“Quiet,” said my tormenter in a classic dykey monotone as though talking around a cigarette. “Don’t hold back. Go for it, baby.” The pressure on her fingers must have been considerable, but she didn’t seem to mind.
I gripped the table with one hand while holding my jacket with the other. My urge to ride her fingers had to be suppressed, so I did inner aerobics by squeezing her with my muscles. “Can’t do it here,” I told her between clenched teeth.
In response, she moved her fingers in spirals, then ran a fingernail in circles over and around my swollen clit. A series of spasms spread outward from there like ripples in my flesh. I covered my panting mouth, trying to pretend I was yawning.
Brock eased her wet fingers out of me, wiping them on my skin with a satisfied air as she pulled them back into public view. I already missed them. “You are so easy,” she said, smirking. I felt my face grow hot.
The man at the next table stood up, scraping his chair, and faced us. “Next time, get a room,” he snarled down at me in the distinctly Canadian style of a man who minds his own business until some unbearable circumstance forces him to speak. He looked shabbily genteel in a way I recognized, though I was sure we had never met in academic circles. He didn’t wait for my answer.
“Crystal,” Brock soothed me with her voice. “Let’s go.”
Outside the café, hot sunlight hit us in the face. I felt prickling sweat all over my body, and wished I could run naked through a fountain. Brock looked at me as though she could read my mind.
“We’re going shopping,” she told me, approaching her bike at the curb. “You need some new clothes.” She threw a leg over the saddle. I slid on behind her, and we were off.
Holding onto Brock’s waist with the wind in my hair and a vibrating motor between my legs was such a tease that I was disappointed when the ride ended. She parked the hog in front of the Treasure Chest, a shop that sold Indian cotton clothing, hash pipes, rude bumper stickers, and cheap jewelry. Brock smiled familiarly at the slim brown man behind the counter as she walked in. I followed her, and he gave me a long look. For a moment, I wondered whether I would be offered to him as payment for the merchandise.
Brock found what she wanted. “You wear size eight, don’t you, girl?” she asked, sizing up my curves with her eyes. I agreed, she nodded, and she progressed to another rack.
Armed with a scrap of smooth black leather and a red-and-white striped knit top that reminded me of an old-fashioned barber pole, she herded me into a fitting room. “Take everything off,” she ordered, then watched with amusement as I did.
I could feel my breasts jiggling with each breath I took. Under Brock’s eyes, I was proud of their firm shape; for once, B-cups seemed big enough. She reached for my butt, and spread her fingers to get a firm grasp on each cheek. She pulled, and I took the hint, shamelessly pressing my bare crotch into her denim. Her clear eyes, the color of a late afternoon sky, looked thoughtfully into mine. I saw a flash of pain. “I’ve never been to college,” she reminded me, “but I’m not a fool.”
I hoped she could find comfort in my chocolate-brown eyes. “I know,” I told her. “I’ve never lived on the street, but neither am I.”
Brock barked with laughter, then held me and pressed her full lips to mine as if to test my nonacademic skills. Her tongue teased mine and her hips pressed her center seam rhythmically into my opening slit until my breathing showed her what she wanted to know. She pulled away to look at me. “Want me again?” she taunted. “So soon, Crystal?”
“Mhm,” I mumbled.
“Good,” she said approvingly, casually sliding her sweaty hands down my hips. “Stay ready for me.” She handed me the two skimpy items of clothing. “Put these on.”
I wriggled into the tight skirt, pulling it up, then tugged the knit cotton down over my head and my bare breasts. My nipples hardened under the touch of clinging fabric as I shook my hair out of my eyes.
Brock held me by the shoulders and made me face my image in the mirror. I licked my lips and tried to suppress the shiver of vanity that ran down my spine. I thought I looked like a hot babe. Judging from Brock’s grin, so did she.
“You need lipstick,” advised Brock, my fairy godmother. “Cherry red.” She ran a salty finger around the edges of my lips. “You don’t need stockings, but I want to see you in high-heeled sandals. Nothing flat. Stand on tiptoes.” I did, feeling my shoulders pushing up into her palms. I felt like a little girl playing grown-up. “That looks like about four inches,” she commented, studying my bare feet. “That’ll do. With red polish on your toenails. You’ll be wearing your new outfit tomorrow when we go to the woods.”
An image of myself as Little Red Riding Hood being grabbed by a drooling wolf jumped into my mind. I reminded myself that fear before the fact wouldn’t help me, and that all would be revealed in due course. I knew that in any plot, real or fictional, timing was crucial.
Brock playfully swatted my ass. “Put your shoes back on. We’re going to the shoe store.” She paid for my outfit as I stuffed my other clothes into a bag. I sauntered out of the store ahead of her, swinging the bag in a girlish style that was new to me.
“We’re not riding,” she told me on the sidewalk. “It’s down the street.” She guided me to the shoe store, where she soon found a dangerous pair of strappy black leather heels that she seemed to have willed into being. I found a pair in my size, eased into them, and watched Brock watching my calves as I tottered through the store. Brock approved, told me to keep them on, and paid the smirking salesgirl.
Back on her hog, I clung anxiously to her sweaty back as we whizzed around corners. She took us to my apartment building, parked her hog in my parking spot, and guided me up the stairs ahead of her with a hand on my leather-covered ass.
Inside my apartment, she pulled me close with a gentleness that made me want to cry. She kissed me as though tasting my lips for the first time. At length, she pulled away so she could look questioningly into my eyes.
“You know how important this is to me,” she warned me.
“Yes, I know,” I assured her. “For me too. I guess I want to find out my limits.”
“Greedy bitch,” she crooned. “You figured out that you can’t live in the library—can’t get fucked enough in there.”
“You’d be surprised,” I said, defending myself. “But anyway, I’ve never lived only in the library. Even when I was a teenager with a reputation as a nerdy bookworm, I dreamed of being a famous stripper or call girl. I bet you dreamed of being an Amazon warrior.”
“More like a magician, babe,” she explained. “Or a spy. I found out where to get what I wanted, including slut princesses. There are things you don’t know about me.” It went without saying. I knew that coming to know another person is a lifetime task, and that we had only started reading each other.
Another thought tickled her mind. “Poor little wannabe whore,” she snickered. “I wonder how well you’d really like that life. I could sell you if that’s what you want, but we’ll have to discuss that later.”
I wrapped my arms around her, touching the hollow at the small of her back. She reached behind to take possession of my wrists. I decided to file her latest comment in the back of my mind for future reference. I couldn’t keep my hips from moving, as big jolts and little shivers of excitement ran from my tormented nipples to my awakening clit. “Bitch in heat,” she stroked me with her voice. “I wasn’t planning to do this, but I will. I want you naked and on your knees.”
A thin film of sweat covered my skin, and I felt breathless. It didn’t take me long to pull off my new clothes and kneel in front of her. I was amazed at my own desire to be what she wanted for as long as I could.
Brock smoothly unzipped her own jeans and pushed them down along with her panties. She stepped out of one denim leg, then the other. Her natural brown bush popped into view, untrimmed and uncovered. Since she usually packed a strap-on when I was with her, I felt honored by the sight and smell of her own center of energy, her h
oly well. “This is me,” she reminded me. “Kiss it, Crystal.” She touched herself with two hands, pulling her own lips apart so I could see her fat, rising red clit and her purplish folds that glistened like wet petals.
I approached her first with my nose, breathing in her essence. Her hot flesh moved like a live oyster when I touched it with the tip of my tongue. Her hands held my head lightly but firmly, so I could move just as much as she wanted. “No hands, girl,” she prompted me.
My lips and tongue had to be versatile and responsive to her unspoken needs. I licked, nibbled, then thrust my tongue into her salty depths until I felt the strain in its roots. A quiet, satisfying moan came down to me like a blessing. I pulled Brock’s clit into my mouth and vibrated it with my tongue. “Ah!” she gasped sharply as her grip tightened on my scalp. I knew she wasn’t finished, so I licked her clit insistently between forays into her lush wetness. I could taste her rising tension, then her whole cunt clenched. “Uh!” she gasped. “That’s…it.” She breathed so loudly that I could feel it in my own lungs. “Damn, Crystal,” she praised me, coming down. “You’re good.”
I closed my eyes, feeling the sweat cooling on my skin. My own pussy ached with the need for release, but I didn’t want to stop wanting Brock.
Her strong arms pulled me up, and she held me against her damp shirt. Her small, hard breasts underneath reminded me that she was female like me, but powerful. “Honey,” she called to me. “You’re mine, but you have to keep working at it.” She slid a hand down my back and into the crack between my asscheeks. “You can’t come tonight, Crystal,” she warned me. “You have to save it for tomorrow.” The prospect of coming harder and later appealed to me. I hoped that my lust-fueled dreams would allow me to sleep.
“When I pick you up tomorrow,” she reminded me, “you have to call me Mistress.” I smiled my consent. She squeezed my shoulders and pinched my butt so that the sting would stay with me for a few heartbeats as a souvenir. She gave me a slow, hot, tormenting kiss before turning away and grunting a farewell. The sound of her boots echoed in the hallway of my building as she descended the old wooden stairs.
I was awakened in the morning by the golden light that poured into my bedroom through my wheat-colored curtains. I sat up and relished being naked in the summer air. My skirt lay on the chair where I had left it, eerily holding the shape of my hips. My halter top clung to the chair back, waiting to hug my breasts. The sight of my simple outfit made my life seem as clear as fresh water.
Brock arrived on schedule, slipping into my building when one of my neighbors opened the security door in the morning. Like a woodsy spy, she announced her presence by whistling outside my apartment door. I opened it to find her looking unusually formal in red pants and a black sleeveless shirt. She carried a cloth jacket in spite of the heat.
I dutifully strapped on my new sandals and tried to follow her gracefully down the stairs. This felt like my first ordeal of the day. Seated behind her on her bike, wearing her jacket as a sign of her ownership, I had no choice but to hang on for dear life. We sped through traffic, out of the city, and onto a dirt road.
Two other bikes, parked in a clearing in the trees, looked like a sign of human culture in the wilderness. Brock slowed to a stop near the vehicles of her tribespeople, to whom I had been offered as a human sacrifice. Looking as if she knew how I felt, Brock offered me her hand to help me land on my feet.
A short fat man who reminded me of one of Robin Hood’s merry men called out: “Brock! Is that the slut?” He was stuffed like a sausage into a T-shirt and leather pants. A tall, lanky woman with a long raven ponytail and ripped jeans gave me a knowing smile. I tried not to blush or to stare at the couple who were staring at me.
“This is Crystal,” announced Brock with pride. “Master Keith and Mistress Veronica,” she told me.
“Is she bi, Brock?” asked the tall woman coolly. She seemed to be the equal of her man. Instead of speaking to me, she touched my hair and ran a finger appraisingly over my lips until I pulled it into my mouth and sucked, wanting to please and to learn her flavor at the same time. Veronica laughed.
Keith watched this scene without cracking a smile. “I’m doing you a big favor, Brock,” he reminded her. “It’s not like I need help finding some tail.” I realized that I was a form of currency, Brock’s payment to her friends, perhaps for some mind-bending substance.
“Keith likes blow jobs, baby,” Veronica instructed me. “I hope you’re half as good as me.” He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly without changing his expression.
I panicked; I had not had male meat in my mouth for at least six years, but I still remembered my impulse to gag. I didn’t think this man would want to sheath his tool in latex, and I was afraid of what might be living in his fluids.
“You don’t want to do it, do you, Crystal?” Brock asked me. I heard a hint of pride in her voice; obviously I was not a man’s woman, and I was unlikely to desert her for any sperm-spouting stud. On the other hand, she wanted to show that I could follow orders. I had expected to be tested for physical endurance, but this situation obviously required finesse as well.
“I—” I started unsurely. Keith looked amused, in spite of himself, under a mask of annoyance.
“You could give him a hand job instead,” Brock assured me. “Would that be all right?” she asked Keith. His expression made it too clear that he considered this equivalent to the offer of an inferior grade of dope.
“And take a spanking,” said Veronica with a smile, “for not using your little mouth.” Under the circumstances, that sounded safer to me, even though I suspected that I might regret my choice very soon. A spanking sounded relatively dry and unlikely to make me vomit.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Would it please Master Keith to spank me for my lack of skill? I’m not very good at blow jobs.” I looked quickly into his eyes to read his temperature before looking as humbly as possible at my uppity shoes.
The man seemed tickled. “Yeah, sure, what the hell,” he growled. His eyes were twinkling. “Get your clothes off, girl.” He looked around, saw a large rock, and seated himself on it. As I struggled to pull my top off and my skirt down as gracefully as possible, he gave me a meaningful look and patted his thighs.
Veronica watched with amusement. “Hairy bush,” she remarked to Brock. “Don’t you ever shave it, Brock?”
My Mistress was unfazed by this subtle dig. “I like a woman’s hairy bush,” she explained. “It’s naturally curly, see?” She grabbed a fistful of my pubic hair and tugged it reassuringly.
Keith’s eyes on my body didn’t give away any secrets as I walked to him and lay my face across his lap. He ran a connoisseur’s hand over my bottom, and paused thoughtfully for a moment. His first slap seemed to bounce rather than sting, and I relaxed slightly. “She’s a big girl, Keith,” sneered Mistress Veronica. “You don’t have to baby her.”
His hand came down smartly, and the sting rushed into my cunt and thighs. I couldn’t keep quiet or hold myself still, but I tried. The earthy smell of the man’s sweat was all around me, mixing with the smell of my juices.
Master Keith gave me four businesslike whacks. Then he gave me two more that felt as if they were burning through my skin. The two Mistresses chuckled in appreciation.
When the man shifted his thighs, I realized that he was finished and that I was supposed to stand up. “What, you want more?” he growled down at me.
I mumbled something like “No thank you, Master,” as I scrambled off him. My face felt as hot as my behind, which still pulsed in rhythm.
“You should teach your girl to use her mouth, Brock,” he remarked. He stood up to pull his pants down, removed them, and handed them to Veronica.
“She knows how, Keith,” grinned Mistress Brock. “But she’ll pet you nicely with her hands.”
Master Keith beckoned me to the thick red cock that rose from a nest of matted hair between his spread thighs. I knelt between them, keeping my heels away from my sore
bum, and held onto his knees for balance. Then I gathered up his balls in one hand and began stroking his shaft with the other. Holding a cock gave me a sense of déjà vu, as though I were revisiting the funky small town of my youth.
I stroked him increasingly faster, and his breathing speeded up too. Soon his cream was spurting over my hands as he half-moaned and half-grunted. My Mistress looked amused. I hoped she enjoyed watching me cause her friend or supplier to lose control of himself, even if that was his wish. “Good job, baby,” he assured me, but his voice sounded patronizing, and he was looking at his woman. I was being dismissed.
Mistress Brock pulled me up by one arm, looking very pleased. “Wipe your hands, Crystal,” she said, smirking. This order confused me, since there was no towel in sight. On impulse, I bent over to wipe my hands on a patch of wild grass. From between my legs, I saw Mistress Veronica arranging her long, pale body on Master Keith’s lap as her hair hung over his face.
My Mistress’s lips were close to one of my ears. “Don’t move,” she ordered.
I heard the metallic purr of her zipper, looked at her from between my legs, and panicked. I wasn’t sure I could hold my position while being fucked with the big strap-on she was wearing. “Brock—” I protested.
The hard smack of her hand against one of my sensitive buttcheeks took me by surprise, and I wailed. “What do you call me?” she demanded.
“Mistress!” I wondered if I had lost all the credit I had gained with her by following her plans so far. “Please, Mistress!” I added, afraid to say more.
I felt her relenting as she pushed me forward by the hips. “Brace your hands against this tree trunk, honey,” she told me.
I gripped the rough bark, afraid of slipping up in any way. I tried to plant my dangerous shoes as firmly as possible on the uneven ground. I hoped they would provide more leverage than bare feet.
I could hear the combined moans of Master Keith and Mistress Veronica in the distance as my own Mistress held my cunt-lips open and eased her slick tool into me. The cool air in my bush showed me how wet and hot I was, how eager for the comfort she was giving me.
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