Lust, Greed and Mystery
on the Gilded Coast
by Morgan Preece
This story is intended for the entertainment of adults only.
Chapter 1. The Conch
I had quit college a few years before, short of my degree because of a lack of drive, I guess. Smart but lazy, with less-than-rugged good looks that attracted more than my fair share of women. I found it easy to meet an older woman who wanted the company, not even necessarily in bed, of a virile young man. Many of them were willing or even eager to help with "tuition" or "rent money," allowing me to lead an easy life that seemed to have no end and I never had to think about morality.
I kept myself neat and presentable, even stylish, my dark blond hair long or short as fashion dictated, usually boyishly clean-shaven, and my gray-green eyes always smiling. Those who didn't want to bed me often wanted to mother me or play other games. Always the willing playmate, at twenty-two, I thought I had done a little bit of everything.
Then I met Sylvia in an upscale bar in Newport Beach. The Conch had always been a sort of happy-hunting ground for me. Dim enough to hide the imperfections my chosen prey felt they suffered. Close to country clubs, yacht clubs and toney beach houses, it offered full-strength drinks, an easy- listening soundtrack, deep booths and a discreet meeting place for rich ex-wives on the make.
The woman I spotted, Sylvia, really didn't look the type to want what I could offer. Tall, dark-haired, full- lipped with clear skin and green eyes, she looked younger than my usual sugarmamas and frankly, prettier, but she gave me the eye and I moved in.
When I got close I discovered her beauty and made a guess as to her wealth.
Her body fit the strapless green cocktail dress like it had grown there with her large titties supported by some unseen nether garment or possibly sheer willpower. Her waist seemed improbably slender to flare so into hips unfashionably full. Her thighs tapered artistically to sculpted calves, trim ankles crossed above high-heeled strappy sandals.
She enjoyed being admired and I played it up with smiles and eye signals. The low-cut deep green cocktail gown, diamond choker and other jewelry she wore probably cost a year's "tuition". I felt my interest rise. Her shoes alone must have cost $600.
She offered to buy me a drink and I asked for mineral water but she said no, I should order white wine. She put her hand on mine as she said this, her bracelets flashing emeralds. I nodded to the waitress to bring the wine.
Sylvia smiled, her teeth expensively white and straight. "I'll have single-malt, up, with iced mineral water on the side," she ordered in a throaty voice that seemed as deep as my own. Her long, tapering nails scratched the back of my hand when she spoke and the thrill of it surprised me. Greed, and something else, stirred in my mercenary heart.
She drank her Scotch quickly and sipped her mineral water while we talked. I played with my wine glass. Her husband, she told me, lived on the East Coast most of the year where he worked in investments. Here, she lived alone in a big house in Laguna with just a maid and an old college friend who occasionally came down from Malibu to keep her company.
She laughed when I pried and she admitted that the college friend was female. "It's a big house, even when there are three of us, it's lonely. Where do you live?" she asked.
I told her I had a studio near Fifth Street on the peninsula. "I'll bet it's cute," she said, "let's go see it." When she stood up, I realized her height without heels probably matched my own. Since I am only five-seven this has happened before. Some women are put off by men who are not taller than them but she didn't seem to mind. With her heels on, she towered over me by three or more inches.
She grasped my elbow in a strong grip and steered me through the crowded bar out to the valet parking. They brought her a red Mercedes hardtop convertible, gleaming like blood in the harsh parking lot flourescents. "Get in," she said, "I'll drive." I was used to acting as chauffeur and I really wanted to drive that car but I got in on the passenger side. The inside was rose and black leather and smelled deliciously feminine, like the car's owner.
I watched her while she drove the short distance to my apartment, her confidence and her competence intrigued me. An elegant, beautiful -- rich -- woman who seemed to have everything in life that I wanted.
She saw me admiring her and smiled, slowly, with a promise of things to come. I wondered what I could do to make this a long-lasting relationship and I felt the stirrings of my own easily aroused lust. Sylvia licked her lower lip, flared her nostrils and adjusted the position of her beautifully broad ass on the seat as if preparing to make love to the gorgeous car. My bone forced me to squirm in my seat, too. I didn't want to waste any ammunition before the war began.
Certainly an advantage in my line of work, I had never had much problem getting up for the job and I could delay my own climax almost indefinitely while manipulating my clients to one shuddering satisfaction after another. Sex is all in the mind anyway and I approached each woman as an intellectual puzzle subject to physical manipulation, like one of those multicolored cubes. All women seemed to respond to my concentration on their desires rather than my own. When I made love I never hurried because I had nothing I would rather be doing at that moment than pleasing my lady.
Sylvia differed from all other women I had met, right from the start. With every other woman I had always the sense that I could respond to the challenge of reaching her emotions, that I could ride her pleasure to my goal. Sylvia pleased herself, always, I sensed. I felt like a passenger in the vehicle of her passions much as she had relegated me to the right-hand seat in her Mercedes.
Watching her drive was more arousing than watching a Las Vegas stripper peel off layers of erotic clothing. Her arm movements caused her heavy breasts to jiggle. Her softly curled hair swung when she turned her head to check a mirror. I could hear the whisper her stockings made as she worked the clutch in her high heels.
Her expressions changed from moment to moment as she maneuvered the sleek car through the still heavy late-night traffic of the penninsula. She frowned as an inconsiderate driver tried to cut her off. She smiled as she passed the poky old limo cruising slowly down Balboa Avenue. She pouted at every stoplight and sighed in satisfaction when she again had her foot on the gas. When we stopped, her perfume surrounded me with musky intensity. I hardly noticed the g- forces she induced as she drove the little red car too fast and almost too well.
I noted the skin texture of her neck, guessing her age at forty-plus, allowing for the readily available miracles of the Gilded Coast. Her hands still looked young enough to do dishwashing commercials so she couldn't be more than forty-five.
The importance of knowing your lover's real age had occurred to me early in my scandalous career. Grunge rock would likely mean little to her and she probably remembered laughing at Saturday Night Live when Chevy & Co. were bright new comics and not endless reruns on the Comedy Channel. She may have screamed ecstatically at the Beatles or the Stones, saw Bill Cosby perform at her college. She most likely remembered where she had been when JFK died and Neil Armstrong walked on the moon.
All of these things could be important in finding ways to turn her on, bring her to climax, acquire some of her money and let her down gently when it came time for me to move on. Not that I thought about it that way, I just collected the information and used it when I needed it. Like the interesting correlation I had seen before between women who liked to drive hard and ones that liked to fuck hard.
She found my address with no problem, even finding a parking space in front. I leaped out of the car but she was too fast for me, she had already opened her door. I made it around the car just in time to catch a glimpse of her thigh as she allowed her skirt to ride up high enough to show that she wore stockings with garters, not panty-hose. I knew then, for sure, that she intended to have sex tonight.
We tripped up the steps to my third-floor studio and as soon as I had fumbled the door open, she slipped her hand into the top of my pants and pressed her lips to mine. She had my meat in her hand and her tongue in my throat before we well inside the room. Those on-display breasts pressing against my chest felt softer than pillows. Her other hand tangled in my hair pull-pushing me into her deep kiss.
She tasted of whisky and smelled of expensive musk as I drove my own tongue into her mouth in rapid, rhythmic thrusts. I cupped one hand on her plush ass to pull her into me while I reached for a nipple with the other. I bumped the door closed with the side of my own hip and we both started a little when it slammed but it hardly disturbed our fierce rhythms.
She unzipped my fly and brought my cock out into her hand where she played with it while we kissed. Her thumb against the underside of the tip, her fingers working the barrel in a now soft, now hard, pizzicato. I had her nipple in my hand but she pulled away, dropping smoothly to her knees, caressing me as she went down. I tried to follow her but she had pushed me against the wall forcing me to stay upright. Quickly, she pulled my pants down to my knees. This was not going according to my usual plan.
Her lips touched the end of my dick, several velvety kisses, each one shivered me to the base of my skull. Then her mouth closed over my entire prick. The tip worked against the back of her palate, her toungue quickly stroked me nearly to climax. The curly hair of my crotch scrubbed away at her indelible lipstick. I thought of money and refused to come.
She watched me from under her dark brown curls, smiling with her eyes, teasing with a wink. One of her hands played with my asshole while the other caught my wrist, digging savage red fingernails into the pulse-point, her thumb trapped my own against the palm of my hand, pulsing.
I played with a much-beringed ear with my free hand. Surprisingly for a woman of her generation, she wore six earrings in the left ear; three rings in the top of the ear with a stud, a large hoop and a teardrop dangle all in separate holes in the lobe. I wondered if she went in for piercings in other places, I yearned to find out. I yearned to cum but still I held back.
She changed tactics, working her head like a movable cylinder on the piston of my rigid cock. Her tongue, lips, palate, even teeth providing excruciatingly delicious sensation while she worked a finger into my asshole, probing for the cum lever. Her thumbnail teased the root of my prick, counterpointing the driving rhythm of her head and mouth and finger. I had never had a "client" who knew so much about cocksucking.
My body wanted the release this beautiful woman offered but my intentions were in conflict. My back arched, the cords in my neck stood out. I trembled with a determination not to give her an excuse to end this encounter early, but my one cardinal rule had always been, give them what they want. I had just decided to let myself cum, regardless of how unprofessional it seemed when she pulled her head away from my cock.
Chapter 2. Out of the Garage
Just as things got really hot she wanted to leave.
"The place is a mess, you haven't done the dishes or the laundry and the bed is too small," she complained. "Why do you live here? Let's go to my place where Concepcion will fix a snack, the sheets are clean satin and my stereo can levitate us while we fuck."
I agreed quickly. She had gotten me ready, what with her mystery and her sexiness and her obvious money that I would probably have agreed to anything but I wanted to see her place. I wanted to find out what she wore under that little cocktail number. I wanted to taste her pussy and make her cum again and again. I wanted her to buy me a car like the one she drove and I thought she might be rich enough that she would do it just for fun.
Just before we left she said something like, "Be sure to take anything you can't live without." I had a pack of condoms and couldn't think of anything else I might need so I left with nothing in my hands except the sweet curve of her ass.
She insisted on driving again and we went down Pacific Coast Highway out of control and flying low. I began to wonder how much she had drunk before I saw her and what had happened to her cool competence. Perhaps she had gotten really hot during our brief clench in my too dingy apartment also. Maybe she couldn't wait, either. She drove like Dirty Harry down California One in the cool, humid onshore flow.
KROQ rocked us into the night on the German-built stereo. I sat beside her alternately worrying about her killing both of us and imagining life with a permanent sugarmama. The Pacific Ocean foamed against the rocks and sand cliffs to my right as we sped through Newport Coast toward Laguna Beach.
She ran the red lights in Laguna and made a left up one of the side streets well south of Main Beach, the turn so sudden the seat belt had to save me from being thrown against the passenger door. A few more quick turns on narrow, crooked lanes and the little red Mercedes slipped into a garage under an enormous hillside mansion. This was a few years before the fires but the place is still there.
We sat in the car for a moment, long enough that the automatic lights shut off as the garage door closed behind us. I didn't notice much about the inside of the garage at first because Sylvia had reached over and slipped her hand into my pants again as soon as the car had stopped. The scary ride had caused my penis and balls to shrivel up but she soon had me hot again. I tasted her lips in the darkened garage but when I tried to pull up her skirt she pushed me away. Sensitive to this sort of thing, I backed off quickly.
She got out of the car and so did I. In the light from the car doors she negotiated a flight of steps and disappeared through a door, with me calling all the while, "Sylvia? Sylvia?" I wondered if I had gotten her name wrong. Embarrassing but I had recovered from such gaffes before. Automatically, without thinking, I closed the car door in the middle of a syllable then yelped when I realized that the garage was now completely dark.
The car had locked itself and the car alarm went off when I tried to open it. In the small garage the noise threatened to deafen me, I stumbled around with my hands over my ears, tripped on something and fell into an oily patch on the floor. The impact seemed to have set off a second car alarm in the confined space. The agony in my ears caused me to flail along the floor trying to get up, naturally smearing the oily mess into my clothes, my hair and my skin. I felt like the fourth stooge.
I found it hard to believe that no one from inside the house had come out to stop the racket. Getting to my knees, I realized that I needed my hands free to negotiate the darkness but if I did not cover my ears I might go deaf or insane from the noise. I had an inkling of how the survivors of some great disasters must feel. Sylvia, I decided, was a bitch and I would have to be careful.
When I finally found the stairs and reached the door at the top, I screamed because it turned out to be locked. Dazed by the continuing alarms and my previous fall, the locked door seemed a last straw. Trying to turn around, I tripped on the top step of the short, steep stairway and fell to the pavement. Suddenly, the noise ceased, the lights came on and the door opened.
A woman glared out at me from the bright room beyond. At least as beautiful as Sylvia, this woman seemed years younger, nearer my own age. Her hair and eyes were black, her skin olive and her mouth outlined in the reddest lipstick imaginable. She wore a black dress with a white apron over it, both cut low enough to reveal enormous well-tanned breasts, with just a hint of the areola showing at the edge of the encircling cloth. Twin hoop earrings large enough to touch her shoulders dangled from each ear, six or seven bracelets on each wrist and another pair of matching anklets on her right leg. A very aggressive expression and an extensive, if profane Spanish vocabulary completed her ensemble.
I don't speak much Spanish, mostly just a few profane endearments and she ran through my vocabulary and beyond in very short order. I made up my mind that this must be Concepcion, the maid. She seemed oddly dressed for a maid, except for the apron, but it being Friday night perhaps she had had a date. I took a chance, interrupting her tirade, "Concepcion, what happened to Sylvia?" I yelped.
Her beautifully made-up eyes narrowed and she came part way down the stairs, carrying, I saw now, a small, cast-iron frying pan. Another big lady, her bare arms seemed almost as muscular as mine and I knew if she hit me with that I would definitely be hurt. "You no call her that, cochon. You must call her Mrs. Femina, hey?" She waved the skillet threateningly. "And doan call me Concepcion, you call me Miss Marquez, hey? Now, take off you clothes."
I must have goggled at her because she grinned. "You not coming inna my clean house, you filthy theeng. Besides, what you need clothes for, what you gonna do. Hey?" When I started to stand up, she drew back with the frying pan again. "You stay down till you get you clothes off, hey?"
I thought she must be afraid of me and I intended to protest my harmlessness. "Ah, Concepcion," I began. She stepped forward and shifted to a two handed grip, swinging for my head like Raul Mondesi going for one low and outside. I ducked but the edge of the pan clipped me on the wrist I put up to block the blow, shattering my watch, and the bounce hit me a stunner above the left ear. I collapsed again, the side of my face flat against the oily concrete. I considered my options and decided to lay very still.
"I tole you, hey?" She said almost amiably. "You say 'Miss Marquez' before you speak to me and 'Miss Marquez' when you finish. Show proper respect. Now get undress or I break you other arm." In trying to convey the flavor of Concepcion's speech, I do not mean to imply that she was less than loquent, she had a great and colorful fluency in the local variety of 'Spanglish.'
My arm was not broken but my head throbbed like it might be. I licked my lips and tried to think. The woman was obviously insane, I'd better do as she said. For now. She made comments as I stripped, some of them in Spanish. Somehow, bruised, frightened, humiliated, still, something erotic remained about undressing in front of a beautiful woman.
First my shirt came off and I remembered all the times I had done private strip shows for my clientele. Concepcion was a woman and I knew what to do to please a woman. Pleasing women had become my profession, my livelihood, my existence. Maybe if I pleased this lunatic domestic, well, maybe she wouldn't hit me with the frying pan again.
I watched her while I peeled the shirt. About thirty-five, I judged but a very fine thirty-five. Skin, hair and eyes in the warm tones of a Mexican summer, with a full, oval face and cheekbones that hinted at the conquest of native peoples. Her posture was erect, with a graceful curve to her back. Her well-formed arms tapered to shapely hands that looked surprisingly soft. Her oval-cut red nails matched the shade of her lipstick. I kicked off my shoes and turned up my feet to peel off the expensive socks one of my lovers had given me.
Concepcion nodded pleasantly. A large woman, she carried her weight very well. I knew something of women's sizes and I guessed her at an 18 top and a 14 bottom. The extra two sizes in the top being mostly for her one figure "flaw," those massive, tawny breasts that bulged from whatever cruel undergarment she wore under her scoop-necked dress. She must have tailored the dress herself, a domestic should be able to sew shouldn't she? It fit beautifully under the lacy apron that seemed so incongruously attached to such evening finery.
Wriggling out of my pants, I began to get hard. "Soch an ogly theeng," she observed. "You not wearing unnerwear, that what you mean to tell me?" I nodded, not trusting myself to remember her bizarre formula for permission to speak to her.
She noticed. "You not gonna talk at all, you gotta call me Miss Marquez, hey?" She spattered me with a few more Spanish curses. Then she waved the frying pan again, menacingly, "Stuff you shirt in you mout'. Do it, puta!"
I goggled at her. She took a half step toward me, reaching across herself to take another two-handed grip on the frying pan. I felt my own naked helplessness acutely, for I had no doubt that she would strike me again. The muscles at the corner of her jaw worked. Hurriedly, I complied, stifling my own protest. The oil-stained rag had a taste that made me want to throw up.
She reviled me again in her mixture of bad grammar and obscenity. "You got no respect, you just a slut, a whore, even if you got a dick. Now you can't talk, puta!" She went on in that vein. No one had ever called me a whore before, but considering what I did for my living since dropping out of college, it was not unjust.
Mysteriously, with the gag in my mouth and the verbal abuse, abasing myself naked on the dirty floor of a garage, my hard-on had not gone away. Concepcion, or Miss Marquez, whatever, had released something within me. Or had Sylvia earlier? Guilty pleasure washed over me. My whoredom, revealed, humiliated me and exalted me at once. She knew. I knew! I could not protest, plead innocence, extenuating circumstances, or outside manipulation.
For the past two years I had whored for older women after the money from my parents ran out. Done it willingly, licked dried-out old pussy, played with shriveled dugs, stuck my cock between the nether lips of crones old enough to be my grandmother and all because I got paid for it! Seldom in direct cash but always with a payoff.
And now a beautiful woman had confronted me on it. With physical threats and a Spanish word that sent a thrill through me every time she said it. "Puta!" It means a woman who whores herself for men. In Spanish, every word has gender and "puta" definitely means a woman. The male word, "puto" means a man who whores himself for men and I had never done that. There may be a Spanish word for what I had done, there's an Italian one, but if she used it I did not know or hear it.
The English "whore" cut my conscience like a whip, a thrill like reaching the top of a roller coaster. But "puta" went through me like a knife, a scary, frightening thrill-ride I had never experienced.
I moaned behind the gag, my eyes closed. My left hand reached for release. I had no thought of Sylvia or my original intention of coming here. My body, my mind, my soul -- my hand -- wanted release. I pumped once, twice; excruciatingly intense sensation flooded my being. I knew that I would come soon.
Chapter 3. Kitchen Heat
Just then, Concepcion tapped my skull with the frying pan.
I collapsed again, my face colliding one more time with flat smooth concrete. "Bitch! Slut! Hija de una puta! No en el piso! You mess up my floor, you tonta!"
My head throbbed but somehow I felt good. The only thing I couldn't figure out was why on Earth was I crying? I lay there naked on the concrete in the slightly oily debris of the garage. I knew that I had fallen into the hands of some sort of madwoman and somehow, I felt happy. Frightened, the way one feels on a darkened roller coaster, but I knew better than to try to get out in the middle of the ride.
Concepcion stood astride me then, suddenly. She put a high-heeled shoe in the middle of my back and pulled my hands behind me where she wrapped my wrists with some sort of tape almost up to my elbows. I struggled uselessly, grunting through my oily rag but we both knew I could not get away and somehow, no longer wanted to.
She kept up a stream of commentary in her mixture of English and Spanish. She called me by endearing names like "querida" and "darling." She called me nasty ones like "puta" and "cunt". She made me stand up, difficult to do with your hands behind you. She pushed me up the stairs ahead of her, warning me solicitously not to stumble.
"You clomsy, dickless teeng," she said almost fondly.
I stared at the spotless kitchen behind the door. Every modern convenience laid out with style and lots and lots of money. I had almost forgotten the money. Normally thinking about money and women could make me hard but this time it didn't seem to be happening. I worried a little, would I be able to perform when it came time for Sylvia or whatever her name was. Perhaps Concepcion had used me up with her little skillet.
Standing naked in the middle of the room, shivering a little on the cold tile, the hot water caught me completely by surprise. Concepcion stood beside the sink with the stainless steel hose and the black plastic nozzle of the sink sprayer in her hands. My mercenary little reverie cut short by the nearly scalding spray, I thought she had burned me, that I would have scars.
"Got to wash off the grease," Concepcion laughed. I tried to push the gag out of my mouth to scream. When she flipped the lever to cold my breath caught in my throat. I tried to inhale the rag, I choked, I gagged. I felt my bile rise and I feared that if I vomited, I would choke to death. I fell to the floor, the water alternating hot and cold, shocking me while Concepcion continued laughing, "I got to wash you, you feelthy thing."
The water made the floor so slippery that I did not dare try to stand again, but attempted to crawl or swim out of the reach of the deranged housemaid. Frantically, I struggled to an archway where steps led down to a sunken living room but Concepcion grabbed my ankle and dragged me back. I fell on my chin and would have bit my tongue but for the greasy rag in my mouth. At least she had to stop spraying me with hot water to grab my leg. "Poor baby," she laughed "you doan like to get a bath, ha?"
I lay where she left me, out of breath and hoping the torture would not begin again. And it seemed that it would not for she turned off the water and approached me with a towel. Laughing softly, she crooned to me in Spanish while she dried me off, scrubbing away the oily stains roughly. She ordered me to be quiet and then she even removed the gag. She smiled at me, so thoroughly cowed was I that I smiled back, nervously, like a prisoner smiling at a guard or a hostage smiling at a terrorist. My arms were still fastened behind me, taped together from wrist to elbows.
When she got to my penis and balls with the towel, she warned me again to be quiet. I was not surprised to feel an erection beginning again.
"Concha!" a voice snapped as Sylvia strode into the room.
She had obviously changed clothes. Thigh-high lace-up black leather boots with seven-inch spike heels encased her legs. A tight corset of similar material supported her heavy breasts while cinching her waist to a delicious slenderness. Big blocky earrings with stones so large they must have been paste matched the jeweled gloves she wore, black leather also, and reaching so high above her elbows they compressed the flesh of her upper arms into slight rolls of white flesh at her armpits, which were shaved smooth as was her naked pubic area. She had no tan lines, being the same even ivory all over, from forehead to thigh.
Then I saw also that her nether lips had been pierced, several times, perhaps six or seven, on both sides of her cunt slit and that large rings had been entered into the piercings. These rings had then been pulled together and a curved rod of some sort placed through them, first a ring of one side and then a ring of the other, so that her poor twat lips must have been very pinched against the rings and the rod. The rod was also pierced on both ends, the upper end broadly knobbed with a bright steel ring through it. The lower end of the rod was pierced also with a wider ring. Through these rings and also through the lip rings, bright red leather laces had been threaded, this way and that in a complex braiding that begged to be undone, setting sweet tortured flesh free. The bizarre eroticism of it sent a charge through my penis and completed the job Concepcion had started, my dick stood erect and ready once more.
I got such a detailed view of her private area because Sylvia strode forward and thrust the gordian knot of her chastity into my face. "Take a good long look, slut," she ordered and Concha, or Concepcion, held my face close enough that I could not help to see such details as that the underside of the knob at the upper end of the rod was grooved deeply where it pressed against the flesh above her hidden clitoris. Why would that be, perhaps to increase, or perhaps to prevent, stimulation to that button I could not see? Or that the rings through her lips were ovoid with the thinner end through the lips and the wider end opening to admit the rod which was not straight but curved, this way then that, yielding to the demands of the rings. I saw, too, that between the lip rings other rings pieced the rod at an angle, interlocking with the lip rings on either side. Even were the lacings cut or the rings disentangled, how could such a rod be removed from the rings? How could she attend to the callings of nature, urine and menstrual flow, without leaving laces, rings, rod and flesh in such a state as to promote disease?
"Fascinated?" she asked, smiling. "Disappointed?"
I could only stare. How could she wear such a thing everyday, how could she remove it? It would be the work of hours, even if the rods and rings could be removed without tearing the flesh. I yearned to undo the bindings and plunge my throbbing dick into the secret of her imprisoned snatch but my own hands were still taped behind my back. Leaning forward, I gently licked the smooth skin above the knobbed upper end of the key rod. I felt no stubble under my tongue, but soft tiny hairs, nearly invisible. She had not shaved the area but had instead depilated it electrolytically. That must have hurt, I thought, and the idea of her endured pain, her suffering in the making of this sweet mystery nearly caused me to orgasm then and there. With effort, I controlled myself.
She sighed, to my sighs, as I continued my explorations with my tongue. The lacings tasted of leather, and salt, and woman. The whole area had been depilated, down to where her thighs disappeared into the tops of her leather boots. The effect was one more oddity on top of the enigma of the rings and rods and laces. And I did have a puzzle, how was I to pleasure this woman who had so thoroughly concealed her pleasure place? Women, and knowing how to please them, had been my fortune but I had never faced such a challenge. Pressing my face against the knobbed end of the rod, I seized a loop of lacing in my teeth. With rhythmic pressure on the rod, I worried at the laces, testing gently to see if they might be easily unraveled.
Concha murmured something in Spanish behind me, Sylvia responded also not in English. She sighed, leaning in against my pressure. "That is good, you will be a good student." Moving suddenly, she stepped away from me and I nearly fell face first on the tiles. Only her hand on my chest saved me for she squatted directly in front of me.
Her gloved hands seized my penis in a cross-handed grip, one thumb against the underside of the head of my uncircumcised dick, the other probing the scrotal area under the base. Here she discovered my genital oddity. "Where is your other testicle?" she asked, curiously.
We were nearly face to face in this position. I leaned a bit forward to whisper in her ear, "I must have left it in my other pants." Actually, I simply did not have but one, a condition known medically as monorchidism. My joke almost always got a laugh and did not fail me this time.
"Remember, I told you to bring anything you couldn't do without," she laughed musically. Still smiling directly into my face, her hands pumped and stroked. Her caressing thumb brought me to the edge of orgasm. I fought the release, trying to sustain the moment. I wanted to cry out, to stop her, it wasn't part of my game plan to come before she did. I tried to think of my aching shoulders, with my arms taped together behind me, they truly did ache.
But the pain seemed merely part of the pleasure. I heard Concha behind me and I knew she intended something. I tried to worry about that. Sylvia leaned forward to take my lower lip between her teeth. Her face, so strong, so feminine, so near to me, I knew that she controlled this encounter, not me. In a moment, I would lose the struggle, I would cum into Sylvia's hands. Perhaps then she would allow me to pleasure her.
I almost did not feel the needle of the hypodermic Concha slipped into the meat of my thigh. I noticed first that redness swam in from the edges of my vision. Still short of the release I had struggled against, I blacked out slowly to the sound of women laughing.
Chapter 4. Dream Girl
Erotic visions filled my dreams. Odd, I thought, in one of those lucid moments one has while dreaming, usually I dream of spending someone else's money, driving fast cars and having expensive things. But normally I get plenty of sex while I am awake.
I dreamed of undressing Sylvia. She lay face down on a blue satin coverlet on a wide, wide bed, wearing a tight-skirted evening dress of red, red velvet. Black stockings with seams up the back ended in nine-inch platform heels as crimson as her gown. Arms at her sides, her fingers curled against her palms, red, red nails against the white flesh.
Tenderly I lifted the mass of chestnut hair that seemed longer and fuller than it had been in life, enough red-gold strands to drown a man. I played with her hair for a moment, running it carressingly through my fingers, tickling her bared shoulders with the ends. Her earrings glinted gold on the blue coverlet, each hoop bigger than my hand. A choker of black and red lace with rhinestones encircled her throat, closed at the back of her neck with a pretty bow.
Under the hair, a tiny, black enameled catch secured the top of the evening dress's zipper. Fumbling a little, I undid the catch and slipped the zipper down to where her hips flared so beautifully into the roundness of her ass. My dream self wandered into reveries of round, round bottoms I have known. My loins ached with remembrance as I pulled myself back to the presence of Sylvia.
Pulling the dress open I saw the laces of her corset. Satiny pink with a lacy white overlay, the cruel little undergarment had squeezed her waist impossibly narrow, barely half the measure of her full hips. Little bows adorned the knots holding the corset tight, for each little corset lace ended in a length of pink ribbon. I bent my face to rub my cheeks and lips against the soft femininity of the ribbon bows. My fingers on the corset sensed the spring-steel stays inside the erotic fabric. Her back, bowed by the steel, thrust her buttocks upward toward me.
Sliding the zipper lower revealed the bottom edge of the corset and the cleavage of her ass. Red garters from a thin white and red garter belt around her full hips just below the corset disappeared into the dress. Two globes of white flesh peeked from the unzippered gown like enormous misplaced breasts. I placed the tip of my tongue in the top of that cleavage and traced her delicate spine from the bump of her coccyx to the edge of the corset. The pleasured flesh trembled in its bondage. My mind reeled and back and forth, replaying the lick and shiver until my gonads wanted to scream.
In the dream, I moved to turn her over. She did nothing overt to help or hinder the action, but her body was neither limply compliant nor rigidly resistant. Face up, her magnificent body revealed itself anew. I dreamed that I stared at her as I had not stared in the bar. I wanted the dream Sylvia more than I had wanted the dream of her money.
The unzipped dress pulled down easily to her waist, the heavy velvet richly exotic in my hands. The abundance of her revealed breasts emerging from the top of her corset echoed the second cleavage she had displayed from behind. Pressed from the sides and below by the corset, constrained by their satiny jailer, her globes bulged roundly on her chest. Brown aureoles bigger than coasters showed half-rounds above the corset and saucy nipples, redder than brown, peeped from the pretty prison. I bent to tease the prisoners with the tip of my tongue and found them already hardened by their captivity. I tasted their delicate torture, delicious in its willing submission.
With my dreaming eyes seeming so near the pillar of her throat, I saw that paste gems, red, green, blue and white decorated the front of the choker. Paste surely, for no one would wear real gems of that size, so perfectly matched, except in a dream.
Realizing again that so I did dream, I lifted my gaze to her face. Pale green lids closed her eyes and thick black lashes locked them closed. Black brows arched like Parisian monuments on her marble forehead. A blush like virgin spring touched the winter of her cheeks. Her half-open lips, as velvet red as her gown, revealed two rows of white teeth with the tip of a carnelian tongue trapped between them.
Lifting my face to hers, I prised my tongue through the soft gates of her lips. Her teeth parted and her tongue tasted cool and sweet against mine. We dueled sweetly for a time and I felt the blood rushing to engorge her lips as we bruised our passions against each other. I felt my own blood move in my dram body, the heat of it went to my head and my loins.
The intensity and vividness of the dream shocked me. It seemed more real than reality. Sylvia's lush body now stretched before me like an erotic landscape, the forest of her hair, the mountains of her breasts.... Now she receded from me like a television special effect, a reverse zoom that left her a doll-thing on a satin pillow.... Now her smell, of musk and strawberries, of spice and woman rushed to my head like a drink of some strong liquor. A fantastic cocktail of desire, in my dream Sylvia seemed to "woman" what a jigger of Glenlivet is to "malt."
I pulled the velvet gown down around her thighs. The corset, seen from the front, seemed no less cruel. The steel stays in their lacy satin wrapper reduced her waist, flattened her tummy and constricted her breasts into a lovely shape like a figure study by Hogarth, all round globes and conical sections. A pure erotic shape with a strength not found in mere cheesecake.
I saw that she did not, could not lie flat upon the bed for the corset forced her back into an arch. She rested on her shoulders and neck and the full roundness of her buttocks and thighs. The slenderness of her waist hung suspended, a bridge above the blue satin sea of the coverlet. I could put my fingers under her back, almost touching behind her while my thumbs nearly met in front. I held her this way for a timeless time, dreaming of desire and possession.
Her still closed eyes moved beneath their lids, she seemed to sleep within my dream. What filled her dreams I wondered. Her swollen lips made a circle of pouting astonishment, like a cheerleader surprised in the football team's locker room.
The delicately lacy front of the corset came to a pink and white rounded point below her navel, a signpost directing my gaze toward her mystery. The tortuous web of steel spines, rings and leather laces that she had made of her cunt lay half-hidden in the cleft between her legs. The bend of her back caused by the corset and the binding of the velvet gown around her thighs left the secret places in shadow.
The garters from the garter belt were fastened to the tops of black silk hose high on her thighs. I dreamed of burying my face in the flesh where the silk and leather and steel converged and dreamed that I did. The pleasant scent of her unseen vagina nearly overwhelmed my dream self. Aching with smell of her flesh, I nuzzled the steel knob at the top of her chastity knot with my chin and the body below me stiffened, once.
Standing in my dream beside the bed, I pulled the velvet gown to her knees. Her thighs clenched and an audible sigh escaped her still open mouth but her eyes remained closed. Things seemed to be moving faster now. Kneeling next to her, I lifted the bound legs and freed them from their velvet bindings, slipping the gown over the high, high heels. Her toe nails were painted the same ruby red color as the gown, her shoes, her lips.
Encased in dark silk, her legs tapered from full, womanly thighs, to dimpled knees, down to rounded calves and smooth, slender ankles trapped in the lacings of her platform sandals. Her feet, high-arched, glamorised by the sandals, shaped into symbols of desire, yearned to be pleasured by the touch of loving hands and lips.
Dreaming of desire for Sylvia, lusting for possession of every detail of her hallucinatory beauty, wanting her body, I reached to lift her long, long legs. Her spreading thighs revealed again her mystery, the net of steel and lace at the center of her being. The half-moons of her round bottom showed below her legs and a smile flickered around her lips.
Shuddering release threatened as I dreamed of being between her thighs. With one hand I lifted her left leg higher, rolling her weight to one side and onto her shoulders. With my other hand I reached for my throbbing manhood to plunge it into her round pink ass. Her smile widened and her eyes opened, gold-green irises sleepy with dreaming sex.
I woke suddenly, terrified. My dream hand had found nothing where my cock should have been.
Read Chapters 5-7
She knew how to treat him -- exactly as he deserved.
TG, femdom, bondage, high heels, breast implants, crossdressing, drug induced, mind altering, corsets, she-male, prostitute, deals, consequences
Read Chapters 1-4 or Chapters 5-7