True Love

 

                                       by

 

                                 Night Writer

 

 

 

 

                               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.

 

 

 

 

 

                                        ***

 

 

 

 

 

You're back at work the next day, sure 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.

 

 

 

 

 

                                    ***

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

                                    ***

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

                                True Love

 

                                      by

 

                                Night Writer

 

 

 

                             III - The Dancer

 

 

Erin dresses you an hour before the party, encasing you in 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, slim 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 feast their eyes on

you, 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 to be fed.

 

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 of the bra, 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 are to 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. Running the tips of their fingers lightly over 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 becomes 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

thrash 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.