst through the air like a thunderclap and Ibaq fell to the ground, his knife flying off in the air and planting itself in the sand a few yards away from him. Incredibly, Ibaq let out another scream and tried to scramble back to his feet, as if unaware and uncaring about the large stain of blood growing on his chest. His scream had a gurgling quality to it, suggesting that his lungs had been punctured. How he could find the strength and willpower to stand again was beyond me, but all that work came to naught as the robed figure aimed his rifle and shot it again, this time catching Ibaq in the head. He collapsed backwards and twitched for several seconds before finally laying still.
I remained shocked at the speed and violence of the confrontation. When the robed figure turned his rifle towards me, I raised my hands to show I was unharmed, and spoke the few words of dialect I knew to try to convey that I was a friend, that I was not dangerous, that I was a seeker. The man in the robes, for it was a man, an older man, although not as old as his hair and beard suggested, looked at me quizzically, and keeping his gun aimed at my head, spoke in a flawless English.
I nodded. I could not place his own accent.
“How are you feeling right now?”
“Somewhat frightened,” I replied honestly. “And thirsty, awfully thirsty.”
He was taken aback at my response. Which was surprising in itself, as being frightened was a natural reaction to having a rifle pointed at one’s head after seeing another man just shot to death, and thirst is a common side effect of traveling through the desert.
“You’re not angry?”
“Well, I am somewhat upset that you just shot Ibaq, but considering his actions, I cannot completely fault you. I am looking for my wife, and her servant. I was hoping they made it all the way here. I am Lord Barnaby, from the Sik-Ladi expedition.”
The man looked at me for a long while, his rifle still aimed at me. I meant to ask him if he was the Wild Man of the Desert, but before the words could make it through my parched throat, the world started to spin, bright stars exploded across my eyes, and darkness fell upon me.
I came to smothered by the most delightful feelings. There was the softness on which I was lying, which I discovered later was a a bed of soft fleeces smoothed out by time, piled up in a cool cave that rivaled the most luxurious rooms in the most astonishing palace. But the most wonderful feelings came from my crotch, along with the weight of a warm body on top of me.
When I opened my eyes, it took several seconds before the shape before me resolved itself into the familiar curves of Helena, who was sitting astride my lap, completely naked, and very slowly moving up and down with my shaft deep inside her treasure box. She was silent, her own eyes were closed, her mouth vaguely open, seemingly enjoying herself immensely. She was moving slowly, straightening up on her knees to keep only the tip my shaft inside her, before slowly sinking back down and letting me in all the way. The feeling of her womanhood tightening around me were incredible. Her breasts were swaying enticingly with every thrust of her hips, her nipples like two hard rocks. She was beautiful, her long blonde hair untied and draping down her back.
I reached up and grabbed one of her breasts, and the fullness of it filled my hand. I was harder than I ever remember being. And happy. Helena. I had found her.
She opened her eyes when she felt my hand on her. “Hello darling! I hope you don’t mind, but I saw you lying down looking so adorable that I could not resist. And your soldier saluted me so enthusiastically when I kissed it that I felt I had to see to him.”
“I found you.”
“You did. And you have no idea how glad that makes me. Actually, let me show you how grateful I am...”
And on that note, she increased her pace, twisting her hips as she pumped up and down. Her internal grip on my shaft was ever stronger, and I did not know how long I could take the stimulation.
After a few minutes, once my hips had started moving of their own volition to seek to meet Helena in the middle of her thrusts, she smiled and lifted herself off. I was about to protest, selfishly, when she turned around and sat back down on my shaft, facing my feet, her wonderful round rear towards me. And just like that, with her hands gripping my thighs, she resumed her rocking motions, sucking my shaft deep inside her and massaging it from inside. The visuals associated with the incredible feelings were mind-blowing. I watched her perfect buttocks shiver every time she sank down onto me, and clench every time she raised herself up. I could see her juices leak down her thighs, and that by itself was almost more arousing than anything else.
Again, it did not take very long before I was pushing up my hips to meet Helena’s thrust halfway, with my hands on her hips to pull her down against me, enjoying the feel of her skin under my hands, the feel of her muscles tightening under my fingers. She was moaning, Helena was, loud moans punctuated by deep groans when she took me in particularly deep and grinding her hips on me, altogether more vocal than I ever remember her being. I loved it.
And then, just as I felt I could not hold on any longer, when my hips started jerking almost on their own, Helena pulled herself off from me again only to push her rear down towards my chest and, her thighs on either side of my head, leaned over and took my full length in her mouth, down to the root, and the feeling of my shaft sheathed deep inside her throat while her tongue licked the underside hard and her lips and cheeks sucked equally hard brought me to climax almost instantly, and while my wife swallowed my seed without catching her breath, I dove like a starved man into the moist slit that was hovering an inch in front of my face and sucked and licked and drank at the source of all life and Helena ground her lap into my mouth and I sucked on the hard knob of flesh above her slit while my tongue sought to touch the deepest reaches of her womb, and then she stiffened and came all over my tongue with that honeyed sweetness that I would recognize amongst all others.
She sank back onto the pelts next to me, and rested her head on my chest, catching her breath, while I wiped my face and waited for my heart to beat at a more leisurely pace. “Wow,” I said, “that was incredible.”
“It was,” added Helena with a smile in her voice.
“Helena,” I said, my tone turning serious, “what happened? How did you get here? Where are we? What—”
“Sshhh,” she said, looking up at me. “Let us rest a little while longer and then go see Mast... Gil. He will explain everything to you.”
“You’ll see, my darling. You’ll see.”
And see I did. After we had recovered and dressed, Helena in a long flowing wrap and me in a tunic I had seen some of the older locals wear, she brought me down a corridor carved out of rock into another cave, much larger and much more subdued than the one I had woken up in. Most of the walls were lined with shelves filled with books, old leather bound volumes that must have taken more than one lifetime to accumulate, and piles of papers were strewn in the corners, amongst pillows of all shapes and sizes. Sitting in a large chair on one side of the room, the old man with the white hair that had shot Ibaq earlier was writing in a large volume.
Helena went up to him, and I was astonished to see her bow low. “Master, my husband, Lord Barnaby, has some questions for you.”
“Understandable, Helena. Understandable. Come in, my friend. Come in. Lord Barnaby, I am pleased to meet you, this time under better circumstances. You collapsed from your camel earlier, I suspect from dehydration, and I took the liberty of bringing you into my lodgings and let you recover. I pray hope that you are feeling better?”
“I do, and I am in your debt, sir. Not only for giving me shelter, but also for providing refuge for my wife.” I decided not to bring up the fact that she had called him master, at least not yet.
“Ah yes, dear Helena. Lady Helena Barnaby. I fear I owe you an explanation.”
“Before everything else, do you also happen to know the whereabouts of Janice, my lady’s maidservant?”
“She is fine. Janice? Mind coming here, girl?”
Janice appeared from a side passage. She smiled a warm smile when she saw me, and my own smile in response was replaced by a look of shock when I saw that she was wearing a wrap not unlike Helena’s, except for it barely reached the top of her thighs and it bared her generous chest. She wore a necklace with a large sapphire that hung down between her breasts, drawing attention to the fleshy globes tipped with large aureolas and dark nipples. She made no gesture to cover herself up, in fact quite the opposite. She strode towards me and hugged me tight, a liberty that she would have never taken a week ago. I blushed as I felt her breasts press into my chest, easily felt through the thin material of my tunic. I feared Helena would get upset, but she merely smiled sweetly at the display of affection.
“My lord,” said Janice, letting me go, “I am so glad that you are all right. I feared you would have been killed back at camp. Master explained to us that no one was likely to have survived, but my lady was adamant that if anyone would survive it would be you. I am delighted her faith proved unerring.”
She glided her way towards the old man, and without any self-consciousness sat on his lap and wrapped an arm around his neck. The man smiled good-naturedly, giving me an almost sheepish glance. He gestured towards the chair before him, inviting me to sit down. I did so, and Helena, after signifying that I should spread my legs by pressing two fingers on the inside of my knee, sat at my feet between my legs, resting her head on my thigh and caressing my calf.
“Lord Barnaby, welcome to my home. My name is Gilbert of Ockham, from the land that you now call Surrey, I believe, back in England. I have been living here for a long time, and you will I hope accept my apologies for the accommodations, for I do not entertain guests very frequently.”
I looked around, at the books on the shelves, at the artifacts sprinkled around the room. The archeologist in me could see how old much of it was. “With all due respect, Mister Ockham—”
“Please, Gilbert. Or just Gil.”
“Very well, Gilbert. With all due respect, may I inquire how long you have been here? Some of these artifacts are not, to say the least, recent.”
Gilbert looked even more sheepish for a second, an effect almost negated by the lazy finger Janice was running down his cheek. “I have made these caves my lodging for the past two hundred years, Lord Barnaby.”
I must have looked as astonished as I felt, for I did not expect such an answer, and he nodded his head. “I know, I know. Right now, you think I’m crazy and that solitude has gotten to me. But believe me, my lord, I am far from crazy, and I am far from young.
“I came to this land with the Third Crusade, under command of King Richard, more than eight hundred years ago. I was a young lad with more enthusiasm than wit, I am afraid to say. And I saw my fair share of combat, which did much to destroy that enthusiasm but did not add to my wit in the least. When we were attacked at Jaffa, where I was stationed, I was cut down, and I woke up in the aftermath of the massacre, before King Richard could claim back the city. Despite the terrible wound that I had suffered, I was alive. I could not explain it. And Saladin’s forces around me were crazed, seething with anger and ravaging the city and all surviving crusaders they could find. That was my first hint of the curse that would follow me. Not knowing any better, I escaped the fallen city.
“No, to forestall your question, I do not believe I am immortal. Wounds do not seem to kill me, but I do age, albeit extremely slowly. That is but one of the mysteries that surrounded my new life. As I traveled from town to town, learning the language and the habits of the locals, I noticed that if I spent too long in one place, eventually, men would start acting more and more erratically, more aggressively, more angrily. Soon, fights would break out for the most foolish reasons, and those fights would become more frequent and more violent until men started killing each other. It did not take long for me to discover that whatever the reason, I was the cause, and that my presence in their midst was causing men to lose all inhibitions and revert to lethal animalism. And so I became a wanderer, electing to never spend more than a short week in any given place.”
“The Wild Man of the Desert, Ibaq called you,” I said, keeping my tone neutral.
Gilbert nodded. “It has been a while I have not heard that epithet. And I am sorry I had to shoot your friend. But I know of no cure when the madness reaches the homicidal stage, and your friend was well beyond. Yes, I suppose a sort of legend has grown around me, much to my dismay. I felt so morally responsible for all those people hurting themselves because of me that a few hundred years ago I set out to find this old criminal refuge that had been forgotten by all but a few of the elders in a remote village, and made it my home. It is away from prying eyes, far from civilization, and I offer a natural defense: anyone getting too near will have killed themselves or been killed by others before they can find me. Except you, of course, who appear to be immune.”
“You do not seem overly surprised.”
“It has happened in the past. Men that were unaffected by whatever aura I produce. And I have cherished many of those relationships. Some have become friends. It can get awfully lonely living away from fellow humans.”
I could detect an eagerness in his voice when Gilbert said that. Rather than pursue that conversation, I asked the question that was foremost on my mind, looking at Janice sitting on Gilbert’s lap and now peppering his face with little kisses while one hand cradled one of her breasts and pinched her nipple. I could see she was squirming in the old man’s lap, and I could but imagine the sensations that she must have produced on his groin. A new erection stirred under my tunic and Helena, who was still between my legs, must have felt it against the back of her head for she turned towards me and smiled and reached up with a hand to rub my now hardening shaft through the material. I managed to find my voice. “What about the women?”
“Ah yes, the women. Well, that’s somewhat more complicated.”
“Ibaq told me that men go crazy, but that women disappear. That you call them.”
“Not quite the truth, I’m afraid. But it is true that the women do not go crazy, or at least, they do not become rage-filled maniacs. What they do is crave. At first, their craving is but a slight hunger, easily dismissed. But as days pass, the hunger becomes more intense, and they will soon go to any length to satisfy it. It is a hunger for semen, fresh male semen, and they will seduce and abase themselves to any depth to satisfy it. But it will not. No matter how much they try, they cannot satisfy that hunger. For what they crave is my semen. And so they will seek me out. They will seek me out and find me and pledge their life to me so that I can give them what they need.”
“That is why Helena and Janice...”
“Yes, that is why they left your camp. To find me. Before they went insane. For that is the result of not getting my seed: weakness, insanity, and finally death. In every single case I have ever encountered.”
“So they have to... Helena? Janice?”
“Yes, they have to drink my seed. Every day. Otherwise, headaches are the first symptom. They are condemned to stay here, lest they die a painful death.” He looked genuinely sad at that statement.
Janice, on his lap, made a face, and thrust her breast in his face. “Please don’t say that, Master. This is not a prison. This is home. Where we get our life juice.” She rubbed her dark breast in his face, squirming even more noticeably on his lap. “That delicious life juice that makes me so wet. I’m thirsty, Master. Please...” Without waiting for an acknowledgment or even a reaction, Janice sinks to her knees, between Gilbert’s legs, and reaches inside his tunic to pull out his semi-hard shaft. “I’m so thirsty...” she reiterates before leaning down and taking much of it in her mouth, a moan of delight escaping her lips as it was invaded by flesh. Gilbert puts a hand on her head, a gesture that was half reassurance, and half love, and let Janice suck him to hardness.
I did not know quite what to do, never having been in the presence of a couple in the middle of their act, except for the occasional times in the last few weeks when I stumbled into such a situation back at camp. This was much more intimate, and I felt like I was an intruder. Helena broke the spell.
“Janice is such a pig—she’s always sucking him off, day or night. She’s insatiable. And she’s so hot when she does that, too. Can you see the way her big boobs shake when she sucks?” Her head was still pressing against my own erection, and I could see that one of her hands had disappeared inside her wrap and from the way her legs were spread before her and the motions of her arm, I could tell she was playing with herself, watching her maidservant at work.
“Janice,” Gilbert finally told the girl, “I think you are making our guest uncomfortable. Perhaps you should wait until we are alone to continue your ministrations.”
Janice turned to me, a glint in her eyes. “Perhaps he can join us? Perhaps they can both join us? I’m sure my lord has fantasized about stuffing his prick inside my body before, and I’m equally sure he would get a rise out of seeing his wife making love to me.” There was pleading in her eyes, I could see, and I felt myself blush, for I had indeed fantasized about the lovely black girl in the past.
Helena laughed, and stood up, holding out her hand to me, while respond to Janice. “I think I will take my husband away and distract him in my own way, Janice. Let us postpone such a discussion until later, once he has adjusted to his new surroundings. Come, my darling. Let us take care of that uncomfortable lump beneath your tunic.”
And take care of it she did.
Lord Barnaby’s Journal, August 30, 1924
I have been here for two weeks, two weeks filled with wonder, two weeks awash in greatness, two weeks that taught me more than is healthy for a man my age. All of which makes having to leave that much harder.
I have been spending my time with Gil, who gave me a tour of his network of caves, all beautifully decorated by artifacts and curtains and furniture he has accumulated over centuries of travel. We have spent time pouring over books, discussing philosophy, history, and the affairs of the world. He is a vastly educated man, with rather unconventional ideas for a British mind such as mine, but despite the shock and reluctance I sometimes felt about accepting to see things from his point of view, I found my mind expanding with every hour spent with him. Gil, on his hand, was elated to have a companion with whom to share his little world. He told me that the last time he had met a man immune to his effect had been almost sixty years ago.
Helena joined us frequently, participating in the discussions, voicing her own opinions, countering our sometimes male-centric arguments. Is it any wonder I fell in love with such a wonderful woman? When I was not satisfying my intellectual needs with Gil, Helena made sure she was satisfying my more physical needs, in bed, or out of it. My beautiful and smart wife turned out to be a sexual vixen, under the influence of Gil’s presence, which heightened women’s sensitivity and sexual proclivities. During those two weeks, she made love to me several times a day, generally waking me up by riding me hard or sucking me off with her fabulous mouth, and seeing me to sleep by letting me slide my shaft into her from behind while we lay against one another in bed, her back to my chest, and after we both orgasmed I would then simply fall asleep with my softening shaft trapped inside her. And in between, she would find every possible occasion to stir up my frenzy. It was not only that she wore flimsy garments that more often than not barely covered any of her delightful maddening curves. But she made sure to flash me tantalizing views of her breasts and of her treasure whenever she could, often punctuating the display by running a hand over said breasts or said treasure, squeezing and rubbing and pinching, her mouth open and her eyes closed in arousal. She would hug me and kiss me whenever she could, her hugs involving pressing herself against me hard enough to undoubtedly feel my quasi-permanent erection against her body, her kisses invariably turning into soul kisses that made me lust for her like an animal. She would sometimes corner me and push me in a dark recess in one of the rooms of the cave and either surreptitiously kneel before me and slip my shaft out of my tunic and bury it in her mouth and bring me to climax with her exquisitely talented lips faster than one could recite God Save the King, or she would drop to her hands and knees and entreat me to take her hard and fast, just like that, like an animal, swaying her perfect rump to and fro to entice me and I would of course relent because who could resist her and I would slide inside her enveloping warmth and rut until my seed submerged her. And let me not even dwell on those times when she took hold of my shaft and with a twinkle of mirth in her eyes guided me into her forbidden hole and let me have my way with her in such a deviant fashion and moaned and groaned in delight as her tightness threatened to choke my organ before I would explode in a soul-wrenching climax.
And lest I forget to give credit where credit is due, let me only mention in passing that yes, Janice did sometimes join Helena and me in sexual congress, and add that she is just as talented and enthusiastic and indefatigable as my wife is when it comes to the pleasures of the flesh. And that she is equally skilled at satisfying both men and women.
And yet, and yet, I have to leave. Tonight, if at all possible. It is breaking my heart, it is tearing me apart, it is making me want to scream, but I have to leave.
In the middle of the afternoon today, while I was asking Gil about old pre-Babylonian fertility goddess cults, still trying to nail the puzzle of the temple I had found earlier in this wondrous journey, we were startled by a wild scream coming from outside. It was Helena, screaming herself hoarse before suddenly falling silent. Glancing at each other, Gil and I sprinted out of the room and headed outside, only to be met by the sight of a dirty and berserk Pendleton sitting astride Helena and ripping her clothes off. He had thrust a large swath of material into her mouth, and was roughly pawing her breasts, practically clawing at them. He looked like he was foaming at the mouth, and his eyes were unblinking and blood-shot. His clothes were stained dark brown and it took me but a moment to realize that it was drying blood. He was screaming words that I thought at first were meaningless prattle, but that soon resolved themselves into a leitmotiv of “gonna fuck you gonna fuck you you whore you whore you filthy cunt you filthy cunt” over and over again.
I barely remember wrenching the rifle from Gil’s hand and lifting it to take aim. A red mist seemed to invest my mind, and through it I saw Pendleton, now howling like a wolf, spread Helena’s legs apart and prepare himself to ravish her, while she struggled and tried to squirm from underneath the bigger man. Pendleton was grinning widely as he secured his grip on my wife’s thigh and was without question enjoying in advance the rape he would soon inflict upon her. Pendleton was still grinning widely two seconds later when the bullet from my rifle shattered his right temporal cranial bone upon entry and obliterated the left side of his head upon exit. He remained kneeled over my wife, his stupid grin on his face, motionless, his eyes shifting wildly in their socket, and it was not until my next bullet pulverized his jaw bone and nearly decapitated him that he folded onto the ground between my wife’s legs, a breath before she scrambled away from him.
The red mist was still swirling in my head as I breathed hard, and it is not until Gil looked at me with a desperately sad look on his face that I knew I was grinning myself, my hands clenching on the rifle, with a wild desire to scream and drive the rifle through and through Pendleton’s lifeless body wanting to burst from my chest. Slowly, the red mist lifted. But I knew what the mist meant, I knew that the feeling of joy at the shot that took out my old colleague was not just because I was defending my wife, I knew that despite my host’s best hopes I was not in fact immune to the effects of his presence. It merely acted more slowly upon me than most men.
And so I have to leave. Remaining here would guarantee that I be overtaken by the homicidal madness and either hurt people I love or more likely be put down like I put down Pendleton, neither of which scenarios I am pleased to contemplate.
I cannot bring Helena with me. Janice I have no claim to, especially since she seems genuinely happy with Gil, and seems to love him, and that love seems reciprocated. But it breaks my heart to leave Helena, and I can tell that she is not happy to see me go. But I cannot bring her with me. She would go insane and die without Gil’s vital essence. I would have happily have her and Janice milk poor Gil dry and build up a reserve, but alas, the offering has to be fresh. And so she must remain. Helena has sworn to remain faithful to me, and Gil has gallantly offered to provide her with his essence in a vial, possibly mixed with her food, but in all honesty, I do not care about such details. I want her happy, and fulfilled, and if she finds some measure of satisfaction in the arms of Gil, I cannot fault her.
I will be back, though. It will take some experimentation to determine how long I need to stay away from Gil’s influence before I can come back again, but once that period of time is settled I shall come back and spend time with my beloved. Even if it is but three weeks at a time—which is how long it took for the effects of Gil’s presence to take hold on me on this trip—those will be three weeks to be cherished beyond all others.