Michelle's Picture Me Yours, Darling: the Stories

[Archibael]

Shadows
by Richard Gently




The idea of a weekend break with Marcus had seemed a wonderful idea. As Marcus had said, it would be a chance to renew their relationship. On reflection she realised that the constant pressure of her high flying job coupled with his employer’s need for him to travel had meant they had, in truth, spent little time together over the last six months.

They had been in contact frequently via phone and email and they had managed a few lunchtime rendezvous but they had not really had any quality time together since winter. She had been so busy she had not particularly noticed until she got the text with the suggestion. Once she reflected on the lack of togetherness, it had been obvious they could so easily drift apart and she did not want that to happen.

Marcus was witty, clever and handsome. He could really turn her on when he wanted to and he was exactly the sort of person she had imagined starting a family with, once she had carved out an unassailable career position for herself, that was. She did love him and this time away together would be a perfect way of showing him how she felt. She had flushed a little the first time she had thought that as it caused some rather naughty images to flick through her mind’s eye.

The hotel he had chosen had been perfect. He had kept the specifics hidden. All she knew was they were going to Scotland. The flight had been first class, both figuratively and literally. The limousine that had met them had been equally top notch and the driver had ensured they got a good look at the converted former Manor House as they approached down the long driveway.

Even the timing had been perfect as the sun setting behind the building had highlighted some of the small turrets and parapets that ran along the roof to create an impressive dark skyline against the burning ball behind.

The check in had taken mere moments and a waiting porter had whisked the bags away.  A key was produced; not one of those plastic cards but a large solid metal object with a satisfyingly heavy fob embossed with the room number. A free drink was offered in the spacious bar area before an announcement that guests should change for dinner was made. Hanging happily on Marcus arm she climbed the master staircase, a split-level affair, and headed for their bedroom.

He opened the door to let her enter first and she stopped dead in her tracks, amazed at the character of the room. It had a high ceiling, crossed by two heavy beams from which hung a small, but impressive, chandelier. That lit up the four poster bed with its highland motif awning and its dark blue satin sheets. A bottle of Champaign sat in an ice bucket at the foot of the bed which in turn rested on an innately carved chest. Two curtains were held back by a couple of ties and that allowed the sun to cast its last faint tinge into the room. It was the most beautiful room she could remember seeing in her life.

Marcus had tried to slip past but his movements disturbing her and she grabbed him and gave him a deep passionate kiss. He had spent a lot of money on this trip and if he was willing to do so he must really love her a lot. She was not worried about the money as she had a very healthy bank balance also but the belief in his feeling let her feel safe in returning them with her own.

He returned the kiss and then broke free. He popped the cork on the bottle expertly and deftly filled the two flutes that stood next to the bucket. Holding out one he waited for her to take it before toasting their future together.

Her first sip attested to the quality of the vintage and the taste was exquisite. He released the curtains so they fell across the window and the room seemed somehow intimate despite the fact it was the largest bedroom she had ever seen.

“Marcus, I think this is the most stunning rooms I have ever seen.” She told him.

He smiled a mischievous smile. “It was the bedroom of the 5th Earl of Craig.” He told her. “Legend says he used to bring young virgins here to deflower them. No fear of that happening to you though”

She made an attempt at a mock smack and he danced away from the window to a wardrobe, the doors of which he threw back with a flourish. Inside hung a suit and an evening dress.

He made an exaggerated bow saying “M’lady would you dress for dinner?”

She giggled and curtsied back “I will, sir.”

“Then I will take my leave, for a moment” he said lifting the hanging suit and heading for the bathroom. He paused at the door, “Beware lady” he said with such seriousness that it was designed to show it was nothing of the sort, “for they say the ghost of the Earl haunts this very room.” He made a laugh like a mad genius, deep and false, and then closed the bathroom door behind himself.

She let out a small giggle, the silly idiot she thought and turning reached for the dress still hanging in the wardrobe. She was astonished at how soft the velvet felt to her touch. She had never worn velvet before having never had any real need. She had spent most of her time working to afford what she wanted but had never considered wanting velvet. That might change in the future she thought as she rubbed the fabric against one of her cheeks. It had a strange but lovely smell to it and she held it to her nose and pulled in the scent. It was another wonderful thing to add to a so far perfect evening.

Wrapped deep in her own thoughts it took a moment to realise she could hear Marcus talking in the bathroom.

The words, “Sebastian can deal with that.” was followed by a pause as someone said something on the other end of a phone.

“Bloody Hell, I’m in Scotland” and then “There must be someone who can cover”

Apparently there was not judging by “I’m not interested in extra money. I am having some personal time with someone very special”

There then followed a long silence where whoever it was tried to convince Marcus of the need for his personal attention. There must have been a threat in there as well and one that had some impact. “You wouldn’t dare you bastard”

However, it seemed that he would, “Alright I’ll be in New York by 2pm tomorrow. I can get a flight straight from Glasgow if I leave in the next ten minutes”

She heard something smash against a wall before the door opened and Marcus stepped out. “Something has come up” he told her rather pointlessly. All she could do was nod.

“I have to leave right away”. Again she nodded.

“I am so sorry” and he looked imploringly at her silently seeking forgiveness.

“I know you are” she said sadly and accepted a quick peck on the cheek from him as he snatched up his still unpacked bag.

“It’s all paid for” he told her “enjoy yourself. The Limo’ will be back at about 6pm tomorrow to get you back to the airport. I am just so sorry.”

He paused half way out of the door. “I’ll call you as soon as I get back. Will you be OK?”

All she could do was nod yes and he was gone. She walked over to the bed feeling numbed by the sudden change of events. It had all been so perfect, so romantic and now she was stuck in a hotel in Scotland on her own for the next 22 hours. Throwing herself down she burst in to tears and cried herself to sleep.

***

She was not sure what woke her. There was a vague recollection of a nightmare but she did not have the feeling of fear that lingered, even momentarily, when leaving that kind of dream. She had suffered badly from such things many years ago in her distant youth when she had convinced herself that the shadow that stood across her bedroom window was the White Witch from Narnia come to carry her away to the ice castle. It had, of course, been no such thing just the cross frame of the window being distorted by an awkward outside light source and the material.

Without thinking she looked at the draped curtains that Marcus had closed earlier and her blood ran cold, for just an instant, before she found herself laughing at her own silliness. The hotel must have been lit to show its magnificent edifice and one of those spotlights made it seem like a figure lurked just inside the window. Her train of thought had made her react as she had when she was a child, just for the merest second mind, and the realisation of her foolish reaction filled the room with a dry chuckle.

She swung her legs off the bed and studied the form of the image created by the bright light and the heavy fabric. It almost looked like a person sitting. Anyway she needed to get ready for bed properly. She still wore her travelling clothes. They were comfortable enough, a loose light blouse and medium length skirt. The later was snug but not too tight and she had worn it to hint as to the looks of her long legs. The matching, if lighter, pink top was set off surprisingly well against her red hair. She had been planing to get that cut but with the ‘surprise’ trip it had been put on hold for a few days and she had let it get quite thick and reasonably long. It billowed around her shoulders now.

She stood to get to her luggage and the curtain seemed to ripple from a faint breeze. It did not get past the heavy material though and no air wafted against her face. Strangely the shadow figure seemed to be standing. She was not certain that the black outline had not moved a moment before her.

It was stock still now though and after a moment watching it she realised she was still tired despite the sleep she had woken from. Oddly the outside light flickered in a way that made the ‘arms’ of the shadow man move out at almost the same instant as she yawned and stretched to clear some of the kinks from her muscles.

She went to pull her arms down again but found them locked outwards. She tried to move her feet but they would not budge even a millimetre from where she stood facing the drapes. She struggled to move any part of her body but despite using all her will power she remained frozen like a statue matching the outline on the curtain.

She felt her right arm come free and for a second the knot in her stomach loosened. She was not suddenly paralysed. The coldness returned with a vengeance as she realised that her arm was moving in the same way as the shadow’s arm. Her other arm was moving as well but again it was just copying the black shape as its arm moved. She wanted to look away but she was transfixed looking towards the window.

Then whatever had been holding her stiff and upright like a board vanished and she could bend again. Instead of getting control of her own body back the traitorous thing bent at the waist and her useless arms removed her shoes in almost perfect unison with the shadow.

Then they were pirouetting in unison, showing off her figure, her skirt flaring out as it twirled. After turning full circle the dark arms came up and began unbuttoning its front and she gasped as she looked down to see her bra being exposed as she copied. Then she was reaching around and undoing the buttons at the back of her lower garment before a shimmy of their shoulders let the slept in, severely creased, top fall to the floor to form the small pink icing on the darker crumpled skirt.

She had looked away from her controller when she undid the skirt but she had felt no more able to break free than when she had been watching it explicitly. That was confirmed for her when she closed her eyes in an attempt to break the spell and she still reached behind her back to unclip her bra strap. She felt it slid down off her bust releasing her ample bosom into the cool air.

Having gained nothing by not looking she opened her eyelids and again focused on the shadow. She was not surprised, terrified, but not surprised to see the shape begin to remove its imaginary knickers. Her own body ignored her wish to resist and peeled of the silk briefs she had worn specially for Marcus.

She lost site of it again as, once more, she found herself compelled to twirl, more slowly this time. She was cupping her breasts by the time she had completed her turn. Her hands were gently kneading them and she moved her tongue out of her mouth to lick the left nipple as it was brought up towards her mouth. It was erect from the slight chill air, at least that is what it had to be, she rationalised. She knew she should scream or do something, anything to try and get help but her mouth did nothing but make it easy for her to lick her right nipple as it replaced its twin.

The longer she was forced to match the shadow the more fearful she felt but also, to her disgust and slight confusion, the hotter she began to feel. By the time she copied the movement of a black arm towards her waist and on, down below, she found she was already moist with her excitement.

She ran her fingers along the slit and warm fluid coated them at the slightest touch. The rubbing became a little quicker as the shadow moved its arm with a little more pace. Was that a moan she heard from her own mouth? It must have been for she was alone in the room the slave of the shadow.

She definitely moaned when she found her engorged clitoris. The sensation of the stimulation and loss of control made her want to come and had she had the ability to move her arms independently she would have been rubbing herself into orgasm. Instead the shadow kept the movements to a level that sustained her excitement but did not allow her to climax.

She had not noticed the shadow moving her free arm until it began to fondle her breasts again. She was letting out little moans and squeals as her limbs continued to disregard her wishes.

She felt herself so near to the peak but she could not reach it and then, suddenly, she could move freely again. She did not know how she knew but she just did. She was free of the shadow, which appeared to be standing with crossed arms, waiting for something. She could stop now, only she could not. She was so far gone in her world of pleasure that she needed to get herself off. She rubbed furiously and let two fingers slid inside of her. The lubrication was so great she thought she could have got her whole hand in. She did not need to though. The two digits were enough and being on the edge already they allowed her to find her fulfilment.

She felt like hundreds of fireworks were exploding in her head and her legs gave way. She toppled forward and fell towards the curtains. She was aware of the shadow standing on the fabric as she continued with the greatest climax of her life and then, as she hit and the curtains parted, the shadow was gone along with her orgasm.  One instance it was sending every thought but the need for sexual gratification from her mind and the next she was left with a feeling of emptiness.

If someone had thrown a glass of ice cold water in her face she would not have felt more shocked. Without the sex drive her cool analytical mind took control and she flung back the drapes fully. It was pitch black outside. There was no light to cast a shadow through the window and the next morning she could find nothing outside that could have send a beam to her room.

The window was closed and locked shut. The air conditioner’s hum suddenly impinged on her consciousness. It was quite as it was on the other side of the room. It meant, however, that there could not have been a breeze to make the curtains move and there could not have been anyone there as they would have had no way to get away from her.

So why was her pussy still soaking and why could she hear the end of a drawn out laugh fading away as the chandelier shone out through the window chasing the shadows away?

[Archibael]

Captured! (Take Two)  (replaces old version so it will be eligible for voting)
by sulwyn



...

She looked at each picture before throwing it into the trash.  A long sigh escaped her soft red lips as she kept discarding each picture. So long, never finding the right man. 

A long weary hour later, a dim dark picture sent zings up her arm and woke her fully alert. Her deep blue eyes widened as she stared at the picture and turned it over to find the name of the man.

Bastian Nelan.

She sighed in pleasure and began to write in her diary.  “After many many years of searching pictures of men, I have finally found the right man to serve my needs!  I’ve been so lonely.  Feeding on men here and there just isn’t the same as having my own manslave.  It was such a pity my last one died in that fight with those wild dogs.  Lost so much blood.  I shall be so much more protective of this one.  This one looks to be much more handsome!  Curly long hair!  Dark, too.  I wonder what color his eyes are.   Thank the Goddess for the Internet making finding people so much easier!”

The laptop beckoned to her as she finished writing her diary entry, laughing all the while.  In only minutes, she found the whereabouts of the man, the uniqueness of his name having made it easy.

“Oooh, a town that I’ve never visited, delicious!  Bremerton, Washington. Perfect.”

Arrangements for traveling there were easily made on the laptop, so very easy.  The woman purred in pleasure as she prepared for her upcoming travels with a minimum of fuss. 

…

Several days later, at a little blue house with white trim near the riverfront of Puget Sound, Lyta stood looking up at the window where a man could be seen standing in a peculiar position with his eyes closed.  She pondered what he could be doing, “Yoga? If so, that’s the weirdest position I’ve ever seen.”

A knock rang out throughout the quiet house.  Bastian startled at the loud sound. Aw damn it who’d disturb me here?  Especially at this time of day.

He opened the door, frowning and muttering under his breath.  His jaw dropped at the beauty standing in the doorway.  Curly blonde hair tussled up on top of her hair, perky breasts with deep cleavage peeking out from black lingerie underneath a tight red mini dress.  He fought to bring his eyes up to her beautiful blue eyes, so very deep, so easy to swim into. 

He heard a soft sexy voice whisper, “Hi, Bastian, I’d like for you to invite me inside, please.  My name is Lyta.”

“Okayy, Lytaaaaa, pleasee come in.”

Lyta smiled with pleasure at the lightly slurred speech, which showed that he was highly suggestive.  She sauntered into the tiny apartment, closing the door behind them. 

“Very nice apartment you have here, Bastian.”

He shook his head and blinked his eyes several times while murmuring, “Yesss, thank you, Lyta.”

“Uhhhmmm, who are you, what do you want here, if I may ask so boldly, please, miss?” 

She laughed at the way he tried to get back on firm ground.  “You may ask, but I doubt you’ll get unconfused for quite a bit yet.”

He blinked and blinked, unable to make sense of that. 

Laughter rang out throughout the once quiet house as she went on to explain, “I am Lyta, yes, you’ve already heard the name, but not this part.  Lyta the Vampiress.  What I am doing here is seeking a permanent manslave and your picture came up as being the chosen one for me.  That is what led me to you, my dear sweet confused one.”

Bastian choked out, “Oh, no no, I cannot be your manslave!  I do not take orders!  I am the president of Macrotough!  We make the best hardware!  90% of the world uses our hardware!”

In a gentle tone, “Well, you can still be president but you’ll be a figurine, just like Bill Gates is at Microsoft.  He’s the manslave of another Vampiress, I’ll tell you that.  I might let you play with him sometimes.  You two were very naughty!  Making hardware and software that are buggy and releasing them to the public then making the buyers get patches before they even work properly!  Tsk tsk!  Naughty!  Making them pay lots of money for things that won’t work the first time they use it!  Tsk tsk!  You do know I’ll have to punish you lots for that, don’t you, little manslave?”

All through this gentle speech, Bastian’s eyes were becoming wider and wider with each sentence and his face paler and paler.  At the end, he collapsed against the couch, whimpering protests that he wasn’t naughty.

Lyta laughed as she sidled up against her prey, stroking his thick brown furry chest.  She purred softly, “I bet you like being stroked like this, don’t you?”

“Oh yes!  But I’m not naughty!”

“And how about this, you like this, Bastian, don’t you?” asked Lyta, as she slid her hand lower down.

He whimpered, “God yes, dammit, yes!” He bucked against her hand, seeking more, forgetting about anything else.

“Nuh uh, little one.  Shhh, sweetie, there’s more to come. Just imagine how much more.  Don’t you just love the idea of there being much more? Isn’t that right?”

Bastian was now having to be very quiet to hear her whispers, each word seemingly becoming faded to him, becoming less meaningful to him.  All he knew now was he wanted to agree to whatever this mysterious beautiful blonde wanted, he just wanted this delicious pleasure she was giving him.  So his mouth opened and out came a slow soft mewled yes.

She smiled at the slow response and knew that he would be soon hers.  As she snuggled closer to him, her hands roving all over him, her teeth nibbling on his ear while whispering, "Oh, how about this, is this even better, don't you think, my little one?"

He nodded erratically, his eyes blinking rapidly, looking very dazed.  She chuckled softly, "I know you want to be mine always, Bastian, always feeling pleasure, don't you?  Say yes, and you will.  Say no and I'll disappear."

He frantically begged, "Don't disappear! I say yesssssssss!!  I want to be yourssssss!!!" His eyes wide open, pupils dilated, breathing deeply yet rapidly.  His hands attempting to hold her hands against his chest, with its loud thumping heartbeat.

At these words, she howled in pleasure and bit into his tender neck.  He screamed in pain and shock, fighting her, finally going limp.  She kept drinking and drinking until she was satiated but not to the point of his death. 

After she had laid him down on his bed, she crooned at him, stroking his face, "That is the last pain you will ever have to face, other than my displeasure if you ever displease me, my sweet slave."

The words slid into his unconscious, swirling through his mind, as he changed.
…

Epilogue:

Several months later

Lyta reclined, putting her feet up on her lucky yellow footstool, where her little manslave Bastian was massaging her feet.   She smiled as she read out loud to Bastian a recent newspaper article about Macrotough and its sister software company.

“In recent months, there has been amazing changes at the two companies, Macrotough and Microsoft.  The founders who are also presidents have become much more strict about the releases of their products, mandating that they be as bug-free as possible before release. To effect that, they have fired their current teams of development and programmers.  They have hired new people who are much more efficient and competent. 

What has happened?  Did someone slip mickeys in their drinks? This is amazing!  Their new products are simply wonderful and much cheaper as well!

I look forward to reporting more on this next week as I find out more.”

[Archibael]

Rose
by Salem

Chapter One

Wearing a lovely red evening gown and high heels, Rose Matheson made her way up the carpeted stairway of her ritzy mansion.  As she slid her hand over the ornate, ebony banister, it cast shadows from the moonlight onto her satin skirt.  She was quite pleased with herself, and she made no attempt to hide it.

In spite of the frightful Minnesota winter, Rose's gala had been a smashing success.  Even Walter had seemed in good spirits, though he retired to private chambers well before the party drew to a close.  Lately, her husband had been out of sorts.  She hoped that the current economic situation had not hurt business, but it was hardly her place to worry about such things.

To say that Rose was easy on the eye would have been an understatement.  Aside from a beautiful figure, she had wavy blonde hair and dark, alluring eyes.  She had been properly trained in social graces, and she was not without her charms.  Like any other Fairmont, Rose knew how to get what she wanted.  Three years ago, what she had wanted was Walter.

At twenty-one, Rose had been seven years younger than Walter, but her parents had fully supported the engagement.  The couple represented the two wealthiest families in Minneapolis, even if Walter was essentially nouveau riche.  His grandfather had been a common pharmacist, a stigma that was difficult to escape in their social circles. 
 
Only Rose's grandfather had truly disapproved of her fiancé, though, snorting in contempt as if he could smell the bourgeoisie in his blood.  To this day, he would not recognize Walter as a member of the family, despite her husband's dedication to both family and business.  This saddened Rose, but she knew to treat her grandfather with respect.  He was the patriarch of the Fairmonts, after all.

As Rose drifted gracefully down the dark hallway toward her bedroom, she glanced over the family portraits that lined the walls.  Her heritage was of great importance to her, and she could only hope that she would live up to the proud Fairmont name.  If nothing else, she had earned admiration for her skills as hostess. 

At the end of the hallway, Rose paused and slowly turned around.  She had felt as if she were being watched, but there was not a soul in sight.  If the last few weeks were any indication, she would find Walter in bed, fast asleep.  Amused by her own skittish behavior, she opened the bedroom door and stepped inside.

Something soft but firm clamped over her mouth, startling her.  Before she could think to pull away, her vision began to blur.  Rose soon fell limply into waiting arms.




"This was a bad idea, Paul."  Russell Hatcher paced back and forth across the cramped bedroom, sporting a five o'clock shadow.  He was dressed in pants, suspenders and a dirty undershirt.  In the corner, "Happy Days are Here Again" was issuing from Margaret's tinny tube radio.  "I shouldn't have let you talk me into this."

His older brother was crouched against the wall, his head bowed.  Under the circumstances, Paul felt surprisingly calm.  It seemed to him that the worst part was over.  "I think you need a drink, Russ."

Russell grinned nervously.  "Why did you take her purse?  Just tell me that." 

Paul looked up at him with perfect composure.  "We don't know that much about her.  She might have needed special medicine, and it's not like we could have gone back for it."

Russell sighed and sat down at the foot of the bed.  "Well?  Did you find any medicine?"

"No.  Lots of perfume, though."  Paul had no idea why any woman would need so much perfume.  As he saw it, the upper class were a breed apart.  "Look, just relax.  Everything's going according to plan, so let's not lose our heads." 

Margaret entered the room, her arms crossed.  She had curly brown hair, and she was wearing an old and worn black flapper dress.  "I just found our guest gagged and tied to a chair.  My god, Paul."

Paul stood up and placed his hands on his wife's arms, rubbing them gently.  "Margaret, that's what happens when you kidnap someone.  Now we've talked about this.  She won't be here for long."

She shook her head wearily, staring into his eyes.  "Is that supposed to make it okay?  She's probably terrified right now, and she can't even move or talk.  She did nothing to deserve this."

Russell laughed.  "How do you figure?  A rich snob who lives in her perfect little world and never lifts a finger for anyone...I say let her be scared."

Margaret glanced at him, and then her eyes returned to Paul.  "I didn't want any of this.  You know that.  This is your plan, and I've given up on trying to stop you.  But I won't have some poor woman tied up in my living room."

Paul hesitated.  "A living room you won't have when the bank finally forecloses on us."  He pulled her close and kissed her.  "I'm doing this for you.  The way things are, this is the only way I can provide for you."

She rubbed her nose against his.  "I know, Paul.  But if you don't untie her, I will."

"Dammit!"  Russell stood up and began pacing again.  "You could have said something earlier, Margaret.  What exactly are we supposed to do?  Just hand ourselves over to the police?"  Leaning against the dresser, he closed his eyes and massaged his forehead.  "Maybe I do need a drink."

Paul scratched his neck, thinking.  "Okay, look.  I'll talk to her, see how it goes.  Maybe we can work something out."

Russ lay down the bed and took a deep breath.  "I'm telling you, this was a bad idea."




Rose was sitting perfectly erect in a chair from the dining room table.  Her wrists and ankles were bound to the chair by rope, and she had clean rags stuffed in her mouth.  She still smelled of fine perfume.  Russell's hunting rifle was leaning against the wall, fully loaded.  He claimed that it would help keep Rose under control, but it only made Paul more nervous.

As Paul knelt in front of Rose, she made no attempt to move, and her eyes seemed quite calm.  Maybe we're the only ones who are terrified.  He glanced uncertainly at Russell, who was sitting on an arm of the sofa, and then he began.

"Okay, listen to me, Mrs. Matheson.  We're not going to hurt you.  I'll take the gag out of your mouth, but only if you agree to stay calm.  Can you do that?"  She nodded, and he removed the rags.

Rose looked the two brothers over, her expression almost curious.  When she spoke, she did so with poise and articulation.  "Don't the poor in this town have any manners?  This is hardly the way to treat a lady."

Paul sighed.  "It was a matter of necessity, Mrs. Matheson.  We're thinking about untying you, but you have to be on your best behavior.  No running away, no trying to get help.  You stay in this house until we get the ransom from your husband.  Don't cause any trouble, and everything should go smoothly for all of us."

Rose rolled her eyes.  "I'm a lady of refinement, and I can certainly behave myself.  Besides, my husband will spare no expense for me, so this is little more than an inconvenience.  Though I do hope to attend the masquerade ball tomorrow night.  It would be quite the faux pas if I were not to make an appearance."

Russ smirked.  "A masquerade ball, huh?  Don't you rich people have anything better to do with your time?"

Ignoring his brother, Paul shook his head.  "I'm afraid that's out of the question, Mrs. Matheson."

Rose smiled and nodded.  "That really is a shame, regardless of what your uncouth friend may believe.  No self-respecting socialite would dare to miss such an event.  Not that someone like him could ever understand.  A man who fails to put on clean attire when expecting company deserves his lot in life."

Russell stood and glared at her.  "Hey, I'm not the one who's attending fancy parties while people everywhere go hungry.  We're in a depression right now, but maybe you failed to notice that from the comfort of your cushy mansion."

She tilted her head toward him.  "If you hold my way of life in such low regard, then why are you so interested in Walter's money?  Perhaps you are jealous, because my husband succeeds where you have failed.  An ambitious man would clean himself up and find a job, rather than looking for handouts."

Russell's eyes widened.  "There are no jobs, Lady.  And I feel sorry for your husband, if he has to listen to your bullshit all the time."

Rose slowly shook her head.  "Such language hardly makes for proper first impressions.  Besides, you would love the opportunity to court me.  I can see it in your eyes.  You realize that you are beneath me, though, and it makes you angry."

He laughed, but Paul could see how furious he really was.  "Oh, I wouldn't mind being beneath you, Rose.  But underneath the expensive perfume and the fancy clothes, I bet you're nothing but a cocktease."

Paul glared at him.  "Russ, don't start."  He's going to make this impossible.

Rose narrowed her eyes.  "You simple, vulgar man.  You are in the presence of a lady, and yet you speak as if a colored sailor on shore leave."

Russell approached her, fuming, but Paul stood up and grabbed him by the arm.  "Just step outside, Russ.  Get some fresh air.  I'll handle this."  After a moment, Russ turned and headed toward the kitchen. 

Paul knelt down behind Rose and began cutting the ropes with his pocketknife.  His fingers brushed against hers, and he felt a light stirring in his pants.  There was no denying that Rose Matheson was a beautiful woman.  "This is just for a few days, so try not to argue with Russ.  You'll be sharing the bedroom with my wife, Margaret."

Smiling politely, she rose from the chair and turned to face him.  "Well, at least one of my captors is a gentleman.  You must be the man of the house."




Margaret was lying on her bed in a sheer gray nightgown, one that fit snugly over her ample chest.  In her hands was a tattered, old romance novel, which she had read a dozen times over the years.  She had turned the radio off and was now reading intently.

Rose sat daintily at the foot of the bed, brushing her luxurious hair.  "Why do you read that?  It's old and trashy."

As she turned the page, Margaret glanced at her and sighed.  "I don't know.  I suppose I like to forget about my problems for a while."

Rose smiled sweetly at her.  "You're very pretty, you know."

Margaret grinned.  "Thank you.  So are you, but I guess you hear that a lot."

Rose's eyes grew distant, but she continued to pass the brush through her hair.  "You remind me of someone I once knew.  Her name was Virginia, and we were good friends.  Her hair was red, but you could be sisters."

Margaret set the book aside and sat up.  "Where is she now?"

Rose looked away from her, frowning.  "She went missing, and they never found her."  Then she bowed her head.  "She was a lovely girl."

Margaret sighed and moved closer, placing her hand on Rose's.  "I'm sorry.  About this, I mean.  I promise you that nothing bad will happen to you.  Paul's not like that."

Rose smiled and nodded.  "I'm not afraid.  Your husband is a gentleman.  He'll take me home soon enough."




"Oh, such dreadful news."  Rose's mother slipped the ransom note back into its envelope and handed it to Walter.  "She'll miss the masquerade ball.  What will people say?"

Walter nodded thoughtfully.  "Since it is a masquerade, perhaps we could simply tell everyone that she was there."  They were in his private study, a pleasant heat pouring from the large, stone fireplace.  He had visited the banks earlier, and the chilly December air was almost as dismaying as the rabble that crowded the streets. 

Her face brightened.  "Yes, that should work...oh, but this is so silly.  If these men want money, they should work for it, like your grandfather did."  She frowned and shook her head.  "Now where are my manners?  I didn't mean to suggest that your family was poor."

He smiled, in spite of himself.  "That's quite all right, Mrs. Fairmont.  Actually, there's something else, something I wanted to ask of you.  Here, have a seat."  He pulled his desk chair out for her.

"Please, Walter.  Call me Alice."  She adjusted her wide-brimmed hat and gracefully sat down.

Walter nodded.  "If it pleases you.  Alice...after looking over my finances, it would seem that I'm somewhat short on the ransom money.  Since the market crash, I've been saving money as much as I can, but keeping up appearances alone is so very costly.  I hope you understand."

She smiled and patted his hand.  "Of course, of course.  Why would the poor buy medicine when they can't even dress themselves properly?  It must be very hard on you."

"Yes, I'm afraid it is.  I really do hate to ask this of you, especially given your father's opinion of me..."

Alice stood up, her expression firm.  "Say no more.  I'll not have you beg, Walter Matheson.  You may expect the full amount of the ransom tomorrow afternoon, three at the latest.  Just bring my daughter back as soon as possible." 

He smiled gratefully.  "Thank you, Alice.  Rose is lucky to have a mother like you."

As he escorted her out of the study, she faced him again.  "Oh, and don't involve the police, Walter.  We wouldn't want a scandal, now would we?"

Walter shook his head.  "Certainly not."




The first two days had gone better than Paul could have anticipated.  Russell and Rose generally kept their distance from each other, and his wife had actually made friends with the woman.  Rose did not cause any trouble or complain much at all, even if she regarded her surroundings with obvious, though unexpressed, disdain. 

Night had fallen, and Paul and Russ were playing blackjack at the dining room table.  Paul smiled and flipped his down card over, the revealed ace giving him twenty and the win.  "Someday, Russ, you might want to learn how to play."

Russell did not respond, his eyes fixed on something behind his brother.  After a moment, Paul curiously turned around, and then his eyes grew wide.  Rose was undressing in plain sight of them.

She carefully slipped off her evening gown, not allowing it to touch the floor.  Underneath was a see-through, lacy black slip that did not quite cover her step-in panties, as well as sheer stockings and black garters.  Staring at her long, sexy legs, Paul found himself entertaining thoughts of infidelity.  He blushed and turned back to his cards, his cock stiff.

Russ, on the other hand, seemed unable to look away.  As his lustful gaze shifted across the room, curiosity got the better of Paul, and he glanced at Rose again.  She was now sitting on a stool by the far wall, holding her satin gown up with both hands.  Her black silk brassiere was lying on a nearby chest, and Paul realized that she had just bared her breasts in front of Russell.

Rose looked at Paul, her expression no different than usual.  "It seems that my dress has been soiled.  I would give it to Margaret, but I can't imagine that she knows how to wash something of this quality."

Paul swallowed and nodded.  "If you need something to wear, I'm sure Margaret has some dresses she would let you borrow."

Rose smiled and neatly set the gown aside.  "You're too kind, Paul, but I'll be retiring soon enough."  She reached down and began to unfasten her garters, flashing her breasts in the process.

Russell shook his head, grinning.  "Need any help with those?"  Paul glared at him, but he did not seem to notice.

Rose threw him a disapproving glance, but then her face relaxed.  As they watched, she slipped a silk stocking down her leg.  "I'm a lady, and a married one at that.  I do not engage in such tawdry behavior, Russell."  She lay the stocking on the gown and moved on to the other leg, and Paul could see the shadow of a smile on her face.

Russ laughed, and then he leaned over the table.  "Have you ever seen a piece of ass like that?" he whispered in Paul's ear.

Paul shook his head, but he was no longer looking at Rose.  With growing dread, he was staring at something just a couple of feet behind her.  Russell had left his rifle leaning on the wall, well within their hostage's reach.  Paul's pistol was unloaded and locked away in a drawer, and there were no other guns in the house. 

Thinking fast, Paul stood up and forced a smile.  "Rose...could you please come over here for just a second?"

Rose's smile widened, and she appeared to be the model of innocence.  "Of course, Paul."  After setting the second stocking on the pile of clothes, she stood and approached them.  "Was there something you needed?"

While Paul stepped around her to retrieve the gun, the scent of her perfume enticing him, Russell looked her over and smiled lecherously.  "There's something I need, Rose."

Rose rolled her eyes, still smiling.  "A lady does not entertain such vulgar advances, Russell.  Do contain your baser impulses in the future."   

As Paul returned to the table, she turned and eyed the rifle in his hands.  "Is that why you called me?  Don't be silly, Paul.  I am a lady of refinement.  I would never use a man's weapon, even if I knew how.  Besides, I will behave myself, as I already told you.  I wish you would trust me." 

Paul glanced at Russell and then sighed.  "Rose, I think you should go to bed.  We'll talk more in the morning, after you've dressed."

Rose smiled.  "Then it's settled."  She leaned forward and kissed Paul on the cheek, and his cock stiffened again.  "Goodnight, Paul.  Goodnight, Russell.  Pleasant dreams."  Then she turned and headed for the bedroom.

Paul sat down, shaking his head in disbelief.  "What the hell was that?"

Russell grinned.  "The most beautiful thing I've ever seen.  Can we keep her?"

Paul frowned and leaned over the table.  "Leaving the gun there was stupid, Russ.  Until this is over, you have to be smarter than that.  We have to be very careful.  Okay?"

Russell nodded and started picking up the cards.  "Yeah, okay.  But you can't tell me you didn't enjoy that."




The December wind had fallen still, and the sky was clear of snow.  Paul found Margaret on the porch swing, staring up at the stars, and he joined her.  They held hands for a while, the silence disturbed only by the chirping of crickets.  Then she smiled at him.  "Are they asleep in there?"

Paul shrugged.  "Rose went to bed, but Russ got the Scotch out again."  He squeezed her hand.  "Just one more night, and this will all be over."

Margaret looked down at her lap, frowning.  "And then we have to leave the country.  Leave everything behind, just like that."  She shook her head.  "I don't know, Paul.  I know things haven't been easy lately, but this...I just don't know."

Paul leaned over and kissed her ear.  "It won't be so bad.  And we'll come back someday.  This whole thing might just blow over."

She stared into his eyes.  "Paul, this is my home.  Not just the house, but Minneapolis.  America.  I don't know anything else."

He gently kissed her, stroking her hair.  "I know.  I wish it didn't have to be this way."  Then he smiled.  "Let's dance.  Like we used to."

Margaret grinned and rolled her eyes.  "There's no music."

"I'll take care of that."  Paul stood up and extended his hand to his wife.  After a moment, she let him lead her to the center of the porch.  He pulled her close to him and began to sing at a high whisper.  "Button up your overcoat, when the wind is free..."  Paul spun her around, and she giggled.  "Take good care of yourself, you belong to me..."

Margaret kissed him, and then she laughed.  "I love you, you goof."




It was Rose's last day at the Hatcher residence.  She slipped into the bedroom and watched Russell quietly, her eyes lingering over his muscular, working class body.  He was in his undershirt again, and his suspenders hung loose.  They're so much hotter than the rich boys.  They're strong, and they're hard, and they know how to make a girl come.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  I am a proper lady.  I am married, and I love my husband.  I should not be thinking such vulgar things.  And I certainly should not be considering them.  She tried to ignore the growing sensation between her legs, but it was hard to resist.  With every second, being a proper lady seemed less and less appealing.

"The Depression has struck the major league today, as owners have voted to limit teams to twenty-three players.  In other news-" 

Russell shut the radio off, and then he turned around.  He grinned and looked her over.  "Hey.  You're all dolled up again.  I thought you said the dress was dirty."

She smiled seductively and leaned back against the dresser, fingering a strap of her gown.  "Maybe I like being dirty..."  Stop it, Rose.  Stop it this instant.  What will people think?

Now that she thought about it, Rose did not really care what people would think.  She wondered why she had ever cared in the first place.  Did she love her husband?  If so, he seemed strangely distant to her at the moment.  Right now, all that she could think about was falling into bed with this stud.  She glanced at his crotch and was pleased with what she found.

"And maybe I like you dirty."  Russ approached her, coming so close that she expected him to kiss her.  Instead, he lifted the Scotch bottle and shot glass from the dresser.  He poured a shot and offered it to her.  Alcohol is contraband, Rose.  You have to obey the law. 

Rose accepted the drink, and then she downed it.  Tossing the glass aside, she grabbed Russell by the neck and french kissed him.  I am not a proper lady.  They can't tell me what to do.  She pushed him away, grinning wildly.  "Now that I think about it, you're right.  I should not be wearing such a dirty dress.  You'd better be a good boy and take it off of me."

Russell eagerly did as he was told, and the gown slid to the floor.  Kissing her neck, he ran his hands over the waist of her slip.  She pushed him away again, and then she lifted herself onto the dresser.  "The stockings too, Russell."

While Russell unfastened the garters, Rose stared down at him in lust.  She could see the hunger in his eyes, but she wanted him to work for it.  Slowly, seductively, she pulled the slip over the top of her head.

Russ carefully peeled the stockings off, and then she let him kiss her soft, bare legs.  His face wandered to the front of her panties, with no objection on her part.  Meanwhile, she slipped out of her brassiere and dangled it playfully over him.  "Like anything you see?"  She grinned and threw it to the floor.

Russell pulled Rose off of the dresser and tossed her onto the bed.  As he undressed, she excitedly slipped her panties off and kicked them at him.  She was still wearing the garter belt when he climbed on top of her.  He began to ram into her, and she moaned and bit him on the shoulder.

When they had both been brought to orgasm, Russ rolled off of her and headed for the dresser.  She stood up and followed him, grinning seductively.  "Where do you think you're going?"

He threw a shot of Scotch back, and then he smiled at her.  "Just let me rest a minute."

Rose shook her head and fell to her knees.  "You don't have to do a thing.  Just trust me."  She smiled and ran her mouth over his cock.

[Archibael]

Rose
by Salem

Chapter Two

Paul was sitting at the table when his brother strolled into the dining room.  The pistol rested between his hands, unloaded.  Outside, the last shade of dusk was fading from the sky, but his mind was not on collecting the ransom.  The two of them had business to settle.

Russ picked up the deck of playing cards and grinned.  "Care for another game?  I'm on a lucky streak, so I just might beat you this time."

Paul shook his head.  "I know what you've been doing."

Russell smirked and pulled a chair out.  "I'm not surprised.  That doll took a while to warm up, but when she's hot, she's loud."  He began to shuffle.  "I hope it didn't upset Margaret, but when you get an opportunity like that..."

Paul grabbed the deck from him and set it aside.  "She's our hostage, Russ.  We kidnapped her.  I don't care how much of a looker she is, and you shouldn't, either."

His brother leaned back in his chair and shrugged.  "Paul, she made a pass at me.  Rose did it...not me.  I'm telling you, she's a party girl.  She acts all prim and proper, but she has a whole other side to her.  You saw how she was last night."

"It doesn't matter, Russ!"  Paul took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.  "Right now, she made a pass at you.  When she's back with her husband, she might tell a very different story.  And if she claims it was rape..."

Russell looked away, and then he sighed.  "Oh, Christ.  I'm sorry, Paul.  I didn't even think.  She was just so..."  He stared at the table for a moment, frowning.  "Look, there's no reason Matheson ever has to know.  She'll probably just keep her mouth shut.  These rich people, they're all about keeping up appearances, right?"

Paul nodded, feeling anxious and tired.  "I hope you're right.  But something's not right about all of this, and we can't afford to make any more mistakes.  I have to go collect the ransom tonight, so you have to watch her."

He leaned forward with dead set eyes.  "And Russ...you have to be smart about it.  If she makes another pass, just ignore her.  No drinking...and no nookie.  Just wait for me to get back." 

Russell nodded nervously.  "Yeah, Paul.  Don't worry about it.  I won't let it happen again."

Paul glanced out the window and frowned.  What have we gotten ourselves into?




Rose opened her eyes and glanced sleepily around the bedroom.  She was lying on the bed in only her brassiere and panties, her clothes strewn on the floor.  I have to get out of here.  The thought was sobering, and she immediately sat up.

She knew all too well what had happened to her.  They had taken possession of her mind, forcing her to make choices that were not her own.  They had turned her into one of them, when they represented everything that she despised.  Run, Rose.  Now's your chance.  Get away while you still can.

Rose felt panic threatening to take hold, but she forced herself to stop and think.  Paul might be collecting the ransom, but Russell had to be around here somewhere, and he would not let her go willingly.  Frantic, she searched her surroundings for anything that would prove useful.  Then her eyes fixed on something across the room.  The rifle was still leaning against the wall. 

Grinning in triumph, Rose crawled off of the bed and grabbed the gun.  After carefully cocking it, she opened the door and crept out into the hallway.  If anyone heard her, there was no sign of it.

Rose hurried into the living room and headed straight for the front door.  "Hey, what do you..."  She turned and fell against the door, aiming the rifle in the direction of the voice.  Russell was sitting on the couch, his eyes wide.  "Oh, god.  Oh, god.  Rose..."

Her heart thudded in her chest, and she gripped the gun tightly.  "I won't let you do it to me."

Russell shook his head, looking as frantic as she felt.  "I don't know what you're talking about."

Rose grimaced, fingering the trigger.  Everything felt distant somehow, but she was still terrified.  "I know who I am.  Nothing will change that.  Not ever.  Not ever again."

Russell stood up slowly, his hands raised.  "Okay, Rose.  It's okay.  Look, Paul will be back soon, and then he'll take you home."  He managed a smile.  "I promise." 

"I'm sorry."  Rose pulled the trigger, and then Russell collapsed back onto the couch.  The rifle recoiled, and she winced as it struck her shoulder.  Except for the pain, she felt empty inside.  I'm sorry.

"Russell?"  Rose turned to find Margaret at the edge of the hallway, staring blankly at the body.  "Is he..."  She looked at the gun, and tears formed in her eyes.  "You killed Russ?  Why?"

Rose shook her head defiantly, on the verge of tears herself.  "You don't do things like this to people.  They were using me, and...this is not my fault!"

Margaret winced.  "I'm sorry, Rose.  Please don't....don't kill me.  I never wanted this to happen.  You can just walk away, and I won't stop you.  Please."

She's right.  You need to leave.  Now.  Rose knew that this was true.  Time was running out for her, and she could only cause more damage by staying.  If she stayed, she would become like them.

She looks so much like Virginia...




The dark alley was shielded from the worst of the night's bitter wind, but Paul's face was still numb.  He watched from behind some boxes as Mr. Matheson passed through the alley, briefcase in hand.  The man seemed not so much frightened as disgusted.

Paul pushed Rose's husband up against a brick wall, nearly knocking his fedora off.  He aimed the pistol at the back of Walter's head.  "Don't try anything, Mr. Matheson.  Don't even look at me, for your own safety."

Walter nodded slightly and let the briefcase fall on the ground.  "The money's all there.  Just give me my wife back."

Paul hesitated, and then he shook his head.  As much as he wanted this to be over, he refused to move forward blind.  "Before I even think about it, I want to know what's going on."

Walter frowned, clearly nervous.  "I don't know what you mean."

"I can tell that you're lying, Mr. Matheson.  Your wife's behavior started changing last night.  It was like she became a completely different person.  I want to know why."  He sighed.  "Is she crazy?"

Walter pursed his lips.  "It's none of your concern."

Growing frustrated, he shook his head.  "It became my concern when she entered my house."

Walter glared bitterly at the wall.  "And whose fault is that?"

Paul pressed the muzzle against Walter's head.  "Quit stalling, and tell me the truth."

After a moment, he nodded.  "All right, you win.  Originally, Rose was not everything her parents could have hoped her to be.  As a teenager and young lady, she was wild and rebellious, lacking in social graces.  She drank heavily and danced in a lewd fashion.  She was enamored with jazz, in all of its debauchery.  Worse yet, she would take boys to bed with her.  Poor boys."

Paul smiled coldly.  "And I bet you wished it was you."

Walter sneered.  "Rose was a beautiful woman from a prestigious family, and I was quite smitten with her.  But she was out of control.  Her family did everything they could to cover up her many transgressions, but then she went too far.  She committed an act so debased, so heinous, that her father could not stand by and do nothing."

Paul frowned.  This was taking longer than he had expected.  "What are you talking about?"

He sighed.  "Rose's father...he found her in bed with another woman.  She was not even ashamed of it.  She dared to claim that she was in love, as if such a thing were possible.  So her father came to my father, asking for a medicine that would treat her perversion."

Paul shook his head.  "You're telling me that this is all because she went off her medication?"

"In a manner of speaking.  My father knew of a drug that would place a person in a trance.  You might liken it to hypnosis, if you know what that is, although I am referring to something much more powerful.  While under this trance, Rose could be directed to think and behave in whatever manner was suggested to her.  It worked wonders on her, transforming her into the charming, sophisticated socialite that you have no doubt witnessed."

Paul glared at him.  "I don't believe any of this."

Walter smirked, his eyes burning with resentment.  "You could tell that I was lying before, so you must know that I am not lying now.  Unfortunately, the drug's influence proved temporary.  After only a couple of days without treatment, Rose would begin to act erratic, even licentious.  Her father agreed that I should marry her, so that I could provide her with constant supervision and moral guidance." 

"And so, for more than three years now, Rose has been given supplemental treatments every thirty-six hours."  He paused and shook his head.  "Until now.  You have disrupted her schedule, and what you are witnessing are the inevitable consequences.  Now could we please get this over with, so that I can fix the damage that you have caused?"

Paul shook his head in disbelief.  "You expect me to hand her over to you, so that you can mess with her mind again?  You're a sick man."

Walter hissed in outrage.  "No, she's sick.  Don't you understand?  Rose was treated because she was depraved.  She crossed a line that you simply do not cross.  The old Rose was nothing but a burden to her family, a black sheep.  It was for the good of everyone that she was treated and reintroduced into society.  No one wants her the way that she was, except to indulge their own sexual fantasies."

Paul felt ill.  "You don't care about any of that, you low-life.  You just want a beautiful wife that you can control."

Walter's eyes widened.  "And I earned that!  She's mine!  I have spent years providing for her in every possible way.  I give her love, attention, more money than I can afford to part with.  I watch over her and protect her from herself, when others would use her and throw her away."

"And who are you to question me?  What gives you the right, when you stole her freedom for your own selfish needs?  She's my wife.  She belongs to me.  You can't have her."

Paul glared at him.  "You're not going near her again."

"No, wait!  Listen to me, for your own sake.  Rose was always one to act out, to ignore social conventions.  After years of being forced into a life that she did not ask for, there's no telling what she's capable of.  You don't want that.  I love her.  I always have.  Let me take care of her."

"Goodbye, Mr. Matheson."  Paul raised the pistol and slammed its butt against Walter's head.




In the bedroom, two of the dining room chairs were now facing each other.  Rose sat in the one nearest the door, still wearing a silk brassiere and step-in panties.  Her eyes studied Margaret's blissful face.  She adored every part of this face, from her soft lips to the tight curls of hair that spilled over her forehead.  She wanted to gaze into Margaret's misty blue eyes, but they were closed.

The radio was playing softly in the background, a song that Rose did not recognize.  Her purse was sitting on the dresser, and beside it stood what looked like an empty perfume bottle.  Rose had watched as Margaret swallowed its contents, confused and frightened.  Such emotions were now beyond her.

The urge to kiss Margaret was strong, but Rose stayed focused on the task at hand.  She spoke carefully and evenly, repeating herself for emphasis.  She was not sure if this would work, having no memory of her own treatments, but she had to try.  This was her one chance to turn back the clock.  Virginia...




Virginia was a daughter of one of the Fairmont's servants, and so she had followed her mother's path and become an upstairs maid.  Rose and she were both eighteen, and Rose had liked her from the start.  She was smart and sincere, almost touching in her compassion for others.  Most importantly, she was not wealthy and had no interest in social status.

It seemed that the two of them could talk about anything, and they shared almost every secret with each other.  There was no one whose company Rose enjoyed more.  Her family disapproved of their friendship, but no more so than any of Rose's other activities.  Mostly, they ignored the girl.

Virginia often visited the jazz clubs with Rose, but she never took any interest in the men that Rose would bed.  Rose figured out why easily enough, and yet she never said a word.  It was the one thing that went unspoken between them.

As time passed, though, Rose grew bored with the company of men.  It seemed that they were interested in only one thing, even if it was something that she enjoyed immensely.  She would always find herself looking to Virginia for intellectual and emotional satisfaction.  One night, she surprised both Virginia and herself with a kiss.  The next night, she took her friend by the hand and led her to bed.

In Virginia's arms, Rose found pleasure she had never thought possible.  It was not because she preferred women, although they offered their own forbidden pleasures.  It was because Virginia loved her, because their time together was never just a physical union.  She grew to love every inch of Virginia's body.

During the next few months, they explored each other in ways they never had before.  When they weren't making love, they were often dancing in Rose's bedroom, their warm bodies pressed to each other.  She believed that they would never be apart.

Then Rose's father had discovered the truth, and everything had changed.  She realized now what had really happened, and she hated them for it.  They killed Virginia.  In a way, they tried to kill her, too.




Rose knelt down before a still entranced Margaret and took hold of her hands.  "I'm sorry about Russell.  I really am.  But I had to do it.  He would have sent me back, and I can never go back." 

She leaned forward, supporting herself on Margaret's lap.  "My family took someone away from me.  Someone very special.  I need her back.  I can't stay here much longer, but for a while, we can be together again.  For a while, you will be my Virginia."  She took a deep breath.  "Wake up, Virginia.  Please come back to me."

Margaret opened her eyes and gave Rose a dreamy smile.  "Rose...I love you, Rose."

Tears welled up in Rose's eyes.  "I love you too, Virginia.  We've been apart for too long." 

For a short while, they stared lovingly into each other's eyes.  Then "Dream a Little Dream of me" started playing on the radio, and Margaret grinned beautifully.  "I like this song.  Why don't we dance, like we used to?"

Rose smiled back.  "I'd like that."  She stood and slipped her arms around Margaret, savoring the feel of her flimsy cotton dress.  Then they rocked slowly to the music, their faces pressed against each other.  As Margaret began to kiss her, it actually felt as it had with Virginia, and Rose cried.

For just a moment, Rose truly forgot that it was someone else.  For just a moment, she was back in her old bedroom, kissing the woman that she loved.  Then reality struck, and she pulled away.  "I have to go now."

Margaret slipped forward and kissed her again.  "No, stay.  I'm your Virginia."

Rose frowned and stroked her cheek.  "I know you are.  And I'll always love you.  But it's not safe for me here."

Her eyes filled with lust, Margaret began to remove her dress and slip.  "Make love to me.  Just one more time, Rose.  I'll never see you again."

"I...I can't."  Margaret pressed her body against her, though, and Rose found herself kissing those inviting lips.  Just once more.  There might still be time.  Her hands pawed at her lover's blue brassiere.  She managed to unhook it, and Margaret's beautiful breasts spilled forth.

Margaret took her hand and led her to the bed, just as she had led Virginia that first night.  Rose fell on top, and her mouth explored Margaret's breasts as they both tore the rest of their undergarments away.  Then Rose slid her face down her lover's body.  Margaret must have realized what was coming, because she moaned before Rose's tongue even went to work.

When it was finished, they rolled over and traded places.  Margaret proved a quick learner, and Rose soon felt dizzy with pleasure.  Breathing heavily, she massaged her own breasts.  Virginia...love you...I'll never forget...

Just before Rose came to orgasm, she heard a car pull up to the house.




Paul opened the door and slipped into the kitchen, greeted only by silence.  He had spent the entire drive home thinking about Rose, and he had come to a conclusion.  They could not take her where they were going, and they could not return her to Walter.  The only choice left was to set her free somewhere, to let her determine her own fate.

He set the briefcase and pistol on the counter, and then he walked into the living room.  From here, he could see no one.  "Russ?  Margaret?"  He called loudly, but no one answered.  Frowning, he returned to the kitchen.

The briefcase and gun were no longer there.  Paul froze, glancing nervously around the room.  For a moment, he felt as if he were being watched.  Then the feeling passed, and he headed for the bedroom.

Paul heard the moaning before he even opened the bedroom door.  Margaret was sitting naked on the bed, touching herself in a sexual way.  He stared at her in horror and slowly approached the bed.  "Margaret?  Honey, what did Rose do to you?"  He sat down and hugged her, kissing her shoulder.  "Margaret, where's Russ?  Tell me where Russ is."

Margaret smiled at him, still fondling herself.  "She had to do it, Paul.  Don't be angry.  I remembered something before she left, something wonderful.  I'm Virginia, and I love her."  She kissed him.  "I love Rose, just like I love you."

Paul grimaced and held her close.  "Okay, Margaret.  It's okay."




Rose sat before her bureau mirror in a blue chiffon gown, brushing her golden hair.  On the radio, "Putting on the Ritz" was playing.  The snowstorm had abated for the time being, which meant that the party would not be cancelled.  It was supposed to be a delightful affair.

Behind her, Walter watched every graceful stroke that she made with loving attention.  It seemed to her that he should be getting ready, but it was hardly her place to tell him his business.  Besides, he had nearly lost her, and it was only natural that he feel possessive.  She smiled radiantly at him through the mirror's reflection.  I love my husband.

Walter smiled back, nodding.  "You look beautiful, my love.  Everyone will be jealous."

She set the brush down.  "How charming of you to say, Darling.  I am quite fond of this dress."

He stepped forward and placed his hands on her shoulders, and then he nervously cleared his throat.  "Later, after the party...when we're alone..."

Rose nodded and placed her hand on his.  "I will do the thing with my mouth.  The thing a lady doesn't say.  Don't worry, Walter.  You will love it."

Walter smiled timidly.  "And it's all right, because I'm your husband.  As long as you tell no one."

She smiled sweetly at him.  "You're right, of course."

He knelt down beside her and took hold of her hand.  "Rose, I want you to promise me something.  You are not to talk to anyone about your kidnapping.  Especially the police." 

Walter kissed the bruise on her shoulder.  "The man who raped you is dead, but if the others were caught, they could cause problems for us.  They might tell embarrassing lies that would create quite a scandal.  You know how the poor can be."

"Of course, Darling.  Whatever you think is best."  Rose leaned down and kissed him, her tongue gently exploring his mouth.  Then she pulled away and stared lovingly into his eyes.  "You are the man of the house."

[Archibael]

Checkers
by Ms Myrrh



My men and I had burst into the room moments earlier but we had already lost our momentum. Guns drawn, warrant out, standing around like a bunch of fools. We had expected multiple women, not just one. And multiple men. The lack of men was disorienting. There was only the blonde, her hair back in a black bow, a rope of pearls around her neck, and a white dress showing off ample cleavage. Her heels and hose shaped her legs distractingly.

My men, seasoned as they were, couldn't help but stare. And neither could I. I'd thought I was a hardened man - as used to the tarts on the street as the murders in the alleys - but I wasn't that hard. Well, actually, I was hard, but not in that way.

"Officer..." she began, looking at me.

"Harris, ma'am."

"Harris. How may I help you?" she asked in a low-pitched voice. A voice like the whisky I drink when I go to the bar alone after work. A voice like all the smoky blues singers rolled into one.

"Ma'am, we've got a warrant here to search the premises and arrest all occupants."

She arched a delicate eyebrow.

"On charges of prostitution and gambling."

She arched the other eyebrow.

"I'll send my men upstairs, if that's all right with you, ma'am."

"I certainly can't object, since you've got a warrant."

I nodded at my men and they rushed up the stairs, seemingly relieved to have something to do.

"While we wait, why don't we play a game? Checkers, perhaps."

"I don't play games, ma'am," I replied, trying to sound stern, "and my men won't be that long."

"Certainly you play checkers," she said, sounding amused.

"No, ma'am."

"And you don't gamble."

"No, ma'am."

"And you don't visit dens of iniquity."

"Not on my salary, ma'am."

She laughed at this and I started to relax. My men would get the girls upstairs and any johns that happened to be with them. I'd take the blonde in along with everyone else. We'd book 'em, fingerprint 'em, and let 'em go - if the Madame could pay the bail. Then I could go to my bar, drink my whisky, and think about the blonde.

"Perhaps a drink, then," she suggested, "and, please, call me Louisa."

"Whisky if you've got it," I nodded, taking off my hat and holstering my weapon. She moved to a small ornate bar cart and lifted the center lid to reveal a variety of drinks.

"Looks like you do a lot of entertaining," I said.

She nodded as she lifted out a decanter, lowered the lid, then opened a side door for two tumblers.

"Straight up, I'm sure," she said, pouring a finger for each of us.

"You know your men," I ventured, hoping to lure her into admitting something.

"I know my officers. Whisky's the drink of choice for any policeman in any town," she crossed the room and handed me a tumbler. "Cheers."

"Been to many towns?" I asked after a sip. It was good whisky but I wasn't sure which label it was. A label I couldn't normally afford, that's for sure.

"Oh, I've been around the world, officer. But I have to admit there's nothing like a whisky and a game of checkers to while away the time."

"I don't quite understand your fascination with checkers," I said, half a smile on my lips. She smiled back.

"It's an innocent game, a child could play it, but for all that there's strategy. There are only two players - someone wins, and someone loses. I rarely lose."

"Not just in checkers?"

She smiled again, more like a smirk.

"Your officers are taking their time," she said, moving to sit in an overstuffed chair. She gestured for me to do likewise. I sat and looked around the room. Red fabric walls, as one would expect. A room large enough to hold four distinct sitting areas. A piano in one corner. Potted plants and miniature trees. Lace-etched glass lamps supported by polished brass. Extra pillows with fringe. It made me uncomfortable. I focused on the blonde instead.

"They're a thorough bunch of men. Good men," I said. But I was worried. Usually one would hear screams and denials and angry male voices. One would hear the heavy tread of men trying to escape. But I heard nothing.

"How much did the Madame pay for soundproofing?" I asked. The blonde didn't answer. She took a sip of whisky and changed the subject.

"Since you don't play games, what do you do in your free time?"

"Ma'am, this is Chicago, I have no free time."

"The Windy City keeps you moving along, is that it?"

"That's it," I agreed.

"You must be tired," she said.

"Not at the moment. Whenever we bust a joint I get kinda wired up," I admitted.

"It's too bad you're busting the wrong joint," she said.

"All the dames say that," I shot back automatically.

"There's only myself this evening," she said. "Your men aren't finding anything upstairs."

"Then why've they been gone so long?"

"They're probably," she paused and shrugged her shoulders, "probably just searching thoroughly."

I was starting to fidget. If my men couldn't find anything illicit I was going to let Lenny the Pigeon really have it.

"This is not a whorehouse, Officer Harris. Nor is it a gambling hall."

"Then what is this? A checkers hall?"

She chuckled at this. A deep, throaty chuckle that wasn't nearly as innocent as she looked.

"I have... guests from time to time. But there's only little old me. I don't gamble, I don't whore, I just... play."

"I don't play games."  I started to rise from my chair. As far as I was concerned, women like her played one game only - and it wasn't checkers. She didn't respond to me, but took another sip of whisky.

"How about a game of checkers, Officer Harris? Your boys might take a while."

"How 'bout I just go on up there myself and see what the hell is going on?" I said, tossing back the last of the whisky and stepping toward the stairs.

"If you like," she said. I headed up the stairs, the thick carpet runner muting my tread. The hallway at the landing was dark. The doors to the rooms were closed. A wing of 'em went either way and I chose to start out on the right.

The first door was locked. I knocked, then slammed my shoulder against it. It yielded easily and I stumbled into a dark room. I snaked my hand along the wall, searching for a switch. There was no noise, no indication that I'd interrupted anything. When I finally did manage to turn on the light I found an empty room. Completely empty. Not even a rug. Not even a window.  Just a light bulb, a light switch, and a black box - a phone, maybe - next to that.

I backed out and tried the door across the hall. It opened easily. Same thing - nothing. I tried every door and every room was the same. Not even a window.

I headed back to the left-hand hallway and started on the doors. These rooms had windows, at least, but they, too, were empty. Save the last room on the right. The overhead light was on and there was a king-sized bed afloat on a sea of deep white carpet. A dresser, a vanity, a wardrobe, and nothing else.

I raced down the hall and down the stairs and grabbed the blonde by the upper arm, pulling her up from her chair.

"Where are my men?" I shouted. She winced at how tightly I held her but she kept her cool.

"I couldn't say," she replied, "Maybe they've stepped out to try to find the real whorehouse."

"They would have come back down here to report to me," I said. She made a little face, the equivalent of a shrug. I jerked her toward me and started to escort her up the stairs.

"You tell me why all those rooms are empty."

"I just moved in and haven't had the chance to set up a guest room. Nor an office for myself."

"What d'you need all those rooms for, anyways?"

"I don't. The house just came with them."

"Why don't any of the rooms in the right wing have windows?"

"I couldn't say. I think they're wedged between two other buildings."

"Why didn't you make your bedroom the one nearest the stairs?"

"What are you, my interior decorator?"

"Is there another exit besides the stairs we came up?"

"Just the window at the end of the hall, next to my room. It has a fire escape outside."

By this time we were at the window. It was closed and locked. I fumed.

"Would you mind letting go my arm now, officer?" she asked quietly. I didn't let her go but turned to her and, with my free hand, circled her throat and forced her to look up at me.

"Tell me where my officers are."

"I told you, I don't know."

I let go of her and shoved her against the wall.

"You got a phone?"

She nodded.

"The main line is downstairs but there's an extension in my room."

I reached for her again and pulled her into her room. She gestured toward a black box on the wall next to the light switch. I let her go and stepped over to it, lifting up the receiver.
----

"It appears you have trapped me, Christian," she smiled at me, fingertip against dimpled cheek. "I don't often lose, and I rarely ever lose this spectacularly. Well, I suppose you win our little bet."

My heart beat faster at the idea that I'd won the bet.

She adjusted her pose on the white carpet, exposing a thigh. The lace at the top of her hose was revealed, as well as the garter snap. I sat still.

"You may approach, darling."

I shuffled over to her in my kneeling position and bent my torso over to unsnap her garter with my teeth.

"Yes, that was a good bet you made. I would have been happy had I won, of course... having you undo my garter with your teeth while wearing a ponytail butt-plug would have been nice - aesthetically pleasing. But I'm certainly not unhappy to lose."

She laughed and I moaned. That laugh, it was enough to make me cum. Except I couldn't. Or wouldn't. That part was a little fuzzy.

She shifted again and I used my teeth to unsnap the other side. Then, trying hard not to put a run in her stockings, I rolled them down her thighs, over her knees and calves, one at a time, with my tongue.

We would play another game to see how I'd remove her dress, but for now it was enough to lick her silky skin. Maybe I'd win the next game, too.

"You like playing games, don't you," she purred. I moaned against her right ankle. "Of course you do. And soon your men will, as well, and we'll have much more to offer the discriminating client."

[Archibael]

A Tale of Two Cindys
by Archibael



It was a day much like any other.

Robert had come to her that evening, made her beg for him, and fucked her until she was pleasantly sore.

Afterward, as she lay dazed in a cloud of afterglow, he told her that they would be having a guest this weekend.

"Topher or Elaine?" she'd replied. Those were their two most frequent playmates.

"Neither. She's someone new."

"What's her name?"

"You'll never guess."

"Mistress Dominique?" she came back, playfully.

He chuckled. "No, kitten, she's not "Mistress" anything. She's a sub, like you."

Cindy was quiet. "Really?" There'd never been another submissive before, just a long list of people who would use her mouth and cunt and ass as they wished.

"Really."

"Where did you...where is she from?"

"She lives here in town. Topher met her in an internet chatroom and figured I was right up her alley. She emailed me a picture. I think she sounds like fun." He grinned lasciviously. "Do you have plans Sunday night?"

She smiled into his eyes. "Yes, I plan on making you a wonderful dinner before you take her."

"Break her."

"That too." She kissed him.

*   *   *

Sunday night came soon enough, and as Robert finished the t-bone steak and Cindy's special garlic mashed potatoes, she started to clean up. She was already wearing her slutwear: black satin bra, gartered stockings, and naughty panties. Post-dishwashing, she added black elbow-length gloves and a soft, golden evening gown. The doorbell rang while she was in the bedroom getting changed, and she heard her lover answer it.

She wasn't supposed to go out, yet: he'd told her he wanted some time alone with this new woman before they should meet. Nonetheless, Cindy knew her own house quite well, and knew where she could listen in on the goings-on without being noticed. She headed to the downstairs lavatory, which was a single, thin wall away from the sitting room.

"You certainly look as lovely as your picture."

"thank you." The blush accompanying the words was almost audible.

"Tell me, what do you do?"

"i serve, master."

A chuckle. "I know that, silly, I mean what do you do for work?"

"i...work in an office. in media consulting. it's not important, master."

"True, but I was just making conversation. All right, then. I can see from your nipples that the time for small talk is over. Stand over there and display yourself for me. Slowly."

A swishing sound accompanied some motion by the new girl, and Robert commented, "Nice."

"do you like my tits, master?  doubtless you have seen better."

"They are acceptable. But they are not your tits, slave. They are your fucktits. Aren't they?"

"yes, master. they're my fucktits. and they belong to you."

"If I want them, yes. Turn around." There was a pause, and a clatter of high-heels on the tile. "Tight ass. You must work out. Bend over and hike up your skirt. Ah, good, you wore something demure, as I suggested. Those panties are very pretty, if a bit concealing, but we won't let that persist, now, will we?"

"no, master. should I remove them for you?"

"Not just yet, slave. Tell me: does your husband know how much of a demented little fuckslut you are?"

"n-n-no, master. he doesn't know."

"Where the hell does he think you are?"

"at my friend Susan's house. he's out of town and won't be back until Monday."

"What would he think if he found you here, worshipping my cock like you will be soon?"

There was a barely perceptible instant which Cindy just knew was a shiver of delight and terror. It's how she would have reacted to the question.

"he would be disgusted with me. ashamed. i can't believe i'm doing this. i feel so out of control."

"Not surprising. And how do you feel about that?"

There was happy agony in her voice. "horny, master. this fuckslut wants to worship your cock."

"Soon enough. Get the rest of your dress off. You're wearing too much. Leave the heels and gloves on. And...okay...the panties and stockings."

Cindy looked down at her own heels and gloves, and wondered exactly what the other woman was wearing.

"Much better. Now come here."

"yes, master."

"What is it that you want, you little slut?  I can see from the thin material between your fuckwhore legs that you're already wet. What is it, exactly, that you want done to you?"

"whatever you want to do to me, master. i feel so helpless."

"Hmmm...an okay answer, but pretty lame. Do you want me to take your ass?  Or to tie you up and pluck your pubic hairs out one by one?  Or maybe fuck your mouth?  Oh, I realize that we'll do all of these things, but which one would you prefer?  I'm a kind slave-driver. I might just give you your choice."

Cindy heard a gulp. "in my...in my mouth, master. please, let me taste your cock."

Cindy was getting sympathetically wet. She knew well what her master's cock tasted like, and what it felt like when he came all over her tongue.

"An excellent choice!  I'm a big fan of fellatio. Well, you should start by assuming the positio - " He hissed angrily. "Ah!  Ah!  Did I tell you that you could touch my cock, bitch?"

"no, master, I just thought - "

"Yes, I can tell you did. Hands at your sides. You didn't let me finish."

"i'm so sorry, master."

"You should be. I'll kick your ass out on the street in your underwear if you don't stop jumping ahead in the game. Now quiet. You're in the position, now, but something's missing...You know, I prefer to fuck pussies. Mouths are great and all, but something's missing, somehow. When you pull your cock out and there's that wonderful aroma of bitch in heat...and a girl's throat doesn't wrap itself around you like a glove and squeeze uncontrollably in orgasm, does it?"

"no, master."

"I will fuck your mouth, but only if it smells like pussy, as all good holes should. Do you understand me?"

"i...i think so, master."

"Do you?"

There was a silent moment, with some fumbling and a wet sound.

"Stop that!  Did I say you could finger yourself?  Oh, I see. I admire your creativity, what with the smearing pussy on your lips and all. But it's not what I had in mind. Cindy?"

Cindy stopped eavesdropping and walked out at the same time as she heard the other woman inquire, "yes, master?"

"Ha. Oops. My mistake. Cindy," he said as he saw the gold of her dress, "I'd like you to meet Cindy." He indicated the kneeling blonde. She was an older woman, about thirty-five years or so, and a portrait of creamy complexion, with elegant aristocratic features that seemed misplaced on a cowering, mostly naked whore with moisture smeared atop her lipstick. Her black panties had a pretty pink fringe on them, and covered a black garter belt; the ensemble was completed by matching pink pumps and long gloves. The panties were obviously damp.

"Cindy," he said to the new slavegirl, "this is my other slut, Cindy. You don't really look too much alike, but I'm sure you've got quite a lot else in common."

"um...hello."

"Hello. Welcome to my home."

"your home?  but I thought it was Master's - "

"She shares everything with me, don't you, my pet?"

"Whatever is mine, I give you, master."

"I know, dear. Well, I need something right now."

"Anything."

"Very good. Cindy, here...the other Cindy?  The blonde Cindy?  I don't know how to refer to you two!  Calling you 'fuckslut Cindy' and 'cuntwhore Cindy' would be too confusing for me- I'd still get you mixed up. I'll figure it all out later, but at any rate, she's in dire need of tasting my cock and her mouth is not cunty enough for me yet. I need you to smear your twat on her face for...oh, a good half hour or so. Do you think you can do that for me, kitten?"

"I think so, master. Does she...um...know what she's doing?"

"A good question. Slave, have you ever eaten pussy before."

"no, I - no, master."

"Why not?"

"i...don't know."

"A damn shame. Every girl should, from time to time. Women are delicious. As you'll soon find out. Go over to her right now," he pointed toward the younger girl, "on your knees, and ask her nicely if you can please use her pussy to make your mouth smell better."

The kneeling woman slid across the tile, the slick sheen of her nylons making it less clumsy than it should have been. She looked up at her younger, brunette namesake and, with a trembling lip, mumbled, "may I please use your pussy to make my mouth smell better?"

Before the standing woman could say anything, Robert cut in, annoyed. "That wasn't very impressive. One might get the impression you didn't really want to do this- to make your mouth worthy of my cock. Is that the case?"

"no, master. i -  no."

"Then ask nicely if she will please help make you into a cuntmouthed slut."

"please...um, can you help make me into a cuntmouthed slut?"

"More."

"please, i need to have your cunt on my face so i can be worthy of my master's cock. may I eat your pussy?  please?  i know i've never done it before, but i'm a fast learner, and i know i can make you come!"

A slight inclination of Robert's head indicated that this could proceed- and not a second too soon, as far as the brunette slave was concerned. She hiked up her golden dress, exposing her soaked, crotchless panties to the other woman's gaze even as she braced herself against the couch to remain standing.

The blonde hesitated another second or two, and then a final glance at the irresolute Robert made her edge forward the final distance and place her mouth at the juncture of the younger girl's legs. She took some tentative licks with her tongue on the girl's clitoris, and apparently saw by the glazed expression above her that she was having an effect. Her eyes widened in surprise as the focus of her attention moaned and started thrusting back at her face, juices flowing onto her nose and cheeks, turning her lipstick into a smeared mess from nostrils to chin. Whatever her initial trepidation, she now sent her hands south into her own panties in thrilled celebration of the perverse act she was performing.

Robert encouraged her, here and there, with some commentary. "You're not a bad pussylicker, for a beginner. I've seen Cindy excited about having her cunt eaten, before, but never this excited. Tell me, dear, is it because she's a good study in tonguing your slit, or because you like taking her cuntface virginity?"

The blonde was too far gone to respond, as this question raced with the tingling from her clit all the way into the back of her skull, and in answer to his question she could only moan her orgasm through her teeth as she ground herself into the kneeling slave before her.

The slave on the floor, too, was coming gloriously, fingers busily thrusting in and out and around her slit, making it a point to lap up any excess juices that escaped the bounds of the saturated panties. She evidently intended to get her face good and messy with the brunette's juices, so as to fully impress on her master how much she wanted to be prepared for him.

Two more orgasms for each Cindy followed, mostly synchronized, and when the standing girl could stand no longer and slid to the floor for some rest, Robert grabbed the other by the back of the hair and dragged her a few feet across the floor to where he sat on the couch. He lowered his head to hers and inhaled. "Oh, you're a good little cuntmouth, now. Put your cuntmouth on my cock, slave. Go ahead. You wanted it."

And the older woman, disheveled as she seemed, looked radiant as she lowered her lips onto what she had craved. The other girl watched, panting, as Robert, his hands still entangled in blond hair, directed the mouth motions of the woman at his feet. She apparently knew what she was doing, as no matter how deep he thrust into her, she took it hard and didn't flinch or gag. Soon enough, Robert's hip movements were rhythmic, and the brunette knew, jealously, from long experience, that he was about to have an orgasm. He pulled out, though, at the last instant, took a step, and plunged his cock into the younger slave's mouth, instead, pulsing with finality and emptying his balls between those lips, not the newcomer's.

The latter looked hurt...betrayed, almost, as she watched her predecessor swallow the fruits of her own labor. Robert looked over and saw this, and shook his head at her. "Surprised?  I said you could taste my cock. You'll have to work much harder than that to taste my come."

The new slave was unable to refrain from blubbering, and asked how she could be of service, only, "please," she begged, "let me eat your come."

Robert sneered at her. "No crybaby will eat my come. No, you're not worthy of that taste."

"please," she whimpered, wiping her shadowed eyes with the back of her hand, "i'll do anything..."

"You certainly will."

*   *   *

The younger, brunette Cindy held the other over her knee; the nylon of their hose zzziping together as their legs intertwined momentarily now and again. The solid-weight hairbrush made a delightful smack as it struck the blonde's ass, and she could hardly wait to pull down the newcomer's panties and see the red marks on it. Not to mention create some new ones.

Master was watching the Colts play the Bears. She couldn't hear the score through the periodic screeches of the other woman, but she was sure he'd be in to see them both, later. He was sweet like that. And the night was still young.

*   *   *

He didn't wake up until close to eight the next morning. By that time, Cindy had entered her kitchen and was already cooking him a fine meal of apple-cinnamon oatmeal, scrambled eggs, and some artery-choking-yet-delicious-smelling bacon. When he emerged from the bedroom in his work shirt, wool slacks, and tie, he grinned broadly at the aroma, and sat down in front of her. She let him eat first. She liked to satisfy all of his appetites.

There was silence as he wolfed the food down, barely stopping to taste it, but evidently enjoying himself nonetheless.

"Cindy...the other Cindy, I mean. She has the most phenomenal body I've ever seen."

"Yeah, she's quite a hot piece of ass," he replied, carelessly.

"And she was so utterly...uninhibited."

"Yeah, she didn't hesitate much, did she?"

"She did everything you told her."

"Mmm. This bacon is excellent. I can't believe you cooked this in the microwa - " He stopped at her expression. "What's wrong, now?"

"I was thinking that maybe...since she's...that you wouldn't want me anymore."

Laughter filled the room, and she turned her eyes down, trying not to let the tears show.

"You're worried about her?  Maybe I misjudged you. I thought you were smarter than that. Get my cock in your mouth while I explain something to you, Cindy. There...That's it. You know what to do.

"What do you think I'm playing at, here?  I'm your master, not because you've given yourself to me, but because I took you. I stripped away all that crap you felt you owed to your boyfriend and reduced you to bare lust that day on my couch, and made you so far gone you would do anything to be mine. Niiice. Keep doing that.

"And you did become mine. The things we did at first were things you'd fantasized about: the public places, the ass-fucking...but the real things I had you do- the good stuff- were things you didn't want to do. That I had to make you do. Not just make you do, but make you want to do. Fucking girls, baring your smokin' little body for all to see, the cane...those were things you'd been repulsed by, and I knew that. And that's why I had to make you want them.

"That bitch was almost begging to be smacked around, and she barely even knows me. You could hear it in her the timid voice, like she was speaking in all lower-case or something. And the constant "master" refrain. I know I'm the master, I don't need her to remind me in every sentence. It's nauseating. Some vague attempt at resistance would be an improvement. My God, woman, did you think I got off on the cowering and the groveling?

"No, the real turn-on is bending a will to mine." He pushed himself deeper into her throat, a cruel smile on his face, watching her finger herself in time to her face-fucking. "Knowing I'm owning you, knowing that you know I own you. That...thing in there is too mushy. She barely even has a will to bend!" She pinched her nipples with one hand, and probed her cunt to a thunderous climax with the other. The moan she elicited from herself was just the vibration needed to send him over the edge, and he rammed his cock into her mouth with a force that left her scrambling to properly compensate with her neck. His load spurted into her as he grunted with the effort, and she greedily swallowed every smooth gram.

"I find that Cindy...distasteful." He shrugged. "You can have her, though. Use her as your whore, just don't let her use your name. She's doesn't deserve to." He zipped his trousers, then kissed her on the forehead. "I have to get back to work, doll."

She stared deep into his eyes. "I love you."

"I know." He caressed her cheek from temple to jawline. "I love you, too."

She smiled in mute adoration as he picked up his briefcase and left, and she soon finished off her coffee and went back into the bedroom.

Her prey was still asleep, and as curled into a ball as the nylon bonds would permit her to be. The girl slid into bed next to her, enfolding her in an embrace and caressing her naked ass. The previous night's events were evidently still a factor in her comfort, as the rubbing of the sore area made her groan a little and her eyelids flicker. The gentle strokings moved to the sleeping woman's front, and she slowly woke up. She looked disoriented, then memory flashed in her eyes as she realized where she was and who she was facing.

"wh - what are you - where is Robert?  i...i mean, 'Master'."

"Oh, Master's gone, now. He's got more important things to do."

"more..." The mousy woman bit her lip and momentarily considered what to say. "i think i ought to go, now."

She was met with a smirk. "Go right ahead."

"i can't. will you untie me?"

Derisive laughter was the only response.

"what?"

"I'll untie you, little one, but first you have to pleasure me." The dark-haired woman crawled up toward the headboard and opened her robe to reveal the wiry black hairs of her pantiless crotch.

Silence. "please, i...i have an appointment!"

"All the more reason for you to get busy with your pussy-eating, then." She pushed the mound of her slit towards her companion's face, watching with a grim smile as the other woman recoiled.

"please, i don't want to do this. i'm not like this."

"Honey, I've had my cunt licked by both the willing and the unwilling. There's a certain impressive zeal that comes with enthusiasm, and I assure you: based on last night, you want to. I don't know why you're so shy about it, but it's clear you love to have my pussy smeared on your face." She scooted forward, knees trapping the other woman's head in place, forcing the blonde to stare directly at her sex. And to smell its aroused state.

"that's not true. i only did that...for Master, to be a good slave for him. i don't like girls." She was on the verge of crying, but her nostrils were flared. Cindy- the real Cindy- couldn't see from this position, but would be willing to bet that somewhere out of sight, nipples were tightened into little rocks.

With a skillful movement befitting a dancer's grace and strength (or a wrestler's), she parted her legs, bucked her hips forward, and quickly reasserted her grip on her quarry, this time with her thighs capping the girl's ears, and her muff right across the girl's lips. "Well, Master told me you're not worthy. He said you're too pathetic a plaything for him to even bother using." The bright blue eyes looked up at her, barely visible over her navel, filled with salty teardrops. "And so he gave you to me. Drink up, cuntmouth. Get your dirty little lesbo tongue moving on my clit."

The brunette felt more than heard the sigh from between her legs, and then there was building pleasure as the tongue below began its work anew. With enthusiasm. And impressive zeal.

The older woman's tears mixed with the fluids from her superior's tangy cunt, and she relished the feel and taste of both, indiscriminately.

[Archibael]

The War Of Art
by Geo


   
    1934.  It was a tough time to be a cop.  The Great Depression was still in full swing, flooding the city with desperate men and women looking for a chance, any chance, at a good life.  And while prohibition was over, the war for control of the city's streets was not and people with nowhere else to turn became more fodder for the enemy.  We were out numbered, out gunned and, to make the fight completely unfair, we were the only ones who had to follow the rules.
   
    It was also a tough time to be a lady.  We had rights, suffrage was long past, but still we were about as equal as a black man in the sixties.  On the police force, the actual crime-solving work was limited for women.  I was just a glorified typist and, if I was good, maybe they'd let me outside to see the streets once in a while.  Women were not suited to solving crimes, or so it was said, so we worked in the police force on the menial tasks while the boys did the real jobs. 
   
    But, let me tell you, no matter how irritating the job was and no matter how tough it was to swallow your pride and do less than you were capable of, it was even tougher time to be a woman if you were trapped naked in an apartment, tied to chair.
   
    "You see, my dear," said my abductor, a man in a white smock being attended to by a French maid, "that which I paint becomes law.  Not the kind of law you are used to, but natural law.  Life, death, it does not matter.  The brush is a law unto itself. 
   
    "You see, I have only to paint you serving me, and you will do as I say.  Just as my lovely companion here does."
   
    The maid giggled sweetly while she dusted.  Seeing the brunette parading around in a costume that would get her arrested by the vice squad made the scut-work I did at the precinct look far better than it had looked.  These were desperate times and people did what they needed to, but working for an obvious lunatic was well past where I drew the line.  If she really wanted to serve her boss, she should have had him institutionalized.  From the way the painter went on and the maid giggled her way through her mindless work, I figured that they were both nuts.
   
    "Alas, while I like the look of you and can always use another maid, I need you for other things.  You see, I need an agent on the police force.  Someone with access to the records who can find things for me that my associates cannot."
   
    "Associates" was likely a very polite way to describe the pinstriped gorillas that had abducted me.  I could not see them, but they lurked somewhere nearby.  The thugs didn't look all that smart, but I'd already found them to be smart enough, as well as very fast and very, very strong.
   
    "I already have a brunette, and your shade of red does not interest me.  I think perhaps a blonde...."
   
    Tied and gagged I could do nothing but watch as he worked, painting me into someone new.  I didn't believe him of course, not at first.  The idea was ridiculous, something you would find in a pulp magazine or on the radio at night.  Then a lock of blonde hair, not my regular red, dropped in front of my eyes.  My first thought was someone behind me dropped a wig on my head, but there was no one behind me.  I'd have heard the floor creaking if there was.  My second thought was that I needed to find a young man, a teenager, named Jacob Kurtzberg.  I had to find him for the painter.
   
    The ropes around my waist loosened and I looked down.  No matter his words, my new master apparently could not stand the idea of an average looking servant.  I was not dressed as a maid, yet, but no doubt he had other ideas and probably other uses for the blonde femme fatal he'd painted me into.  However, that would come after I found the cartoonist for him, not before.  That was my hope, anyway.  The longer I could put it off, the longer the time I had to find my way out of this trap.  I was a cop.  I was going to keep being a cop.  I was not going to be a maid or any other sort of toy, not for him.  Not for anyone.
   
    Fortunately the search wouldn't be easy.  I had only a vague idea of who this Kurtzberg guy was.  A name, a face, and a trade: He was a cartoonist.  That and that the painter was terrified of him was all I knew.
   
    "You see, if I give him half a chance, he will change the world," the painter said.  "Him and that...pencil of his."
   
    He spat the word "pencil" with a strange vehemence, but, as far as I was concerned, a world where a lady could be grabbed off the street and enslaved needed a few changes.  Oh, I'd find the cartoonist for the painter, I had no choice, but whatever world my master had in mind, new or old, I wanted no part of.
   
   
   
    I found returning to my life and pretending to be a free woman to be complicated.  I quickly found the painter had changed more than my look, he also changed my outlook.  I was a magazine illustration, a pinup, the always alluring sort of tart found on the cover of men's magazines.  My attire was beyond my control, I had no need for cosmetics or care in dressing-- things just happened.  Once I deliberately sabotaged my makeup and hair and found everything in place by the time I left my apartments.  Whether it just "happens", whether I only think I'm doing it, or whether I unconsciously fix it, I'll probably never know. 
   
    As much as dressing down was beyond me, so was not playing up.  Everything I did was measured for the maximum possible titillation of as many viewers as possible.  Standing, sitting, typing, walking, and all of my other actions were posed to arouse men, and it was costing me my job.  Certainly there were few reprimands from my superiors-- all of them men-- but my activities were straining the force.  If I didn't have to find someone for the painter, I would have locked myself away to save myself the embarrassment.
   
    And I would have missed out.  No longer appreciated around the precinct after a number of conflicts with the other members of the stenography pool, but having done nothing to be replaced over, I found myself outside more often.  This took me away from my search, which I secretly applauded, and brought me closer to what I had always wished for: a chance to prove myself.  As an overwhelmingly attractive girl, no one minded if I tagged along.  The plucky and adventurous ingénue is always appreciated on an adventure, even one as mundane as tracking down the illicit activities of former rum runners who had "gone legit". 
   
    My fellow lady officers didn't want me around anymore, but the men sure did.  The work the men got to do was so much more interesting and exciting, and no one seemed to mind that I shirked my poorly defined new duties to tag along.  I like to think that I helped out a time or two, spotting things that were missed or lending a feminine viewpoint.  After all, not all criminals are men.  Spending time with the boys, often under their watchful eyes, I found myself liking them a great deal more, even if I couldn't actually do anything with them.  It was frustrating, but a pinup girl can only look sexy.  She never gets to make the first move.
   
    One time I even got to pose as a cabaret singer to bait a trap for a gangster.  It was marvelous, I'd never been able to hold a tune before, but perhaps I'd never really tried before.  My voice was still mine, no paining could change sound, but now I wasn't so bad.  I wasn't exactly good either, but a singer wasn't exactly what Boss Carlin was interested in.  I spent a week working in closer, trying to get the goods to put him away for something other than tax evasion, before being recognized by one of his henchmen.  I must have taken a statement from him at some point or something.  I didn't recognize him, but the painter made me a lot more noticeable than Pug Face Malone.
   
    So for the second time in a couple of months, I found myself tied up in a chair.  This time in a warehouse and this time the knots were nowhere near as well tied.  Nor was I being closely watched, so I could easily have escaped on my own.  Unfortunately, one of the ingénue's main purposes is to serve as bait for the hero who, in this case, turned out to be private investigator Slade Cowan.
   
    With a biff and a pow, Slade put the watchman to sleep, cut me loose and gave me a chance I'd been waiting for.  The ingénue always rewards the hero with a kiss, and so what if the one I delivered wasn't exactly chaste, he sure enjoyed it.  I made sure of that-- once the good guy made the first move, I didn't have to be the good girl anymore, so I took full advantage.  And then it was supposed to be out the door to meet up with Sgt.  Rourke and his men when they arrived, to tell them Slade was inside, but instead I, the plucky adventuress, took the downed guard's Tommy gun and went to settle the score with Pug Face Malone.  I didn't find Pug Face before the sergeant found me, but I did have half a dozen men holed up behind some crates to give him and Slade had Boss Carlin dead to rights, so all was forgiven.
   
    Slade was a god-send.  He knew everybody, and, with the combination of his connections and my having a face that people were always willing to talk to, a bit over a week later we'd found Jacob Kurtzberg.  Six weeks of getting nowhere, six weeks of the painter growing angrier and less patient all put to rest in a week by a motivated guy who knew the territory. 
   
    That evening, I stood naked in front of the painter to report success.  Slade had found the boy he was after and the moment I told the painter Kurtzberg's address, something strange happened: I found myself free.  I'd gone to tell the painter I'd done what he painted me to do and he'd rewarded me by burning my clothing.  He had a new costume in mind for me.  A different sort of suit for a different sort of servitude and I could easily guess what he had in mind.  The black and white maid's costume might as well have been a prison uniform.
   
    'No thanks' was what I was thinking.  He'd have to do more painting to lock me up again like his other bird, so I tried to pretend nothing had changed.  Instead, when he looked at me, I posed and looked at him coquettishly.  Apparently I wasn't that free, but my ex-master didn't notice or didn't care that I was no longer completely his slave.
   
    I waited for the painter to send his gorillas to collect his cartoonist so I could oh-so-femininely punch his lights out-- sometimes the ingénue can escape on her own, and I owed it to myself to take the chance-- and make a run for it, but he made things easy for me. 
   
    "Don't you go nowhere," he said as he, his thugs, and his French moll went out the door.
   
    Even were I not a free person again, mostly, grammar like that would hardly hold anyone for long.  I hurriedly dressed in the clothes the painter had left, an abbreviated police patrol uniform rather than my dreaded maid's uniform.  It was more a swimsuit than street clothes, but it was more than I had and it came with fetching gloves and boots.  A rather attractive ensemble, if you are into that sort of thing, and fitting as I was going to witness the showdown between a young cartoonist and his nemesis, a painter of pinups.  The painter had a pinup maid in his corner so the cartoonist deserved something similar.  He was the good guy, so he got the pinup cop.
   
    I ran down the back and around the side of the painter's studio to where I had left the motorized bicycle loaned to my by my detective friend and raced to warn Kurtzberg that trouble headed his way.  As I drove, I smiled seductively at the people on the streets who pointed and stared at my daring attire and took care not to burn my bare legs on the motor.
   
   
   
    I arrived too late to deliver the warning, but just in time to see the beginning of the stand off.  At one end of the alley stood the painter and his paint-enhanced minions, and at the other stood the cartoonist, all alone.  I leaned the motorbike against the building and walked out for a closer look.
   
    "You see," said the painter, "art is the only tool.  Give it up Jacob; you will only make this more difficult....  You!" The painter's arrogant tone changed when he saw me moving to the side of his enemy.
   
    The cartoonist, still just a kid, flicked a glance in my direction before returning his attention to his opponents.  He held a gun of some sort.  It was large, larger than a person could reasonably carry and obviously fake.  It was drawn-- not in the realistic style of his hunter, the painter, but in the wild manner of science fiction-- with a pencil and ink.  Now I could see why the painter was afraid of this kid.  All the same, I wished I had a weapon with a more convincing reality than the ornate and cumbersome tube, but the best I had was a bit of discarded pipe picked up off of the road.
   
    "Come no closer," the cartoonist commanded, raising his free hand to help steady his wavering cannon.
   
    His warning was ignored.  Howling a rough laughter at the bizarre-looking weapon, one of the painter's muscled brutes rushed the young man.
   
    The cartoonist jerked and the gun lit up, its tip glowing green interspersed with inky black dots.  Everything seemed to freeze for a moment before, with a thundering blast, the device released a bolt of hellacious, coruscating light.  The green ray cut through the alley and seemed to shine right through the charging thug, revealing his skeleton for a moment, before sending the man flying back and through a window across the street. 
   
    In the aftermath of the flash, Kurtzberg held his strange gun, a cloud of the inky blotches drifting upwards, as the B-CHOOM! echoed through  the streets.  The air crackled with energy and smelled odd as I took in the aftermath.  A jagged tear had been cut in a poor building that had gotten in the way of the blast causing one all to fall away while the rest of the building collapsed onto the gaping hole.  Then the cannon dropped from the cartoonist's fingers to the ground and he backed away as the painter's remaining man strode towards him.  Still usable or not, it was clear that the young man did not wish to fire his fanciful gun again.
   
    The grin on the grotesquely muscled goon was a sight of pure menace.  I swung at the brute with my lead club to no avail, for he grabbed it from my grasp and paused to roar and bend it into a horseshoe before casting it away.  The beast raised its huge fists.  In the distance the painter smiled.
   
    Then the tide turned again.  Strange men and women in bright costumes dropped from the rooftops and I saw sights so amazing that they cannot be described here with mere words, but are oft repeated for a few nickels in the magazines at the news stands.
   
    When it was over, the painter and his henchmen were tied up quite professionally with an uprooted lamp standard while a huge grey man and a slightly smaller, but still extremely powerful looking man with a hammer dug through the collapsed building, looking for the injured.  Fortunately they found few wounded and none killed.  A man clad in red white and blue armor and carrying a shield like he was a knight from some medieval America handed the painter's magic brush to the amused looking cartoonist.  They shared a look that communicated something I would never completely understand, but the knight's gratitude was evident.  Then, there work done, the knight, the grey man and all of their amazing friends faded away into nothingness.
   
    Kurtzberg looked at the pen, and then, before I could stop him, he snapped it in two.
   
    "No imagination," the cartoonist said.  "He could have done so many other things with this.  Imagine a world of men who can fly, men strong enough to lift autos, men of fire, men of rubber, men who aren't there...anything could have been possible.  If only he had the imagination."
   
    He looked at me and dropped the paintbrush to the dusty ground.
   
    "Then why did you destroy it?" I asked, looking at the remains of my last hopes at a normal life.
   
    "Because of imagination!  If what I see," he tapped his head, "up here, is real, then it doesn't need imagination.  Killing dreams by making them real too easily is far, far worse than anything the painter ever did."
   
    Frankly, I thought he was nuts and I told him that in no uncertain and quite unladylike terms.  And that is how and when I knew I was truly free this time.  A pinup may get dirty in private, but she's always a lady, albeit a seductive lady, in public.  While we waited for the police to arrive, surrounded by the sometimes injured and always amazed bystanders, the once quiet alley was no longer private. 
   
    The cartoonist ignored my tirade with a smile, sat down beside the enormous gun of his, and proceeded to destroy it with an eraser while we waited for the police.
   
    With the breaking of the pen or the defeat of the painter, I was completely free!  I didn't have to be a femme fatal anymore.  I didn't, but I was anyway.  After all, I still had my painted body and it would have been a shame to waste it.  Besides, it was fun.
   
   
   
    I never saw the cartoonist after that, but I saw my face--ever young and with updated, often wild hairdos--on at the newsstands starting around 1961.  But long before that, in comic books, men flew and lifted automobiles.  He was right; imagination is the true strength of mankind.  Imagination, and the will to fight to make a dream real.

[Archibael]

Temptation
by Gh



Temptation


May 1944

Soho District Flat, London


As soon as Carol Templeton closed the door to her flat she knew she was going to have sex with Jack.  She didn't want it, and she wondered if she actually needed it. 

The fact was, it was going to happen.   He was irresistible, and no wonder why.   She loved the physical attraction that they always seemed to have for each other.  Jack was 26, over six feet tall, and had very broad shoulders.  He was a well-built man, and very athletic.  His soft blue eyes and light brown hair completed the deadly countenance.  She knew he played something called "baseball" back home in America, to stay in shape, but she really didn't understand what that was.  Caroline thought Jack looked great in his olive drab officer's uniform, especially with aviator wings.

There was another thing.  Jack was the only man who never treated her like a whore.  Other men did, and there were lots of other men.  He liked her a lot, and she knew it.  He had proved it by painting her on the nose of his B-17.  "Temptation," he called it.  It was his pet name for her.  He had started calling her that the day he'd painted her on his plane.   Jack took her into combat every day he flew. 

Caroline knew he came from money.  He'd told her he was married and it was a bad one, no love there.  The fact that he was married made things easier between them.  There were no strings, no attachments.  If things got too tight Caroline knew she could put the squeeze on him for money.  She made sure, however, that possibility would never happen.  She didn't want that for them.

Caroline had never brought a man to her flat before.  It was her sanctuary, her safe haven.  But after a night of dancing together at the Palladium and the USO, Jack insisted on seeing her home.  She'd tried to get rid of him, but he lingered, and then insisted on coming in and seeing the entire flat.

He roamed around the place with a look that Caroline could only take as astonishment.  After all, her place was well kept, clean, with fancy feminine ornaments, and expensive furniture.  It was as different as night to day, at least as to his own personal preferences.  Caroline knew Jack was something of a slob.  He'd told her so.  She was sure that there were run-down neighborhoods back where he was from.  The Soho area, however, was something less then what he must have been used to back home in San Francisco. 

Caroline took up a sexy, sultry pose, leaning on the door frame watching him. 

"I like your flat," he said.  "You must have a genius for cloak and dagger.  Who would have thought what this place looked like considering what I saw outside?  Just who are you, Mata Hari?" he said, laughing. 

"Does my neighborhood matter?" she said a little defensively. 

"No honey, not in the least."

Slowly he walked toward her with lust in his eyes.  She knew that look all too well.

She tried to defuse it. "Well, this is my hovel.  I'm glad you like it."  She then looked away and tried to walk by him.

Jack grabbed her and their eyes locked. 

"Oh God, what have I done," she said softly and sighed.

He had told her many times she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.  She loved hearing that, and had actually thought he meant it, once or twice.

Jack cupped her cheeks into his hands and lovingly gazed into her eyes.   He said, "Your eyes could hypnotize, darling.  They could just hold me forever."

Jack had told her many times he thought her eyes looked like Dorothy Lamour's, bright and sultry.  He then began to gently stroke her hair in just the way she loved.  Jack was always stroking her hair.  It was black, long and wavy. 

He drew her into a tight hug and squeezed.  Not a word was spoken.  She knew somehow that it was different this time.  She was too scared to acknowledge or accept anything new between them.

Finally he pulled away and said, "I don't want to fuck this up."

"Neither do I," Caroline said while absently twirling her string of pearls. "I think you should go now."

"There's a time and place for everything," he said. "And this is the time and place I'm going to kiss you and make you mine."

He took close hold of her again and slowly started to nibble on her ear.  She tried to fight the feeling by pulling away, but she knew it was hopeless. 

"Jack stop it!  Mmmm."

"OK."

"Jack, I mean it. Ohhh!"

"I know you do."

Jack then kissed her hard.  Their tongues dueling in a lust-filled pleasure dance.  She broke the kiss off and said, "Jack this is the time and place that you should pick me up and carry me to the bedroom."

"Pick you up?" he asked incredulously. 

"I could crawl, I suppose," she said, and smiled. 

He laughed, scooped her up, and carried her into the bedroom.  He laid her carefully on her bed and started to take off his shoes. 

In a very deliberate manner, she reached for the bottom of her wool sweater and pulled it over her head.

He looked up at her and marveled.  She then reached back and unhooked her brassiere so he could see her perfect, perky breasts.  The nipples were light brown and puffy.

She laid back and smiled as he ripped his uniform off.  Caroline appreciated his quickness with a chuckle.  The uniform was tailored and expensive, but he just tossed the pieces away.  It didn't matter to him.  She knew those things weren't important to him.

"I want you," he whispered.  Jack moved over to her.  He touched her gently and cupped her firm breasts.  Caroline liked the way he handled them.  Then he slowly rubbed his thumbs over her nipples.  Back and forth, very slowly.  She moaned out her approval.

He then straddled her and bent down to suck those irresistible orbs.  Jack took slow, deliberate care licking and stroking the nipple with his tongue before he consumed it.  He worked his magic on one and then moved on to her other.  He pulled and tugged on the nipple he wasn't ingesting.

"Oh yes, Jack.  Oh yes, love.  Just like that."  Caroline gasped and threw her beautiful head back, the wavy, dark black hair hanging straight down. 

Caroline was in near-ecstasy.  She had thought they'd made love very passionately before, but this was getting white-hot.  Her pussy was wet and overflowing.

She bent down and started to stroke his cock.  It was already thick and hard.   

Caroline pushed him over and then, just before she took his cock into her mouth, said, "Jack, we're going to make this night last forever."  She then attacked Jack's cock, licking and stroking it.  Jack's face took on a lustful expression as Caroline began sucking his long, thick rod in earnest.

"Oh, not yet," he moaned when he was close to exploding. "I want this to last too."

He pulled her off.  He moved behind her as she removed her slacks and silk panties.  Caroline quickly moved onto all fours.  She knew his moves by heart, now.  They had spent a lot of time together.

"I want to be inside you, Caroline.  I need to be inside you, now."

Jack was poking and stroking her wet, shiny, pussy up and down with his thick cock. Caroline wanted him in her now, so she pushed back and he entered her.  "Oh, yes!   Fill me up, Jack.  Fill me with your cock!"

Back and forth, in and out, it was beautiful.  She heard him call out his favorite nickname for her. "Temptation!"  Again. "Oh yeah, Temptation, let's ride!"  They were connected now with heat, sweat, and lust.  They fed each other, and for a long time, maybe hours, time just stood still.

She loved the feeling of being filled by him.   Caroline knew, however, that he couldn't hold out much longer.  None of her other men ever lasted this long.  His huge cock tensed up, she could feel it.  He moaned loudly and was breathing heavily.  Then he finally did it and found his release.

"Jack!" she screamed out as he exploded in her.  Caroline hit her orgasm at the same time, as she stroked her clit.

Jack then slowly rolled on his back and dragged her with him.

"Wow," she said softly.

"Yeah, that about sums it up." Jack smiled into the darkness and stroked one hand up and down her arm as she snuggled in close.

Caroline tipped her head back on his chest to look up at him.  Jack was already falling into a slumber.  She knew he had a lot on his mind. 

She thought, "Maybe it's his last mission and he's scared.  He has to go back to his bomber group in Thorpe Abbots in the morning."  Jack had once said his group, the 100th Bomb Group, always took the heaviest losses.  Maybe it was that, if he survived, he would be going back to San Francisco and their magic would soon be history.

It surprised her that she gave it so much thought.  "Do I really care that much about this man?" she wondered.

Whatever he had on his mind would have to wait until morning.  Soon Caroline fell fast asleep, too.  Still cuddled closely in his arms.

Early the next morning, she woke him up to the smell of bangers and eggs frying.  She had never cooked for a man before.  But then she'd never felt this way about any man before. Whatever that was.  She didn't want to go there.

"I've seen a lot of men.  They're just a dime a dozen.  Maybe he is, too," she thought.

He came up behind her in the kitchen, grabbed her, and then kissed her neck. 

She wheeled around and softly stroked his arm and saw that look in his eyes. Then she said, "Talk to me, Jack.  Tell me what's going on.  Let me in."

Jack sat down and just spilled everything out.  He said, "I'm thinking about us. About you."

Caroline said. "Jack, you don't have to."

"Caroline, I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.  I'm leaving my wife. She never loved me. Hell, we never loved each other."

"Don't spoil it, Jack."  She turned towards the kitchen window looking out as tears began to fall.  She continued, "Jack you're just saying what you think I want to hear.  Well, I won't be lied to!"  It was time to protect herself. 

"Oh, so I'm lying?"  She could see his anger rising.  "Temptation, I've never lied to you, not now, not ever!"  He handed her a bundle of envelopes he'd brought with him.  "I knew you'd think I was stuffed, so read these."  They were laid out on the table.

"Jack, listen, people like you don't marry people like me."

"I'm not like people like me, Caroline. You already know that.  Just sit and read, please."

Bewildered, she slowly sat down at the kitchen table and opened an envelope.  Meanwhile, Jack moved over to the stove and took over cooking breakfast as he watched her read. 

There were several letters and forms here.  First, there was a letter from his wife granting a divorce; she was actually replying to a letter he'd sent months ago.  His wife couldn't wait to get rid of him.

Caroline tried to hide her emotions as she read. "He asked her for a divorce?  Is he daft?  Why didn't he tell me?"

There was another letter from his sister Alma, telling him not to worry about anything. His family and money were safe.  She would look after things for him at home, and actually looked forward to meeting Caroline when Jack could bring her home.

"He actually mentioned me to his family?"  She tried hard to repress her hope. She wondered if Jack could read her thoughts or see that her heart was racing.

Then a letter from an artist friend from New York, a man named Vargas.  Jack had a painted a canvas of Caroline, like the one on his B-17.  He'd sold it to Vargas, and now he was going make her famous as a pin-up girl.  A Vargas Girl!

"Wow, Jack!  Are you crazy?" She said aloud as she looked up at him.

She looked back down to the last piece of paper.  It looked official; it was actually orders, reassigning Jack to 8th Air Force HQ, in Wycombe, after he flew his final mission and his tour was over.  He was staying here!

"Oh, Jack can this be real?  Is this really happening?  You're the only man I've ever loved or will love." 

He suddenly looked stern. Caroline was frozen.

Jack simply said. "No more men."

Her reply was just as simple, "No more men."

She leapt out of the chair and into his arms.  They both smiled and hugged.  After breakfast they spent a long, hot, shower together.  Caroline then told Jack she wanted to get married and have a family.  They made plans for their future together.

Later, she walked him outside to the waiting cab.  It was time for him to go back to Thorpe Abbots and his final mission.

They hugged one final time.  Caroline looked up at her man.  It felt good to think of Jack that way.  She had tears in her eyes. "You took a big chance, Jack."  She then said laughing, "You better get back to me safe, and make an honest woman out of me."

"Well, I never could fight Temptation." He then removed a chain from around his neck.  It was his St. Christopher's medal. Jack next removed the wedding band from his finger, unclasped the chain, and slid the ring on next to the medal.  He put it around her neck as he fastened it.

She looked back, confused, until she realized what it was and what it meant.
"Just my bona fidies ma lady.  Take care of this until I get back"

They kissed, said their goodbyes, and waved as Jack left for the train station.  He still had one more mission to fly.  She would count the hours until she saw him again.



Present Day

Vermont Street Apartment, San Francisco


"Ah, yeah.  Oh, yes!"  John moaned in his sleep.  He started to roll a little restlessly, side to side.  Then he felt something.  Something warm and moist on his cock.  This dream was getting better and better.  John's cock stiffened.  "Yes, that's it.  That's good, Lydia.  Just like that."

Moist. Warm.  Sliding up and down his hard cock.  Soft flicking across and under the head.  "Oh, lord, dreams like these are just like the real thing," he thought groggily.

"Whoa. Oh, man!"  John could barely open his heavy lidded eyes. He saw that it was still dark in their apartment.

 He was too tired.  Too tired to think.  "Who needs to think"?  He reached down and gently nudged the back of Lydia's blonde head forward.  She lowered her mouth over his cock and engulfed it. 
 
John, now waking up and somewhat aware, said. "Lydia, what the --"  He suddenly stopped talking when she worked his cock into her throat.  "She's never acted like this before. Oh, this is going to be good," he thought. "I love it." 

His grin was as wide as a split watermelon. "Oh, boy, life is great," he thought.

Moaning and thrusting his hips faintly, John felt a stirring in his loins.  His balls were drawing up, ready to unload their cargo.  He was set to cum.  Then suddenly…

Lydia pulled off.  Without a word, she looked at John with a look of pure lust, pure desire.  John had never seen an animal-like demeanor about her at all.  "A little wicked," he thought, and smiled back at her.

He was speechless, confused, and, naturally, a little frustrated.   The moment took only seconds, but seemed frozen in time.  Here he was, about to go to heaven... then Lydia drops him off in purgatory.  John was about to express his displeasure about the moment being spoiled when Lydia did something even more out of character.  She reached down and grabbed both sides of the small flap, the business end of Jack's boxers.  With surprising brute force, reaching around John's stiff cock, Lydia ripped them apart.

Lydia was already nude, even before John was awake.  Amazingly still speechless, he breathlessly watched her mount him and then lower herself onto his hard, thick, cock.  Lydia rocked back and forth, working him in deeper.  She then closed her eyes tightly with the joy of pure lust.  John could see she was lost in her own little world.  Now she was scaring him. To say this was out of character was an understatement.

"Uh, Lydia?  Lydia?"  She gave him no reply.  "Lydia!" he said again, much louder.  But now John was starting to boil over again.  He always hated to disturb someone when they were in the middle of important work.

He thought, "Oh, hell, just go for it.  A moment like this may not happen again in a million years."

She was already moaning and breathing heavily; so was he. 

"Lydia!" John groaned out.  "Oh, yeah, ride me, baby.  Ride that pony." 

"Oh, I'll give you a ride all right."  It was the first words she'd spoken in all this time. "I'll give you the ride of your life, John."

He loved to watch her big globe-like tits bounce up and down.  They weren't real, but they were paid for.  But who really cared about that right now?  John shook his head back to reality, whatever that was. He could feel Lydia's blonde furry pussy scratch his balls until she started gushing all over him.

"How's that John?  How do you like your ride now?  Huh?"

"Yeah!  Oh, yes.  Keep going.  Don't stop!" He was rolling his eyes into the back of his head.

He was very deep inside her now.  John looked at her and considered how extraordinarily beautiful Lydia was.  Her blond hair pulled back in a French braid was very sexy.  Lydia was a full-bodied woman, not fat by any means; she exercised daily and took great care with her health.  She was almost six feet tall, with wide hips which he fully appreciated at the moment. 

She rocked back and forth, seemingly forever.  Lydia was soft, wet, and warm inside.  Then John's heart started pounding, his brain screaming for release.  The need to cum started hammering at him; he swallowed hard, looked up at her and said, "I'm going to explode. I've got to cum."

Lydia didn't wait for him.  She'd already had her orgasm, that he could tell.  However, at that instant, she rolled off of him and walked away. 

John was stunned.  He watched her exquisite ass sashay away, again without a word, to the bathroom.  She closed the door.  John waited for a few moments.  "She'll come up with another surprise," he thought.  But soon he heard the shower turn on and knew that was the end of it.

John yelled out in utter frustration, "What in the hell was that?"  He got no response.  He thought he should get up and join Lydia, but didn't.  Obviously, something was amiss here.  He laid back down to go over just what the heck had transpired.

As soon as he'd started to wonder, the water in the shower stopped.  "Oh, good, round two," he said aloud.

Lydia emerged from the bathroom in her navy blue business suit.  She was smacking her dark red lips together, as if she had just applied lipstick.  Her appearance was calm, refreshed, and she was leaving for work. 

She was heading for the door.  It was then that John noticed two pieces of luggage by the door.  He wrapped a sheet around him and quickly popped out of  bed.

"Lydia, just what in hell was that?" he demanded, walking toward her.  Lydia just responded by pushing John away.

She then simply said, "We're through, John.  It was fun while it lasted.  We were never etched in stone."

"What are you doing, Lydia?  You're actually leaving me?  Why?" the anger was rising in his voice.

"Well, since you're so simple, John, I'll just spell it out for you.   I gave you a chance to make something of yourself.  You flopped."  Lydia's voice was calm, resigned, and distant.  "My father offered you a position as a graphic artist in his company.  Did you take it?  No!  You wanted to take the hard road, go your own way.  Christ, my father and I could have made you a VP by now. 

"So you moved down here, south of Market, with all these other artists, losers, and friends of yours around here.  I'm not a loser, John, and I won't be any part of someone who is."

"So I'm a loser, now?  That's what you think of me?"

"I'll send for the rest of my things later."

John just looked on in disbelief and pain. He'd been used.

"Another thing.  I'm not your maid and I'm not your mother," she commented, as she swept her hand around the studio apartment.  It was dark and a little unclean.  John's clothes, painting equipment, and canvases were haphazardly strewn around the room. "You have money and live like a slob.  Hire a maid!"  She looked him scornfully and paused as if she expected a response.  John wasn't ready to comment.

"John, I won't live this way and I can't live with you, not anymore." 

He had his hands on his hips the whole time, waiting until she ran out of steam.  Lydia wasn't through yet.

"You have money and came from an upstanding family.  We could live better and you just refuse.  My father always wondered if you took drugs, or were you always this way? You live the hard way, and I'm done with it.  Oh, and by the way: your paintings are just mediocre, at best. You've only sold three in, what, three years?"  There it was.  Her parting shot.

That did it!  The right button had been pushed.  It stung.  But it was time to make a change.

"Well, I'm a big boy, Lydia, and I don't need you crawling up my ass because I didn't live my life the way you spoiled brats do.  Yeah, I have money, but I live this way because it suits me.  As for my artist friends --"  He didn't get to finish.   There was a sound of loud car horn blasting outside, interrupting him.  Lydia and John looked at each other and knew any more words would be useless and a waste of time.  Suddenly, it looked like the day would be filled with unfinished business.

He walked to the window and looked out.  He saw a "suite type" waiting by a black BMW, looking back up him and his apartment.

"Thanks for the goodbye fuck," he said with restrained anger. "You're right, Lydia, it was the ride of my life.  Get your shit and go."  He was pointing to the suitcases.  "Don't keep your new boyfriend waiting."

"Who? Oh, David!  He's worth three quarters of a million.  But he's nowhere near as good as you are in the sack, John.  Oh, here's my last mother-hen act: you got a package from your Aunt Alma.  I put it over there."  She pointed to the desk near his canvases.

She opened the door, picked up her suitcases, then paused.  She looked back and said, "After I get married, you can sell those paintings you did of me.  Call it your Lydia period."  With that she was gone. 

John walked over and shut the door.  He decided to take a long, hot shower and then go out and get some coffee.  John Prescott was alone again.

John felt clean for maybe the first time ever, after his shower.  He couldn't help feeling like shit, though.  He'd lost his muse, his lover, and his best art critic.  Lydia was as mercenary as they come, but he couldn't stop feeling the loss. They'd shared something that couldn't be easily replaced.

John walked up to the newspaper machine by the coffee shop, deposited the coins, then pulled out the Chronicle.  He took a seat at the sidewalk café.  Already, his hostess was bringing him a cup of strong, black coffee.  He looked up and noticed the look of disdain on her face.  After serving him, the hostess walked away muttering something about losing a goldmine. 

"So you knew before I did, huh?" he yelled out. "Damn, that kind of news travels fast."

John spent a few moments perusing the morning paper.  Then he saw the advertisement.  It was a show at the SFMOMA, the SF Museum of Modern Art.  They were having a special showing of pin-ups and poster girls from the 1930's, 40's, and 50's.  Today was the last day.  Thank God Lydia'd left.  He would have missed it.

John dug deep in his pockets to find the appropriate change.  He never paid in bills, only in coins he kept in a jar back in his studio.  Oh, yeah, the tip. He put another handful of nickels in the bill tray the hostess brought. 

"OK, let's find ourselves another muse, another cause," he said to no one in particular.

He checked his pockets for remaining change and then walked over to Third Street and took the number #15 Muni bus downtown.



SFMOMA - later that day


John paid his admission into the art museum, in change of course.  He viewed the usual galleries and displays, with a portfolio-sized notebook and sketch pad he carried with him, always looking for art opportunities and ideas.  Finally, John made his way to the fourth floor.  This was what he had come to see, the pin-ups.  A lot of history was here, and some very good art too.  Armstrong, Petty, and Vargas were just among the many great pin-up artists represented here.

John walked the aisle slowly, stopping at almost every pin-up.  These were the original illustrations, with some preliminary sketches included.  A brief history was also captioned with each one.

John entered the final section of the exhibit, called "Nose Art".  Art from the World War II era.  This really interested him, because John was fascinated by how flyers could paint original designs on their planes, many of them inspired by pin-ups. 

He thought there must have been a lot of budding artists in the Air Corps.  His Great Aunt Alma had told him many times that her brother was one of them. But his great uncle was an unmentionable subject growing up in his house.  While John's parents were alive he was never mentioned.  Only Great Aunt Alma ever spoke of him, and she was very careful when she discussed anything about her brother around John.

He was almost done when he stopped dead in his tracks in front of the last pin-up.  This one just held his attention.  It looked familiar, somehow.  The model did anyway. 

"This woman is drop-dead beautiful," he said to no one in particular, focusing back on the pin-up.  He thought that if he could draw and then paint his dream girl, she might be the one.  The pin-up was titled: Temptation.

"Oh, yeah," he thought, "she's all that. Temptation."

There was a bench right behind him.  John thought he'd sit down and look at this pin-up thoroughly.  He wanted to know just why she was called "Temptation".  Just what made her Temptation?

John made notes, drew what he thought were her most interesting features.  She had a lot.  "I could begin with her eyes and end with those eyes.  Oh, those eyes could enslave if she wanted them to," he thought to himself.

John then walked up to take a closer look at this woman. The history about it was posted on the wall, right underneath it.  John found it interesting.  The model's name was Caroline Templeton, from London.  She was a cabaret dancer who met and fell in love with an American flyer in World War II.  This flyer was a B-17 pilot who somehow got her to sit and pose for him while painting her on the nose of his bomber.

The pilot's name was Jack Prescott. "What?"  He checked the history again. 

"Oh, God," he thought as he sucked up a big gulp of air and felt his heart in his throat. "I can't believe it.  My uncle's plane and the original painting he did, here!"  John was overwhelmed.  He nervously walked around and then back again. He looked up at Temptation again before reading the notes further.

John read that Captain Prescott was lost on his final mission, somewhere over Berlin.  He was actually MIA, and neither he nor his crew was ever recovered. He had sold this painting to Alberto Vargas, who'd then made an illustration and made her famous as a pin-up.

"Now that answers a lot of questions, a lot of family questions." As he looked up at Temptation and smiled, he said to himself, "I just bet you could tempt anybody couldn't you?"

John looked closely at a photo of his uncle and the crew of the B-17; they were posing in front of the aircraft, right underneath the likeness of Temptation.  It was then that he realized his uncle must have been in love with her.  John drew back and wondered how one found a love as deep as that.  He sat back on the bench as concentrated on her eyes. They drew him in.

He sat there for a long while, losing track of time.  John didn't know how long he was there.  Minutes, hours, time made no difference to him.  He just sat and examined and stared.  There was something here that held his interest.  He just couldn't put his finger on it.  There was something else besides the art and the family connection.  Again, that feeling of familiarity kept popping into his mind. Those eyes just drew him back in every time he looked at her. 

He studied her hard. "Oh, she was a beauty.  A beauty that transcended time." 


He said aloud to no one in particular, "She looks like that actress from all those Bob Hope and Bing Crosby movies... what's her name? Dorothy Lamour."

He studied her looks; maybe that's what it was.  The model was sultry, slinky and sinuous.  Sure, all the pin-ups here were, but there was something extra-special about this one.

She was thin, but not too thin.  The pose had her lying down as if she were just starting to crawl, seductively, toward John.  She wore a short and sparse grass skirt.  This diva was topless and he could tell she had great tits, even if they were covered by the model's arm and flowers in a seductive pose. 

Her hair was jet black with yellow hibiscus flowers in it that added to her alluring look.  Her eyes -- well her eyes... "That's it!"  He couldn't take his eyes off them.

Those deep-set eyes and dark, long eyelashes just pulled him in.  They were offset by aqua-green irises.  Those eyes, they were almost hypnotic.  They captured his gaze and held it.

John became oblivious to everyone and everything around him.  An elderly woman noticed his gaze, walked up and said, "She's beautiful, isn't she?"  John never responded. 

In fact, he was starting to become something of a spectacle. The guards noticed as well.  At first, they thought he was sick, and then realized that he was just another weird, freaky artist.   It was the nice clothes that threw them off, at first, and they recognized that he'd been here before.  They were going to toss him out, but he wasn't bothering anybody.

After many hours, the guards finally got him out of his stupor.  Two men -- one elderly, the other about 20 years of age -- walked up to him. The older guard said, "Hey, buddy.  Hey, fella," and, seeing no response, they nudged him slightly on the shoulder.

"Huh, what do you want?  Whoa, sorry, guys.  I just got a little involved, here. You see, I'm an artist.  I sometimes take my studies a little too serious."  John was surprised and a little embarrassed.

Both guards took a knowing glance at each other, then looked back at John as the older one said,  "Yeah, well, whatever, kid.  It's time to leave.  We're closing in a few minutes and you gotta go."

"Closing already?"  John looked down at his watch; it read 4:50 PM.  "Jeez, how long have I been here?" 

"Well, we started our shift at two o'clock and you were already here," said the younger guard, speaking for the first time.

John slowly stood up.  His eyes were a little bloodshot and glassy. 

The older guard noticed and said, "Are you going to be all right, son?  Do you need help getting outside?"

The other guard then said, "Can we call someone for you?"

"No. No.  I'm all right.  Just let me look at her again."

"Oh, no," the older one said, grabbing his arm and then steering John down the hall. "Its closing time and this is the last day of the exhibit.  Maybe, if you hurry, you can buy a print in the gift shop." 

"Yeah, a print. OK, that's it." John shook loose of them and then tore down the hallway.  He made his way to the gift shop and found the door locked.  He was frustrated.  They were closing up.  So he banged on the glass door.

"Open up, I still have five minutes!"  The clerk inside just shook her head no and pointed to her watch.

"Bull!"  He saw a wall clock that showed the correct time was still five minutes to closing.  John pointed to it vigorously.  The clerk shrugged her shoulders and let him in.

As she unlocked the door she said, "OK, you've got four minutes." 

"That's, OK, miss.  I know exactly what I want.  I want a print of that pin-up." He said hurriedly.

"What pin-up?" she said when he didn't amplify. 

Then in a slow but excited tone, John simply said, "Temptation."

The clerk quickly found a print of it and rang John up.  This time, John found he didn't have enough change in his pocket to pay.  He had to resort to his credit card.

He raced home on the bus, happy with the knowledge that his great uncle's artwork was now going to be hanging together with his.  He couldn't get over the similarities in style and interest.


Vermont Street Apartment - Later that day


When he got home, he quickly framed the print with the supplies and tools he had on hand. "But where to put it?" he thought.  John finally decided it needed to be placed directly over his bed, and hung it there.  He took great care measuring, making sure the print sized up and was level.

John then stepped back to admire his handiwork.  He then remembered something... the package, the one Lydia had mentioned earlier.  John walked across the room to his desk.  It was from his Great Aunt Alma, Jack Prescott's sister.  The connections were coming closer together.

John opened the package.  In it, he saw sketches from his uncle's brief but talented art career.  There were photos of him in his Air Corps gear.  Then he picked up a photo of him standing by the nose of his plane, looking up affectionately at Temptation.

"He must have been deeply in love with her," John thought.  "I can see why."  He looked back from across the room at the print he'd hung. 

It emitted a strange light.  John thought at first that it was sunlight reflecting off the window.  He walked over, closed the shade, and then turned around, seeing it made no difference. He looked around the room to see if he could find where the light source was coming from.  He couldn't find it.

"There must be a reflection coming from somewhere." He still couldn't find one. He was going nuts. The more he looked at Temptation, the brighter it seemed to shine.

When he walked a little closer to the print, it got brighter.  The eerie light, it seemed, was coming from the print itself.  "Oh my God, from the eyes, those aqua-green eyes." The light emanating forth the same color as her eyes.  It was like the print had an aura. 

He slowly crept forward to investigate.  This couldn't be happening. This was unreal.  The closer he moved toward it, the brighter the lights became.  Now, even brighter lights were creeping out from the sides of the print, actually from edges inside the frame.  It was becoming almost blinding.  A contrast developed, drowning out everything else in the room.  Her eyes, her face were the only things that could be seen.

John was scared to death.  He found he couldn't run; nor could he look away.  There was a whisper, or so he thought. "No! No whispers. What the hell is this?"  Then he heard it again.

"Jack? Jack? Listen to me, Jack," the voice said.  It was familiar.  Haunting almost.

John looked up at Temptation in disbelief.   

"Good boy, Jack, just stare at the picture and remember. Remember, Jack."

"I'm not 'Jack'. I'm John."  Oh, hell, maybe Lydia was right -- too many drugs.  He was shaking.

"Of course you're 'Jack'. What's a nickname for John?"

"Uh, Jack," he said with a little fear in his voice. That voice!  That accent was English, could this really be Caroline?

"Lydia never understood you like I do.  Listen to me, Jack.  I've waited a long time for you.  You know you promised to bring me to San Francisco, remember?  Well, it took me over fifty years, but I made it.  Oh love, I missed you so much.  I know it wasn't your fault. Your plane went down over Berlin that day. Your final mission, remember?"

"Stop.  I'm not Jack!  Stop calling me that!  I'm not Jack!"  He covered his ears to drown out her noise.

"Jack, you're the one who always called me 'Temptation'. Remember?"

"No!  I can't!  I won't!"

"Look into my eyes Jack.  Look deeper.  Jack, now, just close your eyes and remember." John reluctantly did.  "Come a little closer, my love.  I won't hurt you.  I love you.  Remember, Jack?" 

John started moving slowly toward the print again.

"That's it, Jack, a little closer. Let me get a good look at you.  It's been a long time." 

John thought he could actually see her talking to him.  God, she looked good in that grass-skirt getup.

"Close your eyes and remember."

John did so, and saw a kaleidoscope of colors and images.  He saw Caroline nude, gesturing him closer, images of them from the past.  In her flat, making love on her canopy bed.  The images were moving fast, blending in together.  They kept swirling and swirling, pulling him down inside.

He could hear her whispering, over and over, "Jack, it's Temptation, it's Temptation."   

Jack opened his eyes.  They were vacant and empty.  He looked into the eyes of his lover.

Caroline said. "Jack, remember the day you finished this painting?  You called me Temptation that day, for the first time. You said my eyes were like a soft breeze and -- "

"Deep as an ocean, Caroline.  I remember.  I really wanted to make it back to you, honey.  But we got hit and went down so fast.  No one got out of the plane."

"I know that, love. I waited a long time for your return.  Do you still want me?"

"Of course I do!  I never wanted anyone else."

"Well, then, you better start cleaning up around here better, dear!  Remember, I'm a stickler for neatness."

"You already sound like a wife," he chuckled.

Caroline then reached out to touch him.  Jack was at the bed, now, right next to the print.

He was surrounded in light.  As he touched the hand of the love of his life, he saw the St. Christopher medal he'd given her so long ago. It was around her neck.  It looked right at home there, nestled between her beautiful breasts.

As she took his hand, he also noticed she was wearing his old wedding band, too.  They looked at each other, misty-eyed.

"I love you, Caroline."

"I love you, too, Jack.  I always have and always will."

All of a sudden, he felt as if he were being sucked up, like in a giant vacuum cleaner. 

His last words were, "I could never stand up to Temptation."


Epilogue


The landlord was showing the studio to a couple of college girls.  He complained about the previous tenant, who'd skipped out without paying the rent.

"Maybe I'll sell these paintings and use the money to pay the back rent.  Look around, girls. The previous tenant was a little untidy, but we'll get it cleaned up for you."

One of the girls saw the framed print on the wall. She said, "Oh, look Jan!  That looks like the pin-up we saw at SFMOMA last week."

Jan looked around at her friend, confused.  Then she saw her pointing to the print above the bed. 

The landlord rolled his eyes and sighed.  "Are you two art students?"

When they both looked back at him and nodded affirmatively, he said. "OK, I need first- and last-month's rent, and a security deposit up front."

The girls ignored him and turned back to study the print more closely.

Jan said, "It's the same woman we saw in the pin-up from the museum.  But I never saw any man in any pin-up before."

The woman in the print was topless in a grass skirt, and reaching back to hold a man's hand.  The man was in a World War II army uniform with aviator's wings.
 
"They're both smiling.  They look happy, too," Jan said.

"Well, wouldn't you, if you could get her alone in an outfit like that?"

They both laughed.

"Look, they both have wedding rings on.  Now that's a switch."

Jan looked closer and saw the print title caption.  It read "Temptation Gets Her Man."

[Archibael]

Of Leather Catsuits and Pasties (working title)
by Chase the Wind



Angel never knew what to call the move – a rollover? A twist? Whatever it was, she knew the crowd loved it.  She breathed deeply, her breasts smushed sexily inside the dress against the surface of the piano where she lay.

“Crazzzyyyy.. for thinking that my love would hold you….” Angel purred another line of the Patsy Cline song she was singing for the Vegas show. The sequin and silk emerald gown felt wonderful as it slithered along her body. She loved the singing, but she simply craved the worship of the men in the crowd.

“I’m crazy..for tryin’” Angel’s gaze drifted towards the corner of the room, closest to the stage. The black haired woman there, Shelly – dressed in a leather cat suit – had just finished her own act, a hypnotist expose. Why did Shelly look so expectantly at her? It's not like she was at the hypnotist's show.

“Crazy for cryin’…” Angel’s throaty voice softened as she sang into the microphone. Yet, she couldn’t take her eyes from Shelly’s lips. Her red lipstick contrasted sharply with her extremely un-tanned skin. And that was being generous.

“And I’m crazy…” Angel glanced once at Shelly’s ice blue eyes, and then Shelly smirked. Then she blew Angel a kiss. The woman.is.a.freak.

“For Lovin’ you.” Angel closed her eyes, enjoying the applause, and she twisted again, and gently set her four-inch heel on the ground. She looked around again, smiling, and turned off the microphone and set it down behind her.

Just as several roses began to hit the stage, she reached behind her back to grab the zipper of her gown.

Confusion crossed her face as she felt her hands slide the zipper down her dress.  She looked across the room and saw Shelly making hand motions to the band, apparently encouraging them to start some music.

As soon as it did – a bawdy, old-time stripper song - Angel started shimmying her shoulders back and forth, turning her somewhat modest gown into one with severe décolletage. She immediately regretted not putting a bra on, though even a strapless one wouldn’t have been much help. Her breasts threatened to pop right out of the front of her gown.

What is happening?  She started high-kicking in time with the song, flashing miles of her shapely legs, and panty shots of her thong. She couldn’t control herself, didn’t know why she was doing this. When she’d left her Nebraska home for Las Vegas, Pastor Wilson had made sure she’d promised him she’d avoid ever desecrating her body. Now she was very nearly about to show her breasts to a crowd!

Just because she loved the adoration of the crowd, didn’t mean she was ready to lose her dress! What is wrong with me? Angel wondered. She began to wonder if .. Wait a minute!

Angel looked across the room at Shelly, barely able to hold her dress on, and indeed, Shelly’s Chesire cat imitation filled Angel in with the details. That dyke hypnotized me!

Little good the realization did her. Angel’s zipper finally gave way, and in a massive twirl, the dress slipped down, and she gracefully stepped out of it, held it in front of her and tossed her hair back, gazing at the gawking and awestruck crowd.

Angel didn’t know where the pasties had come from, or even that she’d worn a thong. That bitch! I .. I can’t believe this. Angel thought.

But just as the music had paused, it fired right back up again, and Angel had no choice but to smile and start dancing for the crowd. She started shaking her breasts in the face of one man and she felt her blush all the way down her body. Her face was as red as her hair. She’d somehow learned how to shake her boobs back and forth so the tassels on the pasties swung in perfect circles. They gently slapped the face of the man in front of her as he dove his face between her tits.

The man went so far as to slide a hand along her thigh, up to her ass, and she was powerless to even slap him. She looked pleadingly over to Shelly.

Shelly leaned against the stage, right next to the door, with a perfectly smug expression. Shelly shook her head no.

Angel then danced over to a woman, who seemed to be enjoying the show as much as the men. She leaned in, eyelids half shut, and blew the woman a kiss. The crowd loved it, and before Angel could move away, the blond haired audience member grabbed the back of Angel’s neck and pulled her in for a kiss.

Angel hesitated at first, but then slid her hands along the woman’s ears and neck and then sat right down on her lap, wrapping her legs around her waist. She’d never felt so hot! Her pussy immediately moistened and all thoughts of the crowd flew from her brain.

She moved her hand down, under the blonde’s shirt to her chest, and started massaging her breasts, rolling the woman’s nipple between her fingertips.  Angel bit her lip as she felt the woman writhed sinuously under her fingers. She played the audience member like Anderson played the piano for her ballads. 

She started squirming around on the woman’s lap, and she hadn’t even realized the stranger had started kissing her breast beside the pasty and nuzzling the space between her breasts. The blond woman also moved her hands down under Angel’s ass, and started tugging playfully on the thong.

Angel felt a tap on her shoulder. She ignored it, while she ran her chin along the stranger’s neck, finally reaching the stranger’s earlobe with her red lipsticked mouth. She nibbled once, twice. She moaned, as she ground her pussy into the blond woman’s taut stomach. She could begin to smell her own sex, and it drove her on further.

Angel felt another tap on her shoulder. She ignored it again, but before another conscious thought hit her, she heard Shelly’s voice.

“Why don’t we go back to your room now, Angel?” she said quite pleasantly.

Angel cocked her head to the side and opened her eyes. She saw the crowd again. Various members had either gotten and left in a huff or were still looking on in shock, lust or plain amusement.

Angel felt her blush return in full measure. She scooped up her dress and for lack of any better plan, followed Shelly out of the room, amid a burst of applause from the crowd. She saw the stage manager furiously arguing with another manager. Angel was glad this was never advertised as a kid friendly show.

What am I going to tell Pastor Wilson? Ugh.

Angel did what she could to protect her modesty – which wasn’t much. She held the dress in front of her, and was thankful that no one was lewd enough to smack her nearly bare ass as she passed through the room in high heels and gloves.

Shelly opened Angel’s door for her and allowed her to pass in front of her. Shelly however, availed herself of the opportunity to go ahead and smack Angel’s ass playfully.

“That was quite a show tonight, honey!” Shelly found a chair and threw up her legs on the table, obviously familiar with the room. Angel looked at her quizzically.

“What the hell did you do to me? You freaking psycho?? Did you see me out there?” Angel rattled off her questions before Shelly could even begin to respond. She’d dropped her dress in her rage as she started yanking off her gloves.

“Wait, you don’t understand – “ Shelly said, but was interrupted again by Angel.

“Understand? UNDERSTAND? You bitch! Don’t you get it? I’ll probably be fired now! This is the only job I have! And I was .. was.. KISSING some woman out there? What the hell?”

Shelly was holding up her hands, trying to get Angel to give her a word in. She couldn’t hold back her smile though.

“What the hell are you laughing at? Some fiendish plot to get my ass thrown on the street? What did I ever do to you?” Angel’s fists clenched. She was doing all she could not to punch Shelly, who could hardly seem to keep from breaking into outright laughter.

“Actually no, but those pasties really fly around when you keep jerking around like that.” She ran a tongue across the bottom of her teeth, hungrily, just before she smiled again.

“URRGGH!” Angel reached up to pull off the pasties, but she found she couldn’t. As if they were attached there permanently. This only caused her more distress.

“What the fuck?” Angel screamed. She looked up in shock. She never talked like that. Her hand flew to cover her O-shaped mouth.

Her shoulders shook in frustration. “What are you still doing here?” she said after a few moments. Angel looked at and then nodded at the door. “Use it. I’d just as soon not have you gawking at me when the manager comes here to fire me.”

Shelly sighed, stood up as if to use the door, and then said simply, “Angel, look at me.”

Angel signed impatiently. “No. Just. Get. Out. I’ve never been more humiliated – “

“Angel. Look at me.”

“Fine, what?” Angel said as she started staring in Shelly’s ice blue eyes.

“Remember.” Shelly said.

Angel stood there for several moments, just as the not-unexpected knock on the door came. Shelly turned to the door leaving Angel to deal with her memories.


Angel had been new to Vegas. She was waiting tables at the casino where Shelly worked. She also didn’t know that she liked girls at the time. But Shelly’d been there to help out. When she was late on her rent or needed a cosigner for her car she was there.  Even got her the promotion when Shelly’d discovered what powerful lungs she had – while strapped spread-eagle to the bed and Shelly was working her pussy like a prostitute.

Boy, what a night that was! Shelly’d pulled out a razor on the defenseless Nebraskan and trimmed her pussy. Eventually went from unruly, to landing strip, and finally leaving it bare of any offending hairs. Afterwhich, Shelly then went down on her with abandon – her tongue tickling her clit and making her forget all about boys from Nebraska.

But she was shy, Angel was. Shelly had had to work on her for months before she could appear on stage. But when she did, the manager loved her, the band loved her, and the people – they literally made her wet down there. She always blushed when wet on stage, and she’d even orgasmed a time or two when the applause was great enough.

One night, after passionate lovemaking and a lot of booze, Angel realized she wanted to do more than just sing – she wanted to dance in provocative outfits. She’d heard that the strippers actually made more money than she did. But she was still far too shy. What could she do?

Why, Shelly could hypnotize her! Just get her out there, and start doing it – strip, right there on stage.

But, but, that’d be impossible! In front of all those people?

“Exactly.” Shelly’s voice in her memory told her.



Angel focused on Shelly, as she finished shooing away the manager. Or, more appropriately, she focused on Shelly’s leather-clad ass, as she moved from one foot to the other.

She then promptly moved forward and smacked Shelly’s ass as hard as she could, just as the door clicked shut.

“You vile, little slut!” Angel said, smiling, taking the sting out of her words, if not her hand.

“You’re going to pay for that one.” Shelly said, through a fake frown.

Shelly reached out and grabbed Angel’s arm, pulling her in, and wrapped a leg around Angel’s. Her other hand found Angel’s almost too large breast and pressed it and the pasty against her own chest. Her mouth devoured that of her kitten.

Angel was instantly wet again, also realizing that she wore nothing but the thong. How had she forgotten about her relationship with Shelly? How come she didn’t remember the pasties.. or why she couldn’t take them off. Of course, she knew the answer.

My god, Angel thought. What did I do to that customer? How did that make Shelly feel? I totally made out with someone else, and Shelly’s my girlfriend, my mistress!

“Mmmph, mmmph.” Angel said into Shelly’s mouth.

Shelly came up for air, lipstick smeared across her lips and cheeks. “What?” She sounded like she’d just come up for air after a long swim,  and she smiled, almost looking drunk.

“That woman in the audience? What happened? I don’t know what came over me, I mean, I was all over her.. I’m so sorry!” Angel could feel the tears almost start to come. She was going to lose Shelly, she knew it.

“That was part of it. I mean, it was a little something I threw in there, that we hadn’t quite talked about.” Shelly giggled, doing a great 8-year old impression.

“What do you mean part of it?”

“Take this thing off of me, my little kitten.” Shelly said, indicating her cat-suit.

Immediately, almost before she could register the thought, Angel was unzipping the back of it, and felt compelled to kiss Shelly’s far-too-perfect ass as she tugged the shoulders, arms and top down past her the curve of her spine. Angel remembered how many times she’d seen Shelly’s wavy hair touch her ass when she arched her back, just so. Angel had to restrain herself from tracing her long fingernails against the milky white skin of her mistress. She brushed her lips across her aiss, and she smiled to herself as she saw the goose bumps rise across Shelly's skin.

Shelly turned around, eventually, putting her pussy right in front of Angel’s face. “Smell that?” Shelly said with a cock of her head.

And indeed, like an aphrodisiac, Angel smelled Shelly’s scent. She closed her eyes, inhaling. She felt a fire in her belly, and before she could completely get the pants off of Shelly’s legs, Angel was attacking her pussy, lapping at it, flicking her tongue across the clit, just like Shelly taught her. She nudged Shelly down onto her back onto the floor.

Shelly laughed, enjoying the sight of her lover performing as expected. “It made me.. hot, to say the least.” She was gasping now, holding Angel’s hair, keeping her mouth at her pussy. “Oh yes, sweet thing, oh yes. Right there.. right.. oh.. yes, there. That’s it.”

Angel could feel the tremble in Shelly’s thighs and ass. She could see her mistress’s stomach quiver as she hummed on her clit, and nibbled on her labia.

“It made.. me hot.. seeing you with.. that woman.” Angel could tell Shelly was trying hard to hold back her orgasm, while she spoke through clenched teeth. She always tried to hold back her orgasm. Like it was a game to her.

Angel paused, looking up at her mistress.  “So.. I mean.. what did you do? How did you make me –?”

“Oh no you don’t my little slut! Get back on my pussy!” Shelly nearly screamed in frustration. She was hanging on the edge of an orgasm.

But again, without conscious thought, Angel’s mouth was glued to Shelly’s pussy. She grabbed Shelly’s firm ass with both hands and ground her face into her pussy. After just a few more flicks of her tongue, she lifted Shelly right off the ground, willing her to orgasm.

And she did.

Angel tasted Shelly’s cum and it was sweet to her, as it always was. She kept licking, and flicking her tongue, and couldn’t really hear anything Shelly was saying, through the thighs clamped around her head. Angel felt so vulnerable like that, completely at Shelly’s mercy – but she felt warm inside too. She felt whole.

And Shelly kept orgrasming. She never came just once, when Angel fucked her – no, she came in several waves. Angel felt her own orgasm approach, she felt her juices literally dripping onto the floor. She didn’t even remember losing her thong. She reached between her legs with one of her hands and started fingering her own pussy.

The night’s events flashed in front of her – she was stripped bare by her own unwitting hands. The audience expected a lounge singer, what they got was a stripper, who was ready to fuck the first woman who looked willing.

Angel’s fingers kept working her pussy, she kept moaning into Shelly’s orgasm, she could hear Shelly screaming out in ecstasy, but then more thoughts came to Angel. I was giving a woman a lap dance in front of hundreds of fully clothed people. And I was so wet. I loved it!

Angel couldn’t hold it back any longer, she felt her back arch as the orgasm took control. She felt the slickness on her hands, and in the back of her mind, she could tell that Shelly was finally coming down from her own orgasm, and was leaning over her.

Angel could hardly move, though she did roll over, back to the floor and her head rested against Shelly’s legs.  Shelly removed the pasties and started playing with her nipples, and now Angel was the victim, completely at a loss of control. Her hand wouldn’t stop working her clit now if her life depended on it. She alternated between using her rather long fingernail across grazing her nub, or teasing and pinching it between her thunb and finger. She was a slave to her own hand.


Through the fog of pleasure, she realized that her other hand was squeezing and pinching her own nipple, and somewhere, Shelly’s mouth had found it’s way to her other nipple.

Just as she the orgasm was about to hit full throttle, Shelly pressed her finger against the pucker of Angel’s ass. Angel’s eyes shot open, looking straight into Shelly’s chest. She unconsciously bent upward, and bit Shelly’s nipple, tugging it, sucking on it, and then…

And then, Angel’s orgasm waved over her, and she could feel the cum on her hands. So much sensation! Shelly’s mouth, nibbling her nipple, hers and Shelly’s hands working her pussy, it was too much. Angel couldn’t keep her concentration to even suck on a nipple.

“UNNNGGGGGh. OH, OH, OH, OH, OH, ohmigod!” Her body jerked, and she found her pussy craving the feel of her own hand. She was humping her own hand! And Shelly’s…she began to lose track. Wave after wave of orgasm hit.  She didn’t know how long she screamed out loud.

“Oh mifuckingod!” She internally cringed, knowing Pastor Wilson probably heard that somewhere, but she couldn’t help herself.

“Oh, ohmifucking god!” Impossibly, it felt cleansing to say it, and she felt herself coming off the sexually induced high and gain some measure of control. She realized belatedly she’d been near a blackout, the pleasure was so intense. Angel felt her breathing slow down, and she could finally feel her racing heartbeat reach a more normal rhythm. Shelly untangled herself from Angel.

With all the screaming, to say nothing of the stripping, Angel was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to look her co-workers in the eyes again. Assuming she could walk straight.

“Oh, no worries.” Shelly said. She’d gotten up and was lounging on the couch again.

Angel didn’t realize that she’d spoken her thoughts out loud. “What do you mean?” she said.

“When the manager came in? He said you were fired.” Shelly said cheerily.

Angel shrugged, smiling. “Who cares?” She picked up a pasty and tossed it at Shelly. “I’m going to be a stripper. I needed a new place to work anyway.”

[Archibael]

Puppet Girl
by Michelle



Quinton had decided that the Puppet Girl was wicked in both the best and worst senses of the word. He'd once considered the possibility that she was "round the bend," but quickly dismissed the idea. There was too much keen focus in her eyes and too much success with her intentions for her mind to be anything less than sharp. Although he'd heard some autistics could do incredible - even seemingly supernatural - feats.

All of this was mere speculation of course - it was impossible to truly know the motives, sanity level, or moral leanings of someone who never spoke. There could only be an educated guess. Nobody had ever heard the Puppet Girl speak, nor did anyone know her name or what life she led when away from the mall.

All anyone knew was she was there every morning before the shopping center opened, and was the last person - save for the old security guard - to leave at night. And that she was beautiful - everyone with sight knew that.

It seemed to Quinton that there were few people who were attractive to all. Even supermodels and actresses had people who "did not see the appeal." He could honestly say he'd never heard anyone say they missed the appeal of the young and mysterious brunette woman in their midst. If a woman were to suggest such a thing it would have been dismissed as jealousy, and if a man would have suggested it... well, people might suspect he played for the other team. And children, perhaps the most judgmental group of all, flocked to her.

Reynolds, the mall manager, took credit for her being there, but why wouldn't he? Mall managers and PR people spend a lot of time and effort coming up with promotions which bring people in to fork over lots and lots of green-hued pictures of presidents. He now had a genuine attraction whom he could claim responsibility for with no fear of contradiction. The people who'd been there when she'd first appeared knew the truth, though - including how Reynolds had tried to oust her until a sudden bout of appendicitis derailed him. By the time the despot returned, the benefits to the mall were so obvious that he didn't even object when she occasionally brought her dog. 

The mall manager had trouble answering questions such as if the lovely woman was a mute. He just gave a smile which was meant to be charming, but looked ghoulish, and said you had to allow a lady some mystery. He'd also learned to avoid answering where she would "appear" next.

She didn't have a certain spot in the mall which she called her own. As far as anyone could tell she picked out her spot the night before, because she was always prepared when she showed up the next day, often struggling with a big trunk until someone offered to help. And someone always offered to help - much to the dismay of the other women at the mall who often struggled with boxes and bags and folders and were grateful to have someone even hold the door for them.

Whoever helped her set up knew to report her location to Reynolds' assistant, who then wrote up colorful boards at the main entrances asking, "Where in The Mall is Puppet Girl?" Underneath the query would be a list of clues. In the beginning the clues were easy, but as merchants suggested that they wouldn't mind if people wandered through their stores in their search, the hints became trickier. Often the clues consisted of what Puppet Girl was wearing that day, as often her costume directly related to her whereabouts.

Quinton's personal favorite was the overalls with no shirt underneath, which gave tantalizing glimpses of the silken skin and tantalizing curves of their owner. Sears was thrilled with their sales of Craftsman Tools that day. It was odd how nobody at the store had known she was appearing, and yet by mutual decision they'd set up an area for her the night before. Of course, stories like that were not uncommon - she never seemed to worry about the stores making room for her.

Her marionettes were also appropriately dressed. Children marveled at the beautifully-dressed puppets as their parents admired the puppeteer. Most fathers and many mothers found themselves wondering if her skin could possibly be as soft as it appeared and what her hair would smell like if one could get close enough. Nobody had to ask this out loud - you could read the longing in their eyes.

Quinton was just another acolyte, following the clues like a treasure hunter and being rewarded when he found her. Many meals were skipped or sandwiches hastily consumed in order to spend his lunchtimes and breaks near her. Perhaps it was his diligence and enough fortuitously-timed lunches which allowed him to see what others had missed.

He'd followed the clues one December day ("Shhhhh, if you don't 'slip' you just might find the 'pLACE' where Marionettes and Models mingle") to Victoria's Secret. His heart did flip-flops when he saw her at a distance and knew he had to reassess the overalls as his favorite. She was wearing what appeared to be a black ensemble comprised of a bra, tap pants, and stockings and garters. Even at a distance he could make out the dusky outlines that let him know the bra was at least semi-transparent. He didn't even notice the well-dressed woman before he bumped into her.

"Watch where you're going, asshole," the blonde snapped before turning back to her husband. "You gave her fifty dollars! Fifty dollars! Were you tipping her or buying her?"

"What do you care, Grace? I promise there will be lots of goodies for you under the Christmas tree. We can afford fifty dollars to help out someone in need." Quinton knew the man spoke the truth - they were both extremely well-dressed and the woman dripped with jewels.

"In need? You had to shove the money down to get it into the tip jar - it was absolutely overflowing!"

Quinton saw she was right; Puppet Girl's marionette - a character he thought of as "Putting on The Ritz" because of his top hat and because that was often the song she played on the CD player she used for music - was walking on the bills which had spilled out of the plastic fishbowl she carried with her for tips. "Putting On The Ritz" seemed to be "arguing" with a female marionette wearing an elaborate dress of satin. Ritz turned from the other puppet as if to say he would hear no more.

"You know what? If it bothers you so much, Grace - if it'll eat you up too much as you sit in our half-million dollar house and send the kids off to private school…why don't you go get the money back?"

Quinton looked over to see the man storm off, leaving Grace to huff and puff, unaware she still had an audience. "I think I will!" she said in defiance to a man who could no longer hear her. She walked toward Victoria's Secret and toward the tantalizing woman who wore a mischievous smile.

The mall employee found himself following the blonde, wanting to see if she would really have the audacity to remove the tip from the bowl. And why not, since he desired to be where the fair-haired woman was heading? He wondered what Puppet Girl would do if she knew the wealthy woman's intent, but she seemed oblivious to the blonde's approach.

In the few moments when Quinton turned his attention away the brunette, she'd exchanged Ritz for a gypsy marionette which reminded Quinton of both Esmerelda from the Hugo novel and the Puppetress herself.  The puppet in the expensive dress - a blonde - approached Esmerelda. The talent of the puppeteer embued the marionette with a sense of false superiority. Something strange happened then - the blonde puppet paused before Esmerelda, falling to her knees after several seconds.

Grace had reached the tips and then she wavered. Instead of reaching into the bowl she knelt before it - and slowly removed every piece of jewelry she wore, adding them to the many bills. At last Puppet Girl looked at Grace and nodded a brief thanks as the woman leapt to her feet and hurried off.

Quinton couldn't believe what he'd witnessed. He looked around, hoping someone else had seen it too. He heard a couple people in the crowd whisper, "Did you see what that woman did?" Nobody seemed to associate what they'd witnessed with the puppet show. Nobody but Quinton.

He looked at the puppeteer, wanting to seek answers, and instead thinking, "God, how I love her!" He knew he needed to be logical, but all he could see was her incredible beauty as she knelt on a divan he assumed came from the dressing room of the lingerie store. And then something new happened - at least new for him - she looked at him and winked.

He felt so many things at that moment, but mostly just grateful that she'd seen him - and that they now shared a secret. In the moment that their eyes met he knew for sure that she'd somehow manipulated the rich couple.

Quinton wanted to talk to her, but what could he say? He couldn't make small talk with her - and not just because she apparently didn't talk at all - but because they were beyond that point. And any question he could ask about what he'd witnessed couldn't be answered and seemed inappropriate. He felt like they were suddenly both intimates and strangers.

He noticed Laura Stromski approaching the makeshift stage. Laura worked at the computer games store and she, like the men who worked there, favored a decidedly casual "uniform" of baggy jeans, a loose t-shirt, and a backward baseball cap.

Puppet Girl smiled at her and held up her index finger: "one moment." She quickly produced a puppet which made Quinton think of a modern day Tom Sawyer and queued up a song on her CD player about wanting a hippopotamus for Christmas. She adroitly made the marionette do all sorts of boyish antics - seeming to play with imaginary marbles, strutting proudly, and climbing a pillar like it were a tree. At the end of the song, the puppet reached up and removed the baseball cap. Quinton was just marveling at how the puppet never got tangled in its strings when he saw long honey-colored hair fall around its face. The audience laughed when they realized the puppet was more tomboy than true "snips and snails and puppydog tails".

Laura reached up to absentmindedly play with a dark blonde curl which had escaped her hat.

The song changed to "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" as the marionette began to dance in a decidedly "girly" way, her movements just as lively, but more feminine. The crowd laughed at the kinetic movements of what now appeared to be a teenaged girl with an abundance of energy. Quinton noticed Laura tapping a sneaker-covered foot.

After the song there were several seconds of silence as the puppet was stilled. The beautiful puppeteer held the strings with one hand and snapped her fingers and suddenly her dog - a schnauzer - appeared from behind the divan, looking at his mistress with slavish adoration. She pointed at the puppet and the dog happily bounced over to it, pulling on the clothing which soon gave way to reveal that the puppet wore a miniature version of the ensemble Puppet Girl wore. The same puppet that'd looked like a little boy, and then a teen girl, had "grown" into a beautiful woman.

Just then the music began again - "Santa Baby" - and the marionette began "flirting" with the people in the crowd, much to everyone's delight. Quinton marveled at the charm of the woman who controlled the strings. Nobody complained about how she was dressed - or how her puppet was now dressed - while there were children present.

Immediately after, he was not at all surprised to see Laura head into the store; nor was he surprised to see her leave with several bags and a new wiggle in her walk. He knew that the guys at ZoneOut would like the changes in their co-worker.

The puppetress merely looked at him with a mock sugar-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth look. Quinton loved it - and he loved her - even if she was possibly insane or immoral. He'd dated worse. He imagined he wore a silly grin on his face at that moment.

He continued visiting her at every opportunity, hating when the holidays closed the mall. He began considering their meetings as dates, and thought of the games and tricks as her version of flirtation. She never approached him directly, but he believed she was acutely aware of him.

At last, one night while stationed next to the keys-while-u-wait stand, she pulled out a male marionette he'd never seen before. It wore a miniature version of his favorite tie and, while he felt himself to be a lot more handsome than the puppet, he knew it to be him. As his marionette approached the Esmerelda marionette he found himself pulled toward his love - and then drawn toward the tip bowl. He dropped his wallet and keys into the waiting receptacle.

His voice was choked with emotion as he spoke to her for the first time. "This is it? This is where it ends? This is all that you wanted?"

The beautiful woman's ruby lips barely moved, but he could swear he heard a gentle, "Shhhhh." He looked at the puppets just as Esmerelda kissed the puppet in the simple plain suit and colorful tie. He felt at peace all at once - confused, but reassured.

Returning to work, he came to the conclusion that being in love with a mute woman was even more difficult than dating a woman who never shut up. Ironic, after all the times he'd wished for silence in a possible mate.

There was soon a buzz that, for the first time ever, the beautiful woman had left the mall early. "I hope she's okay," said Laura Stromski, looking vibrant in a bright red dress and a shade of lipstick which matched perfectly. "I hope the buses run late - and that the spare key is still under the doormat," thought Quinton.

After the mall closed he wandered out to the parking lot, expecting to find an empty parking spot where his '89 Taurus used to be. Instead he found Puppet Girl waiting patiently in the passenger seat. He got into the driver's seat and she held open his wallet to show that the two twenty-bills he'd had in the morning were missing. She gave him an apologetic look as she made a "poof" gesture.

"I see you are somewhat like other women after all," he quipped.

She folded her arms and gave him a mock-angry look. Then she reached into the cushions of her seat and extracted his keys, which she dangled like mini-marionettes. Taking the keys from her he queried, "Your place or mine?"

She pointed at herself with her left hand and him with her right one.

"That doesn't help."

The roll of the eyes was pure feminine. She pointed just at him.

"My place? Oh, okay. It's a little bit of a mess…I've been meaning to clean it, but I work a lot of hours. The sheets might not be the freshest - not that I'm implying that we'd…Nice night, isn't it?"

Puppet Girl buckled her seatbelt, pushed play on the cd player.  "When You Wish Upon a Star" began playing.

"The soundtrack to Pinnochio? That's…" He paused and noticed her expectant look. "Appropriate." She nodded, seemingly content, yet giving the impression that she knew that "appropriate" was not the word which had leapt to his mind.

She followed behind him to his front door as he continued to warn her about the state of his bachelor pad. "…and I'm not sure there aren't a few dishes in the sink. No vermin though," he offered, just as he opened the door and a black creature hurtled toward them.

His first thought, after What the f…?, was to protect Puppet Girl. He was somewhat thwarted in this goal due to the fact that she moved to in front of him and scooped up the wriggling beast, which began energetically licking her face.

"You brought your dog here earlier," he said, and then added, in an effort to distract her from the obviousness of his comment, "Unless, of course, he took a taxi."

Quinton saw her arch a slender eyebrow as she walked into the house and deposited the schnauzer on the rug. Because he'd exceeded his statements of the readily apparent for the day, he opted not to mention that his house seemed somewhat cleaner and that her huge trunk was in the middle of the room.

The slender woman headed toward his bedroom and his heart entered his throat. He could have complained about the sheer presumption of commandeering his car and breaking and entering (well, entering) his home. He could have told her she had no right to steal his money, or told her that his lease didn't allow pets. He could have handed her a pen and paper and demanded answers, but his cock would never forgive him, so he followed her into the bedroom instead.

She'd slipped off her dress and was lying across the bed - with its newly changed linens - wearing nothing but a pair of purple panties and matching heels. He took in her lovely face, firm breasts, slightly concave stomach, gently flaring hips, and the faultless shape of her legs, and he knew it would have been the most erotic sight ever - if not for the puppets sitting in the chair in the corner.

"I'm pretty overwhelmed here," he said, sitting on the bed. "And I know you're really into the whole puppetry thing, but if there was one thing which could give me performance anxiety right now it would be glass eyes staring at me. They really don't serve a purpose right now, anyhow."

She got and stood next to the bed, beginning to part her legs, and clearly attempting to do the splits. For her efforts, she was rewarded by making it well over halfway. Next she straightened up, grabbed the female puppet, and made her do what the live woman could not. When the topless gymnast-wannabe tried again, she was suddenly extra-limber, achieving the feat effortlessly. She did a little "tada" gesture at the end.

"Oh, well, okay, they could possibly serve a purpose. Could we just put them out of sight for now?"

Puppet Girl shrugged and carried them to the space between the wall and the bed. She then put her hands on the arc of her hips and gave a look which clearly said, "Any other suggestions, or can we have some fun?"


Quinton woke up to find her sitting cross-legged on the bed and staring at him. He imagined what looked like wonderfully-mussed mane on her translated into bedhead on him; he had no doubt which of them had the better view.

"Hello," he offered, the syllables sounding muddled as he struggled with wakefulness.

She nodded and reached out to trail slender fingers down to where the sheet covered him. The look of intent on her face was clear.

He laughed. "Hold on, now. You've pretty much worn me out! I haven't felt so drained since the time my parents were away for the weekend and I spent the whole time masturbating and reading Tolkien.  I'm not sure I have anything left to give."

The woman considered this and then rearranged herself to hang off the side of the bed - the part which remained on the mattress was delightful, and he considered that perhaps he was not as sapped as he'd thought initially. Besides, she was a keeper and he didn't want to look like a wimp.

She pulled up the Quinton marionette, placing it next to them on the bed, and the namesake was a little alarmed. It occurred to him that it could get kinky. Too kinky. Instead, she reached for what must have been a hidden lever in the puppet's back, and suddenly its pants were tenting - as was the sheet covering Quinton.

"Damn," was the only comment he could muster before he pulled the slightly smug woman back into his arms. 


When next he awoke, the aromas of coffee and bacon greeted him. He blearily wandered into the kitchen to see his new live-in girlfriend bopping around the kitchen with what seemed to be a boundless amount of energy.

She saw him and grinned, indicating he should be seated. She placed generous portions of bacon and eggs in front of both of them and then began to dig in with the gusto she gave to everything. Quinton noticed that there was also a small serving in the bejeweled dog dish now sitting on his floor.

Between bites of the appetizing breakfast - maybe his mother was right that using spices made a difference - he began to speak. "This is very strange," he began, stopping for a moment to take in her surprised look. "You don't find this odd?

"I don't know your name. I only just found out for sure that you really can't speak..." He paused again at the question on her face. "I meant that you didn't moan or anything during...you clearly liked it so I know that…" Now the brunette was turning away and biting her lip. "I'm glad I could amuse you." He knew he sounded hurt and sulky.

She kissed his cheek, then reached behind the radio sitting on the table to pull out two gift-wrapped packages, handing him one and setting the other one in front of herself.

"For me? Thank you. Um, did my forty dollars pay for this?"

Now it was her turn to look hurt…and insulted.  He realized he was a moron. She pointed at his gift and then to herself. Next she pointed to the gift before her and then to him.

"Oh, I paid for yours!" In a convoluted way. He opened the package and found a mini-version of her marionette.

When she opened her own package she showed him it was a charm bracelet with a Pinnochio charm. She held out her wrist for him to put the gold chain around her wrist and, when he was finished, she held it up and examined it with a smile.

"That only cost forty dollars?" he asked. She looked at him, drew a rectangle in the air, and then made a swiping motion. "You used my charge? At the jewelry store in the mall? And nobody questioned it?" He then looked at the beautiful woman wearing nothing but his t-shirt and laughed. "Okay, I wouldn't have asked questions either. I hope you like your present."

She nodded enthusiastically. He had to laugh again at her infectious enthusiasm. "I like my little you too - there's so much detail," he said, running his finger along the colorful paint of her dress. His breakfast mate began to squirm. He did it again and she squirmed more. He grinned - there was more here than met the eye.

"Thank you," he said, marveling at the how much she must trust him already. "She's almost as beautiful as the full-sized version, and it's a nice change of pace."

She gave him a questioning look.

"You see, I've already been in the palm of your hands for months now."

The next thing he knew he had one enthusiastic hottie non-speaking puppetress in his lap...and her schnauzer.


The End.

[Archibael]

Gerri Holcombe: Lesbian Private Eye in -- "The Pillow Case"
by flibinite




Chapter 1 - Little Lost Dream

I was sitting in Mario's, staring at the bottom of my second empty shot glass, with nothing in particular to do today except stay out of the heat.  Although it was the end of January in Los Angeles, it was still 84 degrees on this joke of a winter's day.  That's one of the reasons I hang out at here.  Mario's is one of the few bars in LA that's got air-conditioning.  I'm from the Midwest, and I still need it.

I was staring at my empty glass, my mind sort of empty, too, and I never sensed her move up behind me.

"Excuse me, sir," she said, tapping me on the shoulder.  "Are you Jerry Holcombe?"

"I have tits, you know," I replied, spinning my bar stool around, showing her my rather impressive set, and looking to see if her body matched the hot and sultry tone of her voice.

It did.

I was a bit sorry that I had been quite so coarse, though, as the woman in front of me was obviously a classy lady.  Red-haired and beautiful, she stood there looking calm and wonderful in her rather expensive-looking, low-cut, navy blue woolen dress. 

She obviously worked somewhere nice, in a place that was air-conditioned, too.  Either that, or she was so cool that she was oblivious to the temperature. 

"And yes, I'm Gerri Holcombe... in the flesh."

I watched her calm demeanor instantly fade and her skin redden as she took me in and realized her mistake.  I decided that, seeing as how I had already blown acting classy myself...

"And speaking of flesh," I continued, reaching out to run my hand along the smooth skin of her right arm, "... yours is very nice."

Her blush deepened, and she stared up at me with that dear-in-the-headlights look that I love.  I watched her shiver at my touch before finally recovering enough to move away from my hand.  Rule # 1 in the Private Eye Handbook is "Always keep the other person off-balance"; and in that, I had succeeded.

I was impressed with how quickly she gathered herself, however, and turned more professional on me.  "I'm Rebecca Ballard, and I'm sorry about calling you 'sir'.  But no one told me, and your name, and your shoulders and hair..." she trailed off, her eyes drifting up and down between my face and chest.

"Relax, kiddo," I told her.  "It happens all the time."

And it did.  I'm well-muscled for a woman, farm girl strong, and I like to keep my jet-black hair cropped fairly short.  With my broad shoulders and the no-frills clothes I prefer, I'm often mistaken for a guy... from behind.  It was always fun to see other's reactions when I turned and let my breasts and soft, full features give lie to that impression.

"Should I know you, Rebecca?"  I asked, trying not to leer.  She was the real deal, young and attractive, with nothing masculine at all about her or the way she filled out her tight dress. 

"I'd certainly like to know you," I added, unable to resist.

What can I say?  When I was born, the doctor had spanked most of the "subtle" out of me.

I watched her charming blush flair again before she spoke.  "No, you don't know me.  I'm Lionel Myers' personal assistant, and he sent me to find you, to see if you would let us hire you."

She said his name as if I should know it, as if everyone knows everyone else in Hollywood.  But in this case, she was right -- Lionel Myers, the head of Liongate Studios, one of Tinseltown's movers and shakers.

This could be interesting, and right up my alley, as I had done a few jobs for different studios since coming out to LA after the war.

"It depends what he wants me to do, toots.  I'm a P.I., but I do have a few scruples left."

"One of his people is missing," Rebecca said softly, suddenly looking rather stricken.  She leaned in closer, giving me a great whiff of her perfume, and whispered, "Anne Hawthorne."

Okay, so now it was my turned to be off-balance.  Anne Hawthorne, up-and-coming actress, the obvious star of all the small films she'd been in so far.  She was a breathtaking beauty, with that certain something that just leaped off the screen at you. She'd only made three films so far, but the buzz on her was growing.  I had heard it.  I had felt it. 

I had seen each of her three pictures... twice.

"I'm interested, Rebecca.  Pull up a stool, let me get you a drink, and tell me more."

I saw her hesitate, then sigh and climb onto the seat next to me.  I spun back to the bar and gave Mario the high sign to come over. 

I like Mario.  He runs a clean bar, with decent prices, some nice thirties decor, and a mixed clientele.  Air-conditioning aside, it's a good hangout for me, and I spent parts of most every day in here.  He's better at spotting my moods than any man I know, too... chatting me up when I need to talk, leaving me alone when I need to think.  I could tell he was a bit confused when he came over to take Rebecca's order, though, unsure whether I was "on the make" or "on the job". 

That was understandable, as I wasn't even sure myself.  Rebecca really was a cutie, and just my type.

But this case had the smell of something big, something exciting.  So, I reluctantly dialed my libido down, and turned professional, too, as Mario returned with Rebecca's martini and my V.O. and water, back.

"How long's she been missing?" I asked, staring at her reflection in the bar mirror.  I watched her sip her drink and saw her eyes widen.  Mario's disdain for vermouth was legendary.

"About 20 hours," Rebecca said, coughing politely.

"That's not very long at all.  Are you sure she's not just shacked up somewhere with a boyfriend?  Happens all the time out here."

"No, she isn't.  She was supposed to meet Mr. Myers for some, um... late night tutoring, and she never showed, nor called.  That’s not like her at all, and no one has seen her in a while or seems to know where she is."

I sighed, wishing I had my own casting couch for the likes of Anne Hawthorne.  I had to admit to that this sounded bad, and in missing person cases, every minute could count.  So I stopped fantasizing and pushed on.  "Had she been acting strangely lately; giving any signals that something was bothering her."

Rebecca shook her head.  "She seemed totally normal to me, and Mr. Myers told me to tell you that everything seemed fine right up until she disappeared."

Smart man, I thought.  I had the feeling he wouldn't want to see me in person.  "Anything else Mr. Myers told you to tell me?" I said, turning to face her.

The slight smile I caught on her face surprised me.  "He said she was last seen at her dance class at Sebastian's, over on Crenshaw."

"I know the place," I said, smiling back at her.

That was a mistake on my part, and her smile change back to a frown.  "Mr. Myers said he would pay you $200 a day for the next three days to find her, or $500 if you can locate her by three o'clock tomorrow."

Wow, I thought.  That's major money.  It was four o'clock right now, so if I could find her quick...

I do okay for money.  I'm starting to get more cases now as I get a track record, as underground word-of-mouth grows.  I pick up the occasional bounty, too, along with having a couple of benefactors... two influential Hollywood women, both of whom are grateful for my "talents" and discretion in a town where one whisper can ruin a career.

But still and all, $500 for a day's work was nothing to sneeze at.  And considering how I felt about Anne Hawthorne just from seeing her on the big screen, I imagined if Lionel Myers were getting the whole package from her, that $500 would be chump change for him to get her back in one piece.

That led me to think about kidnapping.  If she’d been grabbed to extort money from the studio, I was going to be lucky to find any trace of her at all in so short a time.  I'd have better luck if she were just shacked up somewhere.

"Well?"  Rebecca asked.

I refocused on her and said, "I'll take it.  But I need the first day in advance, and your word that you'll call my service if you get any new information on her."

She agreed to my terms and went into her purse for the money... four, crisp $50 bills.  I palmed them, downed my drink, and, despite the urgency, just could not resist saying...

"So, Rebecca... I have my big Chrysler outside.  I could give you a lift."

Her smile was both a "come on" and a "get away".  "No thank you.  I have my own car."

I let my smile show again.  "I wasn't talking about driving you anywhere," I said with a wink, running my fingers along her arm again.  If she knew how I was picturing her now... classy and elegant, holding a snifter of cognac rather than a martini, her dress gone, sitting there so casually in just a soft, white corset, garter, hose, and heels... ?

See what I mean about subtle?

Rebecca's blush wasn't quite so bright now, as she was apparently coming to grips with the way I am around other attractive young women (I've been told I'm attractive more than enough times to finally believe it now).

"I don't do... well, I don't go... I'm not like that, Miss Holcombe!" she finally managed, tossing back her long, luscious hair and staring at me almost defiantly.

"It's Gerri, and don't knock it if you've never tried it.  Give me ten minutes, close your eyes, and I guarantee that the only difference you'll notice is how much bigger your orgasm was."

I got her with that a little.  I could tell by the catch in her breath and the look in her eyes.  However, she simply shook her head, licked her lips once, pulled a card out of her purse and handed it to me.

"Call this number the instant you find anything, please, or to tell me... us... where to bring your final payments, um... Gerri."  She rose off the stool and turned to go.  "Please find her, and good luck."

"Thanks, Rebecca."  I watched her walk out the front door, wondering if that lovely swish in her behind was normal or just for me.  I pocketed her card, knowing that I'd definitely be talking to her again, no matter what happened.  With a small sigh, I turned back to the bar.  I had the case, but right now I needed information more than anything… any kind of information.

"Could I get the phone over here, Mario?"

"Sure thing, babe," he said, lifting one out from the back of the bar and pulling it over to me.

I cranked out a familiar number, and when I heard the equally familiar, "Hello... Steno Pool," on the other end of the line, I lost control of my libido again, and I found my voice getting all hot and sultry, too.

"Hello, Jocelyn.  Are you missing me?"

"Gerri?" she replied.  "Is that you?"

"Yeah, sweetness, it is.  I'm just sitting here at Mario's remembering how good you tasted on Tuesday."

I heard her hiss in a breath, knowing I was being naughty, knowing that when I normally called her at work it was for business, not pleasure.  Being with Rebecca and thinking about Anne Hawthorne had gotten me more than a little turned on, though, and I couldn't help myself.

"What do you want, Gerri?" she whispered, obviously pitching her voice lower so the other women in the steno pool couldn't hear her.

"I want you, Jocelyn," I said, not letting up.  "I want to stand next to you and slide my hand under your dress, then inside your underwear, and finger that pretty pussy of yours until you scream." 

She loves it when I talk all dirty to her during sex.

I heard her gasp this time, knowing I had scored a direct hit between her thighs.  Jocelyn was always an easy mark, and a real glutton for lesbian sex, especially with me.  She was nearly insatiable when we got together, and had the sexual stamina of a horse.  She was the only woman I ever met who could tire me out in bed.

"Stop that, Gerri!  You're just terrible."

"That's not what you said on Tuesday night every time you came.  I think you told me I was wonderful and incredible, then."

"Well, now you're being just awful, teasing me like this."

"Awful?  What are rude thing to say.  Why, I have a mind to just come down there to your desk and give you a thorough tongue-lashing... a long, deep, relentless tongue-lashing."

She almost squealed this time, and I just knew she was getting wet for me.  I was glad I wasn't the only one, feeling more than a bit damp under the khakis, myself.

This "having sex over the phone" thing was more exciting than I had imagined.  And surprisingly enough, the thought of any operator listening in just made it that much hotter for me.

"I'll bet it's all you can do to keep from fingering your slick little snatch right now, isn't it, Jocelyn."  Lord, I wanted to do the same thing, talking myself into a very needy situation.  I started squirming on the stool, trying to avoid Mario's eyes staring at me from the far end of the bar.

"Stop it!" I heard her whisper.  "You're going to make me orgasm right here in front of everyone."

"You'd like that," I husked at her, my own lust rising as I imagined her doing just that.  "You'd love to cum in your soaked little panties for everyone to see... wouldn't you?" 

I heard what sounded like a groan, then some other noise, then the much louder voice of Jocelyn crying out, "Oh, damn!"  I was immediately concerned, hoping nothing bad had occurred, castigating myself for letting this get out of hand.

"Joz... what's wrong?  What happened?"

"I... I knocked over my ink bottle; got it all over my blotter and some on my new red skirt, too.  Darn!"

I was stunned to hear that her voice still sounded more aroused than angry, realizing how badly I must have gotten to her.  Putting my hand up to cup the mouthpiece for some silly reason, I whispered, "Did you cum?"

"No," she whispered back, "But if you keep talking to me like that, I'm not going to last another minute here.  I'll have a big orgasm, all the other girls, including my supervisor, will see it, and I'll probably be fired."

I felt a massive shiver pulse through me at the thought of being able to do that to Jocelyn, fighting the urge to just spread my legs around the stool and start grinding my own throbbing sex against it.  I almost gave in to the urge to continue my verbal teasing, too, as the plaintiveness in Jocelyn's voice sounded as much like the need for me to continue as the need for me to stop.

But just then, Rule # 2 in my P.I.'s handbook hit me right between the eyes... "A good private investigator always has a reliable source in the cophouse."  Information... sometimes secret, personal information, is the P.I.'s life blood, and there was often no better place to get it from than the police.  There were only a few beat cops that would even talk to someone like me... a woman, and a lesbian, besides... and you could forget about me getting close to any of the detectives.

I had something better than they did, anyway.  I had Jocelyn.




Almost every bit of information that the police gathered about any case went through or past the steno pool, and Jocelyn had her friends in the building, and full access to everything but the evidence room.  As far as I was concerned, she was the font of all knowledge, and here I was putting that at risk.

Shaking my head and trying to settle down, I told her, "Okay, Joz... I'll stop.  I'm sorry, hon, but you get to me pretty badly, and you just enjoy things so much.  But I don't want you fired, or even reprimanded, and I called you because I need some information anyway.  Forgive me?"

I heard her sigh and say, "Of course I forgive you, Gerri, but you owe me for this one.  You owe me for the skirt and... and for stopping."

"I understand, Joz.  And I promise to completely make this up to you just as soon as we get together again."

"You'd better," she pouted, knowing how that always got to me.  "But tell me quick what you need, as I've got a lot to clean up here."  I could almost see her winking at the phone.

So I told her.  I needed her to look at all the watch sheets and officer reports to see if anyone had noticed anything funny near Sebastian's yesterday; perhaps a woman screaming, or a struggle, or a car racing off.  I needed to know if there was anything that looked suspicious, anything I could use as a clue to what had happened to Anne Hawthorne after she'd left the dance studio.

Jocelyn said she would look into it, but that it would take her about 20 minutes.  I thanked her profusely, renewed my promise to her, and asked her to hurry, as time was of the essence.  She already had Mario's number, so I kissed her through the phone and said goodbye.  Then I sat there to finish my drink, regain control of myself (if I could), and to wait.

There's a lot of "hurry up and wait" when you're a private investigator.  It just goes with the territory.

I sat there thinking about Anne Hawthorne, and about what might have happened last night.  Considering how I felt about her, it was difficult to keep the lingering wetness between my thighs from twisting those thoughts back into the fantasies I had about her ever since I saw her first picture.  She was just my type, too.  She wasn't young -- about my age, having started in the business late.  But she had a beautiful, sensuous face, wavy black hair, and a full, voluptuous figure... a dark-haired version of Susan Hayward.

I hadn't believed how strong a reaction I had had to her, watching her up there on the screen for the first time.  She didn't have a huge part, but she totally dominated my vision and my thoughts every time she appeared.  I hadn't been able to get her out of my mind since, and many a night had drifted off to sleep (or other things), clutching a pillow that I called her name.

Now she was missing, and, as far as I knew, it was up to me to find her before it was too late.

Just as Mario came down to see if I wanted a refill, the phone rang.  I waved him away and answered it, hoping it was Jocelyn.

"Mario's."

"Gerri?"  It was her.

"Yeah.  You have anything for me, hon?"

"Sorry, Gerri, but I don't.  I checked everything I could lay my fingers on, and it was as quiet as a mouse on Crenshaw all day and night.  Not a single report from there outside of rousting a few winos.  But that happens every night."

I sighed.  It had been a long shot at best.

"Thanks, Joz.  I appreciate it and I'll get back to you soon... I promise."

"Okay, sweetie.  I'm sorry I couldn't be more help.  Good luck with your case, whatever it is."

"Thanks, hon," I said, hanging up the phone. 

Well, I thought, maybe no news tells me something, too.

If nothing else, it told me Sebastian's was the place to be now, and I'd best get cracking.

I had a pillow to find.

***********



Chapter 2 - Finding My Way

I jumped in my three-year-old Chrysler Royal, and headed off toward Sebastian's, looking to pick up some kind of clue as to Anne Hawthorne's disappearance.  I knew I was going to need to catch a break, but I've always considered myself a lucky person.  Things just always seem to fall into place for me.

In some respects, and as oxymoronic as it sounds, World War II had been a lucky break for me.

I had just turned 20 before Pearl Harbor, had just moved off my parent's farm to the big city.  Gary, Indiana; the big city... yeah, right.  But it was huge by my standards, and with the men starting to leave, being drafted or otherwise heading off to war, there were suddenly tons of job opportunities available for a girl like me.

And plenty of lonely, frustrated women.

I had known I was "one of those" since I was barely 15, being far more attracted to other girls than I was to guys.  But talk about frustrated!  A small, Midwestern, god-fearing farming community was no place for a nascent homosexual woman to find much companionship, or to get any "interpersonal" sexual relief.

My sister, Emma, and I, were the only kids my parents managed to have, and thus we became the boys of the family, too.  I did everything on the farm that a son would have done -- milking, haying, fixing fence, driving, using, and working on all kinds of farm machinery.  I grew strong, and gained knowledge.  But it was a cold, unsatisfying, and unfulfilled existence for me.

Then came the war and Gary, Indiana, and everything changed.

On the work front, what with my strength and skills and aggressiveness, I was suddenly much in demand.  Barely out of my teens, at all three factories I worked at, I became a floor foreman in a matter of weeks.  I was the one they always ran to when something went wrong, or when something needed fixing.

I had respect, and made about as good money as there was to be made during those years, in those manufacturing jobs.

And on the "home" front, what with my strength and "skills" and aggressiveness, I was suddenly much in demand, too.  There were a lot... a lot of Rosies out there missing their riveters; who were lonely and frustrated, and who were looking for a short-term fix.  Suddenly, there were many women a bit more willing to experiment with things, to seek out any port in a storm to satisfy their sexual needs.

For many, I was that port.

I was attractive enough, and driven enough, to take control, to push things, to direct and show others what to do, and how to enjoy themselves.  My experience was limited at first, but in most cases my desires were more natural then theirs.

Besides, I was a very quick study.

And though I generally ran the shows, was the "bed foreman", so to speak, I was lucky enough to get almost as much enjoyment from my partner's pleasure as from anything I could get them to do for me.

In other words, I was a good lover, and during the war years I had more sex and sexual partners than I could handle.

Most everything started to dry up, though, when Johnny came marching home.

That was almost lucky, too, in a way.  I was tired of the nine-to-five of manufacturing work, and frankly, pretty tired of the staid morality of the Midwest.  When I could find the time, I was a voracious reader and moviegoer, and a lover of mysteries and crime dramas.  So, late in 1945, almost on a whim, I headed out to California, looking for excitement, sex, and a new job.

Long story short, I worked as an assistant for a couple of male private investigators, started making some of my own connections, and struck out on my own.  My new friends thought I was crazy, but I'd found my niche, as there are a few things that a female P.I. could do that a male could never do without help, especially in the bizarre world of Hollywood.

Now Hollywood had called again, I was driving through the hot, busy, LA streets, looking to catch a break.

I knew right where Sebastian's was, and had even been inside on a few occasions to pick up female friends.  I didn't know Sebastian personally, but knew what he looked like.  I glanced around after I entered, even into an office or two.  When I didn't see him, I sought out his office manager to see what was up.

Her name was Katherine, and she remembered me, and the way I had teased her a few times in the past.  So she was a bit on her guard as I approached her.

"Hi, Gerri.  What are you doing here today?"  I thought the way she picked up those three manila folders, to hold them against her chest for no discernible reason whatsoever, was rather cute.

"Relax, Kath.  You're perfectly safe.  I was just looking for Sebastian.  Is he around?"

"Sebastian?"  I could see the wheels spinning in her head, but the gears weren't meshing.  "What do you want to... he's not back from lunch yet.  He should be back in about a half hour."

Damn!  "Okay, thanks.  Mind if I hang around 'til he gets back?"

Katherine started to crumple the folders against her chest.  "Sure, but... but I have an awful lot of work to do here."

I decided to let her off the hook.

"Would you relax, Kath.  You told me 'no', so 'no' it is.  I find you attractive all right, and if you knew what you were missing out on you wouldn't be near so nervous.  I know I push a bit, but all some women need is a little push.  You're not one of those, so just relax."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Gerri.  I'm relaxed."  She said that, but meanwhile the folders were starting to look like origami swans.  I just sighed, smiled at her one last time, and moved off toward the back rooms to wait.

Sebastian's was actually a nice place, if in need of a little maintenance and general attention.  It had four studio rooms, for different types of dance and instructions, one big dance floor, a locker room, and a small canteen.  The place was nearly empty, with most of their business starting later in the day, if I remembered correctly.  I was going to go wait in the canteen, when I just happened to look into one of the studios through the little glass window in the door, and saw Carol.

Now, Carol I knew very well... in the biblical sense, as well (although I'm not sure people would want me referencing the Bible for what Carol and I did together).  She was in her ballerina get up... toe shoes and a black, stretch leotard, sans tutu... and reading a ballet book as she did some leg and side stretches on a bar against the far wall.

She was facing in my direction, but didn't see me yet, too engrossed in what she was reading.  Her legs were spread and her "assets" were exposed quite nicely in her tight, thin outfit.  I, on the other hand, was still horny from earlier, and had a half hour to kill.

She didn't stand a chance.

I opened the door quietly and stepped inside, hissing loudly, "Don't move, Carol!"

She froze, staring at me, whispering, "Gerri... what's wrong?"

"Just don't move until I tell you," I said in a more normal voice. I watched her eyes go wide as I started to unbutton my blouse.

As I took it off, she whispered, "What are you doing?"

I said nothing for a moment, instead turning to hang my blouse on a strategically placed hook just above the door's window, using that to block the view from the outside.  I locked the door and turned, beginning to advance on her, letting her see my breasts as they strained against my brassiere.

"I'm going to give you an orgasm, Carol," I said, my voice husky now, my walk provocative.  "I'm going to make you cum in your pretty little ballerina clothes."

She was staring at my breasts, then my face, then my breasts again.  And there was that wonderful deer-in-the-headlights look, again.  Only this time it was my headlights.

She really loved my tits.

She looked so exciting and alluring standing there like that, her left leg up on the bar, her lithe body so tight and firm in her tight little outfit.  She already looked ready for me, a thin sheen of sweat covering her exposed skin.  Carol was the 24-year-old daughter of a local socialite, and she took acting and dance lessons, hoping to make it in the movies one day.  I doubted if she would, but she was a lot of fun to be with, and loved me telling her what to do.

I reached her, and without a word, took her head and pulled her face down tightly into my cleavage, using my upper arms to press my breasts tight to her cheeks.  I could hear her muffled moans, and felt her wet tongue as it sought out my soft flesh.  I was excited enough to let out a soft moan of my own.

We stayed that way for quite a while, until suddenly it dawned on me that I'd better let Carol up for air if I wanted to continue, which I most certainly did.  I grabbed her hair and pulled her head up and back, watching as she gasped and as her eyes refocused.  "You like my tits, don't you, hon?"  I said, reaching up with my hands to free them from their lacy confines.

I allowed her to get away without saying anything, letting her simply nod her head vigorously as she watched them appear in all their soft-skinned glory.  When she eagerly looked up at me, I cupped them, shivering at my own touch, and held them up to her.

"Then you know what to do," I rasped, boring into her eyes with my own.  She nodded again, leaned her head down and began to lick, kiss, and suckle at my nipples... first one, then the other.  I jammed my thigh tight to her mound, and could feel her hips beginning to move as she ground herself against me.

I sighed, but those soon turned to soft moans, Carol's mouth very talented, my own fingers knowing just where to touch and how to press.  My shivers soon turned to shudders, my nipples taut and sensitive.  The rest of my skin pebbled with feeling, too, as both of us stood there, lost in our building arousal.

The tingles between my thighs were threatening to turn into spasms when I remembered what I had promised her, what I truly wanted.  I let go of my breasts, put my hands on Carol's shoulders and pushed them back against the wall.  She leaned there, her head lolling from side to side, her eyes glassy with lust.

I loved the way she moaned "ohhh..." as I pressed my globes tight to her smaller ones, and started to slide slowly down her body toward her treasure.  When I got there, I instantly latched onto her through her outfit with my mouth.  I sucked and tugged and pushed against her sex, completely skipping over that subtle thing again.

Carol gasped and lurched against me, desperately giving me everything I was demanding.  I could smell her through her leotard, feel pull them grow damp as I worked them up inside her with my tongue.  When I felt her fingers digging into my short hair, I knew she was totally ready, and went right to the source of both our needs.

I practically ripped the crotch of her tights in my haste to push them aside.  The second she was exposed to me, my lips and tongue found her again, sucking and licking at her warm, slick flesh.

I was glad the rooms here were soundproof, as her wails of pleasure almost sounded like cries of pain.  I've heard it before, though, if not as loud or as quickly as this.  It only spurred me on, got me even more excited.  I explored her fragrant folds everywhere with my tongue and lips, stopping only to kiss and tease her swollen clitoris.

Carol's leg came off the bar and hooked itself over my shoulder, trying to help her hands pull me closer, tighter to her.  I was half-smothered already, but that sign of her need for this, for me, made her heel in my back feel like a spur, prodding me to even greater efforts.

I reached one hand up to fondle one of her breasts, and used the other to grip her buttocks.  I licked her faster, then sucked her aroused nub into my mouth as far as I could stretch it.

Carol's cries of "Yesss!  Yesss!", followed by her groaned outbursts of sexual gibberish, strained the limits of the studio's sound-proofing.  Her spasmodic movements strained the limits of my balance, too, almost knocking me off my knees and over backwards as her orgasm overwhelmed her.  I tormented her with my mouth and hands, tasting her release, even as her hands tugged at my hair, trying to pull me away from her.

I stayed put though, driving her orgasm for as long as she could stand (literally), a trick I'd learned from reading a few contraband sexual manuals.

And from constant, constant practice.

I like to maximize my partner's pleasure so that they remember me for a long time.  You may have noticed that I'm rather egotistical, too.

When she finished, and I was certain that she could still stay on her feet, I rose up in front of her, wiping my wet face on her sweaty outfit as I stood.  Then I then I kissed her, all hot and passionate.

I was good at this, knew what we both really wanted, and we both had enjoyed ourselves.

"Let me do you, Gerri," she said when we finally broke apart.  I shook my head "no", as I wasn't sure if I had time, and frankly, I like the edge that feeling sexually frustrated gives me.  It makes me sharp, it makes me want things.

"Next time, hon," I whispered, kissing Carol's cheek.  She was a good kid, more giving than her mother (who was another story).  I still couldn't see her ever becoming an actress, but I admired her persistence.  A good actress knew how to move, how to dance... at least that was the theory.  So here she was, trying to learn, at least.

"So, are you going to keep taking these lessons?" I asked, as we both straightened up a bit.  I'd have to find the lady's room before I talked to Sebastian, though.

"For a while yet, Gerri.  Sebastian doesn't have near as many clients as he used to, and I'd feel a bit guilty being one of the last ones to walk out on him."

Like I said, Carol was a good kid.

"Why are people leaving?  I thought Sebastian was one of the best?"

"He is... or was," Carol said, looking sad.  But he's not getting any younger, and he injured himself in a bad fall over the winter.  Most of the girls are looking for younger, newer, and fancier, so they've been leaving.  But he said he's going to be able to renovate very soon."

My "clue" radar was at full ping at this news.  Rule # 3... "Desperate people, even good desperate people, sometimes do bad things, things you'd never expect them to do."

And just like that, I had a plan, something to try to maybe see if Sebastian were somehow involved with Anne's disappearance.

I was going to need Carol's help for this, but I knew she would do it, even though she was a friend of Sebastian's, too.

"I need a big favor, Carol.  You're not going to like it, I know, considering how loyal you are to Sebastian."  The look on her face showed she already wasn't liking it.  I didn't want to, but I was going to have to tell her the truth if this was going to work.  I cut her off before she could object.

"Listen for a minute, then decide."  Carol's settled, nodding.  "There's a woman you know a little, and her life could be in danger... she's already missing."

"Who?" she said, her eyes growing wider.

"Anne Hawthorne."

Carol almost leaped at me.  "I know her!  She practices here and I talked to her just yesterday.  In fact, she's one of the girls who's thinking of leaving."

"I know, Carol.  And truthfully, you might have been the last one to see her."

"Oh dear," she gasped, clutching at the neckline of her sweaty leotard.  Carol leaned closer to me, looked around, and whispered, "And you suspect Sebastian of something?"

I put my cheek to hers, loving the earthy scent of her, and whispered back, "No, I actually don't.  But I've got a quick way of maybe checking it out.  I need your help, though."  I nibbled her ear lobe for a second.  "Can you help me?"

She pushed herself away from me, looking unhappy again.  But I could see in her eyes that I had hooked her as she probably realized something even I was thinking... This was just like something out of the movies!

"What do I have to do, Gerri?" she said quietly.

"Well, first thing you should do is take a quick shower, Carol.  It smells like you've been hanging around on the docks."  We both smiled at that, a long-running joke between us.  Then I put my arm over her shoulder, and told her the rest.

*************

There was just enough room for me to lie sideways behind the couch in Sebastian's office, although it was another one of those times when I wished I were a bit less well-endowed.  My stupid nipples were still swollen, and sensitized, too, both from being with Carol and from sliding them over the back of the sofa as I crawled behind it.

I had been aroused for a good portion of the day already, and doing something "dangerous" always got me excited, too.  I probably smelled as obvious as Carol, although I had done my best to clean up a bit.  All I could do was count on the large ceiling fan whirling above me to help dissipate that.

I was sorry this was the only place to hide in his office, but it would have to do.  I tried to relax, hoping he would be back soon, hoping Carol could pull off her part in this.

The plan was simple: I make a big show of leaving, telling Katherine I'd be back later.  Carol lets me in the back door, and I go hide in Sebastian's office, waiting.  Carol accosts him when he gets back, "spilling the beans" that I'm looking for Anne Hawthorne, hinting that I suspect him.  Then I see what happens.

So far so good, outside of the heat... both external and internal.  It was hot behind the couch and I was sweating badly.  I also just couldn't seem to shake my own arousal.  It didn't help that the way I had crawled in left both my hands in the general vicinity of "down there".  I did my best to ignore my urges, and waited.

And waited.

By the time I finally heard Carol and Sebastian talking outside the door, I was a sweaty mess, writhing and moving my body against the back of the couch, almost digging my nails into my thighs to keep from teasing myself.

I had long ago decided that I should have let Carol take care of me while I had the chance.

But she was apparently doing right by me now, as I heard the office door open and Sebastian speaking.  "Don't worry your pretty head, Carol.  I don't know anything about this, but let me make a few phone calls and I'll see what I can find out."

I heard the door close, and heard Sebastian whispering, "Dammit!"  I could hear him moving and the creak of his office chair as he sat down.  He was still muttering and mumbling, and I thought I heard him say, "nosy dyke".  I heard the clack of him picking up the phone and caught my breath as he started to dial.

Stretching my hearing to its limits, I counted the clicks as he ratcheted out a phone number.  Then I memorized it.  I have a good memory and have read books on how to improve it.  I work at my craft, what can I say?

I started to breathe again, doing my best to hear everything now.

"Hello, Isadore, this is Sebastian. (short pause)... Because there was a private investigator in here a half-hour ago looking for Anne, that's why!"  (longer pause)...  Look!  I was all prepared for the police tomorrow... I'd just keep saying that "I don't know" over and over.  (short pause)... Because the cops gotta play by the rules.  I know this P.I., and she's starting to get a reputation as one of the good ones."

I couldn't help but smile at that, feeling a small shiver of pride.

"Yes... she," Sebastian continued.  "Some lesbo dyke named Gerri Holcombe. (short pause)... No, not a biker chick.  She's actually very attractive.  Apparently she's some world-class carpet-muncher, and she's had her tongue up half my girls here."

Hey!  It's only been three of them, I thought, still tasting one of them on my tongue.  I couldn't help it any longer, considering everything, and eased both hands between my thighs to press on the aching area there, trying to concentrate on what was being said.

"Well, for one thing, I wanted to warn you about her.  And for another, to tell you that if she starts pressuring me, I expect you to do something about it.  (short pause)... Why?  Because all I did was let your people in the back door, cover all your tracks in here.  You're the one with the muscle.  (longer pause)... Well, good!  Because you didn't pay me near enough to take the fall for you."

This gave me hope that Anne was still alive, at least.  Either that, or Sebastian was just being incredibly stupid to threaten to roll over on the person with "the muscle".

"Yes, I'm fine.  I'll just continue to play dumb around her and the police.  But don't worry.  She's not going to find out about you from me at least, Isadore.  (short pause)... All right, I'll keep you informed... goodbye."

As he practically slammed down the phone, I wished Sebastian could see the sweaty smirk on my face at just how wrong he was about that.

I had her first name, and her phone number, and the certain knowledge that the woman on the other end of the phone line knew tons about what had happened to Anne Hawthorne.  She might still even have her.  I had gotten that big break that I'd been looking for, that major clue.  Now all I had to do was get out of here and follow up on it.

I had a plan for that, too.  I just had to wait a few more minutes.

There was a chance Sebastian would leave the office on his own, but I couldn't count on that.  And he didn't, sitting there muttering and rocking in his chair by the sound of it.  So I was glad then, when about five minutes later I heard a thin scream emanating from outside the office... that would be Carol, right on time, faking a fall out back in the dance area.

I heard Sebastian say, "What the hell, now?", get up, and leave the office.  Knowing that my friend could only keep Sebastian and Katherine occupied for a couple of minutes, I dispensed with niceties and just heaved the couch away from me enough to stand up.  I rose up from behind it, my clothes glued to my skin practically everywhere.  As I straightened out the sofa, I was thankful for the cooling waves coming down from the fan.

I would have loved to just stand there under it, but I had to get out of here.  He hadn't closed his door, so I went over to it, peeking out.  There was nobody in sight, so I rushed off down the short hall, out through the foyer where Katherine normally would have been sitting, and out the front door.

I got to my car, fluffing at my blouse, trying to cool off even a little.  But I was flush with the LA heat, flush with the success of my plan, and still flush from a day of unreleased arousal.  So I gave up trying to cool off, climbed into the Chrysler, and took off down the road.

It was time to find Miss Hawthorne.

********

[Archibael]

Gerri Holcombe: Lesbian Private Eye in -- "The Pillow Case"  - Cont.
by flibinite




Chapter 3 - Bearding the Lioness...

I drove off in the Royal, but not too quickly, looking for a pay phone.  I pulled over when I found one, and put in a quick call to Jocelyn.  It was almost five o'clock, but luckily I caught her just before she left the station.  She still sounded like she wanted me to tease her, but I was all business now, despite the constancy of my own arousal.

I gave her the phone number Sebastian had dialed, hoping I had gotten it correct.  I knew for a fact she could access a "by the numbers" phone book.  It only took an extra nickel in the phone before she got back to me with what she'd found.

"I have an Isadore Duncan, 737 Delanson Avenue... pretty ritzy area out there, Gerri.  Sure that's what you want?"

Bull’s-eye!

"That's it on the nose, Joz.  Thanks!"  I was about to hang up when I suddenly remembered what I was dealing with here.  "Oh, and sweetness... if I, well... look... if you don't hear from me by this time tomorrow, push this address and the names Lionel Myers and Anne Hawthorne to your favorite detective... okay?"

I heard her gasp, then reply softly, "I know better than to ask, but I'll do what you said, Gerri.  You be careful, though."

"Careful's my middle name, hon."

"I thought it was Elizabeth," she said with a strained laugh.  I swear to God I blushed then, remembering the exact circumstances when she dragged that bit of information out of me.  I was drunk and needy and would have told her pretty much anything at the time.

I thanked her again, hung up, and headed off for Delanson, mulling over my options.  The five o'clock traffic in LA is pretty bad, so I had a lot of time to try to come up with a decent plan.

Well, at least A plan.

My cover was pretty much blown by Sebastian's phone call.  I might be able to surprise Isadore by suddenly showing up at her front door, but she would know instantly what I was looking for, and there'd be no chance to finesse her into a lie or a major mistake.  I could also get her to the door, grab her and physically threaten her into a tour of the house... probably a big house.  But if Anne wasn't there, I was in big trouble, and Isadore's "muscle" had to be taken into account.

Or perhaps I could sneak inside somehow... break in after dark and see what I could find out.  But again, I was breaking the law, I might not find out anything, and there was still that muscle problem.

None of my options were all that good, the traffic was still lousy, and I groaned in all kinds of frustration as I found that I had slid one hand down between my thighs, trying to "help myself think".  I put both hands on the wheel, and pondered for a bit before finally making my decision. 

It Anne was in Duncan's house, my best bet was to sneak in, find out for sure, and have Lionel call in the cops.  If she wasn't there, maybe I could see or hear something that would lead me to her.  I was becoming more and more certain I would find Anne wherever Isadore was, though.  Call it intuition based on my own feelings for the star and also because of the phone being listed to Isadore, herself, rather than to a man or at least a Mr. and Mrs. Duncan. 

I'm not the only "one of those" on the West Coast, that's for sure.

I finally arrived, or at least got a couple of blocks away from her house before I stopped.  I loaded the pockets of my loose slacks with some "gadgets" of mine, put on some tennis shoes, locked up the car, and went reconnoitering.  It wasn't quite dark yet, but I didn't want to wait any longer.  The houses on Delanson were ritzy, with very large lots and lots of trees and well-manicured shrubs.  That was good, because somehow I had to get behind or well back beside Isadore's house before I could sneak into it.

I waited another ten minutes, walking away from my target for a while, letting it get a bit darker. 

Okay, time to do this, I thought.  So I took a deep breath and drifted in the direction of 737.

My luck was still holding when I got there.  The house was an old Victorian, completely surrounded by a seven-foot masonry fence.  You might think that was bad, but I knew better.  No fence like that could keep me out, but it would block the eyes of prying neighbors once I got over it.  The chance of there being dogs was slightly higher, to be sure, but people with such fences tend not to look outside so much, at least from the lower floors.  What was there to see, after all, but the wall... and it would certainly keep out intruders, wouldn't it?

Finding a reasonably blind spot from her neighbors, I climbed a tree, used a branch, and was over.  Using the deepening darkness, I moved to the house and spent about five minutes searching until I found a way inside.

It was a small window, about three feet wide, but only a foot tall, left open a bit for ventilation, probably of a pantry or a storage room.  I pulled an ornamental bench over under it, tugged it fully open, and hoisted myself through it.  I cursed quietly as my breasts took another light beating sliding through the small opening.

I was right, though... it was a storage room, and luckily it wasn't locked from the house, inside.  I opened it and peaked around.  Seeing no one, I moved out into the huge house, my heart hammering.

I only saw or heard one person for the first few minutes -- luckily, just before she saw me.  I managed to hide behind the staircase just as a woman walked out of a side room and went into what looked like the kitchen.  The woman was big, bigger than I, and dressed in a white outfit.  I was guessing chef, not Isadore, as a house this big was likely to have a few servants.  I slinked around the rest of the ground floor, finding nothing of interest, nothing that proved that Anne was here or had ever been here.

I'd have to try the upstairs rooms.

Rushing up the stairs was a complete heartbeater, as I was totally exposed for a few seconds and had to run up them as fast and as quietly as I could.  When I got to the top, I took a chance and ducked into the first open room to catch my breath.  It was a bathroom, and as I stood there gathering myself, I spotted my own reflection in the full-length mirror attached to the far wall.

I was a mess.  My blouse and slacks were covered with dirt and spider webs from climbing the tree and crawling through the window.  My face was streaked with grunge and my hair was all sweaty and matted.  With no time for fixing, other than running my fingers through my hair, I just blew myself a kiss and moved on.

I hit two empty bedrooms before achieving success... of a sort.

I heard the voice before I looked into the room.  It was a woman's voice, soft and sonorous, her exact words indistinct.  Needing to know more, I fished a large, round pocket mirror out of said pocket, and inched it around the doorframe.  I angled it so that I could see inside the room, and searched for the source of the voice. 

And found it.



She was beautiful, maybe a few years older than I, with medium-length, dark, wavy hair, and a beautiful ruddy complexion.  I wondered if that was her natural skin color or whether she had been worshipping the sun lately.  She was sitting on an ornate wooden chair next to an impressive mahogany desk, and was wearing a long, black, shiny number... a cross between a full-length evening gown and nightgown.  I could swear she wasn't wearing anything underneath it, either.

Assumptions are dangerous, I knew, but this simply had to be Isadore Duncan.

Whatever the case, she hadn't seen me, although she had given my insides quite a jolt, considering how attractive she was and what she was wearing.  She was still talking, but I still couldn't make out all the words.  So I panned the mirror to see who she is talking to, and took two more jolts in rapid succession.

First, sitting on a small table next to "Isadore" was the weirdest contraption I'd ever seen.  It looked like a giant, spinning lollipop stuck into the top of a large wooden box.  But the lollipop was covered with black and white stripes, so that as it spun they seemed to spiral ever-inward.  I stared at it for about 15 seconds before I realized it was making me dizzy.  I closed my eyes for a few seconds, remembering something like this from a book I'd read on hypnosis.

Hypnosis!  My eyes snapped open and I quickly looked in the mirror to see who Isadore was talking to, who else might be staring at the spiraling wheel. 

I already knew the answer to that in my pounding heart.

Even facing three-quarters away from me, I knew instantly it was her... Anne Hawthorne.  She was sitting there, unmoving, on a large divan just in front of the wheel and Isadore.  She wasn't naked, but in my eyes she might just as well have been.  Her blue dress was hiked way up, displaying wonderful amounts of thigh and garter.  The top of her dress was loose and pulled down to about the level of her breasts on all sides.  Her neck, shoulders, and back looked so sensuous and soft and... touchable.

A fleeting thought occurred to me that I was breaking Rule # 4 of the handbook... "Don't let yourself get distracted by an attractive dame."  (I didn't write the rules, obviously, but they work for me).  However, some rules are made to be broken, especially when the "dame" in question is as lusciously attractive and desirable as Anne Hawthorne.

I was wrong, of course.

One second I was ogling a rising star; the next, an exploding galaxy of them.  I saw lots of bright, twinkling lights, and then darkness.

Rules are rules for a reason, I guess.

*********

I slowly climbed back up into the light.  Unfortunately, the brighter things got, the more my neck hurt.  I heard a disembodied voice saying, "She's waking up already.  She's a strong one, Gretchen."

"Yes, ma'am," said another voice, this time from behind me.

I opened my eyes and gasped as it felt like someone was giving me a bear hug, pulling my stomach in and pressing my back against... a chair? 

I looked down at myself, at what looked to be a bathrobe sash cinching in my belly now.  I could see I no longer had to worry about how dirty my clothes were, as I wasn't wearing them anymore.  I could tell my ankles were tied together, as were my arms behind me.  My wrists were crossed and bound with something soft, probably a scarf (I have some small experience in this area).  My waist was tied and pinned to the large center slat of the wooden chair, but my arms were draped rather painfully over the short back of it.  This had the effect of pulling my shoulders back and thrusting my naked breasts out in the general direction of my captor.

I was to be their guest for a while -- I could tell.  So I paid less attention to myself and more to the woman who sat there across from me, smiling and seeming to totally enjoy my current predicament.  I didn't struggle too much, as I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of watching my breasts bounce and jiggle.

"Ah, good.  You seemed to be recovering quite nicely, Miss Holcombe," she said, in a voice that indicated how pleased she was with herself.

"Isadore Duncan, I presume," I said wearily, looking her over, needing to inventory everything in the room for possible future use.  I could tell all this was turning Isadore on (and that she didn't have on a full set of underwear) as her nipples showed very prominently through the smooth, shiny fabric of her gown.  I was happy to note that my own nipples were not so obvious for the first time in hours.

Given my condition, I wondered if that would last very much longer.

"I see you know a bit about me, dear," Isadore said, eyeing me up and down. 

Now I like to be looked at by attractive, seductive women... I'm weak that way.  And Isadore was certainly all of that.  "But I know a lot about you, too," she continued, her eyes locked on my breasts now.  "And I plan on learning so much more... so very much more."

So much for non-obvious nipples.  They like to be looked at, too.

I watched her smile grow more feral as she saw them respond to her gaze.  "I know that you're just like me," she said softly, finally looking up at my face.

"What?  I'm a crazed kidnapper, too."

She completely ignored that.  So much for getting her goat.

"No... a lesbian," she said almost dreamily, reaching out to run the fingers of her right hand over my knee.  "I made a few inquiries about you before you arrived."

I was having more difficulty ignoring her fingers that she had had ignoring my jibe at her.  I wanted to take my bound legs and just kick her in the face, but that wasn't going to happen.  I couldn't even put my feet flat on the floor, as someone had taken the precaution of connecting my ankle bindings to something under the heavy chair.  I really was stuck here, no fooling.

"But how rude of me.  Gerri, right?"  I nodded.  "Let me introduce you to my assistant, Gretchen."  She waved her hand, and whoever had been binding me walked around the chair and stood looking down at me, a definite leer on her face.

She was huge, with classic Aryan features and long blond hair.  And, oh yeah... lots and lots of muscles.

"How's it going, Eva Braunski?"  I asked, staring up at her. 

I barely saw the slap coming in time to go with it, but it still left me shaken, and seeing more twinkling stellar objects.

"Gretchen!"  Isadore barked at her.  "Manners!"

Gretchen stop smiling, dropping her eyes and said, "Sorry, ma'am."

"That's quite all right, dear."  She reached out to take the Amazon's hand.  "I promise to give you plenty of time later with our newest acquisition."

"Thank you, ma'am!"  Gretchen said, turning back to me, that nasty-looking leer back in place.  "I promise not to break her."

"No," Isadore said with a small laugh.  "Leave that to me.  In fact, leave us completely.  I'll call you if I need anything."

"Yes, ma'am."  Gretchen turned and started to walk off.

I was still working my jaw, my cheek burning, but managed to say, "Have fun playing in traffic, I hope," before she got out of earshot.

Isadore was a laughing again.  "You have spirit, my dear.  But I'm afraid you have a lot to learn about manners."

It was my turn to ignore her.

"Look... I don't know what your problem is or what you're hoping to accomplish with all this, but there are people who know I'm here, and will know that Anne is here too, if I'm not out of this place pretty soon."  I was talking fast, trying to get everything in.  "So why don't you just untie me, give me Miss Hawthorne, and let us get out of here.  No cops, no telling Lionel Myers what happened.  He has his own goons, you know."

She was smiling at me, and I could see I wasn't making a dent here.

"Don't worry about me, Gerri.  When I'm through with you, you'll gladly call your people and tell them you're happy and safe, and that Anne was nowhere to be found.  No one else will be coming here."

"What makes you think I'll do any of that?"

"I have my ways," she said with a grin. 

I remembered the spinning desk.  "You think you can hypnotize me the same way you did Anne?"

Her eyes widened for a moment and she looked impressed.  "Sexy and smart.  You'll make a wonderful sexual slave for the three of us."

"Three?"  I didn't like the sound of slave, despite the "interesting" adjective in front of it.

"Why, Anne, Gretchen, and myself, of course."

Okay... so now the slave thing didn't seem quite so bad, discounting Frau Nazi.

"What makes you think Anne will want me as her slave, Isadore?"  I was talking, stalling, slowly moving my arms behind me, looking for a way to get free.

My captor smiled and called out, "You want Gerri to be our slave, don't you, Anne?"

From directly behind me I heard "her" voice for the first time, husky and erotic, soft and dreamy.  "I want Gerri to be our slave, yes."

I tried to turn around, desperate to see Anne again, but the way I was bound limited my movements enough so that I couldn't.

"You're just putting words in her mouth!"  I snapped at Isadore, suddenly angry.  "From what I know, she's not even a lesbian!"

Isadore's infuriating smile was still in place.  "She is now, Gerri.  She's been pretty hard to turn around, though.  It seems she's really stuck on the fellas.  But I got to her, and now she's all mine.  That's right, isn't it, Anne dear?" she called out.  "You love being my sexual slave, don't you?"

I heard that soft, intoxicating, aroused voice from behind me again.  "Yes, Isadore.  I love being your sexual slave."

Isadore leaned closer to me and whispered.  "She uses her tongue on me so well, you know.  Just like you'll be doing very soon."

I struggled a bit more to get free, knowing I couldn't yet, but trying to hide how much all this was starting to affect me. 

"You may have Anne for now, but I'll never be yours," I hissed at her.

Isadore only laughed.  "You'll be easy, honey.  Just looking in your eyes right now, I can see that you're already halfway there."

"You're wrong!"

"Am I?"  She smirked.  "You mean the idea of being with me and Anne, of having all kinds of sex with us constantly, of never having to worry about money again, and still being able to run your silly little business if you want, doesn't appeal to you?"

All the time she was speaking, Isadore was moving, rocking back and forth and sliding her nails up and down the tops of my thighs.  I felt myself getting weak, starting to imagine being with the two of them... constantly.  I tried to ignore my rebuilding arousal, but I was developing some major tingles in an area very close to where Isadore's fingers and nails were teasing me so unmercifully.

"No.  That's nothing I want," I said.  But my voice felt thin, and I didn't even believe myself.

"Yes, sweetie.  But humor me, and let's give it a try, anyway."

She left me to sit there shivering in arousal again while she got things ready.  I'm having a great day sexually, outside of not having had an orgasm yet, I thought, wishing that I wasn't always so easily turned on by sexy women and things like this.

Before I knew it, her spiral contraption was on a small table just in front of me, and she was sitting right next to it, turning it on.  I watched it spin for a few seconds before slamming my eyes shut, already starting to feel its effects.

It was only a second or two before I felt a searing pain in both nipples, and heard Isadore yell, "Open your eyes!"

I did, gasping in shock, looking down to see her release my nipples from her fingers and pull her hands away.  Her voice was much gentler, but still firm as she looked into my eyes and said, "Don't fight this, Gerri.  If you close your eyes again, I'll prop them open with broken toothpicks and worry about getting the splinters out of your eyelids later.  And if you try to turn your head, I'll have Gretchen come back in here and hold it still... by your ears.

"And if I find you looking at anything but my face or the spiral, I won't hurt you... I'll hurt Anne.  You don't want to be responsible for that, do you, especially knowing that you really don't have any chance of resisting me."

I groaned, as she had me six ways from Sunday.  I could feel the spiral affecting me a little even now, while I was looking at Isadore's face, and I knew I couldn't ignore it for long.  I also knew that I had no chance of escaping if Gretchen was in the room.  I also couldn't stand the thought of Anne being hurt in any way, and that being sexual with her had been a dream of mine for over a year.

"You're a witch," was all I could manage to say.  But she was a erotic, attractive, and powerful witch.  I suddenly got the feeling that if I stared at her much longer, she might not even need the wheel to enslave me.

"Yes, a witch," she said.  "And now I'm going to cast my spell on you, and make you mine, just as I've made Anne mine.  Look at the spiral, Gerri."

So help me, I did.  The white and black lines swirling off into the infinite distance pulled my eyes into it, attempted to do the same with my mind.  I strained at my restraints, no longer caring how my breasts swayed and bounced, struggling to get free.  I knew it was a losing propostion, though. 

However, my struggles allowed me to finally find the knot on the sash that held me to the chair.  As I touched it, I suddenly had a plan.  It was such a ridiculous long shot, even for someone as lucky as I, but it was all I had. 

But as I watched the neverending spiral, helplessly listened to Isadore's seductive voice begin to speak to me, I could only hope that in a few minutes I'd even be able to remember what my plan was.

*********

 Chapter 4 – The Things We Do For Love

I sat there as Isadore and her insidious device worked on me, doing everything I could think of to resist, to stall for time, to give my plan a chance to work.  I was playing at a masquerade, now.

I was attempting to untie the knot that held my body to the chair without looking like I was, lest Isadore notice and simply slide it in front of my body where I could no longer reach it.  I was attempting to stare at the wheel without really seeing it, without letting it pull me deeper and deeper into its whirling vortex.  And I was attempting to listen to Isadore's words without actually hearing them, without understanding them, almost as if she were speaking a foreign language.

It seemed to be working for a while, too, as I could still come up with a few independent, coherent thoughts of my own... thoughts about my plan, thoughts about Anne, mental searches to see if there was any other way to escape.

But it was getting harder.

The wheel kept spinning and Isadore kept talking and the knot wasn't coming free at all.  I found myself drifting, not even realizing how intently I was staring at the swirling spiral.  I found myself starting to really listen, actually hearing what Isadore was saying. 

And worse yet, agreeing with it.

I couldn't tell if Isadore was just lucky or was really good at this.  Perhaps I was susceptible to this type of verbal suggestion.  It certainly didn't help that I'd had such a sexually frustrating day, or that I found both Isadore and Anne so desirable.

Whatever the case, Isadore kept switching her point of attack, anyway.  Whenever I could muster up some sort of defense for my mind, her words turned to my body, to my growing lust for her.  And as my arousal grew, my mind would melt a little more, along with my mental defenses, and what she was saying would sink in a little deeper, become a little more real and true to me.

"You're doing so wonderfully, Gerri.  Just keep staring at the pretty spiral, going round and round as you let your mind relax, as you let your thoughts drift away.  It's so easy to just relax; to relax and listen to me, to let your body melt into the chair as you feel the peace of just watching and listening, watching the spiral and listening to my voice.  No more thoughts or worries, no more tension, your muscles getting so soft and warm, so relaxed now as you let me guide you to such a wonderful place, as you follow the spiral around and around, let it pull you down and down to such a wonderful, soft place.

I didn't want to listen to her.  I didn't want to believe any of this.

But I was hot and tired; I was under a stress I didn't want to feel.  She was offering me something I wanted here, a chance to just rest for a while, to forget about everything and just relax.  Isadore was making me feel happy now, all warm and cozy, and what was wrong with that?

An old memory drifted into my head, of being taught on the farm that in the coldest part of winter, if you began to feel "warm and cozy" while outside, that you were probably starting to freeze to death.

I moaned a "Noo..." at her, shaking my head, not wanting to "freeze".  It took about every ounce of will and energy I had, though.  Isadore only smiled and continued, her voice so gentle and alluring.

"Yes, Gerri, not no.  Yes, you're feeling more and more relaxed with each spin of the wheel, with each slow, deep breath you take.  Yes, it feels so wonderful to just give in, to just let yourself go, to not think, to not resist the pleasure you're feeling at the thought of being with Anne and me.  Yes, you want to listen to me, obey me, because it's so much easier than fighting, because obedience leads to pleasure, because you want us and we want you so much, if you'll only let me in to show you the way.

"Anne and I are waiting for you, Gerri, to surround you with our warm flesh, our soft skin, our kisses and our love.  Just relax, let yourself go, and follow the spiral and my voice to where we wait for you, wait to give you such wonderful pleasure."

I simply moaned this time, as who wouldn't want what Isadore was offering... to be with her and Anne.  The idea of being with them, feeling them against me, giving and receiving pleasure and love from each other, resonated deeply inside my mind, and even deeper between my thighs.  I was wet, and getting wetter, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

But why try to stop it?  I wanted all of that, and wanted it badly.

Besides, the cost of quitting didn't seem that high.  All I had to do was simply stop fighting, stop trying to resist.  I was tired of doing that, anyway.  Sure, I would become Isadore's slave, but what of it?

Though most times I acted as the "bed foreman", that was mainly because someone had to take the lead there.  But the times when Jocelyn or others had "done" me, had simply let me feel and enjoy, were some of the best sexual experiences of my life, ones that I reveled in.

So why not just give in and become her slave? 

I was just about to do that when another thought occurred to me, one that I'd forgotten.

I didn't want Anne to be Isadore's slave... not my Anne!

I wasn't fighting for just me here.  I was fighting for her, too.  With an inward groan, I realized that I had stopped trying to undo the knot, was simply staring blindly at the spiral, no longer wanting to look away at all.  Somehow, I had to stay strong, to remember my plan, and to fight the good fight... for the two of us.

I vaguely remembered from my readings that discomfort was the enemy of hypnosis.  So, as I started working on the knot again with my right hand, I dug the nails of my left hand into my palm.  It hurt some, but less than I expected, my mind already too mushy and distracted to feel it as the sharp pain I was hoping for.

But it gave me some grasp on reality, some sense of myself, and help me grapple with the tight knot, rather than just pawing at it.  I prayed that it would come free, and soon, because it was simply a race now.  If I didn't get free quickly, I would be enslaved -- end of story.

Isadore certainly wasn't done with me, that was for sure.  She was toying with me like a cat with a mouse, knowing she was getting to me, knowing I was helpless to stop her.  She was loving every second of it, too.

"You can't look away from the spiral now if you tried, can you, dear?  Go ahead and try."

I tried, I really did.  But even with her permission I couldn't do it, trapped inside the rotating lines.

"You can't look away from it, Gerri, because you really don't want to look away from it.  You really want me to control you; you want me to control you so deeply that I have to tell you when to breathe, that when I whisper 'cum for me' in your ear, you'll have an orgasm, no matter where we are or whether you’re aroused or not."

She might as well have licked my pussy for the strength of feeling and arousal that pulsed through me at her words.  The shudder that tore though me almost rattled the chair. 

"Your mind is not your own anymore, dear.  You have given it to me; you want me to have it.  You know now how wonderful it will be to be my slave.  You want it.  You want all that pleasure."  She leaned in to whisper the next part in my ear.  "You want me, don't you?"

"Yess..." I moaned, before I could even think to stop myself.  And wasn't I supposed to be doing something with my fingers?

She leaned back.  "You cannot resist me any more.  You have given your mind to me.  You love me and want me.  We both know that, now.  Look at me, Gerri.  Look at me now!"

I pulled my eyes away from the spiral, not really wanting to, but unable to disobey Isadore's command.  I stared at her, saw how beautiful she really was, my head spinning with thoughts of her, desire for her.  I could swear her eyes were swirling, sucking me even deeper into her.

I gasped as she stood and started to undress for me, letting her gown flow down her body to puddle at her feet, revealing herself to me.  Her breasts and hips, pussy and legs, all cried out to me, my desire for Isadore suddenly a painful need.  The remaining part of "me" knew this was wrong, that it was a trick.  But I was past listening to myself, and moaned out her name.

Her smile was radiant, glowing, as she stood there for me, watching me lose myself to her.  She moved closer and knelt in front of me, her breasts resting on my knees, the spiral spinning lazily just behind and above her head.  I stared down at her, hot surges of lust making me nearly pant with desire for her.

She reached up with her hands and began to fondle my breasts, cupping them, touching them so softly that I could barely tell she was touching me.  But as she moved her fingers, it was as if currents of electricity were flowing through them, my nipples rigid and thick, my moans filling the room as much as my aroused scent now.

"Tell me you want me," she whispered.

"I want you," I gasped.

"Tell me you love me," she purred.

"I... I love you, Isadore."  It felt so good to say that to her.

"Tell me you are my slave!" she demanded.

Something happened inside me right then.  Just as I was about to give myself completely to her, one last bunch of brain cells, ones that hadn't been fooled, that knew I was still Gerri Holcombe, that knew the difference between attraction and slavery, fired off.  It wasn't much.

But it was enough.

It was enough to make me hesitate before answering; which was enough to give Anne behind me time to cry out, "I am your slave, Isadore!" in my stead; which was enough for my mind to remember, "Noo... not my Anne!", to remember why I was here, and to give me the few moments of self-control I needed to finally loosen and release the knot that held me so tightly to the chair.

It gave me enough time and thought to fully remember my plan.

"Please kiss me, Isadore," I gasped, still so aroused for her that I didn't have to act out that line at all.

She smiled up at me, still tormenting my breasts with her incredible touches.  "If I kiss you, you will be my slave forever, Gerri."

"I don't care anymore.  Oh god, please kiss me!" I begged, staring down into her beautiful, dark eyes.

She moved to do that, lifting her head and pursing her full, lush lips.  Then she helped me out one last time, running her thumbnails back and forth over my aching nipples.  I couldn't help myself, my head going back as I moaned wildly and almost came.

But with my head up and back to start with, it added just that much more force to my forehead as I suddenly brought it down and smashed it into Isadore's upturned chin.

I caught her perfectly, and caught her by surprise.  Even though my sex-fogged, no-pain brain knew what was coming, I still almost knocked myself out.  As it was, I started renewing my acquaintanceship with the celestial.

Isadore, on the other hand, got flattened.

She went over backwards like a building collapsing; bouncing off the chair she had been sitting on to lie in a pile of naked, succulent flesh at my feet.  She'd be out for a while.  While I felt bad about hurting her (I had just confessed my love for her, after all), the longer she was unconscious, the better for me.

The blow to my head hurt, but it had the added feature of knocking me out of my trance quite a bit.  That was good, too, as we weren't out of the woods yet, and I had to hurry.

Standing up as best I could, balancing precariously on my toes, I pulled my arms up and over the top of the chair, moaning at how numb and stiff they felt.  I sat back down for a second, still dizzy from using my head for a fist, and pushed myself forward off the chair to land on my knees.

Isadore's thighs cushioned my landing, as I was basically kneeling on her.  I felt bad about that, too, but she wouldn't hear me if I apologized, anyway.  My fingers were already searching for the tie that linked my ankles to the chair.  I found it quickly, and set to work on the knot.

After a couple of minutes, I had it undone, and rolled over and away from Isadore's body to work on untying my ankles.  It took longer to free them than I had hoped, as the knot was in front of my legs and much more difficult to reach.  But I persevered, driven by desperation and the ticking clock.  I'd been lucky so far, but there were limits.

Needing to get my hands in front of me to untie them, I stood, turned my back to the desk, and use the edge of it for leverage to try to pry my bound and crossed wrists past my rear end and down to my knees.  This was not easy, and not without its own pain, despite my having a pretty trim derrière.

With a yelp of triumph, I finally succeeded.  Once they were behind my legs, the rest was easy.  I slid them past my feet, got them in front of me, and raised them up to my mouth to bring my teeth into play.

Then time, and my luck, ran out.

The door opened, and Gretchen walked in.  This was not good.

I just stood there, with nowhere to go and no place to hide.  She was pretty quick on the uptake, and I could see her face cloud with anger as she spotted the naked Isadore lying in a heap next to me.

"You bitch!  What do you do to her?" she yelled, approaching me with balled fists.

As I was reasonably certain her intentions did not have my best interests at heart, I said nothing, not wanting to antagonize her further.  A quick glance at Isadore's expensive desk only proved that Isadore was excessively neat, as there were no ready weapons to be found there, nothing I could use to defend myself.

"I'm going to enjoy making you suffer," Gretchen said, standing there big and broad in front of me, gloating in her strength.

It was just me and her, then.  But I'd come this far and I'd be danged if I was going to be the one taking the fall. 

So, remembering Rule # 5 -- "Distract, then attack", I did both.

"Now wait just a minute, Lady Faustus," I said quietly, painfully twisting my wrists in their restraints as I lowered my hands to my chest.  "Instead of beating me up, wouldn't you rather suck on these?"

I was cupping my breasts now, lifting them up for her inspection, my nipples still ridiculously swollen and obvious.  They grew even more obvious as Gretchen, a woman after my own heart, couldn't help but stare at them.  They really do like to be looked at.

She never saw me inch my left foot forward.

After she'd settled a bit, gotten an eyeful of them, I said, "Hey!  My face is up here, Brunhilda."

As Gretchen's angry eyes snapped up to my face, my right foot snapped up to her crotch, just as hard and as fast as I could kick it there.  Her eyes went wide, her hands went down, and her mouth formed this perfect little "o".  As she leaned forward and started to collapse, I helped her out with a driving knee to her forehead.

She went over and back, crashing to the ground, out like a light.

I groaned, as now my head and knee hurt.  But I was still standing, so I dragged Gretchen over toward the far wall and tipped a large leather chair over on her, figuring it might help.  I'd just straightened, about to work on my bound wrists, when it was my turn to get all wide-eyed.

It seems that the chef was charging at me from the door with a raised butcher knife.

It's in situations just such as this that I'm glad I'm so well read.  As I've said, I've read mysteries and dramas, books on sex, books on hypnosis.

And books on judo.

I crouched and brought my hands up, not needing to cross my wrists, as they were currently locked in that position.  As the enraged chef brought the knife down to stab me, I caught her wrist between mine.  I used one hand to grab said wrist, stepped under her knife arm, and pulled it back and up... way up... behind her back.  As I drove at that, spinning her around, and she leaned forward to ease the pain, I simply used her own momentum to drive her head first into the wall.

It sounded like a car running into a tree, it took all of three seconds, and I was once again the only woman in the room still standing.

So there I stood, panting and sweating, hurting all over.  I looked to the door again, half-expecting to see the gardener come rushing in brandishing hedge clippers. 

If she did, I decided to simply let her kill me and be done with it.

No one showed, though, so I bent down and picked up the knife, stuck the handle in my teeth, and went to work, slowly sawing through the scarf around my wrists.  Just as I got it cut, and was finally completely untied, I heard a noise behind me.  I turned and saw Isadore on her feet, shaking her head, and moving behind the desk.

I yelped again, took the knife in my hand and leaped after her... but I was too late.  I skidded to stop on one side of the desk, holding my knife.  She stood on the other, holding a two-shot Derringer in her hand, pointing it at my belly.

Even though she seemed to be a bit out of it, her eyes looking a bit bleary, I had to figure she had the advantage here. 

But I was just sick of this whole thing now, and almost didn't care if she shot me or not.  So, using Rule 5 again, and my dad's old motto of "simple is better", I looked slightly to Isadore's right and cried out, "Don't shoot, officer!"

She bought it -- hook, line, and sinker -- turned to look, and before she knew it I had reached across, grabbed her wrist, and pulled both her and the Derringer across the desk to me.  The small gun went off with a bark like a fat terrier coughing, but I had it aiming at the side wall by then, not at me.

I put the knife to her throat, took the gun from her unresisting hand, and said, "My turn, okay?"  She swallowed, nodded, and we went from there.

First, I tied her to her chair, using some of my old bindings.  I gagged her, too, not wanting her to talk to Anne or me.  All the while I did this, I avoided looking at Anne at all, lest I get too distracted.  Then I used the knife to cut electrical cords, drapery cords, and even the draperies themselves... anything I could... and used those items to bind and gag Gretchen and the chef.  I ended up rolling those two to separate closets and stuffing them inside for the duration.

When I was done with all that, I returned to Isadore and Anne.  I was completely exhausted, looking an absolute mess, but I still had to figure out a way to resolve all this.

Calling in the police could turn into a nightmare.  The cops didn't like me, and with Anne in her present condition, it would be hard to prove anything like kidnapping.  I was more likely to end up in jail for breaking and entering and assault than Isadore and her crew.  The resulting publicity would probably ruin Anne's career, too, and I didn't want that at all.

It was also getting more and more difficult to think, standing there next to the bound and beautiful Isadore, and staring across to where Anne still sat quietly on the divan, still almost out of her dress, still looking so seductive and needy.  I was needy, too, and tired, and my brain felt like six bowls of soggy oatmeal.
 




With the start, I realized that Anne was still staring at the spiral, still mesmerized by the damn thing.  I reached over and was just about to shut it off, when I thought of another plan.

I couldn't help the smile.  It was a selfish, sneaky plan, but after all I been through today, who deserved anything more than I did?

********

It was just after 10 PM, and the LA streets were more deserted now, the heat of the day long since gone.  I still felt like a mess, even though I had washed up some just before we left Isadore's.  I really needed a long bath to clean off the filth and to shake the weariness and soreness of a very long day.

I just drove, not saying anything, though I had so many things I wanted to ask or say to Anne.  She sat on the passenger side, not saying anything, either.  I hoped she would, though, and soon, as we were coming to the spot on the highway where I had to turn off to head for Lionel Myers' place.  Either that, or keep going straight ahead to go to... someplace else.

My plan had worked out perfectly until now, it seemed; the both of us free, Anne basically back to her old self, and Isadore and the others neutralized -- now, and hopefully into the future, as well.

I'd done a good job.  I'd been smart and imaginative.  I'd served my client well, saved someone who I cared about deeply, and gotten away reasonably unscathed.  I had acted with more courage than I thought I possessed, and I'd never quite given up, never completely given in.

I felt proud and competent.  It was a good feeling.

I almost didn't hear Anne when she softly said, "You really think I’ll be safe from them now, Gerri?"

"Yeah," I said, glancing over at her.  God, she was beautiful.  "None of them even remember we were there, and I took away Isadore's strong attraction to you pretty well, I think."

For that was my plan, you see... to use Isadore's spiral against them, rather than call in the police.  The hardest part of the whole deal was getting Isadore to agree to it.  But once she did, the rest was pretty straightforward.  And after I threatened her with Lionel Myers' wrath, the loss of her own reputation, and showed her how, despite all her illegal activities, she could get away scot-free, she had agreed to help me.

First, I dragged in Gretchen and the chef.  That was fun.  Then I had Isadore put them under and make them forget all about Anne and me, about their whole silly scheme.  That went quickly, as she'd hypnotized them before and they were already under her thrall.  She then commanded them to go to bed and to sleep for the night.

Next, I had her put Anne back the way she was before they’d kidnapped her.  I had Isadore add one more item to the mix, but for all intents and purposes, Anne Hawthorne was back to being Anne Hawthorne.

Finally, using the spiral and all that I'd picked up along the way, I hypnotized Isadore and made her forget everything, too.  I also did my best to make her not want Anne anymore, and to not consider hypnosis as a viable option in her life.

Isadore's one request before I put her under had startled me, though.

"You really are so sexy and smart and brave, Gerri," she had said.  "I think we could be wonderful together.  Please don't make me forget about you."

Still mired in my own arousal and sexual frustration, I had almost agreed, especially considering how badly I still wanted her, too.  But it was simply too risky to let her remember me, lest she eventually remember all of what had happened.  So I'd told her "no", and why, and she had agreed.  She'd looked so sad as she nodded her head, that I'd almost changed my mind.  But "rather safe than sexual", I'd erased her memory of me, untied her, and sent her off to bed, too.

However, before she left, I did give Isadore a nearly irresistible urge to visit a bar called Mario's next Wednesday afternoon at three o’clock.  She was to be alone, and dressed all provocatively when she did, along with having a strong sexual craving for any shorthaired, broad-shouldered woman she might happen to meet there.

I hate to see anyone feel deprived, especially myself.

"I'm glad you took her hypnosis wheel, though," Anne said, still looking at me.  "What are you going to do with it?"

"Just keep it as a souvenir of this case, I guess," I said with a smile.  I remembered thinking, as I had thrown it into the truck of my car, that perhaps Lionel's assistant, Rebecca, or Katherine over at Sebastian's, might be amenable to a little "push", if I could get them to come over at my apartment some day.

Speaking of Sebastian, I was going to have to make sure that Mr. Myers made it worth his while to forget all about this, too.

"Gerri?"

"Yes, Anne?"

"I just wanted to say thank you for saving me.  You risked a lot to do that for me."

Just the sound of her voice made me all melty inside.  "That's okay.  I'm getting paid for it."  I started to slow down a bit, the turn-off to Lionel's just ahead.

"Was money the only reason, Gerri?"

I looked over at her again, letting my face show all the longing I had for her. 

"No."
 
"I didn't want to be her slave, you know.  I didn't want to become a lesbian like that."

"I know, Anne."

"I really do like men a lot."

"You don't have to explain yourself.  I understand."

"I've never really even thought about being with other women.  I know some women think about it, but not me."

"That's fine, Anne."  I gripped the wheel tighter, slowed down a bit more, and mentally crossed my fingers.

"But for some strange reason, I'm thinking about being with you... like that."

"You are?" I said, trying to act completely surprised.

"Yes," she said, reaching out to touch my right arm.  "I think it might be kind of exciting, actually."

Okay, okay!  So it was wrong of me to do.  I didn't say I still have ALL my scruples, did I?  Besides, I only had Isadore give Anne the urge to be with me once.  If we clicked, we clicked, and even that would be up to Anne to decide.

"Anne?"

"Yes, Gerri?"

"I really hate to drop you off at Lionel's dressed as shabbily as I am, to be this dirty.  My apartment is just down the road a ways.  You think I might clean up a bit before I drive you over there?"

I glanced over just in time to see her smile coyly at me.  "That's fine, Gerri.  You've already done so much for me that I owe you at least that."  She started stroking my arm with her fingers, sending shivers through me everywhere. 

"And maybe while we're there," she continued, her voice sliding down into that sultry range, the one that always had me squeezing my thighs together, "I can think of some better way to truly thank you."

I didn't say anything... couldn't say anything.  I simply let my foot spasm on the gas pedal, and let the big Chrysler shoot forward down the road and off into the dark Los Angeles night.

********* 

[Archibael]

The Affect of Liberace on the Modern Man
by Chase the Wind




Ed the milkman rubbed the sweat from his brow.  A few droplets fell, narrowly missing the open carafes of milk he was delivering to the doorstep of seventh house on Hickory Lane.

“Well, hell. Bet Mrs. Smith would like a little bit more salty taste in her white fluids…” Ed laughed out loud at his own joke.

Probably a good thing he kept most of those tidbits to himself. Everyone always figured he was Mr. Niceguy just because he delivered milk. Fact is, he hated his job. It was as dull as the day was long, and the only excitement was catching the lady folk unawares, when he’d pass by a window in the wee hours of the morning.

Of course, it didn’t help matters that Ed was about as big a horn-dog as they came. Well, almost. The postman Sam had to be worse. At least Ed’s day was over around noon. That poor sod had to walk through neighborhoods, dodge the local canines and rarely got tipped. Almost made Ed feel sorry for him. At least Ed got to drive a truck.

“Ed!” Sam called out, stage whispering from down the street. What’s up with him now?

Ed looked up at the sky, wonderingly. It was almost as if thinking about Sam had conjured him up.  He shook his head, forgetting the idea. Sam was hurrying down the street, so quickly random pieces of mail flew out behind him, only be to be blown down the street and into oblivion. Or, at least into Old Weird Betty’s yard, which may as well have been the same thing.

“What’s up, Sam?” Ed set down his milk, and walked over to his agitated friend.

“Ed, you’re not gonna believe this. I mean.. golly, the most amazing thing happened to me last night!”

Ed rolled his eyes.  Sam was always up to something. The boredom of his job gave Sam a really wild imagination.

“What now?” Ed asked, raising his eyebrows, hands on his hips.

Sam paused a moment, trying to catch his breath. Then he looked at Ed, and pursed his lips. “I tell ya what. You don’t believe me, do you?” Sam had a weird look in his eye.

“Believe what, Sam, you haven’t said anything!” Ed said, exasperation written on his face. He threw his hands out to his sides and shrugged his shoulders.

“Watch this!” Sam said.

Sam looked both ways down the street, and then started staring at Mrs. Robinson’s house, next door to Mrs. Smith’s. Ed had just dropped milk off on her doorstep a few minutes earlier.

“Come on, Sam, this is ridicu-“ But before Ed could finish the word, out came Mrs. Robinson.  Came out? She didn’t just come out of the house; the woman’s half naked!

And indeed she was. She looked rather surprised herself – even the most cosmopolitan woman of modern day suburbia did not go outside in just her nightie! Not in 1954, no sir!

“SEE? I told you!” Sam said.  Sam was clapping Ed’s back in excitement. Ed was almost scared to look down. One doesn’t want to know if one’s friend was sporting a woodie.

Instead, Ed just said, “Told me what, you goon? So the woman came out of her house in….” Ed found his voice tailing off as Mrs. Robinson bent down to pick up the milk.

He felt the bulge in his own pants, and shifted his legs back and forth. He’d hate to see a neighbor come out of one of the houses at the moment. He looked up at the sky again, before looking back at Mrs. Robinson.

“I told you I.. well, okay, maybe I didn’t.” Sam said. Confusion crossed his face for a moment, before he continued. “Well, anyway, watch this!”

Sam then made some kind of weird hand gesture – Ed thought he looked kind of like one of the Three Stooges, Curly, when he’d wave at Moe just after he’d poked him in the eye, yanked down on his nose and bonked him on the head with a hammer.

I’ll be damned.. I mean, danged. Ed thought to himself.

Mrs. Robison stood stock-still, while Ed stood in complete shock. Mrs. Robinson – easily the looker of the neighborhood, she’d even won Miss Peach Festival back in 1947 - was standing there, with a bottle of milk in her hand, her other hand on her chin, obviously wondering what in tarnation she was doing outside in her unmentionables. The door eased shut on the back of her nightie.

And the seconds ticked by.. fifteen, thirty, forty-five. Ed finally cleared his throat and whispered, “What happens now?”

“I don’t know! Isn’t this great??” Sam said, still stage whispering.

“But.. I mean, why isn’t she moving? Can you fix it.. uhh, I mean, her?”

“Of course! Don’t you want to touch her?” Sam said. He grinned like a farm boy who’d just stolen his first watermelon.

“What? Are you crazy? Wouldn’t she notice?” Ed said.

“Tee-hee.” Sam said, shaking his head, his mesmerized eyes never leaving Mrs. Robinson’s not even remotely covered body. “I have no idea.” Her breeze-affected nipples poked through the lace. “I wish I’d brought a camera though!”

Ed promptly whipped off his hat and smacked it across the back of Sam’s head. “You nincompoop! What else have you done with this.. with.. this… whatever it is you have?”

Sam jerked more out of surprise than any actual distress. “Hey, whaddya go and do that for?” And as Sam looked over at Ed, a frown creasing his face, Mrs. Robinson jerked back to life.

“What.. what is .. what’s going on?” She said, her words coming slowly as she seemed to realize for the first time that she wasn’t even in her house, or at least, half-remembered that she came out to get the milk. Her eyes immediately came to rest on Ed.

“Umm, howdy, ma’am. I mean, um, Miss Robinson.” He pointedly neglected to refer to her as missus, hopefully not reminding her that she had a husband – maybe she wouldn’t tell him. Ed then realized, she hadn’t quite noticed that she was dressed quite so.. quite so.. he couldn’t even complete the thought.

“Oh, Hi boys. It a nice day out, isn’t it?” She cocked her head and gave her best Miss Peach smile.

Ed prayed that Mrs. Robinson wouldn’t look down below his belt. He knew she would, since he was praying she wouldn’t. That smile she flashed him  - that’s all it took. His wanker was bobbing like Betty Sue’s head in the apple tank in last year’s state fair.

“Oh, it sure is fine, Miss Robinson.” Sam said.

He’d taken Ed’s cue on addressing Mrs. Robinson as Miss Robinson, much as that would help. Ed and Sam had always made a fine team – though, as a postman and a milkman, they didn’t actually work together all that much. Why is Mrs. Robinson’s jaw hanging so low? Why’s she staring at my – Oh, gosh darnit!

As expected, Mrs. Robinson noticed Ed’s wanker doing its thing. Even Sam’s eyebrows raised a little bit.

“MR. Jones! My word, you should.. really, put that thing. .I mean, Mr. JONES!” Both of Mrs. Robinson’s hands had flown to her mouth. But behind the shock, Ed detected the hint of a smile of pleasure, and before turning away, he could almost swear she licked her lips.

Sam had a hard time keeping back his chuckles at Ed’s misfortune. Ed winced in response, but before he could say anything, he heard Mrs. Robinson’s squeal.

“Ohmigod!” Ed looked back and saw her staring down at herself, like she’d just entered some kind of zone in the twilight. Zone of Twilight.. that has a nice ring to it.. I bet that would make a great televsion –

But once again, Ed’s thoughts were interrupted by the speed of events. Mrs. Robinson had turned towards the door and realized it was locked. No sooner had she dropped the door handle, then she squealed out “OMIGOD” again.

Then, she took off like a jackrabbit in a foxhunt – Oh wait, wouldn’t that be a fox in a foxhunt? Ed’s thoughts could hardly keep up with Mrs. Robinson’s antics. She tore off around the side of the house, but not before leaving the better part of her nightie behind. In fact, she only had her lace panties on. Her curves jiggled delightfully as she struggled with the gate on the fence.

“Miss Robinson!” Ed called out. “Here, let me help.” Ed had already started removing his jacket, and held it in front of him, gentlemanly covering his eyes, though peaking out through the cracks.

Like a scared animal, Mrs. Robinson kept working the gate, but finally, timidly, she snaked a hand outward and grabbed the jacket.

And then she froze again, her hand outstretched, holding Ed’s jacket.

“What the – “ Ed said, turning fully around and dropped his hand from his face.

Sam walked up like he owned the place. “That should hold her. Don’t distract me again, ya nitwit! I had her right in front of the house and you go and screw it up. Sheesh!” Sam’s exasperation was short-lived. He was too busy enjoying staring at Mrs. Robinson. She had delicious hips, blond hair that hinted at being red. Both men could see under the black lace panties that she was a natural blond.

“Does she know we’re here?” Ed asked. He was getting used to this whole thing far too easily for his own conscience. Even a horn-dog like him felt the gals should have a sporting chance.


“How should I know? Like I was telling you – oh wait, no I wasn’t. Anyway, like I .. oh forget it. Last night, I got this package in the mail – I’d ordered it from China. – Oh shut up!”

Sam had seen Ed’s face. China? Those commie bastards? His look said it all.

“Cut it out. Who cares if they’re commies. They sent me this gizmo – gives me a way to control minds. I’m not sure why they sent it to me – it was right there in the ads for X-ray glasses – which don’t work by the way!” Sam almost pouted.

“Umm… not that I ordered them. I had a, um, a friend who ordered them, and, err, he told me that they.. oh cut it out.” He punched Ed in the arm, after he’d had enough of Ed’s raised eyebrows and ill-concealed snorts of laughter.

“Fine, anyway, so, I turn on the gizmo, and it has some kind of a timer on it. Like, three days or something, so I figure I have a like trial period or something. Anyway, so’s I use it on my wife! It was the funniest thing, Ed!” Sam didn’t even pause for a breath.

“Yeah, so’s my wife, see, she hadn’t been.. you know, wanting to come over to my bed  - we have two singles, ya know, doesn’t everyone?” Ed shook his head no. He shared a full-sized bed with his wife and was damn proud of it!

“Uh, right. So’s, I want her to come over, it’d been at least two years since she .. well, ya know, got pregnant with Johnny. I’m a hurtin’ over here. Quit lookin’ at me like that! So I use it on her! Man, she was going after me like a tornado. I was blushin’. Yeah, blushin’, I tell ya!”

Sam shook his head, lost in thought, probably remembering his morning.

No wonder he was smiling today, Ed thought.

Ed moved over behind Mrs. Robinson. She was still as a statue. He traced his finger along her nose and mouth. Down her neck. But he couldn’t bring himself to touching her ha-ha’s or her ho-ho. Dammit. I’m a married man. Dammit to gosh-darnit! He swore mightily.

“Oh to heck with it!” He finally mustered up the courage and he walked behind Mrs. Robinson and grabbed her derriere. Grabbed it like a MAN. Like a Rock Hudson and Jimmy Dean all rolled into one. Dammit, Liberace himself would blush at how hard Ed grabbed Mrs. Robinson’s ass! Ass! There, I said it!

Ed’d have a real story to tell the other milkman tomorrow, that’s for gosh-darn sure!

Sam was getting right underneath Mrs. Robinson’s ta-tas and seeing how close he could get his nose to the tip of her nipple without actually touching.

Something was niggling Ed’s brain. “Wait a second. Sam, how come no one is coming down the street? I mean.. it’s been a good ten minutes or something…”

“Oh, I made everyone stay inside.” Sam said, not even looking up, doing his level-best to look like a research scientist at Humankind’s First Booby Laboratory.

“Really. Oh.. okay.” Ed went back to looking closely at Mrs. Robinson’s – “Whoah, whoah. Wait a second. Did you say a timer on this thing?”

“Yeah, so. Guess we should use it while we can, huh?” Sam smiled at his friend. His returning look was able to say without words what a pal he was for sharing the device with his fellow street-walker.

“Something’s bugging me about this, Sam.” Ed said, a seriousness arresting his voice.

Ed gave Mrs. Robinson’s ass one last love smack, and then pulled Sam away.

“Do me a favor, can we find out a little more about this timer, hmmm?”

“Oh, all right. Party pooper.”

Sam’s last bit of control on Mrs. Robinson walked her around to her backdoor and safely into her house.




Epilogue:

The timer naturally turned out to control both how long the device would last – and how long it would take for the bomb to explode. Turns out, all those years as a minesweeper in WWII paid off handsomely for Ed. He was rewarded for finding the bomb the Commies sent over and saving thousands of lives in the quaint mid-western town where he lived.

Unfortunately however, every time he came home sporting a woody from passing by Mrs. Robinson’s house, he’d get both a tongue-lashing and destined for the couch for a week. This happened, far, far too often. To this day, he still curses the name Liberace and grab-assing in general.

Mrs. Robinson was none the worse for wear after the incident. She never understood why her milkman was so uncomfortable around her after that day. It wasn’t exactly her fault that she’d forget to put her robe on when she went out to get her milk, right when he showed up to deliver it…

Sam’s wife eventually divorced him, and he wasn’t that unhappy over the arrangement. He never liked single beds in his bedroom. He eventually verified the existence of various aphrodisiacs and was last heard importing Spanish Fly from Mexico…

[Archibael]

Lie Berries
by Michelle




You’ll have to excuse Lyssy - she’s had a rough day at the “lie-berry.” Being a “lie-berryian” is really tough for her, these days, while being a liar is still amazingly easy. She even lied to me about being oblivious - she's hardcore.

Girlfriend? No. Not too long ago, she was my fiancé - her name was Alyssa back then - but now she’s a lot of things to me, none of which is “girlfriend.” Sometimes I make her sleep on the floor.

Back when she was Alyssa, I loved her with everything I had in me. I loved how she came from poverty and ignorance and put herself through school, I respected her near-obsession with reading, and I adored her precise grammar and diction. She’d correct me and I’d eat it up with a spoon. I figured that I’d need to brush up on all that for the good of the kids we’d be having. Maybe I’ll get her spayed.

I remember the day she got the job at the Hazelgrove Library - you would have thought she’d hit the lottery. She was going to make it her personal mission to imbue the children with a love of reading. Man, I was happy for her, too, even though it meant that we’d only see each other on the weekends because of the long drive. I supported her!

One night she called me, sobbing and inconsolable, due to a rumor that the library was closing. I tried calming her, telling her that people never allowed their libraries or schools to close without a fight - civic pride and all that.

“Jeff,” she said, her voice thick with tears, “I can’t lose my job, I just can’t. Why, I imagine I’d do anything to save it! Anything at all!”

My heart ached for her, but it never occurred to me that she was telling me the literal truth - that she would do anything to keep her job. I knew she liked the library and Hazelgrove, but it was not the only place that needed a librarian - not even in this age of virtual reality and virtual illiteracy.

It hit me three days later and about 5 seconds after walking into her house that she really would do anything for her job. It must have been something about seeing that fat fucker of a mayor fucking her. (How’s that for alliteration?) I’d gotten off work early and showed up to surprise her, but she surprised me by making her cunt a commodity. 

That pig was sticking his fat cock in my fiancé and asking her if she liked it as she was bent over the kitchen table (with its daisy print tablecloth) and she’s moaning “Yes!” over and over again. Only I could see her reflection in the toaster, and her eyes were dead. This was clearly a business transaction.

I suppose that should have made me feel better - that she was only banging that corpulent pile of garbage to keep her job - but it didn’t. It made me think I was a sucker for making love to a woman who’d sell it if the price were right. All the time I’d thought that making love to her was like worshipping at a sacred shrine, it was more like kneeling before an ATM machine...while an impatient line formed behind me.

The pig looked like he was either going to come or have a stroke - not that he had anything to worry about since his receptacle was trained in CPR - but it turned out to obviously be the former as he grunted his finish. I knew that, having already decided not to confront them, I should leave, then; yet, I wasn’t quite ready.

What I’d witnessed was nobody’s version of courtly love, yet Mayor McFatty decided to be formal.

“Miss Beauchamp,” he phlegmed, “I do believe that we might have money in the budget for the library after all. If you do your part - bake sales, book sales, and meeting me occasionally to discuss the matter - I believe that your job might end up on more secure footing than I’d initially estimated.”

I could hear that Alyssa was on the verge of tears again, but whether it was because of what she’d just done, or for what she was clearly expected to do again, I had no idea. I didn’t really know her; I never had.

“But...you told me just the once...just the one...meeting!”

He chuckled. “That was before I knew what a delightful time we’d be having. You did enjoy yourself, right?” he asked, his voice threatening.

“Yes, yes of course!”

Fucking bitch.

I knew it was time to “get while the getting's good,” as my old man used to say. I don’t recall the specifics of the ride home - I was too busy plotting my revenge. The second I saw her for who she really was, my love ended. My heart was so empty in those first few moments that the hatred was welcome.

As soon as I entered my apartment, I walked to the phone and dialed. I made sure to keep my voice warm and caring.  She asked me where I was, and she sounded worried and perhaps guilty. It didn’t matter.

I told her I’d had to work late and that this was my first chance to call her. I aimed to sound disappointed as I told her I’d missed her all week, and that I would head out to see her first thing in the morning so we’d still have all weekend.

That seemed to satisfy her. I apologized, then, telling her I knew that - with all the worry about her job - she needed me there. She stammered that she might have overreacted a little. Then she asked me something so funny that I almost pissed myself.

“Jeff, baby, when you come out this weekend, do you suppose you could hypnotize me again?”

“You know it!”

“I know you’re afraid of taking it too far, but I trust you, so don’t hold back!”

“You got it - no holding back.” Now, before you go thinking she is a poor judge of character: up until a few hours before, she could have trusted me with her life. I would rather have died than harmed a hair on her special little head. “I love how much this turns you on - I’d never thought I would meet a girl who didn’t think it was strange.”

“I don’t just do it to humor you – it arouses me.”

“You mean it makes your pussy wet, sweetie.”

A giggle was her only response.

“You don’t have to say it - I already know. What are you wearing, Alyssa?”

“A robe,” she whispered, her voice husky and filled with a false sense of knowing what was on my mind. She had no idea.

“That all?”

“Yes, I just finished taking a shower.” Very good to know, thought I. Her voice became even lower, more intimate - my “beloved” was clearly feeling flirty. “In fact, I’m still standing here in the bathroom. I’d taken the phone with me in case you called.”

“How sweet! I don’t deserve you.”

There was a pause and she giggled again, but this time it sounded forced. The evidence of her guilt did nothing to soothe my loathing. “Hmmm, so here I am near-naked, beads of water still glistening on my skin. What can we do for entertainment until we can be together again?”

“I wonder. Why don’t you settle down on the bed and we’ll find something to discuss.” I could hear the slight creak of the hardwood floor and then the repeated squeak of the mattress springs as she playfully bounced up and down to let me show she’d arrived at her destination. “I’m there, big boy!”

“Alyssa, if you really want  ‘no holding back’, we’ll have to deal with the compromise drawer.”

“I know,” she said in a resigned little girl voice.

“Don’t sound so grim...that’s tomorrow.”

We had phone sex, then. While she thought of loving images of tender lovemaking, my mind was on revenge, degradation, and humiliation.

The next day I headed out early, as promised. I only made one stop to see an acquaintance that specialized in surveillance equipment and who was a computer whiz. For such a supposedly smart woman as Alyssa was, it amazed me that she had never considered blackmailing Porkchop.

On the drive to see my darling, I did my own form of self-hypnosis in order behave like nothing had changed – when in fact everything had changed. It was surprisingly easy -  but then again, I knew how much was riding on my being completely convincing.

Our weekend went well; she made love to me while I fucked her. I found that, as physically attractive as she still was, unless my mind turned to revenge I could no longer get hard for her. I was surprised to discover that, if anything, my stamina rose as I contemplated my plans. She even commented on how amorous I was being, not knowing that “amour” had very little to do with it.

She went to church Sunday morning and, amazingly, was not hit by a lightning bolt. I encouraged her to stay for the coffee and cake which they served afterward. While she was gone, I quickly put the surveillance equipment to good use. When she got home, she found herself the proud owner of a webcam so we could keep in touch - what she didn’t know was that it was hooked up to allow me to view her from my computer any time I chose.

That afternoon, I finally put her under - she’d been chomping at the bit since I’d gotten there. She really does love the feeling of surrender, and because of her complete trust and focus she was a perfect subject. After a year of exploring hypnosis, I knew the ins and outs of her mind.

She’d been right that I’d always held back, never wanting to take advantage of her. I’d never had the need to do anything outrageous - the mere fact that she had complete faith in me was always arousing enough - just seeing this beautiful woman in a state of total trust and relaxation was pretty hot.

How could I have known that my history of never talking advantage of her was all I needed to take complete control later on? It seemed like some god or goddess who thrived on betrayal had brought us together - I began to look at my thoughts as sanctioned and sanctified. Why else would I have been entrusted with the ability to destroy everything she cherished most?

She went under easily, and soon she was utterly vulnerable to my commands - whims, really. I thought of all the possibilities and chose one which my utter contempt for her made more erotic than the most overtly sexual suggestion could ever succeed in being.

I’d teased her all weekend that I would get rid of her aversion to the compromise drawer for once and all. This was the drawer where she kept her sexiest lingerie. It was a “compromise” because she only wore these things on extra-special occasions. Initially, I’d kept buying her these items in the hope that she would learn to enjoy wearing them more often. Eventually, she confessed to me that she didn’t like to wear them because they reminded her of her past - the women in the trailer park she grew up in who were all-too-willing to dress up in cheap clothes and cheaper perfume to occasionally pay their rent in “services rendered”. It didn’t help that the owner of the trailer park was quite possibly her father, and that she was quite possibly the result of rent negotiations.

Once she'd told me that, my trips to Victoria’s Secret ended. I never wanted Alyssa to feel that I considered her to be equal to trailer trash tramps and trollops - ironic, yes? She still chose, on her own, to wear the things on special occasions, and I have to admit that my protests that she didn’t need to were token only. She was a gorgeous woman who was appealing wearing Hanes Her Way – there were not words to convey how enticing she was in lingerie designed to beguile and seduce. And - truth be told - when she wore those things, she acted just a little more wantonly.

It eventually occurred to me that part of her liked wearing sexy, lacy, silky, and even bordering-on-trashy things. I suggested this to her one night after we’d made passionate love; I believe it was my 31st birthday. She buried her face in my chest and I could hear her say a muffled, “maybe a little” as my heartbeat pulsed against her lips. I could not have loved her more.

When my love for her turned to hate, it seemed only natural that I could find my vengeance in the contents of that drawer - and yet there was something else I wanted to do first. As much pain as I could and would extract from her childhood stories of her mother trading pussy for protection, there was another story that gave me my first inspiration.

Alyssa’s most cherished memory was her first trip to the little library a few miles from her home-on-wheels. She’d walked in and been overwhelmed by all the books - more books than anyone could read in a lifetime. As she was about to leave, the spinster librarian asked her if she’d enjoyed the experience.

“Oh, yes! I love the lie-berry and wish I could come every single day,” she said.

The librarian smiled and said, “I would love to see you at the ‘library’ again, dear.”

Alyssa had realized that she must have mispronounced the word ,and she'd felt her face become flushed, but the old woman had leaned forward and said, “The books here are free - a rich little girl and a poor little girl have an equal chance to learn at the library.”

The future Flab Humper had smiled and said, with all the dignity an 8-year-old from the wrong side of the tracks could muster, “Then I will make sure to come to the LIBRARY a lot.”

What a shame that she was more a product of her mother than her mentor, after all.

When she emerged from her trance, I gave her a gentle smile. “Feel any different, Lyssy?”

She smiled, gazing at the wall and squinting slightly, as if doing a mental inventory. “Noooo? Not really.”

“I bet you want to wear something from the drawer, right? I made sure it would no longer fill you with the same sense of shame.”

She hesitated for a moment. “W...well, maybe I feel a little more relaxed about it. I...I’m really not sure.”

“Why don’t you go put something on? Something extra-special.” I waited for the hesitation I knew would be coming. “What is it?”

“Jeff, I can’t lie...I don’t think it worked. I’ll go put on something if you like, but usually when I do that I almost have to prepare. If you just give me a minute, maybe I could...please don’t look at me with disappointment.”

I pulled her into my arms, holding her in an embrace that was just short of punishing. “I’m not disappointed in you, but in me. It had always gone so well before that I was sure I could fix you.” I breathed the words and their implication directly in her ear.

She pulled away. “I...can do it. You know what? Maybe I do feel a little more comfortable, after all.”

I gave her the smile of a besotted fool. “Baby, no - we can try again some other time. I don’t need you to do anything but be yourself.”

I have to admit it was hard to not let her know of my contempt in the heat of my passion, when inhibitions are at their lowest, but I managed. As my tongue probed the folds of her womanhood and I tasted the slight tartness of her desire, she thought I was doing it out of love - instead I was reveling in it like a child enjoys gamboling in the mud. We all enjoy getting dirty now and again, don’t we?

Afterward, after a suitable period of cuddling with the bitch, I “reluctantly” told her that I’d have to leave if I were to be any good at work the next day. She burrowed closer to me, sighing her regret.

“I know you have to go, but it’s so lonely without you,” she said.

“I’m sorry, dear.”

“It’s okay, I have to be at the lie-berry early tomorrow.” She immediately gasped, sitting up as sleepiness fell away. “Oh my God! Did you hear what I just said? I haven’t said ‘lie-berry’ since I was eight.”

At the exact second she’d gasped, my cock had gotten hard. I have to say she looked beautiful then, with the sweet clutched to her but not obscuring the side of her breast or the two dimples above her perfect ass, but that - as you can well guess - was not the cause of my renewed “interest.”

“Baby,” I said, gently pulling her back down onto the bed, “you were on the verge of falling asleep. Remember the time when you were about to drift off and you starting asking why polar bears were white instead of purple and pink?”

“I suppose you’re right, but what I meant to say was –“

I cut her off because I thought if she said it again I might just come all over myself, but I also wanted to be miles away when she discovered the permanency of her little verbal quirk. Instead, I told her that maybe I did have a few more minutes to spare, and then I played in the mud a little bit longer.

She called me the next day, in tears. “All day - every time I had to answer the phone I said that word. It was so humiliating! I could have just died. I can’t say my job title either!”

I wondered what she would say if she knew she was giving me prime masturbation material. In fact, I unzipped my pants and prepared to enjoy myself. “Lyssy, maybe you’re doing this to yourself - perhaps you have such a fear of saying it again that you cannot help it. When I was a kid, I had a pen pal in Biloxi, Mississippi – somehow I managed to write it as ‘Bixoli’ one time. The letter got to him and he made a little joke about it, but I still felt like an ass. After that, every time I wrote him it took me about 5 envelopes to get it right. Somewhere between my brain and my fingers the message got lost.”

“Maybe,” she said, sounding unconvinced, “but I work at a you-know-where! What am I supposed to do?”

“Just take a deep breath and say it right now - for me.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“You know I won’t judge you,” I said, stroking my cock.

“I’d rather not.”

“Lyssy, you were dead-on when you said you can’t avoid the word. So why not take a deep breath, concentrate, and know that you are speaking to Him-Who-Loves-You-The-Most.”

“Oh, okay,” she said in the little girl voice she sometimes got when she was unsure of herself. I heard her take a deep breath and then another. “I am a lie-berrian and I work at the lie-berry.”

I had to hit the mute button, then, as I shot my load halfway across the room. Thank Heaven that our little differences - what with her servicing the morbidly obese - didn’t wreck my sex life.

The next night, she broached the topic I knew she would. “Jeff, do you think that when I was under you might have, you know, accidentally changed the way I said that word?”

“I really don’t see how. All I did was talk about how much I love and adore you and how your wearing sexy things wouldn’t change that. I said that wearing lingerie didn’t make you your mother.”

“Oh. I just thought because it happened right after I was under...”

“I thought that you trusted me more than that.”

“I do. In fact I was hoping you’d put me under again and fix it.”

“So then you do trust me?”

“Of course - with my very life!”

That following weekend I put her under again, arranging her “furniture” a little more, and this time I really took care of the lingerie drawer issues, making sure that all her Hanes Her Ways would be a thing of the past. I also took away the use of the words “autobiography” and “reference”- just for kicks. And I fixed any worry she might have about stating her job or job location.

When she awakened I asked her how she felt. She did her little mental inventory again, scrunching up her little nose, and then she near-whispered. “Lie-berry, lie-berrian, lie-berry, lie-berrian.” Her eyes lit up. “Oh Jeff! You fixed it!”

“Yep. I guess I did!” I reached over and straightened her bra strap, which had fallen off of her shoulder. She frowned and excused herself. When she came back she plopped down on my lap. “Where were we?” she purred.

We kissed for a few minutes. I lifted her shirt over her head to discover that, as expected, she’d changed. She was wearing the midnight blue demi-cut bra I’d bought her early on. I presumed the matching bikinis were yet to be uncovered.

“What have we here? What’s the special occasion?

“I suppose I just realized that anytime you’re here is a special occasion.” She nuzzled my neck.

“I like!”

“It’s not too…sedate, is it?”

“Well, it’s a little tame, but you look great. And you know what else? You’re positively glowing. You always seem more free and happy when you dress like this. You should consider going a little racier at work, too - who’ll know other than you? Oh, and me.” ...and possibly Mayor Hasn’t-Seen-His-Toes-In-A-Decade.

She thought about it - undoubtedly taking into account how wonderful and natural it suddenly felt to wear something sexier - my clear approval was merely icing on the cake. “I think I’ll do that!”

“Good - it will make me feel closer to you that it will be our little secret.”

I could only assume her frown had to do with who else would be enjoying the delightful visuals, but then she plastered on a paper-thin smile.

***

In the following weeks, I took a slow and delightful revenge. A few sly suggestions per week. Just little, seemingly random things; I couldn’t really know if they would come into play. There were some moments which were priceless - like the time she called me, embarrassed, because she’d told her book club that she thought Danielle Steele was the best writer of the 20th century. I had to hit the mute again - but this time it was to hide the laughter.

I also chose to make her hot for Her Meal Ticket. Why not? After a few weeks, I was bored watching her fake it. There was something delightful about the expression on her face as she genuinely came hard at his ham-fisted fucking technique. Even from seventy miles away it was priceless. After he left, she curled up in a little ball and wept. There’s no understanding women.

I took away her interest in serious literature, and then I erased her memory of the books. What good would the words of the greatest minds ever be to a whore? It was really my way of correcting a wrong; it was lamentable that her love of reading blinded me to her true nature, but it would never happen again to another sap.

Instead, I gave her a more useful interest in sex manuals, and a photographic memory when it came to her new favorite topic. In short, she became an expert on dick as long as it was not preceded by the word “Moby.”

I made her voice more girlish, and most of her sentences soon ended on a higher note -  as if everything was a question. “My name is Alyssa, and I’m the head lie-berrian? You want to check out Great Expectations - who wrote that?” She had to be pretty adamant about a matter to overcome that tendency.

Her slab of meat on the side didn’t seem to notice a change in her demeanor, but the even-more-frequent visits showed he noticed - and liked - her taste in unmentionables. Soon, I was as surprised as he by the specific details of her lingerie choices. Lyssy seemed to have a strange new interest in buying sexy little nothings. I knew it had to be hell on her credit cards, but since she was such a sensible girl...It was a treat to see what she came up with next.

It was a shame that the best parts of her outfits went unseen by most people. Fortunately, Lyssy became careless - and somewhat clumsy - as she went about her job; it must have been because she was lost in contemplation about the wisdom of Masters and Johnson. She seemed to forget the routine lessons which are drummed into girls from a young age concerning sitting with her legs closed, making sure her skirt had not ridden up, and being careful about what she revealed while climbing ladders. Within a few weeks, the whispers began that she was immodest – which was absurd since she didn’t become immodest until the third month.

I surprised her at the library one day, finding her up a ladder and wearing a perfectly sedate white linen dress. My greeting startled her, causing her to drop books as she spun around, almost losing her footing and slipping down to the next lower step. The only thing which caused her not to fall off the ladder completely was her dress catching on something - perhaps a rung of the ladder. Her startled yip called attention to her, giving the table of teenage boys enough fantasy material for years, as her dress lifted to reveal long stocking-clad legs.

Soon Lyssy found herself prone to daydreaming, since reading no longer interested her. Even when she tried to read for her book club, her mind wandered. “Jeff,” she’d share with a giggle, “you know who I was thinking about today? Cindy Weiss? She’s really pretty and smart? And I found myself wondering if she thinks I’m pretty too?”

Yes, my fiancé found herself wondering often if Cindy Weiss - or any number of attractive women – found her attractive. It began to preoccupy her. She had much better taste in women than in politicians - I made sure of that.

Lyssy’s interest in women went back to college, if not earlier, but it was clear that without a little help she’d never act on it. Now my anger for her had yet to completely wane, but it didn’t take long to decide that she might be my best chance to design the perfect toy. So the push toward Sapphic Sex was not revenge, but an early Christmas present to myself. And more than she deserved.

One night, I picked her up from work, telling her I had a surprise. She asked if she could go home to change first, but I told her that her look was perfection. And it was - at least for my purposes. Honey-blonde hair in a loose bun which had allowed locks to escape and curl naturally around her face and the nape of her neck, a white blouse with one button too few for decorum, cleavage threatening to escape the top of her scarlet bra (which was clearly discernible beneath her blouse) a black skirt which showed ample leg, and her new obsession: black stockings and red garters. Oh, and her glasses, since she'd had a sudden, mysterious problem with her contacts bothering her eyes.

We drove to a bar fifty miles away, and I asked her if she noticed anything unusual. She gazed around, scrunching up her face in concentration. Finally it hit her.

“Jeff, you’re the only guy? Does that mean? You want me to...? I don’t know if I can...”
I took her hand across the table. “But do you want to, baby? If you don’t, we can leave. It just seems that, lately, you’ve been hinting at an interest.”

She worried her lower lip beneath straight white teeth – thankfully, her lipstick was the new kiss proof/drink proof kind you could only remove with a blowtorch. Finally, she sat up straight, looked me right in the eye and said, “I want to! Thank you for being so understanding?”

Sweet. “I just want you to be happy and, as long as I’m your only guy, I’m fine with letting you play.” I pretended not to notice her guilty look. “I’m just here to keep you safe, babe. Consider me your bodyguard - and looking like that, you’ll need it.”

“Okay, but I think this is just a phase? Maybe I can get this out of my system tonight?”

“Sure.”

She was nervous, at first, refusing to let me move to another table even as I explained she’d do much better if I were less conspicuous. She sat there demurely sipping on a drink and looking a little panicked. At last she allowed me to move to the next table, and it wasn’t long before the women started swarming her. Who could blame them?

Even though I knew she had excellent taste, I was still concerned that tonight would be a washout. If she picked a bull-dyke, she’d be minus a bodyguard – and could find her own way home.

I believe we both saw her at the same time – a woman with hair about two shades darker than Lyssy’s honey-blonde curls. She was thin without being too thin, and tall without being too tall. She wore faded jeans and a leather jacket which she slipped off to reveal a wifebeater. She was easily the second hottest woman in the place. She was soon offering to buy the first hottest woman a drink - at least I assumed that to be the case, being only able to hear the husky timber of her voice, but not the actual words.

The woman walked up to the bar, returning with one beer and one drink the color of glass-cleaner. She could have sat across from Lyssy, but instead chose a seat to the right of her, moving it even closer to the newly-minted airhead. I also moved closer, seemingly unnoticed by the woman - I put it down to not being her type - and could now hear them better. They were cozy in no time, and I was having the time of my life. Soon she would be screwing someone I actually wanted to see nude; it was a nice change.

There was a tense moment when I heard Lyssy’s new friend say, “I know what your costume is supposed to be, but what do you really do for a living?” The poor thing just didn’t get that perhaps she no longer resembled Marian the Librarian so much as the X-rated stereotype, so she kept trying to convince her. Of course, she couldn’t discuss literature, and she couldn’t pronounce her job or where she worked, and her tits were hanging out, but she didn’t want to give up. It would have been amusing, except I really wanted to see these two screw, and I could tell her potential playmate was not amused.

“Okay, Lyssy, you can be a librarian if th- ”

“I AM a lie-berrian!”

“Honey, I don’t suggest you ever interrupt me again. As I was saying, I just want to fuck you, and I’m willing to play along.”

“You do? Wanna fuck me?”

“Yeah, sure - and you want it too. I knew it right away. So I played the game and bought you a drink, and made small talk, and I’ll pretend like I believe you graduated high school, and that you don’t probably think that Dewey Decimal refers to one of Donald Duck’s nephews. But the next time you interrupt me, it’ll be a toss-up over leaving or slapping the taste out of your mouth. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Lyssy said in her little girl voice, “but Gina?”

“Yes?”

“I really do know all about Do-Me Decimal?”

I couldn’t help it - I started to laugh. Bimbos say the funniest things – makes you wish they stayed twenty-four forever, doesn’t it? Seriously, there was nothing better than one of my suggestions bearing fruit at a random time.

Gina still hadn’t looked at me directly. “Maybe now would be a good time for you to introduce John Wayne here - Stacy behind the bar said you two came in together. It’s my turn to share: I’m a Very Good Catholic. While others eat fish on Friday, I eat it anytime I get a chance. You know how some people give up meat for lent?  I went one step further and gave up dick for life. And if you’re a librarian, I’m a nun. When you’re with me, you’re a nun too, which means that if you want cock tonight just let me know - I’ll get the strap-on.”

“Chill,” I said, “I just want to watch.”

Finally, she looked at me - I hoped she really didn’t have an in with God, because I don’t think she liked me too much.

“Yeah, good, because lesbians only exist for your viewing pleasure.” She turned her attention back to Lyssy. “To put it in simple ‘lie-berry’ terms, if you want to have fun with this Jane, you'd better tell him to ‘Run, Dick, Run!’ Am I being clear?”

Lyssy looked embarrassed and confused - I loved it.

“Gina, why don’t we stroll over to the bar for a second? Beer’s on me...and we can get the lady another Formula 409.”

I walked on ahead, knowing she would follow. I’m not saying that she was about to call David Crosby and ask him to be the father of her and Lyssy’s babies, but she wanted her pretty damned bad all the same. She probably saw the look on her new potential bedmate’s face - how her brain was about to fry - and knew she might be losing her chance.

“Look,” I said. “I’ve known Alyssa – Lyssa for years. She’s a submissive at heart, and becoming more submissive all the time. I’m her lifeline - she trusts me, and this is her first time with a chick. Stacy has gotten at least two really good looks at me, so I would be a dumbass to try anything, and I really just want to watch. If you want to take her home and have the time of your life, let me tag along. You want me to leave - fine - just promise to get her home in almost one piece. But I’d hope you'd see the advantage of having the little moron feel safe. Hey, you want to make a date with her after this, that can be as private a party as you’d like.”

She thought about it for a minute. “You’ll stay out of the way?”

“So far away that I’ll almost need binoculars. And you can play it anyway that you like – I’m there for her to think I’m her bodyguard.”

She shook her head and laughed. “You really are a prick.”

“Ain't I, though?”

When we got back to the table, I leaned in close to Lyssy and whispered, “It’s okay, I told her that if she was too rough with my girl, she’d have to answer to me.”

“What if I want her to be rough...just a little?” she whispered back.

“It’s your night! Tell you what, if it gets to be too much just say the name of the guy who wrote “A Tale of Two Cities.”

“A...a guy wrote that?”

“Can we move this along?” asked Gina. “Lyssy, you ever ridden on a motor cycle?”

“No? I don’t think so?”

“Looks like it’ll be a night of firsts for you.” She looked at me and smirked. “Try to keep up.”

“Aren’t we going to finish our drinks?” Lyssy asked.

“I’m not thirsty anymore,” Gina said, “but go ahead and slam yours.”

“Oh, I don’t really think I sho...” she saw Gina’s expression harden. “Okay.”

They probably made a better-looking couple than Alyssa and I ever had, but hey had the clear advantage of being two women. I’m still unclear on why all women aren’t lesbians. If only the mayor had looked like Gina...Yes, I know that shouldn’t matter, but Alyssa screwing the circus fat man makes her a disgusting whore, while Mayor Gina makes perfect sense. The former makes me worry that I accidentally came into contact with bodily fluids, the latter leaves me hoping.

Soon, the two of them were straddling Gina’s motorcycle. I wished I had a camera. Lyssy’s arms around Gina’s slender waist, her skirt hiked up even more to reveal a perfect expanse of stocking-clad legs giving way to smooth flesh. Knowing the cycle was vibrating against soft, secret places.  Bet you wish I’d had a camera too.

Gina’s house was surprisingly nice, but who cares? I only got a whirlwind tour anyhow as Gina pulled Lyssy, with her still-shaky legs, toward the bedroom. It was rather prehistoric. Lyssy gave a look over her shoulder to make sure I was still behind her.

The woman pointed out a chair in the corner, walking over to it with me.  “Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe.”

“Why would I? I mean, what is it about watching two women going at it that would make me want to move?”

“Shit! I especially don’t want to think about you possibly doing that.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you hate her? You do, don’t you?”

“I have my reasons, so don’t try to analyze it. I’ll be quiet as a kitten.” I realized she was no longer looking at me, but was instead focused on Lyssy perched on the edge of the bed with her legs parted, staring at a picture on the nightstand of Gina with another woman. I sat down - it was show time.

Gina walked over and sat next to  Lyssy, looked down at her partially-open legs, and asked, “Trying to tell me something?”

“I...I just can’t seem to keep my legs shut anymore?” 

“That doesn’t seem to be a bad problem for a pretty girl like you to have.”

“I...” Lyssy seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “I didn’t used to be like this...I’ve changed.” She sounded like the woman I’d fallen in love with - there was no question in her voice. For the first time in a long time, and just for an instant, I allowed myself to love - and miss - Alyssa.

What a fool I’d been to assume she hadn’t noticed.

Gina’s expression softened. She put her hand on Lyssy’s cheek and gazed into her eyes. “My favorite song has a line about that - No it isn't strange, after changes upon changes, we are more or less the same. After changes we are more or less the same...”

A smile broke across Lyssy’s face. “That’s true, isn’t it?”

Gina nodded, cupping my fiancé's chin in her hand. “Very true.”

I watched, fascinated, fully sentient of what I was seeing. I’ve been remiss in not explaining why it had been so easy to hypnotize Alyssa. It had regrettably little to do with me, and much to do with her. I’d been fascinated with the topic as long as I could recall.

I can’t begin to tell you how many women I’d tried to hypnotize, with little success - including a humiliating incident with a babysitter. It remained a favorite fantasy - I even frequented a few discussion boards - but the reality was never the experience I'd wanted it to be. Until Alyssa.

There were many things which attracted me to her, but foremost was how she seemed to be more susceptible to persuasion than your average person. Her focus when a topic or speaker interested her was absolute. If an argument made sense to her, she remembered it and incorporated it into her own belief system.

I had semi-drunkenly explained my interest on our third date. She'd listened intently and said, “That’s absolutely fascinating!” She had meant it - although I was never sure if it was truly a pre-existing interest or one I’d just implanted.

I'd asked if she’d be willing to let me put her under, and she gave me a non-committal reply, but I'd seen the answer in her eyes. On our sixth date, she'd allowed it. I was already in love, and so I had been as responsible as possible. It wasn’t easy, but I’m sure my tale makes that abundantly clear already.

So much of Alyssa’s life and decisions were a direct result of this quirk in her nature. Her mother had traded her body for a trailer, her mentor was a librarian, and both were persuasive, so she took on traits of both. As she'd began to move in more educated circles, and as she spent less time with her mother, the more acceptable qualities had risen to the surface.

Now, Lyssy had a new influence. Gina was persuasive, and I knew that look on Lyssy’s face all too well - the rapt expression, eyes blinking slowly as she gave the speaker her complete attention. I could only wonder how she would integrate those words.

Lyssy took Gina’s hand into her own smaller hand, placing it on her thigh. “I guess that means I’ve wanted this forever?”

“Good,” said Gina, “because I’ve wanted you since the second I saw you, and it seems like forever.” She leaned over and kissed Lyssy, then. There's a reason they played the clip of Britney Spears and Madonna kissing repeatedly - you can’t see two women making out enough. You want to see it repeated in slow motion, in black-and-white, sepia tone...on the silver screen, on a big-screen TV…in the privacy of your own home, in bars across the country...Well, you get the idea. It’s good stuff.

Gina’s kiss became more insistent, more open-mouthed, and Lyssy melted into her arms with a moan I could hear across the room. And then Gina pulled back.

“Look, Lyssy, I just wanted to fuck. No attachments or sharing personal details. No being sad. Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

Lyssy reached up and undid the loose bun. Blonde curls spilled around her shoulders. She began to unbutton the few fastened buttons on her blouse. “Gina, you need to punish someone and you can’t punish her directly? I know how I sound, and I’m not as smart as I used to be, but I’m not dumb yet either? You can be as angry with me as you need?”

“What makes you think I’m looking for punishment? Does this look like a dungeon to you?” Gina gave an unconvincing laugh.

Lyssy slipped the blouse off and began unzipping the skirt. “I have some experience with the subject? I’m not expecting you to pull out whips and chains, but I knew right away what you wanted? It’s okay - I want it too? Sometimes it’s the thing which hurts the least?” The skirt fell around her ankles and she kicked it across the room.

She fell to her knees at the foot of the bed and laid her head in Gina’s lap and she waited. Blonde hair against denim. The black of stockings and the red of garters and bra contrasted with pale flesh. Someone once said that the reason blondes are sexier is that they somehow look more naked clothed than other women look completely nude. Lyssy had never looked more vulnerable or beautiful.

I couldn’t help but be aroused, even though I’d just heard as-good-as-a-confession that she was aware of what I was doing to her. I pushed that all away, for now, and focused on the beautiful women before me. One woman was soft, fragile, easily molded, and willing to be broken. The other woman was thin, leanly muscled, and filled with an anger she couldn’t outride or outrun.

Gina softly stroked Lyssy’s hair for a moment, then allowed her fingers to slide through the thick, silken mane. The next time her hand was buried there, it held on. She pulled her head up and made Lyssy look at her. Their eyes met for a moment and Lyssy, with what little freedom she had, gave a brief nod. I do believe I heard her whisper a “Yes,” but it was unnecessary.

The tough woman reached behind Lyssy, unsnapping her bra. Lyssy gave a gentle shrug which allowed the straps to fall off her shoulders. The bra fell to the ground. From my angle I could only see her back, but I knew exactly what Gina was viewing: near-perfection. Pale skin which gave way to a delicate pink you only see on truly light-skinned women. Nipples like the erasers on a No. 2 pencil - only slightly smaller than the nubs pressing against Gina’s top.

Gina reached out to touch the firm globes, cupping them gently and then more roughly when Lyssy arched her back to push them further into her lover’s hands. I could feel the rising heat from both women. I knew there would be no more offers to let Lyssy leave.

“Take off the rest of your clothes,” rasped Gina.

Lyssy stood up on shaky legs and complied. She kicked off her shoes and put her left and then right leg on the bed, in their turn – unsnapping garters, removing stockings, and revealing more tantalizing flesh. Soon she was nude, completely exposed.

“Spin around,” said Gina. I saw her eyes widen at one point, and I could only smile. Man or woman, you had to love those little dimples right above her perfect ass.

Lyssy sank back down to her knees, running her hands up Gina’s jean-clad legs and then underneath her white shirt to cup the small, firm breasts of the female biker. Then she slid up on the bed and purred, “You’re so sexy, Gina. I just want you so much.” She ran her hands along Gina’s arms, “Are you as strong as you look?”

As if in answer, Gina grabbed her, flipped her, and forced her down into the mattress. Lyssy gave a yip which was both surprised and delighted. She gave a delighted purr as Gina fell across her, kissing her roughly and pressing her further into the bed.

She caressed Gina’s back, sliding her hands beneath the thin shirt, fingers splayed as she felt the play of muscle. Then her hands slipped down to cup her ass through her Levis. I just enjoyed the view of the increasingly-more-intertwined tangle of their bodies.

Gina, never stopping the kissing which had to be bruising, reached around and grabbed Lyssy’s hands, placing them above both of their heads on the bed. Lyssy accepted this effort to immobilize her, but after a few minutes brought a leg up around Gina’s ass in order to press her closer, causing the biker-girl to grind into her exposed womanhood. Lyssy gave a ragged moan which could only be interpreted as Gina’s crotch scoring a direct hit.

The slightly darker-haired woman pulled away in order to slip out of her own clothes. Lyssy was rapt. A less confident man might be a little insulted that both of them had really seemed to forget my presence. Hell, I didn’t blame them. Of all the places I wanted to look, not one of them involved me finding a mirror.

When Gina’s gaze drifted down Lyssy's body, the pale blonde spread her legs wider, exposing herself more. Gina reached down and thrust multiple fingers into Lyssy without warning. It was a tribute to Lyssy’s arousal level that it was clearly a pleasant surprise, causing her to let out a ragged, “Oh!”

Gina took her now-coated fingers and rubbed her nipples with them. “Lick it off,” she ordered, and then tasted her own fingers. Lyssy eagerly rose up and began to suckle each nipple in turn. Gina grabbed the back of her head, pulling her closer and, undoubtedly, spreading the fragrance to her lover’s hair.

Lyssy reached down and stroked between Gina’s lean thighs. And then she pulled back, looked Gina in the eye, and began to delicately lick her own fingers.

“Damn, are you sure you’ve never done this before?” Gina rasped.

Lyssy merely giggled. “I wish. Would you like me to lick your pussy, Gina?”

“Don’t play with me, Lyssy. Don’t think your acting submissive will fool me into playing your little bitch, instead. I’m not stupid.”

Lyssy shook her head. “I wasn’t trying that? I’ll do whatever you ask? I promise.”

“Okay. I want to watch you get yourself off. Show me exactly what you do.”

Lyssy moved back to lean against the headboard, spreading her legs wide. She took a couple of deep breaths which were meant to calm her, but which were also fun to watch - trust me. Then she gave a slight nod and began to touch herself, beginning at her throat, moving down to her tits, and then down to her ribcage. Lyssy has this surprisingly sensitive ribcage which almost serves as an extra erogenous zone. Her hand hesitated for a moment at her belly, then slipped down between her legs, probing her own heat and wetness.

After only a few minutes, Lyssy was taking ragged intakes of air, her breathing shallow. Her eyelids were fluttering, and occasionally her tongue would flit across her parted lips, moistening them. Her pale skin became flushed with the heightened color spreading down to her breasts.

She mouthed something which I knew to be, “So good,” only because I’d heard it whispered in my ears many times before. Her hips began to lift off the mattress as the speed of her fingers increased. Her other hand reached up to run through her hair, pressing it back from her face. And then she came, moaning the word Oh four times – each time more drawn out than the one before, the last not time much louder than a sigh.  Then her body went limp.

Several seconds later, she tentatively opened her eyes, blushing furiously as she was greeted with Gina’s silent perusal. She still didn’t look at me, but I could sense her awareness of my presence.

“Lyssy?” Gina asked at long last.

“Yes, Gina?”

“Now you can lick my pussy.”

“Thank you, Gina. Thank you!”

***

On the way home, as the sun began to rise, she spoke to me for the first time in hours. “I’d rather be in...in...what’s that place between heaven and hell where you burn off your sins?” she asked when her memory failed her.

“Purgatory,” I replied, knowing I’d taken the word from her weeks before.

“I’d rather be there for a hundred years than be without you for a day - I’d rather lose me than lose you.”

“I know.”  I really did know. There was no denying she was proving it day by day. A better man would have forgiven her at that moment. I was not a better man, anymore - I was not even the best version of me.

If I brought Alyssa back, then I’d have to leave. She as much as told me she understood that. She said it best when she told Gina that she wasn’t as smart as she used to be, but she wasn’t dumb yet, either. I would have to absolve her of all of her sins in order to bring her back, but who would absolve me?

If I forgive her, I’ll lose her all at once and forever. Every once in a while, I still see bits of Alyssa, and that’s worth it all. When I’m done - when it’s time to go - I’ll bring her back.

When I let her go, she’ll go to Gina. I do believe they love each other now. Gina at her meanest is better to her than I am at my kindest. They could probably be happy together. Maybe I’ll even allow her to go to Gina whole. Maybe I would give her the gift she can’t give me - pure hatred with no love to fan the flames.

But not yet.

Perhaps you’d like to make Lyssy’s acquaintance a little better? I can wake her up if you’d like. The poor thing is frantic - she’s spent all her money on lingerie yet again, and needs to come up with the rent money.

The End.

[Archibael]

Reefer Club: Wacky Wiccan Weed
by Ian Boheme



"You got the money?" a young man with a long, slightly ragged, coat asked his companion.

"Yeah, you got the stuff?" the cleaner looking one said as he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a nice leather wallet.   

"Good, now I got something special for ya if ya got some extra cash." the raggedy individual asked as he pulled out two bags.  One was of the regular zip lock style and the other appeared to be a nice old fashioned velveteen pouch.  "This stuff right here was cooked up by my sister.  She's into all that 'wiccan of the earth' crap but she's good with herbs so I snagged this from her.  I'll give it to ya for an extra 50 bucks.  Ya in, man?"

"I don't know, that's a lot of cash." the other said looking in between the two bags.  He was pretty interested and Brock had never lead him wrong.  Well, maybe a couple of times he had, he could still remember that three day headache, but he did always have a stash.  As he looked back and forth, Brock opened the velveteen bag and inside you could see that it was lined with a plastic  to hold the necessary moisture.  He raised the bag to Eddie's nose and allowed him to take a whiff of the weed. 

Eddie inhaled the marijuana and suddenly the world became a little fuzzy.  He lost his focus for a few seconds and then he seemed to be more aware of the world around him than he had ever been.  He could almost hear Brock's thoughts 'will' him to buy the other bag as well.  He seemed to want Eddie to buy the bags so that he could use the money to buy the new X-Cube game system.  He could also almost sense a foreboding feeling of danger for both Brock and himself.  He shook his head to clear it and out of the corner of his eye he could see a blue and white car pull around the corner. 

"Shit, the cops!" Brock said.  He dropped the two bags and took off running.  Eddie reached down and grabbed the two bags and took off in the opposite direction.  The police car pulled to a stop and an officer got out of the car to chase them.  He was torn between chasing both kids and lost  time deciding.  Precious time that both Eddie and Brock would gladly use to get away.

Eddie did not stop running until he got home.  When he finally did, he looked around to see if he was followed.  He sighed in relief when he saw that he was not and snuck inside the house.  He skulked around the corner and headed downstairs into the basement.  He quickly locked the door and headed to the back corner.  He was quite glad he had this little private area, no one bothered him much down here and he could come and smoke and just relax.  His mother had been hassling about his grades, but what did he care, he was senior in high school and he was gonna take it easy.  His sister, the brainiac straight A student, was also constantly pestering him but she rarely ventured down here. 

He glanced at the tic tack toe board he and his sister had scribbled on the wall with crayons when they were younger and slouched down onto the couch.  He chuckled at the scribblings and remembered how much their dad had yelled at them when he found out,  but since it was the basement it wasn't a big deal and had never been cleaned off.  He reached down below it and pulled back a tiny flap of the wallpaper and reached into a hole he had made. 

He pulled out his cookie tin and opened it up, inside was his rolling paper, a lighter and some spare cookies he had stashed, as well as a few nudie pictures he had swiped from his father's collection.  Performing his usual ritual, he pulled out the pictures and clipped them to the wall to idly peruse as he flipped the lid back and put a slip of the rolling paper inside of it.  He then reached into his pocket and remembered that he had grabbed both bags, the regular zip lock and the 'special' bag that Brock's sister had made.  He shrugged and decided, 'what the hell' and dropped the regular bag into the tin and opened up the velveteen bag. 

He rolled himself a joint of the stuff and took a whiff, it had similar effects as before, he could almost feel his mother above him cooking dinner and his sister was jamming to the semi sultry but mostly annoying tunes of Christina Spears.  The effects didn't last that long this time and he didn't have to shake his head to clear it.  It was weird, maybe there was something to what Brock said about his sister and that wiccan stuff.  He decided that he was just imagining things, his mother was always making dinner around this time and his sister couldn't get enough of her music so he probably just thought he could 'sense' them. 

He just shrugged and grabbed his lighter from the tin and lit up, puffing on the joint to light it properly.  It lit up in a tiny poof of smoke and he took a nice drag on it and suddenly his head was spinning much more than it was before.  Suddenly, he was seemingly everywhere in the house.  He could hear his mother singing '' as she cooked the meatloaf, measuring the amounts of ingredients against what she knew her family would like.  Above her was his sister's room, Emily was jamming as she laid back on her bed in her underwear.  She tapped her foot to the beat of the last track of the 'Oop's I Did Him Again' album. 

In his state he could see her, on her bed, moving her body to the rhythms of the music, he was almost a pair of  disembodied eyes hovering around her ceiling just looking down at her scantily clad body.  He looked down longingly at her tits, constrained by the lacy black bra, and wished he could see more of her nipples through the bra.   As he thought of her nipples, they began to harden and poke up before his eyes.  She began to squirm a bit as his desire began to fuel her own.  He couldn't believe what he was seeing and it was really arousing him.  'Man, those are some nice nipples, I wonder if she ever plays with them.' he thought and she started massaging her breasts, circling her nipples with her fingertips.  They hardened even more until they were begging to be released.  'Take off the bra.' he willed her and he couldn't believe it, she deftly reached behind her back and undid the bra and started stroking her nipples directly. 

Little whimpers began to emit from her mouth as she lost track of the music.  Her eyes closed as she bit her lip in pleasure, she was now gently pinching the nipples of her breasts and Eddie could see that her panties where  moistening.  He couldn't believe what was happening but he begged it to continue with all his might.  Before he knew it she had removed her panties and had slipped a finger inside her pussy. 

She began by rubbing it up and down the entire length of the slit.  She settled on her clitoris and began rubbing it furiously as her whimpers became outright moans.  Had it not been for her music, most of the house could have heard her.  Her left hand was savagely pinching her nipples as her right hand mauled her clit, her juices were dribbling out of her pussy onto the bed sheets below her as she fingered her clit.  Nearing her peak she hands became more and more rapid and her moans were near screams as they were being fueled by both her own and Eddie's desires to reach that climax.  As she did her pussy creamed the sheets of her bed and she collapsed backwards onto the bed gasping for breath as her climax sent ripples throughout the entire room.  Suddenly the world went dark.

*           *            *

"Ow!" Eddie yelped himself awake as the burning embers of his joint reached his fingers.  He nearly dropped it but he managed to save the joint and inch his fingers away from the lit edge.  He must have dozed off.

"Man, what a dream.  Or was it?"  he thought aloud, but he knew it couldn't have been more than a dream induced by some funky, but nice, marijuana.  He took another puff and was immediately gratified by a high as he held it in his mouth, he heard the door to the basement open and he quickly tossed the joint into the tin and grabbed his handy air freshener and sprayed a few sprays before shoving it into the couch cushion, all the while attempting to look non-nonchalant.  His sister ambled into the room, much more clothed than in his dream thus proving to himself that it was a dream.  She glanced around grinning because she knew she had caught him but she quickly pretended to not notice. 

"Do you have my Christina Spears CD, I know how you love to look at the pictures in the cover?" she said accusing him as she strode over.  He suddenly realized he still had that puff of smoke still in his mouth and his eyes began to water as he held it in hoping she'd go away.  He quickly shook his head in response to her question and was severely dismayed when she walked right up to him glanced at the walls to see his pictures, and then grinned pointing a finger at him.

"I caught you wanking off didn't I, little brother." Emily said jabbing her finger into his chest to emphasize her point.  This did not have the desired effect she expected, instead because he could no longer hold the puff of smoke in his mouth, he coughed it out into her face.  He was mortified by being caught not only with his pictures out but smoking a joint.  He was so screwed if he didn't think of someway to convince, he looked up at her seeing a glazed look in her face as the smoke cleared.

"Please, Emily, you have to forget what you've seen here, Mom and Dad cannot find out, they'll kill me." he frantically pleaded with her as he grabbed her arms and gently shook her for emphasis.  He really was quite screwed for she held all the cards and would likely not relent without serious blackmail.  She always was the goody two shoes, but today she was just staring blankly at him.  She began to respond to his pleads and he was dumbfounded by what he heard.

"Yes... Eddie, forget what I've seen, Mom...Dad cannot find out..." she trailed off staring directly at him the whole while totally unaffected by his shake.  For a moment silence reigned as Eddie was stunned speechless.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed, "She's hypnotized just like we've talked about at MCForum.net." he couldn't believe it, maybe there really was something to this 'wiccan' weed.  He decided to 'seize the moment' and take advantage of the situation as best he could using the 'research' he'd been doing over  the past few years.  Especially, if he could make her forget it, or better yet, make her think it was normal. 

"Emily, you are relaxed, very relaxed and with every word I speak you are becoming more relaxed, at ease with everything that will happen.  You completely trust me, and that trust grows as just as your relaxation grows.” he said soothly leading her into a deeper trance.

“Visualize yourself inside an elevator alone, above the doors are the floor numbers, you are on the top floor, the tenth floor and that number is lit...” he said as she nodded in agreement.

“With each floor you descend you will become more relaxed, trusting everything I say and do, nothing will be wrong, everything I say and do will be perfectly normal. 
The Nine has lit up, you are growing more and more relaxed, more and more trusting, when you reach the bottom floor you will be completely relaxed and trust me implicitly. 
Eight...Everything is normal. 
Seven...Nothing out of the ordinary. 
Six...Whatever I say will be perfectly ok. 
Five...Whatever I command you will do. 
Four...You will not question my commands, they will seem completely normal and will even seem to coincide completely with your own thoughts and decisions. 
Three...You will not resist me, and you will enjoy yourself when around me... 
Two...You will be aroused when around me and this will be alright, there is nothing wrong with those feelings...
One...From now on, you trust and obey me, are aroused by me you worship me..."

He grinned as he allowed all this to sink in, he could not believe his luck and was almost thankful for those cops showing up when they did.  He looked deeply into Emily's eyes and could see the very depths of her consciousness.  He knew she was his and he loved the  feeling of power that caused.

"Now, whenever I utter the words 'erotic butterfly' you will return to this hypnotic state, completely at ease, completely trusting, completely submissive to me.  Whenever you are in this state and I count to three...you will return to a normal state remembering the commands subconsciously but never remembering being hypnotized.  Also, whenever I utter the words 'My Dear Sister' whatever follows you will do without question as if it was your own idea.  Now when I count to three you will return to normal, the commands will be set in your mind but you will not remember anything else...One...Two...Three."

"Wha?  What just happened?" she said closing her eyes for a moment.  She knew she had come down here to pester him and had caught him...but she had blanked out and was filly a little dazed.  She opened her eyes to see an evil grin on her brother's face, which confused her greatly considering the position he was in and the turmoil she had just heard from him.

"My Dear Sister, why don't you sit down here." he said and she did without thinking, everything was cloudy and all she could think of was how handsome her brother was.  She'd never noticed before, she'd even venture to say he was quite sexy.  What was she thinking, she'd never viewed her brother in that fashion and knew that it was wrong, but no matter how hard she thought about it she could not shake the new found arousal.  It was almost overwhelming as it grew and yet she tried to act as normal as possible. 

"You won't succeed that easily in saving your skin, you were smoking pot and looking at some of Dad's nudie pictures.  You've been busted and I will..." she said gathering momentum with each word. 

"My Dear Sister," he interrupted, "I think you shouldn't worry about that and remove your clothes, you can leave on the black bra and panties.  I must say I enjoy the sight of them."  He sat back on the couch, waited and watched completely engrossed in his sister as she removed her clothes but was shocked that she was doing so. 

"What is going on, I don't want to do this...this is wrong, how are you doing this to me?" she asked scared as her body betrayed her doing what he commanded.

"My Dear Sister, tell me have you ever given a blow job before?" he asked her intensely interested in her sexual history but unsure if he had the patience to hear much of it.

"Yes, but I don't swallow, it's nasty." she said her face scrunching up in disgust.  She glanced at his crotch and attempted to fight the longing to free his cock that was there.

"My Dear Sister, you will swallow 'my' cum, in fact, you will love and craze it.  Now, take out my cock and get to work and enjoy it." he said, his cock already straining heavily against his pants.  He still looked her up and down, even seeing her breasts before he still could not help but almost be entranced by her nipples as they straining against her black lacy bra.

She leaned over him and unbuttoned his fly and deftly zipped his pants down, he lifted his hips up a bit and she pulled his pants and boxers down enough to get complete access to his cock.  When she got a look at it she gasped briefly but before they both knew it her hand was already in motion.  She still couldn't believe it all, she tried to fight the urges, but her body seemed to be no longer in her control.  She ran her fingernails up his shaft and around the head causing him to moan which only succeed in arousing her even more.  She didn't know why she suddenly did and felt everything he said but she was lost to his words anyway.  She desired his cock with her very being and she had never been all that impressed with any of her boyfriends' before. 


She was starting to get into it, really longing for her brother's cock as she leaned down with her tongue outstretched and curled in anticipation of her first taste.  Just as her tongue touched the base of his dick and began it's trek upwards.  It gave her a tiny tingle of pleasure in her mind that was interrupted by the door to the basement opening again.  They both looked up and into the face of their mother whose eyes hadn't registered what they were seeing yet.

"Kids dinner's almost ready, could you set the..." she said but trailed off as she finally realized what was happening.  Her eyes widened and she nearly fainted with that realization.  Her hand was on her hip and the shock had her raring back her head unconsciously gasping and expanding an already lovely chest.  Eddie's mind was filled with fear but also lust seeing his mother in a rather tight green skirt her chest heaving as it was.  The gasps had stretched her white blouse to near it's limit and was quite arousing in the lovely globes it held captive beneath it.

Eddie reacted quickly, not even realizing he had formulated and was instigating a plan.  He reached for the cookie tin again and snagged the last tiny dredge of the still lit joint, thanking his luck for there being any left.  He started for his mother as quickly as he could, which was surprisingly quick considering his pants were unzipped and hanging around his knees.  His hobble was fast but had his mother not been in shock and his sister not been in a her state both would have found it hilariously funny.   

He reached her just as she was starting to recover from the shock and was raring back to slap him and give him an ear full.  He quickly put the joint to his lips and sucked in the last puff blowing it out and into his mother's face.  She coughed and as she cleared her lungs that same blank face hit her just as it did his sister not five minutes before.  He quickly put in the same keywords, 'erotic butterflies' and the others, substituting the  'My Dear Sister' with 'My Dearest Mother' phrase.  He had a few other things in mind  but he would input those commands later.  He wanted to get back to business. 

He quickly took his mother out of her trance after bringing her over to the couch.  He sat back down on it and just looked back and forth between his two 'conquests' as his mother's daze was clearing.  She had a very disapproving look to her face and was taking a breath for a long lecture, but before she could begin...

"My Dearest Mother, that blouse is entirely too constraining, you should take it off." he said to her and her eyes were even more shocked than before, if that were possible.  She couldn't believe her son had asked her to... no told her, to do such a sinful thing.   She would definitely give him a piece of her mind, and he'd be grounded for the rest of his life, but why were her hands suddenly unbuttoning her blouse. 

'Well, it is a little hot down here, maybe just a couple of buttons would be ok.' she thought to herself but her hands didn't stop there.  'What was going on.'  She was actually doing what he told her to.

"It's alright 'My Dearest Mother' you want to show us your tits, you are very aroused right now and you need a release.  You've been working up a lot of tension and you just need to let it all out." he said with that smile of power and complete control.

She had her blouse completely unbuttoned now and was taking it off her shoulders to reveal a lovely green bra that barely kept her tits in, the bra matched her skirt but was a size too small, so her areolas could be seen peaking out the top of the cups.  Her nipples hardened at his mention of her arousal and pressed hard against the material that held them.  Both he and his sister were left in awe at their beauty but he quickly recovered and whispered something into his sister's ear.  She looked back at her mother enraptured by her body even more than before. 

"My Dearest Mother, why don't you get down on your hands and knees and help me here.  I gotta cum really bad and I think you desire me and you'd love to taste my cock and cum, wouldn't you?" he asked her.  She looked down at his cock, and suddenly she did want it in her mouth very badly.  She needed it and she didn't know why.  All this was very wrong but she couldn't help herself.

"Yes, that does sound nice, you do seem to have a rather large problem, I'd love to take care of it for you.  Let Mommy taste that cock of yours and see if it tastes as good as it looks." she said in a sultry voice astounding herself with her own words.  What had come over her, she didn't even speak this way on her marital bed, but she had no time to wonder she before she was on her knees as he commanded and had his lovely cock in her mouth bobbing back and forth on his cock.  It tasted as lovely as it looked and she longed for his spunk, to nurse it from her son's dick and swallow every last drop.

She had become so wrapped up in the blow job that she had not seen her daughter get on the floor behind her.  She felt her skirt being unzipped from the side and pulled down  to reveal a nice pair of green panties and a lovely ass.  She gasped as her panties were suddenly pulled to the side and a tongue was thrust between her pussy lips.  She moaned loudly on his cock and he lost it right then and there as the vibrations from her moan shot through it.  He came just as his sister had found their mother's clit and was savagely attacking it with her tongue.  Surprisingly enough their mother kept on bobbing up and down as her pleasure increased. 

She knew exactly how to keep from spilling any of his cum as she brought all of the cock out of her mouth except for the head and ran her tongue under and around the head as it spewed his cum directly down her throat.  She swallowed the entire load and gently licked it as she squeezed the last drop into her mouth. 

Her daughter was developing a wondrous rhythm licking up the length of her slit and teasing the clit like a pro.  She was so close now but she wouldn't let her son's cock go, though she was careful not to lick the head much knowing it was incredibly sensitive right now.  She licked up and down his balls hearing him moan from the pleasure and the sight of his sister ravaging his mother's pussy.  She lost herself to the task at hand and the tongue below.

Emily, herself, was lost to the sights and smells of her mother's slit as she licked it with all of her very being.  She desired her mother so deeply that she'd do anything just to taste her cum from it's very source.  She wanted her mother to orgasm and splash her face with her juices so bad she 'could' taste it and knew from the tightening in her thigh muscles that she didn't have much longer to wait. 

Suddenly her mother's thighs clamped down on her head and her mother's hand reached back into Emily's hair and pulled her entire face into her cunt.  She inhaled deeply the scent of their lovemaking and lavished the taste of the juices that were now coating her tongue and face.  She couldn't breath but she didn't care she was in sheer bliss.  When her mother's orgasm stopped she looked up at her and her brother and she knew that there would be a lot more encounters like this and even though she knew it was wrong she couldn't help but look forward to every moment of it.

Epilogue: 

He grinned as he watched them both leave him to clean up the mess, his sister was going to set the table and his mother was going to put dinner on it for when her husband came home.  Things were back to normal for them, at least what their minds saw as normal, but he knew that come tomorrow the post hypnotic suggestions he'd left in place would cause for some interesting situations, lots of arousal, and even more 'encounters to come.  They would start tomorrow.  Suddenly things were looking very bright as he made his plans.

[Archibael]

Myth
by Geo



Ah my grandson! Look, look! See, over there? That is Pecuniae Argenti. Beautiful, no?

Oh? Your schooling is lacking indeed then. Allow me to tell you the tale as my father told it to me! And your father should have told it to you. What your mother sees in him, I’ll never understand, but since he has granted me a fine grandson, I love him all the same.


Now, Pecuniae Argenti was not a woman who bent. She bowed to no one, and early in her career that cost her ... all of about five minutes. She spent years on the rise only stopping because there was no place left to ascend. Or rather, no place left to attain in which she believed and belief is the core of this tale.

None could say she had not reached the pinnacle of her craft. None denied that she wasn’t a true sorceress when it came to picking which mana flows to follow. Her skill at divining which Ley Lines would be profitable and when they would cease being profitable could not be doubted. She even took her manatrust out of Scre-X the day before deGuzman fell, murdered or suicide, off his dragon.

Was she prescient? This was a possibility, but she scored almost zero on magical aptitude and her psychic field was exceptionally weak. She, by all measurements, had no paranormal talent whatsoever, excepting her too sharp mind, too sharp wit and too sharp tongue. Her enemies said she made her own luck, but her friends would say she got by on intelligence, skill and moxie. Sadly, she had no friends and didn’t seem to want any.

And Pecuniae Argenti was truly beautiful, in a dark, cold manner, and was often associated in the crystals with many famous names, but never fully or deeply connected. No hints of romance, no secret loves, and no trysts. It is quite likely that she had no fun at all. Not as we know it, that is.

When seen out and about on the town with the richest and most powerful, one had to wonder who was being shown off as a toy on the arm of whom. Those who knew her would say that although she was always tastefully dressed in a fashionable gown, she wore the pants. Sadly, no one claimed to know her, and she had no interest in telling.

But enough about her ... let me tell you now of how Pecuniae Argenti got to be where she is today.

Dispensatio, patron deity of Middle Management, whined in his craven voice.
“No one my lord. She has no patron whatsoever. One of the demigods in my department joked that she worshipped wealth in place of any of us, and the more I investigate, the more I believe his jest has truth. She has faith in naught but herself and her skill at accruing wealth.”

Numen, God of Gods, issued the challenge.
“Then we have an unbeliever! My will is thus: The first to lay successful claim to her as a follower, shall win this round.”

Robur the Bold, Lord of Lions and patron of Warriors pounded the pommel of his great sword on the table and roared out his challenge.
“I conquer her with great feats of strength and arms! My greatest warrior went forth to strike down all challengers for her attentions and claim her as mine. ‘Tis simple! I have already won for no other warrior can match his skill!”

Numen, God of Gods, advanced the sun and looked at the eventual outcome of his son’s plan.
“You have won nothing my son, Lord of Lions. After your mad dog massacred her evening companion, she hired five score men and they all set upon him together. Your greatest warrior threw down with an army ... and lost.”

Robur the Bold, Lord of Lions and patron of Warriors howled in anger.
“Insolence! Dishonourable conduct! I shall raise a greater army! If need be I shall put her whole land to the sword!”

Numen, God of Gods, looked down on his irate son and made a proclamation.
“This you may do when next it is your turn.

Spatule of the light touch, Patron of Sensual Indulgence, spoke up next
“I shall win her with my skill at romance! I set forth the greatest and most skilled seducer who reveres my name, armed with my finest songs and poems shall win her soul. Through her lust for him, she shall worship me.”

Numen, God of Gods, advanced the sun and looked at the eventual outcome of his son’s plan.
 “The maiden he sought was ill impressed at being kept awake all hours of the night by his serenades. She has placed a legal injunction against your Lothario and he will be imprisoned if he persists or approaches her.”

Spatule of the light touch, Patron of Sensual Indulgence, sighed in disgust.
“Has the woman no soul? No romance? Is this what the world has come to?

Consilium the judge, Patron of Thinkers and Philosophers cackled at the befuddlement of his brothers.
“I with my boundless intellect shall dazzle her and confound her! The lass is of great intellect, and my followers will tempt her with knowledge and wisdom ...

God after God, great lord of the heavens and small second cousins, twice removed laid their plots until, at last, the least favoured of the gods took his turn.

Callidus the Crafty, Patron of the sly criminal.
 “First, do we agree on this: by custom and law, a wife worships her husband and like wise the husband worships the wife? Brothers, was this law not set down by our mother? Are these not the commands of your loving wife, father?”

Numen, God of Gods, raised his voice in agreement.
“Aye, they are.” Thus spake the lord of the Gods.

Callidus the Crafty, Patron of the sly, continued with his plan.
“Some day I must be educated again as to why our kind woman folk are banned from our games, but very well. To follow a deity requires but two things of the follower. They must believe and they must worship.

“I’m surprised a lady of such quality took this long to become a source of amusement for our family, but you waste your time. She is simply not interested in what we Gods have to offer. Still, she is a refreshing lass, so I went unto her and wooed her personally some time back with a simple question.

“She knows without doubt that I do exist, for she has met me and has no difficulty believing in the man who cleans her office. Thus I have her belief and fill requirement one.

“The second requirement is worship and we have already established how I can attain easily that. In fact, with my single question, the lady and I have even set a wedding date.

“When hell freezes over.”

Numen, God of Gods, was unwilling to advance the sun to the end of days, for to do so would destroy all that is and the gods would be forced to start over. Instead he spoke.
“I bless this union and wish you and your future wife an eternity of wedded bliss.”

Callidus the Crafty, Patron of the sly criminal, steepled his fingers and smiled.
“Wedded bliss is not what I seek, for it is far too boring. I will wait to take my wife, and in the meantime, shall we play another game?”


And so, when you look to the sky at night, east of the Great Arch, you can see the mana belt of Pecuniae Argenti, patron of Economic Sorcerery.  When you see it, give reverence and remember that it is the sign of a mortal maiden who never believed in Gods and yet was raised to the heavens to await her wedding to a god. How she bargained her way into the Great Game of the Gods, that is another story.

Yes, yes. I know the physicians say I should not smoke these, but if you promise not to tell your mother, I’ll tell you another tale.

Good, good. Now, the best place to start is where we left off. So, if you look slightly to the south, you can see the Mensula, Pecuniae Argenti’s place at the gaming table of the Gods. As the one unwedded, and thus virginal Goddess ...

[Archibael]

Beads of My Heart
by Archibael



Le Petit Mort

None of this would have happened were it not for Pauline.

Pauline was blonde.  Pauline was overly-friendly.  Pauline was your garden-variety kook.

It wasn't just the crystals on her desk.  Or the "Find Your Aura" poster on her cubicle wall.  Or even the circlet of magnets she wore on her head for over a month "to ward off migraines".

No, it was the way she evangelized all of the above. 

Eventually, one complainant brought up the prohibition in the employee handbook about proselytizing during working hours...and then Human Resources flunkies were treated to a lecture from the aforementioned kook as to why the cures and treatments she espoused were not "religion", but simply "alternative medicine".  So the problem persisted.  Coworkers learned to simply ignore her rantings.

Kelly was fairly new to the office, and didn't feel as comfortable giving Pauline the brush-off as her associates did.  She waited patiently while the woman went on about all the herbal supplements she should take, and then went back to get some work done.  It was pretty nutty stuff but, frankly, she'd heard dumber things in Sunday school.  She'd gotten through that all the way to Confirmation; she could tolerate this.

Pauline evidently mistook this tolerance for kinship, and started gifting Kelly with items designed to enhance her spiritual well-being.  There was a whole box of junk in Kelly's kitchen which she alternately contemplated selling on eBay to the similarly gullible or merely tossing into the rubbish bin.  She leaned toward the latter.

The one thing Pauline ever gave her which appeared to be worth a damn was the one thing Pauline had ever evinced any skepticism about.  "The ad said it would provide enhanced sexual pleasure, but I think it's just a hoax."  Kelly tried (with only moderate success) to suppress any mental images which sprang forth regarding how Pauline had come to this conclusion, but the small bracelet was actually kind of cute.  As an accessory to some of her outfits, if nothing else.

In fact, she wore it out to the bar with her friends that weekend.  The gloss of its pearlescent black beads provided a nice contrast with her beige skirt and white top, and got her compliments from the more accessory-conscious of the ladies. 

The guys weren't all that interested, though; they were way too busy checking out her breasts and rear end to notice anything adorning her wrists.  Some of them smooth-talked their way over to her, and bought her drinks, but the one she thought was hot was much more interested in her friend Shelby's rack than in herself.  Still, free drinks were nothing to sneeze at, and when she eventually got in the cab to go back to her apartment, she was still pretty buzzed from the alcohol and -- she had to admit -- from all the attention.

As she bade Cassie and Savannah good night, throwing in her contribution to the fare, Kelly made her way up the single flight of stairs to her studio and flopped unceremoniously onto her futon.  She flicked off her shoes and shucked everything else but her panties, then thought about how she was feeling right now and doffed those as well. 

Bare to the cool air of her home, she felt a dull need that reminded her how long it had been since Todd had left her, and with slow stroking anticipation her hands made their way down to her sex.  Oh, it had been too long...

The mild euphoria from the alcohol gave the masturbation session a disconnected feel: the pleasure she felt seemed like it was coming from a source other than her fingers.  That made it more exciting, as she was able to fantasize that it was not herself providing her this pleasure, but someone else entirely.  Her passion increased as the sheets below her dampened from her exertions, and with a circular motion of her palm on her clitoris, coupled with a finger driving deep inside her, soon brought her to a quiet but strong orgasm.  She sighed and threw her head back, crossing her arms over her breasts and resting while her pounding pulse and her breathing slowed.

It wasn't rare for her to go back for seconds in self-pleasuring, but tonight she recovered faster than usual.  Her breasts felt needy, and the beads of her new bracelet enticed her left nipple into arousal.  Sympathetic, her right nipple followed, and Kelly rewarded it with a brush of the bracelet's smooth little spheres as well.  "Mmmm..." she couldn't help but emit in response to this feeling.  The little balls of the bracelet slid over her breasts as if oiled, but they left no residue, so it must have just been the frictionlessness of their construction.  It felt delicious.  I wonder what it would feel like...

She slid the jewelry off her wrist and sent it southward into her steaming sex, and she cooed in delight when the pearls touched her mons.  The little things seemed even more lubricated than before...and so did she, for that matter.  She wrapped the tiny dark orbs around her clitoris and nearly came from just the touch of them there.  She spun them around, and their slippery passes to either side of her pleasure button made her hips thrust upward as she came yet again -- quicker than she ever had before, in fact, especially for a multiple.

Now, however, she was sleepy from the alcohol and the afterglow, and she let the links fall to her mattress and slid into unconsciousness.

*   *   *

Wakey-Wakey

She awoke face down, absently humping the mattress, something in her unconscious mind having tried desperately to get the bracelet inside of her body, even as she slept.  Now that she no longer dreamed, she was able to better direct the motions of her rubbing, and when she finally felt the tingling brush of smooth beads against her inner thighs, she ground down upon them with her crotch once...twice...a third time, until they embedded themselves in her tenderest flesh and made her cry out.

The beads slipped out of her, then, and she was free.  For the moment.  Kelly tried hard to avoid thinking about how good that had felt.  She'd had too much masturbation in the last several hours...and her tongue tasted of the alcohol-tainted fruity concoctions she'd consumed last night.  Rising from the bed, leaving her new jewelry behind, she headed to the lavatory and turned on the shower.  Sitting on the commode while the water grew warm enough for comfort, she smothered the urge to look back out the door, toward her bed, where she could almost feel the presence of dark, hot, lusty...

Kelly shook her head, flushed the toilet, and stepped into the stall, directing the shower nozzle away from her nether region.  Stubbornly so.

*   *   *

Unharnessed

Shelby had called at three in the afternoon, a little hung over but slightly giddy.

"You should have seen this guy, Kelly.  Not only was he a knockout, he had an absolutely glorious package."

Kelly blushed despite herself.  It was clear that her friend had not only gone home with the guy she'd met in the bar, but had slept with him as well.  Kelly was no stranger to casual sex...she just liked to keep it a little...well, less casual than that.  Knowing someone's name was a good start.  She wasn't certain Shelby was so picky.

Shelby discussed the member in question without regard to her friend's sensibilities.  And what Shelby had done with it, and how it had felt; it was a concept totally divorced from the man attached to it, apparently.  Which concept, oddly enough, was turning Kelly on.  Or perhaps it was the bracelet she'd placed on her wrist and was fiddling with, delicious on her flesh.  The thought of a pleasurable item disconnected with anything male -- or even human -- was something she was coming to comprehend, since last night. 

She feigned a sleepiness she did not feel, and tried to escape the phone conversation in order to apply her hands between her parted thighs.  She'd actually started to fiddle with her outer lips and was stifling a moan before she could get Shelby to agree to call her later.  "We'll go out later to look for a few more good men," the big-busted lady on the line had laughed before hanging up, but Kelly let the receiver fall to the floor unreplaced in its receptacle.  Her naughty parts were engorged with need, and the annoying signal on the phone which told her it was off the hook faded from her awareness as she pulled off the bracelet and affixed it to her moistened sex.

She plunged two fingers through the beaded ring and into herself, the stones providing a circle of throbbing black fire on the exterior while the interior was indulged with penetration.  Her other hand snaked up to her nipples, alternating between them in squeezing, scratching, and otherwise toying with them to accentuate her arousal.  She abandoned them, though, when her climax approached; she used both hands to finger herself, now, and the vigor of her exertions resulted in a quiet snick as her orgasm drenched her hands in lubrication. 

She came down from the high and looked down at her pubis...horrified to see that the bracelet's circle was no more -- she'd snapped it open while in the throes of coming.  Forgetting her panting and the residual pleasure, she scooped up the broken chain and examined it with care.  The elastic string had snapped, though none of the smooth black spheres had come off and been lost, she realized with relief; she couldn't bear to think she might have misplaced one. 

Breathing heavy, now with worry rather than sexual bliss, she looked for a means to repair the circlet.  A knot in the string would too easily come undone, considering the uses to which she'd been putting it, and while it was exciting to imagine the little pearls falling into her folds and crevices, getting lost there...the prospect of having to have them removed in a hospital room were too disturbing for contemplation. 

Fortunately, she had some old necklace repair fuzzies from high school lying around in her drawer somewhere.  She'd contemplated throwing them out long ago, but had never gotten around to doing it, so there they were.  Lavender, of course; such were the 80s.  But they were functional, at any rate; the broken ends of the strings fed into a needle hole, then twisted several times around the central spindle to provide a tight hold.  Then the fuzzies were knotted around one another.  It was entirely silly looking, but it would suffice.  Once, the fuzzies had been the only thing which had kept her from an embarrassing loss of her boyfriend's class ring  at an amusement park, and she trusted them to do their work once more.

Somehow the bracelet seemed significantly longer, now; choker-length, if not full necklace-sized.  It must have been stretched in her rigorous movements, and the fuzzies must have added some of their own slack to the picture.  There seemed to be more beads, too, but that was obviously just an illusion; probably they were just more loosely packed on the longer string, now, and just appeared to be more numerous.

It's still beautiful, she thought to herself, though she had a difficult time discerning whether this was due to its appearance or its known effect on her feminine parts. 

She did have a lavender dress she could wear tonight carousing with Shelby which would match the choker, but it was a bit more revealing than she ordinarily wore.  Not to mention a size too tight, probably.  She went off to look for it anyway, though; the dampness of her thighs going virtually unnoticed as she opened the closet door.

*   *   *

Night Moves

"Wow, Kelly, you're really dressed to kill tonight."

Kelly blushed, though pleased by the compliment.  "Thanks, Shel.  Don't you sometimes feel like dressing...flashy?"

"'Sometimes' doesn't even begin to cover it, sweetheart.  When do I not dress to accentuate my tits?"

It was hard to argue with that.  Tonight it was a black lace demi-cup overlaid with a white transparent blouse; she may as well have hung a sign: Rest cheek here, baby!

Not that Kelly was being outdone.  She'd let down her hair, and it fell asymmetrically over half of her face, lending her an aura of mystery; the tight spandex-enhanced material of her dress hugging every curve.  Her choker was displayed casually, not prominently, the fuzzy new clasp hung to the side, nearly hidden under her hair.  The effect might have been ridiculous on a woman who did not walk with the air of confidence Kelly did, or who didn't ooze sensuality in quite the same way when she moved.  Despite the outfit being nearly ten years old, Kelly certainly was capable of turning heads wearing it.

And that she most certainly did.  Both ladies were stunning to the men at the Baja Beach Club, but for a change the men were ogling Kelly's pert ass and legs, rather than spending most of their time salivating over Shelby's tits.  Shelby could have been disappointed in her luck, but instead seemed excited by Kelly's change in fortunes.  "You, my dear, are going home with a beautiful piece of manflesh tonight!"

Kelly pondered this, as she pondered the gaze of Mark, who had just walked over to the bar to get them some drinks.  His friend Aurelio, who talked with a very cool accent which he claimed was Afrikaan but which sounded almost Scottish, sat with the ladies and made conversation, but always his eyes were drawn back to Kelly.

"Tha' is a lovely item you're wearin', lady," he purred.  "I do adore seeing women wear a choker like tha'."

Kelly was immediately self-conscious and her hand stole up to the beads.  She caressed them absently, hoping she was not giving the wrong impression to the men around her...and, truth be told, hoping that she was.  The affection being demonstrated by Aurelio and Mark, not to mention several previous gentlemen, was starting to get her damp with excitement at tonight's prospects for pleasure.

The night dragged on, and Mark and Aurelio seemed to be in a competition for who would get to take Kelly home.  Shelby watched with a certain playful interest, but when it seemed that Kelly was stalling or perhaps balking altogether, she decided to take matters into her own hands.  "Well," she yawned, "I'm tired, and too tipsy to drive."  She'd not had a drink for hours.  "Which one of you fine gentlemen is going to drive me home?"

Both looked a bit guilty; it appeared that neither wanted to jeopardize his chances at Kelly by driving her friend home.  Eventually, though, Mark seemed to have decided that a sure thing with the attractive Shelby was preferable to taking his chances with the breathtaking-but-slow-moving Kelly, and he held out his hand to the woman, bowing his farewell to both his compatriot and to the other attractive woman.

Aurelio apparently saw this as his cue, as well.  "I am feelin' a bit close to bed myself.  Would you care for a ride home, Kelly?" 

Kelly was torn; she really liked Aurelio, and was very turned on by his dark eyes and the way he was staring at her, but she wasn't sure if she wanted to sleep with him.  Clearly, he was feeling no such reservations; his cock wagged back and forth under the tent of his trousers as he walked to the door, holding Kelly's coat over his arm until they were stepping outside.  She licked her lips as she contemplated the contents of the tent.

The valet retrieved his car, a lumpy but still shiny and new-looking sedan which had comfortable seats, at least, and he held the door for her, "accidentally" resting his hand on her knee as he closed the door, wishing her a good night.  Aurelio hadn't noticed the look of desire on his face as he'd touched her skin, but Kelly certainly hadn't missed it.

Very few words were exchanged as they drove -- certainly not any directions to Kelly's apartment; there was no real pretense being made at whose home they were going to.  Kelly placed her hand on his neck and began to stroke it gently as he drove, then extended her fingernails and lightly scratched his scalp.  He was enjoying this, and looked like a large mountain cat being petted.  With surprising swiftness, he let out a growl, then pulled the car off the street and into a parking lot.

Kelly felt him close on her, his mouth insistent, his hands sliding up her skirt to touch her panties, to stroke them, to ease them aside to yield her hole for his use.  She was breathing heavily, pushing her crotch forward toward his hand, wanting nothing more than to have him inside of her, seeing from his fierce expression that he was equally desperate.  Some voice inside her resisted, though, told her what she was doing was all wrong, that she needed to --

Kelly pushed him away, and in a quick movement yanked open the door and ran across the midnight street and into an alley.  She didn't stop to look back, not even as she heard Aurelio yelling, "What the fuck is goin' on wit' you, woman?  What did I do wrong?"  Her face was tear-streaked, and she collapsed against the grime-smeared brownstone wall as she heard his tires squeal angrily away.  She regretted his absence, which was why she was somewhat shocked to find a voice in her head whispering, Thank goodness! even as her hands rerouted themselves from the street she propped herself up against.  Rerouted themselves straight to the recently-moved and certainly wet panties, and under them, through the leg hole, to her sizzling pussy.  Her fingers diddled her clitoris as she played her legs lewdly into the darkness of the alleyway, hoping no one would come by to see her. 

When one of her hands reached up to unclasp the choker, to feel its unmarred and slick stones stroke her palms and, soon, her opening, she ceased wondering if anyone would come by to see her; she just pressed her hands and her jewelry into herself with vigorous motion that startled her.  When the spheres entered her, she immediately climaxed at the pleasure of the touch, grinding her ass down on the roadway in reaction.  She recovered quickly, and while she did she stuffed the whole choker inside herself; there seemed to be much more to it, when it was undone like this, and several beads hung out once she'd completed her project.  As the third-from-last pearl entered her messy gash, she came again, this time rubbing the other two little things against her nub, back and forth, back and forth...

A pause, then, as she recovered some measure of her sanity; she was in an alley, for God's sake, masturbating without regard for anything moral or even legal.  She started to pull the beads out of her, then realized after a few had come out that the wonderful feeling this elicited would only drop her back into the depths of her depravity, again, so she left them inside her, where they would be safe...and would not cause her to scream in orgasm in the midst of a dark, dirty street.  Her panties kept them inside her, and the delicious movement as she walked to the corner almost prevented her from reaching that destination.  She sat down on a bench and waited for the #57 bus, barely able to restrain herself from fucking her own pussy before it arrived.

Whether the bus driver was able to tell or not that she was frigging herself in the back seat, Kelly was never able to guess, but the fantasizing about the look he gave her as she left his vehicle was enough to give her another shuddering orgasm, though this time it was lying on her pillow instead of on hard, cold concrete.

*   *   *

Research

"Pauline, do you still have the ad for the bracelet you gave me?"

The space-cadet seemed thrilled to have someone actually engage her in a conversation about one of her remedies, even a discarded one.  "Why?" she replied, wide-eyed, "Is it working?"

"No!" came the reply, a little too intensely.  "No," Kelly corrected herself, I just really like the way it goes with some of my clothes, and I wanted to know where to order another one.  In case this one gets damaged or stolen."

"Well, I'm so thrilled you are getting some use out of it, anyway!"  She bit her lip.  "Hmmm... I can try to find the magazine I saw the ad in; I'm not sure if it was Vortexes and The Earth Mother or Spirituality Monthly.  I'll look for it for you, though."

"Thanks, Pauline."

"No problem.  You know, you look kind of agitated lately.  I have a soul-poultice in my car--"

"No thanks, Pauline.  I'm just a little stressed over...some stuff.  I've gotta go, though.  Bye!"

*   *   *

Alone

The club was dark and moody, the music sly and laced with something which sounded like espionage.  It was classy but not uptight, and her attire was entirely appropriate.  Though "classy" women probably wore panties.

The other woman was well-dressed and kept glancing her way; there was something akin to predation in her gaze.  But hesitance, too.  The thought made the necklace tickle her tits with glee, and she tensed her thighs to supplement the erotic charge she'd gotten from imagining this woman as kneeling supplicant, seduced beyond all judgment into worshipping at her pussy-altar.  Kelly sensed a vast untapped resource, there; a landscape of desires waiting to be unlocked...but she felt that the hesitation the other woman felt would color the lust somewhat, sour it.  Still, she mentally resolved to check out establishments where that heat would flow unchecked...she knew of places.  You heard rumors, even if you didn't live that lifestyle.  She parted her thighs to the other woman's gaze, absorbing what she could of the tentative excitement found there, but spent her time and effort making the attached man need her.

And he did; she could see the undisguised tent in his trousers.  The woman saw it, too, and she dragged him out onto the dance floor with a frown.  Apparently what was good for the goose was not permitted in the gander.  Kelly didn't mind; she had other prospects, and she'd already absorbed all that gentleman and his girlfriend or wife could provide for her.  Her panties were moistened and only getting better.  The next candidate approached and offered to buy her a drink.  She accepted a screwdriver, licking her lips after saying the words.

Man after man she took this way, sitting on the bar stool, leaning forward in a way designed to emphasize her décolletage, crossing and uncrossing her thighs constantly to force him to imagine what she held between them.  Took them and brought them to the brink of desperation; most begged her to fuck them, two demanded she fuck them, and one even threatened her with bodily harm if she didn't "come across with the twat, sister!"  Each brought her a reflected desire -- especially the latter, and she teased that one even more, taking his finger in her mouth and gently caressing it with her tongue.  He flushed to the tips of his ears when she excused herself to go to the ladies' room, and he trailed behind her.   He even tried to follow her in, but one of the other women inside threatened to call the manager and reached into her purse for a can of pepper spray before he relented and slunk around outside the door.

"Problems, dearie?" a red-haired woman in the lounge inquired as they both touched up lipstick at the mirror.  "Looks like you've got an admirer."

"Yes, he's quite --"

"Psychotic.  Yes, that's Fred.  He's here every night, and most of us have felt his wrath at one time or another.  He pretends that when he calls you "cocktease" you're special that way, but start comparing notes with the other girls and you'll realize that he's just not very creative with nicknames."  The woman turned to her directly.  "None of the attempted sexual assault charges have stuck, although Betty nailed him with the stalking offense.  Do you need help getting out of here?"

Kelly knew she wanted nothing more than to have this man blazing in agony over what she had dripping in her crotch, but she also knew if he were to lay his hands -- or any other parts -- on her, it would eradicate everything she'd collected tonight.  She nodded at the offer of assistance.

"All right.  I'll think of something.  You just wait here a bit."

The woman left, and the ruckus outside was muffled but evident.  Somewhat more disheveled, her benefactor re-entered and indicated the coast was clear.  "I convinced the bouncers he grabbed my tits when I came out of the restroom, and they threw him out, but he's probably lurking around the parking lot.  I'd leave by the back door, if I were you.  Have the bartender call you a cab first.  You owe me one, kiddo."

Kelly nodded, thankful she'd be able to return to her apartment with such a brimming mugful of unspent libido.  "Thank you...I -- Thanks."  She faltered.  "Can I...ask your name?"

"Peggy, kid.  Nice to meet 'cha."

"Peggy.  I appreciate it."

"Not a problem.  We all have our moments of need, although I have to say you kinda brought it on yourself.  I was watching you with the guys tonight, and you're sending all the sig --"  Her commentary was stifled by Kelly's lips, which smothered her own, tongue probing deep.  She closed her eyes and accepted the kiss and the accompanying caresses of her tits and ass, emitting only a medium-pitched moan in response.

Peggy stared in stunned disbelief and arousal as Kelly ran out of the ladies' room and hurried to the bar for a cab call.  She'd not been wrong about the untapped sexual resources that were women.  My cup runneth over, indeed...

*   *   *

Not Alone

The door was open a crack, but she was oblivious to any possibility of her neighbors accidentally walking in on her and catching a glimpse; she'd not had the strength of will to ensure it was closed and locked, but had instead gone straight to her futon, still damp from this afternoon's endeavors, tearing off each garment until her pussy was free to her grasping hands.  She filled it, now, scooping forth the slippery fluids with one hand and rubbing them across the beaded necklace which now hung almost to her navel.  Feeding it, she thought absurdly, grinning as her other hand pulled the necklace from her neck.

Sitting upright, leaning against the dresser, she cupped the pile of beads in her hand and let them slowly, reverently trickle downward to pool in her lap.  Her orgasms -- suppressed all through this night, through her desires to fuck and to be fucked -- came all at once at the black plink of the orbs' touch, seemingly, their intensity like nothing she'd felt before.  Her hips rose to meet the puddle of bliss and when the beads touched her insides again she reached down to crush them into her, to grind them into her clit and slutty little quim. 

The fuzzy clasp had come undone again, accidentally, but instead of agonizing over it she grabbed half of the tangled mass of balls and spread it across her chest, leaving the rest to massage her pussy.  The beads dripped like a liquid orgy across her chest and neck, and she smelled her fresh juice on them as she sucked part of the chain into her mouth, savoring the flavor of whore.  Whore, she christened herself, Filthy whore.

Thrashing around on the mattress while she contemplated her new name, she tangled the necklace around her throat, and when she thrust her hips her hundred-odd pounds of weight made the jewelry tighten about her windpipe, making breathing difficult.  This only thrilled her all the more, with the danger of it all, and she seemed to recall hearing someplace that orgasms while suffocating were somehow amplified, euphoric.  She couldn't imagine how they could be better than what she was feeling right now, anyway, and she was only halfway to passing out as it was.

She screamed wordlessly into her pillow, though the noise sounded far away to her ears, and she barely had the strength to untangle her neck before dropping off to sleep.

*   *   *

Useless

The ad lay on her chair, folded in half and with Pauline's characteristic pink highlighter marking it "For Kelly!" -- as if someone else might be picking up messages in her cube.  She sat down and opened it up.

It was a Xerox copy of a page from one of Pauline's magazines, and circled in the center of the page, adjacent to marketing material for Dial-an-Oracle and KittenChimes, was a little blurb about PassionBeads.

"Experience enhanced pleasures with these powerful bead bracelets.  Cultivate the inner, sensual you by making use of the distilled essence of primal fertility forces, embodied in material form by an ancient Eastern ritual known only to our powerful sha-women.  Harnessed in nature's purest form, the circle, these spirits will provide

"Don't miss out on this!  Take your passion to untamed heights and order today."

Then followed a P.O. box for "Primal Pleasures, Inc.", a price (plus shipping and handling), and a final stipulation:

"Note: we cannot accept returns of broken or otherwise damaged bracelets."

Utterly useless, thought Kelly, though she supposed she could look up the company on the internet.  A search on that name brought forth hundreds of websites she didn't feel comfortable exploring at work, and she didn't expect to find anything there anyway.  Damn.  She spent her lunch hour typing a letter to Primal Pleasures asking for any information on the beads: how they were supposed to be used -- or perhaps, more importantly, how they were not supposed to be used.  What to do if it were damaged, though of course she'd repaired hers. 

She mailed the letter and got back to her normal work tasks, hoping tonight would not be so weird.  Maybe she would just go out tonight by herself and have a relaxing drink or two...

*   *   *

Collection Plate

Her nylon stockings were utterly wrong for this place; their straight seams were too classy, too expensive.  They meant "fetish", perhaps, but of the vintage sort rather than the kinked-out, ready-for-fucking-wearing-nothing-but-latex kind. 

This place was not respectful of her wishes, or of any messages she wanted to convey.  To this place, her clothing said "fucktoy".  "Expensive fucktoy", perhaps, with black-patent spiked heels and a silk dress that shimmered as she moved on the dance floor, but nothing indicated anyone should take her more seriously than that.

She was serious, though; serious as cancer.  And she proved it with the men who flocked to her in droves.

At first, she'd danced with each one individually, letting each man's hands roam her body, getting carried away so much in the intensity of her feelings that she'd forget they were in a public place and press back against his palms hard.  But soon it wasn't enough for her, and while one man's cock knocked against her ass, she'd made eye contact with another.  And as this new acquisition rocked her from the front, she looked over her shoulder and conjured another.  And another.  At one point she dipped her finger into herself in full view of them, then licked her juices off it as if it were a cock.  The men pressed in upon her even more.

She cycled among them, driving them all to peaks of excitement, knowing they were each wondering which of them would have her tonight...knowing that at this point, they suspected that they all might.  Her sweat and their sweat diffused together, and it was all she could do to stop them from dragging her away with them like the whore she was, to fuck in the men's room or wherever they could reasonably take her nearby.  The man behind her was mock-sodomizing her, now; and she cold feel through the tight throb of his dick that he was about to make an embarrassing mess of himself on the dance floor...and that she could not permit. 

She was here to collect lust, and if he spent himself, there would be that much less for her.  To give...

She swung around to the other side of the man whose hands were on her inner thighs, making their way inexorably toward her pussy.  No panties would stop them, of course, and this, too, must be shunned.  She was the receptacle of this raw passion, and if her cunt spasmed in orgasm, that was just more lust wasted.  And the state of her clit was such that if he did get his hands on it, she would fuck it and come within seconds.

Yes, her clit...all she could think about was her cunt.  Cunt cunt cunt.  Her eyes glazed at the thought of touching it, of dropping the beads into her lap like a puddle of exquisite painpleasure, feeling them engage her.

It was time to go. 

The men followed her off the dance floor, but she lost herself in the crowd, hearing shouts of indignation from her dance partners and unconcealed derisive comments of "Fucking slut!" from the women who'd observed her antics.  Yes, Kelly reveled in the thought as she left the club, telling the bouncer that her ex-boyfriend and his friends were chasing her and to please stop them.  I am a fucking slut, and I'm going to go home right now and be nothing but that.  I'm going to play with my pussy until my ass is soaked in juice.

She barely contained herself in the cab, and she knew the driver could smell her from the front seat.  But the beads that crisscrossed her torso and dripped over her ass like a corset, weaving in and around the few clothes she had bothered to wear, told her to wait, that it would be better, hotter, wetter...ecstasy... Get home, they implored her.  Tonight will be the best yet.

*   *   *

Le Grand Mort

Kellyslut laid back on her mattress, the room reeking of sweat and cunt.  Part of the long pearly string filled her mouth, dancing on her tongue, and she moaned as she released the drool-coated orbs, one by one, between her lips onto the bed.  The strand of beads encircled her bare throat twice and then snaked its way down through her breasts to form a congealed mass between her thighs.  Her fingers guided the little balls into and out of her drenched pussy with the complex motion of a sewing machine needle, and further, to plunge lower; owning her ass.   The sensation of the beads sliding past her clit, her tits, her rectum, forced her to push grunting words past her teeth, words she had rarely used until this week,  words like "cunt" and "fuck" and "cum".  The string was moving so fast the individual bumps were lost to her overworked nerves, perceptible only as a continuous streaming vibration which drove her into paroxysms of squirms and thrusts and moans.  The little balled knot she'd fastened the chain with was coming loose, and the string now had two ends once more.

The beads were tightening around her throat as they had before, and the lack of oxygen was giving her the same heady heat that had made her brain melt in the past.  Her skin tingled over its entire surface, and her cunt was afire as the lubricated blackness invaded her womb, her mind, her soul.  She would give herself to the beads, if they were sentient, if they could but ask her to be theirs.  She knew it was probably her near-asphyxiation, but it seemed that her fingers grew slack while the strand seemed to keep moving past her holes, encircling her clit, her nipples.  Yes, she thought through thoughtless abandon, yes!  I am yours!  Take me!  Make me yours!  She pulsed with the feeling, and came to the edge of her climax, and as her body went rigid, so did the black pearls throttling her neck.  Rigid and exceptionally tight, cutting of her breath as she yielded herself to the power which enfolded her in strings of ecstasy and agony.  Her orgasm thrust itself upon her, but she couldn't cry out through her empty lungs. 

She accepted her end with a weak smile, and her world went blacker than the voided darkness of the things which had crushed her life away.

*   *   *

Circle(t) of Life

"I'm a relative.  Her sister.  Janet Amunds."  She fished in a briefcase for something.

"No, you don't need to show me the court order, I can see the resemblance.  Come on, I'll show you in."  The landlord grabbed an immense ring of keys and indicated she should follow him up to the second floor.

He opened the door of 2D.  "I'm sorry about your sister.  She was a nice gal and always paid her rent on time, until..."  He grew uncomfortable.  "Did they ever hear anything from her?"

Janet was silent, but seemed to feel the man was worthy of some kind of answer.  "No.  No, she's gone.  She's just...gone."  It had been a bizarre situation, but ultimately the police had put the file it in the same place they tossed all the other unsolved disappearance cases.  No evidence of foul play, no known history of mental illness.  The only indication of anything odd before Kelly had disappeared had been some withdrawal from her friends and some agitation at work.  One of the police officers had suggested somewhat hopefully that perhaps she'd met someone and they'd run off together, but the family had seen this unwarranted optimism for what it was and coalesced around their sorrows.

The room was bright with the afternoon sun, and the landlord excused himself while she looked around at her sister's belongings.  Former belongings.  The tears still came too quickly, even after all these months.  She saw clothes strewn untidily around the household, mostly fancy dresses and underwear -- which seemed unlike Kelly, who'd always been fairly tidy -- but the weirdest and most obvious thing was in the room was certainly the huge mass of glassy beads which filled the bed.  Some craft project Kelly'd been working on, undoubtedly,  though imagining an artistic use for hundreds of small bracelets was beyond Janet's capacity. 

She lifted one of the smooth, beaded things into her palm.  It was cool and dark, feeling nice against her skin.  Pretty, in fact, and might go with that slinky little black dress Tom liked so much on her.  It made her think of her sister, and she looked around again, sighing.  All of this was hers, now, and much of it would be sold at a garage sale, or in an online auction if that didn't work out.  She'd keep some of the bracelets, though, and maybe give some of them out to Kelly's friends -- to remember her by.  There was damned little else left of her to give. 

Blinking away tears, Janet put the bracelet around her wrist and looked for bags large enough to hold the remaining hundred-odd pounds of her sister's shiny black beads.

[Archibael]

Imogene
by Born Blitzed



The July sun beat down upon the streets and people of Montréal. It was too humid for underwear, almost too hot to smoke, and far too hot and humid for anyone with sense to linger outside in the afternoon haze. Which was the reason Isabelle was bustling toward a nondescript wood and brick building, remarkable only for its sloping glass roof. Or so she told herself.

She'd rechecked the address from the air-conditioned comfort of the taxi; this was definitely the place. And the small bilingual sign by the door confirmed it. Monique Perrault, Atelier/Studio, 7e Étage/7th Floor

She took one last long drag from her cigarette before grinding it beneath the toe of one of her stylish black pumps, and hurried inside before she melted. The small lobby was stuffy, but not nearly as much as the air outside. She pressed the button to summon the elevator cage, one of the open-walled ones so popular in the middle of the last century. She heard and felt a low thrum as it responded.

It still wasn't too late to leave, she thought. Henri didn't know what she was planning, and hadn't asked for it; she could always get her husband something else for his fortieth birthday. Something less... intimate.

At that thought, a wet warmth pulsed between her thighs, completely unrelated to the air outside. The elevator had arrived, and was waiting for her. Beckoning her. With a resigned sigh, she entered the cage, shut the door, and pushed the topmost button.

Almost a minute later, it settled to a stop facing a short hallway. There were only two doors. The one to the side had an official-looking sign that said Sortie; it obviously led to the stairs. The one facing her had Atelier painted on in black script, and a gold knocker in the center.

But before she could lift it to knock, a gorgeous blonde flung open the door from the other side. She was wearing form-fitting black Capri pants, black mules, and a strapless flower-print bandeau top that seemed barely adequate to the task of supporting her substantial cleavage. Her tan lines were obvious, as was the four-pack of abs that gave definition to her firm round belly.

And she spoke fluent French, with a Québécois accent and a huskiness somewhat at odds with her feminine form. "Madame Georges, oui? Bonjour; je suis Monique. Comment allez-vous?"

Isabelle was taken aback by the woman's beauty and her forwardness; she quickly stammered out a reply. "Um, oui, yes, bonjour; I'm Madame Georges. And you are, uh, the sculptress Mademoiselle Perrault? Forgive me; I don't speak French very well."

The blonde woman gave a husky giggle. "Forgive me, madame; all I had was your name, and I simply assumed. You do look very French, you know, with that short brown hair and those strong eyebrows. Très aristocratique."

Isabelle flushed slightly. "That's very kind of you. But please, don't call me madame; I can't be more than a year or two older than you."

The artist laughed again; Isabelle couldn't help noticing how it made her breasts jiggle. "And so you return the compliment; I thought you a year or two younger. Very well; I shall call you Isabelle, but only if you call me Monique."

It was Isabelle's turn to laugh. "Fair enough, Monique. May I come in now?"

"By all means." Monique stepped aside, her arm sweeping around in an obvious invitation.


Two hours later, Isabelle found herself doing the unthinkable: She was posing, completely nude, in front of a beautiful woman she'd just met, allowing her to create a miniature sculpture of her bare body from head to knees. Nor was she covering up anything important; instead, she was half-sitting on a cloth-covered wooden stool, her hands behind her back resting on the stool itself. The position lifted and supported her already perky breasts, as well as completely exposing her dark pubic thatch below.

Yet she was able to hold her pose without complaint, despite some lingering embarrassment and her craving for a cigarette, because every time Monique pressed and stroked the tiny model in front of her, Isabelle somehow felt an answering touch on the same part of her body. In fact, through her haze of pleasure, the young wife sincerely doubted she could move on her own at all right then. Except for her breathing, she was as immobile as the sculpture taking shape between Mademoiselle Perrault's knowing hands.

Upon entering the loft, she'd made the usual appreciative noises about both the beauty of the various busts and sculptures, and the beauty of the view. The sloping window she'd seen from the street looked out across the Saint-Laurent River to the picturesque suburb of Longueuil, though many of its features were obscured by a thin layer of condensation, as the humid outside air came into contact with the somewhat cooler glass.

Monique had apologized for the lack of a secretary; she'd apparently called in sick from heat exhaustion. In turn, Isabelle had explained what she wanted: an artistic nude to present to her husband as a surprise birthday gift.

During the course of her brief tour, Isabelle couldn't help but notice a rather prominently displayed self-sculpture of her hostess, thirty-five centimetres tall from head to crotch, and done without arms in the style of the Venus de Milo.

It was also a slightly different color ceramic from the rest of the pieces; when she'd asked about that, Monique had explained that it was an experimental material, very rare and expensive, and with different properties than her usual fired clays.

She'd asked if she could touch it, and after a moment's pause the artist agreed. She'd let her fingers wander over its curves, impressed by how beautiful it was, and wishing that Monique would be able to do the same for her.

What she hadn't noticed were the unintended effects her manipulations were having on her hostess. A frisson of pleasure had passed through the blonde's body with each loving caress; and when Isabelle had at last removed her hands from the statue, Monique had surprised them both by stating that she wanted to use the more expensive ceramic for Isabelle's sculpture, at no extra cost and if she didn't object...

The piece was almost done, and a remarkable likeness it was. In fact, Isabelle hadn't remembered her breasts being quite so large or firm, but a quick glance down at her own chest showed that the sculptress was indeed being faithful to her model; either that, or perhaps her bosom had changed to match that of the sculpture.

If that was the case, then the magic was affecting the rest of her body as well. Her waist seemed a bit more tapered, her buttocks firmer, her legs smoother. Even her pussy felt more exposed to the cool room, almost as if the tangled thatch between her legs had somehow been wiped away.

In fact, Monique's hands were lingering over that part of the statue, her fingertips gently stroking right between its legs, over and over again. Isabelle helplessly watched her do so, shuddering with the pleasure being delivered to her own enflamed groin with each stroke. She wanted nothing more than to reach around and stroke herself to climax - in front of Monique, if need be - but was prevented by whatever mysterious force was coercing her to hold her pose.

The sculptress chose that moment to break her silence. "You love this, don't you, ma chéri? Don't bother to answer; I already know, and besides, you can't move anyway."

She flicked her finger against a clay nipple, the barest touch. Isabelle's hardened in response. "Why is this? I told you the clay was special; you're now finding out just how special. It doesn't just mould statues; somehow, it moulds reality itself. What I do to this, changes you. I wanted you to be the perfect model, and so you cannot move." She began trimming excess clay from the base of the statue, the last step before firing.

"I wasn't going to use this on you, you know. All I can think of is that when you were touching my sculpture earlier, you must have had some sort of secret desire. I'm not angry, by the way; I know you didn't mean to, and it's mostly my fault for having left it on display in the first place."

Isabelle remained frozen on the brink of climax, absorbing her hostess's words. Her innocent wish, that Monique would do for her what she'd done for herself, had somehow come true. Monique had used the magic clay to make herself more beautiful, more desirable; now she'd done the same for Isabelle.

Moreover, Monique had knowingly used the clay's special properties to transform a somewhat shy wife into a sultry version of her ideal woman. Gone was the brunette's embarrassment at being exposed, the craving for a cigarette; they had been replaced by pride in her own body, and a craving for something a bit more intimate: her hostess's touch. The fact that she had never before been interested in any woman in that way seemed almost beside the point.

Her hostess, meanwhile, had flipped over the statue and impressed her studio's seal into the base. As she carefully loaded it into the kiln, she called over her shoulder, "I'm planning to name this piece Imogene. It's Latin for a perfect likeness, which is far more appropriate than anyone will know. Except, of course, for the two of us."

Having set the kiln, she crossed the studio and stood directly in front of her still-immobilized model. She ran her hands up and down Isabelle's bare arms, finally touching her bare skin for real; Isabelle yearned to be able to return the favour.

Monique chuckled; her husky voice so close sent a thrill through her subject's hapless body. "Are you wondering, ma petit chou, why you are still unable to move, even though your statue has been set into the kiln? It is because I wish it so; I am not yet done admiring you."

She let her hands wander over Isabelle's body at will, following each tender caress with an equally soft kiss: her lips, her breasts, her tummy, her thighs. When at last she cupped her hand between Isabelle's legs, only the magic of the statue kept the brunette from crying out and leaping with delight, whether upward or forward into her soon-to-be lover's arms. They both felt the rush of wetness, and knew that Isabelle was at last ready to be taken.

Monique happily sent her fingers to explore what had become the focus of her subject's existence, while leaning forward to purr in her ear. "I'm very tempted to leave you immobile like this a while longer, my love, but it'll be so much more fun when you're able to explore me back."

Then she reached behind her own back, releasing the catch to her bandeau and allowing her magnificent breasts to spill free at last. Isabelle now knew it was magic, rather than science, that made them stand up so proud and firm. Another moment and the black Capris followed suit, making it obvious that Monique had chosen to go au naturel that afternoon as well. And sure enough, her mound was just as smooth and bare as Isabelle's now was. And very pink, and swollen, and oh-so-wet...

"When we are alone," Monique murmured, "I think that I shall call you Imogene, as well." She stepped forward and slipped her arms around Isabelle's waist, pressing their naked breasts together, and kissed her. "Come, my love; my apartment is on the other side of this studio. Let me introduce you to the delights of being with another woman. I release your body, but hopefully never your heart."

And those were the last words that either of them had a chance to speak for a good long while.


A few days later, Monique fired up a duplicate of the statue, this time from ordinary clay. Henri enjoyed his birthday gift very much, displaying it proudly in the parlour. And the two ladies remained fast friends, though of course poor Henri had no idea just how close they'd actually become. That is, until his forty-fifth birthday drew near...

[Archibael]

inserting

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dummy

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posts

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to assist

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people with

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low-bandwidth

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connections.  (hi, Ms Myrrh)