From zanna@whoever.com Thu Mar 13 08:05:12 1997
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.tg
Subject: Celestial Repost (Top15): Mercedes (1/7)
From: zanna@whoever.com (Joyce Melton & Morgan Preece)
Date: Thu, 13 Mar 1997 13:05:12 GMT
--------
This story is intended for the entertainment of adults only. 
If you are under 18 please stop reading immediately. If you 
are offended by strong adult-oriented themes, explicit sex, 
erotic fantasy or vulgar language, what are you doing here?





Mercedes


by Morgan Preece


Chapter I




	I had quit college a few years before, short 
of my degree because of a lack of drive, I guess. Smart but 
lazy, with less-than-rugged good looks that attracted more 
than my fair share of women. I found it easy to meet an 
older woman who wanted the company, not even necessarily in 
bed, of a virile young man. Many of them were willing or 
even eager to help with "tuition" or "rent money," allowing 
me to lead an easy life that seemed to have no end and I 
never had to think about morality.

	I kept myself neat and presentable, even stylish, my 
dark blond hair long or short as fashion dictated, usually 
boyishly clean-shaven, and my gray-green eyes always 
smiling. Those who didn't want to bed me often wanted to 
mother me or play other games. Always the willing playmate, 
at twenty-two, I thought I had done a little bit of 
everything. 

	Then I met Sylvia in an upscale bar in Newport Beach. 
The Conch had always been a sort of happy-hunting ground for 
me. Dim enough to hide the imperfections my chosen prey felt 
they suffered. Close to country clubs, yacht clubs and toney 
beach houses, it offered full-strength drinks, an easy-
listening soundtrack, deep booths and a discreet meeting 
place for rich ex-wives on the make.

	The woman I spotted, Sylvia, really didn't look the 
type to want what I could offer. Tall, dark-haired, full-
lipped with clear skin and green eyes, she looked younger 
than my usual sugarmamas and frankly, prettier, but she gave 
me the eye and I moved in. 

	When I got close I discovered her beauty and made a 
guess as to her wealth.	

	Her body fit the strapless green cocktail dress like it 
had grown there with her large titties supported by some 
unseen nether garment or possibly sheer willpower. Her waist 
seemed improbably slender to flare so into hips 
unfashionably full. Her thighs tapered artistically to 
sculpted calves, trim ankles crossed above high-heeled 
strappy sandals. 

	She enjoyed being admired and I played it up with 
smiles and eye signals. The low-cut deep green cocktail 
gown, diamond choker and other jewelry she wore probably 
cost a year's "tuition". I felt my interest rise. Her shoes 
alone must have cost $600.

	She offered to buy me a drink and I asked for mineral 
water but she said no, I should order white wine. She put 
her hand on mine as she said this, her bracelets flashing 
emeralds. I nodded to the waitress to bring the wine. 

	Sylvia smiled, her teeth expensively white and 
straight. "I'll have single-malt, up, with iced mineral 
water on the side," she ordered in a throaty voice that 
seemed as deep as my own. Her long, tapering nails scratched 
the back of my hand when she spoke and the thrill of it 
surprised me. Greed, and something else, stirred in my 
mercenary heart.

	She drank her Scotch quickly and sipped her mineral 
water while we talked. I played with my wine glass. Her 
husband, she told me, lived on the East Coast most of the 
year where he worked in investments. Here, she lived alone 
in a big house in Laguna with just a maid and an old college 
friend who occasionally came down from Malibu to keep her 
company. 

	She laughed when I pried and she admitted that the 
college friend was female. "It's a big house, even when 
there are three of us, it's lonely. Where do you live?" she 
asked.

	I told her I had a studio near Fifth Street on the 
peninsula. "I'll bet it's cute," she said, "let's go see 
it." When she stood up, I realized her height without heels 
probably matched my own. Since I am only five-seven this has 
happened before. Some women are put off by men who are not 
taller than them but she didn't seem to mind. With her heels 
on, she towered over me by three or more inches.

	She grasped my elbow in a strong grip and steered me 
through the crowded bar out to the valet parking. They 
brought her a red Mercedes hardtop convertible, gleaming 
like blood in the harsh parking lot flourescents. "Get in," 
she said, "I'll drive." I was used to acting as chauffeur 
and I really wanted to drive that car but I got in on the 
passenger side. The inside was rose and black leather and 
smelled deliciously feminine, like the car's owner.

	I watched her while she drove the short distance to my 
apartment, her confidence and her competence intrigued me. 
An elegant, beautiful -- rich -- woman who seemed to have 
everything in life that I wanted. 

	She saw me admiring her and smiled, slowly, with a 
promise of things to come. I wondered what I could do to 
make this a long-lasting relationship and I felt the 
stirrings of my own easily aroused lust. Sylvia licked her 
lower lip, flared her nostrils and adjusted the position of 
her beautifully broad ass on the seat as if preparing to 
make love to the gorgeous car. My bone forced me to squirm 
in my seat, too. I didn't want to waste any ammunition 
before the war began.

	Certainly an advantage in my line of work, I had never 
had much problem getting up for the job and I could delay my 
own climax almost indefinitely while manipulating my clients 
to one shuddering satisfaction after another. Sex is all in 
the mind anyway and I approached each woman as an 
intellectual puzzle subject to physical manipulation, like 
one of those multicolored cubes. All women seemed to respond 
to my concentration on their desires rather than my own. 
When I made love I never hurried because I had nothing I 
would rather be doing at that moment than pleasing my lady.

	Sylvia differed from all other women I had met, right 
from the start. With every other woman I had always the 
sense that I could respond to the challenge of reaching her 
emotions, that I could ride her pleasure to my goal. Sylvia 
pleased herself, always, I sensed. I felt like a passenger 
in the vehicle of her passions much as she had relegated me 
to the right-hand seat in her Mercedes. 

	Watching her drive was more arousing than watching a 
Las Vegas stripper peel off layers of erotic clothing. Her 
arm movements caused her heavy breasts to jiggle. Her softly 
curled hair swung when she turned her head to check a 
mirror. I could hear the whisper her stockings made as she 
worked the clutch in her high heels.

	Her expressions changed from moment to moment as she 
maneuvered the sleek car through the still heavy late-night 
traffic of the penninsula. She frowned as an inconsiderate 
driver tried to cut her off. She smiled as she passed the 
poky old limo cruising slowly down Balboa Avenue. She pouted 
at every stoplight and sighed in satisfaction when she again 
had her foot on the gas. When we stopped, her perfume 
surrounded me with musky intensity. I hardly noticed the g-
forces she induced as she drove the little red car too fast 
and almost too well.

	I noted the skin texture of her neck, guessing her age 
at forty-plus, allowing for the readily available miracles 
of the Gilded Coast. Her hands still looked young enough to 
do dishwashing commercials so she couldn't be more than 
forty-five. 

	The importance of knowing your lover's real age had 
occurred to me early in my scandalous career. Grunge rock 
would likely mean little to her and she probably remembered 
laughing at Saturday Night Live when Chevy & Co. were bright 
new comics and not endless reruns on the Comedy Channel. She 
may have screamed ecstatically at the Beatles or the Stones, 
saw Bill Cosby perform at her college. She most likely 
remembered where she had been when JFK died and Neil 
Armstrong walked on the moon. 

	All of these things could be important in finding ways 
to turn her on, bring her to climax, acquire some of her 
money and let her down gently when it came time for me to 
move on. Not that I thought about it that way, I just 
collected the information and used it when I needed it. Like 
the interesting correlation I had seen before between women 
who liked to drive hard and ones that liked to fuck hard.

	She found my address with no problem, even finding a 
parking space in front. I leaped out of the car but she was 
too fast for me, she had already opened her door. I made it 
around the car just in time to catch a glimpse of her thigh 
as she allowed her skirt to ride up high enough to show that 
she wore stockings with garters, not panty-hose. I knew 
then, for sure, that she intended to have sex tonight.

	We tripped up the steps to my third-floor studio and as 
soon as I had fumbled the door open, she slipped her hand 
into the top of my pants and pressed her lips to mine. She 
had my meat in her hand and her tongue in my throat before 
we well inside the room. Those on-display breasts pressing 
against my chest felt softer than pillows. Her other hand 
tangled in my hair pull-pushing me into her deep kiss. 
	
	She tasted of whisky and smelled of expensive musk as I 
drove my own tongue into her mouth in rapid, rhythmic 
thrusts. I cupped one hand on her plush ass to pull her into 
me while I reached for a nipple with the other. I bumped the 
door closed with the side of my own hip and we both started 
a little when it slammed but it hardly disturbed our fierce 
rhythms.

	She unzipped my fly and brought my cock out into her 
hand where she played with it while we kissed. Her thumb 
against the underside of the tip, her fingers working the 
barrel in a now soft, now hard, pizzicato. I had her nipple 
in my hand but she pulled away, dropping smoothly to her 
knees, caressing me as she went down. I tried to follow her 
but she had pushed me against the wall forcing me to stay 
upright. Quickly, she pulled my pants down to my knees. This 
was not going according to my usual plan.

	Her lips touched the end of my dick, several velvety 
kisses, each one shivered me to the base of my skull. Then 
her mouth closed over my entire prick. The tip worked 
against the back of her palate, her toungue quickly stroked 
me nearly to climax.  The curly hair of my crotch scrubbed 
away at her indelible lipstick. I thought of money and 
refused to cum.

	She watched me from under her dark brown curls, smiling 
with her eyes, teasing with a wink. One of her hands played 
with my asshole while the other caught my wrist, digging 
savage red fingernails into the pulse-point, her thumb 
trapped my own against the palm of my hand, pulsing. 

	I played with a much-beringed ear with my free hand. 
Surprisingly for a woman of her generation, she wore six 
earrings in the left ear; three rings in the top of the ear 
with a stud, a large hoop and a teardrop dangle all in 
separate holes in the lobe. I wondered if she went in for 
piercings in other places, I yearned to find out. I yearned 
to cum but still I held back.

	She changed tactics, working her head like a movable 
cylinder on the piston of my rigid cock. Her tongue, lips, 
palate, even teeth providing excruciatingly delicious 
sensation while she worked a finger into my asshole, probing 
for the cum lever. Her thumbnail teased the root of my 
prick, counterpointing the driving rhythm of her head and 
mouth and finger. I had never had a "client" who knew so 
much about cocksucking.

	My body wanted the release this beautiful woman offered 
but my intentions were in conflict. My back arched, the 
cords in my neck stood out. I trembled with a determination 
not to give her an excuse to end this encounter early, but 
my one cardinal rule had always been, give them what they 
want. I had just decided to let myself cum, regardless of 
how unprofessional it seemed when she pulled her head away 
from my cock.

(to be continued)




From zanna@whoever.com Thu Mar 13 08:05:20 1997
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.tg,alt.sex.stories
Subject: Celestial Repost (Top15): Mercedes (2/7)
From: zanna@whoever.com (Joyce Melton & Morgan Preece)
Date: Thu, 13 Mar 1997 13:05:20 GMT
--------
This story is intended for the entertainment of adults only. 
If you are under 18, please stop reading immediately. If you 
are offended by strong adult-oriented themes, explicit sex, 
erotic fantasy or vulgar language, what are you doing here?




Mercedes


by Morgan Preece


Chapter II




	Just as things got really hot she wanted to leave. 

	"The place is a mess, you haven't done the dishes or the
laundry and the bed is too small," she complained. "Why do you live
here? Let's go to my place where Concepcion will fix a snack, the
sheets are clean satin and my stereo can levitate us while we fuck."

	I agreed quickly. She had gotten me ready, what with her
mystery and her sexiness and her obvious money that I would probably
have agreed to anything but I wanted to see her place. I wanted to
find out what she wore under that little cocktail number. I wanted to
taste her pussy and make her cum again and again. I wanted her to buy
me a car like the one she drove and I thought she might be rich enough
that she would do it just for fun. 

	Just before we left she said something like, "Be sure to take
anything you can't live without." I had a pack of condoms and couldn't
think of anything else I might need so I left with nothing in my hands
except the sweet curve of her ass.

	She insisted on driving again and we went down Pacific Coast
Highway out of control and flying low. I began to wonder how much she
had drunk before I saw her and what had happened to her cool
competence. Perhaps she had gotten really hot during our brief clench
in my too dingy apartment 
also. Maybe she couldn't wait, either. She drove like Dirty Harry down
California One in the cool, humid onshore flow. 

	KROQ rocked us into the night on the German-built stereo. I
sat beside her alternately worrying about her killing both of us and
imagining life with a permanent sugarmama. The Pacific Ocean foamed
against the rocks and sand cliffs to my right as we sped through
Newport Coast toward Laguna Beach.

	She ran the red lights in Laguna and made a left up one of the
side streets well south of Main Beach, the turn so sudden the seat
belt had to save me from being thrown against the passenger door. A
few more quick turns on narrow, crooked lanes and the little red
Mercedes slipped into a garage under an enormous hillside mansion.
This was a few years before the fires but the place is still there.

	We sat in the car for a moment, long enough that the automatic
lights shut off as the garage door closed behind us. I didn't notice
much about the inside of the garage at first because Sylvia had
reached over and slipped her hand into my pants again as soon as the
car had stopped. The scary ride had caused my penis and balls to
shrivel up but she soon had me hot again. I tasted her lips in the
darkened garage but when I tried to pull up her skirt she pushed me
away. Sensitive to this sort of thing, I backed off quickly.

	She got out of the car and so did I. In the light from the car
doors she negotiated a flight of steps and disappeared through a door,
with me calling all the while, "Sylvia? Sylvia?" I wondered if I had
gotten her name wrong. Embarrassing but I had recovered from such
gaffes before. Automatically, without thinking, I closed the car door
in the middle of a syllable then yelped when I realized that 
the garage was now completely dark.

	The car had locked itself and the car alarm went off when I
tried to open it. In the small garage the noise threatened to deafen
me, I stumbled around with my hands over my ears, tripped on something
and fell into an oily patch on the floor. The impact seemed to have
set off a second car alarm in the confined space. The agony in my ears
caused me to flail along the floor trying to get up, naturally
smearing the oily mess into my clothes, my hair and my skin. I felt
like the fourth stooge.

	I found it hard to believe that no one from inside the house
had come out to stop the racket. Getting to my knees, I realized that
I needed my hands free to negotiate the darkness but if I did not
cover my ears I might go deaf or insane from the noise. I had an
inkling of how the survivors of some great disasters must feel.
Sylvia, I decided, was a bitch and I would have to be careful.

	When I finally found the stairs and reached the door at the
top, I screamed because it turned out to be locked. Dazed by the
continuing alarms and my previous fall, the locked door seemed a last
straw. Trying to turn around, I tripped on the top step of the short,
steep stairway and fell to the pavement. Suddenly, the noise ceased,
the lights came on and the door opened. 

	A woman glared out at me from the bright room beyond. At least
as beautiful as Sylvia, this woman seemed years younger, nearer my own
age. Her hair and eyes were black, her skin olive and her mouth
outlined in the reddest lipstick imaginable. She wore a black dress
with a white apron over it, both cut low enough to reveal enormous
well-tanned breasts, with just a hint of the aureole showing at the
edge of the encircling cloth. Twin hoop earrings large enough to touch
her shoulders dangled from each ear, six or seven bracelets on each
wrist and another pair of matching anklets on her right leg. A very
aggressive expression and an extensive, if profane Spanish vocabulary
completed her ensemble.

	I don't speak much Spanish, mostly just a few profane
endearments and she ran through my vocabulary and beyond in very short
order. I made up my mind that this must be Concepcion, the maid. She
seemed oddly dressed for a maid, except for the apron, but it being
Friday night perhaps she had had a date. I took a chance, interrupting
her tirade, "Concepcion, what happened to Sylvia?" I yelped.

	Her beautifully made-up eyes narrowed and she came part way
down the stairs, carrying, I saw now, a small, cast-iron frying pan.
Another big lady, her bare arms seemed almost as muscular as mine and
I knew if she hit me with that I would definitely be hurt. "You no
call her that, cochon. You must 
call her Mrs. Femina, hey?" She waved the skillet threateningly. "And
doan call me Concepcion, you call me Miss Marquez, hey? Now, take off
you clothes."

	I must have goggled at her because she grinned. "You not
coming inna my clean house, you filthy theeng. Besides, what you need
clothes for, what you gonna do. Hey?" When I started to stand up, she
drew back with the frying pan again. "You stay down till you get you
clothes off, hey?"

	I thought she must be afraid of me and I intended to protest
my harmlessness. "Ah, Concepcion," I began. She stepped forward and
shifted to a two handed grip, swinging for my head like Raul Mondesi
going for one low and outside. I ducked but the edge of the pan
clipped me on the wrist I put up to block the blow, shattering my
watch, and the bounce hit me a stunner above the left ear. I collapsed
again, the side of my face flat against the oily concrete. I
considered my options and decided to lay very still.

	"I tole you, hey?" She said almost amiably. "You say 'Miss
Marquez' before you speak to me and 'Miss Marquez' when you finish.
Show proper respect. Now get undress or I break you other arm." In
trying to convey the flavor of Concepcion's speech, I do not mean to
imply that she was less than loquent, she had a great and colorful
fluency in the local variety of 'Spanglish.'

	My arm was not broken but my head throbbed like it might be. I
licked my lips and tried to think. The woman was obviously insane, I'd
better do as she said. For now. She made comments as I stripped, some
of them in Spanish. Somehow, bruised, frightened, humiliated, still,
something 
erotic remained about undressing in front of a beautiful woman. 

	First my shirt came off and I remembered all the times I had
done private strip shows for my clientele. Concepcion was a woman and
I knew what to do to please a woman. Pleasing women had become my
profession, my livelihood, my existence. Maybe if I pleased this
lunatic domestic, well, maybe she wouldn't hit me with the frying pan
again.

	I watched her while I peeled the shirt. About thirty-five, I
judged but a very fine thirty-five. Skin, hair and eyes in the warm
tones of a Mexican summer, with a full, oval face and cheekbones that
hinted at the conquest of native peoples. Her posture was erect, with
a graceful curve to her back. Her well-formed arms tapered to shapely
hands that looked surprisingly soft. Her oval-cut red nails matched
the shade of her lipstick. I kicked off my shoes and turned up my feet
to peel off the expensive socks one of my lovers had given me.

	Concepcion nodded pleasantly. A large woman, she carried her
weight very well. I knew something of women's sizes and I guessed her
at an 18 top and a 14 bottom. The extra two sizes in the top being
mostly for her one figure "flaw," those massive, tawny breasts that
bulged from whatever cruel undergarment she wore under her
scoop-necked dress. She must have tailored the dress herself, a
domestic should be able to sew shouldn't she? It fit beautifully under
the lacy apron that seemed so incongruously attached to such evening
finery.

	Wriggling out of my pants, I began to get hard. "Soch an ogly
theeng," she observed. "You not wearing unnerwear, that what you mean
to tell me?" I nodded, not trusting myself to remember her bizarre
formula for permission to speak to her.

	She noticed. "You not gonna talk at all, you gotta call me
Miss Marquez, hey?" She spattered me with a few more Spanish curses.
Then she waved the frying pan again, menacingly, "Stuff you shirt in
you mout'. Do it, puta!" 

	I goggled at her. She took a half step toward me, reaching
across herself to take another two-handed grip on the frying pan. I
felt my own naked helplessness acutely, for I had no doubt that she
would strike me again. The muscles at the corner of her jaw worked.
Hurriedly, I complied, stifling my own protest. The oil-stained rag
had a taste that made me want to throw up. 

	She reviled me again in her mixture of bad grammar and
obscenity. "You got no respect, you just a slut, a whore, even if you
got a dick. Now you can't talk, puta!" She went on in that vein. No
one had ever called me a whore before, but considering what I did for
my living since dropping out of college, it was not unjust.

	Mysteriously, with the gag in my mouth and the verbal abuse,
abasing myself naked on the dirty floor of a garage, my hard-on had
not gone away. Concepcion, or Miss Marquez, whatever, had released
something within me. Or had Sylvia earlier? Guilty pleasure washed
over me. My whoredom, revealed, humiliated me and exalted me at once.
She knew. I knew! I could not protest, plead innocence, extenuating
circumstances, or outside manipulation. 

	For the past two years I had whored for older women after the
money from my parents ran out. Done it willingly, licked dried-out old
pussy, played with shriveled dugs, stuck my cock between the nether
lips of crones old enough to be my grandmother and all because I got
paid for it! Seldom in direct cash but always with a payoff. 

	And now a beautiful woman had confronted me on it. With
physical threats and a Spanish word that sent a thrill through me
every time she said it. "Puta!" It means a woman who whores herself
for men. In Spanish, every word has gender and "puta" definitely means
a woman. The male word, "puto" means a man who whores himself for men
and I had never done that. There may be a Spanish word for what I had
done, there's an Italian one, but if she used it I did not know or
hear it. 

	The English "whore" cut my conscience like a whip, a thrill
like reaching the top of a roller coaster. But "puta" went through me
like a knife, a scary, frightening thrill-ride I had never
experienced. 

	I moaned behind the gag, my eyes closed. My left hand reached
for release. I had no thought of Sylvia or my original intention of
coming here. My body, my mind, my soul -- my hand -- wanted release. I
pumped once, twice; excruciatingly intense sensation flooded my being.
I knew that I would cum soon.

(to be continued)


From zanna@whoever.com Thu Mar 13 08:05:26 1997
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.tg,alt.sex.stories
Subject: Celestial Repost (Top15): Mercedes (3/7)
From: zanna@whoever.com (Joyce Melton & Morgan Preece)
Date: Thu, 13 Mar 1997 13:05:26 GMT
--------
This story is intended for the entertainment of adults only. 
If you are under 18 please stop reading immediately. If you 
are offended by strong adult-oriented themes, explicit sex, 
erotic fantasy or vulgar language, what are you doing here?


Copyright (C) 1997 by Morgan Preece. All rights reserved. Permission
is hereby granted for noncommercial use of this complete and unaltered
text (including disclaimer paragraph above and this paragraph) in
electronic form such as posting to EBBS's or Newsgroups or free access
Electronic Archives. Electronic storage of unaltered copies for
personal use is also permitted. Any other use of this text is a
violation of copyright. Additionally, no permission is given hereby
for any sort of distribution (including Email) to minors or other
persons to whom such distribution would be illegal in the jurisdiction
of distributor, recipient or intermediary. No hardcopies may be made
without written permission from the author.


MERCEDES


by Morgan Preece


CHAPTER 3




	Just then, Concepcion tapped my skull with the frying pan. 

	I collapsed  again, my face colliding one more time with flat
smooth concrete. "Bitch! Slut! Hija de una puta! No en el piso! You
mess up my floor, you tonta!"

	My head throbbed but somehow I felt good. The only thing I
couldn't figure out was why on Earth was I crying? I lay there naked
on the concrete in the slightly oily debris of the garage. I knew that
I had fallen into the hands of some sort of madwoman and somehow, I
felt happy. Frightened, 
the way one feels on a darkened roller coaster, but I knew better than
to try to get out in the middle of the ride.

	Concepcion stood astride me then, suddenly. She put a
high-heeled shoe in the middle of my back and pulled my hands behind
me where she wrapped my wrists with some sort of tape almost up to my
elbows. I struggled uselessly, grunting through my oily rag but we
both knew I could not get away and somehow, no longer wanted to. 

	She kept up a stream of commentary in her mixture of English
and Spanish. She called me by endearing names like "querida" and
"darling." She called me nasty ones like "puta" and "cunt". She made
me stand up, difficult to do with your hands behind you. She pushed me
up the stairs ahead of her, warning me solicitously not to stumble.
"You clomsy, dickless teeng," she said almost fondly.

	I stared at the spotless kitchen behind the door. Every modern
convenience laid out with style and lots and lots of money. I had
almost forgotten the money. Normally thinking about money and women
could make me hard but this time it didn't seem to be happening. I
worried a little, would I be 
able to perform when it came time for Sylvia or whatever her name was.
Perhaps Concepcion had used me up with her little skillet.

	Standing naked in the middle of the room, shivering a little
on the cold tile, the hot water caught me completely by surprise.
Concepcion stood beside the sink with the stainless steel hose and the
black plastic nozzle of the sink sprayer in her hands. My mercenary
little reverie cut short by the nearly scalding spray, I thought she
had burned me, that I would have scars.

	 "Got to wash off the grease," Concepcion laughed. I tried to
push the gag out of my mouth to scream. When she flipped the lever to
cold my breath caught in my throat. I tried to inhale the rag, I
choked, I gagged. I felt my bile rise and I feared that if I vomited,
I would choke to death. I fell to the floor, the water alternating hot
and cold, shocking me while Concepcion continued laughing, "I got to 
wash you, you feelthy thing."

	The water made the floor so slippery that I did not dare try
to stand again, but attempted to crawl or swim out of the reach of the
deranged housemaid. Frantically, I struggled to an archway where steps
led down to a sunken living room but Concepcion grabbed my ankle and
dragged me back. I fell on my chin and would have bit my tongue but
for the greasy rag in my mouth. At least she had to stop spraying me
with hot water to grab my leg. "Poor baby," she laughed "you doan like
to get a bath, ha?"

	I lay where she left me, out of breath and hoping the torture
would not begin again. And it seemed that it would not for she turned
off the water and approached me with a towel. Laughing softly, she
crooned to me in Spanish while she dried me off, scrubbing away the
oily stains roughly. She ordered me to be quiet and then she even
removed the gag. She smiled at me, so thoroughly cowed was I that I 
smiled back, nervously, like a prisoner smiling at a guard or a
hostage smiling at a terrorist. My arms were still fastened behind me,
taped together from wrist to elbows.

	When she got to my penis and balls with the towel, she warned
me again to be quiet. I was not surprised to feel an erection
beginning again. 


	"Concha!" a voice snapped as Sylvia strode into the room. 

	She had obviously changed clothes. Thigh-high lace-up black
leather boots with seven-inch spike heels encased her legs. A tight
corset of similar material supported her heavy breasts while cinching
her waist to a delicious slenderness. Big blocky earrings with stones
so large they must have been paste matched the jeweled gloves she
wore, black leather also, and reaching so high above her elbows they
compressed the flesh of her upper arms into slight rolls of white
flesh at her armpits, which were shaved smooth as was her naked pubic
area. She had no tan lines, being the same even ivory all over, from
forehead to thigh.

	Then I saw also that her nether lips had been pierced, several
times, perhaps six or seven, on both sides of her cunt slit and that
large rings had been entered into the piercings. These rings had then
been pulled together and a curved rod of some sort placed through
them, first a ring of one side and then a ring of the other, so that
her poor twat lips must have been very pinched against the rings and
the rod. The rod was also pierced on both ends, the upper end broadly
knobbed with a bright steel ring through it. The lower end of the rod
was pierced also with a wider ring. Through these rings and also
through the lip rings, bright red leather laces had been threaded,
this way and that in a complex braiding that begged to be undone,
setting sweet tortured flesh free. The bizarre eroticism of it sent a
charge through my penis and completed the job Concepcion had started,
my dick stood erect and ready once more.

	I got such a detailed view of her private area because Sylvia
strode forward and thrust the gordian knot of her chastity into my
face. "Take a good long look, slut," she ordered and Concha, or
Concepcion, held my face close enough that I could not help to see
such details as that the underside of the knob at the upper end of the
rod was grooved deeply where it pressed against the flesh above her
hidden clitoris. Why would that be, perhaps to increase, or perhaps to
prevent, stimulation to that button I could not see? Or that the rings
through her lips were ovoid with the thinner end through the lips and
the wider end opening to admit the rod which was not straight but
curved, this way then that, yielding to the demands of the rings. I
saw, too, that between the lip rings other rings pieced the rod at an
angle, interlocking with the lip rings on either side. Even were the
lacings cut or the rings disentangled, how could such a rod be removed
from the rings? How could she attend to the callings of nature, urine
and menstrual flow, without leaving laces, rings, rod and flesh in
such a state as to promote disease?

	 "Fascinated?" she asked, smiling. "Disappointed?"

	I could only stare. How could she wear such a thing everyday,
how could she remove it? It would be the work of hours, even if the
rods and rings could be removed without tearing the flesh. I yearned
to undo the bindings and plunge my throbbing dick into the secret of
her imprisoned snatch but my own hands were still taped behind my
back. Leaning forward, I gently licked the smooth skin above the
knobbed upper end of the key rod. I felt no stubble under my tongue,
but soft tiny hairs, nearly invisible. She had not shaved the area but
had instead depilated it electrolytically. That must have hurt, I
thought, and the idea of her endured pain, her suffering in the making
of this sweet mystery nearly caused me to orgasm then and there. With
effort, I controlled myself. 

	She sighed, to my sighs, as I continued my explorations with
my tongue. The lacings tasted of leather, and salt, and woman. The
whole area had been depilated, down to where her thighs disappeared
into the tops of her leather boots. The effect was one more oddity on
top of the enigma of the rings and rods and laces. And I did have a
puzzle, how was I to pleasure this woman who had so thoroughly
concealed her pleasure place? Women, and knowing how to please them,
had been my fortune but I had never faced such a challenge. Pressing
my face against the knobbed end of the rod, I seized a loop of lacing
in my teeth. With rhythmic pressure on the rod, I worried at the
laces, testing gently to see if they might be easily unraveled.

	Concha murmured something in Spanish behind me, Sylvia
responded also not in English. She sighed, leaning in against my
pressure. "That is good, you will be a good student." Moving suddenly,
she stepped away from me and I nearly fell face first on the tiles.
Only her hand on my chest saved me for she squatted directly in front
of me.

	Her gloved hands seized my penis in a cross-handed grip, one
thumb against the underside of the head of my uncircumcised dick, the
other probing the scrotal area under the base. Here she discovered my
genital oddity. "Where is your other testicle?" she asked, curiously.

	We were nearly face to face in this position. I leaned a bit
forward to whisper in her ear, "I must have left it in my other
pants." Actually, I simply did not have but one, a condition known
medically as monorchidism. My joke almost always got a laugh and did
not fail me this time. 

	"Remember, I told you to bring anything you couldn't do
without," she laughed musically. Still smiling directly into my face,
her hands pumped and stroked. Her caressing thumb brought me to the
edge of orgasm. I fought the release, trying to sustain the moment. I
wanted to cry out, to stop her, it wasn't part of my game plan to come
before she did. I tried to think of my aching shoulders, with my arms
taped together behind me, they truly did ache.

	But the pain seemed merely part of the pleasure. I heard
Concha behind me and I knew she intended something. I tried to worry
about that. Sylvia leaned forward to take my lower lip between her
teeth. Her face, so strong, so feminine, so near to me, I knew that
she controlled this encounter, not me. In a moment, I would lose the
struggle, I would cum into Sylvia's hands. Perhaps then she would
allow me to pleasure her.

	I almost did not feel the needle of the hypodermic Concha
slipped into the meat of my thigh. I noticed first that redness swam
in from the edges of my vision. Still short of the release I had
struggled against, I blacked out slowly to the sound of women
laughing.


(to be continued)


From zanna@whoever.com Thu Mar 13 08:05:33 1997
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.tg
Subject: Celestial Repost (Top15): Mercedes (4/7)
From: zanna@whoever.com (Joyce Melton & Morgan Preece)
Date: Thu, 13 Mar 1997 13:05:33 GMT
--------
This story is intended for the entertainment of adults only. If you
are under 18, please stop reading immediately. If you are offended by
strong adult-oriented themes, explicit sex, erotic fantasy or vulgar
language, what are you doing here?

Copyright (c) 1996 by Morgan Preece




Mercedes



by Morgan Preece



Chapter IV
	

 
	Erotic visions filled my dreams. Odd, I thought, in one of
those lucid moments one has while dreaming, usually I dream of
spending someone else's money, driving fast cars and having expensive
things. But normally I get plenty of sex while I am awake.

	I dreamed of undressing Sylvia. She lay face down on a blue
satin coverlet on a wide, wide bed, wearing a tight-skirted evening
dress of red, red velvet. Black stockings with seams up the back ended
in nine-inch platform heels as crimson as her gown. Arms at her sides,
her fingers curled against her palms, red, red nails against the white
flesh. 

	Tenderly I lifted the mass of chestnut hair that seemed longer
and fuller than it had been in life, enough red-gold strands to drown
a man. I played with her hair for a moment, running it carressingly
through my fingers, tickling her bared shoulders with the ends. Her
earrings glinted gold on the blue coverlet, each hoop bigger than my
hand. A choker of black and red lace with rhinestones encircled her
throat, closed at the back of her neck with a pretty bow.

	Under the hair, a tiny, black enameled catch secured the top
of the evening dress's zipper.  Fumbling a little, I undid the catch
and slipped the zipper down to where her hips flared so beautifully
into the roundness of her ass. My dream self wandered into reveries of
round, round bottoms I have known. My loins ached with remembrance as
I pulled myself back to the presence of Sylvia.

	Pulling the dress open I saw the laces of her corset. Satiny
pink with a lacy white overlay, the cruel little undergarment had
squeezed her waist impossibly narrow, barely half the measure of her
full hips. Little bows adorned the knots holding the corset tight, for
each little corset lace ended in a length of pink ribbon. I bent my
face to rub my cheeks and lips against the soft femininity of the
ribbon bows. My fingers on the corset sensed the spring-steel stays
inside the erotic fabric. Her back, bowed by the steel, thrust her
buttocks upward toward me.

	Sliding the zipper lower revealed the bottom edge of the
corset and the cleavage of her ass. Red garters from a thin white and
red garter belt around her full hips just below the corset disappeared
into the dress. Two globes of white flesh peeked from the unzippered
gown like enormous misplaced breasts. I placed the tip of my tongue in
the top of that cleavage and traced her delicate spine from the bump
of her coccyx to the edge of the corset. The pleasured flesh trembled
in its bondage. My mind reeled and back and forth, replaying the lick
and shiver until my gonads wanted to scream.

	In the dream, I moved to turn her over. She did nothing overt
to help or hinder the action, but her body was neither limply
compliant nor rigidly resistant. Face up, her magnificent body
revealed itself anew. I dreamed that I stared at her as I had not
stared in the bar. I wanted the dream Sylvia more than I had wanted
the dream of her money. 

	The unzipped dress pulled down easily to her waist, the heavy
velvet richly exotic in my hands. The abundance of her revealed
breasts emerging from the top of her corset echoed the second cleavage
she had displayed from behind.  Pressed from the sides and below by
the corset, constrained by their satiny jailer, her globes bulged
roundly on her chest. Brown aureoles bigger than coasters showed
half-rounds above the corset and saucy nipples, redder than brown,
peeped from the pretty prison. I bent to tease the prisoners with the
tip of my tongue and found them already hardened by their captivity. I
tasted their delicate torture, delicious in its willing submission.

	With my dreaming eyes seeming so near the pillar of her
throat, I saw that paste gems, red, green, blue and white decorated
the front of the choker. Paste surely, for no one would wear real gems
of that size, so perfectly matched, except in a dream. 

	Realizing again that so I did dream, I lifted my gaze to her
face. Pale green lids closed her eyes and thick black lashes locked
them closed. Black brows arched like Parisian monuments on her marble
forehead. A blush like virgin spring touched the winter of her cheeks.
Her half-open lips, as velvet red as her gown, revealed two rows of
white teeth with the tip of a carnelian tongue trapped between them.

	Lifting my face to hers, I prised my tongue through the soft
gates of her lips. Her teeth parted and her tongue tasted cool and
sweet against mine. We dueled sweetly for a time and I felt the blood
rushing to engorge her lips as we bruised our passions against each
other. I felt my own blood move in my dram body, the heat of it went
to my head and my loins.

	The intensity and vividness of the dream shocked me. It seemed
more real than reality. Sylvia's lush body now stretched before me
like an erotic landscape, the forest of her hair, the mountains of her
breasts.... Now she receded from me like a television special effect,
a reverse zoom that left her a doll-thing on a satin pillow.... Now
her smell, of musk and strawberries, of spice and woman rushed to my
head like a drink of some strong liquor. A fantastic cocktail of
desire, in my dream Sylvia seemed to "woman" what a jigger of
Glenlivet is to "malt."

	I pulled the velvet gown down around her thighs. The corset,
seen from the front, seemed no less cruel. The steel stays in their
lacy satin wrapper reduced her waist, flattened her tummy and
constricted her breasts into a lovely shape like a figure study by
Hogarth, all round globes and conical sections. A pure erotic shape
with a strength not found in mere cheesecake. 

	I saw that she did not, could not lie flat upon the bed for
the corset forced her back into an arch. She rested on her shoulders
and neck and the full roundness of her buttocks and thighs. The
slenderness of her waist hung suspended, a bridge above the blue satin
sea of the coverlet. I could put my fingers under her back, almost
touching behind her while my thumbs nearly met in front. I held her
this way for a timeless time, dreaming of desire and possession.

	Her still closed eyes moved beneath their lids, she seemed to
sleep within my dream. What filled her dreams I wondered. Her swollen
lips made a circle of pouting astonishment, like a cheerleader
surprised in the football team's locker room.

	The delicately lacy front of the corset came to a pink and
white rounded point below her navel, a signpost directing my gaze
toward her mystery. The tortuous web of steel spines, rings and
leather laces that she had made of her cunt lay half-hidden in the
cleft between her legs. The bend of her back caused by the corset and
the binding of the velvet gown around her thighs left the secret
places in shadow.

	The garters from the garter belt were fastened to the tops of
black silk hose high on her thighs. I dreamed of burying my face in
the flesh where the silk and leather and steel converged and dreamed
that I did. The pleasant scent of her unseen vagina nearly overwhelmed
my dream self. Aching with smell of her flesh, I nuzzled the steel
knob at the top of her chastity knot with my chin and the body below
me stiffened, once. 

	Standing in my dream beside the bed, I pulled the velvet gown
to her knees. Her thighs clenched and an audible sigh escaped her
still open mouth but her eyes remained closed. Things seemed to be
moving faster now. Kneeling next to her, I lifted the bound legs and
freed them from their velvet bindings, slipping the gown over the
high, high heels. Her toe nails were painted the same ruby red color
as the gown, her shoes, her lips.

	Encased in dark silk, her legs tapered from full, womanly
thighs, to dimpled knees, down to rounded calves and smooth, slender
ankles trapped in the lacings of her platform sandals. Her feet,
high-arched, glamorised by the sandals, shaped into symbols of desire,
yearned to be pleasured by the touch of loving hands and lips.

	Dreaming of desire for Sylvia, lusting for possession of every
detail of her hallucinatory beauty, wanting her body, I reached to
lift her long, long legs. Her spreading thighs revealed again her
mystery, the net of steel and lace at the center of her being. The
half-moons of her round bottom showed below her legs and a smile
flickered around her lips.

	Shuddering release threatened as I dreamed of being between
her thighs. With one hand I lifted her left leg higher, rolling her
weight to one side and onto her shoulders. With my other hand I
reached for my throbbing manhood to plunge it into her round pink ass.
Her smile widened and her eyes opened, gold-green irises sleepy with
dreaming sex.

	I woke suddenly, terrified. My dream hand had found nothing
where my cock should have been.

(to be continued)



From zanna@whoever.com Thu Mar 13 08:05:53 1997
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.tg
Subject: Celestial Repost (Top15): Mercedes (5/7)
From: zanna@whoever.com (Joyce Melton & Morgan Preece)
Date: Thu, 13 Mar 1997 13:05:53 GMT
--------
This story is intended for the entertainment of adults only. If you
are under 18, please stop reading immediately. If you are offended by
strong adult-oriented themes, explicit sex, erotic fantasy or vulgar
language, what are you doing here? Polite commentary will be
appreciated.

Copyright (c) 1996 by Morgan Preece




Mercedes



by Morgan Preece



Chapter V
	


	When I woke, I felt no surprise to find myself in a place
similar to many I had woken up in before; a woman’s bedroom. Or maybe
I should say a boudoir, it had that appearance. Frilly, pink, with the
scent of perfume; a coverlet reached nearly to my chin. I knew, too,
that the sheets under me were satin. 

	A dresser with a lighted trifold makeup mirror sat against the
wall, covered in the tools and potions women used in the pursuit of
beauty. Another wall seemed all mirrors, sliding doors I felt sure
concealed the treasures of a rich woman’s wardrobe. Daylight streamed
in from a skylight above a couch, chair and entertainment center.

	Beyond the dresser, through an arch, I could see a luxurious
bathroom. Marble sinks, a sunken tiled bath, a shower enclosure big
enough for a party of five. A partial screen concealed the toilet and
bidet but I knew where they must be. 

		Another thing I knew, I needed to piss and bad. I
moved to throw the coverlet off me and swing my legs to the floor. My
arms seemed to weigh hundreds of pounds and I failed to do so much as
ruffle the coverlet. Frightened, not to say shocked, by this weakness,
I attempted to kick the coverlet off me. My legs barely trembled.

	I feared I had been paralyzed by the blow Conch had dealt me
earlier but I still could feel my body. And most especially, I felt my
bladder. If I did not get relief quickly, I would be lying in the
middle of a wide yellow stain. I struggled again, but nothing changed
except that my urgency got greater. Opening my mouth to cry out for
help, I could manage only a weak croak and a whisper. 

	My exertions had another effect also, from the corners of my
vision I felt rather than saw darkness overtaking me. I wondered if I
were dying.

	When I woke the second time I no longer felt such a need to
piss. Thirst seemed my most urgent bodily necessity. The light in the
room had changed color, more golden, more of an afternoon quality to
it, some time had passed. I did not feel cold and wet around my hips
but I also did not feel a full bladder. Had someone changed the
sheets?

	I struggled again to move with little success and not much
more noise. But I heard someone else in the room.

	The face that appeared over my head seemed to be that of an
angel. I had expected the dark chestnut of Sylvia or Concha's black
hair. But this new woman surrounded her face  with a 
cloud of golden curls. Impossibly long, showgirl lashes framed her
wide cornflower blue eyes. Her skin seemed so pale as to make one
doubt the existence of California beaches. Her lips were full and
open, with a sort of built-in pout. The deep color of her lipstick set
off her white, white teeth and the tip of a red, red tongue just
visible. Violet and plum tones in her eyeshadow were echoed by blue
and purple hints in the red of her lips and the black of her mascara
and eyeliner. Rosy shadow indicated the hollow beneath her cheekbones.

	From the most beautiful face I had ever seen came a voice.
"Di'oo wet 'oo-thef? Ith 'oo thirth-tee? Um?"  she said, all in a
childish, lisping treble. I saw now that she wore a white lace
garment, trimmed in lilac and lavender with a décolletage revealing as
massive a pair of breasts as I have ever had the fortune to have loom
over me. Stripper tits to go with the showgirl eyes and Las Vegas
Hair. But that voice was pure Lambchop.

	She smiled, brilliantly perfect teeth in a megawatt display. I
opened my mouth to speak and she stuffed it full with a latex nipple
attached to an oversize baby bottle. "Num-num," she said inanely.

	Feeling ridiculous, but thirsty, I sucked, filling my mouth
with orange juice. It should have been milk, I thought, eyeing the
enormous mammaries of my nursemaid. I saw that her fingernails were
longer than her fingers. Painted a shining silver pink, they had to be
fake, like the tits. The tip of her tongue appeared between those
perfect teeth as she seemed to concentrate on some unseen delight half
a yard behind my head.

	What is this girl on? I thought. She cooed at me, "Do ba-bee
wike bo-wew? Num-num?" The little girl voice and the baby talk, the
showgirl face and body, the room and the bottle, the surrealness of it
all seemed overwhelming. I wondered if I were still dreaming but a
Vegas stripper has never been one of my fantasies. Wherever she came
from, I knew she had not escaped from my subconscious, not unless she
started waving around bearer bonds and Krugerrands.

	That meant this whole scene must be real.

	Dismayed by that realization, I tried to struggle again. I had
forgotten my previous weakness but it had not left me. I pushed feebly
at the covers, tried with humiliating inability to kick with my legs.
I did not disturb my covering but rather seemed to have stirred up the
darkness again.  

	My lisping nursemaid, seemed disturbed by my efforts, worse
than useless though they may have been. "Di'oo pot-tee? Um? Ta-thi-tee
tanthe ba-bee's nap-py, 'kay?" She moved to lift the comforter.

	I tried to push the bottle out of my mouth to cry out. I tried
to turn my head away from the nipple. Nothing worked, I could not move
and my efforts left me weaker than before. I spun again into darkness
and sleep, appalled to think that I might be wearing a diaper while
helplessly being bottle fed by a living Barbie doll.

	When I woke again, I reflected carefully on my situation
before attempting anything. The darkened room seemed adequately lit by
a tiny lamp in the shape of a ballerina on one of the side tables. A
nightlight?

	I took inventory. I could open and close my eyes. Since
closing them caused a tempting darkness to well up in my brain again,
I decided to keep them open.

	I could breathe. I felt myself breathing slowly and deeply.
Thinking about that tempted the darkness, as well.

	I could move my lips and tongue, though they felt thick and
unnatural. I tried to speak, "What have they done to me?" I whispered.
I couldn't manage much more than a whisper.

	Frightened, I waited quietly. Twice before my struggles
against my weakness had caused me to pass out. I wanted to be
conscious for a while, I wanted to think. "What have they done to me?"
I whispered again, almost a whimper.

	Drugged surely, possibly with physical restraints under the
coverlets. I wondered how long I had been out. Vague memories of
multiple visits by the busty blonde and perhaps others suggested that
I may have been out for days. 

	Prickly sensations in my jaw and lip might be beard growth,
though I had a very light beard due in part to my mother being one
quarter Paiute. I tried to lick my lip to test for beard but my
swollen tongue would not cooperate.

	I continued my inventory, prickly sensations in arms, legs,
forehead, temples, crotch suggested nothing so much as perhaps poor
circulation from lying still so long. Curiously, my nipples seemed to
ache, in fact the minuscule motions of my breathing dragging the
coverlet back and forth made me aware of a tender sensitivity there.
Having noticed that, I felt my cock begin to rise.

	I needed to pee again, I thought. But some tight fitting
garment on my loins restrained the incipient piss hard-on. I tried to
move a hand cautiously, just the fingers first. My limbs seemed heavy
but I managed to move my right arm an inch or so. Increasing
resistance stopped me, and now I knew there were restraints under the
coverlet.

	I don't know how long I lay there quietly contemplating the
unknown terrors of my imprisonment. They surely did not mean to kill
me I reasoned, they could have done that at anytime while I lay
helpless. But why? Why keep me here a drugged and bound prisoner?

	They were crazy. Well, I had known that. Concha with her
frying pan, Sylvia with her fetishistic rings and laces holding her
cunt in bondage. And the baby-talking blonde who seemed to think of me
as her playtoy....

	The door opened softly and the blonde stepped in. In the
dimness I could see that she wore another pink and white teddy or
corset, or perhaps the same one. Her waist seemed constricted but who
wore a corset in the middle of the night, I wondered. Or was it night?
No garters hung from the waist-cinching garment and I saw that the
long showgirl legs ended in pink seven-inch platform heels.

	Between the legs a nest of pink and white laces and silver
rings and rods concealed her pussy much like Sylvia's had been. I
almost gasped.

	The big, blonde hair cascaded around her shoulders and down
almost to her knees. "Ith ba-bee a-wayke-ey?" she lisped, quietly. I
said nothing, trying to keep my breathing even. She stepped close to
the bed, the light from the glowing ballerina showed her Barbie-doll
face to be smiling.

	Through half closed eyelids, I watched as she reached out to
stroke my left cheek with the back of her fingers. Her fingers felt
cool against my skin which seemed almost fevered. The long nails made
little tick-tick noises against each other. She moved her hand to
stroke the other cheek. This time I felt the drag of beard stubble
against her soft skin. Why would they have shaved the left side of my
face and not the right?

	"Pwet-tee, pwet-tee," she cooed. I continued to feign a
drugged slumber. She took the edge of the coverlet in her fingers and
slid it softly down my chest. Cool air made my nipples crinkle and I
felt my cock stir again. She stroked my chest lightly, from clavicle
to navel.

	The constrictive garment at my loins grew tighter as she
played with my nipples with the tips of those long fingernails. She
giggled softly. "Pwet-tee, pwet-tee," she whispered again.

	The coverlet came down further, she touched my cock through
layers of clothing. My breathing stuttered as I struggled to regain
control of my pretense of sleep. She fumbled with something at my hips
and I heard the tearing sound of Velcro. As she pulled some garment
downward, I recognized the touch of latex on my thighs and felt my
cock trying to tent some softer fabric.

	I had been wearing rubber pants over a diaper or something.
More Velcro sounds and night air caressed my stiffening penis.
"Pwet-tee, pwet-tee," she cooed like a four-year-old with a new toy. 

	She began to play with my shaft with her left hand while
reaching up to tweak my nipples with her right, first one, then the
other. I caught my breath as she bent forward, tongue out to lick the
tip.

	My erection felt soft to me, a measure of my weakened state I
surmised. With lips and tongue and nails and fingers she teased me to
greater rigidity then switched to kissing my nipples while her left
hand continued to play with my prick.
	
	If anything, I got harder as she bit one nipple and then
sucked the other. A sensation of aching want flowed from my neck to my
loins, I moaned abandoning the pretense of sleep. My dick felt the
need of even greater hardness before penetrating something. I felt
strange, floaty, disconnected from my body.

	Drugs, I thought, as she moved her ministrations back down to
my crotch. I felt a pearl of precum form on the head of my dick, she
licked it off and carried it on her tongue to place it on my own
swollen lips. I wondered that I had not spurted yet, even if my dick
had not gotten quite as hard as usual.

	I did not struggle to withhold my orgasm. In my career of
pleasing women, I had bound and been bound before. I had played the
baby game before, too. But I had never felt the total helplessness of
my new situation before. I did not know what she wanted, I did not
know how to please her. 

	Weakened by drugs and captivity, restrained by bonds I now
felt at wrists and ankles by the absence of cool night air, I could do
nothing. I did not know when or if I would be released. Helpless,
truly for the first time in my sexual experience, I felt free to
experience my own pleasure.

	"Wak-ee, wak-ee, ba-bee," the blonde cooed. Then she took my
cock in her mouth and began to work me deep into her throat with
repeated thrusts. Her cocksucking technique had the same professional
ease that I had used to separate my sugarmamas from a little spending
money.

	A tide of pleasure surged in me, my backbone seemed a channel
for a passionate warmth that spread throughout my being. The tide
crested, receded, redoubled, advanced. I moaned again, I wanted
release. The greater tide washed into me, groin, lips, nipples,
fingers ached with pleasure. The tide permeated me, an intensity of
pleasure that ended in a release, then a series of releases like
receding waves.

	As the waves carried me out of my body back into that waiting
darkness I realized that I had just had several orgasms without
spurting jism, a cumming without cum.

(to be continued)	



From zanna@whoever.com Thu Mar 13 08:06:02 1997
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.tg
Subject: Celestial Repost (Top15): Mercedes (6/7)
From: zanna@whoever.com (Joyce Melton & Morgan Preece)
Date: Thu, 13 Mar 1997 13:06:02 GMT
--------
This story is intended for the entertainment of adults only. If you
are under 18, please stop reading immediately. If you are offended by
strong adult-oriented themes, explicit sex, erotic fantasy or vulgar
language, what are you doing here? Polite commentary will be
appreciated.

Copyright (c) 1996 by Morgan Preece




Mercedes



by Morgan Preece



Chapter VI
	


	I had no way to count time in my imprisonment. No way to mark
the wall of my beautiful cell, one mark for each day, seven marks to
the week. My only measure of time became the changes I perceived in my
body. The visitations I received, for food, cleanliness and sex became
the ticking of this clock.

	My only visitor continued to be the baby-talking blonde who
never answered questions, nor ever asked ones for which she expected
answers. I decided that her name must be "Chastity" as that seemed to
be what she called herself when one subtracted the multiple lisps. 

	Her costume varied a bit but remained essentially the same. A
tight, mostly white corset cinched her waist, uplifted her enormous,
stripper breasts and constrained her torso into an extreme arch like
that of a woman at climax. Her nipples showed above the corset cups,
pierced with large golden rings like improbably obscene door knockers.

	Unstockinged but perfectly smooth legs led down to
ankle-strapped, open-toed, high-heeled platform sandals like those
worn by models in advertisements for lingerie shops and car parts.
Between the legs, I often caught glimpses of the pink and white
lacings and silvery rings and rods that concealed her sex much as
Sylvia's had been.

	Her ears bore multiple piercings, enormous hoops brushed her
shoulders when she tilted her head slightly and smaller rings and
studs twinkled with extravagant gemstones or, more likely, theatrical
paste. She wore also at least three necklaces, sometimes five, one
always a choker of white, pink or lavender lace with a large pendant
tau.

	Bangles and bracelets clattered and chimed at her wrists and
her dagger-length nails clicked against each other as she efficiently
fed, bathed and masturbated me to helpless, breath-robbing,
mind-warping orgasm at the conclusion of almost every visit.

	She had only three expressions. She smiled dreamily or frowned
prettily always with the tip of a red tongue showing between white
teeth and full, baby-pink or harlot-red lips. Sometimes she pouted her
mouth like a five-year-old denied a favorite toy. She seemed use her
faces only for their effect on my libido not really being related
directly to what she said or did.

	Her voice cooed and bubbled in a kittenish whisper, one
purring, childish, distorted syllable at a time. The speech
impediments she displayed seemed theatrically contrived, no one has
three different kinds of lisp.

	Each time she entered my silken dungeon, she tested my beard,
apparently pleased to find less of it each time. My legs, arms and
crotch she also tested for smoothness. I suspected the use of
depilatories and perhaps electrolyses on me while I slept my drugged
slumbers.

	She played with my nipples, rubbing creams into them as they
and the flesh around them grew and increased in sensitivity. Perhaps
the creams or something in my food made my breasts swell until they
grew enough to be considered girlish or even womanly. Hormones I
thought, but I had no real way of knowing.

	In the beginning she played with my cock, which gradually lost
the ability to become fully erect but contrariwise seemed to increase
in sensitivity. Piling paradox upon paradox, it simultaneously became
increasingly difficult for me to orgasm and my climaxes became longer,
more intense, more satisfying. The level of sexual excitement I could
achieve before cumming kept hitting higher and higher plateaus, too.

	When Chastity tickled the underside of my glans with one of
her absurdly long fingernails, simultaneously pinching a nipple with
her other hand while bruising my lips with her mouth and using a knee
to put pressure against my ass, I thought I would lose my guilty mind.


	Though shamed by it all, I became intoxicated with desire
whenever I heard the doorknob turn. Chastity continued to ignore
whatever I said. My reactions to her manipulative ministrations seemed
to please her but she took no direct pleasure in mine. I had no
responsibility and no power to bring her to orgasm.

	Her sexual repertoire widened to include dildos inserted in my
mouth and ass. My horror at taking a cock-shaped piece of rubber into
my mouth soon diminished. I had been desensitized to the thought by
the increasing size of the nipples on the baby bottles with which she
fed me and perhaps by my increasing dependence and passive mindset. 

	I wondered again at the drugs that might be in those baby
bottles for I began to crave them as much as the sex and the oblivion
that I knew would follow. Besides what's the difference between a
four-inch baby bottle nipple and a four-inch dildo?

	Starting with such small dildos, she increased the size at
each visit until I could swallow an eight-inch ersatz dick while a
replica in her expert hands thrust repeatedly into my anus.

	A few of my former clients had wanted to play with such toys
and I had experienced anal penetration before. I had never expected to
learn to beg for it, though. Not that anything I said had much real
effect on Chastity's routine. 

	During this same time Chastity had stopped using her virtuoso
mouth on my shrinking penis. I couldn't get a real hard-on anyway and
cocksucking seemed to have lost out to the nipple games she played
with my ever-swelling breasts. After a half hour of foreplay with my
lips, nipples, earlobes and asshole, she would bring on my shivering
climax with fingernails or a vibrator in my ass.

	Helpless, bound, drugged, I existed in a torpid limbo relieved
only by moments of sexual ecstasy the like of which I had never known.
Before my captivity I had found release in sex, I had given pleasure
in sex but I had never really looked forward to sex except as a means
to an end. Now, I existed only during interludes with my dominatrix.

	When Sylvia entered the room I felt my heart quicken in
surprise. Up until now I had awakened each time shortly before
Chastity's arrival and I had been anticipating my blonde jailer's
entrance for some time.

	Sylvia wore a full skirted, long dress in the emerald shade
that suited her so well. Her long chestnut hair fell past her waist.
Green eyes, red lips, creamy bosom all the details matched the erotic
dreams I still had of her. Regardless of the fact that Chastity
brought me to climax almost everytime I woke, my dreams were still of
Sylvia and her mysteries.

	I breathed her name and saw her smile. "You have been our
pampered captive long enough," she said. "I've come to make you an
offer." She brushed my hair back from my face as she spoke. I wanted
her to play with me as Chastity played with me. Captivity had left me
insanely passive, madly submissive.

	"Pampered? Offer? Sylvia, what have you done to me?" I
summoned what outraged humiliation I could muster but it sounded like
the whimper of some despised/adored love-thing.

	"I think you know, or at least, suspect," she went on. "But we
have come to the point where your co-operation will be valuable. Your
ego can not be further crushed by more captivity. You must acquiesce
to the final stages, agree to the ultimate degradation."

	"Sylvia, please," I murmured, "please make love to me."

	She laughed softly, cruel as velvet, cold as silk. "You never
wanted my love, you wanted my money." Moving swiftly, she stripped the
satiny coverlet from my bound and helpless body.

	"Yes," I admitted. I felt shame for what I had been and more
than shame for what I had become, a naked, wanting, impotent thing no
longer a man. "But now I want you." She stood for a moment over me
seeming to admire what she and her cohort had created.

	"No," she said. "Not yet." She began to work on my bonds. The
leather, silk and steel cuffs, belt and collar with which I had been
restrained had only been removed before this while I slept or for
Chastity to bathe me. I knew they were removed while I slept for I
sometimes awoke in a different position. Face up, face down, arms
above my head or at my waist, legs bound together or forced wide
apart.

	Rapidly she removed the cuffs at wrists and ankles but my
limbs would not respond properly to freedom. I had ceased struggling
against my bonds some time ago and my muscles had withered, I could
scarce drag an arm or leg across the smoothness of my sheets. I had no
real idea how bedsores had been prevented and truthfully, the idea had
not occurred to me at the time.

	"Sylvia," I whimpered again, frightened of a freedom that I no
longer desired.

	"Hush," she ordered. She removed my collar and belt also and I
lay there in only the rubber underpants that had prevented accidents
in my drugged slumbers. She stood again beside the bed, strong, free,
clothed, female. At one time I knew, I had been stronger than she,
more free, dressed in my own clothes and rampant in my masculinity. It
seemed impossible.

	"Nothing more will be done to you without your agreement," she
said. "Drugs and hormones will stop, your beard and body hair will
grow back if we stop suppressing your own hormones. Your breasts would
shrink, a little surgery to remove the excess flesh there, a little
physical therapy and a high protein diet to get your muscles back.
You'll be pretty much back to being your old self." She paused.
"Physically," she added.

	"No," I whispered.

	She nodded. "Then we proceed with our plans for your
transformation since the mental changes have become irreversible. Do
you agree?" Her smile seemed both cruel and inviting.

	"Yes," I whimpered.

	"Are you sure?" she demanded. "You are ours to do with as we
like? To mold, to shape, to train into the being we want to make of
you?" She slapped me on the thigh as if to demonstrate how she
intended to begin her total ownership. Too weak to flinch, I merely
trembled.

	"Yes. You are going to make me into a woman," I breathed,
happy at last with the verbalized realization.

	She snorted, delicately. "You wish."


(to be concluded)	



From zanna@whoever.com Thu Mar 13 08:06:19 1997
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.tg,alt.sex.stories
Subject: Celestial Repost (Top15): Mercedes (7/7)
From: zanna@whoever.com (Joyce Melton & Morgan Preece)
Date: Thu, 13 Mar 1997 13:06:19 GMT
--------
This story is intended for the entertainment of adults only. If you
are under 18, please stop reading immediately. If you are offended by
strong adult-oriented themes, explicit sex, erotic fantasy or vulgar
language, what are you doing here? Polite commentary will be
appreciated.

Copyright (c) 1996 by Morgan Preece




Mercedes



by Morgan Preece



Chapter VII
	


	The bar where I began my new career seemed familiar. The red
leather booths, the long dark counter, the big angled mirrors, the
seashore mural. After a moment of reflection, I realized that I had
first met Sylvia here. I smiled, knowing that she had chosen the Conch
for my debut on purpose.

	Across the polished mahogany length of the bar, the woman with
the golden curls smiled back at me. Her blue-green eyes locked on mine
only briefly then she resumed scanning the room. Her perfectly made-up
face, off-the-shoulder white cocktail dress and plunging neckline
attracted a lot of return attention. Women, for the most part, watched
her warily or ignored her hopefully. Men looked at her eagerly,
perhaps hoping that her searching gaze would find what she sought in
them.

	I felt the heat of their intentions and glanced at myself
again. Yes, the blonde in the mirror looked back. I am a beautiful
object of desire, I reminded myself, trying to focus on why I had come
to the Conch that night.



	It hadn't been easy, becoming accomplished in the art of being
beautiful. My months of enforced inactivity combined with drugs and
hormones in the liquid diet had wasted my frame to less than ninety
pounds. I couldn't sit up, let alone stand or walk by myself. I lay
helpless while my captors began the transformation to which I had
eagerly, fearfully, consented.

	I had expected Chastity to return after Sylvia left. I felt
the urgency of my need for her sexual ministrations. But when the door
opened again, Sylvia entered carrying a corset, much like the ones I
had seen her and Chastity wearing. I felt some excitement at seeing
this garment and knowing that I would soon be wearing it.

	First, however, came a bath with a sweet-smelling, astringent
lotion. Sylvia's hands were quicker and more forceful than Chastity's
had been. Less aroused from friction, more from pressure and
anticipation, I felt my nipples and what remained of my manhood
growing hard. She seemed amused by my physical reactions. "You have
been well-trained," she observed.

	I hoped that she would use her talented mouth on me. If anyone
had ever been a better cocksucker than Chastity, Sylvia had owned the
crown. I hadn't enjoyed fellatio in weeks, probably but I wanted those
red lips around me again. Or, alternatively, I wanted her to suck my
new breasts. At least a kiss on my aching lips.... But Sylvia was all
business, sprinkling me with scented powder before wiping off the
excess. I shivered with the torment of unfulfilled fantasy.

	A lamb's wool undercorset went on first, then she helped me
turn so that I lay face down on the bed. Next, she helped me slip the
silky, steely, slinky tube of the corset over my head. The laces in
front were already tight. "You will always wear a corset from now on,
except to bathe and sleep sometimes," she told me as she tightened the
back laces. "You'll have to!" she laughed. "You won't be able to sit,
stand or walk without it." 

	The constriction and support of the rigid garment did make it
possible for me to sit up in my weakened state. I realized that if I
were always to wear a corset, the muscles of my trunk and back would
never recover. They might well atrophy to the point that nothing would
ever bring them back to strength. A shiver of delicious fear went
through me. Sylvia would make a lifelong cripple of me, a prisoner in
eternal sexual bondage.

	"But -- I can't -- breathe!" I protested feebly. The cruel
stays forced my waist in, my new breasts up, my shoulders back and my
ass out. There seemed to be a lot more ass back there than formerly, a
distracting addendum to the inventory of my condition. My diaphragm
had no room to move, forcing me to breathe by inflating my rib cage
and heaving my bosom.

	I sat on the bed where I had been kept captive while Sylvia
tightened and re-tightened the laces. "If you can talk, you can still
breathe," she told me before hooking up a small gadget like a
windlass. While cranking this device, she poked and prodded me,
expelling all of my air. 

	I felt sure she would crack my ribs or I would suffocate
before she stopped tightening. My vision began darkening and a roaring
filled my ears. "Help," I tried to gasp but nothing came out. I don't
know if I fainted or not but Sylvia backed off on the lacings a bit
then tied them off. My breath came in tiny, rapid gasps.

	"We'll have your waist down to fifteen inches eventually, if
we have to remove a few ribs," she commented. I didn't know how
seriously she meant that but I felt that she had expressed her true
intention. I could not get the air to question her about this. She
slipped a tape around my waist and showed me that it now measured
18-3/4". Six months ago my waist had measured what had seemed a very
trim 28".



	A man approached me in my chair at the Conch. Handsome, early
forties, well-dressed, smiling, the sort of man who might be willing
to show a pretty girl a good time. Perhaps a man looking for a
beautiful mistress upon whom he would lavish gifts of luxury and
whimsy. I smiled at him and played the game awhile but he was not my
assigned target for the evening and I managed to put him off without
actually offending him. Who knew, next week I might be sent to seduce
him.

	Idly fingering the cultured pearl choker I wore, I moistened
my lips, enhancing their shine and causing minor tremors in the
onlooking males. I smiled into the mirror over the bar. Hung at a
slight angle, it gave an excellent view of the depths my cleavage.
That cleft seemed to promise riches to any explorer. 

	Curious, I thought, not for the first time, that I am still
aroused sexually by my own appearance of femininity. Did all beautiful
women feel this way about their own images? I did not doubt that it
might be so. It would explain why so many of them treated the mirror
like a lover.

	I re-crossed my silk-stockinged legs to relieve the tension
caused by my own appreciation of my reflection. The five-inch heeled,
white glove-leather, ankle-high lace-up boots flashing by each other
caused another Richter reading in the bar. I squeezed gently with my
thigh muscles, enjoying the sensation, the attention, and the
situation. 

	My thighs were the only muscles I had been allowed to
strengthen much after my long imprisonment. They might even be
stronger than they had been before. My upper body and arms remained so
weak that I often used two hands for such tasks as picking up a glass
of milk. There were also the two-inch nails constantly maintained in
jewel perfect smoothness. The bright red scimitars on the end of every
finger prevented me from developing a grip in my slender, delicate
hands.




	Learning to walk again had presented new difficulties. My leg
bonds during my captivity had been designed to force me to point my
toes, keeping my ankles extended and my arches flexed. The tendons and
muscles of my calves had perforce shrunk to the point that I could not
flex my ankles enough to put my heels to the floor. It caused
excruciating, stabbing pain even to try.

	I whimpered while Sylvia examined my feet and legs, flexing
them cruelly this way and that. "You'll never be able to walk again
without rigid ankle and arch support," she said. I didn't know if she
meant that as observation or prediction. 

	From a bureau drawer she produced a pair of seamed, silken
stockings in a pale shade of nude. My general weakness and loss of
muscle mass extended also to my legs, of course. Sylvia slipped the
stockings over my slender limbs and fastened them with the garters
hanging from the corset. She would do this many more times before she
allowed me to do it myself. "Always be sure you have the seams
straight," she said every time.

	Above-the-knee white boots went on next. Tightly laced from
instep to thigh, their support allowed me to stand on blocky four-inch
heels. Steel arches and heel and ankle shanks kept me from turning my
weakened ankles, open toes showed the brightness of my painted nails
through the gauzy silk of my stockings.

	Delighted to be out of bed after so long, thrilled by my
costuming, I tried to take a step and would have fallen if Sylvia had
not supported me. "Slowly, at first, there's no hurry," she
admonished. "You'd best remember that, never hurry. Slowly, sensually,
sexily, take one step at a time. Shorten your stride, you're wearing
heels. Swing your hips, elbows in, wrists relaxed, head up, lean into
it."

	She really had to teach me to walk again. As the muscles of my
thighs and buttocks strengthened, I needed less help but I learned
only one way of walking. A slow, ass-wriggling saunter, a sexy,
slutty, strut that made me feel oh-so whorish. A walk like that could
only end at a bed.




	I wondered vaguely where my "date" could be. I had no real
idea of the time, other than it had been dark when I arrived. I wore
no watch and had been trained not to look at clocks or inquire about
the time. My long, dark captivity had destroyed my sense of temporal
placement anyway and I had never been much of a judge of interval. The
moment seemed enough for me most of the time.

	Even empty moments could be filled by going over my lessons in
my mind. When to smile and at whom. How to ask for a gift. What
compliments to pay and how to react to them. How to sit, walk, stand.
How to apply makeup, do my hair, take care of my clothes. How to make
a man happy in bed.

	Just then, he entered the bar. More than six feet tall, wavy
brown hair going gray at the temples, boat tan. He wore a short-sleeve
pullover shirt that showed off the muscles in his arms. The faded
denim of his pants looked soft and comfortable. His rugged good looks
matched the photos I had been shown. 

	From his deck shoes to his perfect hair, his understated look
said Gilded Coast money and plenty of it. Not that I would see a penny
of it. I had no cash to pay for the drink in front of me. Sylvia's
rules, I could not buy my own drinks or pay for a cab or even touch
money. Not since my captivity, not tonight, maybe not ever. Poverty is
another form of helplessness.



	So is addiction. I felt cravings for the drugs they had given
me anytime I went more than ten or twelve hours without them. Sylvia,
I realized after a time, had a medical license of some sort. Mood
altering drugs kept me docile and happy, uppers gave me enough energy
to perform and painkillers kept me from objecting to what was done to
my genitals.

	The piercings hurt. Several through the foreskin held my penis
back inside my body cavity. Several more through my scrotum held my
single testicle up inside me also. More piercings, rings, rods and
laces such as I had seen on Sylvia and Chastity, concealed my sex
completely.

	My groin became a mystery, the flesh constrained by steel and
leather into a sexual puzzle. Now I knew what Sylvia had meant about
my wish. It would have been easier to cut everything off and remodel.
Twice weekly cleanings and relacings became necessary, also frequent
flushings with clear water and warm air to dry things out.

	My breasts ached to think about it. They had not been
neglected though. Implants filled with natural oils enhanced my bosom
from B-cup to a very full DD. No scars blemished my skin, the balloons
went in through tubes in my navel and were filled after they were in
place. A ring through each nipple attached to little golden weights
inside the cups of my corset tugged gently when I moved.
	




	He strode across the room to stand staring down at me. His
rough masculinity made me feel small and vulnerable. I smiled up at
him, "You must be looking for me," I said, challenging him.

	I watched his nostrils flare. He settled into the chair beside
me carefully. I knew his arousal put him into my power for all of his
male strength. The hair on his forearms curled and twined around a
Rolex on one arm and a heavy gold chain on the other.

	"You are Mercedes?" he asked.

	"The latest model," I giggled. My new name had been Sylvia's
choice but it fit me and I liked it. I placed my slender, manicured
hand in his sea-roughened one and tickled his palm with the sharp nail
of my longest finger.

	"What are you drinking?" He had paid Sylvia a lot for this
encounter and he meant to enjoy it. He'd been promised something new,
something different. The rich get bored. I had no desire to drag it
out. I wanted action.

	"Stoli, up," I said, smiling. The strong drink would hit me
quickly. He knew it. He would be able to do what he wanted with me.
The liquor I drank went straight to his manhood. The judo seduction,
his money, strength and male power versus my penniless, weak, feminine
helplessness. I licked my lips delicately when the drink arrived.

	I imagined holding his penis in my mouth, feeling his rough
hands tangled in my blonde hair. I pictured him taking me, that
massive strength overpowering whatever protest I might offer. I
thought I could feel his loins between my thighs, his insistent, rigid
cock. Stymied at the lacings of my mystery, he would force himself
into my ass. I knew what it would feel like to have him inside me.

	I gulped the drink like water when it came and smiled up at
him. I knew he could see the fantasy in my eyes. "You want to show me
your boat?" I asked innocently, letting a little drunken giggle
escape. He had no way of knowing that I had had nothing but mineral
water before he arrived.

	He helped me stand and left money on the table for the bill.
His classic '56 Fairlane convertible gleamed turquoise and white in
the streetlights. He opened the door for me and I slid across the rich
leather to the center of the seat.

	Before he got in he stood looking at me for most of a minute.
I giggled a bit, self-consciously this time. 

	"You're perfect," he said as he slid in beside me. I held my
face up then used my tongue when he bent to kiss me. He pulled away
and drove us slowly to the bayside marina where his houseboat lay.

	I teetered down the gangplank on high heels, laughing while he
kept me from tumbling into the water. The rich woods and fabrics of
the boat interior seemed designed for seduction. While he held me for
another kiss, I unzipped his Levi's and his dick filled my hand.

	"You know, I've wanted you so long," he murmured. He caught my
other hand, forcing it behind me and holding me upright at the same
time. I knew I had lost control but the Stoli and my own desire kept
me from caring.

	"Uh-huh," I managed around another kiss. "How long?" I teased.
He moved the hand behind me to catch my right wrist against my upper
arm. With the other hand he cradled my head.

	"Years," he admitted. "Ever since I first saw you trolling the
bars for sugarmamas. Hustling that ass of yours to serve those dried
up old cunts." One hand in my hair, the other holding my arm behind
me, he forced me down to my knees.

	Surprised, I knelt. My fingers found his zipper while I
thought about what he had said. Did he know who I had been? From what
he said, he must. With trembling fingers I pulled his enormous cock
out of its blue denim hiding place. Already hard, a pearly drop
glistened at the tip.

	"You know me," I finally said, not really a question. He still
held my arm behind my back and I had to twist my neck at an extreme
angle in my bent posture to look up at him. Smiling mostly with my
eyes, I touched the tip of my tongue to his erection, tasting the
salt-sour-sweet flavor of his precum.

	"Uhn," he said. His jism came in spurts on my lips, my chin,
my cheeks. He let go of my arm and my hair to enjoy his orgasm.
"Couldn't wait," he half-apologized.

	"That's all right, we've got plenty of time to get you ready
again." I flexed my arm, the weakened muscles there ached from the
twisting he gave them. I scraped cum from my chin and cheeks and
licked it from my fingers and lips. I hadn't experienced the sticky,
bleachy taste since high school.

	"How is it that you know?" I asked.  

	It seemed equal parts brag and apology. He leaned back on the
bulkhead, if that's the word for wall in a boat, and watched me clean
myself. He made no effort to clean his dick or put it back in his
pants and the one-eyed snake watched me, too. "I paid that lez dom,
Sylvia, $200,000 to transform you."

	The thought of his having paid all that money -- for me! --
excited the avarice in my soul. I felt the old excitement of the hunt.
I giggled. The golden carrot seemed within my grasp. "For that kind of
money, you could have had me." I shivered, knowing that I spoke the
truth.

	"Sylvia got $100,000 up front, another hundred grand tomorrow.
If I'm happy." He smiled, "I told her to make a high-class whore out
of you. See, I don't really like women, they're all whores. But I
don't think of myself as a queer, either. I wanted you, but I don't
fuck anyone with a dick they can still use," he explained.

	I knelt there, swaying slightly with the motion of the boat. I
listened, helplessly aware of tears trickling down my face at the same
time that sexual aching began in my breasts, my hidden genitals and my
confused mind.

	"Now if you make me happy, Sylvia gets her money and you
become my slut. Sylvia will keep you happy with drugs as long as you
keep me satisfied." He shrugged. "Otherwise, she puts you out to rent
to make back expenses. Maybe we'll do that anyway." He smiled again,
his penis rising with the thought of my degradation. "As long as you
keep your looks," he added, twisting the knife.

	Sighing, with shame, with desire fueled by my whorish,
self-punishing soul, I knelt to my life's work.