I - The Dream
"Lie still Blair, and I won't hurt you."
She stands over you - she in her smart charcoal jacket and slacks, you nearly naked, stretched out on your bed in black bra and panties, wrists burning from the handcuffs fastened through the heavy headboard.
You can see in her green eyes that she's serious. A short riding crop in her right hand guarantees it. She's partially undone her white blouse, just enough to tease you with glimpses of her small, round breasts tipped with pink nipples that reach out to you like tiny fingers, rigid with the hope that you will misbehave, and she'll get to use the crop on your smooth legs and belly.
So you stop struggling, pulling your bare thighs together and to the side to avoid the crop, should it fall. But you're still breathing hard, eyes full of defiance, glaring at her for tricking you, for breaking her promise to eat you.
She creeps onto the bed beside you, her face now so close to yours, her short red hair hanging just low enough to brush the skin of your cheek. You glance down her open blouse, wishing more than anything you could suck one of her nipples between your lips and push against the hard bead of flesh with the tip of your tongue.
"You must have wanted me very badly, Blair."
You think back, remembering how long you've lusted after her, the weeks, then months that passed before you could muster the nerve to even make a friendly advance. Then this. Working together later than usual one night at the office, lights low, desks all vacant, the windows of an adjacent office building sparkling like stars in the night sky - she looked at you for a long time, reached out to stroke your hair, then leaned close, her lips moving against your ear.
"You can have me if you want," she whispered. "You don't even have to ask."
You remember the flutter that touched your stomach, and how your legs opened under your desk when she kissed you. And that's all it took. You were hers.
Silly you. Ready to play any game she suggested, if only you could have her naked body against yours. So willing that you placed both wrists in the cuffs yourself, letting her snap them shut with a knowing smile. You were in heaven while she stripped you, raising your hips so she could tug at your skirt and stockings, not even caring when she cut your new silk blouse from your body.
"Talk to me, Blair. Tell me what you want."
You're surprised by her demand, not sure what to say. She taps your belly with the crop, just hard enough to get your attention. It stings, but causes a flood between your legs at the same time.
"P-please," you stammer.
"Please what, Blair? Please beat me? Please eat me? Please fuck me? I didn't know you were such a girly girl. Afraid to ask for what you want? I expected you to beg. What a disappointment."
The crop comes down harder, across your ass, a forceful, lashing blow, and you cry out, twisting away from her.
"Ahh, she speaks! Perhaps another blow will make her sing."
"Nooo!" you reply at once, fearing a more painful strike. "I'll tell you - I'll tell you - please, please, eat me, fuck me, please..." Your eyes tear as you beg her for the sex you've wanted for so long. But not like this. Not like this.
"Spread your legs, Blair. Open them."
You do. You spread them wide, knees slightly drawn up, panty-covered mound already showing a dark stain from your juices. You pray she doesn't use the crop there.
She touches the plump mound with the tip of the crop, drawing it down, tracing the length of your slit as it yawns wider, now soaking the thin wisp of black cotton. The crop returns again and again, now with a firmer hand, teasing your clitoris until your hips rise to meet it with each touch.
"I knew you'd be easy. Such a slut. And to think, little miss perfect, the icon of professionalism, a true example of today's career woman, here in handcuffs, begging me to do all these nasty things to her. Admit it, Blair. You're a slut at heart. You've always been a slut."
She raises the crop again, this time only a few feet above your cunt. It hovers in the air there, waiting, waiting, for your answer, the right answer.
"Yes!" you scream. "I am! A slut! Your slut! Please - no more - I'm begging you!"
She smiles with satisfaction and places the crop on the bed. Then, she's pulling your panties off your hips, down your spread legs, and over your toes. Next, with a quick snip of the scissors, your bra is gone, freeing your large, meaty tits. She licks her lips as they spill from the black lace, flattening only slightly, proud and firm with angry red nipples.
You watch, trembling, as she lowers her face between your legs, then moan with relief when her tongue dips into your cunt. But her eyes are on you again. She stops. Your eyes meet hers, pleading to continue. You're too breathless to speak.
"Shall I finish you?"
"P-please," you whimper. "Oh God, please."
"You'll be my slut?"
"Yessss!"
"No more panties at the office?"
"Yessss!" you agree, too excited to think about her demands.
"And no bra as well?"
"Yessss!"
"And you won't mind if I tell everyone we're lovers?"
"I - I don't care, don't care at all, please..."
"My sweet Blair, you were born a slut, weren't you? Now, beg me to eat you."
You beg her over and over. You admit anything and everything. Yes, you were born a slut, and you'll die a slut.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes...
And when her tongue rolls perfectly over your clit, too many times for you to count, long after you stop begging, you cum long and hard, screaming her name into the night as your body thrashes and pulls at the cuffs above your head.
And you know you are lost. Forever.
~*~
You're back at work the next day, sure she didn't mean what she said. You wear both panties and bra, never thinking about the consequences. Then she's behind you, running her hand over your ass, checking.
"You're a bad girl, Blair. You know what I do to bad girls."
You can't move. What if others should see her pawing you? Too afraid to turn to face her, you reply softly, "I'm sorry. I didn't think..."
Her fingers trail between your legs from behind, making you squirm. She pushes up against the wet spot already spreading over your tiny, white cotton panties. You're afraid she'll go further, and afraid she'll stop. So delicious, to be played with in public. You know you'll do anything she asks.
"Take them off, Blair."
She couldn't possibly expect you to...
"No Blair, not here. Go to the ladies room. Take your purse. Your bra and panties better be in it when you get back."
You don't move away until she stops fingering you. Then, without question or hesitation, you do as she says. You feel so cheap as you strip the panties and bra from beneath your slacks and blouse. You do it quickly, before someone comes in, before someone discovers what you've become. Your small purse bulges after you stuff everything in. A small piece of white bra strap escapes when you close the catch, hanging off the side, unnoticed by you in your haste to finish before you're found. Your nipples scrape the fabric of your blouse as you hurry to leave. Glancing in the mirror, you see your tits bouncing as you walk, hard points of your nipples straining against the sheer white material that clearly shows two dark circles of your areola. The image shocks you, and makes you wet at the same time. What will they think?
You hurry back to your office. She's there, of course. She tells you how proud she is of you, how luscious you look to her, and how she'd like to eat you, right then and there. But of course she doesn't. She couldn't in front of all these people. Could she? You wonder if you'd let her if she demanded it.
She pushes you into a corner where no one can see, works her hand down the front of your slacks, and slides her middle finger into your sopping pussy. You want her to keep it there, to take you in her arms and masturbate you until you cum in your own office. Instead, she pulls her hand free and offers the same finger to you, placing it lightly on your lips. You open and suck. It's the first time you've tasted yourself. But you'd do it again and again for her.
She leaves you, wet and wanting. She doesn't even speak to you, and disappears without a word at the end of the day. You wonder if you've displeased her in some way, but have no way of knowing. No sleep for you this night. You toss and turn, anxious, troubled, and in heat for her.
She's pleased the next day. Your slacks are light tan, and show clearly that you're naked underneath them. You choose a silk top to keep your nipples from aching, but hadn't counted on how the soft material would collapse over your swaying breasts, showing them off in exquisite detail.
You've earned a pet name.
"You look wonderful today, my little Pussy."
Pussy. You're insulted at first, but before long convince yourself it fits. Like a glove.
At lunch, she closes your office door and fingers you again. You're melting in her hands when she stops.
"You do it, Pussy. I want to watch. Do it till you cum."
You do your best to work your hand inside the narrow belt and waistband, but soon give up and open the slacks, letting them slide to your knees. Your fingers are soaked, plunging in and out of your cunt.
"Taste yourself, Pussy."
You bring your fingers to your mouth and lick them, one by one. She watches, running her hand lightly over her meager breasts, breathing deeply as she takes in the sight of you, the sight of a bright, attractive woman slowly losing control of her life.
She takes a few steps toward you, now close enough to smell the musk of your sex. The green of her eyes holds you with an unseen force, powerful and paralyzing.
"Cum for me, Pussy. Show me how wet I've made you. Show me everything."
You tug your panties over your hips and slide them to mid-thigh. The soft, dark hair that covers your cunt is wet and matted. You plunge your fingers into it again, desperate for your orgasm now that she's given you permission. It doesn't take long. A minute, maybe less. She sees your hips begin to thrust suddenly faster against your hand, knows you've come to the edge, and covers your mouth with hers, muffling the long, guttural moan that escapes from deep within your body. Leaning into her, you finish yourself, savoring each precious second, holding it, making it last until you're limp in her arms, panting like a bitch in heat.
She's happy with you for a week, but then feels the need to dress you in clothes of her choosing. She brings a large shopping bag to work one day, full of your new clothes. And you wear them starting the next day - clothes you would never have worn before - but for her, anything. Tight, fitted blouses and sweaters with deeply cut V necks, showing off your round, succulent breasts. Tiny, pleated skirts that barely fall to your upper thighs, flaring to show your round ass every time you turn too quickly. They can't keep their eyes off you in meetings. Even trying your best to keep your legs tightly pressed together, sooner or later you shift just enough to show a glimpse of the long, pink gash between your legs, now shaved bare at her request. Men stare at you. Women snicker behind your back when they think you aren't listening. A week passes, then two.
Your boss calls you in for your annual review. He dismisses much of the good work you've done. He stares at your tits. He tells you to work harder. Longer hours. He's given your project to someone "more appropriate." You struggle to hold back tears, forgetting to keep the brief plaid skirt tucked between your thighs. He looks through the glass desktop, down at your lap, where rounded inner thighs part to reveal your cunt, freshly shaved this morning. He doesn't even pretend to look away. After an hour, you've lost your office, and gained more menial tasks - filing, copying...
By the time he's done with you, you wonder why you haven't been fired. Then it comes to you. He's a man, just like all the others, just waiting for the chance to stick his cock in you. You're an office pet now. A curiosity, more suited to organizing office parties than to the position that you worked so hard for, for so long.
But then she comes up behind you again, lifting the narrow pleats that barely cover your ass, trailing her fingers deep into the space between your thighs. Whispering, purring, in a voice meant only for you.
"Good Pussy. Sexy, hot, girly girl Pussy. You really do look good enough to eat. And I am very, very hungry. I think I'll take you home tonight."
And you start to cry. Not for your project. Not for your office. Not even for your life. You cry because she loves you. You're absolutely sure of it.
~*~
Her apartment's spacious - tasteful clean lines of glass and gray. Not like yours - fluffy white pillows and fancy French doors. She pours you a drink, white wine in a tall slender glass, then goes to change. Modestly sized Rodin replicas dot the perimeter of the room, each at rest on its own simple black pedestal - cold, white, flesh-from-stone women with faces hidden, lying twisted into shapes that flaunt their bodies in the most sensual ways. You're drawn to one of them, a voluptuous female form lying with legs curled under her, face nearly obscured by a river of flowing hair. You trace the lines of her sinuous back and rounded ass with a single outstretched finger, and worry that you may not be worthy of her collection.
She's back in minutes, wearing nothing beneath an oversized white shirt, fastened at the front by a single button. Now she's all red hair, green eyes, and full, wide lips atop two long, finely chiseled legs that move so gracefully under her. You stare at her, not believing she can be so beautiful, catching glimpses of the neatly trimmed patch of red where the shirt-tails part.
She's as at home in the kitchen as she is at work, confidently wielding a large knife to turn raw, fresh tuna into thin slivers of flesh so sweet in your mouth you would have never known it was taken from the sea. You feast, until the wine has you both giddy. Between fits of laughter she says your name. Then, in a careless, unguarded moment, you tell her you love her.
She's still laughing a little when you tell her. She's unfazed, still giggling, allowing a trickle of wine to escape down her chin. She catches it in the palm of her hand, then feeds it to you off her fingers.
"Come to bed, Pussy. We haven't had desert."
It takes her only seconds to strip you. The little skirt falls to the floor, the sweater slips so easily over your head. She opens the only button and the shirt slides off her shoulders. Her mouth is on you at once, quick kisses over your neck, lashing your nipples and breasts with her tongue, nibbling at your belly with gentle bites.
Then you're on her bed. Her hands guide you, turning you onto your stomach, lifting your ass until you're on your hands and knees. She gathers the thick avalanche of hair over your back into her fist, gives it a tug, and you turn your head to look at her. She's there behind you, eyes glittering. Thin, delicate shoulders and bare, upturned breasts cause your pulse to quicken, your cunt to swell and open.
She retrieves it from a drawer at the side of the bed, so long and thick that you gasp when you understand. She fastens the straps about her waist. It wobbles slightly, stiff, black, and glistening with slippery jelly applied with the loving care you hope she shows you as well. Taking her position behind you, she pulls your fleshy ass cheeks apart, fingering the deep crevice lightly with a touch that drives you mad. You feel her pulling at your inner lips, running their length over and over, then cradling your swollen clit between thumb and forefinger. At that moment you feel it breech you, stretching you where you've never been entered before. It burns, until you learn to let it have its way with you. Even then, as it fills you, inch by inch, you can barely breathe. It's so large, a monstrous invader, filling you to depths you could never have imagined. And when you cry out, begging her to stop, she rolls your clit with fingers so skilled, everything else is forgotten.
Eventually its careful entry and slow retreat increase in pace, until she's plunging into you, pounding against you with her hips, shaking your quivering body with savage thrusts. You grunt each time her hips slam against your ass. Never have pain and pleasure held you so tightly at the same time. Surrendering yourself so completely would be terrifying, had it been to anyone but her.
"Do you love me, Pussy? Do you love me now?"
Her words are laced with sarcasm, almost vicious.
You're crying, never more unsure of yourself, never more terrified, never more excited. She sees your tears and bends over you, the nipples of her breasts now pressed into your back, her free hand moving down your belly, finally making its way between your legs. Even though impaled on the full length of the heavy phallus, you breathe easier as she finds your clit and takes it between her fingers, milking it slowly, careful to make you wait.
"How much do you love me, Pussy? What would you sacrifice to be with me?"
Her voice becomes more threatening, the words uttered between clenched teeth as she lingers over your clit, rolling it, nursing it with her long, agile fingers. Then, suddenly, she hovers over it an inch away, robbing you of her final touch, and the last few seconds you crave for your release.
"I want everything, Pussy. Everything you have, everything you are, and everything you will ever be. Give me all that. Will you give it to me, Pussy? Will you give it to me now?"
Riding you like a stud rides a mare, she demands a single answer, the only one she needs for your surrender. When you give it up to her, she presses the rubber cock deep into your bowels and works your clit furiously between her slim fingers. You slide over the edge, feeling your body twist into violent spasms. Your cunt gushes, and you give up everything as your desire for her swallows you whole.
- Awake -
You wake in your own bed before the alarm sounds, legs tangled in damp, wrinkled sheets. Stretching, then throwing bare legs over the side of the bed and yawning, as you do most mornings, you remember almost nothing of your dreams.
The shower feels especially good this morning. You've made it as hot as you can stand, and it brings your body to life. You choose your face for the day - lipstick, mascara, all from a collection that litters the counter top on each side of the sink. You choose carefully. It's an important day. You'll pitch your project to the new client, and everything has to be perfect. Then, after, a promotion, another step up the corporate ladder, one you've worked so long and hard for. You've put your work before relationships, and having a family of your own. You never seemed to have the time. You know they call you ruthless, driven, and words much worse. But who's laughing now? You've made your plan, and unlike most, have had the brains and guts to see it through.
In the mirror, you try to see what your client will see. The navy power-suit is the perfect choice, bought for the occasion. The smart, tailored lines of the jacket and slacks show you off to the best possible advantage - conservative enough to keep their minds on business, yet showing enough curves to remind them that a woman's hand has crafted a part of their future. Dark hair cascades over your shoulders in thick, generous waves, cut and styled to perfection. A few final touches of makeup and you're ready.
You find yourself staring at your reflection, held there in front of the mirror. Something nags at you, something not quite right. You open the jacket and run your hands slowly over the pristine white blouse. Your hands pause over the fullness of each breast, then cup them gently, unconsciously, as your eyes stay fixed on the mirror. The minutes that pass seem like seconds to you when you button the jacket to leave.
There's just time for a light breakfast and a quick review of your notes, sorted between pages of legal documents, each with the familiar signature in clean, round script. She'll be there today, the uptown attorney with hair the color of fire, and wide, emerald eyes. You decide that today's the day to make a casual gesture of friendship, something you've put off far too long. Perhaps you'll offer to buy her lunch, to celebrate the occasion. After all, you'll be working closely together once your plan is a success.
You drive the hour's drive to work buoyed with confidence, as the project folder lies carelessly forgotten on the kitchen table. You smile as your thoughts turn to her, a new friend perhaps, and a valuable one at that. You'll start with small-talk, then perhaps a light touch with just a hint of intimacy. Such a small thing, really. Why hadn't you done it long ago?
You think about how perfect your life is, and how you've made the right decisions at every turn. And you marvel at how even the most insignificant events, manipulated wisely and carefully to your own advantage, have such power to change your life. Forever.
