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From: zanna@whoever.com (Joyce Melton & Morgan Preece)
Subject: Repost: Mercedes 5: Chastity {Morgan Preece} /C*R* 10/10/10/
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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 Concha 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)	


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