From h_heat@korrnet.org Fri Feb 28 12:03:50 1997
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From: Hawaiian Heat <h_heat@korrnet.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Setup 1/1 - M+/F, Cheating, Wife, PROSITUTION
Date: Fri, 28 Feb 1997 12:03:50 -0500
Organization: University of Tennessee
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M+/F, CHEATING, WIFE, PROSITUTION, REVENGE
Setup
by Tristmegistis
(Tristemgistis@korrnet.org)
Chapter One
Mike Bodine ran his hands through his red hair. "I swear to God,
Virginia, I had no idea it was a strip joint. Todd told me to meet him. I
could have sworn he said the Tiger Club, not the Tiger Pause. It was an honest
mistake!"
Ginny Bodine couldn't sit, had to pace some more. Her fists were still
knotted. She was trying to listen, trying to believe him, but her fury made
both almost impossible. "The bottom line is that you were arrested for
soliciting a prostitute, Michael. How do you explain that?"
Her husband blew a hard sigh at the carpet. "The bitch is lying her ass
off. She's the one who came over and sat by me, damn it. I did *not* buy her
a drink. I did *not* offer her money for sex. I told her I was very happily
married and to go away. I'm positive the car was locked, honey. I don't
*know* how she got in. She was already in the back seat when I gave up on Todd
and left. The cops showed up about two seconds after I'd gotten in the car,
and about one second after I realized there was a half-naked hooker with me."
She was quivering with anger. "Do you know how idiotic that sounds,
Michael? Do you blame the police for laughing at a story like that?"
"Of course I do, damn it! Don't you think that if I was going to lie I'd
come up with something better than that?"
"I don't know what to think," she said grimly.
She knew that her husband had had a reputation as a real ladies' man
before they met, but she'd been positive he'd given up his old ways after they
became an item. Well, nearly positive, anyway. She'd written off her
lingering doubts as paranoia. In the past four hours, since he'd called from
the police station, they'd all returned, and she'd suddenly begun to question
his solemn vows of faithfulness. Had he been with other prostitutes in the
last two years? He'd confessed, even before they'd been engaged, that he'd
done that a few times on long, lonely business trips. Had she been a fool to
think a leopard could change its spots? His weak explanation did absolutely
nothing to resolve her fears.
And neither did a restless, nearly sleepless night. At least he hadn't
tried to touch her. He knew her well enough to realize that any attempt to
seduce her anger away was doomed to fail. As dearly as Ginny adored making
love with her husband, if he'd made any move to paw her, she'd have scratched
his eyes out.
It was perfectly evident to both of them by ten Saturday morning that
nothing he could say or do was going to mend the immense chasm that had
suddenly separated them. The fact was, Mike admitted to her, that if he heard
somebody else repeating his exact words, he wouldn't believe them either.
That admission softened her iciness just a little. "I *want* to believe
you. Give me some time."
But she knew that wasn't going to be enough. She had to have some
answers. Now.
She called Todd Blankenship, Michael's boss, while her husband was mowing
the lawn.
"Hiya beautiful!"
"I'm in no mood for flirtation, Todd."
Her solemnness killed his inevitable sexual innuendo. "Uh oh. Sounds
grim. You haven't started smoking again have you?"
She nearly laughed. It was a private joke they shared. Mike was
disgusted by the smell of cigarettes, and Ginny had been having a hard time
giving up the pernicious habit after they'd started dating. During a party at
the boss's house, she and Mike had had a minor tiff over something trivial, and
she'd stolen one of Todd's harsh, imported cigarettes and snuck off to smoke it
on the patio. Todd had caught her, teased her out of her anger while she
inhaled calming smoke, and grinningly handed her some breath freshener before
she went back inside. Similar things had happened twice since.
Her voice mellowed, even as a sudden sharp craving made her lungs feel
empty. "No. Not yet."
"Well, you know where I keep them if you need one. Now, what's up?"
She was surprised he hadn't heard about his star sales rep's encounter
with the law, and tried to back out of the call. He would have none of it.
"Look, Red, you don't call me just to yak -- much to my dismay.
Something's wrong between you and Mikey. Either you tell me, or I'll drive
over and drag it out of you in person."
Her face as red as her hair, she sketched out the bare bones of the
too-real nightmare.
"It's a logical mistake, babe. The Tiger Club's a pretty new place --
not that I frequent such places myself, of course." The wry tone of the last
phrase was another joke. He was notorious for hanging out in seedy bars.
"It's entirely possible that I *did* slip up, like he said."
"But you don't think you did?"
"I don't remember it, but that doesn't mean I didn't."
She frowned into the receiver. "You're a big help."
"I'd *like* to be. You know I'm here for you, in any way you want me."
"Todd, don't start that again."
"Sorry. Sometimes my true feelings sneak out. I try real hard to behave
myself."
"I know you do. And if I need a cigarette, I'll let you know."
She couldn't help feeling flattered by his adoration. He was
ridiculously wealthy, breathtakingly handsome and could charm a cobra out of
its venom. He'd continuously and relentlessly pressured her to sleep with him,
even after the marriage. She'd never told Mike, fearing his quick anger would
ruin his tight friendship with Todd -- and his skyrocketing career. She'd
handled the situation on her own, bluntly and in no uncertain terms compelling
the playboy to get the message: no way, never, no matter what.
But he still flirted outrageously in public and mooned over her in
private. The forbidden fruit syndrome, she was sure. For Todd Blankenship,
the chase was everything. The woman he couldn't have -- and there weren't very
many -- was the one he wanted the most. The fact that he respected her enough
to control his relentless pursuit was the primary reason they'd maintained even
the semblance of friend- ship over the last eighteen months.
She didn't dwell on old news. Her hunger for facts wouldn't permit any
distraction. She wasn't going to be able to rest until she was positive she'd
done everything she could to get at the truth.
Ashamed of her continuing doubt, she lied to Michael about going
shopping. The precinct from which she'd retrieved her husband the evening
before was much more quiet and orderly at three o'clock Saturday afternoon.
The officer at the desk had been reluctant to part with the report. It
took a blend of browbeating and charm to get her hands on the papers. It was
probably the latter more than the former that persuaded him. She was fully
aware that even in a pair of jeans and a modest blouse, she drew a lot of
attention. She resented the fact that men were ruled by their genitals more
than their common sense, and despised herself for having caved in and used her
looks -- again -- to get what she wanted.
Most of what she read made either no sense or was irrelevant, but her
husband's statement to the arresting officers was exactly what he'd told her.
That part was reassuring, even though the cops' obvious skepticism balanced the
scale exactly where it had been. Her primary gain was the name and address of
the woman who'd been arrested with Michael.
It was entirely typical of her to drive straight to the apartment complex
listed in the report, march up to the door marked 1029-B and push the buzzer.
She refused to allow her nervousness to show in any way.
"Yeah?" came a muffled feminine voice through the door.
"Are you Karen Higgins?"
"Who wants to know?"
"You don't know me. My name's Virginia Bodine. I'd like to talk to you
for a minute."
"What about?"
"You were arrested with my husband last night. I want to know what
happened."
"I don't want any trouble. Go away."
"Look, all I want to do is talk. I'm not after revenge."
"Yeah. And the Pope ain't Catholic."
"Please?"
"Go away, lady."
"I'm going to stand here and lean on the doorbell until you let me in."
"I'll call the cops."
"I bet that's just what you want -- more cops in your life."
After a pause, the voice resumed. "Step back so I can see you."
Ginny dutifully backed up against the far wall of the hallway so the
woman could scan her through the peephole. After another pause, she heard a
laugh. "I'll be damned."
"What?"
The deadbolt clicked back. The door opened.
The woman standing there had flame red hair, looked almost exactly her
height and weight, and was grinning like a cheshire cat.
"No wonder your old man wanted to hose me," she chuckled. "Come on in
and have a cup of coffee."
Moderately stunned, Ginny obeyed. The apartment was nothing like the
tawdry den she expected. It was neat and clean, tastefully decorated -- unlike
its occupant, who seemed already dressed for work. Her bright green minidress,
stiletto heels and bold makeup left little doubt as to her profession.
Ginny let herself be escorted to the sofa, scrambled to gather her
thoughts while the woman graciously poured coffee and took a seat opposite her.
Her hostess stared down her pert nose, long lashes narrowed suspiciously.
"You don't look like the kinky type, lady."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Ginny felt stiff as a steel beam. The
woman looked enough like her, under her paint, to be her sister.
Karen Higgins leaned back into her chair, lit a cigarette, stained it and
her coffee cup with red lipstick. "There's three types of women who come to
me. Since I bet you've never licked pussy, you ain't type number one. Since
you ain't carrying a gun, you ain't type number two. And since you ain't
sitting there with hard nipples, you ain't here to get off on me telling you
the nasty things your old man did to me."
Ginny's voice was brittle and mechanical. She tried not to hear what the
prostitute had said. "I told you why I was here. Mike claims he didn't do
anything with you, that the whole thing was a mistake."
The answering laugh was bitter. "What'd you expect, honey? A
confession?"
Ginny swallowed the hard lump in her throat. "So he did..."
"Fuck me? Un huh. In the back seat of his car, right there in the
parking lot, for fifty bucks. That what you needed to know?"
The tears were there before she felt them coming. She tried to stand.
She had to get away from this woman. But all she could do was sob.
The hooker's brutal insolence dissolved like salt in the rain. "Shit,"
she muttered, grabbing the box of tissues on the end table and moving to the
sofa. "Hey, lady. Buck up. It ain't the end of the world."
"Not for you," Ginny blurted through intensifying tears.
"Not for you, either. Look, men are all assholes. Yours ain't as bad as
most. He didn't want anything weird. Hell, maybe you ought to be flattered."
Ginny covered her face. Her shoulders shook. "Flattered?"
"Yeah. He picked me up because I look like your fucking twin, honey. In
case you haven't noticed. The whole time he was doing it, he *had* to be
thinking of you."
"That makes me feel *so* much better," Ginny spat venomously. "My husband
wishes I was a cheap whore."
The hooker stiffened. "Hey, bitch, no need to get ugly. Just because I
did things for him you're too fucking uptight to do -"
Ginny leapt to her feet, shaking with reborn rage. "Not one more word,
slut. Not one more word." She stalked toward the door. The burning glare
that followed her was, however, silent. She didn't see the faint smile on the
painted lips that grew the instant the door slammed behind her departing guest.
Everybody called the lakefront house "Mi Casa." It'd been in the
Blankenship family since before the lake was there. In fact, the story went
that the dam had been built just to provide the grounds with the vast white
sand beach that stretched to either side of the old stone building.
The Blankenship's hadn't lived there in two generations. It had been
made the corporate retreat by Todd's father, available in theory to any company
employee, of any level. In fact, other than during the annual company picnic,
only those of middle-management level and above frequented it with any
regularity. The spring sun was too weak and the day too cool to attract many
people. Other than a teenaged girl whom Ginny vaguely recognized and her
boyfriend freezing on the sand, she had the rambling structure to herself.
The cigarettes were under the bar, as always. She imagined the antique
case was supposed to keep them fresh, but the harsh smoke tasted as bitter as
it always did. Nonetheless, she inhaled deeply and with relish, even as she
hated her weakness.
The dizzying numbness and the wild buzzing in her ears as the nicotine
hit her system was exactly the distraction she needed. A snifter of twenty
year old brandy didn't hurt, either. She'd cried herself dry. She'd screamed
herself hoarse. There was nothing left inside but the pain, the nauseating
sense of betrayal.
The unrelenting lie Michael insisted on repeating was intolerable, but
even that deep wound might have healed. She didn't trust easily, but maybe he
could have re-earned her faith in him. But, add to that the whore's physical
similarity to herself and Ginny was confronted by a situation that seemed to
doom her marriage. He'd asked her, more than once in their early days
together, to "play dress-up," as he'd called it. Each time, her refusal had
been adamant. She refused to even consider anything so demeaning. Her angry
reply had always been, "If the real Virginia can't keep you satisfied, we don't
belong together." Apparently, she hadn't been enough.
The Red-Headed League was falling apart. That's what they'd called
themselves, like in the Conan Doyle story. When they'd started, neither of
them remembered that particular Holmes mystery. By the time she read it and
they laughed about the ending, about the League being a villainous fraud, it
was too late to abandon the moniker. How perfect it seemed now that the fraud
had been exposed.
The huge library was the perfect place to pace. Her sneakers squeaked
softly on the burnished oak floor, whispered over Persian carpets. Her hands
were either pushed into her back pockets or wrapped under her chest. She wove
blind paths through the room that evolved into an unconscious pattern. Behind
the twin leather settees by the teak doors, along the east wall's glass fronted
bookcase, curving toward the southern bay windows. A pause there, or full
stop, as the moment dictated. Eventually, across the middle of the room to the
bar for another cigarette or water or brandy, then along the west wall and back
to the windows. When the windows finally went black over the lake, she didn't
remember turning on the lamp near the settees.
Her face was not as haggard as it felt. To reflect her emotions, it'd
have had to grow wrinkled and crone-like, bruised and broken in hideous ways.
Just like when she was raped. That same violation. That same ghastly
powerlessness. The numbness helped hold it away, so it couldn't kill her, but
she felt it, knew what it meant.
It had happened again. She'd done everything she could to defend
herself. Given it a one thousand percent effort. And it'd happened anyway.
Like it always did, always would.
Brutally, she recounted every one.
Tony. Fifth grade. Talked her into trading her virginity for a gold
ring that meant they were going steady. Changed her mind too late to get him
to stop. Let him believe she was crying because it felt so good.
Larry. No. Don't. Not yet.
Billy. Eighth grade. Said all cheerleaders did it and thought her
resistance was part of a game. Her wrists pinned overhead by the granite of
his bulk, her legs relentlessly forced apart as if by colossal forces. Looking
past him, up at the bubblegum stuck to the bottom of the bleachers' seats,
wishing she couldn't feel what he was doing to her.
Now. Larry. Her older brother. Sixth through twelfth grades. Whenever
he wanted. However he wanted. Saying no meant horrible things, bloody things.
She did what she had to. She forgot how to say no.
The hall clock tolled midnight, jolting her from her rigid stare into the
benighted glass that showed her only a dull reflection of herself. She turned
away, to the bar, wishing she could get drunk. The alcohol was having no
effect. She wasn't getting off on the cigarettes any more. She was deadly
tired and far from home.
"Now I lay me down to sleep," she murmured as she drug herself up the
wide walnut staircase, "but my list is incomplete."
The fourposter in the suite they'd used the last time they were there was
a bad choice, but she didn't have the energy to move. Her body was an inert
shape under the comforter, but her mind wouldn't let go.
Another Tony. Twelfth grade. Last of the names that end with a moan.
Accidentally saved her life when he almost killed her. Hospital had insisted
she talk to both the police and a psychiatrist when they saw her scars and
bruises. They'd seen others like them, understood what they meant. How
unwelcome sanity was.
Rapist No-name. Sophomore in college. Once wasn't enough. Held her
until he was ready again. Black night, black man, another hospital. More
therapy. That time it took.
Freedom. Health. Strength.
Despite Rapist Rodgrigez. Senior in college. Rough ski mask against her
cheek. Foul breath. The way "No" had come back to her, filling the black
hole. Rodgrigez in the hospital. The trial. The acquittal. The betrayal.
She found the power to light a cigarette, momentarily banish the
darkness. No matter what she did. No matter how right she was. No matter how
hard she tried. The betrayal was always there. In a new shape, even more
horrid than when last seen. The shape was a whore this time. Worse and worse.
She'd tried everything. Everything. Even "no" had failed her. What difference
had it made?
She guessed she slept. It didn't feel that way. She felt giddy, drugged
by brandy. Her throat was raw from screams and tobacco. She longed for
thunderstorms, got a deceptively sunny day with a chill northerly breeze.
She made coffee, smoked the last cigarette in the humidor. She would
have to face Michael today. The thought was enough to weaken her further. She
showered, drudgingly cleaned up after herself and left her refuge.
Michael was home, angry and scared. Seeing her this way, an all new way,
made him forget most of it and swallow the rest. She endured the inescapable
questions. Where had she been? Why hadn't she at least phoned him?
She offered no answers. In a dull, flat voice, she repeated what Karen
Higgins had told her. She asked him nothing, just sat limply at the kitchen
table, her glazed eyes tracking him almost without comprehension. A childish
part of her had hoped for a tearful confession, a miraculous mending of all
that had so suddenly, so horridly gone wrong. Her adult self wasn't surprised
by his denial; the whore was lying, he'd told her the whole truth. She forced
herself to her feet, wordlessly went into the bedroom, quietly closed the door.
He didn't follow. Sunday. Day of rest.
Finally, sleep. Deep and dreamless. Untroubled, even peaceful,
uninterrupted until she awoke hours before the alarm. She felt so normal that
she knew she wasn't. Even after he came out of the guest bedroom, rubbing
sleep from his eyes like a child, her relaxation remained intact. Neither of
them said anything about it, but his sickening sweetness kept polite barriers
intact.
He left at his usual time, she kept to her usual routine. All was fine.
Perfect. Until she got dressed and faced the mirror, hairbrush in hand. And
saw, not herself, but Karen Higgins.
It was just a passing flicker, an imaginative tweak. But the image
stuck, lodged in her throat like a fish bone. She turned away from it but the
image persisted. "I look like you're fucking twin... The whole time he was
doing it, he *had* to be thinking of you..."
She managed to get through her day, went to the office, performed her
tasks, made it as far as the parking garage at five. But she was scared the
whole day, scared to death, and it came to a head as she sat in the dark
garage, both hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled force. Her body
wasn't right, had become something clumsily heavy, alien and strange. "Just
because I did things for him you're too fucking uptight to do..." Her mind
veered away from the sneering echo in utter panic.
She stopped at a convenience store for cigarettes, felt the eyes of the
clerk roaming her body, and was nauseated by the sly pride that grew in her.
Sick, she told herself back in the safety of the car. She was shaking so hard
she had trouble making the match meet the tobacco. You're getting sick again.
Michael was late. She knew it was crazy. Common sense said he'd just
gotten tied up at the office. Still, she was positive he'd stopped off at the
Tiger Club again, was with Karen Higgins again, doing the things whores did for
men. The things she refused to do. The sane thing to do was to do them for
him and save her marriage. Hadn't she made that secret, undying vow to do
whatever it took to keep him?
At eight, she broke down and dialed his pager. At eight-thirty, in
tears, she called the office directly. After five rings, Todd answered. She
barely stopped the reflex to hang up. She kept all but the slightest quaver
from her voice and prayed she sounded sane.
Only after she lowered the receiver back to the cradle did the weirdness
of their conversation register. Todd had been friendly, but distant. No double
entendre. No jokes. His reassurance had been too quick, too vague. Yeah,
Mikey's doing business. Dinner with Joe Wallace or somebody.
He'd been abrupt, too. Was he lying, covering for his old best buddy? Or
had her call interrupted him while he was doing it with Marla, that Barbie Doll
built blonde secretary? Both, her body told her. Michael was balling the
whore. Todd was screwing his secretary. All men thought about was sex.
She shook her head, trying to clear the thick cotton from her brain.
There was a cigarette in her hand. The whole house was going to stink. Panic
sent her dashing to the bathroom to blow smoke at the exhaust fan. When Michael
got home, everything had to look normal. She had to pretend she didn't know
where he'd been, what he'd been doing. She savagely brushed her teeth, doused
herself with obscuring perfume. The hairbrush was a comforting thing. It
soothed her, like her mother's hand on her forehead when she'd been sick. She
ran it through her long red mane, over and over, until it gleamed like cold
fire, and still her arms raised and lowered.
She felt a sluggish, primal urge to be beautiful for him when he got
there, make him regret what he'd done with the whore who was only a surrogate
for her. She could put on a dress. Maybe even a little makeup, if that's what
he wanted. Karen Higgins wore a lot. Was that why he wanted her, couldn't
stay away from her? How much of their money was he giving her tonight? Another
fifty? More?
She just stood there. She didn't change clothes. She didn't even own
any makeup. Another cigarette was burning, balancing the hairbrush in her
other hand. Karen smoked, too. Maybe he really liked that, no matter what he
said. Other men had said it was sexy. So oral.
Suddenly, not even knowing why, she saw that she was crying again. The
dull pain began to come back only after she saw the wetness glittering on her
cheeks. Did whores ever cry? Was Karen's makeup some kind of armor against
pain? A mask that deflected it, made her invulnerable?
It was nine o'clock. She couldn't stand it. The bathroom felt like a
cage. The whole house was a pretty prison. Where was he? Where would he take
the whore?
She was in the car, driving toward downtown. Her hands steered it past
the apartment complex she'd visited Saturday. Her foot braked the car. Her
eyes scanned the parking lot. His vehicle wasn't there, but she made a second
pass before heading south. The whore's apartment windows were dark. What did
that mean, though?
The Tiger Club stood where there had once been an oriental restaurant,
she thought. The steering wheel refused to turn into the parking lot. She had
to go around the block and sneak up on it from a side street. The numbness was
leaving. She was feeling more alive than she had all day -- maybe since Friday
night. Her heart was hammering with excitement. She was spying on her
cheating husband. She knew, even before he saw it, that his car would be there.
It was deliberately hidden in the shadow of an adjoining building. She peered
closely. No. It wasn't rocking on its springs. He wasn't fucking rented
pussy in the back seat again.
She parked as close to the club's door as she could. Women would be
dancing on some kind of stage in there, grinding their hips, taking off their
clothes to the cheers of the patrons. She could hear the throbbing bass line
of what had to be heavy rock, but none of the rhythm of lead or vocals
penetrated the walls until the doors leapt open to disgorge two male patrons.
Not him. She relaxed back into the seat, caught a whiff of too much perfume as
she lit another cigarette. She smelled like a whore herself.
She could always go in. Catch him sitting close to her, maybe see him
groping her thigh, sneaking a stroke of breast flesh. She could make a scene.
Or sit in a dark corner and just watch. No. That'd never do. What if somebody,
some man, thought she was another whore, sat beside her and tried to leer down
her sensible blouse, up the modest skirt of her business suit. She didn't look
like a whore, but what other kind of woman went into a strip club alone?
Suddenly, she didn't want to catch him hot-handed. She was terrified
that he'd step through that door with Higgins. That they'd amble arm in arm,
laughing at his prim, prudish wife's stupidity, to the car. That she'd be able
to see him kiss those heavy red lips, grope her nearly bare breasts with a
fearsome passion.
She nearly crashed into a parked car in her hurry to escape. A couple
had to scurry from her careening path as she swerved out of the lot, onto the
street, blind to traffic.
She was home, waiting, when he pulled into the driveway a little after
eleven. She didn't ask where he'd been. He volunteered nothing. She smelled
alcohol on his breath, but no perfume on his clothes. He surely smelled her
cigarettes, had no comment. His face was as carefully emotionless as her own.
He vanished into the guest bedroom.
All night, she lay with wide eyes, seeing, not the dim ceiling, but all
the things he and Karen might have done. She wondered if the whore enjoyed her
work or merely endured it.
Toward dawn, she made a decision -- really, realized that she'd already
made it and was plotting subsequent actions. She felt perfectly logical,
finally rational again. A rush of pure relief pulsed through her. She fell
asleep as the sun rose. When the alarm tried to jolt her into wakefulness, she
shut it off. When the noise of the juicer roused her, she fumbled for the
phone, left her answering service the word that she wouldn't be in today. She
pressed the pillow over her head and slept until just after noon.
Chapter Two
The door of 1029-B looked exactly the same. For some odd reason, Ginny
expected it to be different -- have a wreath hung on it, or be painted a
different color, as if months had passed instead of a mere forty-eight hours.
Her hand was rock steady as she pushed the bell. Again, it took a few moments
before the call penetrated the wood.
"It's me again, Karen. Virginia Bodine."
"What do you want now?" the muffled voice groaned.
"Help keeping my husband."
The deadbolt snicked. The door parted. It was dim within, and the
hooker wasn't dressed for work this time. The cotton nightgown wasn't the sort
of thing a client would ever see, she guessed. Karen wordlessly turned and
padded into the living room, clicking on a lamp in passing, gesturing sleepily
toward the couch on her way to the kitchen. Ginny sat. Maybe the whole
apartment was off limits to clients. Would that be what she called them?
"I could have come back later," she called, smelling coffee as the brewer
burped. "You didn't have to get up."
"S'okay. It'll cost you though."
Ginny nodded, felt foolish. Absurd. Herself hiring a whore.
She accepted a steaming mug from a hand with long, hooked, enameled
nails, watched the woman settle herself like a cat in the chair she'd used the
day before. She was stared at from over the coffee cup until she became
uncomfortable. Karen reached for a cigarette, broke her silence. "So what
changed your mind?"
"He saw you last night, didn't he? At the Tiger Club?" She lit a
cigarette also.
"I don't talk about who I'm with. Besides, you don't sound like you're
asking questions."
"I, uh, saw his car there."
"You spied on him. Do that often?"
"Never. Is that bad?"
She shrugged. "Don't ask me. I'm a whore, not a shrink. If therapy's
what you're looking for --"
"No. I want you to teach me... how to make him happy."
"How to keep him so thoroughly fucked that he won't need me anymore, you
mean."
She nodded, her face red. "Exactly. I thought about what you said --
about him thinking about me while he made love with you."
Karen shook her head. "Lesson number one: guys don't 'make love with'
me, honey. They fuck me. Ain't the same thing. That's what I give your man
that you don't."
"I don't understand."
"Shit lady. Ginny was it? When what's-his-name -- Mike -- comes to you
with that look in his eye, he's gotta bring along sweet words, flowers maybe,
whatever turns your crank, you know? All he wants is to blow his wad, and you
make him do the foreplay thing. Me, he brings money to. He don't have to ask
nice or pet my pussy til I'm ready. He can be as quick as he wants, or as slow
-- long as he pays for my time. He don't have to give a damn about me getting
my rocks. Ain't no -- what do you call it -- hidden agenda. Simple business
deal."
Ginny leaned back into the sofa. "It doesn't sound like much fun for
you." A barked laugh, a wry grin. "What do you do for money?"
"My job? I sell real estate."
"You like it?"
"Sometimes. I get your point."
"I don't think you do. I love what I do, girl. I ain't saying I cum
like a cannon every time some guy pokes me -- but I get off. They all think
they're using me. For most of them, that's part of the rush. They dig having a
bitch that'll do damn near anything they tell her to do. Makes them feel like
hot shit, you know? What the dumb fucks don't know is that it's usually me
who's in charge. They get hard, they get stupid. They think with their cocks,
and they ain't got brain one down there. All I gotta do is make them think
what I wanna do is their idea. Works almost every time."
Ginny chewed that over, sipped coffee, finished her cigarette, avoiding
Karen's steady gaze. "You're saying it empowers you?" Her voice rang with
disbelief.
Karen shrugged. "I don't know what that means. All I know is that I'm
the boss when they got their zippers open. Long as that piece of meat's in my
hand or hole, I'm strong and they're weak."
"You don't like men, do you?"
That quick laugh again. "You gotta figure everything out, don't you?
You're one of them 'new women,' all head and no cunt, right? You pretend men
and women both got the same thing between their legs and you give up what
little advantage you got over them. Darlin', your pussy's the only teacher you
need. You wonder if I hate men. Maybe I do. But you hate them too, and wish
you *was* one at the same time. You try to play by their rules and wonder how
come you lose all the time. Don't make no sense to me."
Before that weekend, Ginny would have argued against Karen's
reverse-sexism until she was blue in the face. The prostitute's words would
have offended everything she held sacred, violated tenets she'd struggled to
sustain for years. But her belief system lay in shambles about her. She'd
been unable to make it meet life's challenges. There was a dark sanity to
Karen's point of view. It was a brutal way to look at life, stripped bare of
niceties. It was primal, uncivilized.
In a way she'd never have suspected, it meshed with her thoughts of the
night before. Karen was right; she did have to understand everything. She
chuckled and shook her head.
"What's so funny?"
"Me. What I'm doing."
"What, buying advice from a whore?"
"Even weirder. I'm *believing* advice from a whore. By the way, how are
we going to work out the money thing?"
"Fifty bucks for a full hour." Her grin was lewd. "That's half what I
charge Mikey."
Ginny's smile was forced. "What you *used* to charge Mikey. I intend to
go home tonight with enough to make sure he won't need to come see you again."
"Then we better get our asses in gear, honey, 'cause you got a lot to
learn before you're any competition for me."
After a panther-like stretch, she told her student to fetch coffee
refills while she gathered tools.
"When I show you what your old man gets off on, we'll see just how
committed you are to saving your marriage, Ginny Bodine."
Karen turned out to be a talker, unable to work without keeping up a
running patter of commentary. For a woman who'd dropped out of junior high
school, she was a good teacher. Her wry instructions were crudely phrased, but
crystal clear. She made her pupil do most of the actual work; learning by
experience was what she'd done, and she insisted that Ginny'd never be able to
do anything right just by thinking about it. Her ongoing sexually explicit
banter became the norm, had the effect of desensitizing Ginny to the bizarre
changes she saw in the mirror.
Karen was extremely intelligent, and one of the most observant people
Ginny had ever met. She knew things about Mike that stunned his wife. Dirty
talk got him as hot as sleazy behavior, and those were really what he was
paying for.
"It's all foreplay to him, see? That's the biggest secret to being a
successful whore, honey. You gotta advertise all the time, make them think
you're fucking them with your eyes the second you see them. Do your job right,
and it don't matter a hell of a lot how good a fuck you are. They'll go away
thinking you're the best lay in the city even if all you do is lay there and
think about what you want for breakfast while they hump your ass. No, no!
Jesus, girl. Use the silver eyeshadow. That purple's way wrong with the
green."
Karen was patient. She had to be. Ginny balked at every turn, had to
take cigarette breaks and re-assemble her resolve. Karen insisted she have a
little brandy with their endless coffee. What she was doing was so alien, so
foreign, that it dizzied her more than the alcohol. More than once, she tried
to just say the hell with it, get up and go home. Every time, Karen gave her
the time to talk herself into going through with it.
"Dress up," as Mike had called it, turned out to be fun, as long as she
didn't think about it too much and sustained a mild buzz. As long as she
focused on the particular task at hand, she was fine, could laugh along with
Karen, share her sly humor at the amazing transformation taking place. Stepping
back and looking at the overall result was what was almost unendurable. And
there came the eventual point she'd been dreading -- completion.
It was quarter til five. In fifteen minutes, her hundred dollars would
be spent. Karen had thrown in bonuses; the fee covered over-night clothing
rental and the loan of whatever cosmetics Ginny needed to maintain her
astonishing look.
"Keep it fresh," the hooker admonished her stricken client. "There's
nothing as disgusting as a used, worn whore. Mikey's especially into lipstick.
Loves to have his cock sucked by wet red lips. You learn how to give him
righteous blow jobs and I'll be out one john, for sure."
Ginny sat stock still in the car. She was in her own garage. The engine
ticked loudly as it cooled. What she'd imagined had to be the hardest part was
over -- walking out of Karen Higgin's apartment into the late afternoon world,
driving cross town looking like your average, everyday hooker on her way to
work. It'd been every bit as horrible as she'd imagined. The open stares from
other cars had inspired near panic. The catcalls at stoplights. She'd kept her
eyes rigidly forward, sat at stiff attention, hung onto the steering wheel like
it was a life preserver.
Now she was having trouble relaxing her grip. She was home -- but so was
he. His company car was beside her's. She couldn't do it. Walking in there
with her face painted and the rest of her body on lewd display was impossible.
He'd laugh at her. He'd be disgusted by her self-denigration. He'd hate her
for this insane attempt to be everything she wasn't -- had never been, could
never be.
But what else was there to do? She'd idiotically forgotten the clothes
she'd worn to the whore's apartment, so wiping off her makeup and changing back
wasn't an option. Karen had been hurrying into her own revealing work uniform.
There was no going back there. Her friends would know just how mad she was if
she appeared on their doorsteps looking like this. She was trapped. Committed.
Besides, if she turned tail and ran, her marriage was over. In her
bones, she was certain of that. This was what he wanted. Was it so heinous to
be what he apparently needed? Wasn't he worth the risk she was taking? Hell,
was it even a risk?
She tried to shake off her paralysis, loosened her hands. Her scarlet
nails flashed in the glow of the garage door opener's light, startling her.
They were ludicrously long, their tips so securely epoxied and meticulously
filed that they were a part of her until she cut them off. She tried a deep
breath, felt her braless breasts flatten against the slightly scratchy stretch
fabric of the emerald green minidress.
Okay. Showtime. But she delayed. Karen's advice replayed in her head.
She was positive she didn't need more lipstick, but forced herself to check in
the mirror anyway. Shit. She'd chewed it and had to wipe her front teeth,
then spread new color on. The rest was okay. No mascara flecks. No beads of
sweat on her forehead. Cigarette? Yeah. Better cover all the bases. Climb
out of the car onto the stilts of the stiletto heels. Tug the hem down as far
as it'd go -- which wasn't very -- and expose her full chest even more.
Now. Get it over with. Walk, don't think. Karen's reminders echoed in
her head. Let your pussy lead you. Follow your tits.
The ten feet to the door was a voyage of epic proportions. Turning the
knob was a herculean task. The pressure exerted against the dress by her deep
breath almost unnerved her. She used the wild energy to push on through, not
run.
She bit her lower lip and stifled a groan. Mike stirred beside her, but
slept on. Karen had been right about Mike's love of oral sex. Her jaw was
sore, and the flavor in her mouth was vile. Sperm had tasted nothing like
she'd thought it would. Not as ghastly as she'd feared, just kind of stale.
But its aftertaste, blended with her tobacco and the afternoon's multiple
brandies, was making her nauseous. She padded silently, stiffly, to the
bathroom.
The mirror revealed a nightmare creature. After a second of mute shock,
she giggled. Karen's cosmetics had runneled and smeared until her entire face
looked lopsided, as if the right side had slid down and blurred. What little
lipstick remained was a pink halo covering her from nose to chin. Only the
waterproof mascara remained relatively unsullied. She tiptoed out and retrieved
her heavy purse. The makeup remover unearthed her long buried, familiar
visage.
But it didn't erase what she'd done. Her contented lethargy reminded her
that she didn't really have any regrets. She hadn't felt this sated in months.
After he'd recovered from his initial shock and offered token protest,
he'd been quite happy to let her seduce him. Just the dress up game he'd
always wanted her to play, she'd purred throatily while she rubbed his groin,
careful of her absurdly hooked nails. He'd groped her, too, with more energy
than since their honeymoon, but he'd never tried to kiss her. She'd told him to
do whatever he wanted to her. Yes, pinch her nipples. Yes, finger her pussy.
Yes, she'd love to try sucking his dick. Anything. Whatever he wanted.
So she smeared her nasty lipstick over the flesh of his penis while he
took her mouth's virginity. She coated it with saliva, did just what Karen had
suggested. He fucked her there until he was close to cumming. He'd been
diddling her with his hands all the while, and she was amazed by her level of
excitement. She almost regretted that he wanted to replace his fingers with
his penis -- until he slid easily in, buried in her to the hilt. She'd begun
an orgasm while he slowly, tenderly rode her. She'd had another before he
quietly asked her if he could cum in her mouth. Again the words Karen had
drummed into her, this time more easily, though. "Anything you want, lover."
She'd been well briefed in what to expect. The rich alien flavor of her
own secretions slickly coating his penis. She hadn't gagged when he'd erupted
with such surprising force. He would want her to swallow, she'd been warned.
So she gulped what she could, allowed the rest to overflow her lips. It'd been
much easier than the first time she'd attempted to swallow an oyster.
Unqualified success, she gloated to the mirror as she wiped away the
detritus of her day. The only thing that hadn't happened exactly as she'd
wished was his sleepy denial that anything had happened between he and the
whore. He'd made no mention of his second tryst with her the night before, nor
had he made any comment about the similarity of their appearances. An
insignificant failure of honesty. All that mattered was that he'd have no need
to return to Karen.
With clean face and mouth, she slept peacefully until the alarm awoke her
to his morning ministrations. She sighed, let her legs open to his hand. When
he kissed her breasts, she recalled Karen's advice to talk to him. She cradled
his head, cooed, urged him on in the crude ways she'd learned. It was good.
Surprisingly good. She froze momentarily when his head moved lower, when his
darting tongue lapped at her flat belly and still slid lower. Anything, she
reminded herself.
She feigned pleasure at first as he tongued her clitoris and slit. Within
moments the real thing replaced the act. He didn't make her cum, and she was
almost frantic when he groaned and shot his sperm against the calf he'd been
humping like a dog. He climbed from bed after a sheepish, messy. musky kiss
and trotted toward the shower, leaving her gasping, the sheets knotted in her
fists, her leg sticky with his spunk.
She cursed him under her shaky breath. She'd never been so aroused and
left hanging. If she was a woman given to masturbation, this'd be the time for
it. Too bad she wasn't, she thought bitterly. Then, abruptly -- until
yesterday she hadn't been given to sexy clothes, exotic makeup, oral sex and
dirty talk either. Tentatively, guiltily, she probed herself, hissed with the
intensity of the sensations she evoked. It was good. Not as good as what he'd
done, but good. She found her too-long nails made ideal pinching and rolling
tools for her swollen clit and nipples. She arched into her hand, let herself
go, and treated herself to her first solo orgasm since she was a teenager.
His cum she simply wiped onto the soiled sheets. Clad only in a short
robe, she hummed while she measured coffee and water into the maker. He
wrapped his arms around her from the rear when he entered, and the kiss on her
neck sent shivers through her. After her scalding shower, she snuck a
cigarette. He'd made her promise to throw the pack away. It'd only been a
part of the game, she'd lied.
He was affectionate until the moment he left for work. Ginny found that
she enjoyed the unaccustomed ongoing sexual attention, and missed it the moment
he was gone. Karen had been right about some-thing else, it seemed; it was
grand to feel so feminine. While she did her daily day, filled out listing
forms, talked to potential buyers and sellers, did showings, she was tempted
more than once to lick her lashes with the mascara still in her purse, again
taste the candy of the lipstick. She didn't, but just the idea that she
*could* made her tingle.
And, as the day progressed, Ginny became uncomfortably aware that her
teacher had been absolutely on target about the biggest of all her outlandish
claims; she was forced to admit that, the night before, she'd felt so utterly
empowered, so absolutely in control of their lovemaking, that nothing else in
her experience approached it. How could that be? She'd played hard at being
the pleaser, the eager, available, uninhibited whore. But with his erection
between her lips, he'd been the vulnerable one. It'd been Michael who'd begged
her to let him fuck her pussy. While fulfilling the role of the submissive,
she'd been secretly wholly dominant.
The blend of all these new sensations and awarenesses tinted her view of
the world at large. She didn't resent the way men looked at her quite as much.
They might still be sexist assholes, by and large, but at least they were
appreciative ones. If they admired her calves and chest, well, she had nice
legs and breasts, didn't she? Mike had made her grateful she was a woman, and
that hadn't ended when he'd left for his office. She was, in Karen's raw
words, damned happy she was born with a cunt.
At three, she kept her appointment with the prostitute to return the
loaned items. This time she was expected, and it was a fully painted and
prepped woman who opened the door.
"Well, back to your humdrum normal self, I see. Didn't like looking like
a slut enough to be one at work, huh?"
"I don't think it'd sell much real estate."
Karen raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Oh yeah? I bet they'd sign on the
dotted line without even reading the contract if you showed them enough tit and
ass."
Ginny lit her fifth cigarette of the day after handing over the freshly
dry cleaned dress. "Could be, but everybody I've heard about who tried to sell
property that way ended up failing. The business depends a lot on the good
will of other brokers. You can't fuck everybody, Karen."
The whore shrugged, made her tits jiggle within the confines of her low
cut blue dress. "You'd know more about that than me." Her eyes locked with
Ginny's. They held a sly amusement. "Have a good time last night?"
She blushed furiously. "God! It was amazing! Almost exactly like you'd
said it'd be!"
"You suck him off?"
Shyly. "Uh, as a matter of fact, yes."
"Did you fix your lipstick before he fucked you?"
"Uh, no. Why would --"
"To slow him down. To keep him so fucking hot he can't see straight. To
make him stumble around all day thinking about your sexy red lips."
"Oh. Well, things went great even without that."
There was a trace of sadness in Karen's voice. "It won't last, you know.
You're going to have to keep him cranked, or he'll be back knocking on my
door." Her tone lightened, and there was laughter in it. "But now you won't
mind getting sleazy for him whenever he needs it, will you?"
"I guess I can manage."
"Shit, girl. Who you trying to fool? I knew you were a natural the
second I laid eyes on you."
"A natural?"
"Whores are born, not made. Now that you've had your first taste, you
won't be able to rest easy until you get more of it. I was right about what
you called 'empowerment,' huh? Felt good, didn't it?"
She rebelled. On her way home, with Karen's mocking laughter ringing in
her ears, she tried to refute the ridiculous accusation. She was the furthest
thing from a whore that there was. Except for the night before, she was prim
and straightlaced in her sexual tastes and appetites. She could almost count
the number of orgasms she'd known.
At that point, she realized she was in the process of disproving her own
argument. She'd experienced three orgasms in the last twenty-four hours, all
as a direct result of behaving like a trollop. She lit an angry seventh
cigarette, saw her still red talons, noted how accustomed she already was to
having them lengthening her fingers. They'd barely been in the way at all at
work. People had noticed them, commented on them -- liked them. She'd felt a
little of that sly pride whenever they were admired. She *had* to forget the
whore's words. It was over.
Mike's ongoing ardor was grand. She was a little late getting home, and
he'd made dinner. Arranged a beautiful table, complete with flowers. More
awaited her in the bedroom, spread their rich scent freely throughout the room.
Candelabra were set up there, too. Later, their warm glow cast flickering
shadows over the lovers' intertwined bodies. She was again easily awakened,
experienced sex as not a slightly frightening obligation, but as a joyous
release. And she complied with his subtle request -- implied by gesture, not
spoken -- that she use her mouth on him again.
It was her spontaneous idea to position her groin near his face while she
kissed the head of his hard on. And when his tongue and lips made contact with
her, they inspired her to devour him with a true desire lacking the night
before. Her gasped curses and choked cries of pleasure were suddenly totally
honest, no longer designed merely to excite him. All her self-consciousness
vanished.
When he filled her mouth, she was ready, even hungry for his hot slick
cum. She got almost all of it that time, licked what she'd missed off his
shrinking member and hairy groin while he finished her. Her shrieks and yelps
as she reflexively tightened her thighs around his head were more noise than
she'd ever made during lovemaking.
Only afterwards, as she coasted down the gentle slope toward sleep, did
she note the images that'd filled her mind while they were joined. They'd been
pictures of the night before. Herself swaying toward the bed in that
body-shaping green dress. The stiletto heels waving in the air while Mike
fucked her like a madman. The vivid red smear of her lipstick on his cock. She
muzzily wondered if he'd been fantasizing about the same things. It was a
peripheral sort of awareness, without impact. She was too sleepy, too sated to
worry about it.
Wednesday, she stopped at a drugstore for nail polish and ended up buying
her first lipstick and mascara. It took her three more days to summon the
courage to wear her purchases in public, and only in modest measure even then.
Friday night, she coyly toyed with Mike over his suggestion to "make herself
sexy," but her chest was hollow with excitement as she prepared.
In garters and hose and a teddy she'd only worn once, with high heels and
a cigarette in addition to her mascara and lipstick, she again put the word
"anything" back into her vocabulary, along with others. For the first time,
she rode him, rose and dropped onto his swollen shaft at her own pace, felt him
penetrate to depths she didn't know could be penetrated.
She throbbed. She pulsed. She could make him do whatever suited her.
She dangled one tit then the other over his sucking mouth. He serviced her
aching nipples until she could tolerate no more. She felt her pussy grip his
cock as her orgasm began. She threw her head back and writhed upon him,
bounced arrhythmically and screamed.
But she wasn't through with him. She gasped, panted, let her sweat drip
onto him, relished her waning contractions as he stayed rock hard inside her,
staring hopelessly up at her. When her energy returned, she slowly lifted
herself, let his dick pop free. He looked disappointed until she moved up his
body, turned around, and lowered her dripping core toward his lips.
"Suck it baby. Suck my cum. Lick my cunt. I want you in my mouth, too,
while you fuck my face."
This time, after sucking his cum like it was candy, she remembered to
return her lips to their former searing red state while he stared hungrily and
recuperated beside her. It obviously inspired him, made his shrunken prick
jump and regain size sooner than she thought was humanly possible. She felt a
fresh surge of power. Such a little thing, such a cheap trick. He shyly
suggested they try another new position. He wanted her on her hands and knees.
She adored the experience of having her heavy, dangling tits used as handgrips
while he pummeled her with a force he'd never used during sex.
Maybe, she thought while he fingered her loosened, saturated hole, all
the while staring at her pouting mouth, there were other maneuvers she could
learn. She knew just the person to show them to her. She stretched into his
probing, mouthed the dirty words that would drive him deeper.
Chapter Three
But, with Saturday's satiation and sanity, Ginny decided not to bother
Karen. Ashamed of her recent swerve into wantonness, she turned her energies
to more productive, reality-based exercises. Like cleaning house and doing the
ten-thousand things required of someone who was both homemaker and career
woman.
She noted Mike's quickly suppressed disappointment when they dressed to
go to a company party that evening at Mi Casa. She was wearing a normal outfit
-- modest dress, sensible shoes, no makeup. She'd considered something racier
for a vivid five seconds, then sternly reminded herself that what happened now
and then in the privacy of their home could have undesireable effects on her
reputation and her husband's career.
She felt nervous as they turned down the gravel road leading to the lake.
The why of her last visit to the mansion loomed in her memory, dampening her
mood, making her wish she'd snuck her cigarettes into her purse. The high
spirited gaiety of the party didn't rub off. Rather, she found herself sinking
back toward the deep depression she was so sure she'd vanquished. She pasted on
a smile, said all the right things to all the right people, and the emptiness
within her only grew.
As she mixed her fourth whiskey sour, she lifted one of Todd's imported
cigarettes from the replenished box under the bar. As soon as was feasible,
she ducked down the hall, climbed the back stairs, and sought the quiet solace
of the bedroom where she'd spent the night. The cigarette was bitter and the
room no help at all. Now, she wasn't just weak and scared, certain her
marriage was in dire jeopardy, but she was also alone.
That ended abruptly. Todd Blankenship stuck his head through the door
without knocking.
"Damn! Hoped I was interrupting something interesting."
Ginny stubbed out the cigarette. "Sorry to disappoint you."
"You're never a disappointment, babe. Mind a little company?" Typically,
he hadn't waited for permission, just flopped into the wing-back chair opposite
the window. "So. You wanna tell old buddy Todd why you're so blue?"
"Not really."
"Still the hooker gig, huh? Can't say that I blame you. Any man dumb
enough to screw around on a killer babe like you has a head full of rocks."
"Babe?" she growled ominously. God, she hated that term.
"Sorry about the slur. Didn't mean to push the sexist button. You know
what I mean." He threw a box of cigarettes on the bed in open invitation.
Despite herself, she was warmed by the compliment. She turned her head
away and smiled secretly. If he only knew. She reached for the tobacco,
flushed at the sight of her still red talons. Drawing smoke, she decided this
was a rare opportunity.
"Why are men attracted to people like that prostitute, Todd? What is it
that makes them so desireable?"
"Other than her resemblance to you?"
"Generically. What's the draw of a woman in makeup and a skimpy dress
who can be bought by anybody?"
"Well -- speaking theoretically, of course, since I've never had to pay
for it -- I suspect it has something to do with the forbidden fruit thing.
Going after what you've been told all your life is something wicked. Kind of a
sneaky rebellion against being a good boy."
She inhaled deeply, recalled the thrill of feeling like a bad girl. "That
makes sense. I think. Michael's always been the good boy sort."
"Thought we were being generic here."
"I'm just trying to understand. So, there's a draw toward the dark side
of life. An impulse to do the dirty things. Isn't that pretty
self-destructive?"
"Can be, I guess. Doesn't have to be, though -- in my humble opinion."
"Since when are you humble."
He turned deadly serious. "Since you've been hurt."
An emotion she didn't want to see hovered in the air between them. She
turned away again, stared into the night, fiddled with her cigarette. "How can
it not be destructive? It's a betrayal. It kills trust. And once you play
with the dark side, the fantasies, don't you get addicted? Can you stop?"
The window served as a partial mirror. Ginny watched Todd frown and
shrug. "Depends on the individual, I guess. There are millions of guys who
visit hookers, most of them married, I guess. I've heard some of them say that
it improves their marriage. I know a lot of that's pure bullshit, but I'm sure
some of it's dead true. Take my old man, for instance."
"Roy?"
"You sound surprised. He kept a mistress for maybe tewnty years all
told. A woman named Beth Daniels. She was a pro until he paid her enough to go
into at least semi-retirement. Set her up with a townhouse near the office and
visited her at least a couple of times a week. He knew she screwed around some
on the side, but since she was always there for him, he didn't bitch. Mom
found out -- of course -- after a while, but she didn't make waves either.
Hell, I'm pretty sure she discreetly screwed around, too. Kind of a mutual
don't ask, don't tell situation that worked out well for everybody. Dad lost
the mean streak that he had when I was a little kid. Mom kind of glowed some
afternoons. Nobody would call their relationship anything but ideal."
It was true. Ginny had met them before their death in a plane crash
three years ago. They were found wrapped in one another's arms. That was a
good metaphor for how they'd seemed to live their lives. In their sixties, they
held hands in public, were noted for sneaking off together from company
functions. They were everybody's ideal couple.
"But what happened to his mistress?"
"Beth? His will included her. Left her the townhouse in and enough
money to be comfortable for the rest of her life. I heard she got married last
year."
"And they all lived happily ever after."
"Don't sound so snide, love. It doesn't become you."
"Sorry. I guess I'm a little disillusioned recently." She crushed the
cigarette into the ashtray. "Well. I better get back downstairs before Mike
comes looking for me."
"And finds us together in a bedroom? Maybe a little jealousy would do
him good. We could ruffle the sheets, make it look like --"
"Todd!" But she laughed the word.
"It'd serve him right."
"It'd serve nothing but to fuel the rumors about us. Half your employees
already think we're having an affair."
A theatrical sigh. "Ah. Would that it were true."
She skipped toward the door, paused with her hand on the knob. "Thanks.
You've helped a lot. I feel much better."
"I'm good for you. I won't let you be serious all the time. Whenever
you're ready for a *real* frolic --"
She made her escape before he could complete the invitation. It was
flattering to be desired -- and okay, she decided. Feeling wanted was exactly
what she'd needed. She heard the massive hall clock toll eleven, and realized
that she'd been upstairs for nearly an hour, much longer than she'd intended.
It took her a while to locate Mike. He wasn't in the great room or the
library or with any of the other coveys of people scattered over the main
floor. When she did locate him, she instantly wished she hadn't. He was on
the patio, and he wasn't alone. The newest in a long line of Todd's personal
secretaries, this one a voluptuous blonde named Marla, leaned with her back
against the stone railing, her mounded breast flesh glowing in the moonlight
above her scooped black neckline. He was a short pace away from her. Their
voices were low, unreadbale murmurs, barely louder than the crickets and
cicadas.
Shielded by hedge, Ginny watched them for mere moments before wheeling
and re-entering the mansion. She needed another drink and cigarette. Her rage
competed with her pain and neither won.
"Christ, Ginny! It was pure business. Todd asked her to clarify some
paragraphs in the new employee manual. You can ask him if --"
"I already did," she said with artificial sweetness. "He covered for
you." But it'd been a vague defense. The result had been to solidify the
certainty in her gut, not dispel it.
"Then what's the problem, damn it."
"Problem? There's no problem. It's perfectly normal to read manuals by
moonlight over champaigne with beautiful half-dressed women."
His lips formed a harsh, narrow line. "It was her idea, not mine."
Stony silence was her only comment.
"Nothing I can say's going to make any difference, is it?"
The flare of her match filled the car with momentary brilliance. The
purloined cigarette bobbed in her mouth. "Not one goddamned bit."
So it was back to the guest room for him, and another long cold night for
her. She walked the tight confines of the bedroom until her calves cramped,
trailing a continuous plume of smoke. To relax the wires strung tight
throughout her body, she drew a scalding bath and floated there, doing her best
to dissolve into the water.
Stupid. The whole thing was stupid. She'd totally over-reacted. He was
telling the truth. He wasn't to blame for Marla's sensuous beauty or the way
she flaunted herself. If he wasn't drawn to her, he wouldn't be a normal male.
Of course he'd entertain the lusty thoughts the bitch so blatantly invited. The
problem wasn't his -- it was her own.
Look at what she'd worn to the party. She'd looked like some prim
schoolmarm. He hadn't said anything. He'd let her make up her own mind, like
he always did. If she'd let herself be more alluring, the meeting with Todd's
blonde bimbo would've taken place inside. If she'd let herself be more sexy,
she wouldn't have felt so ugly and isolated.
She glanced down at her water-covered body. It was too late to change
what'd happened. But it wasn't too late to prevent future unhappiness. There
was nothing shameful about fighting for her man's attention. There was nothing
dishonorable about making herself happy. It was time -- right now -- to make a
few changes in her life.
She couldn't sleep until she'd done what she could. She shaved her legs.
She did as Karen had suggested and plucked her wild eyebrows into a semblance
of tameness. She painted her toenails to match her fingers. She sorted
through every item in her closet, separated her few really feminine outfits
into a small section on the front rack.
She slept fitfully even then. Mike's first stirrings in the kitchen at a
little past eleven alerted her to the new day. She was instantly awake. She
hurried into the bathroom, dread in her heart. What if it was too late? What
if her bitterness of the night before had pushed him so far away that there was
no recall?
It was with fear that she made her entrance five minutes later. She wore
her only nice robe, a distinct trace of her paltry makeup, and a whiff of light
perfume. He listened stiffly to her apology, nodded a terse acceptance which
nearly reduced her to hopeless tears. He focused on the Sunday paper. He
stayed that way until she retreated, beaten, back into the bedroom.
It was direly hard work to re-shape her resolve rather than collapse into
a sobbing heap. She'd just have to keep trying. She'd persuade him. If words
wouldn't work, she'd just have to prove herself by her actions.
She marched herself into the closet, heard the faint chime from the phone
as he picked it up to make a call. As she got herself together, she heard the
garage door open. She got to the window just in time to see the company car
vanish up the street.
Who had he called? Where was he going? To meet Marla for coffee and to
work on the manual and have sex? It was too late to try to follow him. And
what could she have done anyway? Watched her husband take another woman
roughly into his arms? When he was angry he wasn't gentle. That kind of
thought was what filled Virginia's head while she waited. If not Marla, then
maybe Karen. Not at the bar of course.
She started to hurry into clothes. That she could check out. If he was
with her, she could do something. March in on them. Demand that they stop.
Make a scene. Call the police.
And lose him forever. Murder the Red Headed League with her own actions.
She couldn't risk that. She had to try another approach. She dropped the old
jeans she was half into, tossed the blouse beside them. No. There was a new
pair of black jeans that had shrunk more than expected in the bottom drawer.
She fought her way into them with a fury that nearly ripped off her nails.
There was a bright blue vest-like over-blouse that would work just fine.
Totally buttoned, with nothing beneath it, her breasts threatened to leap out
as she bent to slip into glossy black four-inch pumps. She steadied her hands
enough to work with her mascara and pink lipstick, then bolted for her car.
She was nearly oblivious to the church traffic as she rocketed across
town. Her brain was a whirl of black emotion as she jerked from lane to lane,
dodging every obstacle. She slowed only when she reached her goal. She
prowled the parking lot around the whore's complex looking in vain for Mike's
car. She'd just completed her second desperate pass when she saw the flash of
red hair exiting from a low-slung, sporty red vehicle. Karen looked tired.
Ginny vaulted her car into the space next to the hooker and clambered out.
"Well. Look who's come to see me. You look pretty fucking good for an
amateur, honey. You stuff those jeans up your crack on purpose, or they do
that on their own?"
"Has he been here? Have you been with him?"
"Who, Mikey? Naw. Darlin', I'm just getting home. If you're man's on
the prowl, he's with some other chick. Why? You not keeping him happy?"
"I don't know, Karen. I don't know what's going on."
"Hey, girl. Easy there. Let's not have a breakdown here on the
sidewalk, okay? Come on up. We can talk for a while before I crash."
Ginny bit back her hysteria while they walked, side by side. Ginny's
fevered mind registered the scene in vivid detail. They were the same height.
Their hair was done differently, but was almost exactly the same color in the
early afternoon sunshine. The hooker wore a black cocktail dress, but her
protegee nearly matched her exposure of flesh in her more casual attire. She
felt a surge of bizarre affection, of gratitude. Despite Karen's obvious
exhaustion, she had time for her.
Ginny tempered what would have been a shrill voice. "So what have you
been up to? You're just getting home you said."
"Yeah. From a party." She squinted at her companion. "You really want
to hear about it?"
"Sure. Why not?" Anything to drown out the ugly voices in her head.
So Karen gave her a graphic rendition of her night. She and three others
had entertained a dozen businessmen at a resort hotel south of the city. It'd
begun the afternoon before and ended only when the last horny finance manager
had passed out around six in the morning. She'd fucked them all, she drawled,
at least once, and with only a few catnaps in between, it felt like three times
that.
In Ginny's madly spinning mind, she saw pictures -- not of Karen's work,
but of the party she'd attended the night before. She imagined it as an orgy.
Nude bodies all over. Herself, not Karen, splayed in the four poster in the
bedroom with men all over her. Marla on the floor, cocks sprouting from every
hole at once. Mike. Where was Mike? She shook her head violently.
"Whoa, babe." Karen's roughened voice was distant, fuzzy. "You okay?"
"I'm not sure."
They were suddenly in front of the door with the right sequence of brass
numbers. Then it was open. Then she was on the almost familiar sofa, smoking,
with a cup of coffee cradled in her quaking hands. There was pink lipstick on
the mug, on the cigarette. She felt a sudden quiet peace settle upon her.
Everything was going to be okay now.
Karen reappeared, barefoot and wearing the unadorned cotton robe. Instead
of taking her chair, she sank with a groan beside Ginny on the sofa.
Her smile was crooked, tired. "I'm getting too old for this kind of
shit. So. You feeling better?"
She felt her wide smile, her damp eyes. "Much. Thank you. I really
lost it there for a minute."
"Mikey's disappeared?"
"I started a fight with him. He was talking to a sexy blonde last night
-- purely business, I think -- but I took it badly."
"You been keeping him royally fucked?"
"Yes. Well, until yesterday, anyway. I kind of, I don't know, got
ashamed of acting like such a floozy. I think I disappointed him."
"Ah. You been being real nasty and suddenly turned back into Miss Bland.
He didn't like that and found some blonde chick to flirt with."
"I think so. Anyway, I decided I was wrong. I was all ready to, I don't
know, throw away all my old clothes and go out and buy a ton of makeup and sexy
things and be what he wanted me to be. But he took off somewhere. I freaked
out."
"And went looking for him. Sorry, hon. I almost wish he was here so he
could see you now, see that look on your face."
Confusion. "I don't understand."
"Ginny, you look hot. Real hot. If I was a little more into women, I'd
want to fuck you myself. You ain't looked in a mirror recently, huh? Check it
out."
The reflection in the floor length hall mirror she'd walked blindly past
was a shock. Her too-tight jeans had indeed crept into her vagina, displayed
its shape perfectly, and clung to the paired swells of her ass as if molded.
The brilliant vest looked more like a loosened corset than anything else. Her
braless nipples, through not really distended, were still visible. She hadn't
realized how much blusher and mascara she'd used.
The dizziness came back, blurred her vision momentarily, left her feeling
weak. Karen's voice floated into her fog.
"Too bad he skated on you. He'd have creamed his jeans seeing you this
way. Mikey really gets off on the slutty look."
She was numb, but felt her lips somehow move. They were so heavy. Words
tumbled from them, words she had no control over. "I know. He loves to fuck
me doggy-style and listen to me scream dirty words. He went wild when I rode
him the other day. He tried to suck my breasts off. I remembered what you
said about the lipstick, too, after he fucked my face last time. He eats my
pussy now. I like that."
"Know what you ought to do?" The voice was beside her, so close it make
her jump a little. "You ought to borrow some more of my shit and be waiting
for him when he comes home. Turn your bedroom into a fucking whorehouse and
fuck him blind."
"Yes. I want that, Karen. I want that real bad."
The prostitute's exhaustion didn't show while she coached her pupil
through a rigorous makeover, then led her to the vast closet and filled her
arms with items she seemed to pick at random. Karen had to help her into one
of the borrowed outfits. Ginny was weak-kneed again, was able to see only her
face and body in reflective surfaces. Distant, detached, she was aware of how
excited she was, how eager to get home and set the scene, but she could barely
move through the lethargy that gripped her. She idly observed that it was a
vast sensuousness that made her so clumsy, reduced her gestures to slow motion.
Yes. This was the right thing. This is what she'd wanted. She'd needed
Karen's aid to actualize it. Maybe that's why she'd really come here -- for
help.
When it was done, when she had the small valise of clothes neatly packed,
Ginny fumbled to open her purse.
"Nah," Karen said with a tired sigh. "This one's a freebie. Sluts do
that sometimes for special people. Now hustle your foxy ass home and do your
thing. Make him forget about the whole fucking world. Give him a night that
he'll never forget -- and let me get some fucking sleep."
She knew exactly what she looked like on the slower drive home. She was
fully aware -- hyper-sensitive, really -- of every other car on the road. She
had eyes in the back of her head, felt the tires humming against the pavement.
Every time someone glanced at her, their eyes felt like some kind of soft,
tickling breeze on her bared chest and flushed cheeks and bleeding lips.
It felt good this time. Really good. She owned no shame, half wished
their view of her didn't stop at her tightly encased tits, their nipples not
mere dents now, but sharp, hard bullets. Only the truckers could appreciate
the tiny leather skirt under the red leather blouse, and her perfect legs in
their dark mesh hose, and the fuck-me sandals strapped to her narrow ankles.
And even their glimpse of her was fleeting, distant, around steel and through
glass, incapable of sensing her overheated, wet desire.
She felt as reckless as she looked. She ached with the need to be
fucked. That was her purpose. That's why she'd gone to all this effort. To
keep Mike's cock hard. His sweet, long, fat cock. To trap it in whatever hole
it entered and keep it there forever. Tantalizing all the other cocks, even at
a distance, kept her past-ready for the one she craved, the one she was hollow
for. Cock. Her searing, glistening lips shaped the word, softly, with a
slight catch, a thrill.
Make the bedroom a whorehouse. Her thighs were damp with her dew as she
dimmed the late sunshine by pulling drapes, glad he wasn't back, not even
caring if he was finishing fucking someone else. She admired her hooked nails
as she slid a CD into the player. She'd get him hard again, no matter how
spent he was. She turned down the sheets. She'd suck him back to life. She
laid out the borrowed sex toys. Maybe there'd be the musk of another cunt on
his prick. Maybe she'd have to lick somebody else'd dried juices from his
meat. She languidly stood before the bathroom mirror and retouched her
gorgeously, perfectly whorish face. But she'd make him forget whatever slut
he'd been with. She'd make him forget everything but herself.
She heard the car in the drive, with her too-sensitive ears. She heard
the thunk of its door closing. She slowly strutted to the front door, ready in
heart and soul. She didn't wait for the key to rattle in the lock. She
inhaled smoke, let her chest swell to its heady maximum, and opened the door
for him.
Todd Blankenship froze like a bug imbedded in amber. His hand was poised
an inch from the doorbell. His eyes were immense with shock. Ginny, too, was
locked in position, her nipples pointed at him like guns, her lips open in the
beginning of a seductive smile, her legs slightly parted.
He was released first. Not enough to drop his arm or narrow his
disbelieving stare, but enough to make his jaw move, to shape hoarse words.
Nonsense syllables competed with the tinny roar in her ears. She
couldn't make sense of a thing he said. She felt so silly. It was hilarious.
All this effort. All this need. All for the wrong man. A cosmic joke. She
wished she could laugh.
Beautifully colored motes of dancing light swam at the corners of her
vision and proceded to fill her entire field of view, blocking him from sight.
She was going to embarrass herself. She was going to faint, collapse like a
punctured inflatable sex doll, right there in the door. Even as her knees
failed her and the pretty rainbow of dizzying colors went black, she was pretty
sure she was smiling, appreciating the absurd prank played upon her by some sly
god.
The first thing she was aware of was the pattern of the fabric. It meant
she was on the sofa. There was no gap in her memory. She knew what had
happened. She even recalled, dimly, being lifted, carried, carefully deposited
like she was made of fragile porcelain. She'd felt the warmth of his powerful
chest against her massively swollen right tit, the heat of his arm wrapped
around her stocking-slick thighs.
She tried to sit, couldn't. She dropped her wobbly head back against the
arm rest, was presented with a full view of her body.
Exposed. Almost totally. Her vagina was barely covered. Her still wet
core. Her right aureole was visible above the disarranged bodice. Her
painfully hard nipple was right there, like it was trying to escape the shiny
red blouse. And she heard -- felt, really -- the thud of his footsteps coming
down the thickly carpeted hall. Her arms were too heavy to move. She was too
weak to cover herself. She was helpless.
He had a damp washcloth, was trying not to devour her with his eyes, but
she saw them drawn to her limp legs, her heaving chest, her slack lips. He
faltered when he saw she was aware. He looked baffled, confused, childish. He
didn't know what to do. He started to put the folded, cool cloth on her
forehead.
"No," she said. Her voice was someone else's, thick, liquid. "I'm okay."
He hovered, looked away from her, then back, as if he couldn't help
himself. He was trying to look at nothing but her eyes. He was tremendously
uncomfortable. She'd never seen him be anything but absolutely self-assured,
utterly in control. She wanted to laugh. So silly.
She managed to lift an arm, tuck her breast back under cover. His eyes
jerked away from the gesture. She gritted her teeth and pulled herself higher
on the arm rest, thereby dragging the skirt lower. She watched him struggle to
find his voice, regather his composure.
"Can I get you something? Water?"
"Please. Scotch. And my cigarettes."
He fumbled in his shirt pocket for his own.
"No. Mine. I hate your's. On my bedside table."
As he turned, she belatedly realized he'd see everything she'd done in
the bedroom. Her little bordello. She flushed, felt faint again. Her lips
moved to call him back, but there was no sound. What difference did that make
now? He'd seen everything else. Well, almost, and his imagination would have
already filled in the gaps. And she sure wasn't capable of either fetching
anything for herself or tolerating his stinking imported tobacco.
She fought her way into a sitting position, tried to arrange herself as
modestly as was possible, given the situtation. She tugged the loose knit
afghan from the sofa back and settled it over herself, from neck to knee. She
heard the kitchen sink splash water into a glass. When he came back, he made
no comment. He didn't have to. Her gut hollowed when she saw the sausage
shaped lump in his summer weight slacks as he went to the bar.
She accepted the drink from him, tingled where her hand brushed his. She
realized, as he looked at her, that the open weave of her covering would still
let him see a great deal of her. She brought the glass to her lips, drank
deeply, trying not to stare at his groin as the oily liquor slid down her
throat, rippling as she swallowed.
He had her cigarettes, held them out. She picked one with her nails,
held it between her lips for him to light. She watched in shock as her hand
cupped the hand with the lighter. It was trembling more than her's. She
sucked deeply, hungrily on the tobacco, taking her hand back.
He sank into a chair, crossed his legs. She thought he was trying to
hide his erection. The one she'd given him. She quickly drew more smoke. It
helped settle her.
"I'm sorry about that," she said sluggishly.
"About fainting? Or..." he gestured toward her.
"Both. I thought you were Michael." She was still woozy.
"So I gathered," he said with a trace of his usual wryness. "I thought
I'd died and gone to heaven." He squinted. "Have I?"
"No." Her face creased as she tried to remember something vague. "You
tried to tell me something. About Mike?"
"Oh. Shit. Uh, I had to ask him to fly to Colorado. It happened so
quickly. I came by to pick up some clothes to send on the next flight. I
called, but nobody was here."
Her disappointment was crushing. All this for nothing. Her single word
spoke volumes. "Oh."
Todd hurried into the void. "He'll be back tomorrow -- day after at the
latest. He's the only one who's up to snuff on the Danner contracts. It *had*
to be him."
"I know. I just, well..."
He glanced toward her, then down the hall toward the bedroom. "Yeah. I
see. Well. Maybe I should pack up some of his things." He tapped his watch.
She couldn't tolerate the thought of him again seeing the bedroom. "No!
I know what he'll need. I'll do it. You stay here. Make a drink if you want.
It won't take a minute."
She managed to climb to her feet, the sandals making her feel dizzyingly
tall. Her mind felt muddy, clouded. As she walked away, she knew his eyes
were locked on her swaying ass, just as Mike's would have been. Todd was as
hard, as hot for her as her husband was supposed to be. He'd wanted her for
years. Seeing her this way would be driving him mad with desire.
She resisted a bizarre impulse to look over her shoulder and smile. No.
No good. This was for Mike, nobody else. For Mike, anything. For anyone else,
nothing. Nothing but a look. Maybe even one like this -- long and lingering.
As she threw together Mike's things, a vicious anger sharpened her
thoughts. Colorado. Had he called? Had he so much as left her a message? She
looked at the machine. One call on the counter. No. Only Todd had dialed
their number. The bastard. The smug, self-righteous, vengeful bastard. He'd
*wanted* to make her worry.
She slammed the lid of his suitcase. It served him right that she was
caught looking like some cheap tramp by his best friend. Maybe she should go
ahead and fuck him like one. No. That'd make her no better than he was. She
might be hotter than a mink in rut, but she'd be damned if she'd crawl down
into the same gutter he wallowed in.
She mashed her spent cigarette savagely into the ashtray, grinding out
the cone of incense she'd lit earlier. But Todd had already seen her. He
wouldn't be able to keep this to himself. If she played this right, she could
make Mike so blind with jealousy that he'd never pull a stunt like this again.
She decided to make the rest of Todd's stay memorable. It was too perfect a
coincidence to let pass. She knew just how to turn this to her benefit.
She bent, straightened the seams of her hose. She smoothed the blouse
and skirt, fluffed her hair. She ran a sensuous bead of fresh red gloss over
her lips and ignored the wild ongoing shudder that was shortening her breath.
He turned away from the bar when he heard the click of her heels cross
the hardwood bedroom floor. She smiled at him, her throat tight with fear --
and something else -- as he watched her come down the hall. He'd had time to
pull himself together, and his schoolboy awkwardness was again hidden. He made
no attempt not to watch her. He let his appreciation show in his eyes.
"You are some piece of work, woman. The Virgin Mary last night, the
Whore of Babylon today."
"I take it that's a compliment?"
"Correct. Jesus Christ. Mikey's been fucking with some slut and leaving
you home alone?"
She leaned forward for her cigarettes, let him glance between her
breasts. The way his eyes touched her made her forget her fear. One little
glance down her deep cleavage did that to him? God, was this real? Was she
really doing this? Yes. Oh, yes, she was.
"Well," she said around the tube of tobacco, "I guess I'm not enough for
him."
She tried to calm herself as she sat and crossed her legs, slowly enough
that he could get a glimpse under the tiny skirt -- but too quickly for him to
see anything specific. She hoped. Or maybe she didn't. She couldn't tell for
sure and was too enfolded by a warm fog to even try to think about it.
He leaned insolently against the bar, gazing down at her. He chuckled.
"I sincerely doubt that there's a man alive you wouldn't be enough for."
She let her elevated foot bounce slightly as she smoked. Her voice was
coy. "Another compliment. Careful, Todd. I could get used to that."
He ambled toward her, handed her a fresh drink. "Babe, I'll supply all
you want to hear."
She squared her shoulders for him as she inhaled. God, this was
incredible. He wanted her so bad he was sweating. His cock looked like a
telephone pole in his pants, and he made no attempt to hide it. He wanted her
to see, know exactly what she was doing to him. He understood the game she was
playing. He was daring her to go on.
Her skirt was creeping higher as her foot continued to keep time to
inaudible music. She let smoke give her words shape. "I dress this way for
him. I let him fuck me however he wants. I talk dirty, tell him how good he
makes me feel."
"How good *does* he make you feel?"
"What do you think, Todd?"
"I think he makes you feel cheap and used -- and you love it. I think
you need this more than he does. I think you do it for yourself, not for him."
The heavy band atop her left stocking was exposed by the shrinking skirt.
"You told me that good boys needed to feel wicked sometimes. How about good
girls, Todd? Don't you think that door swings both ways?"
"Just how bad do you want to be?"
"This bad. Exactly this bad."
"Ah. All show and no go, huh? A cock teaser."
"Do you mind?"
"Do I look like I mind?"
"No. You look like you're loving every minute of it. Is your cock
thoroughly teased, Todd?"
"Humm. Not quite. It can take a little more."
"What about the suitcase? My *husband's* suitcase."
A mocking smile and a nod. "Vengeance. Or that's your excuse, anyway."
"Either way, it's your lucky day." He could see her garter now, and an
inch of the shockingly pale flesh of her thigh.
"Um hum. Yours, too. I bet no one else's ever seen you this way. Your
first time. You'll never forget it, Ginny. It'll change everything."
"What if I want it to, Todd? What if it's time to make some changes?
Some big changes?"
He leaned forward. His voice was a seductive challenge. "How big,
Ginny? As big as my dick? Would you like me to pull it out and jack off for
you? Would you kiss it for me?"
His words had the impact of blows. They struck at her cunt, her raw
nipples. They landed on her lips like the taste of flesh, lodged in her throat
like the tang of Mike's cum. She wanted those things. All of them, and he knew
it. And she couldn't have them, and he knew that, too.
All she could do was shake her head. She stopped the glide of the skirt
with her hand.
He nodded smugly. "Well. I better hustle back to the airport. Be seeing
you soon, I'm sure. If you need anything -- anything at all -- just let me
know. I'll be in touch, so to speak."
If he'd stayed another moment. If he'd uttered even one more lewd
suggestion, she'd have exploded. Her will would have collapsed before the
onslought of the firestorm he'd so deliberately and easily fanned. She'd have
crawled to him, begged him to fuck her mouth, her cunt. She'd have sunk into
the wild depth of her need.
He abandoned her that way. She was an unfilled hole, a yearning void
needing nothing but to be filled. She'd imagined she could drive him mad --
instead, he'd driven *her* to the brink.
Her first time, he'd called it. He was right. He'd taken her virginity.
He'd eye-fucked her, ear-fucked her, left her untouched. She needed to be
touched. There was no one else to do it, so she did it for herself.
Chapter Four
The way she woke up convinced her instantly it hadn't been the ultimate
wet dream. She'd removed everything but the hose and garters. And the makeup.
She'd needed that til the very end. The sweetend. The final shattering orgasm
that made the others insiginifcant. Karen's borrowed dildo, her lover, lay
under her thigh, still hard, always ready. Deep or shallow, fast or slow, she
never had to tell it what to do. It'd fucked her for hours, faltering only
when her arms did, oozing out of her only when she'd lost her grip, lost her
mind. Lost her virginity.
She licked dry lips and shivered. Her bladder demanded she think about
something more immediate.
As she sat on the toilet, she decided not to face the light and the
mirror. She knew what she'd see. A fucked hard whore who'd slept in her
slutty makeup. A nasty cunt with bruised nipples and puffy pussy lips. She
massaged the cleanser over her face and wiped it away in the dimness of
distantly filtered morning light. It was best not to look.
She unsnapped the garters, shed the hose and elastic belt, finally
flipped on the light only when the shower's water was well adjusted. The
steaming, stinging spray laved away her sweat, but seemed to free the
discomfort she'd hoped to avoid. She refused to let it be shame. She'd fucked
no one but herself. She wouldn't allow herself to have any regrets.
In her long, heavy cotton robe, she rubbed her hair toward dryness. Her
first cigarette was flat, but the coffee livened it. She felt short without the
stilt-like shoes. She hazarded a mirror. She was smaller, plainer than she
imagined she'd look. Diminished was one word. Sick was another.
She hesitated in the door of her closet, wondering what to do. It was
Monday, time to go make people happy by selling them homes. Michael was gone.
Long gone. Anger made her seethe. Almost a full day and the son of a bitch
still hadn't called. He didn't even care enough to do that. But she wasn't
powerless any more. She could do something about her violation.
She grabbed a black dress with a short pleated skirt and a
semi-transparent white blouse. Beneath, she wore fresh garters and hose, a low
lace bra. Above she wore a lightly but fully made up face. She slipped on her
four inch heels and studied her appearance.
Not cheap, not slutty, but a major deviation from every other day on the
job. Good. She felt deviant. Her mildly self-abused breasts and loins were
continuous reminders of the night before. Her green eyes seemed to glow
cattily within penciled black borders, under curving black lashes. Her light
red lips curved mockingly at herself, paler than the night before, but echoes
nonetheless.
Todd had been right. So right. Yesterday had changed everything. Had
Michael been the one to see her, had he been there as he was supposed to be,
today would have been little different from last week. She'd have dressed as
usual, with only glowing memories of a night of impassioned lovemaking coloring
her cheeks. But he'd abandoned her, and chance had changed her life.
She'd flaunted herself before another man, taunted him with her newly
discovered appetite for sensuousness. She'd permitted her whorishly
overpainted lips to mouth dirty words for a man not her husband, and he'd done
the same for her. They'd fucked, as surely as if she'd felt his balls slap
against her ass while he did her doggie-style.
She let the wind dry her thick red mane on the drive to work. She knew
what'd happen if she tried to turn back. She could do it -- return the
suitcase full of things Karen had loaned her, throw away her lipstick and
mascara. She owned enough willpower to close the door leading to depravity.
But the guilt would persist, would eat at her, would drive her insane. The
shame would finish off her already poisoned marriage. She'd never be able to
forget what had happened, or forgive Michael -- or herself. And she'd always,
as long as she lived, ache with unfading memories of how it had felt to control
someone, to please, for once, only herself.
It wasn't like before. She wasn't being raped now. Mike's arrest, his
lies, and his second visit to Karen might have been the equivalent of rape, but
her response had made all the difference in the world. She'd taken action.
She'd transformed her violation into something else. She'd found power, not
lost it. Even though Todd had made her lose her control Sunday, her strength
was back on Monday. She would be no one's doormat, ever again.
She quietly relished the way her long-time associates reacted to her
changed look. The trace of mascara and bare lick of lipstick she'd shown them
the week before hadn't prepared them for this. The women eyed her
suspiciously. The men, except for the boldest, generally stammered a little
when they spoke to her. The short little dress swished around her thighs as
she walked. Under the thin blouse, the bra's dark lines were faint but
visible, and its flimsy support allowed her tits to jiggle. She smoked openly.
She kept her lips fresh and red.
She told herself her high wasn't on sex but power, and she was fully
cognizant that her statement was half lie. The glances and sly stares had a
cumulative effect. All afternoon, she felt slightly aroused. Her nipples,
scratching against the bra, were alive and well. Too bad Michael wouldn't be
home tonight. She could really use a hard dick to relieve the groundswell of
pressure that built from lunch on. But she'd learned how to take care of that,
hadn't she? She was eager to get home and experiment more with Karen's loaned
love toys.
But she delayed her gratification. Not until after she'd gone through
the mail, fixed, eaten and cleaned up after a quick, light meal, did she allow
herself to do more than savor the excitement that had only increased while she
made herself wait.
She hadn't straightened up the bedroom. The candles had guttered to
shapeless stubs, and the scent of incense had faded into the backround, mingled
with her tobacco smoke. The tangled sheets and open suitcase still set the
scene.
Her hand touched the soft surrogate penis, slightly sticky with her dried
juices, but still she delayed putting it to use. She wanted to play first.
Foreplay. Karen had thrown in a wide selection of garb in addition to the two
slinky outfits, and Ginny had yet to really look at it. There were two pair of
skimpy frilled panties with a surprise. Where the crotch should have been was
only a lace-edged gap, and a single string ran up the back that would bury
itself between the wearer's cheeks, leaving her ass entirely bare. There was a
wicked red bra with holes for hard nipples to protrude. There was a heavy
elastic bustiere with only a wire platform to display tits on and nothing below
the navel but dangling garter straps. And, beneath all this was a second
dildo, much smaller than the one she was so intimately acquainted with. She
puzzled over it, turned toward the borrowed dresses hung in the back of the
closet. Awareness of its function grew in her only as she stroked the backless
metallic gold gown with the front split to the waist. The candle-sized cock was
designed to stretch an asshole.
Two at once. Front and rear. Would they bump and rub against one
another inside? Would it hurt? Did pain really become pleasure, or was that
male fantasy? She licked her lips. There was only one way to know.
The hollow need was back, as powerful as the night before. She turned,
started to hurry from the closet, then hesitated. Another aspect of virginity
to sacrifice. Her ass was tight, unsullied. Opening it demanded a ritual. A
full dress rehersal was in order. The whole thing. She lifted the shimmering
gold dress from its hanger.
It was hard to believe this was really herself. Painted like a brazen
strumpet for the second night in a row. Wearing a dress that shouted "fuck me"
to the heavens. So hot that her cunt dripped like a leaky faucet. So hot that
her nipples were trying to tear through the paper thin gold fabric. So hot
that her mouth watered with the need for a prick to smear its scarlet
perfection.
Her stiletto clad feet were propped on the coffeetable, to either side of
the mirror she'd taken from the storage room floor. The bounced lamp-light
showed her what her hands and the fat rubber dick were doing to her pulsing
slit. The second lover lay beside her. It was almost time. She was almost
ready. She lifted it, felt its oiled slickness. Now.
It did hurt, at first. Sweat beaded her powdered brow, glistened above
her panting, pulled back lips. But it wasn't bad enough to make her stop. It
didn't over-balance the promise of fullness. It rubbed, through the muscular
wall separating front from rear, with its longer, fatter brother. Both seemed
to grow, expand like living things, until they clogged her throat, muted her
gasps and moans.
Oh yes. The pain *did* transform into something else, something vast and
glorious, defying description. She stared down at her hands in lust crazed awe
as they worked, one in, the other out. Slut. Cunt. Whore. She praised
herself, her capacity. It kept getting better and better. The deeper she
probed herself, the more craving need she discovered. The more she came, the
more she wanted to cum. Her keening, shrill shriek as her third orgasm of the
night ripped through her was suddenly given counterpoint by the electronic
jangle of the telephone.
She answered it on the fifth or sixth ring. She had to close her slutty
legs to keep both her cocks in place. Her voice was a raw, barely recognizable
tremble that Michael seemed to not recognize.
"Hello?"
"Are you okay?"
"No I'm *not* okay. I'm mad as hell. Not that I think you really care."
"I'm sorry. I tried to call from the car on the way to the airport, but
it was on the blink. Danner's people were waiting for me at Stapleton and
hurried me out like the terminal was on fire. He was waiting at his condo
above Vail and some tourist bus rolled down the mountain and took out telephone
service all over."
Her hand was still shaky. It smelled like pussy as she lit a cigarette.
He heard the lighter. "You're still smoking?" It was a veiled
accusation.
"What the fuck of it?"
"I thought we agreed --"
"So I changed my mind. It's my body. I'll do with it as I please." She
looked down it, let her passion heavy lips shape a savage smile.
Her towering anger made him more cautious. "You're that mad at me?"
Her laugh was harsh. She cradled the phone under her chin, freeing a
hand to play with the stub of latex cock protruding from her cunt. "Yeah. Mad
enough to do all kinds of crazy things."
His stiff voice told her how afraid he was. "Like what?"
She pumped her anger with the dildo. She wanted to tell him about Todd.
She wanted to tell him what she looked like, what she was doing to herself. She
took a deep breath of smoke, shivered as she twisted the fake prick. "I think
it'd be better to wait and talk about it when you get back."
"This's still about Marla, isn't it? I swear to God --"
"I'm really sick of you swearing to God and telling me lies, Michael.
I've heard enough of them to last a fucking lifetime. No more empty apologies,
okay? The truth is hard enough to take without your constant --"
"I haven't *done* anything, goddamn it! Why won't you believe me?"
All her passion and her anger blew away like smoke in a gale. Tears leapt
from her eyes, and her ornately painted face dissolved into sob distorted
planes. Her wail was a desperate, forlorn sound.
"Oh, Michael. You've killed my trust. I can't believe anything you say.
Whenever you're away from me, I go crazy. My heart keeps telling me you're
either fucking another whore or wishing you could. I'm trying to cope, trying
to adjust. But I'm not sure I can. I'm not sure we can salvage anything. I'm
afraid I've lost you."
She couldn't bear his low, equally desperate reassurances. It was more
of the same. More insistence that he was as innocent as a newborn lamb. She
gently cradled the phone, silencing his pleas. When the phone began to ring
again, she simply fumbled for the ringer switch and cut off its insistent
bleat.
Both surrogate lovers were thrust from her body by her hopeless sobs,
leaving her even emptier, more bereft. She had no one, nothing. Her feeble
attempts to disguise that undeniable fact with makeup and clothes and rubber
dicks was pathetic. *She* was pathetic. Escape into masturbation was no help.
Diving deeply into a lust that she hadn't known she owned was no solution. It
didn't do anything but delay the inevitable agony of the truth.
She awoke around three a.m., stiff from her knotted position on the
couch, shivering with cold. She felt her depression as surely as she felt the
constriction of the wrinkled gold dress. The lights she'd left on allowed her
no place to hide from herself. Despicable. Disgusting. Poetic justice. Hadn't
she thought that phrase sometime recently?
She deserved this. It was the perfect retribution for living a blind,
stupid life like her's. For harboring dreams of happiness and inner peace and
fulfillment. Naive, childish fantasies.
Men were pricks. That was the bottom line. Mike, Todd, Larry -- all of
them -- were egomaniacal assholes who didn't give a damn about anybody or
anything outside their skin. Women were no better. Under demure exteriors,
they were all whores. Greedy for what they could milk from men -- be it money
or a false sense of security. Karen Higgins came as close to honesty as anyone
she'd ever met. At least she acknowledged what she was, preached what she
practiced.
Ginny lit a bitter cigarette, sucked its vile flavor into her chest, felt
it transfer drugs to her blood and roll through her. That was honest, too. No
pretense. Tobacco maimed and killed whoever used it, no matter how insistent
the addict was that it was harmless. The pinkish sleep-faded lipstick that she
left on its filter was the same way. It had but one function. It was pure and
clean and did exactly what she wanted it to do. It made her mouth look
fuckable. Not loveable. Love was part of the Big Lie. Men don't make love to
me, Karen had said. They fuck me.
That's all men ever did. That's all women ever did. They turned the
need for the bliss of orgasm into something else. Dildos would never do that.
They had no brain to perpetrate the lies, the deceptions. They had no sensory
organs to enable them to mis-read the women they serviced. They simply were
what they were. Fuck toys.
She groaned as she sat up. Her ass burned. Pain was straight-forward,
too. She staggered to her feet, cramped within the tight shoes. Pure
decoration. Pure statement. She moved stiffly to the hall bathroom. She had
no fear of the light. She turned it on, looked at herself with cold eyes. Just
another slut. Half the population of the world looked exactly like she did, in
their souls if not their bodies. She was luckier than most. Her tits were
large and firm. Her waist was centerfold narrow. Her hips were flared. Her
ass was still round and tight, not pear-shaped and flabby. Her tear wrecked,
sleep-smeared makeup was perfect on her. It belonged there, was part of who
she really was. She leaned forward, compelled herself to perform the grisly
task of committing each and every detail of her face to memory.
Karen had told her. She was a natural whore. Born, not made. Todd had
warned her. There was no turning back, no retreat.
Ginny called in to work feeling brutally sane and flatly told the service
she wouldn't be in. She had work to do. It began with a scalding bath in the
pre-dawn blackness. She poured scented oil into the steaming porcelain
cauldron and lowered herself with a long hiss into the brew. She allowed
herself to drift, to float in mind and body, only for a short time. Only until
the recollection of the talk with Mike began to turn ugly. She had no time for
self-pity. She felt like she'd spent her life wallowing in it.
She stripped her legs of stubble and continued higher. Time to bare
herself as what she was. Time to shed all the things she hid behind. Her
curly red pubic hair made a mess of the water. It was a much more tedious
process than she'd imagined. She had to be thorough. In the end, her vagina
pouted nakedly, perfectly bald, into her grimly satisfied gaze.
The steamed mirror cleared while she curled her hair and smoked two quick
cigarettes. She studied her face from all angles before picking up the
tweezers to finish altering the eyebrows she'd so hesitantly shaped sometime
long in the past. Her movements were certain, sure. She was re-creating
herself, developing the image that had been latent since adolescence. She'd
scrubbed away, shaved away, plucked away all the old overlay. Now the simple
truth could be seen. It'd been there all along, obscured by thick layers of
wish and dream, idea and concept. Reality wasn't like that. It was pure.
Basic. Primal. The rest was obfuscation born of cowardice.
Not that adornment was inappropriate. Quite the opposite. It was
essential. Karen had taught her to use cosmetics in a good-enough fashion.
Close had counted. Precision hadn't been the point. It was now. She built
her mascara layer upon layer. Between each coat, she methodically separated
her lashes. No clumps. Each single hair became fat and long, curved
gracefully. Her eyeliner adhered to the shape of her eye without irregularity
or blur.
The look she wanted required the careful blending of three shades of
eyeshadow. She patiently wiped away her failures until she could improve upon
her lids no more. She pencilled in her scant arched brow.
Good. Very nice work, bitch, she sneered at herself. You've got a real
talent for this. How else could something so slutty look so natural. Doesn't
look like makeup. Maybe I should get my whole fucking face tattooed, so I
don't have to redo it all the time. Nah. That's part of the point. A
reminder. I have to look myself straight in the eyes. That way I won't
forget, get distracted by all the bullshit.
She used more foundation, not so much to alter her coloring as to unify
it, give her entire face the same luminescence as her eyes. She brushed on
slightly more drama, creating shadows and drawing light. More hungry. More
hollow. Like her soul really was.
Karen had been better about lip care since her mouth was so vital to her.
If there was time -- and that's all Ginny had now -- there was a base coat and
outline and filler. Ginny was so close to the mirror as she labored over her
lips that her brush clicked against the glass and disrupted her precise
painting. She calmly erased the error, added another item to her mental
shopping list -- one of those magnifying makeup mirrors she'd seen.
Funny how she'd always sneered at everything pertaining to stores'
cosmetic displays. Total denial is what it'd been. Funny how, in the back of
her head, she'd always known it'd end up this way.
Todd didn't freeze in the doorway this time, but as he approached her, he
did slow his progress nearly to a halt. She'd never been looked at like that
before. Mike's eyes had shown her a puppy-like quality. Even at his most
commanding, he was gentle until he lost control. Todd's eyes were nothing like
that. They were steel and flint, more like the one's she'd grown to know and
protray in color via the mirror. And they fucked her without emotional sham.
They were loveless eyes.
Not even her rapists had been that way. They'd been much more like Mike,
in a way. Within them all had lain a fear. Todd wasn't afraid.
"It took you long enough to get here," she said. "It's almost ten. I
was getting ready to leave."
He deliberately came to a complete stop. "Oh. And where would you have
gone?"
"Doesn't matter. The airport maybe."
He sat opposite her, in the chair she'd known he would take. The one she
was posed for. She'd squeezed herself into the bustiere. Her tits rested upon
it like succulent offerings, their nipples already proud, not really hidden at
all by the see-through blouse. Her sleek, silken legs were crossed. Her cunt
hid behind the wisp of tiny panties between tightly closed thighs. Her left
spike heel tapped the air.
"And," he asked drolly, "what would you have done there?"
"I'd have smoked and drank until somebody picked me up and took me
somewhere and fucked me."
"And then?"
"I guess that'd depend on how I felt with a load of cum in me. I'd either
go find more cock or come home."
"And tomorrow?"
"Same general idea. If I wanted to, I'd go to work. If I wanted to
fuck, that's what I'd do."
"What, no time off for remorse? To strip yourself to the bones, not just
to your cunt and tits. You'll need some of that."
"Maybe. But I've done that my whole life. I don't think I need much
more of it."
He spread his arms. "Well I'm here. I got your message. It was crystal
clear, unambiguous. 'You asked me how far I wanted to go,' you said. 'I want
to go all the way. Be here by ten.' That right?"
"Word for word. So come fuck me. I want you between my lips, Todd. I
want to look up into your eyes when you shoot my mouth full of cum."
"And if I prefer your pussy?"
She uncrossed her legs, slowly opened them. "I'm ready." Her nude cunt
lips peered through the gap in the panty's crotch. "Fuck my ass, if you want.
No man's ever done me there. Just myself, with a dildo. You can be the first.
You can take more of my virginity."
He crossed his legs. His jeans were tight. His cock was immense. He
openly gripped it, adjusted it for more comfort. "You talk about virginity
like it was a cup of water. Like it could be spilled in sips."
She exhaled a long plume of smoke. "It can. I want you to take
everything that's left."
"If I asked you to crawl over to me, would you?"
She stubbed out her smoke, slid to the floor, crawling, wagging her ass
like a dog does its tail, her tits dangling straight down. Deep inside her,
there was a shift, much like an orgasm. "Like this?"
"And if I told you to just jack me off? Not kiss, not lick, just make me
cum with your hands?"
She crawled between his legs, slid spider-like hands up his thighs,
joined them where his legs met. She cupped him there, then reached his zipper,
drug it down. She tenderly felt inside, led him through the parted metal
teeth. She stroked and petted, murmurred to it, let her breath warm it, inflate
it. There. It was done. Another aspect of hymen ruptured by the silky feel of
another man's prick.
Saliva filled her mouth, forced her to swallow, but she could fuck with
her hands, too. She wondered if there was a way to cum in her hands like she
did in her ass. There was so much she didn't know. His skin felt so soft, so
warm. Maybe she could.
She could hear the effort he expended to make his voice level. "And if I
wanted you to stop, to lay on the coffee-table and suck your tits?"
Before releasing her grip, she obeyed gravity and touched her lips to the
head of his fine cock, so much larger than Mike's or any of the others.
Lightly. Just enough to taste him, to leave a faint double red crescent
flanking the hole tipping it. He made no protest. She crawled to the low
table, swept magazines and ashtray and empty glass onto the floor. She rolled
onto it, resting on her back, her heels hooked over the edge. She felt like a
dancer. This was ballet. Fucking was art.
She squeezed her tits, massaged them, rubbed them together. She'd never
tried to kiss them, suck their nipples. She jerked open the top buttons of the
filmy blouse, reached for a lovely pinkish brown aureole, moaned in her throat
as she tickled it with her surprisingly raspy tongue. She tasted her flesh,
found it good, bathed the end of her breast in quick kisses, marked it with her
lips as she had branded his cock. She had to stretch both neck and tit to get
it into her mouth. Better. Oh my God, better! She could suck and bite. She
could fill her entire mouth with the softest flesh she'd ever had. She could
make her nipple fuck the top of her throat. Another way! Two new ways in mere
seconds!
She didn't know he'd moved until she heard his voice coming from between
her legs. "And if I wanted to fuck your ass? If I told you to spread oil on
your ass and in your ass and fuck yourself there until I was ready to take
you?"
She gasped a harsh breath as she let her spring from her mouth. It was
red. She thought it was blood for a second. No.
She struggled up. There was the oil. She grasped the plastic bottle,
froze, trying to remember something important, then bent for her purse as well.
Lipstick. Very important. Delay. Make them wait, whore. Make yourself wait.
His eyes were glued to her as she repainted her mouth. Finished with her
restoration, she squeezed a thick pool of fragrant oil into a cupped palm. She
rolled back down, slid forward until her ass hung over the table's edge and her
towering heels supported her weight. She spread the slick fluid in the deep
crevice below her gleaming pussy lips, used both hands to smooth it, always
probing her brown hole and flushing cheeks, invisible except to her fingers.
She'd learned the basics. She knew the more she relaxed, the better it
felt. But to admit something the size of his thick cock was going to rip her
apart, no matter how relaxed she was. She knew. She wanted that part of it,
too. She fucked her nether passage with her finger. Another, he told her, put
another finger inside. He had her wiggling three inside her at once before he
deemed her ready. He gripped her by the hips and raised them to his waist. She
lay with her neck sharply bent, her weight on her shoulders, gasping at him to
hurry. He grinned, denied her as long as he could. He rubbed his huge staff
the length of her slick cunt lips, then pulled back, dragging his purplish head
to its target. He found it, began an agonizingly slow, relentless thrust into
her.
She couldn't scream. The pain was too intense. She couldn't convulse.
He was already within her, and tightening around his shaft only made the agony
exponentially worse. He thrust deeper and deeper, as inevitable as death. When
he could go no further, when his groin was mashed tightly against her quavering
ass flesh, he began a withdrawal. Then began his earnest fucking.
The instant his thumb found her raging clitoris, she was lost.
The floodgate gave way. The tide eradicated the pain. The orgasm had
begun, and nothing else mattered. Though its peak was far, far away, she saw
it and moved toward it, moment by moment, stroke by stroke, scream by scream.
She ceased being human, for a transcendent eon, and was only a sex thing.
This what she'd sought. It was where she'd tried to take herself before. It
was what she needed. It was the only baptism which could quiet her tortured
soul. For the entire time his cock split her, for every millisecond his
greased shaft explored her guts, it went on and on. And, impossibly, when she
felt him tense and begin to explosively fill her with lava-like cum, the
miracle grew unbearably in scope. She truly, finally, understood the word
ecstacy.
He released her legs, and they fell limply, impacted the table like the
dead weight they were. He staggered, sank to the floor. She slid off the
coffeetable, lay like a cast aside ornate rag doll. Her ass felt torn. She
idly wondered if he'd done internal damage, if she was bleeding inside, warmly
dying.
Exerting herself, trying as hard as she could, she managed to roll onto
her back, straighten her twisted spine. She heard him moving but couldn't see
him. She smelled burning tobacco. His hand loomed into her restricted vision,
offered her smoke.
She breathed in a little, watched it gush from her lips toward the
ceiling. She took a little more. He lifted her arm, stuck the cigarette
between her fingers. Her curved red nails were so beautiful they almost made
her cry. She managed to not let the narrow white tube slip out, felt proud of
the achievement. She couldn't quite raise her hand to her lips, though. He
swam back out of sight. She felt the floor vibrate as he walked away. He was
finished with her, would go away now.
But he didn't. He brought her water, lifted her head so she could sip
the cool, reviving liquid. She hadn't realized how parched she was, how direly
thirsty. He was speaking, she thought. A dull rumble was all she could hear.
Did he want to fuck her some other way? That'd be okay, as long as she didn't
have to do anything. She'd prefer he use her mouth or cunt since she was sure
she was leaking blood into her intestines. But, if he wanted her ass again, he
could have it. She made a choked growling sound that was supposed to be yes.
Yes to whatever it was he was trying to ask for.
But he was taking the cigarette from her hand, then lifting her slack
weight. The movement was dizzying. He sat her on the sofa. She struggled to
remain upright. He gave her more water, fed her more smoke. Strength slowly
seeped back into her from the well she'd imagined was bone dry. She cleared
her throat, tried again to speak.
"Thank you." It was a decipherable croak.
"My pleasure. You're okay?"
"I think so. Was I good? Was my ass good?"
"Tighter than I like it, but it'll loosen up with more use."
"Yes. Good. I'll use it a lot, make it better for you."
"Just for me?"
She was confused. What did he want her to say? She was a real whore
now. Didn't he know that? Were whores ever just for one man? Was she supposed
to lie to them, make them all think they were the only one? She decided just
to smile, wondered what her face looked like. It was going to be a few more
minutes before she could fix her makeup.
"Well," he said into her deep silence. "It's going on noon. I've got to
run. You going to be okay?"
"Of course. I'm fine. Tired is all. You'll be back?"
"Is that an invitation?"
"Yes. I'll rest. I think I have some things to do. Don't remember."
He nodded. "I'll call before I come over." He stood, strode toward the
door, turned back with his hand on the knob, wearing a harsh grin. "How does it
feel to not be a virgin any more, anywhere?"
"Good. Really good. But..."
"Yes?"
"I'm not sure it's all gone yet."
His smile turned cruel. "Oh, we'll fix that in very short order, slut. I
think I know just what you need."
She felt reassured, trusted that he did. She was asleep before the door
clicked closed behind him.
Chapter Five
She had to walk so slowly that it was embarrassing. Before she'd strapped
the towering sandals back on, it hadn't been so bad. At home, she felt free to
waddle. In the mall she was obliged to look graceful, unwounded for her
public.
It was absolutely essential to go out, though. She *had* to buy her own
things. Her own clothes. Her own makeup. For it to become totally real, she
had to give Karen's things back. She had to go there in her own slut's
wardrobe, wearing her own face, to prove to the whore that she was committed,
that she'd found herself at last. Until then, no matter how many men she
fucked, she wouldn't be actualized.
It was freeing to make her purchases, leave the meager burgundy outfit on
and wear it from the mall. It was good to be what she was. They wanted her.
All of the cocks who saw her wanted to dip into her cunt. She stared at their
groins, wondering. They were all so different in size and shape. Would they
differ in taste, too? Were all men's cum as unique as the rest of them? She
hoped so. She wanted to find out, right then and there.
But first she had to take care of business. It was getting late. The
pressure to finalize herself was an irresistible force. She loaded the trunk of
her car with bags and boxes. Instead of going home, she drove straight to
Karen Higgin's apartment complex. The car she'd seen the whore in the other
day wasn't present. Ginny thought about simply leaving the suitcase outside
her door, discarded the idea as too irresponsible. It had to be done in
person. She had to let her teacher know, see.
She drove to the Tiger. Karen's car was there. Ginny's relief was a
tangible thing. It was time to be tested. This time, she would go in. Now,
if someone imagined her a whore, they'd be right. She felt exactly the same
butterflies in her belly that exams had evoked in college. She responded in
exactly the same way -- made sure she was as prepared as she could get. New
lipstick. Fresh powder. Touched up eyeshadow. A comforting cigarette as a
prop.
Her entrance was still hesitant. The club was more dim than the
orange-lit parking lot. She paused inside the door, stepped aside to let three
men pass. Their bald stares tantalized her, but she had no time for them. Yet.
First things first. As her eyes adjusted, her scan of the bar made more sense.
It was early. There were no strippers on the centrally located stage.
The patrons were almost exclusively male, of course. She guessed the few women
present were either whores or strippers or both. Her roving eyes snagged on
the blaze of red hair visible above the back of a booth on the far wall. She
began moving toward it before anything else registered. But it took only three
swaying strides to realize Karen wasn't alone. Her quick march faltered. She
thought it might be a professional discourtesy to interrupt. She veered to one
side, obeyed a wicked impulse to eavesdrop, curious about how business was
transacted. The booth behind Karen's head was empty. She slid in, unobserved,
in time to hear her mentor's throaty chuckle.
"I told you so," she was saying. "I promised you'd get your money's
worth. Now, how about that bonus you talked about?
"Right here," came an all too familiar voice. "Two thousand dollars in
twenties. Care to count it?"
Instant confusion filled her. Two thousand dollars? Karen's usual fee
was a hundred an hour. How many fucks was that? Her brain spun its wheels,
unable to perform the simple mathematics. Their voices distracted her further.
"Nah. No need to count it."
"Very trusting of you."
"Trust? No fucking way. If it's short, you're in big trouble. Imagine
what your sweet Ginny'd do if she found out she'd been set up."
"Blackmail?"
"Nope. I don't play that game. Just a promise. A girl's gotta protect
herself." Her tone dropped, became curious. "So tell me about it."
"I have to admit it. You're a genius, Karen. You should have seen her
crawl to me on her hands and knees. I made her jack me off. She wanted to
swallow my cock so bad she was drooling."
The whore sounded disappointed. "A hand job? You call that success?"
"That was the first test. The real one was when I made her lube her
cherry ass for me and beg me to fuck it. The slut damn near died, but she took
it."
There was a note of pride in her tone. "I told you, right after she came
over that first time. She's a fucking natural." There was the sound of a
cigarette lighter. "So what's next for the poor little bitch?"
"Do you care?" It was amused. She smelled his potent tobacco. She
thought it was strange she felt so calm, so emotionless.
"Just curious."
"I haven't made up my mind. I may get her to divorce that dumb fucking
husband of hers. I've been thinking about turning her into the corporate whore
after I'm through with her. You know. Entertain out of town brass, that kind
of thing."
"She ain't ready for that yet."
"Oh, she will be. She learns quickly. Like you said, she's a natural."
"You open to suggestions?"
"Sure."
"Make her keep her thing with you a secret for a while. Make her lie to
her old man about where she's been. Keep her royally fucked. Make her admit
how much she loves the kinky shit."
"Turn her into a specialist?" Todd mused. "Think she'd get off on whips
and chains?"
"Jesus. You must hate her fucking guts. What'd she ever do to you?"
There was a note of disgust in her tone.
He missed it. His voice was thoughtful. "There's something about her
that I had to have. I've been obsessed with her from the first day I saw her.
I tried everything in the book, but she just gave me that superior little smile
and shook her head. I did some homework into her background and found out
she'd been abused repeatedly. I got a shrink with a drug problem high enough
and he said she probably felt responsible for the pattern of rape and incest in
her life. He said she probably felt like a whore on the inside, and her
puritanical bullshit was her last defense. Looks like he was right."
"So you sent her husband here, set us up to get popped, and the rest's
history. Shit, man. You shoulda been a pimp." Her hatred for him dripped.
"Humm. Not a bad idea. I could put her on the street. Hey. Maybe you
two could work as a team. I bet I could line up a lot of real well paying
gigs."
"No fucking way. I ain't never had a manager, and I ain't about to start
now."
Their words fuzzed, became a dull rumble. Nausea built within her. She
slipped from the booth, staggered down the line of tables away from them. All
she could see was the glowing sign that read "Exit." She nearly fell out the
back door into the humid evening. Vomit spattered warmly against her ankles,
her new six inch pumps.
"Hey. You okay lady?" A man leaned against the brick alley wall, his
voice a drunken slur.
She couldn't answer. Her stomach was still knotted. She gagged, but
there was nothing left inside her. She felt cold. She heard the drunk's
uneven approach.
"Gotta pace yourself," he said cheerily. "That way you can party all
night. Here. Have a swig. It'll help."
She shook her head violently, gasped for air, pushed the hand holding the
whiskey bottle away.
"No need to get mean, bitch." His friendliness ended with the rejection.
He stayed surly. "Hey. I remember you. You're the slut that did me a couple
of months back."
"Somebody else," she choked out. "Not me."
"Sure it was. I never forget a whore. Say, I got a few bucks. What say
we get it on."
She tried to stand without the wall's help. She felt deathly weak. "Go
away. Leave me alone."
"That's no way to treat a paying customer, bitch." He fumbled with his
zipper. "Come on. Twenty for a quick head job."
She staggered two steps away. "I said no."
"And I say yes."
He was quick for a drunk, or she was terribly slow. He had her by the
shoulders before she could make another move. She fell to her knees on the
filthy pavement, felt her new hose rip. She shaped the word again. No. His
semi-hard cock was right in front of her. He used her parted lips as a target.
She tried to turn her head, spit him out. His hands in her hair forced her
back. He grew inside her mouth as he pushed her head back and forth. She
choked again, gripped his arms but couldn't force him away.
It was mercifully quick. In less than thirty seconds, his weak, sour cum
dribbled into her mouth. It was either swallow or strangle. When his hands
came out of her hair, she fell onto her side, gagging through her tears. He
laughed. A green piece of paper fluttered down beside her.
"That was great, baby. See you around." Humming happily, he doddered
down the alley.
The instant she was able, she used the rough brick wall to help herself
stand. She left the money where it lay, glancing at it like it was poised
viper, and navigated her way around the building, back to her car. It seemed
to take forever to fit the key into the lock. The door was impossibly heavy.
It took every iota of her strength to force it closed after she fell inside.
Raped. Raped again. The old numbness settled over her like a long lost
friend. Todd's words were a calm whisper in her ear. Responsible for it. A
whore on the inside. She gazed down at herself. Yes. Yes, she was. She
always had been. The man who'd fucked her mouth just a minute ago. It wasn't
his fault. He'd just seen the truth was all. He'd even paid her, and she'd
been too stupid to take the money. The only difference between what had
happened years ago and now was that she was dressed for it, honest about it.
She couldn't understand why it was so hard to make her lighter and
cigarette connect. She should have accepted the lush's offer of a drink. Shit.
The twenty bucks she'd run off and left would barely replace her ruined hose.
It wasn't until she saw Todd walk from the club that she felt any anger
at all. It wasn't until that exact second that what he'd done to her
registered. Everything suddenly clicked into place. The whole thing had been a
masterfully drawn plan. Mike *had* been framed that night. Company car.
Duplicate keys. He'd told her nothing but the absolute truth. Karen had never
fucked him. She'd been paid to lie, reimbursed for allowing herself to be
arrested with Mike.
Todd knew Ginny. He knew that she'd never be able to rest until she'd
satisfied herself about Mike's encounter. If she hadn't gotten a look at the
police report -- and Karen's address -- he no doubt would have arranged a
meeting between them somehow. Their physical similarity was both essential and
a high irony. Ginny was instantly presented with a perfect image of what Todd
wanted her to become. She saw herself in the whore. He'd known she would.
There'd been all kinds of little telltale signs she'd missed. The way
Karen called her husband Mikey. Only Todd used that hated nickname. The way
Todd had known what Karen looked like. The conveniently broken phones Mike had
encountered. The way Todd had so auspicously dropped by for the suitcase
after Karen had no doubt called to report their victim's emotional state and
appearance. It all fit. Everything.
And he'd won. She'd played along at every turn. He'd gotten exactly
what he wanted. Even now that she was aware of the plot, it was too late. She
was committed. She'd fucked him. She'd been face fucked in the alley. He'd
succeeded better than he'd dreamed. Because he'd been right about her.
Because, in her soul, she was already what he wanted her to become. She'd been
viciously manipulated into doing exactly what she'd repressed for so long.
But just because there was no turning back to her murdered artificial
innocence didn't mean that she owed him any gratitude. She had no idea what
would become of her -- but she did know that he wasn't going to use her, ever
again. She *was* a whore, therefore he had to pay. Yes. He would pay dearly.
She threw her cigarette out the window, opened a stick of gum to kill the
taste of bile lingering in her nose and mouth. Time to go home. Time to
assemble her own plot. But first, she fixed her face. She looked like she'd
just barfed and given a blow job. No need to look like shit just because
that's she was. A cunt had an obligation to her johns, after all. Lips once
again gleaming, she drove down the alley to see if the twenty was still there.
It was. She leaned from the car and picked it up with a cold smile. She'd buy
herself a frame, hang it on the wall over the bed.
"My first dollar," she laughed, her voice dripping with contempt.
As she unloaded her new wardrobe from the car, she puzzled over what to
do with Karen's valise. As she hung her slut's clothes on the front rack, a
vague idea began to take shape. The phone rang. Cursing the interruption, she
picked it up, dropped onto the bed.
"Honey?" Mike's voice was strained.
"Who else would it be?"
He ignored her tone. "This thing's going to hell in a handcart. I'm
going to have to fly from here to L.A. It could be another week."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?"
"You're not still mad about --"
"No. You were telling the truth all the time. I know that now. Sorry
I've been such a raving bitch."
He paused. She heard the faint line hiss. He seemed to reach a
decision. "Something's wrong. Something bad. The hell with it. I'm coming
home."
His sweetness penetrated her frozen heart, melted her icy rage. "No,
love. Please. I can handle it. It's nothing you can help me with."
"But you won't talk about it."
"I can't. Not yet." Her throat threatened to lock on the words that had
to be said next. "I love you. You have to trust me." The bitch is, she did
love him. But he shouldn't trust her, ever again.
She persuaded him to take care of business. She couldn't afford to have
Todd suspect anything, and aborting the trip would do that. Nor could she have
her husband underfoot until she was through. Revealing herself to him was no
doubt going to be the worst scene in her fucked-up life. She wasn't sure she
would survive it. It didn't matter. The only thing that did matter was
revenge.
Less than fifteen minutes later, the phone rang again. She'd been
waiting for either that or the doorbell.
"Hiya, doll."
"Umm," she purred sensuously. "When are you coming over? I've got some
things to show you."
"Oh? What?"
"Tits and ass in nasty new clothes. I need you to fuck me, lover. I
need you real bad."
"I take it Mikey gave you the bad news?"
"Yeah. I'm real sad. Can't you tell? You wouldn't have had anything to
do with keeping him away from his horny, slutty cunt of a wife, would you?"
"Me? Would I do something like that?"
"Of course not. Well, I'll have to make do somehow for a whole week. All
by myself."
"Why don't we meet at Mi Casa? Say, an hour from now. I'll see if I can
comfort you."
"Anywhere, anytime, any way. I'll be upstairs waiting for you. I want
you to take more of me. Do something new to me."
"I think I can manage that. I know just the thing."
Despite herself, as she showered and repainted herself and wrapped her
body scantily in a miniscule rust colored skirt and sheer green blouse, she was
excited. What a cunt she was. In the middle of her vengeance, to be so
fucking hot that she had trouble strapping on her second pair of new stiletto
heels.
He'd moved her to another room, one alawys kept locked. His boudoire, he
called it. There was a mirror overhead. She watched it all happen, every
depraved second of it, and still couldn't believe it.
She was drenched with sweat -- her's and his. She was naked except for
hose and heels. Her legs were so widely splayed her hips looked dislocated.
Tendons stood out in her neck like ropes. Her eyes literally bulged from their
sockets. Her breath rasped rawly, when she was able to breathe at all.
His hand. My God, his hand, she screamed to herself.
It was inside her. All of it. His wrist looked like an amputee's stump
as he thrust into her. She could see it, though. It bulged her stomach, moved
up and down in her like something deformed trying to be born. It hurt more
than she knew anything could. It made being ass fucked child's play. And
she'd been cumming ever since he forced it into her. Fisted her. That's what
he'd called it. Fist fucking.
He'd warned her, given her opportunities to back out as he fed her one
finger, then a second. He'd wanted her to say no, she was certain of that.
Alone, that would have forced her to do it. She was sure that he was searching
for her limits, the next "no" he could annihilate. She could endure anything
to deny him another victory. Crudely, she'd urged him on, "yes" the only answer
she'd allow herself to voice. He fucked her with his arm with savage
bestiality because he could find no end to her willingness. There was no
resistance to overcome. He was taken completely out of his game. He was
enraged by her unbounded eagerness to do anything, no matter how insane or
obscene.
But that wasn't her only reason. She wanted it. Oh, God how she wanted
it.
She'd screamed when the final knuckle of his thumb slipped into her. She
screamed as he wiggled his arm, his face twisted by rage and fear, and drove
deeper into her. She screamed until she had no more voice, but her hands were
clamped around his arm, forbidding him to stop.
Full. Ruptured. Some fatal secret place breached past redemption. The
fist opening and closing at the gate of her womb was squeezing a mad dose of
pain from her. It seeped into her blood, transfused her soul. She needed to
make him keep doing it until she passed out or died.
But she couldn't. The next time he tried to pull out, she was too weak
to stop him. She made a barbaric noise, a forlorn sound no human should have
been able to utter, as he emptied her. She lay perfectly still but for the
rise and fall of her lung driven tits, and watched her distorted, naked cunt
lips gape up into the mirror. God, how she hated him.
"Fuck me." It was a bare, raw whisper. "With your cock. Cum on me. On
my face. Please."
He feigned an insolent calm. His eyes were afraid, though, as he lit a
shaky cigarette. Now easy he was to read, now. "Not yet. Your pussy's as big
as a railroad tunnel. You liked it?" He couldn't hide his disgust.
"Yes," she hissed. Her drooping eyes widened. "Oh, God!"
"What?"
"Can you do that to my ass? Can you fist-fuck my ass?" Her whining need
an act. The genuine enlightenment she felt at the vision of his fist entering
another hole gave way to searing agony. The impossible pleasure was passing.
She wished she could remember how to cry.
He looked distinctly troubled. "Jesus. That's sick."
"I don't care. I want to do it."
"You're crazy. You know that don't you?"
"I don't feel crazy, Todd. I feel like I've suddenly gone sane. Can I
have a cigarette?"
He looked at her from the corner of of his eye as he lit it for her.
"What happened today? What made you like this all of a sudden?"
Careful. He was suspicious. The plan. Fight the pain, the lust.
Remember the plan.
She let him see her struggle for control. "When you fucked my ass this
morning, it changed everything. It made me realize just how much I've been
missing. I've got a lot of wasted years to make up for."
"What about Mikey?"
"What about him? I'll tell him. I'll show him. He can have his piece
of me or divorce me, whatever he wants. He gets off on red-headed whores,
remember? Maybe he'll want to watch me suck off guys I pick up in bars. Maybe
he'd like to fuck my ass while you do my cunt. Would you like that?"
"I'm not into group scenes."
She secretly gloated. She knew he'd been involved in flat-out orgies
more than once. He was having more and more trouble hiding his discomfort. He
wasn't in control any more. He was doubting himself. She fondled her pussy.
She had to turn her grimace at the searing pain into a seductive smile. "Look,
honey. It's almost normal again. Fuck it for me now? Please?"
He leaned back, tried to look relaxed as he glanced at his watch. "No
time tonight."
She pouted. "I need it. If you won't fuck me, I'll have to find
somebody who will."
He turned stern. "No. Go home. I'll come by in the morning."
She stayed sweet. "You're going to give your cum to Marla, aren't you?
That's okay. I'm not jealous. But if you can have whoever you want, so can
I."
She pushed herself erect. She focused on acting a slutty version of her
normal as she fit herself back into the skirt and blouse. It took enormous
effort. It felt like there was a butcher knife buried in her, twisting inside
her cunt.
He looked so childish while she redid her face that she wanted to laugh.
"You don't own me, honey. Nobody does anymore. I'm really grateful for
everything you've done. Without you, I'd have gone to my grave a frustrated,
puritanical, unfulfilled housemouse. But you aren't enough. I hope that
doesn't hurt you. If you can't fuck me as often as I need cock, well..."
She drove toward the sleazy section of town just long enough to be fairly
sure he wasn't following her, then turned toward home. She was weakening. At
least she wasn't bleeding, anywhere she could see. She drove through her
neighborhood, but he wasn't lurking, waiting to see if and when she returned.
She was slightly disappointed. She'd hooked him, just like she'd planned. He'd
let his weakness show, just like she'd prayed he would. His dominance had
proven inferior to her bottomless submission. It'd have been too much to
accomplish his total defeat in just one day, though. Beside, this way she
could savor her revenge.
She rolled into the garage, didn't turn on any lights, just in case. Her
cunt hurt so badly she felt ill. She gagged as she got out of the car and
almost fainted. But it passed, and she staggered slowly inside. She swallowed
four aspirin surrogates, gingerly cleaned herself up as much as she was able,
and collapsed into bed.
Calling in sick again wasn't anything faked. Ginny'd never experienced
pain like what awakened her at dawn. Any movement, however slight, made her
break out in a cold sweat. Urinating almost caused her to scream. A bowel
movement was equally horrid. A pain pill left over from Mike's injured back
eased her awareness of the agony and allowed her a minimal, crippled freedom to
shuffle around the house like an ancient crone.
She was ready for Todd's nine-thirty call. Sounding sleepy was no
problem. Sounding sexy was.
"Umm. Morning lover."
"You're still in bed?"
"Um hum. Haven't been home too long."
"Oh. I see."
"I bet you do."
"I, uh, kind of hoped you changed your mind. About going out."
"About fucking some more, you mean? Un uh. You got me too hot, baby,
and then didn't follow through. I couldn't help myself. Want to hear about all
the nasty things your slut did?"
"Some other time. Can we, uh, get together?"
"I need sleep even more than I need dick, hon. And I've got plans for
this evening. How about tomorrow?"
"Plans?"
"I thought you didn't want to hear about it?"
"Can't you cancel them?"
"A promise is a promise, Todd. Besides, I don't want to cancel."
"I understand."
He did, all too well, he thought.. Keeping him off balance was so easy.
But a little alarm bell penetrated her fogged brain. She needed to dangle a
carrot after using the stick.
"You sound so disappointed. I haven't stopped thinking about you, lover.
Not for a minute. Talking to you is making me hot, tired as I am."
"Then cancel your plans." His petulance was so petty.
"Well, maybe I can kind of re-schedule. Want to meet me at Mi Casa
around eight? You can have me all night, if you want."
"Yeah. Sure. Sounds good."
"Bring me a long, fat hard-on and a bucket of cum, lover. I'm going to
fuck you til you faint."
She made sure he was hard before she rang off, felt pretty sure he'd
think about her all day. She mused briefly about how easy it was to lead men
around by their balls. Too bad she hadn't known that earlier. She brought
herself back to earth; dealing with Karen Higgin's wasn't going to be so
simple.
The car was there this time. The valise was heavy. The pain was
excruciating, but she hadn't dared take more drugs. She had to be crystal
clear. She rested twice on the infinite trek to 1029-B. Thankfully, the whore
answered the buzzer almost instantly. There was a pause, though, before she
opened the door.
"Well. Haven't *you* changed."
Ginny drew smoke, smiled. She'd taken great care to look like a cunt. "I
have indeed. I bought a closet full of pretty things. Thanks for the loan of
your's. Can I come in?"
Karen mockingly bowed her inside.
Ginny lowered the suitcase to the floor and helped herself to the
sofa.
"You look hurt, girl."
"A little. Well, more than a little, but it was worth it. Have you ever
been fisted?"
A plucked eyebrow raised. "Once or twice. Not my cup of tea. You got
off on it?"
"Yeah. But it's going to be a while before I'm ready for more."
"Coffee? Something stronger?"
"Coffee's fine."
From the kitchenette. "How come I get the feeling that you aren't here
just to bring back my goodies and shoot the shit?"
"Because I'm not. I wanted to see if we can cut some kind of deal. I
know all about Todd hiring you."
The was a momentary pause, then no attempt at denial. "The worm spilled
his guts?"
She accepted the coffee mug. "No. I eavesdropped on your little
tete-a-tete yesterday at the Tiger."
"So how come you don't look pissed?"
Ginny shrugged, put out her cigarette. "I've got no beef with you. You
just fulfilled your contract like any good business person. In fact, I'm
grateful for everything you've done. You showed me a whole new way of looking
at life, Karen. I *like* being this way. Maybe I was born to fuck, like you
said. It's that Blankenship bastard I'm after."
Higgin's eased warily into her chair. She studied Ginny from her
manicured, tall-heeled feet to her lavishly made-up face, staring icily into
her unflinching, carefully painted eyes. She sipped coffee without dropping
her gaze. "Revenge?"
"In spades."
"What's that got to do with me?"
"I need your help."
"And you're appealing to my conscience?"
"No. Your bank account."
The whore's eyes glittered with amusement. "If you heard our little chat
at the club, you know the price. You got two grand?"
"No. But I'm hoping we can work something out."
The eyes widened with false innocence. "What you got in mind?"
"A hundred dollars an hour. Twenty hours. You make the dates for me. I
give you all the proceeds. I keep the tips."
"Shit, girl. You're serious, ain't you?"
"Dead serious, Karen. I want that asshole. I need your help. I'll do
whatever it takes."
"What makes you think you can do the job? Selling pussy ain't exactly a
painless process. What about your old man? What about your day job?"
"Those are my problems. I turned my first trick last night, in the alley
behind the Club. I've fucked the man I hate most on this planet twice. I can
do it. If I can do that, I can do anything. Have we got a deal or not?"
They both lit cigarettes, stared at one another until the tobacco was
half-burned.
"You willing to take on twisted shit? Do the tricks I don't want to fuck
with?"
"You're the boss."
Another long silence.
"What makes you think I won't let Blankenship know what's going on and
fuck up whatever it is you're planning?"
"I don't have any guarantee you won't. But I like you, and I think you
like me. And, my guess is that you wouldn't mind seeing the arrogant fucker
taken down a notch or two."
"Okay. You got a deal. So what you got in mind, whore?"
Ginny explained. Karen listened, made suggestions. An hour later,
they'd done what they could do. Karen was uneasy.
"What if he goes to the cops?"
"He won't. He's too proud. I'd make sure the whole fucking world knew
about it."
"Okay, so maybe he won't come back at you -- but me he might not feel so
careful about."
"Your name won't come up. He'll never know you had anything to do with
it."
"Okay. I don't like it, but okay. It'll take me a day or two to set up
my end of it."
"That long? I was hoping we could do it tonight."
A crooked grin. "Patience, darling. Hurry it and you'll spoil half the
fun. It's going to take time to make arrangements."
"But that means I've got to keep fucking the bastard until --"
"I told you. Being a whore ain't always easy. You don't get to swing
your legs apart just for guys you get off on. Think of it like it's training
for what you're going to have to do for me."
Training, she admitted later, didn't have to be all bad. A cock was a
cock, after all, and he *did* know how to use his. He taught her how to deep
throat him. It was amazing. She nuzzled his balls with her nose, her throat
filled past capacity, just like she'd learned her ass and cunt could be
stretched beyond belief. She'd lulled him with her compliance, let him talk
her into fucking nobody but him -- after extracting a solemn vow from the
asshole that he'd keep her fully satisfied.
It was still easy enough to get what she wanted. After he'd pulled out
of her mouth, refusing to give her the cum she truly hungered for, she begged
him to make a video of her with the camera on the tripod in the corner of his
secret room. She wanted to see how slutty she was, she whimpered. She didn't
mention the fact that she wanted to see how it worked. He complied, no doubt
with a hidden agenda of his own.
She insisted on brushing her hair and repairing her face first, and urged
him to come up with a scenario for them to act out on tape. Her pussy tingled
while he loaded the machine and arranged the lights and repeated -- she was
sure it wasn't for the first time -- what he wanted her to do.
It was a rush to use the array of six dildos and vibrators for both his
eyes and the unblinking lens of the camera. Her trio of orgasms, ascending in
intensity, were very real. Her cunt was terribly sore, but she found that,
after reaching a certain level of arousal, pain became just another erotic
sensation, even made her hotter, wetter. When he finally came to her, let her
pull his swollen dick into her syrupy vagina, she knew that the device he'd
first dropped the video cassette into was a duplicator, and she didn't care.
All she was concerned about was getting something alive inside her.
It was the first time he'd ever used her pussy, and he was good. Damned
good. He got her off twice more before releasing an immense fountain of cum.
It shot so deeply into her that she swore she could taste it on her tongue.
He woke her later. It was terrifying, at first, to realize that he'd
tied her wrists and ankles to the corners of the bed. She was utterly helpless.
But, as her body had been able to make pleasure from pain, it was also capable
of turning fear into ecstasy. He teased her, tantalized her, taunted her for
hours. She became again a mewling, shrieking sex-thing for him, a willing
slave.
All thought of revenge, all rage, was gone. She became, for the first
time in her entire life, totally focused. There was only one thing. There was
only the Need. Had he asked her, she'd have told him the whole thing. He
didn't. He refused her hoarse pleas for satisfaction, her shrill screams for
release. After he'd dumped two loads of cum onto her tits and face, he
loosened her bonds enough to allow her to escape after he'd made his exit. He
called her a cheap slut, threw her the video cassette, and left her still
maddened by her unquenched desire.
It'd taken her a half hour to fuck herself dry with the scattered sex
toys. After she recuperated, calmed her wild shaking enough to smoke a
cigarette, it dawned on her that this was the perfect opportunity to explore
the boudoir. And her discoveries, in the various drawers and closets, excited
her all over again. This was good. Better than she'd dared dream. Tempted
beyond her ability to resist, she helped herself to some of what she found with
a sense of childish excitement and shame.
He thought it'd been his idea when he demanded that she quit her job. She
was extremely tempted to do it in person, wearing the slatternly, obscenely
decadent leather she'd liberated from Mi Casa's closet. Instead, she did it
demurely, by phone, declining give her ex-boss a reason.
She looked down at herself while he buzzed in her ear trying to reason
with her. She was floating laconily in her bathtub with her feet hooked over
the rim, one of the jacuzzi jets massaging her clit, a dildo at hand in case
she desired more. Her fresh crimson manicure still looked wet on her lengthy
talons. Her cunt was freshly stripped of hair -- this time by means of a
depilatory cream that'd left her baby smooth, soft, and slightly burned. On
the portable TV she'd dragged into the bathroom, she was watching her image
fuck itself, wail and writhe.
"I'm not going to let you go without a fight," he'd stubbornly said. "You
owe me at least some kind of explanation."
She lit a cigarette, slouched closer to the watery prick invading her.
"I'm going to try my hand at a new career. Something more exciting and
rewarding."
He'd reluctantly accepted that. She'd reached a minor, soothing orgasm,
as liquid as her lover, sighed tiredly, and then padded off to bed for a
restful, well-deserved nap.
Chapter Six
So tender. So gentle. His caress arched her, made her gasp -- until she
closed her eyes and saw, not Michael, but the others. Then she trembled with
fear, not passion. Ice devoured her heat. Each time it happened, he
retreated, soothed her, gave her time to come back from the abusers to him. He
petted her, murmurred lovingly, patiently in her ear until she again sought his
lips, determined to finish this time. When you're ready, he whispered, over
and over.
Ginny awoke, sobbing. The nightmare had been too vivid, too real -- more
replay of her first time with Michael than dream. She fumbled for the light,
wiping at her face, cursing herself. Why was she longing for that lost life,
anyway? It'd been terrible. It'd taken her over a year to relax enough to
experience her first paltry twitch of an orgasm. Now, she could cum almost on
demand with an intensity that verged on delerium. Love was just another four
letter word. Sex had only three.
It was nearly sunset. She'd overslept and would have to hurry. She
expected Blankenship to drop by without announcing himself, and she wanted to
be ready. The phone didn't ring during the hour she spent on her face and
hair. The doorbell didn't chime while she arranged her body in the creaking
leather halter top, skirt and knee length boots.
Restless, impatient, tendrils of dread crawling through her that weren't
entirely unpleasant, she paced restlessly. The halter squeezed her tits so
tightly that inhaling deeply was difficult. The skirt was stretched so closely
over her thighs that her steps in the four-inch heeled boots were of necessity
short and quick.
A mix of boredom and second-thought caused her to strip entirely and
redress in a muted orange dress with plunging neckline. It would've been a big
mistake to look as domineering as she felt. Submission was the key to seducing
the bastard. The leather she'd stolen from the boudoir would have frightened
him. As if by cosmic cue, while she was fiddling with more subdued eyeshadow,
the bell rang. She tried assuming an attitude to match her insight.
As he seared her with glowing eyes, she sank to her knees before him,
rubbed her cheek against his swelling groin.
"I've missed you," she told his cock as she traced its shape with her
hands, saliva beginning to collect in her mouth.
"Make me a drink. It's been a bitch of a day."
His tone made her want to bite his dick through his slacks -- bite it
off. Instead, with a frustrated sigh, she clambered to her feet, swayed to the
bar. "What's your pleasure?" she asked, composing her face with the aid of the
mirror.
He drank only half his scotch. He led her to the bedroom, slowly removed
the dress, pushed her hands back to her sides when she tried to loosen his
clothes. He left her in the hose and heels he seemed addicted to. He bit her
nipples until they were stone hard and sore. He pulled on her cunt lips and
clit with his teeth until they were puffy, slick with his saliva and her own
copious fluids. He again reduced her to her sex organs, touched her nowhere
else. He demanded she not move, slapped her, more playfully than cruelly, each
time she began to writhe or tried to rub herself against him, so deeply in need
of release that her vision blurred. He found her edge, maintained her on the
perilous brink of orgasm for what might have been hours, could have been days.
He made her grasp her thighs, keep her knees pulled to her shoulders,
exposing both tits and cunt, while he took periodic breaks from her torture for
cigarettes, water, denying her both. He began using her exposed asshole with
casual fingers, arousing her there, too, in ways she hadn't known were
possible. Likewise, he teased her mouth. With fingertips dripping with her
pussy juice, he made her lips shine. He hadn't kissed her, hadn't smeared
their vivid redness. When her tongue tried to taste her cunt, he savagely
twisted her nipple, shook his head in solemn negation.
The phone rang. The sound startled her. She didn't recognize it. His
smile was soft. He lifted the receiver. She didn't know what to do, looked at
him with helpless eyes, as if her hands had become part of the thighs she
gripped. He placed the headpiece on her shoulder as he slid two fingers easily
into her relaxed asshole.
"Hello," she croaked, her voice unrecognizable to herself.
"Asleep, hon?"
Three fingers entered her gaping cunt. Ah. Good.
"Ginny? Are you there?"
"Yes," she hissed. Michael. That's who it was.
He was full of good news. Two days, max, he vowed. The Danner problem
had become the Danner victory. Or something like that. Blankenship's hands
were meeting inside her, evoking sensations of unequalled bliss, but no orgasm.
With an evil smile, he leaned between her uplifted legs, took a nipple between
his teeth, and pulled, pulled. Made her raw tit stretch. She wanted it to go
all the way to her cunt. The waves of pain shimmered within her, awakened her
to yet another level of ecstacy.
She couldn't move, now. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't have humped
the hands impaled in her. The words in her ear dimmed, dulled, blurred. Her
unsuspecting husband's words. Who would soon be home.
She wished, with a fragment of her heart, that she could warn him. Stay
away, Michael. Please stay away. You don't want to know.
But it was a paltry impulse, with no force behind it. All her energy was
trapped in cunt and ass and tit, where it belonged. Come home or stay away --
it didn't matter. It wouldn't change anything. She didn't care. This was
what was important. All her life she'd been seeking this. Husband or not,
orgasm or not, she was fulfilled.
The phone was dead in her ear. Had she been coherent? Had she said so
much as goodbye? Her vague questions died as Blankenship began moving every
finger he had inside her, jolting her from her hazy lust into full-fledged,
deathly dire need. He nodded at her. She could cum now. He wanted her to.
It took her away. She entered that other realm, that other universe. He
hurled her from the sky-piercing peak upon which she'd tottered. He threw her,
screaming, convulsing, into the yawning pit awaiting her, beckoning to her.
It'd been waiting for her for years. She plunged downward, ever downward, with
a joyous howl.
It was dark. At first, she thought she was dead or dreaming. But her
toes were cramped inside shoes. A sheet was tangled around her. Throbbing
soreness radiated from her nipples and cunt. She was alive, in her own bed.
The lights were out and she was alone.
To prove it, she rolled onto her back, uncurled from the fetal knot she'd
slept in. Her thighs were itchy above her twisted hose. She idly scratched
herself, tickled herself. There was dampness within her bald crack. She
sniffed her finger. Cum. His and hers. He'd finally fucked her with his
prick. Stuffed it in her while she was unconscious, shot his bitter seed into
her slack, unresponsive body.
A low, slow glow made her smile. She liked that picture. She felt proud.
She was a whore even in her sleep. Had her hips possibly rocked under him
without any awareness? Had she groaned, thrust against him? She wished he'd
had his camera here, taped her, made his copy and left one for her to watch.
With no recollection of the event, it'd have been especially hot to watch
herself.
She patted the bedside table until she located cigarettes and lighter.
The orange flare left an afterimage of her pale body burned on her retinas. Big
tits hanging to either side of her chest. Dark hose clamped over her lower
legs. She inhaled as much smoke as her lungs could hold, released it with a
long, peaceful sigh.
Before the cigarette was done, her relaxation was tempered. She had
Blankenship by the balls, just as she wanted -- but he had her by the cunt,
too. Her hatred for him was undiminshed, but the bastard was doing things to
her that were still working on her, leaving deep, indelible marks tatooed on
her spirit. Just thinking about what he'd made her feel evoked echoes within
her which could never be put to sleep, banished from awareness.
Well, there'd be other men, she reasoned. Other talents. Other
experiences.
But Michael. What about Michael? Having him virtually in her ear while
Blankenship was fingering her cunt and ass, imprisoning her in that vivid,
indescribable, luscious paradise had been an added rush. It'd made the whole
thing even better. Which, she thought, groping for the ashtray, made her a
monster. It wasn't bad enough to fuck his boss and sell her holes behind his
back. She had to involve him in her depravity, too. Jesus.
It was five a.m. She tried to find sleep again, but it eluded her.
Possible scenarios of Mike's homecoming kept playing through her head. None of
them were pleasant. Anxiety displaced everything.
She turned on the light, gave up trying to fight her fears. She washed
her face, feeling more shame than she had since beginning her trek toward
whoredom. Too late to turn back. Far too late. And going ahead was certain to
cause unthinkable pain for all involved.
Saying it wasn't her fault was no help. Blankenship's orchestration of
her repressed libido was criminal -- but she'd gone along, of her own free
will. She deserved punishment. All she recieved was pleasure.
The bathroom mirror revealed something strange. Stripped of her makeup,
there was exactly the same face she'd been presented with her entire life. Only
her plucked brows were different. Even the sadness in the eyes beneath them
was familiar. Maybe when she started turning tricks, that would change. She'd
be given the twisted ones, the ones Karen didn't want to fuck. They'd hurt
her. Use her and throw her away like the cum-filled rubbers she'd peel from
their limp pricks.
The thought comforted her. She set about cleaning the bathroom, decided
the rest of the house could use it, too. But before tackling it, she applied
some mascara and lipstick. A reminder of herself, her role. Not housewife any
more. Not real estate agent. Streamlined and with but a single function. She
had to always be ready.
But her anxiety refused to be banished entirely. It made her jump at
unexpected sounds, wouldn't allow her to ignore Mike's homecoming. She became
more and more nervous. Time moved too slowly. By noon, the house gleamed from
ceiling to floor, and the last load of laundry was spinning in the dryer. The
drink she made for herself burned in her stomach. She poured the bottom half
down the drain and washed her lipstick off the rim.
Unable to sit still, unable to focus on insipid daytime TV, she found
herself kneeling in the closet, arranging her shoes and wondering if any with
less than three inch heels were of any use to her now. The knot in her belly
came first. As she squatted, cigarette fuming between freshly laquered nails,
she noted how the loose housedress had slid up to bare her sleek thighs. The
knot loosened, slid sensuously up her spine.
The bars would be open now.
A little over an hour later, she was in one, just down the block from the
Tiger Club. Twenty minutes after that, she was on her back in a motel room bed
with the shortest, fattest cock she'd ever seen pumping madly in and out of her
juicy cunt. Ten minutes more, and she was zipped back into the leather-like
miniskirt and powdering her sweaty brow, two twenties and a ten folded neatly
into her purse, wondering how many johns she could service before night fell
and whether this counted toward the time she owed Karen.
She answered her first question. She fucked three more before the sun
set. The second actually stayed in her long enough to give her a tickly little
orgasm of her own. Tired and hungry, she used to motel's shower, careful to
preserve her face and hair, then hurried home. She'd barely opened the
refrigerator when Blankenship called, mad as hell that she'd been out all
afternoon.
"Shopping," she explained innocently. "I was looking for something nice
to wear for you." The lie felt good.
"Put on that thing you wore the first time. I'll be there in forty-five
minutes."
"Which first time, lover?"
"The first time you showed me what a slut you are. When I came for the
suitcase."
She didn't point out that that'd been one of Karen's loaners. She merely
stepped back into her own leather skirt and buttoned a red blouse that was
vaguely similar to what she'd worn that fateful first day. He wouldn't know
the difference. She didn't worry about not having open-crotched panties -- she
wore none. Painting herself even more sluttily than she had then warmed her
cunt. At least Blankenship was good for a decent orgasm.
She shaped a wet red smirk, shivered with anticipation. Her fifth
different dick of the day, and he'd have no idea he wasn't the first. He was
going to pay, just like the others had -- in kind, though, instead of cash.
She managed to sleep in until ten the next morning. Her cunt was a
little raw in the bathtub, even though Blankenship hadn't used it. He'd wanted
her mouth and ass instead. She'd taken pride in the ease with which she'd
swallowed his cock all the way to the balls and the glazed, greedy way he'd
fucked her face. It'd been so simple to let him continue to believe that he
was in control. Her meek suggestion that she fix her face before he buried
himself in her tight, greased asshole had been eagerly accepted. She'd had to
bring herself off, since he ignored her drooling pussy. He'd yelped at the
sensation of her finger rubbing against his prick, deep, deep inside her body.
She soaked her soreness away, smoked thoughtfully. Why was it he never
wanted her naked? He treated her slut's clothes like they were part of her
flesh. She idly speculated that seeing her without makeup and sleazy attire
would turn him off. She smiled lazily. But that'd probably never happen. That
old Ginny was long gone. It was too much of a rush for her to appear exactly
the way he liked her to even consider anything else.
Karen called her, exactly on time, sounding sleepy.
"Well, it's all arranged on my end. Tomorrow night. Eleven o'clock.
Cost us extra to have it happen out in the fucking boondocks."
Worry surfaced immediately after the surge of harsh glee. "Damn, Karen!
Tomorrow?"
"That a problem?"
"Mike's coming home tomorrow."
"Changing the schedule won't be easy. Wasn't easy to set up in the first
place."
"I know, I know." She lit a nervous cigarette. "I guess it'll work.
It'll have to. I'll just have to get away from Mike somehow.
"Inviting him along's out of the question, huh?"
She laughed bitterly. "I doubt that day'll ever come." She drew
smoke, looked at her bright toenails. "Say, by the way, I did a little work
yesterday afternoon."
"You don't say." Karen sounded amused. "Do any good?"
"Four tricks. Is that good?"
"For a weekday afternoon? About average. You wanna count it against
your debt?"
"Yes." Then, suddenly, "No. Maybe I better keep it to buy some things."
A barked laugh. "Yeah. Getting set up can be expensive. But you start
this weekend for sure. Saturday afternoon. Two p.m at the downtown Holiday
Inn. Ask for Mr. Short's room. Figure on two or three hours. Have you home in
time to fix dinner."
"If I've got a home by then."
"You will. Somewhere. Call me tomorrow for details about your surprise
for Blankenship, huh?"
The two hundred forty-five dollars she'd made didn't go far. Two outfits
left her just enough to buy a dildo at a sex store she'd wondered about. It
was like a home away from home. The triple-X videos and porn magazines and
sexual aids were part of her world. Her bouncing tits and the purloined
leather startled the few patrons, seemed to intimidate them. It amused her
that the proximity to a real cunt, not one confined to their VCR's and
imaginations, scared them.
She didn't take her purchases home. She stopped at another bar, this one
off the lobby of a major airport hotel. It was a bad choice. After a boring
half hour and a glass of wine she hadn't wanted, she gave up, deciding the
outrageous leather dress was too much for daylight, at least in a location as
upscale as this. On her way out she was eyed coldly by two policemen. As she
bent to unlock the car, a voice came over her shoulder.
"They were waiting for you to move on somebody."
She looked back without straightening. The man was big, rough looking,
despite an expensive suit. His eyes were on her legs and nearly exposed ass,
not her face.
"You one of them?"
"A cop? Hardly. I'm a connoisseur of fine pussy."
"Oh? Do I qualify?"
"Humm. Maybe. You've got the look. Only one way to find out for sure.
You do kink?"
"I do it all."
"Two bills enough?"
"It'll do. Where do we go?"
He kept a coil of soft rope and other toys in a briefcase. He tied her
to the hotel bed, evoking heated memories of the night with Blankenship.
"You're really into this shit," he growled, dipping a broad finger into
the dew sparkling on her labia.
She grunted, thrust, pushed his finger deeper. He was amused by her
eagerness. He let her have the finger, twisted it inside her, stroked the
length of her wet slit with it while he lifted a gleaming device from the
briefcase with the other. He deftly worked a knob atop it, then placed it over
her nipple.
She stared with haunted eyes as it tightened over her distended flesh and
began to exert pressure. She hissed at the growing, shooting pain, whined
miserably when he took his finger away from her. He screwed an identical clamp
to her other swollen nipple, making her gasp. She couldn't take her eyes off
her tits. The stainless steel shot maddening bolts of electricity straight to
her cunt. He showed her a massive dildo made of the same material, made her
lick it, imprint it with her lipstick, before gently sliding it into her,
quarter of an inch at a time.
He didn't fuck her. Not with the massive prick he let her drool over,
beg for. Too dangerous, he said. Too many diseased whores in the world, he
muttered as he fit his cock into some sort of soft sleeve. He activated the
batteries in dildo and the artificial pussy at the same time. He fucked her
that way, ordered her to withhold her wild orgasm until he reached his.
She was trembling from the intensity of her reaction when he released
her. It refused to go away, made it difficult to zip herself back into the
body-hugging leather. He totally ignored her, focused obsessively on wiping
his implements of pleasure with a soapy washcloth, then alochol. She felt
hollow as she fought with the tight boots. Her lips seemed too heavy to close.
Her eyelids sagged. Her nipples burned madly, making each breath torturously
pleasant.
As she clumsily fluffed her hair and retouched her makeup -- with her
nameless abuser still working beside the bed -- she realized sluggishly that
she was still on the edge, still ready to cum. He'd tipped her an extra
hundred. Her throat was too constricted to speak. He might not have heard her,
anyway.
Walking down the thickly carpeted hall, her tall heeled stride jolting
her agonized tits, she felt dizzy. In the elevator, she couldn't keep her
hands from massaging her chest. The instant she squeezed them, the awaiting
wave crashed down on her. When the doors slid open at the lobby, she wasn't
finished. They closed again. She recalled the sensation of the cold metal
vibrator when it'd penetrated her, and her cunt gave a final series of
shuddering twitches.
She moved through the lobby, still enfolded in a foggy aftermath. Too
dazed to drive, she slouched behind the steering wheel long enough to finish a
cigarette and come back from where he'd sent her.
The kinky stuff. A specialist. She had a date Saturday with somebody
too twisted for Karen. What would he do to her? Beat her with a whip? Make
her hurt him? She almost had another orgasm. While she drove, pictures rolled
through her mind. She remembered very little of her trip home, then nearly
forgot to unload her new clothes from the trunk. She dumped them on the
bedroom floor, fell across the bed and hurriedly unwrapped the fat dildo she'd
bought. She used it well, wailing without restraint through two more crushing,
convulsive orgasms, wildly licking it clean between applications to her
throbbing, overheated core.
Her late afternoon session with Blankenship was almost dull by
comparison. In order to get off while he mundanely fucked her with his hard
dick, she had to relive her time with the other nameless man. But his cum felt
grand, spewing into her womb, and her bruised nipples were still wildly alive
as he bit them, too gently. Her voice was thick and slow with unsated desire as
she begged him to meet her at Mi Casa the next night. He agreed to her
suggestion of time. She kissed his cock goodbye, promised him something very,
very special.
The moment he left her, she hurriedly wiped her cunt clean and quickly
dressed in one of her new sets of working clothes. Maybe, if she couldn't find
anybody who'd hurt her, she could at least extinguish the raging wildfire
consuming her body with bath after bath of sperm. Her frenzied hand was heavy
with her makeup, painting her decadence and utter depravity as blatantly as she
could.
Why she chose the Tiger Club was a mystery to her. Why she felt like she
had to slink inside unseen, as anonymously as her searing red microskirt and
flimsy halter top would allow, she couldn't say. She was guided only by some
primitive, ancient cunt-urge. Her forebrain wasn't operative. She was a pure
impulse, a single, roiling mass of sexual energy.
It took her time to be able to see in a sane way, to allow the bar to
form around her. By then, she already had a companion at her dim, corner
table, was already sipping the drink he'd bought her, smoking the cigarette
he'd lit, had her legs parted so he could caress her hose clad thighs. She was
already talking money when she saw the red hair flash across the room.
But it wasn't Karen's hair. It looked exactly like Mike's. She leaned
forward, in shock, straining to see. Her john took it as an invitation to
grope her tits. She ignored him.
Yes! It was impossible, but true. She watched his distant face laugh,
saw him speak to someone across from him. When the barmaid delivered drinks,
he fondled her knee with easy familarity, and she bumped him playfully. His
companion leaned forward, smiling, to pay the pretty blonde woman. Blankenship.
Old buddies. Old pals.
It hit her with the impact of a fist in the gut. She never for an
instant believed Mike had gotten back a day early. Probably, he'd never even
left town. The whole thing was suddenly crystal clear. He'd been part of this
all along. He wanted this to happen to her. He'd probably been shacked up with
the barmaid he was still petting, smiling up at with desire in his eyes. He'd
probably fucked half the dancers and whores in the city, then come home to his
mundane, straight-laced wife.
Her client's hand touched her cunt lips, made her jerk her legs closed
around his probing hand. She made herself smile tightly at what he was afraid
was a rejection. She swung her thighs wide, slouched a little lower to make it
easier for him. She noted absently that she was still wet.
So the video had been for good old Mikey, to show him what a sleazy slut
she'd become. Maybe he'd even followed her around town, watched her pick up
those men and escort them to her motel room. She sucked smoke, swallowed the
rest of her drink, let her hips rock while the guy finger fucked her under the
table.
Well. Her smile was cold, savage, despite the heat coursing through her
aroused body. This changed everything.
Chapter Seven
It was the first time that she'd sucked cock while her mind was
elsewhere. He didn't seem to notice her distraction, just gripped her hair and
pumped her face. The alley was the only place close enough. She didn't want
to stray far from her hubby. The powerful eruption of the dick in her throat
came as a surprise, jerked her back to reality. As she slurped and gulped the
cum the man had paid her thirty dollars to drink, she recognized how she'd
already grown to love the taste and sensation.
Back inside the rear door, she peeked to make sure Michael was still
there, then adjourned to the ladies' room to fix herself and think. Beneath
her vicious anger lay something it took her a moment to recognize as relief.
What a bizarre notion. Despite the sick deception he'd helped Blankenship act
out, if this was what he really wanted her to be, to do, then maybe there was
hope they could salvage some aspect of the Red Headed League after all.
But there were important questions to be answered. First, she needed
some kind of absolute proof against Mike. Her gut certainty wasn't enough to
convict the man she loved -- or had loved, anyway. Right now, all she was
positive she loved were her orgasms and doing whatever it took to keep them
coming with great regularity.
The next vital question was about Karen Higgins. If Mike was really
involved, did the whore know about it? Was she being decieved again? Had the
hooker revealed to Blankenship the arrangement they'd made to take revenge on
him?
The last she'd have to wait to know. The first, she could gather data on
right here, right now. With her lipstick back in its slick red double bow, her
hair re-arranged and her thick dark eye makeup intact, she tugged the narrow
halter top low and stepped back into the alley. She sucked another cigarette
alight on the embers of the last on her way around the building to the front
door. It was time to ply her trade. If Mikey didn't know about her, the
moment he saw her moving in on her next target, he'd explode. If he did know,
if it was what he'd plotted, he'd sit back and eat up the show.
She made her entrance bold this time, and used her vantage point near the
door to make sure Karen wasn't tucked away in a shadow of the booth. From the
corner of her eyes, she noted that she was seen. Mike and Todd both registered
shock, cringed and tried to become invisible. That alone was enough to remove
any shred of doubt. She had her answer, but she wasn't through. Her swaying
advance to the bar was as evocative as she could make it. She made a display of
taking a stool from which they could easily see her, crossing her shimmering
legs, letting the microskirt slide up as high as it cared to.
She didn't have to seek company with gazes or smiles, but she did anyway.
Had she cared to, she could have left within two minutes on the arm of a drunk
drooling over her tits. Instead, she begged off. She was expecting someone,
she told him, but maybe later. Her next suitor was a self-styled Don Juan
obviously intent on getting a piece of her for free. She indulged his fantasy,
accepted his drink, pretended to be interested in his pompous chatter and to be
turned on by his sly gropes. She suggested that they dance to the next slow
tune that aired.
It was a fully clothed vertical fuck more than a dance, and she made sure
those in the booth had a good view. Her date's beefy hands cupped her ass
cheeks, forced her pelvis to grind against what felt like a nice long erection.
She rubbed her tits over his chest, avoided his hungry lips, but let him kiss
her neck and bare shoulder, carelessly lick her ear in a way that painfully
tugged at her dangling earring. He was actually a good dancer. The way he
moved against her and the size of his cock would have made fucking him good for
both of them. Her pussy was warm and damp at the thought of him inside her.
Her nipples grew visibly long and hard as she imagined him using them for
handles while he rode her from the rear.
The song ended, but their embrace didn't. They were within earshot of
the booth during the brief silence. Why didn't they go to his place, he asked,
still squeezing her ass with both strong hands. She let her hips rock to his
massage. She made her voice regretful. Another time, she replied, she'd have
happily given him a free ride -- but tonight she had to do business. Unless he
was willing to part with his cash, she had to get back to work.
He took it gracefully, escorted her back to her stool, and moved on. The
closeness had left her shaky with building need -- inspired, in large part, by
having Mike see her this way. She had to steady her cigarette for the light
which magically appeared for it. She smiled automatically at her new
companion, but was seeing, in her lust-fogged mind, Mike watching her fuck
someone. Not on video, as he certainly already had, but live, in person, from
across the room. Or on the bed beside her, helping a stranger's cock penetrate
her. Or actually with his prick in her ass while another one entered her cunt.
It was more than she could bear. The man beside her, trying to make
small talk, looked stunned when she suggested fifty bucks and the back seat of
her car. But he wasn't too shocked to say yes. She hurried him outside,
praying that Mike would follow, see, even from a distance, the way she drug the
dick from the slacks, rubbed it tenderly between long-nailed hands as she
rolled a rubber over it, sat on it and slowly let its full splendor sink into
her slick depths. She glanced around the parking lot, couldn't locate her
husband.
She howled loudly enough for him to hear, if he'd stepped outside --
loudly enough to embarrass her lover of the moment and compel him to silence
her with a hard hand covering her red slut's lips. She whined, kissed it with
spiralling passion. She came, massively, hugely, along with him, chewing on
his palm hard enough to deserve the stinging slap he delivered to her cheek.
That inspired another series of deep contractions which milked him of the last
of his sperm.
He gasped under her when she found the strength to elevate herself and
pull her filled condom from his spent treasure. He made excuses and hurried
off. She let the rubber splat on the pavement and flopped back in the seat, a
raw chill racking her spine, a quiet laugh escaping her smeared mouth. She
absently touched her inflamed cheek. She was tired. It'd be fun to go back
in, do it again, but she didn't have the energy. Certain there'd be other
times, she got out and slumped behind he wheel, fumbling through her cash for
the keys.
As she started the car, another thought hit her. What if Mike already
*had* seen her fucking? What if he'd been in the house when Blankenship had
paid one of his visits? What if he'd watched his boss abuse her ass that first
time? Or been present every time he'd used any of her other holes? Her
fatigue evaporated. She hurried home. Surely there'd be some evidence, had
that happened.
Ginny gloated as she leaned, smoking langorously, against the guest
bedroom's closet door. Yes! The fucker had drilled a hole high on the wall,
six inches below the ceiling. It provided a clear view of half the master
bedroom. He'd used a chair to witness his wife's lecherous betrayals in their
marriage bed. There was a stain on the wall that still smelled faintly like
cum. He hadn't been able to control his passion, had jacked off while she'd
been getting fucked.
There were other incontrovertible signs, too. The suitcase Blankenship
had picked up was under the guest bed. It held a portable phone, among other
things. He'd no doubt been spying when he'd made that phone call, while his
best friend had been torturing her, holding her in that impossible state of
ecstacy. It'd been arranged. All of it. To the last detail. They'd
outmaneuvered her at every turn, even after she'd caught on to the game.
Her loose smile tightened. Except for tonight. Tonight, she'd finally
managed to change the rules. Even if Karen was part of their fun, even if her
revenge of Blankenship went sour, she was confident that she could handle the
vindication on her own.
She stretched catlike, enjoyed the sensation of her bruised nipples
pressed tight against the confining halter top, adored the tickle of the tiny
skirt sliding up her thighs, the way the stiletto heels made her calves flex,
her back arch. It was still early by a whore's clock, barely eleven. But
tomorrow was a big day, even more significant than any of the momentous last
week. She needed to be fully rested for it.
The direct, blunt approach was still the only way to approach Karen
Higgins. The hooker had granted her request for a face to face meeting to go
over the details, not just a phone talk. Ginny had to be able to see her eyes.
They were truly identical twins that afternoon. Karen was prepared for a
gig with a special friend, a regular of long standing who liked her to look
cheap and easy. Her blantantly revealing kelly green cocktail gown was almost
identical in hue to Ginny's sundress, so tight above the little pleated skirt
that even her aureoles were on display. Their rawly red lipstick and bold
eyeshadow even matched.
The beginner had delivered the full three hundred and eighty dollars
she'd earned the day before to the wryly impressed veteran over their usual
coffee. Then, without preamble, she'd simply asked.
The crooked red smile said it all, but the words filled in the details.
"Yeah. I knew. He *did* fuck me that night in the company car. I didn't know
we was set up to get busted, though. Blankenship went my bail and paid me extra
to unruffle my feathers. Mikey and me did the dirty thing a couple of other
times, too. He whores around a lot. But the idea was all Blankenship's, girl.
Your old man ate it up with a spoon, but he's really being fucked around just
as much as you are."
"Did you tell either of them about tonight?"
A firm headshake, a grim look. "No way. You and me made a deal. Those
assholes are just customers, honey. Straight business arrangement."
"Isn't that what we've got? How do I know you haven't sold me out?"
A flicker of anger crossed Karen's face, then fell away. "Guess you got a
right to be rude. Why the fuck should you trust me? All I can say's that what
you and me got going ain't just business anymore. Don't take me wrong. You
try to screw me over on the two grand and I'll fuck you up big time, but I
never treat a sister bad unless she's got it coming."
"So I'm a sister now?"
Karen pointed a red nail at the cash on the coffeetable. "There's your
membership fee. Welcome to the club, babe."
Ginny let her suspicions fade, and they got down to the final
arrangements for the night. Everything depended on timing, but at least Mike
wouldn't be a problem. He'd probably leap at the chance for his wife to open
the cunt he'd just finished fucking hello to to his buddy. No doubt they'd
have already made arrangements for another videotape.
On her way out, Ginny paused. "Uh, about Saturday. The guy you set me
up with is kinky?"
"Real warped. You'll get off on him."
She wet her lips. "What's he like?"
"Fisting," she drawled. "Your cunt ready for more?"
She gripped the doorknob tightly. "Yeah. Real ready."
Karen glanced at Ginny's chest. Her nipples had instantly begun to
swell. "So I see. You're some piece of work, girl."
It was hard to put that date out of mind and concentrate on the one at
hand. For the rest of the afternoon, it haunted her whenever she let it.
Her heart hammered with excitement and fear. Everything was ready. She
paced nervously, smoking one cigarette after another, glancing at the closet
door, peering out the window, checking herself in the mirror.
Blankenship was three minutes late, and she was dying. She went over
every detail in her head, could find no flaw, but was still terrified that
something had gone wrong.
She distracted herself with memories of the afternoon. She wondered
again at the charade of Mike actually flying out of town so he could catch the
flight back. She giggled softly at how she'd played him like a drum, meeting
him in the first mundane clothes she'd worn in what felt like forever and
stripped of every trace of makeup. Well, the clothes hadn't been *totally*
mundane. Under the plain cotton blouse she'd worn a lacy pushup bra. Under the
modest knee length skirt were garters, hose, and open-crotched panties. The
low heels still sculpted her legs, though they made her feel too short. She'd
been uncomfortable in her disguise. But it'd been essential to look like that
old Ginny, at least on the surface.
He was really a terrible actor. The crestfallen look when he'd seen her
had been quickly erased, but she saw it lingering in his eyes after their
greeting kiss. Had he really expected her to appear in full streetwalker
regalia? Granted, she'd toyed with that idea, but it would have spoiled all
the fun. It was much better the way she'd done it. Much more like she would
have done had she not known all that she did.
She played at suppressing a murderous shame she didn't feel. It would
have made her quiet, tense. She'd have been desperately seeking a way to have
him discover her ghastly sins, releasing her from the need to confess. Thus
the clothes. Thus her deflection of his attempts to find out what had been
torturing her while he was away. And why she'd come to believe his version of
the arrest. Thus her reason for suddenly blurting how overjoyed she was for
him to be home, how deeply she'd missed him. And what she'd tried to do for
him the day he'd so abruptly had to leave.
"You wore what?"
"A skin tight leather skirt and six-inch heels and a red see-through
blouse. Tons of makeup -- all just for you." She let a little of her new self
show through in her tone. He'd be looking for that, knowing that Todd had
gotten the benefit of her slutty show, knowing how little she'd cared who it
was that saw her.
"Jesus, Ginny! I missed that!"
"Well, maybe I could replay it for you."
"Shit. Let's go home. The hell with dinner."
"Oh," she'd murmurred, sliding closer, "we don't need to wait until we
get home, do wee?" Her hand found his rising erection. "Can I suck it now? You
got me used to tasting your cum, Michael, then ran away so I couldn't have
any."
She took his incoherent growl for assent. When he managed to expose her
sexy bra, find her aching tits bulging over it, he pushed deeper into her
grasping throat. When he found access to her cunt was unimpeded by the
panties, he swerved into the other lane -- fortunately empty. And, when his
questing hand verified that where her pussy hair had been was only hot, soft
flesh, he instantly filled her mouth and throat with violent jets of rich
sperm.
She struggled valiantly for breath enough to speak. "Finger me, lover.
Put your hand in my cunt." Blankenship would have related the fist-fuck in
vivid detail. He'd think of that. He wouldn't do it, though. Saturday. One
o'clock. That man would. "Make me cum, Michael. Make me scream."
And that'd just been the start. She'd hidden all her sleazy new clothes
- except for the red and black, of course. She refused to let him out of her
sight while she squeezed into it. She made him sit under her and fuck her while
she painted her whore's face. She made him promise not to cum, no matter what,
no matter how many times she shrieked and spasmed around him. Even when she
gave him her asshole, shrilly begged him to cum there, he always allowed her a
way out of explaining. He didn't want her to tell him yet. He backpedaled
from too treacherous ground. He universally accepted her outrageous
sluttishness as if it was a natural development. He almost begged her not to
tell him.
Obviously, he and Blankenship had her revelation scripted for later. She
went along, acted grateful. At nine-thirty, he pled exhaustion. His yawn was
pathetically faked. She leapt at the arranged opportunity to let sleep remove
her major obstacle to her supposedly secret date with Todd. He doddered off to
their bed.
When she snuck in later to check on him, his breathing was all wrong for
a sleeper. She pretended to be reassured. She left the bathroom door open so
he could observe her while she redid her face. She posed for him while she
wiped his stale cum from her gash, readying it for a fresh batch. Then she
tiptoed out, sure that he was already on the phone to Blankenship.
"She can't wait," he'd be crowing victoriously. "I fucked her blind, and
she still needs more. Have at her, old buddy."
After everything else had been taken care of at Mi Casa, she'd changed
into an authentic looking boned corset from the closet and cinched herself into
an idealized hourglass shape. Then had begun the wait.
Either the game was blown, or Blankenship wanted her to go mad with
frenzied need. She was soberly considering the former when headlights swung
down the lane.
"Okay," she said aloud, "here we go."
She literally threw herself into his arms before he was through the door.
He evaded her greedy red kiss, thrust her to arm's length.
"Well, well. You seem happy to see me, Ginny. What? Mikey no fun in
bed?"
"I need you," she groaned, rubbing his crotch with both hands.
"So I see."
"Do I look slutty enough?" she whined. "Will you tie me up again?"
"I thought you said you had a surprise for me?"
"Fuck me. Make me tell you what it is. Treat me like a cheap whore,
Todd."
"Ah. So that's it. Hubby's too nice to you, is he? He treats you like
something precious, not like a common slut?"
"Yes," she hissed, dragging him to the bed. "You know, though. You know
what a cunt I really am. I let him fuck my ass, but he was too gentle. I want
you to do it right. Hard and fast. Slap my ass. Twist my nipples."
But she settled herself astride him, after tearing off his clothes and
asking him to turn the camera on. She pinned his wrists overhead and sank onto
his engorged cock. She rode him like a wild animal until his eyes began to
glaze, until he was so deeply sunk into his desire that he was oblivious to all
else.
"It's time, baby. Let the good times roll."
Only she heard the snick of the closet door opening. Only she was aware
of the quiet approach of her two hired hands. Not until heavier weight settled
over his wrists, and the wet grip of her tight pussy was replaced by chill air
did he realize anything unusual was happening. By then, his ankles were held,
also, and it was far too late.
He yelped in shock, then shouted in outrage. The pair of nude, overly
handsome, overly endowed, musclebound men ignored him. They flipped him onto
his belly like he was weightless, tied him spread eagled as if he wasn't
resisting with all his strength. And all the while he cursed her for exactly
what she was -- a filthy cunt.
She sat in a wing backed chair and watched, enthralled, while they both
fucked his cherry ass for the camera. She savored every instant of his shrill
screams, raw pleas, horrid sobbing, begging for them to stop. The two studs
performed like machines until they were through. Nodding a pleasant goodbye to
her, they slipped into their clothes and left without a word.
She smoked, watched him, tried to feel some pity, and found none.
"Well, Todd. That about evens the score, don't you think? You and Mike
conspire to make a whore out of me, so I have you fucked, too. Nice balance,
huh?"
"I'll kill you, slut."
She laughed a plume of smoke. "That'd be a mistake, lover. If anything
bad happens to me, copies of that tape will show up all over town. Does that
sound like fun?"
"You wouldn't dare."
"False bravado doesn't become you, fag. You know I'll do exactly what I
say I'll do." She stood, swayed to the bed. She trailed a finger across his
ass, tickled his reddened hole. He tried to escape, cursing vilely. "I don't
give a fuck what you do with that tape. I'm going to make you pay for this,
bitch. I'll never rest until --"
She slapped the site of his rape as hard as she could. He couldn't
stifle a shriek. "Shut up, queer. I was afraid you were going to say
something like that. Boys? You ready for round two?"
They stepped back in, stood where Blankenship could see them.
"I've instructed them to fuck you until you beg them to let you suck them
both off instead. They'll keep you here as long as you make them. But until
you act real sexy for the camera, lisp real sweetly and swallow a couple of
loads of cum, they'll keep you right here, nice and safe and comfy. A day or a
week, they'll be right here. Until then, they'll ream your aas, over and over
again. They're pro's, babe. They can stay hard forever. You'll leak cum for a
while. Your ass and jaw will be sore as hell for a day or two. But then you'll
be ready for more. You'll get used to it. You'll learn to love it as much as
I do."
She left them then. The soundproofing killed his screams the instant she
closed the door. The pity she'd searched for earlier began to surface. But it
brought no regret. Maybe the poor little rich boy would think twice before
manipulating anyone else.
That left only Mikey to deal with. There'd be plenty of regret there --
but hopefully not *only* remorse.
Chapter Eight
It was just after two a.m. when she crawled back into bed beside him.
She'd wondered if he'd been able to sleep, knowing where she was, what she was
doing, with whom. Her mentor -- madam, really, she supposed -- believed he was
nearly as much a victim as she was. If so, he seemed to be making the most of
it. Like she was. He rolled against her, limply dropped his hand between her
legs. His cock slapped solidly against her thigh.
She turned away, tired, half-sick. She didn't want to have to deal with
this. Not now. But his agenda wasn't hers. He sleepily pursued, pushed
against her round ass, draped a hand over her to enfold a tit.
"Where you been, hon?"
The truth was an angry retort on her lips. Wouldn't that be enough? Just
tell him, let it serve as a warning? I've been having little Todd's ass
fucked, darling. Watch your step, or you'll be next.
If only he hadn't betrayed her by using the prick he was trying to insert
in her pussy in so many other cunts, it would have been okay to leave it at
that. If only that barmaid hadn't smiled back into his eyes and let him feel
her up.
If wishes were horses, no beggar would walk.
Ginny elevated her knee, used a tender hand to guide him where he wanted
to go, pushed back and took him. "I was nervous. I went for a drive. Oh, that
feels nice, Mike."
"Nervous?" he wondered as he thrust slowly.
"Scared, really."
"Of what, darling?"
His other hand wormed under her lower hip, found her clit, rolled it
skillfully. The way he was fondling her sore nipple was making the pain go
away. She arched into him. "Let's just make love now. We can talk tomorrow."
"Let's do both. It's important. It's about whatever was wrong while I
was in Colorado, isn't it?"
She groaned, a sound of both pleasure and frustration. She draped her
arm over his leg, tickled his balls. "Not now. Fuck me, lover. Fuck me
hard."
He was persistent, but she was even more so. She made him think more
with his balls than his brain. She filled his ears with other things he wanted
to hear. She flirted with the admission he was now so eager to hear, but made
her words specific to him, not generic, as he wanted it to be. Her moist pussy
sucked at his dick. She craned her neck, sought his mouth with greedy lips,
told him how wonderful he made her feel. How hot she was the whole time she'd
been dressed nastily for him. How, when he'd pushed into her ass earlier,
she'd felt his long dick in her throat. How drinking his cum was almost
orgasmic in itself. How she could never get enough of his sweet prick.
He fell asleep, for real, instantly after filling her hole. She had to
gently pop his limp pole out so she could use the toilet. If everything was
going so well, why did she wish she could cry? Why was she dreading tomorrow,
not anticipating it with the fervor she had Blankenship's denouement? Her
smoke was bitter in her throat.
Her sleep was heavy. Her dreams were vague, oppressive. She awoke
unrested, feeling much more haggard than she looked, to an empty bed. She
heard Michael clattering around in the kitchen.
She steeled herself for what she had to do. Her ability to do so
saddened her. How had she become capable of divorcing herself from her heart?
Her question instantly answered itself; she'd learned that trick long ago, when
the jury had proclaimed Rodriguez innocent of rape.
She hadn't cried at that fresh assault. She'd turned to ice, returned
his cocky, arrogant stare until he'd dropped his eyes, remembering. He'd been
afraid of her. Of how she'd turned into a savage beast, repeatedly crushing
his groin with her knee until he'd lost consciousness, laying in a pool of his
own vomit.. He hadn't filed the countersuit his attorney had threatened. He'd
been beaten, and they both had known it.
She forced her way out of bed, felt wooden as she wrapped the old cotton
robe about her and marched stiffly out for coffee and to start the ball
rolling. She didn't reply to his cheery greeting. She felt his stare at her
cigarette, suddenly remembered the stench it gave off to non-smokers.
"Did you sleep well?"
"No." Her leaden tone was natural. She wasn't going to have to do much
acting yet.
He wasn't ready now. All the eagerness of the night before was gone.
He'd returned to Blankenship's script, now that passion had been sated. He
still wanted to believe it was all a game, a mere fantasy.
"I have to tell you something."
"Can it wait? I'm meeting Todd for breakfast at Mi Casa." There was the
tiniest of pauses while he studied her face. She went ahead and dropped her
eyes, like he expected. "We've got to go over the whole Danner thing from top
to bottom."
"Whatever you say."
There was slight slyness in his tone. "Why don't you meet us there for
lunch?"
With her as the main course, no doubt. He wanted her to fuck them both,
and they'd all live happily ever after. "That won't work for me."
He covered his disappointment. "Oh?"
"I've got things to do on the other side of town. Why don't you two meet
me halfway? How about that little French restaurant you took me to this
spring. The one just off Twenty-fifth." Just off what everybody called the
Strip. Where most of the triple-x movie houses and porn shops were. Right
across the street from the seedy motel where whores lined the sidewalk at all
hours of the day and night.
He didn't ask the obvious question about what she had to do in that part
of town. "Great idea. Could you, uh, wear something... pretty?"
"Sexy? Is that what you mean?"
"Yeah. Sexy. Noon?"
"Later. Two." She refilled her mug and carried it back into the
bedroom. She was stroking the invisible stubble from her legs in the tub when
he came in to shave. He was so enrapt in watching her needlessly shave her
cunt, with utter nonchalance, that he cut himself twice with his own razor.
He stalled his leave-taking, fiddled around with his clothes and
briefcase so he could see more. She ignored him, sat nude at the bathroom
vanity and began her makeup. She offered no excuse. He asked for none. Another
classic don't ask don't tell situation, for now. He left just after she'd
slowly done her lips for him, just the way he liked them, fat and dripping with
wet red color.
The moment he was finally gone, she sagged against the chair and lifted
the cigarette from its smoulder in the ashtray. She could either give herself
a manicure or go back to bed. Bed won out.
The phone awoke her at ten. Rich and Roy with their report. It'd gone
well. He'd caved in right after she left. They'd kept him there until about
dawn anyway, as per instructions. He'd been convincingly eager for the blow
jobs he'd given them. Anything had been preferable to having his ass drilled
over and over. The videotapes were good, had been left with the photographer
Karen had named to have some stills made. If there was anything else they
could do for her, she had their number.
She felt worse, not better, as she hung up the phone. The poor bastard.
Surely he hadn't gone ahead with his meeting with Michael -- if there'd
actually been a meeting scheduled. Hubby could have gone anywhere. Probably
not to another cunt, though. He didn't have that much stamina. Maybe he was
spending his day watching her.
She sat up, cradled her head in her hands for a moment, then forced
herself up. Showtime girl. Time to strut your stuff.
Damn. He *was* following her. She saw the beige company car parked down
the block the instant she backed from the driveway. She immediately scrapped
her plan for a manicure and hair trim. That'd have to wait. He'd be expecting
something dramatic, something trashy. Providing it would make the rest easier.
She drove to the Sea Breeze Motel on Twenty-fifth, turned in past the two
teenaged whores chewing gum on the sidewalk, and booked a room.
It was musty and dirty. The sheets were clean but stained. She turned on
the air conditioning and sauntered slowly down the block, uncertain about how
streetwalkers worked. Mike's car was across the street. He was slumped behind
the wheel.
She was sure she looked wrong for the part. The young sluts who'd glared
at her as she passed were in skin tight cutoffs and halters. She was in a
little white dress. A bar had just opened, between a porn theater and a
bookstore. She went in.
It took forty-five minutes, a greasy hamburger and three cups of bad
coffee to attract any business. Her prices were way high for this area. Thirty
was all she could cajole from the seedy businessman who probably owned a store
down the street.
He followed her back to room 212. Michael was still in the car. Her john
resisted the rubber she insisted on until she said it was either that or get
out. He took out his anger on her.
As he slammed painfully into her artificially lubricated cunt with
focused rage, she grunted with surprise at how good it felt.
"You like it rough, whore?"
She nodded, suddenly frantic. "Yes," she hissed. "Fuck me hard, you
dirty bastard. Just don't leave any marks."
He punished her for being a cheap fuck, for needing as much cock as she
did, for wearing a white dress like she was a fucking virgin. When he blew the
rubber full, she was disappointed it was over so soon, that he hadn't hurt her
more. After he jerked on his clothes and abandoned her, she cried briefly. It
was after one. She sniffed back the last of her tears and haltingly dressed
without showering. She *wanted* to smell like sweat and raw sex. It was the
perfect cologne for someone like her.
She felt shrill, brittle, feverish. She covered her slap-reddened cheeks
with foundation and powder, repainted her lust heavy, bruise fattened lips. She
slouched before the mirror with her legs obscenely wide and stared, enraptured,
at her reflection. Her hands were twisting, pinching, pulling her nipples
through the white dress. Michael would still be out there, watching and
waiting. She tore her frantic eyes away from the glass, sought her watch.
Two-o-five. Fashionably late.
She lit a cigarette, swayed loose-hipped back into the world, knowing
this new enchantment was sick, suicidal. But what difference did it make?
Mike stood as she entered, held her chair like she was a princess, not a
thirty-dollar whore who was into pain. Amazing. Just below her plunging
neckline, her nipples stood out a full half-inch. The cunt juice drying on her
thighs reeked powerfully between her parted legs. There was no table cloth.
Whoever wanted to could see the pale slash of thigh above her stocking tops.
He bent forward to light her next cigarette, cupped her hand like he was
courting her. His eyes gleamed as he watched her re-slickened red lips suck
smoke. Suddenly, she wanted him. She loved him. She wanted to drag him
outside, across the street, spend the rest of the day fucking him, sucking him,
lost in desire. But. But. It was a hard trip back to reality.
"So where's Todd?"
His face clouded. "I don't know. Really weird. He didn't show up at
the lake, didn't answer any of his numbers or pager. I left him a message to
meet us here. I wonder if he's okay."
"Yeah. Not like him at all. Oh, well. I'd much rather be with just you
right now." Her voice trembled with her sincerity.
"You look fantastic, Ginny. Have a good morning?"
"Thanks, hon. The morning had its ups and downs." And ins and outs. His
eyes knew. "It's fine now, though. I missed you. I've been thinking about you
all day."
"Nice thoughts?"
"Hot thoughts. Maybe it's the dress. Do you like it?"
"Like? Jesus, babe."
"Remember how I used to hate that word? Do you think I was just sorry I
wasn't one?"
"You sure as hell are now."
"Everybody looks at me. They watch my tits and ass. Does that bother
you?"
"Well --"
"How would it make you feel if I wanted to be this way all the time? If
everywhere I went, men wanted me, dreamed of getting me in their beds?"
"I guess I could live with that."
She leaned forward, let her tits mound on the table under his eyes like
lush, soft fruit. "What if I let them?"
"Let them go to bed with you?"
"Yes. If I let them fuck me. If I was really as much a slut as I look."
He hadn't rehearsed it this way. He didn't know what to say. His eyes
dug into her hard nipples, then devoured her thick red lips. Just as he was
beginning to stammer out something, she interrupted again.
"What if I quit my job and started selling my pussy, hon? What if I told
you I had a dozen dresses like this -- some much nastier. What if I said I'd
bought most of them with money men gave me?"
She withdrew the offering of her tits, but crossed her legs, letting the
dress ride higher. He couldn't see her, but he knew everyone else could. She
watched him watch them watch her.
He cleared his throat. "You're saying you're a whore?"
She nodded, let smoke color her words. "And I *love* it. I was born to
fuck, Mike. It's definitely what I do best."
"This's what happened while I was out of town?"
"Drop the shit, Mikey. You didn't go to Denver. I know all about you
and Blankenship and the Higgin's cunt from the Tiger. I know everything."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'll ignore that and tell you what I'm going to *do* about it. Todd's
already got his, by the way. Ask him what happened at Mi Casa last night."
He tried to get in another denial. She stopped him.
"Lies, Mikey," she reprimanded. "That's really why I have to do this.
You know I've never been able to tolerate lies. *That* hasn't changed. So,
here's the bottom line -- until I can find an apartment, I'll be staying across
the street. Room 212, in case you couldn't read the number from the car. I've
already got everything I need packed."
He paled, looked sick. "I swear to God --"
She held up a warning finger. He looked hypnotized by the curved, inch
long scarlet nail. "Don't, Mike. Just don't. One more lie, and it's divorce,
not just separation. You know I'm serious. Don't make me do it."
He dropped his eyes all the way, seemed to have lost his voice. Ginny
violently put out her cigarette. "I've lost my appetite. Come on. Let's go
fuck."
His head jerked up. His expression was one of total confusion. "I don't
understand."
Her smile was sweet. "Just because I'm leaving you doesn't mean I'm
cutting off your pussy supply. I'll screw you whenever you want -- unless I've
got a prior commitment, or you run out of money. All your whoring around's
going to be with *me* from now on, baby. If I hear you're balling that
barmaid, or anybody else, that's when my cunt dries up for you."
"Money?" He was aghast. "You're going to make me pay?"
"Don't you think you should? This is what you wanted me to be, lover.
This is what you and Todd worked so hard to make me." Her shrug made her tits
jiggle. "You get to have your cake and eat it, too. You don't have to give me
any kind of maintenance or support. Just pay for services rendered, like
everybody else."
He sagged in the chair. "I see. I guess it's no more than I deserve."
His eyes showed his deep wounding. "I'm sorry, Ginny. I can't tell you how
--"
She waved away his apology. "Can the shit, baby. You're only sorry you
got caught. The truth is your cock's been like a steel rod all morning, hasn't
it? Watching me shave my pussy and put on my makeup. Seeing me check into the
motel and take my trick there. Listening to me tell you I'm a happy whore. It
all made you so fucking hot it damn near killed you, didn't it?"
A feeble nod.
"So. Do you want to come with me to my room, or should I go pick up
somebody else? I've got a living to make, Mike."
His look was strange, unreadable. "You don't have any regrets? You're
really only punishing me because of the lies?"
"No regrets. Not yet, anyway. I wasn't kidding when I said I loved to
fuck. Turns out the kinkier it gets the better I like it.
Weird, huh? I'm really grateful. If you bastards hadn't come up with this
little plan, I'd probably have died miserable without knowing what I'd missed."
His weak smile was lopsided. "But you're not grateful enough to give it
to me for free?"
She lit her own cigarette this time, squared her shoulders as she
inhaled, pointing her nipples at him. "Maybe if you're a good enough fuck,
give it to me the way I like it, we can work something out. Maybe you could
send business my way."
"Be your pimp?"
"No. Just a referral source. One of many. Nobody's going to tell me
who to fuck. Nobody's going to make my decisions for me any more, Mike. But
we *can* work out a special arrangement." She glanced at her watch. "Now, if
you've got fifty bucks and a hard-on, I've got an hour. Otherwise..."
The gleam began to re-form in his eyes. The caged heat in her cunt began
to expand. She wanted him on his knees, naked. She wanted to stand in front of
his mouth, have him push the white dress high enough to expose her pussy and
ass. Order him to kiss them both, lick them, tongue both her ready lower
holes, cover his face with her shining cum. Then -- well, who knew what she'd
want next?