Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
   It Ain't Over Sickman   `God damn, this guy could dance!' `Is this a
Lambada?', she asked herself, as she rubbed her crotch up and down the tall
black man's thigh, and his strong grip crushed her breasts against the his
lower ribcage.  `Its just dancing', she told herself (even though she knew
it was as close to fucking as you could get in public).  A huge old black
woman was belting out some down and dirty Rhythm and Blues, but a packed
dance floor had taken a step back to watch Ann and her muscular partner
writhe on one another.  Despite the fact that the room was about a thousand
degrees, and humid enough to start raining, she was all too aware of the
heat and moisture of his body, transmitting through the sweat-soaked silk
of her dress.  Her husband would not like this.  But he's the one that
wouldn't dance.  Is it her fault if this guy had stepped up to fill the
void.  And John would be filling her "void" later, she giggled to herself,
not this guy.  Anyway, it was just dancing.  Yeah; dancing.  The guy was
behind her now, grinding his bulge against her ass, forcing her against him
with one strong hand on her belly, inches above her "void" (she had
decided, in an instant, that she liked that term, since, excited as she
was, that's what it felt like: a void that needed filling.), and his other
hand on her chest, snug up under her breasts.  She should go.  John was
going to be pissed.  But it felt so good to dance like this.  John doesn't
dance.  And God, this guy could dance.  She felt like a fertility
goddess... Oh shit.  John was standing in front of her, and he was not
happy.  An almost imperceptible motion with his head meant, "Lets go".  Oh
oh.  She broke away from her dance floor lover, barely daring to give him a
shrug and a surreptitious wave goodbye, before she followed like a
reprimanded child, out onto Bourbon St.  The cool air (well, cooler then
the jungle-like bar, it was still damn hot!), the cool air hit her and her
head spun a little.  She felt drunk, which was stupid, since she'd only had
two Hurricanes all night.  Nope, there was no blaming this on the booze. 
Damn, John was really pissed off , she could tell by the way he headed off
into the crowd, letting her keep up.  While they were standing on Canal St.
waiting for the streetcar, she tried protesting that she was "just dancing"
and that it was his own fault for not dancing himself.  No good.  They
could have caught a cab, but since they arrived three days before, though
they had taken cabs a number of times, when they were going between the
Quarter and their Bed & Breakfast, she had insisted they always take the
trolley, just because it was so beautiful.  By the time a St.  Charles car
came, he had cooled off enough to apologize for getting mad, and they
talked of other things on their way back to their B & B.  She was relieved.
She would hate to spend their trip having some stupid argument.  And the
guy had been a good dancer, she smiled to herself.  They walked, arms
around each other, from the streetcar to the B & B.  It smells so yummy
here, she thought to herself for the umpteenth time since they arrived.  It
smells sultry, hot.  Honeysuckle, and Bougainvillaea, and some musky,
sexual smell that seemed familiar, but she couldn't name.  They had a great
B & B.  It was around the back of a huge old house, with it's own private
courtyard, over-grown and in just enough disrepair as to have character. 
John asked her if she felt like a beer, and though the thought of drinking
more didn't really appeal, she was hot and so she accepted, if just for the
simple joy of sharing something with her man.  They sat in silence, across
the round metal cafe table in the dark garden, enjoying the night.  She
barely touched her beer.  Mostly she just rolled the cold bottle across her
forehead.  Then, as her mind drifted back to her deliciously sexy dance
partner, she moved the bottle sensually to her neck, down over her chest,
and stroked it between her breasts, while watching John watch her.  He was
interested.  Good.  She thought that getting herself shoved full of
cock-meat would make a fine end to a lovely day.  She pulled one of the
thin straps off her shoulder, letting the silk make its way off her breast,
while she continued sensuously "cooling herself".  She kept this up for too
long, enjoying the anticipation.  "Want to go to bed?", she finally purred.
He eagerly agreed.  When she was done in the bathroom, he went to take his
contacts out, and she got into bed to wait for him.  And, if he had come
just then, she would have attacked him, worked him into an animal frenzy,
then laid back and let him fuck her until she hurt, and everything would
have been wonderful.  But he didn't.  He decided he needed a shower, "a
quick one", he called out to her.  That was his mistake.  It pissed her
off. She made a direct correlation between his taking a shower while she
was waiting to get fucked, and his refusal to dance.  Maybe she was right,
maybe not.  But by the time he finally got to bed, clean and cool and ready
to rut, she had been going over the little episode in the R&B club.  Fuck,
they were only dancing!  If he wouldn't dance, why should he expect her not
to.  Dog in the manger.  And how dare he order her out of there as if he
owned her.  Did he think that... And then he was in bed beside her,
snuggling his meaty dick against her hip, his hand working its way down her
belly.  She rolled over in a huff.  Not tonight, Prick.  "What's wrong?  I
thought you wanted to." "I changed my mind" "Well, what did you get me all
worked up for, then?" She rolled towards him, rubbed herself against his
body and cooed, "you horny, baby?  Your cock all big and hard for me?" "Oh,
yeah." he gasped in her ear.  She gripped his hard dick, and stoking it,
purred, "oo, Its so hard.  You want to shove that big thing deep inside
me?" "Uh huh" She massaged his balls and arched against him like a cat in
heat.  "You need to cum, Baby?" He groaned an affirmative.  "Bad?" He was
almost whining.  "Well do it yourself." "What?".  He was in shock.  "You
heard me, jack yourself off.  I'm pissed off with the way you made me stop
dancing.  You made me dance by myself and got pissed off when I enjoyed it,
so now you can go play with yourself: I'm going to sleep.", and she rolled
over.  "You can't be serious." Her silence was his answer.  They both lay
in silence for a number of minutes, she still fuming, but also curious as
to what he would do, and he at first confused, then mad.  `What the fuck?
This was bullshit.  She deliberately gets me all worked up and then tells
me to jerk off?  I mean, What the fuck?' He was pissed.  But he still
wanted to fuck.  Denial.  He snuggled against her, his hard-on riding up
the crack of her ass, and tried coaxing her, "Come on, babe, I need it."
"You know what to do!" Fuck!  He turned over so they were back to back. 
Without thinking about it, he found his hand had drifted down to his hard
dick.  Well, he had no intention of jerking off!  Not a chance.  Fuck her.
He'd just go to sleep.  Yeah.  Sure he would.  He kept seeing that cold
beer bottle flicking her rock hard nipple, teasing him from across the
table.  And his hard-on got harder in his grip.  Fuck!  He was so turned on
he was desperate.  It must have been an hour after her last refusal, and he
was still lying there on his back, gently rubbing himself.  He could not
let himself jerk off, but neither could he make himself let go.  His mind
was filled with thoughts of her, and the cold beer bottle, and the black
guy she had been dancing with, and the beer bottle, and...  Fuck it, she
was asleep now anyway.  His hand started moving more insistently, more
purposefully.  Ah, yes.  Oh, that's what he needed.  He tried to keep the
motion down, and knew he did a good job of suppressing his breathing.  He
licked a finger wet, and slowly eased it into his asshole until it was
buried.  It would help him come, and so reduce the amount of jerking off.
He certainly did not want her to wake up, let her know that she had won. 
Asleep?  How could she sleep?  John had been lying beside her rubbing his
cock for hours; she could feel the bed moving.  Not hard, but she knew what
he was doing.  She'd had lots of time to cool off, and now that her anger
was long gone, all she could picture was him stroking that huge cock of
his. Hours of picturing his hand moving up and down that hard/soft meat. 
She knew just what the thing felt like, as it grew meaty in her hand, and
then firming to that wonderful hard/soft.  She could imagine the feeling as
the sweat formed, lubricating her grip, as the veins pulsed.  She could
feel the weightiness of it.  How it jerked when it was happy, the big knob
getting gooey under her fingers, as if drooling in eager anticipation.  The
skin, as it slides along the length.  The thickness...  thickness which,
now that her anger had been replaced by lust, she wanted to be stretching
her wide open not wasting in his fist.  She hoped that somehow he would
read her mind, and roll over on top of her and bury that fucking thing in
her so hard and so deep that she would scream: there was a puddle under her
hip where she had leaked down the back of her thigh.  Maybe she should...
No way.  No way could she turn to him now.  `Too proud', she admonished
herself, but she suffered in silence.  To proud even to do more than slip a
finger inside herself; if she rubbed, he might notice, and being forced to
masturbate was his punishment, she'd be damned if she would let him know
that she'd been caught in her own trap.  So she lay, frustrated, her ears
straining for every detail, as he started jerking off in earnest.  There
was not a sound in the house except for that one hand roughly milking that
huge fleshy club, a task that should, she told herself, have been the
exclusive pleasure of her pussy.  But instead, he was doing fine on his
own, pleasuring himself well, if she could judge from his breathing, and
she was left completely unsatisfied, riding her far too slender finger. 
She squeezed her muscles, trying to make do, but what she needed was that
big hard cock.  Pumping his meat and fingering fucking his ass, his mind
filled with graphic images of that black man making his wife do vile things
to herself with that beer bottle, while she serviced both men.  In fact, he
was pleasuring himself to the point of losing track of his actions, and
consequently made far more of a ruckus then he realized.  Much to her
frustration.  This did to her what no porno movie ever had.  She used to
fantasize about men masturbating, but now that it was real and beside her,
instead of having him cum all over her as she used to imagine, she wanted
him to use his dick where it would do her the most good.  Her only
consolation was that with him making so much noise, she knew he wouldn't
notice if she allowed herself to start seriously diddling herself.  With
both her hands at work, her left middle finger buried inside while her
right forefinger ground her clitoris, it seemed much less impossible for
her to just roll over and mount him.  Should she?  But...  Fuck it, this
was stupid.  They both wanted it.  So she decided to go for it.  Everything
suddenly stopped.  His forced breath stopped, his hand stopped, the
vibration of the bed stopped and so, in turn, her finger on her clit had to
stop.  So that while he blissfully spurted goo all over his stomach, merely
intensifying his orgasm by holding his breath to stop from groaning aloud,
she was left lying with a finger stuck uselessly up her hole and juice
running down her ass.  Damn!  She even thought of rolling over and licking
the spent cum off his cock, sure that that would turn him on enough that he
would show mercy and help get her off.  But she couldn't bring herself to
do it, feeling like she would be begging.  Debasing herself.  He was
moving. He was searching for something.  The towel, she decided.  She took
the opportunity to take her hand from her pussy.  Within minutes, his
breath was even, and soon replaced with a light snore.  Her brain was still
in high gear.  She slipped out of bed, put on her robe, and moved
noiselessly out to the warm, sacred quiet of the shadowy garden.  Sitting
in the dappled moonlight, embracing one knee, that foot raised to the cafe
chair, she slipped her hand into the folds of her robe, and masturbated. 
Or perhaps, considering the beauty she felt in being part of the scene,
"made love to her self" would be closer.  ~~~~~~~~~~~~ He was already up
when she awoke; he usually was.  She smelled coffee, and expected to find
him in the garden.  Nope, just a note beside the coffee machine, an archaic
thing that looked like part of a 1950's nuclear weapon.            Red,    
Gone out for a while, should be back before noon.  Sorry about last night.
I love you, John   Well, at least he wasn't still mad at her.  She was
anything but still mad, and felt guilty for being a bitch.  As she
showered, she decided she would make it up to him by giving him a blowjob
to end all blowjobs, as soon as he got back.  As she contemplated all the
lovely, dirty little things she would do to him, she found herself washing
her pussy for an exceedingly long time.  No, she would wait for him.  It
would be fun to tease herself for an hour.  She was still working on her
second cup of coffee, sitting in the garden in her robe, day dreaming about
sucking cock, when John arrived back.  She asked about the package he had:
"beer", and he went to put it in the fridge.  She followed him in, looking
for a seductive way of offering him the so well planned blowjob, but he was
on a different speed.  "Lets go grab lunch, The Ronnie Tomas Trio is
playing at 2:00 and I want to catch them.  The who?  She'd never heard of
them, and was kind of surprised that he had.  While she was dressing, she
apologized for being a bitch last night, and told him he had a rain check
for the best blowjob in history, since they didn't want to keep Ronnie
waiting.  He said he was sorry too, and they all lived happily ever after.
                        Right?                    Well, not quite.   
Ronnie was good.  Not worth missing the greatest blowjob in history for,
she thought, but good.  And it was John's loss.  John decided they should
have an early dinner in the Quarter before heading back to hear Sonny
Rollins.  Ok.  She could eat, and wouldn't mind seeing Sonny, though she
felt the mildest bit put out that after offering him what she had hoped
would be a wonderful present, he seemed to have forgotten all about it. 
Which was silly, since how often do you get a chance to see Sonny Rollins.
But still.  The place he chose, again without consultation, was an
unbelievably expensive restaurant that they had rejected on their second
night there.  Then, in the middle of dinner, just after the coquille St. 
Jacques, in the middle of a conversation, John said without dropping his
voice in the slightest, "Go to the washroom and take off your panties, and
bring them to me." She stopped everything and looked at him.  One glance
said he was completely serious.  She forgot to breath.  What was this?  He
didn't do things like that.  Neither did she.  But as her brain spun in
high gear, thinking of the implications, it seemed like such a little
thing. Take off her panties.  So what.  Her dress was almost to her knees,
and dark green.  No one would know but them.  But did he have something
else in mind?  She would just have to trust him.  No doubt it was his way
of approaching the promised blow job.  Sure.  Why not.  If that's what
turned his crank...  He watched two dozen thoughts flit across her face
before she finally smiled, stood, and said, "Excuse me a moment".  In the
washroom, it was easy for her to strip them off her bare legs.  It was only
on leaving that she felt suddenly conspicuous, like the whole restaurant
knew that a strong wind would bare her to them, and that the black ball,
only partially concealed in her fist, was her intimate garment.  She knew
she was blushing by the time she reached the table.  And that made her feel
dumb, so she blushed more.  It seemed like such a little thing, so why was
her heart pounding?  It wasn't that she had no underwear on, it was that he
had told her to take them off, with the danger that implied, and that she
had then gone and done it.  She handed him the scrap of black lace as
surreptitiously as possible, as she took her seat.  And he let it fall
open, holding them between himself and the table, but clearly visible to
anyone who looked, and pretended to be studying them, appreciating them. 
She turned crimson.  How could he?  Simple, she answered herself, they are
not his underwear.  And he tucked them in his pocket as dinner arrived,
poured her some more wine, and resumed talking as if nothing had happened.
And, in fact, when she thought about it, very little had.  But that did not
stop her from thinking about it all through dinner.  Not that she was
incredibly aroused.  Its just that she couldn't get her mind off of it. 
And inevitably, when her mind did wander back to her naked pussy, he would
smile as if he knew just where she was.  She could feel the sexual energy
building between them, happy that they could recover this quickly from that
horrible thing last night.  What surprised her was when, after dinner, he
flagged a cab and headed them back to the fair grounds.  She had been sure
that somewhere about the time her panties had come off, the plans for the
evening had been changed, and she was disappointed that they had not.  It
was crazy, but she was starting to get jealous of a jazz festival.  Sure,
that's what they had come for, they had joked about it being their "Billy
Holiday", but that jazz took precedence over...  over, His hand, which had
been on her knee, was moving up her thigh.  And it kept moving until she
could feel the air conditioned air of the cab on her pussy.  She stiffen
and moved to take his hand away.  He wouldn't move it, and instead buried
it between her thighs.  She pulled her skirt over it.  He started rubbing
the edge of his hand along her slit.  She relaxed a little, and tried to
enjoy the sensation.  And soon she was grinding herself against his hand.
Fuck, now she really didn't feel like going to the concert.  She asked him
if he wanted to miss it.  "Miss Sonny?  We can't miss Sonny!" And so he
continued diddling her until suddenly they were there and he was paying the
cabby who had turned around, and she was sitting with her skirt almost up
around her waist, fumbling to straighten it out without looking obvious,
which was impossible.  Sonny was good, at least what she noticed.  They
stood near the back, John behind her, and did the palest imitation of her
"Lambada", or whatever it was the night before, but this was John, and it
was enough to keep her mind straying from the show.  By halfway through the
show, his hands were wandering just about everywhere on her body, as he
ground his dick against the top of her butt.  It felt so wonderful that, as
he got increasingly daring, she didn't care who saw what.  Let them find
their own man to fondle them.  She had her's.  Besides, it was crowded
enough that only a few people directly behind them could see anything at
all.  So she had to keep telling herself, as he slowly inched the side of
her skirt up, higher, and higher until his hand was caressing her bare hip!
All they can see is my thigh, she told herself, shivering with tension,
terrified that he might try to move his hand down to her pussy, and yet
wishing there was some way for him to manage it.  Before the encore, he
took her hand and led her out to catch a cab.  She found his new found
decisiveness both very appealing and a little disquieting.  Fine for a day,
but would she want to live with it?  "Are you wet?", he asked, as they
walked.  "Dripping", she assured him "When we get in the cab," he purred to
her, "I want you to sit behind the driver, put your dress up around your
waist, turn sideways in the car and play with yourself.  But don't touch
your clit.  Just give me a guided tour of your pussy, inside and out." Oh,
fuck.  That was...that was delicious.  Safe; the cabby would never know,
and yet so close to danger.  She was to play the trollop, but at his
insistence, which relieved her of responsibility.  And after what they had
done in the concert, this would be a piece of cake.  They got in opposite
sides of the cab, and she followed her instructions immediately, carefully
gathering the skirt of her dress, and tucking the bulk of it behind her so
that from the belly down, she was bare.  One knee against the back of the
seat, the other sprawled out, her naked pussy splayed wide for her
husband's pleasure.  `Its all yours, Baby', she thought to herself, as she
tried to figure out what he wanted to see.  She closed her eyes, and ran
both hands up and down either side of her pussy.  She slowed, and started
pulling the thick pillows apart, stretching herself open, invitingly, she
hoped.  She wet a finger in her mouth, for effect, since she was certainly
wet enough without it, and slowly eased into herself.  She fucked herself
deep with it, and then raised it to her lips, licking her juice in as
provocative, sensuous, slutty a manner as she could manage.  She peered at
John though half lidded eyes: he seemed entranced by what he saw.  `Guess
I'm doing it right', she thought.  As she proceeded, she spoke to him in
her mind, hoping her fingers were conveying her thoughts.  `Does that look
good, Baby?  Does that make your big cock all nice and hard?  Is this where
you want to put that thing?  You going to ram that great, big, thick cock
into this nice wet hole?  You gonna shove it in deep.  I can't wait till
you fill me full of your big cock.' It wasn't play acting.  It may have
started that way, but within a minute, she was so hot, she thought she
would go mad long before the cab got there.  It was sweet cruelty on John's
part that she was not allowed to touch her clit.  "Not allowed".  Fuck,
that was exciting.  The worst kind of tease (which means the best kind),
since she was teasing herself.  `But', she thought, `I can't be putting on
as good a show as I want, or he'd be across this car raping me by now'. 
They did, however, survive the cross town trip with both her sanity and her
honour intact, though the cab had not even pulled away from the curb before
she was climbing up his body, her tongue halfway down his throat, him
laughing around it.  "That'll be one horny cabby", he declared, as they
stumbled down the dark passage between the houses.  "Do you think he knew
anything?" "Knew anything?  That cab smelled like a cat in heat!" She
should have been mortified, but frankly, she didn't care.  "Do you have any
idea how turned on that made me?" "Yeah, I saw the wet mark on the seat
when you got out" "All I could think of was how badly I wanted you inside
me" "Yeah, how bad?" "I didn't think I could wait, and was wishing you'd
take me right there, in the car." "Yeah?  well can I tie you up, first?",
as he held the screen door for her.  She stopped in the doorway and looked
at him with the same slack-jawed disbelief as in the restaurant.  I mean,
they weren't sexual prudes, but they just didn't do that sort of thing. 
Not that she'd never been tied up before.  Hadn't everyone, at some point?
But it wasn't her thing.  She didn't dislike it, it just didn't do anything
for her.  But, right now, he could do anything he wanted, if he would just
fill her up.  "If you want", she heard her voice sounding unsure.  She felt
even less sure when he took a plastic shopping bag off the fridge and
brought out a snarl of serious-looking black leather and buckles.    "What,
is that?" "I bought it this morning", he said, slipping behind her and
gently rolling the straps of her dress off her shoulders.  "The guy in the
store said it was really comfortable to wear" "Great." She didn't sound
convinced.  But she let him keep undressing her.  And was soon tapping her
foot impatiently, as he strapped the thing onto her forearms, parallel
behind her back.  When done, her forearms were encased loosely in tubes of
stiff leather, held together so that she could grasp both elbows.  So, now
what?  He led her into the bedroom, lay her down, her legs off the edge of
the bed, and started going down.  So who needs arms anyway, she thought as
she started luxuriating in his ministrations.  God, he knew how to get her
going!  He always waited a while before getting serious, dancing around her
clit, working her up, making her wait for it.  The anticipation drove her
nuts, it was cruel heaven.  A few minutes of that and she would be all but
begging for him to do it "right".  And this time he was out-doing himself.
It must have been three years of that wondrous wet tongue caressing her
very centre, and of her getting increasingly vocal, trying to convince him
that she really was ready for a little mind-blowing release, when he
finally brushed her clit for the first time, so lightly that it was
scarcely more then a breath.  "Oh god, Yes!", she bellowed her approval. 
Finally!  She was so turned on that a few more licks right there, a little
bit harder, and she'd be there.  He brushed it again; a feather.  No,
harder.  "harder", she gasped.  Nothing.  What the fuck was he doing, where
was he?  She open her eyes; peering at him between her tits, which thrust
proudly upward, exaggerated by the arch her arms caused in her back.  He
was inches away from it, staring at it.  She raised her hips, making it
easier for him.  Nothing.  His tongue came slowly out of his mouth, snaked
down out of her sight, and she tensed, shaking trying to hold herself up
for him, not even breathing; this was more important.  And...  That was
it?! How could he lick her more lightly?  She was whimpering, though she
didn't know it.  "You want it, Red?" She groaned an impassioned, "yes" "You
want my dick deep inside you?" She gasped "yes".  A good licking would have
been her first choice, but that would do just fine.  "Tell me what you
want." "I want you to fuck me.  Fuck me hard, Baby." "Naw." She groaned in
frustration.  Enough was enough.  What the hell did he want, for her to beg
for it?  She would, if it would turn him on enough to get him on top of
her. She liked talking dirty to him; "Please Baby?  Please fuck me?  I need
your big cock in me so bad.  Please.." "naw, I think I'd like that blowjob
now." Well it took her all of no seconds to do that math equation too well
known by women: 1 hard cock + 1 blowjob = 0 hard cocks + 1 frustrated pussy
"No, I want you to fuck me, Baby" "Well, I want you to want to suck my
cock." and he dropped the issue, and went back to licking her pussy.  All
around the hole, up inside the folds, chewing on her lips, and dancing
little circles around her clit, without ever touching it.  Damn it!  "John!
I want you to fuck me!" "Well, that's not what I want you to want.  And
since your hands are tied, what I want goes." Fuck!  "John!" she
complained, fighting against her bonds, which really hadn't bothered her
until he had pointed them out.  Damn.  Ok, she'd do it his way, if she knew
she'd get some later.  "Alright, if you'll do me after." He came up just
long enough to dismiss her surrender.  "That doesn't sound like your dying
to suck my dick", and he went back to teasing her.  Of course, if she had
wanted, she could have told him to fuck himself and let her go, but she was
starting to really enjoy his little game, in a twisted, frustrated ,
kind-to-be-cruel sort of way.  Two minutes more of his teasing and she gave
in.  She was going to scream if he didn't either finish her or stop.  "Ok."
He looked up over her red bush, questioningly.  "Ok.  Please let me suck
your cock", she recited.  There.  She had said the prescribed words.  At
least they could move on to something other than tormenting her.  "That
didn't sound like you meant it", he condemned, and ran his evil tongue up
the length of her left mound, licked her clit firmly, once.  Waited.  Twice
more.  And then blew on it.  "OK!  OK!  Please!  I really want to suck your
cock.  Please!".  She couldn't believe that she was actually begging to
suck John's cock.  `You're such a slut', she admonished herself, even as
she was doing it.  "Do you need to?", he coached, still toying with her
clit in such a random manner that it gave her no pleasure whatsoever, but
just maintained that peak level of frustration.  "Yes," she moaned, getting
into playing his whore.  "Oh yes!, Oh Baby, I desperately neeeed to suck
your great big cock.  Please, please give it to me.  Please fuck my mouth"
"But only sluts like sucking cocks that much." What?  What was she supposed
to do with that one?  "Are you saying that your a slut?" "no?".  He
couldn't expect her to say that.  No way.  She couldn't.  "Then I guess you
don't really want to suck my cock", and dove down to take her pussy lip in
his teeth, pulling it away, until it caused just the slightest pain.  And
another vicious lick at her clit, and "OK!  Yes!", she suddenly broke, she
didn't care any more.  He had won.  Anything he wanted.  "Yes!  I'm a
slut!, a cock sucking slut.  Please, fuck my face!".  "Will you do anything
I want?" "Yes, anything.  I'm your whore, you can use me any way you want."
And she meant it.  Every word of it.  It was as if something had broken,
and suddenly she felt so free, openly declaring, liberating a side of
herself that had always been kept controlled.  But you're not in control
now, she assured herself, as he loomed over her, that huge dick coming at
her mouth.  With no hands to limit him, she was at his mercy to limit his
thrusts!  But he was careful not to go too deep.  `This is what bondage is
all about', she clicked, has her mouth was filled with cock; `being forced
to do things that you want to do, but don't dare'.  She couldn't do
anything.  Her head was pinned to the bed by his thrusting dick, and there
was nothing for her to do; just lie back and be a passive orifice for him
to take his pleasure in.  She felt like the slut she'd said she was.  And
she liked it!  She had always enjoyed sex, but had never so openly wallowed
in it, throwing all dignity and pride so completely to the wind, and
letting out that true slut that lurked so deep in dark recesses of her mind
that "she" was only allowed to come out as far as her most private
masturbatory fantasies.  Vile tales, her fantasies were, of being the only
woman among a huge group of men (hundreds, thousands, in a prison, or maybe
on a deserted island), kept, passed around, used day and night as their
communal piece of sexual meat.  And loving it!  He was quick to start the
grunting that she recognized as "Look out baby, here it comes", and she
suddenly panicked that he would thrust down her throat when he came, or
that she would drown in sperm while trying to swallow on her back.  But
instead, he pulled out to squirt his hot goo all over her face.  Figures,
it flashed through her mind, that's what you do with whores, isn't it?  Its
what they do in porno movies, and she'd never seen a porno that was rawer
than this little scene.  `So play your role, Slut', she told herself, and
opened her mouth, stretching her tongue out in hopes of catching a drop or
two of his sperm when it started flying; the picture of submission, not to
his will (she knew that his coercion was merely an scapegoat for her
pride), but to her own whorish wantonness.  It felt so wonderful, now, to
be revealing that inner slut to someone.  To John.  `So come on, Baby.  Cum
all over your whorish wife's face.' She didn't have to beg.  In an instant,
huge stringy gobs of sperm where squirting out in pulses, splattering
across her face, pooling in the corner of one eye, clinging to her nose,
clogging one nostril, and covering everything from her upper lip to her
chin in a slimy mess.  She leered up at him, one eye closed, grinning with
licentious self-satisfaction, blew him a sultry, cummy kiss, and started
lasciviously licking the goo off her lips.  Then she lost it and giggled.
"Am I your Slut, Baby?" "The best", he assured her, grinning from ear to
ear.  Still kneeling astride her, half sitting on her chest, with a clear
look of joy and love in his eyes, he gently scooped the cooling sperm out
of the corner of her eye, and brought it near her mouth.  But not so near
that she didn't have to commit herself by extending her tongue to lick the
cold congeal from his hand.  "She", that inner whore, was absolute adoring
this; it was so disgusting.  She gave a throaty, wanton laugh, and raised
her head to suck the digit clean.  And so he cleaned her, picking the slimy
cold strands of goo off her face and feeding them to her, making her come
after each one, and then using the edge of his finger as a squeegee,
scooped up the runnier remains and fed those to her, as well.  And he told
her he loved her, which was reassuring to hear after she had just bared her
soul to him, and she returned the vow, so he would have no doubt but that
she had enjoyed his fantasy.  And that's when they live happily ever after.
                Not even close.                He was just getting warmed
up.  Hell, this was the most fun he'd had in forever.  He finished getting
undressed, but one look at his limp dick and she knew it wasn't to mount
her.  The unbelievable frustration she had felt was passed now, and, though
she certainly wouldn't have said "no" to a good fuck or a mustache ride,
she didn't neeeed it like she had.  Still, she sort of felt like she
deserved some reward for playing out his fantasy so well.  He was still,
quite obviously, enjoying his control game, so she figured it would
probably be futile to ask him to please her, so staying in character, she
asked him if he wouldn't like to watch his "slut of a wife" play with her
pussy.  "No, that's ok.  You go ahead, I'm going to sleep." And he clicked
off the light and got in beside her.  "Well, aren't you at least going to
take this thing off my arms?" "Oh no, that's staying on 'til we leave."
"John!  No way." Nothing.  "Jo-ohn." Fuck!  "John, you can't expect me to
sit around here and wear this thing all day tomorrow." "You said you'd do
anything I want.  Well, what I want is for you to be my prisoner for until
we leave.  And don't worry, we won't be sitting around here all day." Go
out like this?  No.  Impossible.  Great idea; "she" would love it.  But for
real?  No way.  "John," "Go to sleep" "I can't." "Then play with yourself,
like you wanted, it ought to relax you." "I can't!".  Fuck, now she was
frustrated again, though only because she knew she was helpless to do
anything about it.  "Fuck!", and she thrashed about in her frustration for
a moment, until she realized the bastard was lying there smiling to
himself. She could smell it.  And she knew it was pointless to argue with
him.  In fact, it wouldn't have been, and she knew it.  If she demanded in
all seriousness that she didn't want to play his game, she knew he would
release her.  And feel very hurt.  But she managed to ignore that knowledge
so she could pretend to herself that this was against her will; not willing
to admit that "she", the filthy, sluttish sex-fiend of her fantasies, was
screaming in her brain, `Oh yes!  This is great.  This is Heaven.  Make me
do whatever you want.  Make me show you what a slut I really am.' She lay
quietly, her brain in turmoil, far into the night.  At one point, she tried
to masturbate herself on her heel, but it only infuriated her.  Finally,
very late, she managed to fall asleep.  ~~~~~~~~~~~~ She didn't sleep well.
She could only get comfortable on her back or on her stomach, and it seemed
as if even the her deepest sleep she was aware of her bondage.  But when
the mid-morning sun moved to start cooking her under the light sheet, she
was forced to get up.  She went pee, but couldn't wipe herself.  She
couldn't even wipe the sleep from her eyes, or was it dried cum?  And there
was no putting on a robe.  So she went into the little sunroom off the
kitchen to find John sitting in the garden with coffee and a paper. 
"Morning, Ann.", as casj' as if she were in her robe, instead of naked and
trust up like a turkey.  "Morning." she said, unamused.  She was never best
in the morning.  "Do you think I could have my hands back for just a few
minutes, so I could wash my face, maybe even have a shower.?" "Oh no, we
couldn't have that.", he said in mock horror, "you might try to masturbate
in the shower.  No, I think I'll give you a bath.  After all, you are my
plaything, and I do have to take care of my things." This was silly.  He
was going to bath her, like a child?  She sighed, and followed him back
through the house to the old, claw foot tub.  He ran a bath, and as it was
filling, hugged her long and hard, kissing her despite her morning mouth.
What, was he going to brush her teeth, too?  He helped her into the filling
tub, a good grip on her arm as she sat in the tepid water.  Most accidents
happen in the bath, she tried to joke to herself, but couldn't find it
funny.  The tub was only half filled when he shut it off.  He carefully
washed every inch of her, and once she accepted the ridiculous situation,
she had to admit to herself that it was a nice way of being pampered; `I
feel lazy this morning, darling, would you mind bathing me?  There's a good
fellow.' He washed her face, wiped her neck, cleaned behind her ears,
scrubbed her back, and spent far more time then necessary cleaning her
breasts and pussy.  Then he leaned her back against towel, her arms still
out of the water, and carefully shaved her legs.  `Oo, spoil me, baby.' And
then, yes, he even tried to brush her teeth, at which point she rebelled.
"Look, John, this is great, and I really am enjoying this game, but could I
please be free for three minutes while I brush my own teeth.  You're
hurting my gums, and besides, I really need to stretch my arms out" He let
her arms free.  And she made the most of it.  Finished with her teeth, she
washed her forearms which were disgustingly hot and sticky in their leather
prisons, and reveled in being able to straighten her arms.  The three
minutes was ten, and though he stood right there watching her, he made no
sign that her respite was over.  Understanding, she thanked him, and
turning her back to him, raised her arms into position.  The braces really
were remarkably comfortable.  If it hadn't been so hot, she felt she
wouldn't have minded them, that, of course, assuming that she was to be
bound at all.  Bound again, she sat on the toilet as he did an awkward job
of applying her make-up.  Not a lot of it, and the finished effect was
acceptable to her, but it took him fifteen minutes to do what she could
have done in three.  But he was having fun, and they were both laughing by
the time he was done, so what the hell.  "Coffee?", he offered.  Sounded
wonderful.  "Go out to the garden, then, and I'll bring it out." "Like
this?!" "Sure.  Why not" "But, what if ..." He shrugged.  "Nobody has come
back there in a week and there's no reason to think anyone will.  There
aren't any windows onto the garden, and if some one does see, fuck'em."
Great.  Fuck'em.  Easy for him to say, he had all his clothes on and wasn't
trussed up like the centrefold for Popular Pervert.  When he came with the
coffee, she was still standing just inside the sunroom, trying to screw up
her courage.  "What happened to you being my little slut?" he asked,
standing with her in the doorway looking at the deserted garden.  "Its.. 
its too much", she said.  "I might be able to sit out there naked for you
if my arms weren't tied or bound, or whatever, and I might be able to sit
out there bound, if I weren't naked, but..." "Just a minute, then".  He put
the coffee and croissants out on the table, and then went into the house.
He returned to drape her robe over her shoulders.  Not fastened, so she was
still completely exposed, but hiding her arms.  Yeah, that would be ok.  I
guess.  Thank God he was being compassionate about this thing; earning her
absolute trust where she had thought he had already had it.  She
deliberately sat with her back to the path round the house.  And he fed her
croissants, and poured coffee into her mouth for the better part of an
hour, caressing her until the robe fell back off her shoulders, noticed,
but of no concern.  Scarcely a word passed between them, but both savoured
the delicious sensuality of the moment; a loving husband feeding his bound,
naked wife pastries in a languid tropical garden.  It was one of those
perfect moments that she wished would never end.  But eventually, he
decided that it was time, and left her sitting naked in the garden,
suddenly aware of her helplessness should anyone come.  Which, though she
scarcely acknowledged the fact, made her tingle excitement.  No one did
come, and John was soon back with a light, cotton print sleeveless dress
and her white blazer.  While she choked back a protest, he took out his
pocket knife and cut both straps on the dress.  Hardly a favourite of hers,
but still!  Once on her, he used safety pins to refasten the severed
straps. The blazer was draped over her shoulders, sandals strapped to her
feet; being dressed made her feel like she were a five year old.  "I can't
go out like this, you know." "Of course.  Why not." "Well, what are people
going to think?" "I figure they will guess one of four things and not be
able to decide which one is the truth.  Either you are an uppity bitch who
reads too much Vogue, or your mother took Thalidomide, or you've been in a
horrible accident and your coping very well, or your husband has tied your
hands behind your back in some bizarre sex game.  And anyone who could even
think up that last one is obviously some kind of pre-vert, so who cares
what they think.  Anyway, we are going out for a walk and we're in a city
where no one knows us, so it doesn't matter what anyone thinks." She
demanded that he take her to the full length mirrors in the wardrobe.  And
she had to admit that any of his four explanations looked equally possible.
Her arms bulged the jacket ever so slightly if she stood normally.  If she
stuck her chest out a little, you couldn't see a thing.  Of course that
meant walking like one of those women that look like they are far too proud
of their boobs and stick them out so every man will notice.  "Ok.  I'll try
it.  But if I can't deal with it, we come right back, ok?" Of course.  He
put on their shades, and they walked out to Magazine St.  Not too bad. 
There were few people around and she could make herself ignore those in
cars.  Yeah, if it was important that they have a little walk, so he could
prove he was boss, this was no less private then last night in the cab. 
And even as she thought this, a cab pulled up to the curb beside them, and
John opened the door for her.  Panic!  Where the hell was he taking her. 
She would be too far from home.  Out of control.  She wanted to break and
run, but there was no where to go.  She wanted to refuse to get into the
car, but didn't want to make a scene with the cabbie right there, and an
old couple passing on the side walk.  So she got in, not without some
awkward shuffling that partially dislodged the blazer.  She froze in an
awkward position, knowing that the least movement would bare her horrible
secret to the world (ie.  anyone who leaned over the cab to look inside the
rear window.  John got in the other side and gave an address.  As they
headed out into traffic he looked at her to find her frantically motioning
to her shoulder, where the blazer had slipped.  He tugged it back on, no
harm done.  But her brain was on overload.  Her heart, pounding.  He
snuggled over and started kissing her temple, but she was barely aware of
it.  It was like a nightmare where you're out in public and realize that
you're naked.    Yet she had no real desire to end the game, determined to
see how far she could go.  The fact was, the adrenaline had her wired up
like a speed freak, and she enjoyed the rush, wanted it to continue, and
knew in her soul that John would not let her down.  As the ride took them
uneventfully to the Quarter, she calmed some.  She was still shaking,
though she attributed it to the too-cold car.  But basically she settled
into a post traumatic numbness, like a soldier who has survived one brutal
battle, and is waiting, an automaton, for the next.  John paid for cab and
nonchalantly came round to help her out.  He was so good at acting casual
that it never occurred to her that it said as much about him to be walking
with a bound woman as it did about her to be that bound woman.  They were
on a quiet side street, just east of the Square.  She recognized it from
shopping a few days earlier.  They strolled, his arm around her waist a
comforting anchor.  "How are you doing, Ann?", he asked, with the tender
concern.  "I'm, I'm doing ok.", she decided.  "Relaxing a bit." He stopped
her and kissed her, thanking her for going along.  Then he steered her into
a store displaying the most frightening collection of bondage and leather
gear.  A man looked up and immediately broke off talking with a customer to
come over and greet John like an old friend.  Or maybe old lover.  The guy
(mid-thirties, balding, neat mustache, leather vest over a hairy chest) had
a catty, insinuating voice that screamed "fag".  John introduced him to her
as "Robert", who had sold him the braces she was wearing.  She started at
the open mention to a stranger, but Robert immediately sidled closer in a
conspiratorial "girl-talk" sort of way that both amused and relaxed her. 
He loves his pair.  His master has made him where them for an entire month,
to work and everywhere.  And they are the most comfortable restraint.  and
no one would ever suspect that her arms were bound.  Doesn't it just drive
you wild being bound in public?  She admitted that it was pretty wild,
alright.  A breath of fresh air.  Hearing someone else talk so casually
about her present predicament somehow just took so much of the tension
away. As if she was just one of thousands of people that were walking
around New Orleans with their hands tied behind their backs.  At which he
called across the room to the girl he had been talking to, beckoning her
and her friend over.  "She's wearing braces now." She started to panic at
having another woman let in on her secret.  Somehow men, or at least a gay
man, was nowhere near as threatening.  But the woman, or girl, really, saw
her fear and immediately reassured her that it was ok, she was just trying
to get her mistress to order her one, too.  She was speechless.  There were
thousands of bound weirdos like her and she had just never realized it. 
The other woman asked if she could see it, as the shop was out.  No, its my
secret!  No one can see.  But the woman had asked her with such assurance
that she would, that she could not think of a way to refuse.  "I guess". 
Why wasn't John helping her?  Robert helped her with her jacket and the two
women studied the device.  The younger one oo'ed and ah'ed.  The older
asked if it was comfortable for a long period.  And then they left to order
one.  It had not been that bad.  But her jacket stayed off.  Robert
suggested she look around, and he and John moved to the cash.  She walked
down the long row of cases along one wall, amazed by the diversity of
implements.  And by the fact that she was openly wandering around a store
with her arms bound.  Whips, clips, dildos, paddles, handcuffs, body
harnesses, blindfolds, masks.  Much of it looked very painful - John better
not get any ideas - and all of it looked very bizarre.  John came up behind
her, caressed her arms, and spoke softly in her ear.  "Red, I'm going to
leave you here while you shop." "John!  No.!" "I want you to pick some
things out, and I don't want to effect your choices.  You'll be safe. 
Robert will help you decide what to buy, and when your done, he'll escort
you to Cafe du Monde, its only a couple of blocks.  Is that ok?" No.  It
was crazy.  Bound, helpless, and alone in a strange city?  The same panic
as in the cab took her.  She should say "no".  Enough was enough.  Just
tell him "no" and get the hell out of here.  But she couldn't.  It was like
waiting for a roller-coaster ride, knowing that you were going to be scared
shitless, and yet you got in anyway, because of the excitement of being
scared.  "with my jacket on.?" "Of course." "ok." "You sure?" She nodded.
He kissed her deeply and left.  Robert had been standing a few feet away,
and stepped up, reassuring her with his casual attitude to the whole
affair. He took her by the arm, but to guide and connect, not force, and
took her around the entire store pointing out items of interest.  His
instructions were to help her pick out one or two things that she wanted to
play with and one or two things that she thought John would like to play
with.  If she couldn't decide, Robert was to choose for her.  "So darling,
pick what turns you on", Robert advised, one girl to another.  Amongst the
hundreds of things that held no interest for her there were a couple of
things that tickled her curiosity.  The problem was that she could hardly
come out and tell this guy that she had a crush on the biggest leather
dildo in the store.  A huge thing, as big as her neck at the base.  Of
course she could blame that on John...  "I..I may regret this, but I think
John would like that huge dildo." "oo, Darlin'.  A lady after my own
heart!" Maybe she could tell this guy things?  "Well, what do you think
he'd like?", she asked.  "Nipple clamps." His answer came back fast and
flatly, with absolute certainty.  "I don't know..." Actually, she was kind
of curious, but what if they hurt too much.  "Trust me.  These ones are the
best.  Nice and heavy, large padded clips.  They are completely adjustable.
If you want I can set them now so they'll be perfect when he uses them. 
Really, you'll cream yourself, darling.  Get them for you, not him." What
could she say, considering that she thought he might be right about her
creaming herself.  But I think we'll pass on the pre-fitting.  The clothing
was mostly impossible to wear outside an S&M club.  But they did have those
rubber dresses that she had seen and regretted that she wasn't the sort of
person to wear one.  But as she had him show her for the second time, she
realized that she could hardly try it on with her arms tied.  No, she
didn't think it was her.  But Robert assured her that any woman that could
wear one, owed it to her man to do it, and from what he could see, she'd
look fabulous.  And he could help her into it, and believe him, if she was
worried about him helping her, darlin' you got nothing he ain't seen before
or would have the least interest in anyway.  A lie; he rather liked women,
though he hadn't swung that direction in years.  Well, John would just die.
Sure.  He measured her first, and then selected one of the contoured tubes
of black.  Robert was most professional about helping her, though she did
catch his gaze dropping a few times as he dusted her with baby powder. 
They're all the same.  Getting into the thing was like putting on a condom,
and they wrestled and tugged at the thing until it was on, Robert casually
dipping a hand down the front to adjust her breasts, but he was cool about
it, business-like.  It felt very odd.  She had immediately built up a layer
of sweat so the entire thing felt vaguely squishy.  This is insane in this
heat, she thought.  She went out to a mirror.  `Wow!  Not bad for 34, Ann.
A bit too much in the belly, but still.  `Go for it.' Someone came in the
store.  She turned.  Tourists!  A Joe-average looking couple.  Fuck!  Her
eyes met the woman's, before she turned back to the mirror, mortified. 
"Andrew, lets go." the woman said, panic in her voice, and she heard the
door close behind them.  Strange, being on the other side.  Yesterday that
would have been her.  One look of some woman with her arms bound behind
her, casually trying on a rubber dress, and she would have been out like a
shot.  She laughed at them; `Prudes', and looked around for Robert who was
coming with some outrageously high heels.  They fit perfectly (he had
checked her sandals), looked sexy in a slutty "rocker" sort of way, she
just couldn't walk in them.  Still, her sandals didn't really do it.  Like
the rest of their merchandise, their shoe selection was limited to the
outrageous: pumps that locked on, thigh high boots, and too high heels. 
She tried the lowest heel they had, still far too high to walk any distance
in, and they made her look like a streetwalker, but, if the shoes fit... 
Robert drew her away from the two women, still checking out the toys.

   "Ann, one last thing you need to have." "What?", she asked, skeptically.
His tone implied she wouldn't like this.  "I don't know.  Only you can tell
me.  Its the thing you saw that tickled your imagination, but you would
never dare suggest it." She knew immediately what "it" was.  But say it? 
"You can tell John that I made you get it because I thought he'd like it,
and darlin', it don't matter to me.  I've used it all, let me tell you.  Do
you know what it is?" "yes.  But I...".  Nope, she couldn't just come out
and tell this guy that what she was really intrigued by was... "Here, let
me set those nipple clamps so they feel right, and you can think about it."
He lead her back into the change room, rolled down the rubber, talking
casually between adjustments, and while she wore the clamps for a few
minutes to be sure.  "Like me?, I don't mind telling you that last night I
had a penis gag halfway down my throat.  But what I've never told anyone,
is that that dildo you picked drives me wild.  I'm scared to death that my
master tries to use one on me, but deep down I hope he does.  But I won't
tell him.  I couldn't.  I can tell you 'cause you want it too." Her nipples
ached, but not unbearably.  The worst was when he had first put them on. 
Now it was a dull pain that seemed to send shivers straight down her spine
to her pussy.  Oh, what the hell, she was never going to see this guy
again, and he was far more perverted than... "the butt plug." "Oo, nice. 
Which one?" "the, ah, steel..." "Nice.  The smallest?" "uh huh".  "Back in
a minute." What could she tell herself?  It had been in the back of her
mind since she saw them.  How could she tell John, though?  Blame it on
Robert.  Right, that was a good idea.  But what if he didn't use it because
he thought she didn't really want to?  "Do you want that wrapped, or would
you like to wear it?", her flaming assistant asked, brandishing the thing.
"I think you should wear it." "Wouldn't it fall...No.  I can't let you...".
Nope.  That's it.  Definitely impossible.  "Ann,", he said
conspiratorially, "I could let your arms free, just for a few minutes...if
you promise not to tell." She took advantage of the freedom to use their
washroom, and while there, with help from some lubricant that Robert gave
her, she eased the hard cold shaft gently into her rectum.  So cold, so
heavy.  So full.  Not like having her vagina stretched open.  Once she was
over the slight hump and her anus had closed around the neck, it was quite
comfortable.  Not quite what she had expected.  John had occasionally put a
finger up there, but this was the first time she had had anything else. 
Different.  But it was making her pussy wet.  `Guess I like it', she
decided.  Robert had provided her with a "garter", a minimal arrangement of
satin reinforcing tape and Velcro that fit around her waist and between her
legs, to hold the weighty thing in place.  Pulling down the rubber skirt,
the lines were only faintly visible.  She used a comb she found to fix her
hair.  She had a sudden wave of disgust with herself, as she did her stilt
act back through the store to where Robert waited with her braces.  Dressed
like a whore, with a piece of stainless steel up her ass; this was stupid.
"Darling, you look fabulous!  Stunning.  Absolutely stunning!" and then,
with a huge sigh, "Your enough turn even this boy into a trendy bisexual.
John is going to cream just looking at you." That sort of helped.  But she
still had serious doubts.  He strapped up her arms again, draped her jacket
over her shoulders and pointed to a mirror.  Overdressed for afternoon. 
Sexy as hell.  These heels were still too high for her taste but
reasonable. Her hair and makeup weren't right for the outfit.  And no one
would guess that this fashion bitch's arms were bound under her coat and
she had a piece of steel up her butt.  She looked cool, bored and aloof,
and over-dressed, more than kinky.  Overall?  She'd had worse "I hate the
way I look and all my clothes" days.  John had signed a blank Visa stub
before he left.  Robert tucked it inside the bag, asking her about her old
dress.  Garbage.  He put her shades on her, and they were out in the
street, in the heat, and in public.  And she was fine.  The shoes slowed
her down, the sun was too hot on the black rubber, she was cooking around
her waist, but she wasn't freaking in the least.  Sort of the same numb
feeling that she'd noticed before, and yet more because she was just
getting used to this.  Robert was prattling on about something to do with
her and John being lucky to understand each other, but she was only half
listening.  John had a table near the sidewalk in the cafe, they spotted
each other from almost a block away.  Robert wouldn't stay, but insisted on
digging out the Visa receipt for John's approval.  While he was rummaging,
he casually commented that he hoped that John liked the one item that he
had insisted on; Ann had not been convinced, though she said she didn't
mind it so much now.  And he slipped her a wink.  A few good-byes and they
were alone, John asking her how it went and what she bought.  She was
surprised, as she went over each item, at her lack of embarrassment.  Of
course, she blamed all the items on what she and Robert decided he would
like, but she assured him that she wanted to play with them too.  She could
see him getting excited; his eyes started, well, not glowing, but close to
it.  His words were, "Holy shit", when he stood to lean across the table,
ostensibly to kiss her, but in fact to caress her rubberized breast.  But
when she told him that she was wearing the steel buttplug, he just stared
at her, slack-jawed.  Then he suddenly decided it was time to go.  I'll
bet, she thought.  But, slave though she was, she still demanded he get her
a Hurricane to go: even sex slaves get to spoil themselves on holiday, and
though she was fairly relaxed walking about as she was, it couldn't hurt.
It would have been too strange walking all the way to Pat O'Brian's for the
Hurricane with that thing up her butt, so they caught a cab and she waited
in the car while John ran in to get one to go.  Hurricanes were so yummy,
but they always seemed to hit her harder than she expected.  She wondered
what was in them.  "Hurricane mix and 4 ounces of rum" the cabbie informed
them.  4 ounces!  That would explain why two drinks had had her rutting
with some strange guy on a dance floor.  John fed the drink to her on the
ride to...  the cemetery on St Charles?  "Gotta see the cemeteries if your
in New Orleans", he assured her.  Yeah, but like this?  At least it had
clouded over and a bit of a breeze had come up, so she wasn't on melt-down
as she'd been on the walk with Robert.  The cemetery was beautiful.  A city
of the dead.  Avenues of crypts within the high stone walls.  So peaceful.
She was passing between two vaults barely a shoulder's width apart, when
John slipped his arm around her latex waist.  He held her to him and
started gnawing on her throat.  She groaned in bliss.  Backing her against
a wall, he started marauding her mouth with his, while pawing at her
rubberized body.  `Guess he likes the dress', and she gave herself over to
the scrumptious attack.  Strange not even being able to hug or caress him
in return.  Nothing to do but lean back and enjoy it.  A large rain drop
hit her cheek.  She hardly noticed.  His hand scooped down onto her bare
thigh.  Here?  Fuck.  Who cares?  The place is empty.  And she cleared her
mind of everything but his hand insinuating itself between her thighs.  She
parted them and he tried raising his hand.  The tight rubber stopped him.
He clutched at the rubber and rolled the skirt up on itself until she could
feel a breeze in her hair!  `Its ok, the place is empty.' More drops of
water.  Someone ran by the end of their tiny alley, hurrying for cover. 
And he was prying at her dripping vulva, making her gasp with tense
pleasure.  Half his hand was inside her, the rest was mashing her clitoris.
She bit her lip to keep herself quiet.  His cock was hard, he was rubbing
it against her hip.  It started raining in earnest.  She ignored it.  "fuck
me." a harsh, whispered, intense order.  He gripped her back under her arms
and swept her feet out from under her, carefully lowering her to the marble
tiles.  Then he was on her, cock wagging from his fly, and shoved into her
so hard, stretching against the steel in her ass, that she immediately
came. And he took her.  With her arms pinned, she was forced to just lie
back and feel deliciously helpless as he ravished her.  The skies opened up
and it started pouring, but they weren't stopping now.  In fact, she
decided that no one would be in the cemetery in this, and started grunting,
and gasping, egging him on until he was pounding into her, pumping her full
of seed.  Then they were lying in the afterglow nestled between two marble
walls, rain pouring down on them in huge, warm drops.  After a time, as the
rain started letting up, John helped her sit up, and, rummaging around
behind her, released her arms.  Funny, in a way, she was sad to see it go.
That stupid buttplug on the other hand, had served it's purpose admirably,
warming her up, and then got her off like a shot.  But now?  Out of there!
She asked John get her jacket which had gone missing, and pooped the thing
out, expecting a mess, but it was quite clean, so she dropped it in the
shopping bag.  She turned to see John crawling out of one of the unused
crypts.  Seems he overshot when he tossed it in there when the rain
started. She didn't even remember it coming off.  "Hot shower?" They
sloshed back to their room, arm in arm in the warm drizzle.  She took the
ridiculous shoes off, and padded barefoot on the soupy side walk.  John was
quiet, basking in that post-orgasmic bliss.  "Excellent", he thought.  That
had been really great.  All of it.  He couldn't believe that it had gone so
well.  He'd been sure that she was going to call "quit" a number of times,
but she rode it out.  Which he took as grand show of her trust and love. 
And this fucking dress!  It was outrageous.  He ran his hand along her hip
and waist to remind himself how wild it felt.  Yup, she'd been great.  He
owed her one for going along with all his fantasies.  He would start by
giving her a long bath, and bathing her.  She liked that.  Then maybe a nap
and an expensive meal.  That would be a nice ending to what had been a
wonderful trip.  If he had been saying all this out-loud, perhaps Ann would
have thought it sounded like a fine plan.  But he didn't, so she was making
plans of her own.  Being ravished in a graveyard in the rain in broad
daylight had been wonderfully crazy, and mind-blowingly exciting, because
it was so outrageous.  But she wasn't done yet.  John was probably quite
satisfied.  He'd dumped his load in her (she didn't dare look to see if it
was only warm rain running down her thighs), and would probably be ready
for a nap.  She, on the other hand, was just getting warmed up.  She found
herself imagining a big black lover.  No lost time creating a face, body or
personality, nor even in overlaying the features of her dance partner from
the other night.  No, the only thing she knew about her pretend lover was
the size of his cock: huge.  Fucking enormous.  Proportioned like the
phallus on a primitive fertility doll.  Maybe only twice as long as a
normal man, but thick?  Too thick.  like a baseball bat.  A weapon thicker
than any man had a right to wield.  Or, at least thicker than he had a
right to expect a woman to take.  She would have to be really ready to take
it inside her.  Not just dripping, but ready; wide open and hungry.  And
even then she would have to go slowly, inching it inside her.  But the one
characteristic her imaginary lover had was patience.  He was in no hurry to
get inside, and once in, would be in no rush to spend and leave.  She could
imagine how it would feel to take that huge thing in her hands, greasing
it, covering it with goo, needing two hands to encircle the thing... 
Definitely.  And John would get no rest until she'd been thoroughly ravaged
by the leather club that swung in a plastic bag at his side.  No problem.
She'd go down on him in the shower just enough to thoroughly get his
attention, and then later impale herself on her new lover, on the pretext
of putting a "show" on for John.  After she had an orgasm or three, she'd
let him have his nap.  Or his way with her, whichever he preferred.  But
not before.    It ain't over, 'til its over.     

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