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Images

By: WFEATHER



As I was reading the final pages of an excellent sci-fi novel, I noticed her out of the corner of my eye. Looking up, I saw her boarding the bus. She was a small Asian woman, barely even five feet tall in her heels. Her pale blue top fit snugly over her torso, making her small breasts appear somewhat prominent. Adorned with a decorative beaded belt, the faded-blue denim skirt swayed nicely across her thighs as she made her way to an empty seat several rows in front of me. Her black hair rubbed just slightly across the top of her shoulders. Her eyes caught mine for just a millisecond as she took in us other passengers, and the dark gray irises made me think of someone I had seen before. Along with the backpack slung across her right shoulder, she carried two bags and appeared to have just come from the nearby mall. 

I appeared to the other passengers to return to the book, engrossed in the adventures written in small type upon the four hundred pages. However, my mind was busy at work. I tend to think in images, and tend to remember most things that I see. So, my mind switched from imaginative mode to detective mode, flipping through the continuously-maintained catalogues of images scattered throughout my brain to try to discern why this person seemed so familiar. 

About twenty minutes later, movement toward the front of the bus caught my attention. As the bus slowed on approach to the university, she stood. She looked past me toward the pair of obnoxious teenagers laughing loudly behind me, and I noted that she wore no make-up and no earrings, a bit unusual for the female students at the university. Placing her unpainted fingers on the back of a seat to steady herself as the bus rumbled over one of the city's many potholes, she made her way toward the rear door beside me, and also gave me a nice view of her lone piece of jewelry, an adjustable ring in the form of a snake wrapped around her left index finger. That was particularly unusual, and I added that to the search criteria as my mind continued reviewing the many catalogued images filling my skull. 

During the rest of the commute home from work, my mind also worked on a second front: Given that she got off at one of the stops along the western edge of main campus, had I seen her in the university area before? Had I noticed her as I biked across campus one weekend? Did we accidentally bump into each other on a sidewalk? Did we both attend the same guest lecture series? Perhaps had I seen her in one of the many small coffee shops ringing main campus? Had we been on the same bus at some other time? 

I got off the bus, thinking ahead to when I returned home. Perhaps I would find the answer online, or maybe even on one of my own hard drives. But once I did, then what? I somehow sensed that she was a junior or perhaps a senior at the university, which would make me nearly a full decade older than her – that did not leave much of a possibility that I would be successful if I were to somehow locate her and attempt to hit on her. 

I returned to my apartment complex at last. After retrieving the day's bills and junk mail from the tiny mailbox, I made my way up the four flights of stairs to the place I had called home ever since I graduated from the very same university. Casting the mail and my own backpack aside, I took a can of Mountain Dew from the refrigerator and made my way to the computer, certain that the answer was in an electronic format. I set my favorite slide show program to the task of cataloguing every image on both the master and slave drives, and showing them in a perpetual random loop until instructed to stop. Knowing the amount of time involved in such a comprehensive image search on such an old computer, I set about fixing dinner, returning to the computer after having inhaled the rest of the leftover pizza. 

Just as I sat at the computer, the image-gathering process came to an end, and the slide show itself began. I sat back in my chair and slowly savored the final drops of Mountain Dew as my eyes scrutinized each image before it was replaced 1.75 seconds later. 

Over an hour later, the match was made. Quickly, I reached out to the keyboard to pause the slide show. 

It was the same small Asian woman, no doubt about it. Only this time, she wore only a pair of thigh-high side-laced black boots polished to lovingly that they reflected the lighting almost as well as a mirror. Short silver chains connected her thick black leather cuffs with the eyehook attachments on the tilted red St. Andrew's Cross, ensuring she was kept in a spread-eagle position. Weighted vice-style clamps pulled her labia toward the floor, while a neon-orange vibrator or dildo emerged obscenely from the base of her bald torso. Her body glistened with sweat as tears streaked down her face, causing her make-up to run and create a rather wicked presentation. Her body was incredibly tense, her mouth open in what must have been a piercing scream of pain as, from the left side of the frame, the single vicious tail of a bullwhip added yet another beautiful welt across the front of her body. 

I thought back to the visions of this exotic college student earlier in the day. There was no mistake: I had finally found her. 

Pressing another key, I called up the name of the file: Geisha050101b148.jpg – rather cryptic, and "Geisha" was certainly not her real name. I looked at the on-screen image again and compared it with the image of her about to step off the bus, and the difference between the two images was both breathtaking and beautiful in its own right. 

Pressing another key, the full directory path was displayed above the filename. I quickly reconfigured the program to scan and display all the images in just that directory. There were nearly three hundred images of "Geisha," all taken from the same photo shoot. Even displaying the images randomly, it was clear that the photos detailed an entire BDSM session from start to finish, beginning with a tall super-muscled dominant applying the leather cuffs and ending with the dominant carrying her well-battered body to a massive bed fit for royalty. 

Three weeks passed before I saw her again out of the corner of my eye. It was a Saturday, just past noon, and I sat on a park-style bench in the shade of one of the university's many oak trees. "Geisha" approached, walking slowly, alone, humming softly to herself. She wore the same top and skirt as the day I had seen her on the bus, but this time, she wore sandals instead of heels. This time, she also wore an unusual necklace: a single bear's claw brushed across the top of her breasts, with only a thin leather cord preventing the claw from sliding to the sidewalk. 

In the intervening three weeks, I had located the Web site where I had originally downloaded the images of her attached to the St. Andrew's Cross, and had become a member, happily discovering that "Geisha" is one of the members' favorite models given the number of photo shoots and lengthy video clips in which she is featured. 

As "Geisha" approached, I thought back on those other images and clips. I remembered her soft pleas to be ravaged, her high-pitched screams of pain, her many squeals of pleasure. I remembered seeing her face splattered with the semen of a dozen men, enjoying how her face contorted as she attempted to fend off her own orgasm just a little longer, and drank in the many bruises after the clothespins had been whipped off her small frame. 

I appeared to be engrossed in a different sci-fi novel, watching from behind my sunglasses as she approached. No one else was within earshot, so I took an uncharacteristic chance and half-whispered to her:

"Bullwhip." 

"Geisha" practically froze in mid-step, and turned to look at me. It was clear that if she had noticed me sitting there a moment earlier, she had not paid me any attention. I felt as if her eyes were appraising me, boring into me to determine the nature of my soul. 

More than seven months have now passed since that fateful Saturday meeting. "Geisha" continues to model for the same Web site, and has been featured in several DVDs which the site has offered for sale via online auctions and third-party online adult retailers. She kneels before me now, dressed in only her birthday suit, practicing her deepthroating techniques – and she is indeed becoming an expert!!! But it still amazes me that someone who had at first seemed so quiet and innocent can be such a shameless pain slut, such a wanton whore, and such a natural slave at heart.  

Images



I was having my morning coffee when a knock on my back door startled me. Being new to the neighborhood, I approached the door suspiciously, wondering who it could be at six in the morning. I felt a sense of relief when I recognized the woman who lived next door. 

"Hello neighbor," she said cordially as I opened the door. "I was beginning to think you didn't exist...I've been trying to catch you at home for a couple of days. Since you're new to the neighborhood I wanted to welcome you." 

I held the door open. "Come in," I invited. "I'm sorry but I have to leave for work shortly. Can I offer you a quick cup of coffee?"

"Yes, yes, that would be nice," she gushed. "My name is Carol, by the way. I live right next door to you." 

"Yes, I know...I mean I know you're my neighbor. I've seen you sunbathing in your yard. I'm Gretchen. Glad to meet you." 

"Anyone who gets up this early for work must work in the city," she chided me. "It's six in the morning!" 

"Yeah, I know," I sighed. "But, you know...the train...it takes awhile....."

She took a sip of coffee. "I just happened to be up and noticed your light on. As I said before, I tried to catch you at home several times...you must keep long hours?" 

"I work for a mortgage company," I said. "We've been working long hours. Lots of overtime...which I like...you know, extra money. Unfortunately it's beginning to slow a bit lately. But...you know, that's the way of the real estate business I guess. Are you one of those lucky housewives who gets to stay home with her children?" 

Carol took another sip of coffee. "Oh no, not me. No children, no husband. But I do work.. I'm a photographer...I work out of my home. Work when I want to...well that's not exactly true. I have deadlines occasionally, but for the most part I pick the times I want to work. The great thing is I'm not running in and out of the city everyday. I couldn't do it. Trains too crowded...and the stand still traffic on the freeways...no way." 

"Well, I don't have much choice," I said. "I have to work and it was the only decent job I could find. But I like living in the suburbs, a get-a-way from the rat race, especially on weekends. That's why I skimped and saved to buy this house." 

"I know what you mean," Carol heartily agreed. "This is a nice quiet neighborhood. Not like the city. What a rat race living there. Hey, what time do you get home tonight?"

"About six, why?" 

"How about coming over for dinner tonight, six thirty or so. I'll make us a nice get acquainted dinner. How does that sound?" 

"That's very kind of you. Sure, I'd be glad to come over. I mean, how could I turn down a home cooked meal. Should I bring anything...wine maybe." 

"I have wine," she said enthusiastically. "Just bring yourself." 

"I'll be there," I said, "and I appreciate your hospitality. I don't want to sound like I'm running you off but I've really got to go. If not, I'll miss my train." 
"I'll see you tonight then," she said as she arose to leave. "Have a nice day." 

================

I arrived home a little after six, quickly changing clothes before going next door. I felt giddy. After living in the city for several years where paranoia dictates you keep to yourself...the less you know about your neighbors, the better off you are. Not having to eat a TV dinner would be nice too.

After changing, I hurried next door. Carol answered the door in a skimpy knockout dress, red, low cut...two thin spaghetti straps straining to hold in her ample breast. It was so short I could see the top of her thigh high stockings!

"Wow," I gasped as she held open the door. "Was I supposed to dress for dinner also?" 

"No, oh no," she laughed. "I had some business to take care of today which required more than a T-shirt and blue jeans. I can change if it makes you uncomfortable." 

"Oh no," I said emphatically. "It's a beautifully dress. I wish I could wear something like that." 

"Oh, it's not an expensive dress," she said. You could afford this....." 

"No no," I said, correcting myself. "What I meant was I wished I had the nerve to wear a dress like that. It fits your personaliy. I would be too self conscious. I'm sure you don't have a problem with that." 

"You have a great body," she said. "Why in the world would you be self conscious? By the way, would you like a drink?" 

"A glass of wine would by nice," I said. 

As she poured the wine she repeated her question. "Why in the world would you be self conscious?" 

"I don't know," I answered. "I'd just feel so out of place. I've always had a problem wearing anything too revealing. My mother was rather strict about my dress when I was young. Maybe that's why...I don't know." 

She handed me a glass of wine, ushering me into her living room. The room was very inviting...so comfortably furnished I felt right at home. 

"Listen Gretchen," she said. "With your body and looks...believe me, you'd have nothing to worry about. What are you twenty two, twenty three years old?" 

"Thanks," I said beaming. "I'm twenty nine. Believe me, I don't feel twenty two. And since my divorce...uh...sometimes I don't feel very attractive." 

"Why would a divorce effect how you feel about whether you were attractive or not?" she asked. 

"Because he left me for another man if you can believe that. My mother warned me...I remember her saying; "Gretchen, something wrong with that man" but silly me, I married him anyway. Turned out she was right." 

"Well, you shouldn't let it effect you," Carol said. "Believe me, I'm sure he was like that way before you marred him. And, in my opinion, you shouldn't let your mother influence how you dress...not now, anyway. I mean, after all, you're twenty nine...."  

I laughed. "I'm sure you're right. When I was in High School I was a cheerleader my Junior and Senior years. I wore the longest skirts on the squad. I took a lot of good natured teasing." 

Carol laughed. "How about let's eat. I hope you like it. It's a recipe that Paula from down the street gave me. You'll like Paula when you meet her. In fact you'll probably meet most of the women in the neighborhood here. Since I'm the only single woman around here, most of the them drop in from time to time just to get away from their husband and kids. Their oasis, so to speak." 

After dinner we had another glass of wine. The conversation was pleasant enough...until she began asking me personal questions...like how I was getting along financially...did I ever feel a need to make extra money. 

"Why are you asking me about my finances?" I asked. "That's kind of personal, don't you think?" 

"I'm sorry," she said apologetically. "Just that...well I'm always on the look out for extra models. Something for you to keep in mind. Another glass of wine?"
=================


At work the following morning, my supervisor asked five of the most recently hired employees in to his office. He had bad new for us. We were all being laid off due to a slow down in mortgage request.. Something about rising interest rates and a slump in the housing market. 

I actually understood...I hadn't had anything to do of any significance for a couple of weeks. But understanding didn't make me any less frightene about losing my home...a home I had scrimped and saved to buy. How was I going to make my mortgage payments? 

I spent the afternoon calling other banks and mortgage companies to see if there were any openings available. Most of them were cutting back also. By the end of the day I had a knot in my stomach and a splitting headache. 

Just before leaving for the last time, my supervisor, Mr Colbert, approached me with my final paycheck. I didn't open it until I was seated on the train. My headache magically vanished...inside the envelope were two checks...my regular pay check and a three month severance check. I was elated. With the severance check, and my savings, I now had some breathing room. If I was conservative, I could keep up with my bills for five or six months. The knot in my stomach dissolved away... 

========================== 

The following morning, Saturday, Carol was knocking at my back door again. I yelled for her to come in. 
"How is it going?" she asked as she poured herself a cup of coffee. "Haven't seen you around for a couple of days." 

"Things could be better," I said dejectedly. "I was laid off from my job. I've been going through the help wanted ads but there isn't much out there now." 

"I'm so sorry," she said sincerely. "That's a tough break. Especially after buying this house and all." 

"Yes, well I can last for a little while. I should be able to get something somewhere. Sooo...what are you doing today? Going shopping or something?" 

"No, as a matter of fact I have to work this afternoon. I have an all afternoon photo shoot to do." 

"Well, I'm glad your still working," I said sarcastically. I quickly apologized. "I guess I'm just feeling sorry for myself." 

"Forget it," she said, "and if you wouldn't feel offended, I could probably help you out with a little work. At least it's something to consider...to think about it. You certainly don't have to make a decision right now." 

"Really," I said. "You mean the photo thing you were talking about the other night?" 

"Yes, that photo thing. It pays pretty good." 

"Like...like how much...how much is pretty good?" I asked curiously. 

"I could pay you $500.00 for a two hour session," she said. "There's varying degrees of payment...for example, videos pay more than still photos and...well content makes a difference also." 

"You have to be kidding," I stammered. "$500.00! That's more than I was making a week. Okay...what's the catch? That's a lot of money for only two hours work. What kind of pictures do you take? Is it for advertising, catalogs or something?" 

She laughed. "Not quite," she said. "I take nude pictures...fantasies...mostly fetish stuff." 

She noticed the puzzled look on my face. "You don't have any idea what I'm talking about do you?" she said. 

"No...but all I needed to hear was the word nude. You've got to be kidding! You're taking...you're taking nude pictures right next door to me? Pornographic pictures?" 

"Hey, it's pays good, girl. Don't be too quick to judge. And listen...I made the offer, you don't have to do it. I just thought...." 

"I could never, ever pose nude," I said emphatically. "I guess I should appreciate your offer though. I just can't believe you're doing it right here...in the middle of this nice neighborhood!" 

"Well I don't advertise it Gretchen. It's in the privacy of my home. Anyway....." 

I was still curious. "Who do you sell them too...I mean do you sell to magazines?" 

"I have sold to magazines," she said. "Usually though, I sell to private parties through my web site. They e-mail me, place an order, usually something special...something they can't find anywhere else." 

"I could never do it," I reiterated. "No way. I don't know how any girl could pose like that. Do you have a studio...you know...props...?" 

"Yes, I have a great studio in the basement," she said proudly. "I've been doing it for three or four years...and I love being my own boss. Like I told you the other day...it beats driving into the city everyday and living by the clock. I set my own time when I work." 

I poured us another cup of coffee. Although I knew I would never pose for her, it was titillating to listen to her talk about it. Fetishes...fantasies...I didn't have a clue what she was talking about. 

"Listen," she said, "Why don't you come over this afternoon and watch. You might find it interesting. I have a short, three hour shoot to fill an order. And afterwards I'll take you out to dinner. How's that sound?" 

It did sound interesting...and what would it hurt. "Sure, why not," I answered. "Certainly sounds more interesting than sitting around here brooding. And you're on for dinner. A good restaurant always cheers me up." 
===================


That afternoon, as I walked next door, I experienced a strange, guilty feeling...as if I were going to a porno movie and everyone in the neighborhood was watching me.

Carol was sitting at her dining room table with another young woman, both sipping on wine. 

"Come on in," Carol said invitingly. She introduced me to Paula. "Paula lives down the street. "She's my model today." 

Carol handed me the bottle of wine. "Here, make yourself useful," she said. "We have to get downstairs so Paula can get herself prepared." 

Her studio was impressive. One end of the basement was set up as a living room, completely furnished with a sofa, chair, coffee and end tables. The other end was set up as a bedroom. She even had a small kitchen.

And camera's...there were cameras everywhere. Still cameras, video cameras...and lights...all kinds of lights. She had one hell of a set up. It appeared very professional to me. 

Paula went off to a small dressing room to prepare. Carol began setting up her equipment. Apparently it was to be a still camera shoot. 

In a few minutes Paula appeared, dressed in a plain cotton dress and heels. Carol instructed her to act like a typical housewife. She posed in the kitchen fully clothed, faking cooking at the stove. I became extremely uncomfortable when she lifted the hem of her dress, showing her panties. Tease shots, that's what Carol was calling them. As she slowly undressed, it was hard not to appreciate the fabulous body she had.

Carol, taking pictures like mad, shouted out instructions..."lie across the table...spread your legs...." 

When Paula removed her bra and her firm tits fell into view, I gasped. I glanced over at Carol. She was staring at me with a strange look on her face. I turned red with embarrassed.

Paula disappeared into the dressing room again. When she re-appeared it was hard to believe she was the same girl. She completely transformed herself from a housewife to a typical young teenager coming home from school. 

She was braless, completely filling out her tight white sweater. The rest of her clothing, a dark blue skirt and knee socks, reminded me of a schoolgirl uniform. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail. 

Carol had her lie down on the bed, the cheeks of her ass peeking from under her cute little skirt, her panties lewdly bunched up in the crack of her butt. She was so sexy, dressed as a little girl, I thought pictures like this must surely be illegal.  

As before, she eventually removed her clothes, one piece at a time. Carol must have taken two hundred pictures of her. 

After the set, they took a break. We all retired to the fake living room where I poured the wine. I was extremely uncomfortable with Paula sitting next to me, clad only in her white knee socks. I found myself staring at her large breasts, her nipples extended and hard. I became self conscious of my own nipples growing erect. I didn't dare consider one thing had anything to do with the other. 

"I offered Gretchen a job posing," Carol said to Paula. "She thinks she's to shy to pose in the nude. She has a hell of a body though, don't you think?" 

"She'd be great," Paula said. "You should give it a try, Gretchen." 

"No way, I couldn't do it," I protested. "But I'm certainly impressed with you. You're really great at it. And you have a fabulous body. It's unbelievable how young you looked in that second set. I would think pictures like that might be illegal." 

"Oh, no, don't use that word around here," Carol said laughingly. 

Paula, once again, went into the dressing room. This time she came out in thigh high leather boots, a leather bra...so tight her breasts were spilling out. She posed for about ten minutes with a whip in her hand. 

Carol spoke up with a suggestion. "I could really use you in this scene, Gretchen, And you don't have remove your clothes. I'll pay you $100.00. How does that sound?" 

Hundred dollars...fully clothed! By now the wine had clouded some of my moral inhibitors. 

"What would I have to do," I asked. 

"Come here, let me show you," she said. She pulled a short rope from the ceiling and hooked the ends around my wrist. She then pulled the rope, raising my arms straight above my head. 

"There, that's all there is to it," Carol explained. "Paula will act as if she's whipping you. All you have to do is squirm around, show some pain and suffering on your face. Can you do that?" 

"I'll try." I said. I didn't think I sounded very convincing. 

As Paula stood behind me, Carol, clicking away, gave me instructions to move my hips around. 

"Act like the crop is whipping your ass," she shouted at me. "Move around...make believe it hurts." 

I tried to follow her instructions. I guess it wasn't good enough for her. I could tell she was getting angry. 

"You have to show some pain in your face," she shouted. "It has to look realistic. Tears would be good." 

"I'm just not good at this," I said. "Just let me down...you'll have to get somebody else." 

"You're good enough, honey," she said. "All you need is some incentive. Believe me, you'll thank me for this later." 

She nodded to Paula. Whack! Paula whipped me across my buttocks. I screamed out in pain. 

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" I screamed. 

Whack! Another blow from the whip. Real tears began to flow. My hips and ass were moving just like Carol wanted...and it wasn't an act. 

Carol was snapping away as Paula lashed me four or five times. It hurt terribly and...and I cried like a baby. 

Finally...finally it was over. Paula helped me out of the rope. 

"I can't believe you had Paula do that to me," I sobbed. "That whip really hurt." 

"But I got some excellent pictures." Carol boasted. "And you made a hundred dollars for fifteen minutes work. Does that help make the pain go away?" 

I didn't answer. She had a point...a hundred dollars. Not bad for a couple of whacks across the ass. 

But something I didn't understand. Why were my panties soaking wet! 
===================


Carol's choice of a restaurant was excellent, a laid back seafood place that specialized in Halibut, fried, broiled or baked. We didn't talk about the photo shoot at all, mostly personal things, things I hadn't thought about in years. 

When we returned home she invited me in for one last glass of wine. I knew I was over my limit, but tomorrow was Sunday. Actually, it didn't matter...I didn't have a job to go to. 

One more drink turned into several as Carol continued pouring...I couldn't seem to empty the glass. 

Carol returned from the bathroom and sat next to me on the sofa. "You know, I got the distinct impression you enjoyed our little photo session today Gretchen. Am I wrong?" 

"I thought it was interesting," I said laughingly. "And Paula was very nice. I liked her. I liked her a lot." 

"That's not what I'm talking about," she said. "I'm referring to the little part you played. I had the feeling you enjoyed your participation more than you let on." 

"Why would you think that?" I said defensively. I could feel my face flush with embarrassment. "Getting my butt whipped. Who would enjoy that?" 

She picked up a camera from the coffee table and began snapping pictures of me. 

"Stop it Carol, I giggled. "Your embarrassing me. I don't like my picture taken, especially when I'm not prepared. I look a mess right now. Anyway, you can't sell pictures of me fully clothed." 

"I could with you hanging from that rope," she said. "You have that look, that submissive look that porno lovers adore. Let's go downstairs and I'll hook you up and take a few of you just hanging there. I'll give you another $50.00. How about it?" 

"You'll give me another $50.00 to hang from that rope again! Are you serious?" 

Against my better judgement I considered her offer. The wine certainly lowered my inhibitions...and a total of $150.00 for the day was tempting. 




Images



"You're certain," I said. "No nude, just hang there with my clothes on. That's all." 

"Yes, that's what I said," she reaffirmed. "It won't take more than twenty minutes." 

"Okay, let's go," I said. "I can do that. By the way you haven't paid me for todays session yet. Now you're going to owe me $150.00. When do I get paid?" 

"I'll pay you tonight...before you leave...I promise. Is that good enough?" 

As we walked downstairs my body was trembling in nervous anticipation. I knew I was about to do something against my better judgement. There were men who were going to buy pictures of me...for what? So they could look at them and masturbate? It was obscene. It was also a little exciting. 

Carol quickly set up her camera and lights, I pulled down the rope. When she was ready, she hooked the rope to by wrist and pulled my arm's in the air. She pulled me a little higher this time...my high heels barely touching the floor. 

She snapped a few pictures as I tried to simulate a girl in distress. For some reason I couldn't stop giggling. 

"I'm not paying for giggles,' Carol barked. "This is what I'm paying for." She picked up the whip and thrashed me across my butt. 

I was stunned...and hurt. "Oh, god Carol, don't do that again. Please, it hurts too much. Just keep your damn money and let me down from here. I can't do it the way you want."

She ignored my pleas, lashing me three more times. The pain was excruciating. I screamed for her to stop. 

"OHHH GODDD, PLEASEEEE, DON'T HIT ME ANY MORE. NOOOOOOO...I'LL DO WHAT YOU WANT...ANYTHING...JUST DON'T HURT ME ANY MORE." 

Tears were streaming down my cheeks, my buttocks were on fire. 

"AHGGGGGGGGGGGGG," I shrieked when she thrashed me twice more. 

She hurried back to her camera, snapping pictures of my misery. I was crying uncontrollably. The harder I cried the more pictures she snapped.. 

She approached me again. I began to whimper like a little girl. "Please, Carol...please don't hit me any more. I'll do what you want...please, no more." 

She un-snapped the waist band of my skirt, allowing it to fall to the floor. I was standing there in my panties and nylons. I could see a light on one of the video camera pointed at us...it was running!

"Oh god baby...I've been looking forward to this," she hissed. "I knew you were one sexy cunt the first time I laid eyes on you. And your mound...jesus christ girl, you have a mound to die for! You're worth every penny I'm going to make off of you." 

I was absolutely appalled. "What are you doing?" I sobbed. "I'm not consenting to this. Please, I'm begging you...let me down from here." 

I couldn't stop crying. Ignored my pleas, she touched me...stroking me between my legs, I tried kicking her...anything to get her away from me. I freaked out, thrashing at her with my feet, screaming at the top of my lungs. Within seconds I was spent, barely enough strength to stand on my toes, the rope burning my wrist from the strain. 

I stood there, shamefully, while she fondled me. She nuzzled her face up to my neck and began licking me, moaning obscenely as she stroked my crotch. 

To add to my humiliation, my body began responding to her caresses. I tried to resist but it was useless. She was very skillful...and the shame I felt was undescribable, especially when my hips lewdly picked up the rhythm of her stroke. 

She knelt in front of me, her warm breath caressing my thighs. Pulling my panties aside, she embarrassed me further by discovering my pussy was sopping wet. Her tongue touched my slit. I gasped for breath, spreading my legs shamelessly for her invading tongue.

"Oh god," I moaned as she lapped my creaming cunt. "Please, don't do this to me...let me go..." 

"I know you like it you slutty bitch," she murmured breathlessly. You like your cunt being eaten don't you?" 

"Oh god, Carol...please don't do this to me. Pleasee...oh shit...yessss...I like it...please, please stop....oh no...don't....YESSSS, GODDAMN YESSSSS," I screamed out. LICK MEEEEEEEEEE, PLEASEEEEEE." 

My body shuddered as she assaulted my pulsating clit. I was going to have an orgasm...an orgasm from a woman's tongue. How could this happen to me?

I stopped begging her to stop. I was going to cum...pleasure so exquisite I couldn't deny it.

My hips humped her face lewdly, the pleasure so explosive, so depraved, my body went limp, the ropes holding me up.

Arising, her face and lips dripping with my sticky juices, she pulled my lips to hers as if to kiss me. I insanely licked her lips, sucking globs of my own juices into my mouth. It was so twisted, so sick...

The heated moment finally passed. She pulled away, releasing the rope from my wrist. I fell to the floor. 

"Come up stairs when your ready," she said as she walked away. 

Turning off the camera, she lifted it from its tripod and took it with her.

I lay on the floor...the reality of what had transpired gnawing at my senses...that I had been raped by a woman, humiliated to my very core. And as I lay there in total abject shame, I debased myself even further. I touched myself...and within seconds another orgasm washed over me.

I finally put on my skirt and walked upstairs. My panties were soaked...I reeked with the smell of sex.

She was sitting at her kitchen table sipping a glass of wine. I didn't speak, walking past her...straight out the door. I didn't want her money...I didn't want to ever see her again. 

At home, I curled up on the couch and wept uncontrollably.
====================


I was awakened by a knock at the door. In my muddled mind I tried to recall why I was sleeping on the sofa. The previous night of events came rushing back to me. Was it a bad dream? The odor of sex told me otherwise.

As I arose to answer the door, I could feel my panties sticking to me, a stark reminder of my humiliation at the hands of of my demented neighbor.

It was Carol at the door. "I tried your back door but didn't get an answer," she said. 

She didn't wait for an invitation, slipping past me into the house. "Here, I have the money I owe you...$150.00...and an additional $200.00 for the juicy video. Not bad, huh. $350.00 for less than an hours work. See, I told you there was money in that body of yours."

I shuddered at the thought. "Listen Carol, would you excuse me...I'm not feeling well." 

"I'm sorry honey, what's the problem? Didn't you sleep well last night?"

My silence was her cue. She moved towards the door. "Listen baby, I'm having another photo session this afternoon. You're welcome to join us. Paula will be there. You could make another couple hundred dollars."

"You raped me last night," I said incredulously. "You tied me up and raped me. And you have the nerve to...."

"Whoa," she said with mock surprise. "Where is this coming from? That isn't how I remember it. And you had better be careful about accusing someone of rape. I have a video of what happened. Would you like to see it?"

I didn't want to see it. I knew what it would reveal. Certainly not the truth...only my shameful weakness. 

I looked at the $350.00 on the coffee table. I felt like a whore. 

I ran to the bathroom and buried my head in the commode. This was, undoubtedly, the lowest point in my life. 
======================


Two days later, after much soul searching, I called a realtor acquaintance and placed my home for sale. My hopes of a peaceful surburban life were over.

With great reluctance, I moved back in with my mother. She welcomed me with open arms...her "I told you so" was evident without ever uttering the words.

It didn't take long to find another job. In fact, it was a better paying job than I had before. And my house sold quickly. It was a sad day for me. It was my first house, my first real independence...and I missed it. 

==========================

My new life was uneventful and boring. I couldn't seem to get on track. I enjoyed my new job but my social life was non existent. Nothing seem to interest me. Even dating couldn't break me out of the doldrums...

One day, while walking to a coffee shop for lunch, I glanced at one of those newspaper racks selling underground papers. There, on the front page, a picture of a woman whipping another female. I have no idea what possessed me...I dropped fifty cents in the rack, quickly grabbing the paper and cramming into my purse. I glanced around to see if anyone was watching...the tinge of guilt made me feel alive. 

That evening, alone in my room, I retrieved the paper from my purse. I stared at the picture for a long time. My body quivered with arousal. Turning the page, and ad on page three caught my attention. 

NEED DISCIPLINE...CALL ME MARGO...555-4569 

I read and re-read those five words over and over. Something was stirring inside me. I welcomed the feeling of excitement.

I fingered myself for the first time in months. My orgasm was explosive...the image from the newspaper an aphrodisiac to my twisted mind.
====================


With a spirit I hadn't felt for ages, I made plans for the weekend. Lying to my mother about going to Atlantic City with a friend from work, I made reservations at a hotel in the city.

Saturday, I spent the day window shopping...trying to work up the nerve to call the number from the paper. Around four in the afternoon, back in my hotel room, I dialed the number. 

I hesitated when a woman answered on the first ring. "Yes, can I help you?" the voice asked. 

"Uh...uh, may I speak to Margo?" I asked timidly. 

"This is Margo speaking. Can I help you?" 

"Yes...I...uh...I wanted to find out what you charge for your services. I read your ad in the paper." 

"You feel like you need to be disciplined" she asked in a firm voice. "And do you wish to see me next week, tomorrow...or today?" 

"Today...uh...I mean tonight," I whispered. "I'm in the city for the weekend. I thought I might want to meet with you if it's not too expensive." 

"What's your name?" she asked. 

"Gretchen," I said. 

"Are you a slut, Gretchen?" 

"Nooo...I'm nothing like that, I answered, feeling offended. "I'm sorry, maybe...maybe I've made a mistake." 

"Five hundred dollars," she blurted out. "Six hundred and fifty if I have to come to you. By the way, what hotel are you staying at?" 

"At the Biltmore," I said, immediately sorry I revealed my location to her. 

"Well, what will it be Gretchen? Your place or mine?" 

"I think I'll pass," I quickly answered. "I didn't realize it would be so expensive. I'm sorry I took up your time." I quickly hung up the phone. 

I felt foolish. I could have called and inquired about her price from home. I could have saved myself a trip into the city. I could have been lonely at home.

Making the most of a bad decision, I dressed for dinner. The hotel dining room was elegant, conveying a sense of sophistication and order...something I hadn't felt for a long time. I rationalized quickly, maybe my weekend in the city wasn't a such a waste of time after all. 

After being seated, i glanced around the room. I was the only one eating alone...and I didn't mind.

After a pleasant dinner, I sauntered across the lobby to the hotel bar. There were only eight or nine people in the bar...apparently not a hot spot on Saturday night. I moved to a stool at the end of the bar where I could observe everyone. 

I was just about to order a second drink when a woman approached: "Is this seat taken," she asked?" 

"No...no it's not," I said, glancing her way. 

She was absolutely beautiful...dressed in a gray business suit...like a business executive trapped in the city for the weekend. 

She ordered a drink. "I'm Margo," she said very forthright..."I think we spoke on the phone earlier this afternoon." 

I didn't know how to respond. Did she misunderstand me on the phone? It was an awkward moment to say the least. 

"No, I didn't misunderstand you on the phone," she said as if reading my mind. "But I had a free night and thought I'd come downtown and check out the confused young girl from the suburbs. You are from the suburbs, aren't you?" 

"Yes, yes I am," I mumbled. "But how, how did you find me." 

"It wasn't all that difficult," she said as matter of fact. "I knew your first name and what hotel you were staying at...money did the rest. You know, a few bucks to the doorman...the desk clerk..." 

"What do you want?" I asked. "I already told you I couldn't afford...." 

"Oh, don't worry about that," she said. "I'm not looking for money from you. Just curious, I guess. You don't mind, do you? I mean," as she glanced around the room, "it doesn't look like there's an exciting night in store for you. I thought we could have a few drinks...you know, maybe get acquainted. If I'm making you uncomfortable, I'll have my drink and leave. Do you want me to leave?" 

"No, I guess not. I'm still amazed you went to such lengths to find me." 

"It was nothing, really," she said. "Believe me. I'm certainly glad I did. You're nothing like my usual clients. They tend to be several years older than you. What are you, twenty three, twenty four?" 

"Yes, around that," I lied. "What do you do with your....you know, your...uh...clients?" 

"What ever they want. They're all unique. Well, that's not exactly true. They do have one thing in common...they're all rich, or at least well off. Money isn't a problem for them." 

"That's really weird," I said incredulously.never would have thought rich people would..." 

"Rich people" she mused, "can afford their fetishes, their dark side. But enough about my clients. What about you? Why did you call me? Do you have any idea what I do.?" 

"No, not really. You know, I'm really uncomfortable talking about this. I don't know why I called you. I'm not a freak or anything. In fact, I'm about as normal as anyone can be. I guess the mystery of your ad intrigued me." 

She ordered both of us another drink. "Are you a lesbian, Gretchen? Have you ever had sex with a woman?" 

"No way," I said defiantly. "I'm straight. I've been married. I'm divorced now, but I've always been straight. Why would you ask me a question like that?" 

"Doesn't it stand to reason?" she said, taking another sip of her drink. "I mean, after all, you called a woman to discipline you." 

I couldn't argue with her logic. I guess it would appear that way. But if I were a lesbian, I think I would know it. Maybe Carol thought I was a lesbian...maybe that's why she raped me. 

"So, what do you do Gretchen? I mean what kind of work do you do? You do work, don't you?" 

"Yes, I work. I work for a financial institution. I'm not a bigwig or anything...just one of the lowly workers." 

"That's interesting. Do you like your job? Is your supervisor a man or a woman?" 

"Yes, I like my job...I mean it's okay. My boss is a man. Why...why would you ask that?" 

"Just curious," she said. "Listen, do you have a wet bar in your room?" 

"Yes, I think so," I said with some uncertainty. "There's a tray with those little liquor bottles...you know, like the ones they have on planes." 

"Why don't we have a drink in your room where we can be comfortable. Wouldn't you like that...being more comfortable?" 

"Uh...I guess. Sure, we can do that. Why not. By the way, this isn't something you're going to charge me for is it?" 

She laughed. "No, I'm not going to charge you. I told you, I came here strictly out of curiosity. And I've found I like you...that's all." 

When she slid off of her stool, I was immediately intimidated. She was at least a full head taller than me. Entering the elevator, I felt small and insignificant standing next to her. 

The closer we came to my floor, the more uneasy I became. I didn't know what to expect. Were we just going to have a friendly drink or was she planning on doing something to me? 

Entering the room, I turned to ask what she would like to drink. She moved up close to me, her hands fondling my breast through my blouse. I stood there, unable to move. I was embarrassed...not wearing a bra, I knew she could feel my nipples growing hard. She pinched them between her fingers, twisting them till the pain was excruciating. I wanted to pull away from her...I didn't. I stood there till the pain brought tears to my eyes. 

"Why are you hurting me?" I blubbered. 

"To let you know who's in charge in this room," she said. "Do you understand?" 

"Yes," I whispered. "But you didn't have to...." 

She pinched them again. 

"Please," I whispered. "I'm sorry...if I offended you, I'm sorry." 

She walked across the room and sat down in one of the two tufted chairs. I stood there confused...not knowing what was expected of me. My emotions were conflicted...I was scared...and excited. I didn't know why. What was wrong with me! 

She removed her suit jacket...her blouse so sheer I could clearly see her breast, large and full, and her dark areola's were absolutely the largest I'd ever seen.

"Hang this up," she ordered. I quickly retrieved the jacket and hung it on a hanger. 

"Do you like my breast?" she asked. 
"I...I guess so," I said meekly. 

"Well, you must. You haven't taken your eyes from them since I removed my jacket." 

I hung my head, feeling guilty...guilty for ogling her...her breast. 

"Tell me, Gretchen...did your mother spank you when you were a child?" 

"No, never," I sniffled. "She never touched me. She was strict but she never ever spanked me." 

"Have you ever been spanked?" she asked. "By a teacher...or anyone?" 

I thought it odd, her question. What did this have to do with...with anything? But it brought back a memory...something I hadn't thought of in years. High school.... 

"When I was a senior in high school I had a teacher who spanked me," I murmured. "It seems so long ago...I can't even remember why she spanked me. I must have done something wrong." 

"So, it was a female teacher who spanked you, huh." she said. 

"Yes...Mrs Albright. She was a new teacher...young...really pretty. She was my favorite teacher that year. I loved being in her class. I can't remember why she...." 

"How did she spank you, Gretchen? Did you bend over a desk...did you lie across her lap?" 

"Across her lap," I said as the memory rushed backed to me. "I would lie across her lap and she would...uh...she would pull up my skirt and spank me with her hand. And then..." I hesitated to say any more. 

"And then what? You were going to say something else. What?" 

"She was so nice afterwards. After spanking me she would apologize. She would tell me how sorry she was she had to spank me. My bottom would be on fire and she'd rub it gently, all the time telling me how sorry she was." 

"What else would she say? Did she tell you how nice your ass was...how soft and round...how pretty and inviting it looked?"

"Yes...yes, she would say that! How...how could you know? She would caress me till the sting went away. Caress and rub me gently...her fingers sliding down...down between my cheeks...Oh my god...I remember...her fingers slipping down into my...." 

"She fingered your cunt didn't she baby. She fingered you to an orgasm...an orgasm for a eighteen year old. It must have been so pleasurable...a young teacher you admired giving you pleasure you never experienced before. She made you cum! 

"Oh god...yes...yes, she did. How did I forget that? Her fingers caressing my pussy...my pussy. It was so dirty...mom would have been so mad if she had found out about it. I never told anyone...not my mother or anyone because...because I wanted it...I wanted her to finger me. I'd do something bad so she'd have to finger me again and again. Lying across her warm lap...cumming......God, how did I forget that all these years?"

"Have you been bad today, Gretchen? Have you done something today you need punished for...that you want to be punished for?" 




Images



It was incredulous. To suddenly remember...to bring back long suppressed images from my childhood...and suddenly being treated like a child again..... 

"Yes," I whispered. "I've been bad today." 

"Come here, Gretchen...lie across my lap. You've been bad and need to be punished." 

And just like when I was eighteen years old, I lay across her lap, feeling the familiarity of gentle hands stroking the back of my thighs...pulling up my skirt and...and...and...whack, the stinging slap of the open hand against my ass. 

"I won't be bad again, Miss Margo," I said through trembling lips. "I won't be....." 

Whack. Another open handed slap. Again and again till tears welled in my eyes, dripping from my cheeks to the floor. And when she finally stopped, I lay across her lap in anticipation.... 

"I'm sorry I had to spank you, Gretchen. But, you were bad today. I've made your pretty little ass so red..." 

She caressed me, a soothing, soft touch. Fingers slipping up and down the outline of my crack...slowly easing in deeper...deeper... 

"You have a superb ass, Gretchen. So round and firm...and just damp enough for my fingers to slip into your hairless pussy...feel that dear...feel my fingers fucking you? Such a nice ass for a nasty little girl." 

Fingers slipping between my thighs, cupping my mound... 

"Mmmmmmm," I moaned when her finger slipped easily into my slit. I widened my legs.... 

She flicked my clit. "Oh god....mmmmm...please," I said in a little girl voice...."fuck me for being bad, Miss Margo. Fuck me...please." 

My orgasm was so explosive I almost fell from her lap. She held me around my waist as I humped her fingers like the nasty little girl I had become. The pleasure was exquisite...almost painful. 

"Get on you knees," Margo ordered. 

I slipped from her lap, kneeling before her submissively. She slowly, deliberately spread her nylon clad legs...her tight white silk panties clearly in view. 

"You want to be a good girl and lick my cunt, don't you Gretchen. You want to be good to me by doing a bad thing for me don't you." 

"Yesss, Miss Margo." 

And for the first time in my life, I pushed my face between a woman's thighs...her womanly aroma heightened my desire to satisfy her...to be bad...to have a secret from my mom... 

As inept as I was, I managed to lick her into a frenzy...to give her an orgasm...to cause her to softly mew like a baby. I went beyond her expectations...licking her clean to a second cumming.... 

"You were a delight," she said as she arose to straighten her clothes. "I should pay you. Most of my clients are so unappealing...you were the best sex I've had in some time." 

I was still in a state of lust. Her transition from my mistress...my disciplinarian, to being my new friend, shocked me. 

"We'll have to get together again sometime," she said. "I thoroughly enjoyed this evening. You did too, didn't you?" 

"Uh...yes, I guess I did. Some things are more clear to me now. And you actually turned out to be a very nice woman." 

She grabbed a handful of my hair, jerking my head backwards. "You remember who's in charge, Gretchen. We are not friends. Do we understand each other?" 

"Yessss," I said excitedly. And I was glad she drew a line in the sand...a friend wouldn't care if I was bad..... 
------------------------


The following weekend I found myself sitting in a taxi in front of Carol's house. The urge to return here was so compelling...back to the house with the studio of shame. 

I knew I shouldn't get out of the cab...chalk it up to a long expensive ride and have him return me to my mother's home where I lived...to the safety and security she provided for me. 

The cab was gone. The driver paid, he swiftly drove away...leaving me standing where I didn't belong. 

I rang the doorbell, wishing I were somewhere else. I heard a noise inside...oh god, she was home... 

"Gretchen," her familiar voice cut through me like glass. "What are you doing here girl? Well, it doesn't matter...come in...come in. You look great, girl." 

"I just thought I'd stop in to see how you were doing," I stuttered. "What's it been...five or six months? I see my old house next door is looking good. Glad to see the new owners taking care of it."

"Yep, new neighbors," she said. "Well, not so new any more. They moved in right after you left. And you...you moved out of here without even bothering to say good-by."

"I know...I'm sorry. It's just that...well things were happening that I didn't understand. I was scared and hurt."

I watched her as she poured the wine. Her body was just as I remembered. An hour glass figure...

"I thought you were mad at me or something," she said. "Well, it certainly is nice to see you again. I see you still like your wine. Would you like some more?"

"Sure, why not. So, what are you doing today. Do you have a picture session going on?" 

"No, no pictures today," she said. "Today is panty day." 

"Panty day?" I don't understand..." 

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "You moved away before I had a chance to get you involved in my panty business. Too bad...it's real money making venture." 

"What...what kind of bus...." 

"I sell soiled panties through my website. You know...well, I guess maybe you don't know. Men, mostly men, order dirty panties from me." 

"How disgusting," I said. 

"It helps pay the bills, girl," she said. "It's very lucrative. So, where are you living now? Did you buy another house or did you move into the city?" 

"I'm living with my mother, temporarily," I murmured. "I haven't made up my mind yet...I may buy another house...I don't know." 

"You're welcomed to move in here if you get tired of living with your mom," she snickered. "I have plenty of room. You could maybe buy our groceries for your rent..." 

"I had a reason for coming here today," I said hesitantly. "Do you remember the last time I was here...what happened...you know...downstairs? Remember, when you did those things to me?" 

"Sure I remember. What about it? You're not going to bring up that rape thing again are you? You know as well as I...." 

"No, nothing like that, I interrupted. "At the time I...well, didn't understand why I responded the way I did. I'm sorry I made those accusations to you the next day. As it turns out, there may have been a reason for my reaction...my orgasm with you...or at least I think there was a reason." 

"Really? You're sure it wasn't because you were just a horny slut? Don't tell me...you've come up with some kind of childhood bullshit...my mother made me do it crap. Listen, girl...I could probably get nine out of ten girls to cum in their panties given the right setting and circumstances. Believe me, I've done it, so don't read to much into some crack pot theory...." 

Maybe I"m wrong, I thought to myself. Maybe she's right...maybe I've always been a slut and my Junior High teacher recognized it. I was confusing myself even more. 

"So, you didn't come to see me as a friend, I take it," she said sarcastically. "You're trying to analyze some bullshit that happened to you five months ago...to rationalize your actions. Well, you listen to me, girl. I think your a closet slut...you liked it then, and you'd like it now. You know, you piss me off...I ought to...." 

"You should what?" I asked. "Do it to me again? That's what you were going to say wasn't it? Once a slut, always a slut...that's what you think of me isn't it?" 

I didn't mean to lash out at her like that. My intentions were good to find out.... 

Her hand snapped out, fingers tangling in my curly hair. Jerking me up by the head of my hair, she literally drug me towards the steps...the steps to her downstairs studio. 

She wasn't gentle...I walked hurriedly behind her, trying to ease the pressure and pain from my head. 

"Please, Carol," I pleaded. "I didn't mean anything by what I said. I'm sorry...please, let me go. I'll get out of your life forever." 

Still dragging me by my hair, she marched me to the center of the downstairs room, directly under the dreaded rope hanging from the ceiling. 

"Pease," I begged of her..."don't do anything to me. Not again. I can't go through this...pleaseeeee." 

In an instant I was hanging from the rope, my arms stretched high above my head, my entire body vulnerable to anything she wanted to do to me. 

"Listen, Carol," I tried to reason with her, "This time you are acting against me will. If you're angry, stop and think a minute. Don't do something you'll be sorry for. It may have been my fault the first time...not this time..." 

She ignored me! I was becoming scared...really scared. I didn't want to be hurt any more... 

She disappeared into the dressing room for a moment...reappearing with the riding crop in her hand. 

"Oh no, Carol...Please don't...don't whip me. I can't take it...pleaseeeee..." 

She ripped the skirt from my body. "Whap"...the crop lashed across my ass. The pain was excruciating. 

"OH GOD...PLEASEEEE...NO MORE..." "Whap...whack..." 

"EEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIIII," a piercing scream emitted from me. "PLEASEEE...NO MORE....I CAN'T TAKE IT..." 

I was sobbing uncontrollably. And just when I thought I couldn't take the pain any more, she stopped. I could feel her standing behind me...close, her hand running up between my legs, her other hand massaging my burning buttocks. Even her touch was painful... 

"You have such a fine ass," she murmured, her breath on my neck. "Such a fine ass. We could have made a lot of money together, you and I. Do you mind me touching your ass, Gretchen? Would you mind if I kissed it...licked it?" 

Bending down behind me, she applied her lips to the welts left by the whip. Her lips were so gentle. Suddenly her tongue veered sharply, tracing up and down my crack...so soothing.... 

And, for the first time, I felt a warm, wet protuberance penetrating between my cheeks...licking me so nastily...flickering around my butt hole... 

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," I swooned from the pleasurable warmth spreading throughout my body. 

Continuing to tongue my asshole, her hand slipped between my legs, cupping my mound. One finger...two...slipping into my cunt. I longed for it.... 

I hung there, bathed in pleasure as she tongued me from behind, fingering my cunt to the edge of orgasm. Suddenly she withdrew her tongue...and her fingers! 

"Please," I begged...please Carol...fuck me. Oh god, don't leave me like this...I've been such a bad girl...I'm begging you...fuck me...I'm such a little slut..." 

She walked over to her cameras and begin photographing me. I hung there in shame...my hips twitching for relief...spreading my legs lewdly, trying to entice her to finish me off. 

"So, you've been a bad girl," she said mockingly. "Tell the camera how bad you've been. Tell the camera how bad you want me to lick your cunt. Say it bitch...say it..." 

"Please," I pleaded. Please fuck me. I've been so bad...thinking about girls I want to be with...to do things with...nasty things." 

"What girls," she asked, the recorder whirring away. 

"Uh...uh, the waitress where I eat lunch...my co-worker Mindy...uh...Jennifer...Jenny, the girl who lives next door to my mother..." 

"You are a wicked slut aren't you," she said as she continued her picture taking. Leaving the video camera recording, she knelt before me, burying her face between my thighs.. I swooned from her invading tongue. 

I fucked her face shamelessly, chasing the elusive orgasm...the one that would drain me of all pride and restraint. The one orgasm that would certify me as a bad girl forever...to always and evermore submit for my pleasure...the pleasure my mother said should never exist. 

I screamed out in ecstacy...the orgasm that would forever define me did exist. I filled Carol's sucking mouth, my body shuddering from the aftermath of my exploding cunt. 

Carol wiped her lips on my blouse, turned and went upstairs, She left me hanging there. I didn't mind.... 

========================= 

I don't know how long I was there. Eventually she returned, releasing my wrist. My legs were asleep...numb. I fell into a heap on the floor. Once again, she left me there. 

Sometime later, I managed to stand. Making my way upstairs, I was no longer bewildered by my actions. It appeared Carol was right...I was a slut. 

Carol was lying on the sofa in the living room. Through the dim lit room, I could make out her fabulous body, stretched out on the couch. Dressed only in her panties, she spread her legs lewdly and motioned for me to come to her. 

"Come here honey," she cooed. I need for you to do something for me." 

I approached her slowly...kneeling by the sofa, laying my head between her legs. Her pussy was ripe...ripe for eating.... 

"You can't tell my mommy," I said in my little girl voice. "You can't tell her how nasty I've been. You won't tell her, will you?" 

"I'm your new mommy," she said as she spread her creamy thighs. "Can you be nasty for mommy?" 

I heard the whir of a camera...a camera mounted on her living room wall. I turned from her pussy, just for a second, staring directly into the lens. The shame I felt was like a warm blanket. It was woven by my mother, and a favorite teacher, a long time ago. 

It was now clear to me...perversion was the one true pleasure. Image was everything, my mother would say. She should see me now.... 

*

author little miss blair © copyright 2006 



Images in Her Head



She felt the palm of his hand slide inside the elastic of her knickers. His face was buried in her neck, his lips brushing her skin. She breathed deeply in anticipation. Her eyes closed, she waited to be pleasured. His other hand gripped her buttock firmly, squeezing gently. Then the epiphany struck. Her mind syntaxed and instead of only awaiting the physical pleasure, her closed eyes focused. She felt the fingers approached her clitoris, already strong an erect. Moisture pooled in her vagina. Historically, she would eagerly anticipate the touch, now as her mind focused, she visualised what was transpiring as well

She could "see" her knickers, see the hand slide underneath the thin cotton. It was as though she could see through the material as she "watched" as the two middle fingers slid either side her clitoris, pushing the compliant labia aside. The soft crimson tissue glistening with moisture of her pussy. The tips of the fingers beginning the gentle tugging on her "button". She could see her clitoris visually respond to the touch, watched the crinkles disappeared as it became even more erect, now pointing out from beneath the hood of her vulva.

The image changed as he slid his fingers lower, she could see them now pressed tightly together, the tips curling as they approached her vagina. The orifice was a more pronounced pink and very wet, the tissue twirled slightly, a little like a belly button as the orifice was closed but glistening from her aroused state. 

Her right brain continued to enjoy the heavenly stimulus of her pussy being aroused, her left brain continued to watch as the fingers disappeared into the vault of her pussy. Amazingly, her view changed. Instead of watching from the outside, her view was now from inside her vagina. It was as though her cervix now had and eye. The two fingers approached, slowly parting the walls of her vagina as they entered deeper. The finger tips now spread apart, there was a web of her fluid strung between them. The vault of her vagina, deep pink, wet with her oozing secretion, but soft and pliable. Compliant to the pressure of the advancing fingers, gently moved aside and gave way as the digits continued their slow entrance. She could guess their goal. Just in front of her view, on the front wall, she could determine a soft mound of thicker flesh, more wrinkled than the adjacent tissue, harder and less compliant to movement. Her g-spot was swollen.

Her right brain exploded in pleasure as her left brain watched the two fingers, now pressed together, apply pressure to her spot and slow move apart as the pressure increased.. As the fingers reached the edge of her g-spot mound. they retreated slightly before advancing again to repeat the manoeuvre... over and over again. Each time they withdrew slightly, she felt the palm contact her clitoris, sending sparks to her right brain. As she watched, she felt the onset of an orgasm. The walls of her vagina contracted and exploded with orgasmic fluid as though they had been drenched with a shower head. The walls convulsed as wave after wave ripped through her pelvis and her right brain disappeared into the dark blue depths of climax.

The fingers retreated, the vault returned to darkness, albeit, a moist darkness. Suddenly a soft pink light began to emanate from the entrance. The walls were again parting as something entered her. Her orgasm was still clinging to the walls, and as they moved apart, the fluid was suspended like spider webs across the vault. It was creating a misty vision not unlike a fog. 

From within this opaque vista, she could see a flesh coloured object entering slowly. As the opaque curtain of orgasm parted with its approach, she identified the head of his penis, the slit of the eye now clearly visible. Before she could gain a clearer view, it suddenly retreated. If her mind's eye had a mouth, then her bottom lip would have dropped in disappointment. 

Then just as suddenly, it reappeared, this time breaking through the curtain and almost striking her. She watched as the penis continually trust in and out of her, approaching her vantage point and then disappearing down the tunnel. The head was coming closer and closer to her with every push, she could clearly make out the head and the vein. The eye seemed to open as the edge of the head dragged on the walls of her vagina but quickly closed as it withdrew. 

She felt a hard push, the head was approaching her rapidly, it reached its zenith but didn't withdraw. There was a spurt of hot creamy liquid from the eye. Instinctively she would have ducked her head but there was no need. She watched as the jets of cum nearly filled the vault of her vagina in a few spurts. The head moved away from her marginally and then pushed back towards her as she watched as the last of the ejaculation dribbled out from of the eye, finally filling the vault completely and obscuring her view.

It was as though someone had switched off the lights. Her left brain returned to normal, her right brain rejoiced in her orgasm while her pussy twitched in satisfaction.



Images of Bigotry



I submit this work in the form of a dialogue relating to censorship and bigotry, an all to common occurrence in the workplace and our lives.

*

"You can't put that up in here Sonny."

"What?"

"That! It's a piece of filth 'init. You can't hang that up in here."

"Want to watch me? This work is part of the exhibition."

"I don't care if it's part of the bleedin' Queen's Collection, it ain't going on these walls. We don't want that kind of filth where women and children and see it."

"This is a piece of art, it's part of... "

"That ain't art. That's a woman pulling her drawers up. And it ain't going on my walls."

"She's pulling them down actually. Who are you again?"

"Caretaker."

"And your authority in deciding what hangs in an exhibition is...?"

"It's my Hall and if you put that muck on the wall, I'll take it down."

"Listen. I don't know who you are and quite frankly I don't care. This photograph was chosen by the Council's Art Officer for the exhibition opening tomorrow and it is going up on the wall."

"Yeh... well he's a fucking poofter who doesn't know his arse from his elbow. Fucking liberal queer! He should be sacked."

"I'll let him know your opinion when I speak with him. Better still, you can tell him yourself, he'll be here shortly."

"Oh nancy-boy is coming here is he? I'm surprised he's got the nerve after last time."

The boy ignored him and concentrated on adjusting the wire hanger on the back of the framed photograph checking the height between the hanger and the top edge of the frame to ensure the photograph would hang at the right height.

"I don't understand you kids. Why do you have to make pictures of porn? Look and that fucking girl... what's her name... Tracy something... "

"What about her?"

"Fucking disgusting... that's what about her. That fucking bed with her dirty knickers and used condoms. Right little whore. Disgraceful putting that rubbish on an exhibition. She should be locked away 'til she's learnt how to behave. So should the bastards who run that fucking gallery for that matter."

The boy leant the photograph against the wall and turned to face the caretaker. To describe him as late middle-aged would be generous; he was nearer to retirement age than middle-age, grey haired, dapper despite his khaki overall, with its coloured tipped pens in the breast pocket, buttoned over the neatly pressed trousers that brushed on highly polished black shoes.

"So you're a connoisseur of 'the arts' are you."

The caretaker shrugged his shoulders.

"I know what I like and I know what's decent to show in public... and it's not that filth you call art or what that Tracy girl does."

"Tracy Ermin."

"What?"

"Tracy Ermin, that's her name. She's a very fine and successful artist."

"Yeh... well the public don't want to see that kind of shite... "

"How do you know that? Done a survey have you?"

"Stands to reason. Ordinary people, the common man, isn't interested in seeing that kind of filth. It's porn musk... mastke... masquerading as art just so people like you can get your rocks off."

"You're an idiot!" The boy mumbled to himself turning away.

"I heard that. I may be old but I'm not fucking deaf. Who are you calling an idiot, you young fucking whipper-snapper. If I were a few years younger I'd whip your hide."

The boy turned back to his photograph.

"Say sorry! You fucking apologise to me."

"I'm not going to apologise to someone who keeps swearing at me all the time."

"You fucking apologise or I'll have you thrown out of here."

"No, I'm not apologising. Now leave me alone before I call the Art's Officer."

"Don't make me fucking laugh, that nancy-boy don't hold no sway round here. This my hall and I'm not having your fucking filth on my walls."

The boy put the photograph down again.

"What is your problem?" He said turning to face the caretaker. "What gives you the right to say what is Art? How do you get to be the moral judge of society?"

"I fought in the war, I did... "

"You're not old enough to have fought in the war. Your old, but you're not that old."

"You cheeky little bastard. I fought in the Falklands."

The boy looked at him feeling slightly uncomfortable."

"I'm sorry. I thought you meant the Second World War. Even so, that doesn't give you're the right to dictate what is Art. Just because you fought in a battle over somewhere not really very important doesn't give you the right to dictate moral values. Anyway, all war is iniquitous."

The caretaker was silent for a moment.

"What's that supposed to mean? Iniqu...thing" The caretaker asked.

"Iniquitous? Immoral, wrong."

"I should have known. You're one of those lefty fucking liberals. Fucking girls you lot are. Bet you've never done a days hard work in your life. Nancy-boys like you make me want to throw up. Fucking tossers! I don't know what this country is coming to. Thank Christ we didn't have to depend on your lot for winning the war."

"Stupid sending men all that way, lives lost just to defend a rock in the south Atlantic."

"You'd have just given it away would you? Thank fuck you weren't around when the Nazi's were invading."

"That was different. It's a question of degrees. It's like Art, there is a borderline between Art and porn and educated people know where it is, just like educated people know the Falklands war was about winning an election. To hell with the lives that were lost, all those hundreds of men drowned with the Belgrano, let alone our own soldiers."

"Don't talk bollocks! The Falklands is ours, not the fucking Argies and we had every right to take to it back. What you call art is just a load of filth. Why can't you take pictures that people want to look at instead some tart with her knickers half way down her legs?"

"Have you looked at this photograph?"

"I've seen it. It's dirty."

"Well since I only brought it here an hour ago and the nearest you've been to it is about three metres, you can't really have seen it.

"Listen Sonny... "

"No you listen. Take a look at the photograph. Tell me what you see."

"It's a girl with her knickers down, she's looking at her fanny."

"How do you know she's looking at her 'fanny' as you choose to call it. You can't even see her pubis from the angle of the photograph. You can't see breasts, the hair falls over them. You can't really see a face other than the puzzled look on the eyes and the furrowed brow, its mostly masked by the hair. And the bottom is only really in silhouette. There is no anatomical detail and you assume it's a woman because of the long hair. You are making judgments without even looking at the photograph. You're allowing your bigotry and prejudices to cloud your vision. You don't even try to see."

The caretaker walked up to the photograph taking a sideways glance at the boy and leaned forward to study the framed image where it rested against the wall. He gave every impression of looking though he studied the image for less than ten seconds.

"You're a fucking pervert you are. If that's a bloke you're a fucking pervert just like that queer bastard Arts Officer."

The boy smiled at him.

"You are so gullible. Even the slightest suggestion kicks your bigotry into life. Look at the panties. What man would wear panties like that with a delicate lace border?"

"Your fucking sort for sure. Nancy-boys." He said, stooping again to look at the picture. 

The caretaker stood and faced the boy his face purple with rage.

"You are fucking disgusting. That's it. I'm going to call the police. They can throw the book at you. Fucking obscene bastard."

"Ah you noticed. Finally you've seen something."

"Yeh I've seen it. You're fucking loco. You should be locked up."

"So what is your problem now?"

"You can't show a photograph of a young girl with... that."

"Menstruating, is that what you mean, having her period. So now it's not a man, it's a young girl."

"Of course it's a young girl! Anyone can see that. That is the most disgusting thing I've ever seen. You should be fucking ashamed of yourself. If I was younger, I'd knock you into next week. Dirty bastard!"

"So if I tell you that is not a young girl but my wife, who happens to be twenty-four, you'd be quite surprised."

"Don't care who the fuck it is. If that's your wife, she's as big a slag as you are."

The boy frowned. "I'll pretend you didn't say that."

The caretaker stood looking at the boy, his face carrying a slightly shamed expression. Both were silent for a minute or so.

"Is that really your wife?"

"Yes."

"Why did she pose like that? It's demeaning."

"No. It's not demeaning. It's a perfectly normal bodily function experienced by every woman, but we, particularly men, prefer not to acknowledge it. Tell me something. What newspaper do you read?"

"What the fuck has that got to do with anything?"

"I'm just interested. What newspaper do you read?"

"The Sun." "Ah... so the page three girls in The Sun are not demeaning themselves yet most of them are younger than twenty-one and all of them show their breasts."

"It's different. Anyway I don't look at the pictures."

"You buy it for its decisive political analysis and in-depth economic commentary. Of course you look at the pictures! Don't be a hypocrite."

"Hey Sonny, you watch who are calling fucking names... "

"I've had enough of this! You are the most bigoted individual I've ever met. You know nothing about Art yet demand to have a say in what is exhibited and you can't tell the difference between soft porn in a newspaper and a photograph that shows no anatomical details."

"I know filth! And what you're showing is filth. That picture is disgusting. Why show something like that?"

The boy looked at him and shook his head.

"You really want to know? I'll tell you. Art is about more than just making pretty pictures. It is a record and a commentary of the times in which we live. All those pictures in the National Portrait Gallery are not just paintings of famous people they are statement about social order, status, and power. They tell historians many things about life in those times, the clothing, the backgrounds, the books on the library shelves, the countryside. They record past times, just as much as books on history.

"Any modern artist whether they are a painter or sculptor, writer or photographer strives to capture and record the world in which we live, particularly if working figuratively and literally. We stretch at the boundaries of the acceptable, not to gain notoriety for ourselves, though I admit some do, but to gain the attention of the audience and pass on our message.

This photograph touches the boundary of decency, it has to in order to deliver it's message. The world is full of images, you have to push at the boundary; the trick is to know when to stop."

"So what's the message?"

"It is about the deception we practice on our daughters by not explaining to them the on-set of menstruation. It's about that precise moment when a young girl passes into womanhood and assumes the greatest gift of our species. It's about responsibility and recognising that from this moment you take control over your body. Despite all our efforts, childhood pregnancies are rising, heterosexual AIDS is rising, and treatable sexually transmitted diseases are rising. It's to remind parents that little girls grow into women."

The caretaker shook his head. "And that's your wife? She don't look old enough to be married."

"That's her natural beauty and my expert camerawork."

"Well if I were you, I'd write a fucking notice and put it next to it, 'cos no one is going to get that. It's just a dirty fucking picture as far as I'm concerned. I'm going to lunch."

'Philistine,' the boy mumbled as the caretaker moved away down the hall. He crouched down and unwrapped the second photograph. It showed his four-year old daughter, backlit, crouched down, hair framed by curls, in a child's dress trimmed with lace ruching, and passing to her mother a tampon. 

'He'll have a heart attack when he sees this,' the boy thought. 



Images of Kimberly



Kimberly Wilder is a fabulous artist whose exquisite line drawings, generally in pencil, effect immediate penile erections or lubricated vaginas. Herself a transvestite, Kimberly's wild shemale art features transvestites young and old, the latter often putting the former through their paces as, using bondage and discipline techniques, including humiliation, spanking, forced feminization, and forced servitude, they train them in the fine art of being beautiful, feminine, desirable and submissive young ladies--or ladyboys--whose only purpose in life is to serve their harsh mistresses, anally, orally, and otherwise.

As I point out, in "Kimberly Wilder: An Assessment," as a boy, Kimberly played dress up and, tragically, she was sexually molested. Her traumatic experience is repeated, as it were, many times over, in the sexual abuse that her drawings' alter egos frequently suffer--and themselves, in turn, perpetuate upon others. In her art, Kimberly--that is, the surrogate for herself, the character who, created in her own image and likeness, bears an uncanny resemblance to the artist herself--both gives and receives abuse, experiencing both ends of the sadomasochistic spectrum of pain and pleasure. Like many other artists, Kimberly uses her talent to transcend the pain and suffering she endured in the past, making of these painful experiences the raw materials, as it were, of her present transformation of herself into a gorgeous transvestite and her celebration, in her beautiful drawings, of herself and all her experiences, past and present, pleasant and painful, alike.

Her drawings range from mild (or milder) to wild (or Wilder), featuring damsels in distress whose pain and suffering is produced by wealthy female sophisticates, Catholic nuns, demons, female employers, mothers, nurses, dominatrices, policewomen, female drill sergeants, and other female authority figures. It is rare that men inflict pain and suffering on Kimberly's cast of characters, but one drawing does show a beautiful, young ladyboy sandwiched between two black men with enormous erections. Usually, Kimberly's characters are tormented by older women, although, in some drawings, the abusers are the female (or shemale) peers of the humiliated victim.

As I observe, in "Kimberly Wilder: An Assessment," Kimberly is not only a gorgeous young ladyboy herself, but, in fact, the raven-haired, slender and statuesque transvestite, blessed with a classically beautiful face and a sexy figure, is frequently the model for the main characters in her own art. In this essay, I am evaluating the works in which the hairstyle, facial features, and figure of the protagonist makes it clear that this character is meant to represent Kimberly.

Kimberly appears as the protagonist in a drawing that shows her seated upon the edge of an office desk. Her hair is styled in the same manner that the artist wears her own hair, and the figure is wearing hoop earrings, a green jacket, a black skirt, blue-green stockings, and high-heeled shoes that match the jacket's color. Her arms are at her sides, the palms of her hands pressed flat against the desktop. Her skirt, which would fall to about mid-thigh, is pushed back, up her smooth, shapely legs, to reveal her cock, which juts, half-erect, from beneath the hem of the pushed-back skirt, a tangle of dark, coiled pubic hair visible just above the shaft. Her knees are together, but her feet are apart, and she stares straight ahead. Seated in an executive's swivel chair mounted upon a wheeled platform, a somewhat older woman, her hair in a bun adorned with a small red bow, wearing gold earrings, a light-pink shirt, a red ribbon tie, a dark-pink mini-skirt with thin black belt, a wristwatch, sheer pantyhose, and light-pink high-heeled shoes, the fingers of her right hand fanned out beneath her chin, gives Kimberly an appraising look, as if she is considering the lovely transvestite for more than a job, an impression that is reinforced by the image of a face that could be that of either a man or a woman sucking a cock on the executive's computer monitor's screen. If this drawing has a title, I'm unaware of it, but a perfect one would be "The Interview" or "Hired on the Spot." If a sexy look (and a flash of flesh) is a prerequisite to being hired, it seems safe to say that the stunning Kimberly will get the job!

Another drawing shows a completely different side of the artist's personality, as, a champagne glass in hand and wearing a black leather bodice, black leather gloves that ascend to the middle of her biceps, and stiletto-heeled, thigh-high boots, also of black leather, Kimberly straddles the hips of a young blonde who, wearing nothing but a pair of panties that have been pulled below her knees, stockings with fancy, ruffled tops, and high-heeled shoes, sprawls across a footstool, a cigarette in her left hand and a glass of bubbly in her right hand. Kimberly has just popped the cork on another bottle of champagne, and the cork is shown in mid-flight as, in its wake, a stream of the bottled beverage erupts, as if it were a copious jet of semen, from the neck of the bottle, which grasping , as if it were a cock, Kimberly has jammed, bottom-first, into the gaping anus of the blonde's skewered bottom, above the fair-haired young woman's own erect, downward-pointing prick. A title for this masterpiece of sadomasochistic partying might be either "Party Girls" or "Happy New Year's Eve!"

A third image of Kimberly shows her standing, facing one of the walls that forms, with another, the corner of a room. The wall behind her is dark; the other, which she faces, is light. The tail of her unbuttoned shirt is tied below her large, round, firm, high breasts, which, fully exposed, reveal themselves to be as lovely a pair as those of any genetic woman, and Kimberly is in the act of tugging the front of her unzipped jeans below her balls. Her massive, erect cock juts forth, veins thick and swollen beneath the taught flesh of the swollen shaft, in all its masculine glory, above the firm, risen ovals of her testes. Her shirtsleeves are rolled above her elbows, and, with the index finger of her right hand, she touches one of the three gobs of her own semen that decorates the wall before her. The wall bears a drawing of a Valentine's-shaped heart, pierced by an arrow, with one name written above it and another below, but the names, unfortunately, are illegible. Was this message--perhaps one written and drawn by Kimberly herself--the Kimberly in the drawing (as well as Kimberly the actual artist)--the inspiration for the ecstasy that has resulted in her ejaculation, as the dark-haired beauty recalled a past or present romance? Again, if the drawing has a title, it is unknown to me, although I think a suitable one for this picture might be "An Affair of the Heart" or "Romance Remembered."

I have commented, already, in "Kimberly Wilder: An Appreciation," upon a fourth of the drawings in which Kimberly herself seems to make an appearance, but, since this essay is concerned with the works of her art in which the artist herself appears as a character, I would be amiss if I did not repeat my observations about this drawing in this writing: In a work reminiscent of Rene Magritte's surrealistic painting, Attempting the Impossible, an artist, looking suspiciously like Kimberly herself, seems to put the finishing touches to a magnificent erection she is painting--an erection that juts through a hole in her canvas and onto the painting's surface. The canvas itself has been painted to resemble a wooden fence, so that the penis that the artist paints is both an imitation of an erect prick and the actual erection itself. The stiff, hard cock that she paints is mirrored by her own erection, so that this surreal masterpiece invokes questions, all at once, about the nature of art, the nature of reality, the nature of perception, and the nature of artistic inspiration.

In evaluating Kimberly's art that features a portrait of the artist herself, I prefer to cite only those in which the protagonist has dark hair cut in a fashion similar to Kimberly's own raven tresses, but a few of the beleaguered ladyboys in her drawings resemble her closely enough, even when their hair is not dark, to suggest that the character is intended to represent Kimberly. One such picture shows the lovely young ladyboy decked out in a peek-a-boo bra, stockings, and high-heeled shoes. Masturbating, she has reached the point of no return, and semen spews from the erect cock she grasps tightly in her right fist, the spray of her seed dashing against the wall in front of her. A butt plug falls from Kimberly's ass, the lubricant that had eased its insertion a splutter of thick droplets. Although Kimberly looks shocked and worried, if not, indeed, afraid, the two women standing in the open doorway behind her pay no attention to the ejaculating ladyboy as they chat away, the younger of them, who wears a dress much like the ones worn by mothers in 1950s situation comedies, smoking a cigarette as she leans casually against one side of the door frame, and her companion, an elderly woman whose sagging bosom is visible, like her slightly rotund tummy and her legs, through the sheer nightgown she wears with her pearl necklace and dainty heels adorned with small ribbons on their insteps. It seems as if the women have seen this same type of behavior many times before and they are neither shocked, titillated, nor even interested in it. It is only Kimberly who is distressed by the presence of the women. A good title for this apparently untitled work might be "Jaded Ladies" or "Needless Epiphany."

Kimberly also seems to put in an appearance in a picture that shows her introducing a pair of young ladyboy lovers to a somewhat older woman, whose buttocks Kimberly holds as she indicates the girly boys. Perhaps the matron is on a shopping spree, hoping to purchase one or both girls, or maybe one of them is her daughter, whom she has entrusted to Kimberly for feminization and training as a transsexual. As Kimberly chats with the older woman, the girly boys, one dressed in a sheer, frilly slip, panties with scalloped hems, knee-high stockings and high-heeled shoes, a bow in her short, flipped-under bob, and holding a small purse shaped like a Valentine's heart, seems about to French kiss the other, a pretty ladyboy peer who wears a sundress with a wide ribbon sash tied in a big bow at the back of her waist, panties, stockings and a garter belt, and high-heeled shoes. At the top of the left stocking, which faces the viewer, the name "Kimberly" is spelled out in a fancy, flowing script. However, the young woman--or transvestite--who chats with her visitor is also obviously Kimberly, as a young adult, so it appears that this drawing is privileged to depict not one, but two, images of the artist, one of her in her earlier years and the other of her as she appears at the point in her career that she actually drew this picture! Both images depict a lovely ladyboy, one blooming, the other in bloom. Together, these images of Kimberly perhaps represent the two aspects, the sadistic older and the masochistic younger version, of the same person. In any case, each ladyboy lover grasps her own erect, ejaculating penis, pressing its shaft and glans against the shaft and glans of the other transsexual's genitals, sharing both flesh and semen as preludes to the deep, wet kiss they apparently plan to enjoy. A good title for this drawing might be "Double the Pleasure" or "Kimberly, Now and Then."

Kimberly's work contains several other images of the artist, and, perhaps, in a future installment of my series of essays concerning Ms. Wilder, I will include descriptions of them as well. Now that I have cum--or come--across a picture that unambiguously identifies a younger woman as representing the artist as she appeared earlier in her life, I will also likely contribute an essay that touches upon that part of Kimberly's work that she devotes to portraits of herself as a younger ladyboy. Meanwhile, check out the artist's work online. It's fabulous and fine, just like Kimberly Wilder herself!



Images of the Night



The night that we spent together is etched firmly in my mind. I spend time lying in bed and replaying it over and over again. However, I began to realize that there are some images that stand out and I felt the need to write them down for us. They are, simply, a condensation of my best memories of the night. I felt something special that night. We were comfortable together like long-time lovers, not like it was the first time.

I arrive at your house and wave to you as you are cuddled up on the couch looking miserable. I come over and cuddle up next to you; I give you a hug and a kiss. We cuddle up together and talk quietly. As I watch, your eyes begin to flicker closed. I suggest that we get you into bed and that I will give you a backrub until you fall asleep. You climb into bed; I strip to my underwear and crawl in after you. We cuddle and I begin rubbing your back. You moan as I find the sore spots on your back. You slide your legs over and my crotch into yours and say "I want you inside of me." I roll and slide off my underwear. Then I pull off your pajama bottoms and your underwear. Unfortunately nerves keep me from getting hard. You tell that it is all right. I slide my hand between your legs. I put two fingers in your warm, wet twat and my thumb on your clitoris. You writhe and moan on the bed. I take my other hand and wrap it around my cock; I stroke up and down. 

You reach over and join in the fun. All this attention solves the problem; I'm hard and erect, ready to go. I move my body between your legs and you move up to meet me. I drive my cock deep into your waiting pussy. I moan; you scream. You try to move fast; I move slowly in and out. Your head thrashes back and forth as your pleasure builds. I begin to move faster and faster. You drive your body up to meet me, your hands pulling my body down to you. We are like animals driving as hard as we can. I feel the orgasm building deep in my balls. You feel my cock grow larger. I bend my head down to kiss you. We kiss the way we are making love, hard and passionately. You stop kissing me as your own orgasms take you over. I come over and over gain, driving into your hot, dripping wet pussy. I fall on top of you breathless. We hug, kiss and slowly return to our senses.

After making love for the first time, we fall asleep. When I awake, I see you lying naked before me; your body dappled by the moonlight; your legs partially covered by the sheet and your hands crossed behind your head; your hair spread across the pillow. You take my breath away. I can't believe that this goddess has chosen to be naked before me. I shake with nervous energy as I look down at your beautiful breasts white in the light and my gaze moves down, over your belly to the juncture of your legs and see the dark, matted pubic hair. My hands and mouth remember the feel and taste of your breasts and their small nipples. My hands remember the feel of your pubic hair as they slid down between your legs to the liquid warmth that resides there. I run my tongue over my lips and taste the remains of that liquid warmth on them. My ears again hear your moans escalating to screams as you come again and again. My body remembers the feeling of the soft skin of your back pressed to my chest. My cock remembers driving in and out of your wet, hot pussy. I move closer and we kiss and we begin our pleasure again.

As we rest spooned together, tired after making love for what seemed like hours, I feel my cock begin to stir again. I think to myself that I can't believe that I am ready to go so soon. I begin to caress your small, soft breasts; you turn your head and we kiss wildly, passionately. I slid my hands between your legs and gently rub your clitoris. You begin to moan. I can't wait any longer; I slide into your ready, waiting, wet twat and begin pistoning in and out. You move your sweet ass against me meeting my strokes as hard as I am driving into you. I shift my position and slide one finger up your ass. You scream louder. I slide a second finger into your ass. You moan. You are so involved in the pleasure that I am giving you that cannot even kiss me any more. Your mouth hangs limp, as your breathing grows increasingly ragged. I pound my fingers harder and faster into your ass. Your body arcs like a bow; my cock slips out. You scream but don't seem to notice. Your breathing sounds like you are running a sprint. Finally, after forever, you push my hand away; you drop back to the bed spent. You look at me, but I don't think that you see me. Your mind is still far away; your body twitches and lays limp. I think of the goddess before me, smile and prepare to worship again.

We pull apart and you roll on your back. I see your delicious ass lit by the moon through the skylight. I move between your legs and you spread them farther apart. I slide my rock-hard cock down the crack between the cheeks and feel you shiver and hear you moan. You slide you legs under and lift your ass into the air, pushing against my cock. I slide inside you, moaning with pleasure. I shake with nerves and pleasure as you push your ass against me. I am completely in you; you moan and twitch. I begin moving, taking long, slow strokes. You pound your ass against me, insisting that I go faster. I speed up until I reach my top speed. The noise of me slamming into your ass echoes throughout the house. I slow again, going back to long, slow strokes. You move with me as we enjoy the sensation of my cock's long, hard length sliding in and out of your hot, wet teat. I reach out and begin rubbing your clitoris. You moan; your head thrashes back and forth. I begin speeding up and your breathing is ragged. You scream and, once again, we slam together. I feel my cock growing larger and larger as I get closer to coming. You clench your pussy around my cock. I come hard and begin to shake with the intensity of my orgasm. I continue to slide in and out until I shrink and fall out. We fell to the bed and kiss with the passion of long-lost lovers. 

That night a goddess descended to earth and allowed me a night of pleasure such as I have never known. For the rest of my days, I will love and worship that goddess and remember this night forever.