[Don Jetman] True Love

[Don Jetman]

True Love

by

Night Writer (Don Jetman)




I - The Dream


"Lie still Blair, and I won't hurt you."

She stands over you - she in her smart charcoal jacket and slacks, you
nearly naked, stretched out on your bed in black bra and panties,
wrists burning from the handcuffs fastened through the heavy headboard.

You can see in her green eyes that she's serious. A short riding crop
in her right hand guarantees it. She's partially undone her white
blouse, just enough to tease you with glimpses of her small, round
breasts tipped with pink nipples that reach out to you like tiny
fingers, rigid with the hope that you will misbehave, and she'll get to
use the crop on your smooth legs and belly.

So you stop struggling, pulling your bare thighs together and to the
side to avoid the crop, should it fall. But you're still breathing
hard, eyes full of defiance, glaring at her for tricking you, for
breaking her promise to eat you.

She creeps onto the bed beside you, her face now so close to yours, her
short red hair hanging just low enough to brush the skin of your cheek.
You glance down her open blouse, wishing more than anything you could
suck one of her nipples between your lips and push against the hard
bead of flesh with the tip of your tongue.

"You must have wanted me very badly, Blair."

You think back, remembering how long you've lusted after her, the
weeks, then months that passed before you could muster the nerve
to even make a friendly advance. Then this. Working together later
than usual one night at the office, lights low, desks all vacant, the
windows of an adjacent office building sparkling like stars in the
night sky - she looked at you for a long time, reached out to stroke
your hair, then leaned close, her lips moving against your ear.

"You can have me if you want," she had whispered. "You don't even have
to ask."

You remember the flutter that touched your stomach, and how your legs
opened under your desk when she kissed you. And that's all it took. You
were hers.

Silly you. Ready to play any game she suggested, if only you could have
her naked body against yours. So willing, that you placed both wrists
in the cuffs yourself, letting her snap them shut with a knowing smile.
You were in heaven while she stripped you, raising your hips so she
could tug at your skirt and stockings, not even caring when she cut
your new silk blouse from your body.

"Talk to me, Blair. Tell me what you want."

You're surprised by her demand, not sure what to say. She taps your
belly with the crop, just hard enough to get your attention. It stings,
but causes a flood between your legs at the same time.

"P-please," you stammer.

"Please what, Blair? Please beat me? Please eat me? Please fuck me? I
didn't know you were such a girly girl. Afraid to ask for what you
want? I expected you to beg. What a disappointment."

The crop comes down harder, across your ass, a forceful, lashing blow,
and you cry out, twisting away from her.

"Ahh, she speaks! Perhaps another blow will make her sing."

"Nooo!" you reply at once, fearing a more painful strike. "I'll tell
you - I'll tell you - please, please, eat me, fuck me, please..." Your
eyes tear as you beg her for the sex you've wanted for so long. But not
like this. Not like this.

"Spread your legs, Blair. Open them."

You do. You spread them wide, knees slightly drawn up, panty-covered
mound already showing a dark stain from your juices. You pray she
doesn't use the crop there.

She touches the plump mound with the tip of the crop, drawing it down,
tracing the length of your slit as it yawns wider, now soaking the thin
wisp of black cotton. The crop returns again and again, now with a
firmer hand, teasing your clitoris until your hips rise to meet it with
each touch.

"I knew you'd be easy. Such a slut. And to think, little miss perfect,
the icon of professionalism, a true example of today's career woman,
here in handcuffs, begging me to do all these nasty things to her.
Admit it, Blair. You're a slut at heart. You've always been a slut."

She raises the crop again, this time only a few feet above your cunt.
It hovers in the air there, waiting, waiting, for your answer, the
right answer.

"Yes!" you scream. "I am! A slut! Your slut! Please - no more - I'm
begging you!"

She smiles with satisfaction and places the crop on the bed. Then,
she's pulling your panties off your hips, down your spread legs, and
over your toes. Next, with a quick snip of the scissors, your bra is
gone, freeing your large, meaty tits. She licks her lips as they spill
from the black lace, flattening only slightly, proud and firm with
angry red nipples.

You watch, trembling, as she lowers her face between your legs, then
moan with relief when her tongue dips into your cunt. But her eyes are
on you again. She stops. Your eyes meet hers, pleading to continue.
You're too breathless to speak.

"Shall I finish you?"

"P-please," you whimper. "Oh God, please."

"You'll be my slut?"

"Yessss!"

"No more panties at the office?"

"Yessss!" you agree, too excited to think about her demands.

"And no bra as well?"

"Yessss!"

"And you won't mind if I tell everyone we're lovers?"

"I - I don't care, don't care at all, please..."

"My sweet Blair, you were born a slut, weren't you? Now, beg me to
eat you."

You beg her over and over. You admit anything and everything. Yes, you
were born a slut, and you'll die a slut.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes...

And when her tongue rolls perfectly over your clit, too many times for
you to count, long after you stop begging, you cum long and hard,
screaming her name into the night as your body thrashes and pulls at
the cuffs above your head.

And you know you are lost. Forever.

 

[Don Jetman]

***

You're back at work the next day, certain she didn't mean what she said.
You wear both panties and bra, never thinking about the consequences.
Then she's behind you, running her hand over your ass, checking.

"You're a bad girl, Blair. You know what I do to bad girls."

You can't move. What if others should see her pawing you? Too afraid to
turn to face her, you reply softly, "I'm sorry. I didn't think..."

Her fingers trail between your legs from behind, making you squirm. She
pushes up against the wet spot already spreading over your tiny, white
cotton panties. You're afraid she'll go further, and afraid she'll
stop. So delicious, to be played with in public. You know you'll do
anything she asks.

"Take them off, Blair."

She couldn't possibly expect you to...

"No Blair, not here. Go to the ladies' room. Take your purse. Your bra
and panties better be in it when you get back."

You don't move away until she stops fingering you. Then, without
question or hesitation, you do as she says. You feel so cheap as you
strip the panties and bra from beneath your slacks and blouse. You do
it quickly, before someone comes in, before someone discovers what
you've become. Your small purse bulges after you stuff everything in.
A small piece of white bra strap escapes when you close the catch,
hanging off the side, unnoticed by you in your haste to finish before
you're found. Your nipples scrape the fabric of your blouse as you
hurry to leave. Glancing in the mirror, you see your tits bouncing as
you walk, hard points of your nipples straining against the sheer white
material that clearly shows two dark circles of your areola. The image
shocks you, and makes you wet at the same time. What will they think...

You hurry back to your office. She's there, of course. She tells you
how proud she is of you, how luscious you look to her, and how she'd
like to eat you, right then and there. But of course she doesn't. She
couldn't in front of all these people. Could she? You wonder if you'd
let her if she demanded it.

She pushes you into a corner where no one can see, works her hand down
the front of your slacks, and slides her middle finger into your
sopping pussy. You want her to keep it there, to take you in her arms
and masturbate you until you cum in your own office. Instead, she pulls
her hand free and offers the same finger to you, placing it lightly on
your lips. You open and suck. It's the first time you've tasted
yourself. But you'd do it again and again for her.

She leaves you, wet and wanting. She doesn't even speak to you, and
disappears without a word at the end of the day. You wonder if you've
displeased her in some way, but have no way of knowing. No sleep for
you this night. You toss and turn, anxious, troubled, and in heat for
her.

She's pleased the next day. Your slacks are light tan, and show clearly
that you're naked underneath them. You choose a silk top to keep your
nipples from aching, but hadn't counted on how the soft material would
collapse over your swaying breasts, showing them off in exquisite
detail.

You've earned a pet name.

"You look wonderful today, my little Pussy."

Pussy. You're insulted at first, but before long convince yourself it
fits. Like a glove.

At lunch, she closes your office door and fingers you again. You're
melting in her hands when she stops.

"You do it, Pussy. I want to watch. Do it till you cum."

You do your best to work your hand inside the narrow belt and
waistband, but soon give up and open the slacks, letting them slide to
your knees. Your fingers are soaked, plunging in and out of your cunt.

"Taste yourself, Pussy."

You bring your fingers to your mouth and lick them, one by one. She
watches, running her hand lightly over her meager breasts, breathing
deeply as she takes in the sight of you, the sight of a bright,
attractive woman slowly losing control of her life.

She takes a few steps toward you, now close enough to smell the musk
of your sex. The green of her eyes holds you with an unseen force,
powerful and paralyzing.

"Cum for me, Pussy. Show me how wet I've made you. Show me
everything."

You tug your panties over your hips and slide them to mid-thigh. The
soft, dark hair that covers your cunt is wet and matted. You plunge
your fingers into it again, desperate for your orgasm now that she's
given you permission. It doesn't take long. A minute, maybe less. She
sees your hips begin to thrust suddenly faster against your hand, knows
you've come to the edge, and covers your mouth with hers, muffling the
long, guttural moan that escapes from deep within your body. Leaning
into her, you finish yourself, savoring each precious second, holding
it, making it last until you're limp in her arms, panting like a bitch
in heat.

She's happy with you for a week, but then feels the need to dress you
in clothes of her choosing. She brings a large shopping bag to work one
day, full of your new clothes. And you wear them starting the next day
- clothes you would never have worn before - but for her, anything.
Tight, fitted blouses and sweaters with deeply cut V-necks, showing off
your round, succulent breasts. Tiny, pleated skirts that barely fall to
your upper thighs, flaring to show your round ass every time you turn
too quickly. They can't keep their eyes off you in meetings. Even
trying your best to keep your legs tightly pressed together, sooner or
later you shift just enough to show a glimpse of the long, pink gash
between your legs, now shaved bare at her request. Men stare at you.
Women snicker behind your back when they think you aren't listening. A
week passes, then two.

Your boss calls you in for your annual review. He dismisses much of the
good work you've done. He stares at your tits. He tells you to work
harder. Longer hours. He's given your project to someone "more
appropriate." You struggle to hold back tears, forgetting to keep the
brief plaid skirt tucked between your thighs. He looks through the
glass desktop, down at your lap, where rounded inner thighs part to
reveal your cunt, freshly shaved this morning. He doesn't even pretend
to look away. After an hour, you've lost your office, and gained more
menial tasks - filing, copying...

By the time he's done with you, you wonder why you haven't been fired.
Then it comes to you. He's a man, just like all the others, just
waiting for the chance to stick his cock in you. You're an office pet
now. A curiosity, more suited to organizing office parties than to the
position that you worked so hard for, for so long.

But then she comes up behind you again, lifting the narrow pleats that
barely cover your ass, trailing her fingers deep into the space between
your thighs. Whispering, purring, in a voice meant only for you.

"Good Pussy. Sexy, hot, girly-girl Pussy. You really do look good
enough to eat. And I am very, very hungry. I think I'll take you home
tonight."

And you start to cry. Not for your project. Not for your office. Not
even for your life. You cry because she loves you. You're absolutely
sure of it.

 

[Don Jetman]

Her apartment's spacious - tasteful, clean lines of glass and
gray. Not like yours - fluffy white pillows and fancy French doors.
She pours you a drink, white wine in a tall slender glass, then goes
to change. Modestly sized Rodin replicas dot the perimeter of the room,
each at rest on its own simple black pedestal - cold, white,
flesh-from-stone women with faces hidden, lying twisted into shapes
that flaunt their bodies in the most sensual ways. You're drawn to one
of them, a voluptuous female form lying with legs curled under her,
face nearly obscured by a river of flowing hair. You trace the lines of
her sinuous back and rounded ass with a single outstretched finger,
and worry that you may not be worthy of her collection.

She's back in minutes, wearing nothing beneath an oversized white
shirt, fastened at the front by a single button. Now she's all red
hair, green eyes, and full, wide lips atop two long, finely chiseled
legs that move so gracefully under her. You stare at her, not believing
she can be so beautiful, catching glimpses of the neatly trimmed patch
of red where the shirt-tails part.

She's as at home in the kitchen as she is at work, confidently wielding
a large knife to turn raw, fresh tuna into thin slivers of flesh, so
sweet in your mouth you would have never known it was taken from the
sea. You feast, until the wine has you both giddy. Between fits of
laughter she says your name. Then, in a careless, unguarded moment,
you tell her you love her.

She's still laughing a little when you tell her. She's unfazed, still
giggling, allowing a trickle of wine to escape down her chin. She
catches it in the palm of her hand, then feeds it to you off her
fingers.

"Come to bed, Pussy. We haven't had desert."

It takes her only seconds to strip you. The little skirt falls to the
floor, the sweater slips so easily over your head. She opens the only
button and the shirt slides off her shoulders. Her mouth is on you at
once, quick kisses over your neck, lashing your nipples and breasts
with her tongue, nibbling at your belly with gentle bites.

Then you're on her bed. She ties a long scarf around your neck, now
both collar and leash. Her hands guide you, turning you onto your
stomach, lifting your ass until you're on your hands and knees. A sharp
tug on the scarf and you turn your head back to look at her. She's
there behind you, eyes glittering. Thin, delicate shoulders and bare,
upturned breasts cause your pulse to quicken, your cunt to swell and
open.

She retrieves it from a drawer at the side of the bed, so long and
thick that you gasp when you understand. She fastens the straps about
her waist. It wobbles slightly, stiff, black, and glistening with
slippery jelly applied with the loving care you hope she shows you as
well. Taking her position behind you, she pulls your fleshy ass cheeks
apart, fingering the deep crevice lightly with a touch that drives you
mad. You feel her pulling at your inner lips, running their length over
and over, then cradling your swollen clit between thumb and forefinger.
At that moment you feel it breech you, stretching you where you've
never been entered before. It burns, until you learn to let it have its
way with you. Even then, as it fills you, inch by inch, you can barely
breathe. It's so large, a monstrous invader, filling you to depths you
could never have imagined. And when you cry out, begging her to stop,
she rolls your clit with fingers so skilled, everything else is
forgotten.

Eventually its careful entry and slow retreat increase in pace, until
she's plunging into you, pounding against you with her hips, shaking
your quivering body with savage thrusts. You grunt each time her hips
slam against your ass. Never have pain and pleasure held you so tightly
at the same time. Surrendering yourself so completely would be
terrifying, had it been to anyone but her.

The scarf tightens around your neck, and you raise your head in
surprise, suddenly struggling to get your breath. It pulls harder with
each violent lunge, choking you, causing you to gasp for each precious
ration of air.

"Do you love me, Pussy? Do you love me now?"

Her words are laced with sarcasm, almost vicious.

She pulls harder still, enough to keep your head back, your neck
strained to the limit. You're crying, never more unsure of yourself,
never more terrified, never more excited. She sees your tears and bends
over you, the nipples of her breasts now pressed into your back, her
free hand moving down your belly, finally making its way between your
legs. Even though impaled on the full length of the heavy phallus, you
breathe easier as you feel the welcome slack in the scarf. She finds
your clit and takes it between her fingers, milking it slowly, careful
to make you wait.

"How much do you love me, Pussy? What would you sacrifice to be with
me?"

Her voice becomes more threatening, the words uttered between clenched
teeth as she tightens the scarf once again, choking you, keeping you
from answering even if you had the answer she wanted.

"I want everything, Pussy. Everything you have, everything you are, and
everything you will ever be. Give me all that, Pussy. Give it to me.
Give it to me now. Give it to me now! Give it to me! Now! Now! Now,
Pussy! Now!"

She's shrieking at you, pulling the scarf tightly enough to stop you
from taking even the smallest breath. Pressing the rubber cock deep
into your bowels, she works your clit furiously between her slim
fingers. You slide over the edge, feeling your body twist into violent
spasms. Your cunt gushes, and you give up everything as a tunnel of
black closes in around you and swallows you whole.


***

 

[Don Jetman]

You wake in your own bed before the alarm sounds, legs tangled in damp,
wrinkled sheets. Stretching, then throwing bare legs over the side of
the bed and yawning, as you do most mornings, you remember almost
nothing of your dreams.

The shower feels especially good this morning. You've made it as hot as
you can stand, and it brings your body to life. You choose your face
for the day - lipstick, mascara, all from a collection that litters the
counter top on each side of the sink. You choose carefully. It's an
important day. You'll pitch your project to the new client, and
everything has to be perfect. Then, after, a promotion, another step up
the corporate ladder, one you've worked so long and hard for. You've
put your work before relationships, and having a family of your own.
You never seemed to have the time. You know they call you ruthless,
driven, and words much worse. But who's laughing now? You've made your
plan, and unlike most, have had the brains and guts to see it through.

In the mirror, you try to see what your client will see. The navy
power-suit is the perfect choice, bought for the occasion. The smart,
tailored lines of the jacket and slacks show you off to the best
possible advantage - conservative enough to keep their minds on
business, yet showing enough curves to remind them that a woman's
hand has crafted a part of their future. Dark hair cascades over your
shoulders in thick, generous waves, cut and styled to perfection. A
few final touches of makeup and you're ready.

You find yourself staring at your reflection, held there in front of
the mirror. Something nags at you, something not quite right. You
open the jacket and run your hands slowly over the pristine white
blouse. Your hands pause over the fullness of each breast, then cup
them gently, unconsciously, as your eyes stay fixed on the mirror.
The minutes that pass seem like seconds to you when you button
the jacket to leave.

There's just time for a light breakfast and a quick review of your
notes, sorted between pages of legal documents, each with the
familiar signature in clean, round script. She'll be there today, the
uptown attorney with hair the color of fire, and wide, emerald eyes.
You decide that today's the day to make a casual gesture of
friendship, something you've put off far too long. Perhaps you'll
offer to buy her lunch, to celebrate the occasion. After all, you'll
be working closely together once your plan is a success.

You drive the hour's drive to work buoyed with confidence, as the
project folder lies carelessly forgotten on the kitchen table. You
smile as your thoughts turn to her, a new friend perhaps, and a
valuable one at that. You'll start with small-talk, then perhaps a
light touch with just a hint of intimacy. Such a small thing, really.
Why hadn't you done it long ago?

You think about how perfect your life is, and how you've made the
right decisions at every turn. And you marvel at how even the most
insignificant events, manipulated wisely and carefully to your own
advantage, have such power to change your life. Forever.

 

[Don Jetman]

II - The Fall


"Tough crowd, huh?"

Your reflection in the mirror looks much the same as it did
earlier this morning. The suit, the hair - except now eyes once full of
confidence, even arrogance, are red and moist, threatening to overflow
with tears of sudden defeat and disappointment.

Her hand touches you lightly, first on your shoulder, then runs
sympathetically down your arm, finally taking your hand in a warm,
comforting embrace. You turn to her, fighting with every ounce of
strength to prevent the first tear from rolling over your cheek. But
those eyes. Those crystal emeralds, sapping what little strength you
have from you, the small, perfect upturned nose - lips, wide, red, and
begging to be kissed. You're shaking, a little at first, then violently,
and before you realize it, you're squeezing her hand, afraid she
might let go, clinging to her like the last and only lifeline to your
sanity.

She sees your distress, pulls you close, and you give up a single sob
before your tears fall freely into soft strands of her red hair. Her
body is lean and hard against you, but somehow soft at the same time,
melting, shifting, accommodating every contour of your flesh with her
own.

You blame yourself, hate yourself, for your carelessness. She had tried
her best to cover for you, but without your notes, your plan of so many
weeks of tireless labor, they were less than impressed with your
competence, not convinced you were the person with whom to entrust
their future. The disappointment on their faces had shaken you further.
Had they seen the single tear form, embryonic, hinting at your defeat?

"Let's go, Blair. I know just what you need."

You follow her as she takes you in tow, hating yourself for your
display of weakness, but unable to shake the welcome comfort of her
touch.

It's 3:00 in the afternoon. You haven't left the building before 7:00
PM in months. She takes you to a quiet bar and you both
sip your first Manhattans without a word. Later - you can't remember
when - it's margaritas, the tequila tasting at first like fire and
cactus, then later like the perfect way to drown your life.

In a few hours your head is swimming, your senses reeling with equal
parts of anger, shame, and desire for your newfound friend. The soft
touch of her hand on yours, at first so comforting, now makes your
pulse race and your breath come faster and deeper. When she suggests
both of you find a quieter place to talk, you're beyond refusing.

She leads you through the gleaming glass and chrome revolving door
of the hotel, just a few blocks away. The tall, well-dressed woman
at the front desk smiles warmly as Erin passes her her credit card.
Beside her, a man much too thin and business-like scowls at both
of you, but you couldn't care less. You move closer to Erin, your
breast pressing into her shoulder, and give him a drunken, lusty
smile.

The room is on the ninth floor. She takes you by the hand again and
pulls you inside. The spacious suite overlooks Lexington Avenue
and the jagged skyline beyond. The far wall, a wide stretch of
glass, fills the room with light. The sun is low in the sky, retreating
now behind the city skyline. Wispy curtains and downy bedspread,
only minutes ago as white as her silky skin, glow with the color of
a fresh peach from the sun's last rays.

Her grip tightens, and she pivots suddenly to face you, so close,
so beautiful.

"Do you want me, Blair? You can have me if you want. You don't
even have to ask."

The words are strangely familiar, almost disturbingly so. Her
lips almost touch yours, begging, pleading, silently, to be kissed.
But there's something else in her sparkling eyes. Something daring,
even dangerous.

She guides you to the wall of glass, only the width of a city street
from the facing buildings. The windows form a checkerboard of activity
- a beehive of ambitious workers, each staying late to better their
position, to gain the upper hand over their peers, if only by the
slightest edge. The sun drops suddenly below the horizon,
plunging the city into darkness, the array of lighted windows now
just as suddenly a collection of luminous vignettes, each featuring
a single, driven figure lost in the obsession to succeed.

She turns you, pushing you closer to the window, her body warm but
forceful behind you. Her arms close around you from behind, her hands
now cupping your breasts softly, her lips finding your ear through a
wall of thick, dark hair.

"Is that really what you want? Look at them, Blair. Dead from the
neck up - all of them. So alone - lives so empty they can't even see
it yet. They never will, until it's too late. You deserve more, Blair.
I can show you, if you'll let me. If you must be a slave, be a slave
to your own passion, not to tedious, empty routine."

You feel her hands undo the buttons down the front of your blouse,
then the soft fabric of your skirt slide over your hips and thighs.
You want what she promises more than anything. You want the pain to
go away. You want to love, and even more to be loved, for the first
time in your life.

You let her strip you, so welcome to be free of the clothes that
still cling to you, reminding you of the worst day of your life.
Only the black thigh-high stockings remain. They looked so proper
beneath your expensive suit, the lace borders hidden away, clinging to
your luscious thighs, concealed from the sight of others. A chill
runs through you as you see your reflection in the window. Now you
look like a common whore, the dark nylon and lace a brazen mockery
of your reputation and accomplishments.

Suddenly you're pressed against the wall of glass, the weight of
her slim body forced against you from behind. The glass is cool
and smooth on your breasts, now flattened against the transparent
surface. You gasp when her fingers trail between your legs, spread
the lips of your sex, and slowly trace the wet length of your cunt.

"Tell me you want me, Blair. I need to hear you say it."

You can only manage a whimper as she works her finger inside you.
Then, stroking your pussy, gliding through the slick juices that
now flow uncontrollably from you, she presses firmly along
the length of your clit, cradling it between her fingers, kneading
the swollen cord of pleasure until you release a loud moan.

When she stops, you find the strength to tell her.

"I want you. Please. Please, Erin. I want you."

"Look at them," she orders.

Across the street, anonymous faces peer through the glowing windows,
all fixed on you, now naked against the glass, lost in a lust so consuming
this frozen moment is all that matters. You shiver with unexpected
excitement. You feel a brief surge of power over them, a sense of
discovering a freedom they will never know. And then the sense of power
dissolves in an instant.

"You *like* this."

Her voice was suddenly filled with venom.

"You *really* do. Exposing yourself in public. It's such a cheap form of
vanity, Blair. I thought you had more class."

She withdraws her hand from between your legs, leaving you empty and
aching for her. You push away from the glass and turn toward her, your
face an embarrassing mix of confusion and lust.

"But - I thought you... "

"Get dressed Blair," she interrupts with disgust.

She strips off her blouse and tosses it to you. You catch it in mid-
air, by reflex. You're still crumbling inside. Her skirt comes at you
next, then her panties. You stand there holding the ball of clothing,
now more uncertain than ever about what she wants from you.

"Well, put them on!" she orders impatiently. She retrieves your clothes
from the floor and begins to step into them, running the silk of your
blouse between her fingers, smoothing the skirt over the front of her
thighs. You're a head taller than she, and a dress size larger. Her
tight little body swims in your clothes, but with her jacket over them,
she looks almost stylish.

You try your best to squeeze into her bra, but it's ridiculously
futile. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

"It'll never fit, Blair. Leave it."

Her blouse fits you like a corset, with open gaps between each button.
Her skirt fits at the waist, but only covers you to mid-thigh, stopping
just short of the lace at the tops of your stockings. The crotch of her
panties collapses and disappears between your cuntlips, drawn tightly
into the wetness there. They were made for her narrow boyish hips, not
the voluptuous flair of a woman's pelvis and round, firm ass. At least
you have your jacket to cover you, you think to yourself. But she's
already found it, and folds it under her arm.

She eyes you and smiles.

"Let's go."

You follow her out the door, glancing back over your shoulder with
regret and a simmering heat that refuses to die, back at the large
bed, still as pristine and empty as when you arrived. A young couple
passes you on your way to the elevator. Their laughter echoes in the
hallway behind you. The top button of your blouse pops open, and when
you try to fasten it, the second opens as well. Erin rolls her eyes
again.

"Leave it open. You might as well show them off. Isn't that what you
want?"

Her voice still rings with sarcasm. *"Cow,"* she mutters under her breath,
but still loud enough for you to hear.

Tears form at the corners of your eyes for the second time today. You
follow her into the elevator, again determined not to cry. It's crowded
with businessmen - each one a success story in his black suit and
briefcase. You feel them staring. The tiny blouse forces your tits up
and out, until they spill over the top of the third straining button,
two bare mounds of flesh swelling obscenely with each breath, now fully
exposed to just above your engorged nipples. Someone presses tightly
against you from behind. You can feel his immense erection warm the
small of your back. The ride down nine floors seems to take an hour.

When the elevator door opens, you step out into a bustling lobby. Erin
waits until the elevator empties, leaving you on your own as the men
push by you, leering at the hooker who looks so lost. Well-dressed
couples enter and leave the dining room, stopping in the cavernous
lobby to chat. The men steal leering glances at you; the women stare in
disgust, or snicker and look away quickly. You burn with embarrassment,
so out of place. How has it come to this, so quickly, so easily?

Across the room, behind the long granite counter, the same thin-lipped,
wiry man scowls, then reaches for the phone. You recognize the tall
blonde woman who approaches him from behind. She places her hand on
his and returns the phone to its cradle. Then, with a look that could
kill, waves him away like some annoying insect.

You've decided to run for the exit when Erin finds you.

"Wait for me in the ladies' room," she whispers as she passes. She
doesn't even look at you.

You don't know why, but you do as she says, without a pause, without
thinking at all. Once inside, you hide in a stall to escape the other
women's black looks and crude remarks. But you can still hear them. You
sit, and cry openly, something you've needed all day. Suddenly the
third button of Erin's blouse gives way and your breasts fall from the
opening, bouncing and quivering as you whimper into your hands. Why are
your nipples so hard?

Then you hear her voice.

"Blair? Are you in here?"

You unlock the stall door to go to her, to have her take you in her
arms, to hear that all this is a game or some kind of test, and that
you've done well, passed with flying colors.

The blonde from the front desk is standing beside her. They both smile
at you as you creep from your hiding place. You hadn't noticed how tall
she was. She looks down at you with a perfect face, as though each
chiseled feature was precisely cut and formed to a standard higher than
you thought possible. Sleek, golden hair falls to her jaw-line,
following it with razor precision from front to back. Her broad
shoulders taper to a long, thin waist. Her breasts are full and round,
placed high up on her torso, and her calves are slim and firm, showing
hard, defined muscle as she shifts from one foot to the other on the
six-inch heels.

You stop six feet in front of them, your face still wet with tears.

"Blair, this is Bridget."

You just stare. You're so small, so inferior, as she looks you over.

The blonde takes three bold steps toward you and takes your face in her
hands.

"Is she housebroken?" she asks.

You hear Erin answer from across the room, but the blonde forces you to
look straight into her piercing blue eyes.

"She's a baby," Erin answers. "What do you expect?"

The blonde lowers her hands to your neck, then to your shoulders,
probing and kneading your flesh through your clothes. Her look is one
of sober appraisal, as though you're nothing more than what you appear
to be, meat for the taking. She puts a hand under each breast, lifting
and weighing them, then closes her long fingers around them to test
their firmness and volume.

"These have promise," she comments to Erin. "Will you pierce her?"

"In time - when she begs for it."

She takes your nipples between her fingers and pulls, lifting the full
weight of your heavy tits until they're drawn upward as far as they
will stretch. You hiss when she squeezes harder as she tries to keep
them from slipping through her fingers. Her full red lips curve into a
wide smile.

"She likes this. Maybe too much."

You cry out from the pain.

"Owwww - pleease, you're hurting me! I don't like it, I don't!"

The blonde looks surprised, but pulls even harder, stretching your
burning nipples until you fear she might tear them off.

"Can't you keep her quiet?" she asks Erin, still watching you squirm.

"I told you she's a baby," Erin answers absently, as she leans close to
a nearby mirror to inspect her makeup.

She lets go suddenly, allowing your breasts to fall and bounce. Your
nipples burn like fire. Her hands continue down over your belly, a
finger trailing into the gap between the buttons now and then to tease
you, then, over your hips, closing her hands around every curve of
flesh and bone. Her perfect nails travel slowly over the outsides of your
thighs, the thin layer of Erin's brief skirt a maddening barrier between
her exploring fingers and your bare skin. Once under the tiny skirt, she
plays with the lace on your thigh-highs, running a finger around the
border. Then, slipping inside, she traces lightly along the smooth skin of
your inner thigh. Your body tenses, and you gasp when she arrives at your
throbbing cuntlips. You feel her finger worm into you, then another, and
another, sliding so easily up inside your slippery hole. She takes your
nipple in her free hand and twists it hard, so hard you cry out in pain.
But your pussy flows like an erupting volcano, out of control.

"She came to you like this?" the tall blonde asks Erin.

Erin still faces the mirror, now touching up the pale pink lipstick on
her upper lip. She never looks at you when she finally answers.

"I wish I could take credit. She's a natural, from what I can tell."

"Hmmm - maybe...," Bridget answers. She takes a step back, still boring
into you with those ice-blue eyes. "Play with yourself." She's not
asking - every word is a command. Another chill runs over you.

Before you can refuse, Erin turns and gives you that look, the one that
says, 'Do this, if you know what's good for you.' You've lost everything
today - losing the only thing left, the one thing you desire most, is not
an option.

You pull the skirt up and touch yourself, then run your finger slowly
over the slick knob of flesh pouting from between your sopping cunt.
Bridget returns to Erin's side, both of them watching intently as you
close your eyes, imagining Erin's sweet tongue between your legs.

"She's a bit common, Erin. Your tastes are usually more exotic."

You try to tune them out. You're not common. You're not. You're not.

"True, but you know how I like a challenge. Besides, she's just so
*damned* eager to please. She just might do - well - *anything*, if you
know what I mean."

They talk about you as though you're not even there. Don't listen.
Don't. A challenge? What does she mean, "anything"? Concentrate. For
Erin.

Bridget's eyes brighten. Her smile grows with sadistic implications.

"You don't mean... "

"You remember," Erin answers with a satisfied grin.

"Ohhh, this could be good - very good. Do you really think she's the
one?"

"Watch," Erin answers. "You know what to look for - if she ever manages
to jerk herself off."

Don't listen. Think of sweet Erin. Naked. Her breasts against yours,
her slim, hard thigh between your legs. Kissing you, so deeply, so
savagely. Telling you in ragged breaths that she wants you - only you.
She loves you...loves you...loves...

"Ooooohhhhhhhhh. Gooooddddddddd. Mmmmmmmmmooohhhhh."

You can hear the sounds you make echo off the gleaming tile walls as
you cum long and hard, twitching and moaning, consumed by the duration
and intensity of your release. But in the midst of it, despite the power of
its delicious grasp, you open your eyes and look at them. You look at
them watching you hump your hand, hips thrusting, smooth thighs now
convulsing into spasms of hard muscle, flushed breasts crowned with
burning, engorged nipples thrust shamelessly forward. You watch them
watching you until it's over.

They turn to each other and exchange knowing, satisfied smiles. And as
you pant before them in you makeshift hooker clothes, they embrace,
each taking the other's tongue deeply into the warmth of her mouth,
Erin's slim figure stretched against the blonde's perfect body.

And as the sweat drips from your heaving breasts, you wonder what
you've done, what they knew to look for, and whether Erin would be
pleased with you. When their embrace ends, the blonde looks at you and
smiles, then turns with a final flourish, pivoting on those perfect
legs, and exits. How can you be so completely filled with jealousy,
lust, confusion, and shame, all at the same moment? You truly are a
child compared to these two women, a rather common child, freshly
delivered into this newfound adult world.

"Don't pout, Blair. She's just a friend - a very old and dear one.
Besides, I think she likes you, very much."

She closes the distance between you with an easy, casual gate. Her
wide green eyes are all you see until she takes you in her arms. She
nibbles, then licks and sucks lightly, her full lips leaving your neck
slick and cool. You feel her move lower. When she inhales, she fills
her mouth with both nipple and meat of your jutting breast. You bury
your fingers in her hair, pulling her face against you, giving up
everything you ever were, so easily defeated, offering her as much as
she wants, and more.

 

[Don Jetman]

III - The Dancer


Erin dresses you an hour before the party - a fiery red sheath that
clings to you like a second skin. She puts your hair up in a dark swirl
of elegance, stopping to plant a lingering kiss on your long neck as
she works. You warm inside, feeling her hands on you, thinking about
the evening ahead.

You'll meet her friends tonight, all the flawless creatures she
surrounds herself with, men and women of wealth and society, brought
together for you and you alone, on your birthday.

She leads you from couple to couple as the guests arrive, and you're
dizzy with pride as they accept you so warmly. You belong to her - they
must know it, by the way she holds your hand, by the way her eyes light
up when she tells them about you. They all smile at you, and you see
the knowing glances they exchange when Erin says your name. "Blair".
You adore the sound of it as it almost slithers from her lips.

You drink her champagne from each tall, fluted glass she brings you -
three, four, five, until you lose count. When the volume and rhythm of
the music increases, you find it easy to accept offers to dance from
any number of willing men, young and old alike. But once in their arms,
you feel their hands on your body in places and ways that shock you.
But you let them. They're rich and refined, and, well, you're just
Blair.

Soon Erin approaches you and whispers in your ear. "Come on Blair! You
dance like you have a stick up your ass! Let them see how you can shake
that body!"

So you dance faster, shaking your bare shoulders, moving your hips to
the thumping beat. You can feel your breasts sway lewdly, your nipples
hardened as they rub roughly against the flimsy wisp of a bra that
barely contains them. The man you're dancing with smiles
appreciatively, then steps back to watch. You dance faster, thrusting
your hips, holding your arms overhead, letting them drink you in as
Erin wishes.

Erin steps from the crowd that has gathered around you, walks up to you
wearing a dazzling smile, and whispers to you again, briefly. "Strip
for me, Blair. Get out of that dress. We all want to see you." You
freeze for a second and look into her eyes. You can see she's serious.
The alcohol dissolves any remaining inhibition, the only thread between
a sense of decency and your devotion to her. You have to do it. For
her. For your sweet Erin.

So you do. You unzip the dress, wiggle out of it, let it fall to the
carpet, and begin to dance again. Now you're not the Birthday Girl, the
guest of honor - you're entertainment. Only seconds ago you thought
they liked you. Now you're little more than a cheap stripper to them. A
piece of meat. But you're Erin's meat. And you'll do anything to stay
that way.

You thrust your hips harder, shaking your shoulders until your
breasts strain violently at the transparent red bra. You'll give them
what they want, if it makes Erin happy. You'll give them what they
want, and more. You can see them smiling, the men wanting you,
the women envious of your writhing body. And in the midst of them,
you see Erin and Bridget side-by-side, holding hands, smiling at you
like hungry predators waiting for their desert.

After a while, she gives you a sign through the crowd. You know you
have no choice. You'll do anything to try to please her. You reach
around, open the back and shrug it from your shoulders, making sure
your movements are as wild as before, your meaty tits bouncing and
jiggling as you dance. The men cheer and whistle. The women laugh
hysterically. But you have to keep dancing, faster, faster.

Erin gives you a second discreet sign, unseen by all but you. She
points to your lacey red panties. Even through the thick, alcoholic
fog, you're startled for a second, slowing your dance, your abandon
throttled by a sliver of remaining modesty. It's not just your sex
they'll see, it's how willing you'll give up everything you are for
her. They'll see how wet you are between your legs, how swollen and
throbbing your pussy has become as you dance for them. They'll know.
They'll know what you really are.

You slide the scrap of red lace over your hips. Burning with
embarrassment as your eyes stay glued to the floor below, you inch your
hands lower, slowly, so slowly you appear to tease them with your
hesitancy. When the air falls coolly against the wet folds of your sex,
you know you've given yourself up to them. All that's left is to slide
the lace quickly over your thighs, let it drop to the floor, and resume
your dance of shame.

This time there's a short hush as her guests stare at your shaved
pussy, now so swollen and wet from Erin's long sexy stare that your
labia and clit are thrust out in front of you. The sensitive little
wings of flesh and swollen cord between them boast a blush of bright
pink, pouting obscenely as your juices drip for Erin.

You can see that the men are erect, their cocks hard and throbbing
after just seconds of watching you. A few of the women have put down
their drinks. With the tip of a finger pressed lightly against their
lips, their hands unashamedly caress hard nipples that show through
their expensive clothes. But only a few. Most of the women are
snickering and pointing, at your tits, at your naked, sopping cunt. But
you keep dancing, harder, faster. Erin would have it no other way.
You're so tired now you start to stumble as you try to stay on your
feet. You fall, not once, but three times, before the laughter become
so loud Erin has you stop before the neighbors complain.

Just before she joins her guests for dinner, she kneels and whispers to
you quietly. When she leads you to her bedroom, your heart almost
bursts with joy. As she works her fingers through your hair, you close
your eyes, drinking in her loving touch. Minutes later you open your
eyes as Erin guides you toward a full-length mirror beside her bed.
She's gathered cascades of raven hair into two ponytails, each
sprouting from the top of your head, now hanging in wavy cords at each
side of your face. She takes a pink rhinestone-studded dog collar from
her purse and fastens it about your neck. The tag says, "Erin's Bitch".
You stare into the mirror as she looks on approvingly. Below your
collared throat, you're a succulent, ripe woman, your body screaming
for Erin, your satiny skin glowing with a desperate need for her touch,
your belly on fire with a relentless burning to be her favorite
plaything. Above the collar, you see something else altogether. A face
once classic and proud, with wide mouth, perfect cheekbones, and
confident brown eyes, is now a ridiculous caricature of your former
self. The arrogant smirk that had taken years to refine is now a mere
helpless stare, the empty, frightened look of a toy poodle. But you're
Erin's toy. What would have been a small consolation only a week ago is
everything to you now. Everything.

She leads you to the entrance of the dining room, within plain sight of
her guests, now seated anxiously along both sides of the long, black
table. The first course has been served, and the rich aroma makes your
mouth water. They all stop to look at you, savoring both the flavor of
the thick, white chowder, and the sight of Erin's new pet, so naked and
willing. Your reflection in the glassy tabletop makes you shiver.

You get on your hands and knees and wait, just as she tells you, the
collar stiff and irritating around your neck, the little metal tag
jingling each time you move. You can see them in the next room, all
seated around the long table. You can smell the delicious food. Erin
brings cans of cat food to your trailer - smelly, fishy paste that you
took so long to get used to. The warm, irresistible odor of sizzling
steaks and fresh vegetables makes you drool, just a bit, from the left
corner of your quivering mouth.

Thirty minutes pass, then forty. Finally, she looks over at you,
smiles, and nods. You do exactly as you were told. Crawling on all
fours, you approach the table beside her chair, your whorish red mouth
open wide, waiting for her to drop the remaining table scraps from a
foot above you. You slurp and drool as you do your best to catch
every delectable bite. After that, the others offer you bits of
leftovers, holding them high in the air so you'll beg, up on your
haunches, naked tits covered with small bits of juicy food your mouth
fails to catch. Everyone's laughing, but everyone wants a turn, and
they get their way at Erin's parties.

After, the walls seem to breathe a quiet, earthy jazz that sets the
mood as her guests mingle and chat. She leads you by a thin, leather
leash from one small gathering to another, your cheeks burning, your
shiny metal name tag glittering at the front of your throat. They talk
about you like you're not even there. A distinguished man with salt-
and-pepper hair runs the palm of his hand over your breasts, belly, and
thighs as Erin proudly encourages him. A skinny, flat-chested blonde in
a chic halter dress takes your breast in her hand and lifts it, gently
squeezing and weighing it. Erin laughs and shakes her head. "They're
real," she assures her. The blonde's bright blue eyes widen as she wets
her lips and stares, her tiny hard nipples straining at the gossamer
fabric of her dress. A young boy, no more than eighteen, hugs Erin
warmly and thanks her for inviting him. His skin is a golden brown, and
his shoulder-length sun-bleached hair frames a wide grin of youthful
arrogance. You glance at his muscular, bronzed chest through the open
front of his shirt and blush shamefully when you imagine him naked. He
spends a few seconds pulling your nipples until they're fiery and
rigid, then puts two fingers inside you and watches with amusement as
you squirm. "I'll never understand your taste in women," he tells Erin,
dismissing you as just another party favor as he eyes a young hardbody
half your age, then wanders off to meet her.

An hour passes, and everyone has their fun with you, leering, pawing,
with no regard for your thoughts or feelings. They treat you just as
they would Erin's house pet, a dumb animal, unable to understand or
respond to their graphic verbal comments and amused fondling, other
than to show your appreciation by spreading your legs and offering them
your sex, much like a dog might when its belly's rubbed. You cringe
when you think back at what you were only a week ago, and what you've
become, so easily, in such a short time. But why don't you care? Why
does it feel so good, so right? Your head hurts when you try to sort it
out. Erin wants her guests entertained, and pleasing her is everything
to you now. You're her total slut. Her total slave. Her fuck-meat.
They're your words, but they have you dripping wet.

At her insistence, you go to the bed and lie on it, spread-eagled and
naked, except for your collar. A tear rolls down your cheek. Then they
come to you, one by one, until the bed is surrounded, a wall of
beautiful people in beautiful clothes, wealthy, successful people, so
far above you, so much better than you, staring down at you as though
they were watching a dirty movie, a dirty whore, bought for an
evening's fun.

Erin slides a finger inside your collar and gives it a slight tug. It's
your cue. You know what she expects of you. Bridget appears at the side
of the bed, the first to have you, while you're fresh and willing. She
straddles you, wearing only a sky-blue silk blouse that clings to her
perfect breasts and urgent nipples. You look up into her icy-blue eyes,
seeing that she's what Erin becomes in those moments when the one you
love becomes what you least expect - cool, calculating, and gluttonous
for your pain.

She lowers her steaming pussy over your face, and you open her with
your tongue, letting her juices fill your hungry mouth. You bury your
face in soft, golden strands of hair, their caress an irresistible
invitation to cover the length of her clit with your tongue in a
rhythmic massage that has her panting. Her thighs tighten against you,
and you stroke them lovingly from knee to hip. They're long and lean,
but so very hard beneath the velvety skin - a dancer's legs, you think
to yourself. But she's not a ballerina, not some anorexic woman-child
on tip-toe. Her body's panther-like - strong, agile, and powerful.
Not like yours. Not a dancer like you at all.

You feel her thighs tighten, and soon struggle to find a moment to
breathe. She's grinding against your mouth, the pumping mound of her
sex driving your head deeply into the mattress, her wet cuntlips
sucking life's breath from you. You lash at her with your tongue,
frantic to finish her before she smothers you. The sounds of the people
around you begin to fade as you use everything you know on her,
everything that makes you cum quickly, like a wanton whore. Your legs
flail about wildly, the seldom-used muscles beneath your soft thighs
standing out in tight bands as your hips rise off the bed in a futile
attempt at escape.

Those around you watch your body twist and heave, your head and
shoulders pinned under Bridget's athletic torso and hips, your hands
clutching her strong thighs, fingers digging into her unrelenting
flesh. They see what you can't. Her eyes drift closed, her broad
shoulders shudder briefly, and with a wide, satisfied smile she beckons
the oncoming orgasm, then lets it wash over her. She rides your mouth
with shocking viciousness, her eyes closed, her face turned upward,
her cruel smile never fading.

When she's finished with you, you're alone again so quickly, limp and
trembling on the large bed. But they're all still standing over you,
watching your twitching belly and the obscene way your tits seem to
double in size as you inhale deeply, catching your breath. Your head
swims with confusion as you hyperventilate.

When the large man works his way between your legs and sticks his cock
in you, you close your eyes and play your part. They all think you're
so easy, but Erin's in your thoughts and heart. Your pussy flows for
her - no one else.

They all have you, one after another, the men like rutting beasts, the
women less predictable, sometimes sensual, sometimes cruel. Erin stays
by the bed, always so close you can reach out and touch her. You see
her smile, and go on, knowing you've pleased her. All that remains is
that you allow what your body seems to beg them for, and that they give
you what you ask.

When they leave, Erin takes you to her shower, then to her bed. She's
freed your hair and unravels the tangles with her fingers, all the
while planting soft, lingering kisses over your eyes and lips. You
service her without a thought for your own reward, your mouth finding
every fold and crevice of her slender body. Finally, nursing between
her legs, you drink the nectar that pours from her as she convulses,
then melts in your very hands.

You sleep with your cheek against her inner thigh, your hand on her
belly, convinced beyond all doubt that you've made her happy, that
she's pleased with you. That she loves you.

And in the morning, the lingering taste of her now hours old on your
lips and tongue, she dumps you back in your trailer, ready to face a
brand new day.