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Subject: 2nd try: Red Rain 2/18 (Femdom, Relationship)
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Disclaimers:  

If you're underage and/or sexual material is illegal where you live, stop
reading this.

If you find stories involving sex and/or dominance and submission offensive,
please stop reading (though one wonders what you're doing here in the first
place!)

Copyright 1998. All rights reserved.  Reposting and archiving is permitted, so
long as you cite authorship and don't charge anything for the privilege.

* * *
Red Rain

By L.Corvidae

Part One, Chapter Two: White Rabbit

Friday, January 2nd, 1998

   I blew onto my hands and shuffled my feet nervously before knocking again.
It had begun to feel a lot more like January in the last to days.

   The door opened up just a tiny bit, and I only got the briefest of glimpses
of Camille's face before she tried to slam it shut again. I hadn't really
expected her to throw open the door and embrace me passionately, but I'd hoped
at least to get out a sentence or two.

   Acting on instinct, never my forte, I thrust my foot inside the jamb; my
Reeboks providing zero protection against the crushing impact of the door.

   Yelping in pain, I jerked my foot back and did an awkward, hopping back-step
before tumbling backwards. I clipped the back of my head against the railing,
and my butt connected with the hard pine decking with bone-rattling force.

   I sat there, stunned. All I could see was one big blurry mass of Camille's
house and the gray skies above. Then suddenly everything snapped back in focus,
and I looked up to see her towering over me; her hands on her hips and her face
florid with rage, matching the red of her jacket. She was more or less dressed
exactly the same way as when I'd last seen her, back on New Year's Day, except
that several strands of her dark hair had come loose from the tight bun, and
her jacket was open, exposing the silk camisole she wore beneath.

   "Don't they have one night stands on the sorry-ass slacker planet you live
on?" she demanded angrily.

   "Sorry."

   "You sure as hell are!" She watched, without offering to help, as I hoisted
myself back on my feet. Or, rather, foot, since my right foot was still
throbbing.

   She said nothing, but held her ground and leveled her intense brown eyes on
me, as if she could push me away with sheer will.

   I suddenly remembered what I had in my back pocket, and was gripped with
momentary panic at the thought that it might have been damaged in the fall. As
I reached around and pulled it out, she made no indication of being interested
in anything other than my immediate departure.

   "Here," I said weakly, handing the little bear over when I was sure I hadn't
ruptured any seams. "It's for you."

   She took it from me uncertainly; her fingers gently stroking the lavender
fur, as if expecting it to rub off and reveal me for a fraud. Her fingernail
traced the contours of the white rose embroidered in its chest.

   "Princess," she whispered.

   "Yeah, I noticed you had a bunch of those in your bedroom when we, uh..." I
broke off, embarrassed.

   She didn't say anything, just kept staring at it. I started to limp away
slowly when she looked up sharply and seemed to suddenly see me again. Pressing
the bear to her chest with one hand, she reached out to me with the other.

    "I'm sorry," she said, her voice full of more emotion than I'd expected.
"Please, come inside."

   When she saw me hobbling, she offered me her arm and apologized again.

   I was no less impressed upon my second visit inside her house. If anything,
her incredible living room, with walls open all the way to the roof, looked
even more impressive when you looked at the sliding glass doors at the southern
end and saw steam rising off the flat gray surface of the lake. 

   She guided me to the sofa, helped me sit and, carefully as possible, removed
my worthless sneaker. We both winced at the bruised mass at the end of my foot.

   All I could think of to say was, "Ouch!"

  "I'll get an ice pack," she said and gave my shoulder a squeeze as she moved
around the couch.

   I gazed around the room idly for a moment. I turned myself around on the
sofa, more to look at the fish tank behind me than any other reason, but I
noticed she wasn't in the kitchen. A second later, I saw her start to emerge
from the lower depths of the stairwell.

    She returned to me, handed me an ice pack as promised, and then sat down in
one of the easy chairs flanking the couch, cradling her newest Beanie Baby like
it was a real one.

   "How did you get this," she asked. "I've been looking for weeks. It's not
possible."

   I chuckled a little, then stopped abruptly as I pressed the pack against my
mashed toes.

   "You never asked me what I did for a living." I stressed the word "I" since
I'd asked her that morning. Not that I'd gotten a response.

   "I didn't care," she murmured distractedly. Then she looked up and stared
directly into my eyes with that electrifying gaze of hers.

   "What do you do for a living?" she asked, sounding genuinely curious.

   "Well, on my sorry-ass slacker planet, I wear the proud blue apron of a
'Toyz B' We' minimum wageslave." She laughed and for a moment even my toes felt
good.

   "They told me on the phone that they didn't get any in," she snorted
indignantly.

   "We're supposed to lie about stuff like that," I admitted. She gaped at me,
shocked and upset.

   "Anyway, someone had a few of these guys..."

   "Girls," she corrected me.

   "Girls... stashed in the back. I guess they were waiting for prices in the
after market to get high enough."

   "I bet they'll be happy!" she said sarcastically, still running her fingers
over the toy.

   "Fuck 'em!" I said, and she turned her head back towards me again, beaming.

   We sat quietly for some time after that. Finally I got a little edgy and
said, "I guess I wanted to say 'Thanks.' I mean, I know it was just a one night
stand for you, but it meant a lot to me."

   "I kind of gathered that when you tried to make me French toast that
morning."

   "Tried? Hey, I make good French toast!" She made a little grimace,
unimpressed.

   I started eyeing the door sadly. "Well, I guess I should go."

   She sighed, brushed the stray ribbons of hair from her face and fixed me
with a mysterious look, her eyes hooded and unusually subdued.

   "Jordan?"

   "Yes?"

   "Would you like to know what I do for a living?"

   "Yes."

   She reached out her hand. I took the pack off my foot. 

   Standing, I wobbled uncertainly and had to lean on her a little.

   "Are you sure you're okay?" she asked, sounding concerned. "Oh God," she
moaned," that's your good foot, isn't it?"

   "It's not broken or anything. And it's okay, Camille. My leg isn't always
like that. Just when it rains. Okay?"

   "Okay," she agreed, uncharacteristically sheepish. 

   She led me down the stairs and stopped at a small landing where a door had
been added sometime after the house was built. At least, the exposed framing
looked new and out-of place with the otherwise elegant construction. It was
ajar, but several serious-looking locks, including a heavy deadbolt hinted that
wasn't always the case. A second, short flight of steps deposited us into a
narrow strip of corridor, ending with a door at one end and opening up into a
room at the other. A second door faced the steps directly, but first she led me
into the open room to the right.

   The walls were painted in ugly, institutional green, with matching floor
tiles. There was a sink and cabinets and a fridge, but the most noticeable
element of the room was the big medical examining table in the center. There
were little knitted cozies on the stirrups, and one of those big halogen lights
mounted on a swivel arm bolted to the floor next to it.

   "What? You're a doctor?"

   "I can be," she said, wrinkling her nose as she smiled at me.

   The next room she showed me was even more puzzling. It was a fourteen by
thirteen square with blue tiles on the walls and a aquamarine mosaic floor.
There were shower heads mounted in the corners, and a rusty drain in the middle
of the floor. It reminded me of the showers in the locker room at high school.
Lastly, in one forlorn corner sat a toilet, and next to it a little black box
that sported a similar seat.

   I still didn't get it, not until that last room. 

   It had probably been meant as a garage, it was huge. It spanned the length
of the house, and took out fully half it's width. Still, it felt smaller,
largely due to all the equipment crammed into it. Two imposing x-frames made
from black, lacquered wood stood side by side against the faux brick facade
covering the walls. There were benches and a pillory and some tubular frame
that looked like a jungle gym designed by Dante. 

   The centerpiece of the collection had to be a seven foot long box/table,
covered in padded black leather and sporting winches at either end. That wasn't
all it had.

   The man must have been in his forties or fifties. He had pale, loose skin
and his spindly limbs were all stretched out to their limits. At first I
thought he had some kind of skin disease because his chest was covered in
little red spots and his nipples were grotesque. Then I saw the candle lying
unlit at his side. His cock was struggling gamely to get erect, despite the
excruciating latticework of kite string tied around it. She'd placed a pair of
black satin panties ass-backwards over his head, effectively blindfolding him.

   Yet, he seemed to sense something, and suddenly called out, "Mistress
Eurydice? Is that you?"

   She grinned at me and put her finger to her lips. Brushing past me through
the doorway, she strutted over to the table, her heels clicking loudly on the
concrete floor.

   "That's right, Mr. Anderson. Mistress has returned." Her voice was a silky
purr that caused the hairs on my arms to stand on end. She pried the wax off
one of his nipples with her nails and he groaned.

   "I got so tired of looking at that pathetic peanut between your legs that I
decided to get some of the real thing," she taunted. He moaned some more and
tried to writhe around.

   "So while you've been down here, wriggling around like the little maggot you
are, I've been upstairs..." Her voice dropped to a sultry whisper that had me
squirming. "Fucking..." 

   She turned to look at me, cocked her head to one side and smiled. 

   "Fucking my new houseboy," she said cheerily, "Lars."

   I raised my eyebrow at that. Lars?

   "Isn't that right, Lars?" she asked me sweetly.

   "Uh... Ja?"

   One hand flew to her mouth while the other clutched frantically at the table
as she doubled over with laughter. Tears were streaming from her eyes from the
effort to keep from making a sound, and an unsightly yellow stain began to seep
down her white stockings.

   Fortunately, her barely contained giggles were drowned out by Mr. Anderson's
renewed struggling and cries of protest.

   After Camille regained control, she slapped him across the chest and snarled
at him to shut up. Then she glided back towards me, weaving her way around the
various bits of bondage furniture. She pressed her body into mine and gave me a
long, lingering wet kiss while Mr. Anderson snuffled unhappily.

   "Lars," she said loudly, pushing Princess back into my hands, "be a love and
take my new toy to my bedchambers and wait for me there, would you?"

   "Ja," I replied, causing her to clutch at me as she fought through another
laughing fit. Meanwhile Mr. Anderson started pissing and groaning even louder
than before.

    I turned around and started to walk away when I was startled by a sudden,
sharp slap against my backside. I wheeled around and she flashed me another
quick, pixieish grin before slowly closing the door to her playroom.

   About twenty minutes later I heard a car horn outside. The only windows
upstairs were in the bathroom, and through them I saw a yellow taxi parked
behind my Rabbit on the gravel drive. Not too long after, Mr. Anderson came
swaggering out, dressed in some kind of gray suit.

   I didn't actually get to see him get in the cab, because without warning,
surprisingly strong arms encircled my waist, and I was dragged back into the
bedroom; my ears filled with girlish giggling.

   She wrestled me around in front of the bed, before finally shoving me face
up upon it. Then she climbed on top of me. She was hot, and sweaty, but she
smelled like spring flowers.

   "So?" she asked.

   I tried to think of some way to sum up what I was feeling at that exact
moment.

   "Wow?"

   "wow," she repeated softly. She leaned in close and kissed me aggressively,
she reared herself backwards, so that she was straddling my thighs, her skirt
bunch up along her midriff. She began to unfasten my belt and said in a low,
commanding tone, "We've got to make this fast. I've got another client in a
half an hour." She broke into a sweet smile. "Okay... Lars?" 

   "Ja," I said, and her eyes rolled back and she collapsed into hysterical
laughter.

* * * *

   "Eurydice," I whispered softly, seeing how the name felt as it passed my
lips.
   Camille snuggled up next to me under the sheets. 

   "It's from Greek mythology," she said.

   "I know that," I replied, a little hurt that she thought she had to tell me.

   She sighed and snuggled even closer.

   "I'm sorry. It's just most of the time I get: Yuri-who?" She adopted a
'stupid' voice. "Is that Russian or something?"

   I gently brushed away some hair that had spilled onto her forehead, and
kissed her.

   "Eurydice," I repeated, grinning.

   She'd had two more clients that day. Both, like Mr. Anderson, were middle
aged men, who looked fairly prosperous in their sharp, expensive suits. 

   The first was into watersports, and I politely asked if Lars could sit out
that session. Camille seemed a little disappointed, but she booted up her
computer and let me poke around her web site, which proved an eye opening
experience in itself.

   Her last client was from England, and had overdosed as a younger man on
Dallas reruns. By the time Lars was trotted out, the guy was on his hands and
knees with a saddle strapped to his back. She'd blindfolded him, like the first
gentleman, which was helpful since 'Lars' didn't much look at all the way she
was describing him/me, flattering as it was to think of myself as a champion
weightlifter with a thirteen-inch penis.

   On the other hand, Camille looked absolutely the part, clad only in a ten
gallon hat, snakeskin boots and a wicked set of spurs. She took great delight
in having her new houseboy run around fetching her various items from different
parts of the room: a crop here, a bridle there.

   She took a truly monstrous dildo off the wall and moved towards me with a
disquieting smirk. I took a frightened step backwards, which caused a pained
expression to cross her face. When she was close enough, she whispered that she
just wanted me to hold it between my legs until she was ready for it; then she
went pack to her "pony" and climbed into the saddle.

   I have to say, for a guy probably twice my age, he was in incredible shape.
He carried her from one end of the dungeon to the other, enduring the
occasional touch of the spurs or slap of the whip with little more than a
grunt. She finally hitched him to the punishment bench, and fastened his wrists
to cuffs at the bottom, locking him down on all fours.

   She came back to me and retrieved the dildo, performing a little fellatio
routine on it before returning to her client.

   Her game became clear when she began to prod his exposed ass with the rubber
cock, still holding my body heat. He began to yammer excitedly, much as
Anderson had upon hearing that first "Ja."  I could imagine him picturing some
muscle-bound Nordic stud about to give him the ride of his life. She just
laughed cruelly, slapped his ass and shoved it deep into his struggling body.
He screeched, but when she twisted the little cap at the end, starting it to
vibrate, he realized he'd been had and he dropped his head down and let out a
little sob. Whether it was relief, or disappointment, I couldn't say.

   She then shooed me away to back upstairs while she finished up. I waited for
the now familiar honk of the taxi and the slamming of the front door. A few
minutes later she came clomping up the stairs, still in her minimalist
"cowgirl" outfit. She spun around in front of the bed, and dropped down heavily
on it, letting out a deep breath as she did.

   "I'm beat," she grumbled. I let the obvious pun pass.

   "I bet I know what you need," I said instead, waggling my eyebrows
suggestively.

   She eyed me skeptically. "Do tell."

   I sat down on the mattress and leaned down over her body, affectionately
kissing her bare navel. I heard her sigh again, and her body relaxed as my
tongue flickered in and out of her belly button.

   I trailed my lips down the remainder of her abdomen and through the dense
black fur of her pubis. Sliding off the bed, I knelt between her legs, tenderly
teasing her lips open with my mouth. She was a little damp already, and I
resolved to make her wetter still, slowly playing my tongue in and out of her
body, my hands gently massaging her thighs.

   I glanced up to see if she was still skeptical, and noticed that she was
lying absolutely still. Only the steady rise and fall of her chest gave any
indication that she was alive.

   "Camille?"

   She just mumbled under her breath, rolled onto her side and drew her legs
up.

   I smiled wearily. I took one of her feet in hand and carefully removed the
boot, then the other. Each time she mumbled something incoherent and then
pulled her leg back when I was done.

   I picked up one of the sheets had fallen off the bed during our earlier
lovemaking, and, crawling into bed beside her, covered us both.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Note: Comments and feedback are always welcome. Unfortunately, as the story
grows in size, it becomes increasingly difficult to honor requests for missing
chapters. Please try searching Deja News or similar forums. That way, I have
more time to actually write. :)
* * * * * * * * * * * *
And if you go chasing rabbits, you know you're going to fall

    Jefferson Airplane, White Rabbit


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