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	This story is intended for the entertainment of adults only. If you
are under 18 or if reading this would involve anyone in an illegal act,
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 non-commercial use of this complete and unaltered
text (including disclaimer paragraph above and this paragraph and the
next two) 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. No permission is given hereby for any sort of
distribution 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. 
	If you want to put this story in a CD-ROM archive for distribution
at nominal cost, E-Mail the author at the address below for a copy with
a different copyright notice. Inquiries about other commercial use
should also be E-mailed. Do not come to my house, you don't know where I
live and you will get lost. 
===========================================================



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.
 

	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.

 
	Chapter III
	
	
	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.
 

	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.
 
	
	
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