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True Love
by
Night Writer
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
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
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
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,
"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.
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.
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 that 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
"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
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
look straight into her piercing blue eyes.
"She's a baby,"
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
"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
"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
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
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,
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
close your eyes, imagining
"She's a bit common,
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
Bridget's eyes brighten. Her smile grows with sadistic
implications.
"You don't mean... "
"You remember,"
"Ohhh, this could be good - very good. Do you really
think she's the
one?"
"Watch,"
to jerk herself off."
Don't listen. Think of sweet
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,
And as the sweat drips from your heaving breasts, you
wonder what
you've done, what they knew to look for, and whether
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.
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