14 comments/ 44035 views/ 9 favorites L'histoire By: EmeliaBell I've always loved stockings. I remember when I was a little girl I found a pair of my mother's old suspenders, from when stockings were the only option, in the dressing-up box. I thought they were fascinating and wanted to try them on with some stockings, but my mother still bought my clothes and there was no way I was brave enough – or rich enough – to buy a pair of stockings that I would never really dare to wear outside my dressing-up games. Instead I took a pair of my school tights and cut the legs off. Now I had, to all intents and purposes, a pair of stockings. Hesitantly I rolled them onto my plump little legs and clipped on the suspenders. I probably looked ridiculous. The suspender belt was pale pink and the 'stockings,' were thick, opaque 60 denier black ones. The tops were frayed and rolled over on themselves and there was a hole in one of the legs, which was why I had chosen that pair to cut up. In my mind, though, I felt amazing: womanly, sexy and glamorous. That feeling has never really gone away. When I get dressed now I savour every moment of the process. I spend time in the shower carefully shaving my legs so they're smooth, then rub in cocoa butter in small circles moving upwards. When I am dry and moisturised I stand naked in front of the mirror and run the brush through my long, dark blonde hair as I dry it, relishing the anticipation of getting dressed. I walk over to my bureau and pull out the second drawer. It runs smoothly on its runner, gliding open to reveal my underwear in all its splendour. I select a bra from the small pile on the right – black with sky blue ribbons threaded through the trim and a little bow between the cups. Now for the matching panties, no decision to make there, but the suspender belt, now that's complicated. Black is the obvious choice, but the lacy, flimsy one I wear for dates or the deep, satin one with six straps that provides all day security? I'm going to work, so I choose the satin one and then pull out a pair of barely-black 15 denier stockings with a deep, reinforced top and toe. I lay them out on the bed in their anatomically correct positions, then pick up the suspender belt. I pull it on and settle it over my hips, smoothing it down, then sit on the edge of the belt. Taking one filmy stocking I seize it between my fingers and thumb in each hand and gather it up so it's concertinaed with just the foot hanging down. I pick up my right foot from the floor, automatically pointing my toes elegantly as I bend my knee. I slip my foot into the silky embrace of the stocking, then very carefully work it up my leg, inch by inch. The smooth, tanned skin of my leg is lovely, but it looks even more amazing encased in the shimmery, sheer fabric that tints my leg with a delicate shade of black. I ease the reinforced top into position, then clip on the front strap. I twist my hips slightly to the side, watching the fabric pull taut against the first strap, then clip on the second. Smiling, I pick up the second stocking and gather this one up as well. I slide it up my thigh and fasten the first two straps, then stand up. Immediately I slip my feet into my high-heeled, black work shoes. The leather feels smooth and cool around my foot, the stocking slippery against it. I take a moment to admire my feet and shapely ankles in their elegant shoes, then twist around to reach the tricky back strap of the suspenders and fasten that on too. I pull on my hipster panties over the suspender belt, savouring the tiny oval of bare skin between the top of the panties and the bottom of the belt, then clip on the bra, pulling up my breasts so they sit comfortably in the cups, the generous curve of them spilling over the top. I stand in front of my dresser and pick up the bottle of tinted, shimmery liquid I use as a make-up base. I blend it into my face, working it carefully around my jaw line. I love doing my make-up standing in my underwear. It makes me feel sexy all day. I rub in the cream blusher, line my eyes with black, powder my nose, curl my lashes and coat on black mascara that makes the greenness of my eyes stand out against my light tan. I fluff up my hair and enjoy the sight of myself looking all sexy and slutty in my elaborate underwear, full makeup and come-to-bed hair. This is when I love my rich curves and rounded belly. When I'm naked or in my underwear I feel womanly and attractive. This is the image I hold of myself all day. It's what gives me my confidence and sex-appeal. It's the reason I wiggle my hips when I walk and hold my head up high. Every time I cross my legs I feel the stockings slipping across each other, creating a silken caress that can't really be described unless you've experienced it. I am intensely aware of the thick straps digging into my tender flesh and the large, bare gap at the top where I can feel cool air brushing the skin of my thighs and buttocks. Armed with the secret knowledge of my underwear I am coolly in control at the office. I order people around, lean back and cross my arms arrogantly and I am invincible. It's the same when I'm on dates. The knowledge of the stockings that drive me and most men wild makes me into a more powerful, sexual woman than I am without them. For dates I pull out the big guns. Fully fashioned, seamed black stockings. Reinforced, toe and Cuban heel with lace trimmed tops and a keyhole loop at the back. When a man runs his hand up my thigh and I feel the warmth and silkiness as it travels along the stocking, then the dry, coarseness of his bare palm on the delicate flesh at the top I have to bite my lip. I love standing in front of a man as he sits on the sofa or the edge of my bed, having him caress my legs, then lifting my dress up over my head, allowing him to appreciate the satin of my bustier, or the plunge of my push-up bra and the way I am bound and enveloped by my underwear; presenting to him a beautifully wrapped package of female flesh for his delectation. But probably the very best bit about stockings is being able to wear them during sex. Lying on your back, naked except for the suspender belt encircling your waist, the elastic straps and the silky, black stockings is incredible. You're naked, but you're also dressed. It really is indescribable how you feel sexual and vulnerable at the same time, dressed and naked. Looking down at your own legs encased in stockings while a man buries his face in your wet, fragrant pussy is such a turn on. Even better is having him lie on top of you, holding your legs over his arms while he thrusts his big, hard cock into you. Your legs are sliding against his arms because of the stockings, the exposed flesh feels so much more sensitive and the suspenders cut in to your hips and hold in your stomach. The sensation of being fucked is mind-blowing, but what you are really focused on, as your whole body trembles with the white-heat explosion of orgasm, is how kinky and sexy you must look, lying there in your stockings. l'Histoire d'une femme Every story of one’s self is a fiction. But one can at least try to speak some truth. I write here not as a woman speaking for all women, but only for myself. Take from it what you will. It is hard to know where to begin, for there is no beginning, really. I have constructed this visual and textual journal as a way of exploring, putting into words and images, my sexuality and erotic desires. This is far from simple. Most of what I have seen out here in cyber strikes me as deeply false. There are exceptions of course, but the majority of stories and images seem never to touch on those things that really put us into question. I don’t mean that in some abstract philosophical sense, but merely in the more quotidian one of asking: What do I desire? For me, asking these questions and slowly discovering the answers has not been easy. In the process of discovery I have been tempted to return to empirical and causal explanations of my desire. Although past experiences surely shape my desire, these kinds of explanations have increasingly come to seem like an escape from facing the desire itself, as if knowing the cause would create a sense of relief: “It is not me, it is them, it is they or he or whomever who has made me this way.” But no one made me as I now am; what I am and desire is a creative mixture of experience, fantasy, and just a lot of erotic energy with no final cause or explanation at all. Facing this fact—the mystery of my desire—has been for me liberating. Curiously enough I was able to face it for the first time with, and in many respects thanks to, a man who is the sole human being that knows my past as it was. Speaking it allowed me to release myself from the illusion of causality and to inhabit perversion as my own. By this I mean something different from the consumable items found at your local website. I don’t doubt that some of you, those who may read this, will consume it like a cyber hand job. Be that as it may. It is more likely that you will not get past this paragraph. Perversion is for me not a practice of consumption but really a way of being in my own skin. It is, in a sense, about accepting your skin and yet wanting, needing to break through the boundaries of being in this body and no other. There is, I think, a tremendous amount of violent energy in my sexuality—the desire to be broken down by another person and to break that person down--and accepting that violence is the key to pleasure and discovery. Likewise, it is for me crucial to accept that there is no reason whatsoever for our separateness, that is, I cannot be you or really know you as you know you. I cannot be in your skin/you cannot be in mine. I can only break momentarily into you/let you break into me, and in this sense visit an utterly strange space or place where I no longer know my way about and, for that very reason, might just discover something new. For me the new discovery was the depth of my desire for submission. Although I have had submissive fantasies my whole life, I had rarely if ever faced them. They seemed incompatible with my self-image. They seemed utterly, stereotypically “feminine.” No knowledge of their masculine version attenuated my sense of humiliation. Insofar as I have spent a great deal of my life and energy combating social stereotypes of all kinds, I could never square these fantasies with who I am. They were something to be defended against, shut out of my consciousness with that steel door of repression we all know so well. These fantasies were/are both heterosexual (in relation to men) and homosexual or “queer” (in relation to women and persons of uncertain gender identity). There are patterns in these fantasies, which I shall discuss later, but the main point now is this: they unsettle me. Keeping them packaged as fantasies to be taken out selectively in order to masturbate was somewhat disturbing, but easy enough. I could “get off,” then get up and go on with my normal routine. What has been really difficult has been bringing them out for another person to see, and to ask—in this case—him to live them through with me, doing things to me that seemed, according to social criteria of what is “normal” and “respectable,” unspeakable. Needless to say this has involved a tremendous amount of trust, for at a certain point I gave up my anonymity in relation to him. But beyond whatever anxieties I have had about being “exposed” at work, to my husband, my family, friends etc., I have discovered that the most difficult aspect has been exposure to myself: facing who I am, what I really want and need, and not only facing it but, as I said above, accepting both the danger and the pleasure. These feelings are complex, for I also desire another's submission to me. I desire his/her deep submission. I want to break him/her, penetrate and make him/her beg. I don’t know what to do with these feelings at times, how to express or “manage” them. I often wish they would disappear, making my desire clearer, simpler. I fantasize about giving myself over completely, letting go of this desire to break another down, just becoming a thing, to use and abuse as another person sees fit, a sex slave. And I do want that. But then the desire to break him/her reappears, and I want nothing more than to stand over him/her, dressed in a black corset, stocking, and heels, and tell him/her to shut up and do what I say, wear what I say, be what I say, just get fucked. And I have known men who wanted nothing else. I could and did oblige. With this journal I want to document this complexity of desire, not as an attained state, but more as moments in which I feel something start to gnaw at and slowly unravel my very being. I will do this in the form of textual vignettes. I don’t profess a creed of perversion, or a manual of what works, merely a modest but I hope truthful account of the sexual energy that runs through my being and which makes me feel, probably for the first time in my life, really alive. Although I try to avoid obvious narcissism (e.g., painting a flawless image of my perverted self), in all honestly, this journal is for me. If you can find something in it, all the better. ________________________________________________ Vignette 1 Sitting here at my computer I am wearing a black skirt, black stockings and garter, no panties, white sleeveless T-shirt with no bra and extreme black high-heeled sandals. I sometimes imagine you, crawling on your knees to me, under the desk, at my feet. I want you to beg me. For . . . Permission to touch my legs, stroking inside my soft thighs, feeling me become warm for you. Permission to take your finger and slide it inside my pussy, which is hot and wet for you, as always. Permission to move down my legs with your mouth and kiss my toes and red painted nails, sucking on them through my stockings while I stroke my clit and almost cum. (You do that so well.) Then I would not want you to ask for permission but, rather, I would want to take you. Bend you over the pale couch here in my study, pull down you pants, and, without a word, just fuck you with my fingers and probably with any other object that seemed reasonably suitable. And I would feel your anus closing around them and know I was inside you—inside. And I would make you tell me that you want it, you always wanted it, for me to make you my bitch, my slut. How I want to dress you, make you wear a wig, lingerie, make you into an object to be used for my pleasure—nothing more. _________________________________________________ Vignette 2 I like to dress for, and serve, him. In a French maid’s uniform, for example. It is black, very, very short, with a white lace apron and low cut top. Worn with black fishnet crotchless pantyhose and black high-heeled shoes of course. I picked him up one night, wearing it under my coat. At my place, I became afraid to take off the coat, almost afraid of exposing my desire to serve him in that way. So blatantly degrading myself like that. Which is what he wants—to humiliate me, make me serve him, give up my self-respect, just make me watch myself in the mirror as he breaks apart the whole bourgeois persona and its aura of respectability. As I am forced to prepare his meal, bring it to him, not look up at him, but serve it with downcast eyes. Forced to kneel at his feet as he eats it, expressing some pleasure, which gives me a sense of not having failed him. Forced to lick his feet slowly as he eats, then his cock, to suck on it, going down on it to the point where I choke. Then, putting his plate down, telling me to turn around while he lifts my skirt, exposes my ass, and pushes me down on his cock, making me fuck him like that. Telling me to shut up or he will have to gag me. Then turning me over and bending me over the chair and fucking me hard from behind, so hard that I think I will break in half (I am small, he is big). That feeling, just being fucked hard, violently like I am nothing but a hole—nothing—is beautiful. It feels like, with that pain, all the other pain just leaves my body. Redemption? I crave and fear this violence within me. _________________________________________________ Vignette 3 “He likes to test me.” “Do not move until I return.” Those were his last words. The door closes softly and I am alone, blindfolded, hands bound behind me, feet tied, on my knees. It is dark and quiet. I am afraid—but I know he will return. Time goes by, minutes, hours. I don’t dare move, afraid he will return and I will no longer be in the position. I hear voices in the hall, then the key in the door. He is back. A woman’s voice. Through the blindfold I can tell that the lights have been turned on. Then I hear her gasp. “What the hell…” “Oh, don’t be disturbed,” he says, “she has been waiting.” “Are you sick!” the woman exclaims. “The poor thing. Untie her right now or I’ll call the police.” “I’m telling you that she wants this. She craves it in fact. She is nothing but a disgusting slut. Don’t believe me, check her cunt. I bet it is soaked.” “I’m not going to check her cunt, as you say. I couldn’t care less if she is wet.” I feel a hand slip between my legs. It is his. I know it well. He dips into me then says: “Here, look at this, creamy just like I said. I’m telling you, she is dying for it.” A moment of silence. I can imagine her face. Shocked and disgusted, but drawn to the object of her pity like passersby at the scene of an accident. “Look, let me show you how much she wants it,” he says. I feel his hand grab my hair, then the familiar sound of his zipper, my face pushed against his groin. “Suck, cunt.” I eagerly take him in my mouth, trying to take all of him. Impossible as always—but as always I try. “You aren’t sucking properly you stupid bitch.” “All of it.” I try again, but I know I’m bound to fail. He knows it too. We have been here before. “You selfish bitch.” I feel him grab me by my hair, pull me up, then feel myself being turned around, pushed face down on what must be the counter. His hands pull up my skirt. I feel my ass exposed. “What do you think? Not bad, right? The slut has an ass almost worth what it is going to get.” Silence. The woman does not say a word. I hear him take off his belt. I feel myself getting wetter with anticipation. She doesn’t protest as he smacks me, once, twice, three times, four. “She can do fifty, but I’ll start with twenty, just to get her warmed up for us.” He hits me with the full force of the belt. I can feel the aggression. He is angry with me somehow. Probably worried that I am going to fuck this up for him, that she will leave, and he won’t have his fun. My ass is burning. I imagine it glowing red, welts that will last a week. Then he rams his cock into me and fucks me mercilessly from behind. I cry out, “please Sir, please stop.” “Shut up you bitch.” I feel the gag in my mouth, him tying it behind my head. I have no say. A soft feminine hand on my ass, stroking it gently. My sense of relief is short lived. “Shit, she really is wet,” I hear the woman say. “Well, if this gets her off, what the hell.” “Here take her leash. She will go where, and do what, you want.” “Anything?” “Yes, anything. Isn’t that right slut?” I know better than not to agree. I nod. I feel the leash attach to my collar, then a tug. “Walk on all fours bitch.” I try to keep up with her, but she pulls me hard: “I said keep up, heel.” “My God, she isn’t even as well trained as my dog.” “Well, train her.” He says. “I’ve been trying to, but she is a willful bitch, I’m telling you.” She pretends to learn just to appease me. The moment the collar comes off, she is impossible. Put it back on and it is like she forgot everything.” “Well maybe she just likes to lick cunt better than suck cock. Isn’t that right slut?” I am still. “I said, isn’t that right?” I feel her slip the gag out of my mouth. “You have to clean something for me bitch.” She leads me, crawling on my hands and knees. I hear her sit down, feel myself pulled between her legs. I can smell her pussy. “Tell us how much you like to eat cunt.” I say nothing. “Are you deaf?” I feel the leash come down hard on my back and my ass, again and again. “I said tell us how much you like to lick pussy, bitch.” “I like to lick pussy.” “I didn’t hear you.” “I like to lick pussy,” I scream out. “Good, because that’s all you are good for. Now do it.” I feel her press my face into her cunt. She is soaked. I start, moving my tongue gently up and down her lips, stroking them with it. I can feel her relax a bit. I feel her juices smeared all over my face as she presses me into her, harder. I search for her clit and start to suck on it gently, then stroke it harder as I hear her start to moan. She wraps the leash around my neck, pulling it tighter, making me into a sex toy with no other purpose but to please her. I can feel her clit growing in my mouth. I know she is about to cum. But suddenly she gets up. I fear I failed. He will be angry. “Maybe she just likes to suck cock. Well, fine. I hear her moving. “Take this,’ he says. “See if you can get your little slut mouth around this,” she tells me. I feel it. She shoves the dildo down my throat so that I choke. “Take it bitch.” I try, as with him, to take it for her. I suck it, pulling it as far down my throat as I can. “Fuck, her mouth is worthless. Maybe her ass is better.” “Kneel on all fours.” I feel her grab my hair from behind, mount me like I am her dog, her bitch. I feel the familiar cold wetness of the lube, then an object shoved up my pussy. With that in place I feel the dildo rammed up my ass. “What do you think?,” he asks. “I’ve been trying to stretch her. You should have seen the pathetic slut when we first met. She was more or less an anal virgin. It was hell, I’m telling you. Now I’ve got her taking the large anal beads, but she still has a tight little ass.” “Yeah, well I’ll stretch the bitch for you.” I feel her pushing, ramming her “cock” inside me. I’m screaming. “Shut up bitch. You love this. Admit it. Say it.” “Please, please Mistress, stop.” She is deaf to me. “Sir, please, I can’t…” Silence, then a smack on the ass with the belt. I should know better. “Lift up your ass bitch. Higher I said.” I try to present myself to her, as he likes it, but I’m too weak. I collapse. “Fuck.” She is outside me. “Alright, let’s tie the bitch up. I knew she wouldn’t cooperate. Just look at that face. Still soaked though. I’d say she wants it. Isn’t that right bitch?” “Yeah, guaranteed,” I hear him say. But she needs a lot of discipline. I’m telling you. It is like a full-time job keeping her trained. “Well, if you have the equipment, I know how to whip her into shape pretty quick,” she says. Amazing for a so-called novice. _________________________________________________ Vignette Quatre “He fucks for me” Rubbing his cock with my left hand I get him hard, then slip the cock-ring on. Black soft leather, a material sign of what he is: my slave. “You are going to entertain me tonight. Do you understand?” A nod is all that is necessary. We go to a nightclub in the neighborhood. It is a big, anonymous place with some freaky people. I’m wearing a very fitted long black dress with a slit up the left side that almost reaches my crotch, extremely high-heeled black boots, stocking and no panties or bra. My dark hair is pulled back and up in a rather stern manner, just to make things clear to the idiotic men on the make. What he is wearing is irrelevant, save the fact that he has his cock-ring on. He knows it is on; that is all that matters. Tonight he fucks for me. We circulate. I see a blond woman standing at the bar. She looks like she was a cheerleader in high-school, probably still has her pom-poms in the closet next to her ridiculous little outfit. A slut who doesn’t know it (yet). I tell him to go talk to her. “Entertain her a bit my dear, she looks terribly bored.” I see him walk over and, in his subtle way, get contact with her. I watch her light up and realize that this is going to be a lot easier than I thought. I let them chat a bit, then walk over. “Excuse me,” I say. “This place is so crowded I need a break.” The woman turns to me, looking a bit irritated, like I’ll interrupt her flirt. I look her deep in the eyes and then I see it, like I always see it. Even easier. “Can I buy you two a drink?,” I ask, acting as if I don’t know him. “Why, ummm, ok,” she mumbles. He knows better than to say no. We stand there, have a few drinks. I can see her starting to relax. In fact she is pretty drunk. Don’t want her too drunk. She has a lot ahead of her. “This place is a drag,” don’t you think?,” I say. “How about taking the party to my place? I’ve got some great champagne.” The blond is at that point where another drinks sounds like just what she needs. In a few minutes we are sitting in a taxi on the way to my place. We enter my apartment and I hear her start making idiotic comments like “cool, wow, I love those beams, etc.” Whatever. Let her ramble. She is going to get fucked. I pull the bottle of champagne out and pour a few glasses. “Why don’t you two have a seat over there on the couch while I pull together some snacks,” I say. I see them sitting there, and watch him slowly move his hand under her skirt. She keeps babbling about something or other, but I can see that she is hot. He moves his hand further, between her legs, starting to stroke her cunt. I feel myself getting wet just watching him. I know what his hand feels like. She is too embarrassed to moan, so she keeps chatting incoherently, but the words start to fail her. I pour her some more champagne and act like nothing is happening. I walk away. When I return I’m dressed for action: domme corset, black stockings, high heels. I have a crop in one hand, a collar and leash in the other. “Excuse the brief interruption my dear, but I think he needs a little discipline. He doesn’t seem to be satisfying you.” She looks stunned. One of those rich Northshore chicks, she has probably never seen a woman dressed like this, save some sanitized Victoria Secret catalogue version. I already know she wants this. I saw it in her eyes. It is just a matter of the right timing. “Get up,” I tell him. He looks kind of dazed, like he got a bit too carried away with the role we had planned for him. “Take off you pants.” I see a little resistance. Have to nip that in the bud before he fucks it all up, which he tends to do. “Are you deaf? I said take off your pants.” I take the crop and hit him on his ass. He slowly slips them off. His cock is hard—always is. “The boxers too.” The blond watches all this with an air of shock, but I see she likes it. She gasps when she sees the cock-ring. “What’s that?” she exclaims, in that giggling little voice of hers. “That’s to remind him of his place.” She looks puzzled as I attach the leash to it. “Go ahead, touch it. He won’t bite.” She giggles again but doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, what do you think? Does he meet your criteria?,” I ask. “Feel free to inspect him.” l'Histoire d'une femme Pt. 02 Vignette 5: “Uncle says: I am beautiful" To sort truth from fiction, but how? And what if fiction is a way to find truth, at least as it exists for human beings? To speak of incest as I have done here is to say something unspeakable: the fact that I am still turned on by it all, and yet it damaged me deeply. You, dear reader, don’t want to hear that. You want a story with clear moral codes: speak of the damage, not the desire. To say, as I do here, that my sexual desire was indelibly formed for life by someone who never asked for my consent is to run the risk of condoning his action by associating it with my want and need. It is hard to hear about the ongoing entanglement of adult desire with a girl's pain but also her pleasure. Perhaps you are seeking to avoid ethical questions altogether. Based on what I have seen in this section, most readers are looking for a clear account of right and wrong that avoids just that, or else they want some purely fictional tale about, say, the sexy uncle who comes onto you. What they don't want is to hear about the deep ambivalence. I wish I could just hate him, what he did, and never feel turned on by it all. But I can't, I don’t. This story, like the others I write, is about how it feels to be used by another human being. The adult who used and in this case abused me did love me in his own way. No, I'm not an ass, and I'm not forgiving him. But unless you try to understand the love and care, you can't understand the abuse. You have to try to see how he made me feel special, and how that feeling kept me wanting him and led me to keep a secret that was killing me. It also made it difficult for me to open myself to anyone else, to trust anyone else. There are no clear answers, only questions. To achieve an ethical perspective on incest—and that is what I seek here--one has to be open to the questions, the ambiguity. It is easy to see such things in black and white, to condemn the perpetrators and honor the victims. That is what conventional moral codes give us: a grid according to which we can sort the good from the bad and be done with it all. Much harder is the attempt to understand and struggle with the grey zone we inhabit as human beings and in which we try to live ethically, try, that is to say, to take account of that which is irreducibly strange in another human being, radically unassimilable. * * * * * The first time wasn't something I registered as being anything. It was only in hindsight that I saw as it as something. I'm 18, on his lap at a Thanksgiving dinner with a lot of relatives, all drinking and eating, happy. We are sitting at the table. As they talk, he talks, laughs, I feel his hand run up my smooth leg. It doesn't stop at the point where most of them stop, but goes further, rubbing the inside of my thigh. That was all. I just remember feeling like something was not right, and somehow it was my fault. We are at his house. My parents are in the living room watching a hockey game. He takes me downstairs to show me his billiard table. I laugh as he tries to teach me to play. I'm leaning over the table and I feel his hand on my ass. He slips it gently under my panties. Then he stops. I'm confused. I'm at his house. It is Xmas I think. I remember the lights. Once again I'm sitting at the table next to him and he takes me on his lap. The rest follows. He is at our apartment. My parents are going out for the night. We watch television and play and have fun. Then he tells my sister to go to bed. My brother is already sleeping. We are sitting on the couch. He places his hand under my dress and rubs my panties. I remember that feeling well. He tells me I am his favorite niece. Do I know that? "My, you have grown," he says. He strokes my hair and tells me he loves me. I'm beautiful. I'm laying on the couch at his house, reading. He comes up behind me and rubs my ass through my dress. I don't move. He tells me I'm his favorite niece. I'm beautiful. He is at our apartment. We are in my room, talking. Time to sleep. He closes the door and says goodnight. I feel someone breathing heavy next to me. I think I'm having a nightmare. He is rubbing my ass and my pussy, placing his finger in both. I can't move. My parents are out. He tells me I'm his favorite niece and says he wants me to see something special. He puts my hand on his cock and tells me how happy I make him. He tells me to touch him. I don't know what he wants from me. He moves my hand how he wants. I just do what he says. He breathes hard. He tells me I'm his favorite niece and he loves me. We are in my room. He does the same. But he takes my head and places it in his lap. He tells me he loves me. His finger is in me. I'm in my bed. He is stroking my ass. He is laying behind me, stroking me. He loves me. He has his hands in my hair tightly. He presses me in his lap. He tells me I make him really happy and he loves me. He makes me take him in my mouth but I can't. It is ok. He loves me. We are at his house, downstairs. I'm pressed up against the wall with my dress hiked up. That was the first time he fucked me. I didn't move. This was repeated many times, always downstairs with the others upstairs, laughing and drinking. I lay in my bed alone, with my hands between my legs, wet, thinking of him. I'm worthless. I think about him a lot. Then I bury myself in my pillows where I'm safe. Sometimes he just tells me to lift my dress for him and show him my ass. I comply. I'm beautiful. I want him. We are downstairs and they are playing billiards. He has a friend. He tells me to show his friend how well I play. I take the cue in my hands and focus. I feel him behind me. I shoot, hit something, they applaud. "Isn't she wonderful!" We are downstairs and they are playing billiards, he and his friend. It is my turn. This time his friend helps me hold the cue. I feel his hand on mine, the other sliding up my leg. I can't move, but I'm wet. They like to play with me. They play with me often. I lay in bed and think of him, of them. Do they love me? He buys me presents, toys but usually clothes, dresses and such. "Show us how it looks." I take the plaid skirt and white blouse out of the box. I don't like it. It looks like the school uniform I used to wear when I was a child, only updated. "Put it on M.," he says. I resist, then comply, going into the bathroom to change, locking the door behind me. I feel ridiculous. I come out. They look at me. "Isn't she beautiful!" When my parents go out I take the skirt and blouse out of the box. I feel anticipation and fright, but also desire. I lock my door, look in the mirror and put it on. I turn around, examining myself from all angles. I see my breasts protruding from the blouse. I lift the skirt likes he likes me do do. I feel beautiful. I want him. I am his girl. Sometimes he invites a few friends over. I like them, mostly. They bring me stuff, candy, toys, sometimes clothes. "Hey, have you met M. yet? She is my favorite niece." They are sitting in at the table playing cards, drunk as far as I can tell. "Come here M." I go over. "Yes uncle." "Be a good girl and serve these (chips) to the boys." I take the bowl in my hand. I start to walk around. As I serve the chips I feel B. put his hand up my leg. Not like it is the first time. I try to move quickly to L. but B holds me by my inner thigh. His finger is in my panties. I drop the bowl. I rush to pick up what I've spilled. "I'm sorry." “That's ok M. You're a good girl." Relief. They like to watch me dance. I'm pretty good. I swing my hips around. I can do that for what seems like hours, until someone tells me it is enough. Then I stop. Sometimes I just jump rope, remembering the feeling from years earlier. "Look at her, she is amazing!" I put on a show, skipping, then jumping. When he has had enough he takes the rope and wraps it around me, tightly. "That's enough M." Sometimes when I am alone in my bed I take out the rope and wrap it around me, sometimes between my legs or around my neck. Then I pull. Sometimes I just lay it next to me on the bed. Then I can sleep. I have a new outfit. A dress, white with lace and black shoes with heels. He gave it to me for Easter. On the way back from church everyone says how beautiful I look: "a little angel." I feel proud, remembering how it was when I was small and we went to church together. I want to wear it for him. He picks me up in the early afternoon. I get in his car, a burgundy Lincoln. He ask me about my day. I tell him a story about how the nuns got mad at me when I was in grade school because I didn't cross my legs properly. He smiles but then tells me they are right. Good girls cross their legs properly. Young women do too. "Yes, uncle." I try to remember that. He picks me up. "Hey M., I have something I want to show you today." Back in his car we drive outside the city. I don't know where we are, off the BQE somewhere. He pulls over into a parking lot outside what looks like an abandoned building. "Come on M." I follow. We walk up some stairs and into a long corridor, then down the hall to a room. I'm confused. There is nothing here. "We are M. We are." We went there a lot. Or, it seemed like a lot because I wasn't supposed to tell my parents. And I never did. l'Histoire d'une femme “Wow, its pretty, well, big. Can he use it?” “Yes, it meets the conditions of a certain mechanical usage. But really the main thing is that it belongs to me. I own it. Sometimes he has to be reminded of that fact, hence the leash and whip.” I see him getting harder under her hand. Not yet. I take the leash and tie it to the leg of the chair. “That will keep him put until I need him.” “Need him for what?,” she asks. “You will see.” I take her hand and move her gently back to the couch. “Turn around.” She looks puzzled again. “Just do it.” She hesitates. “Now lift up your skirt so I can see your ass.” She hesitates again. I walk up next to her, grab her silly blond hair hard in my hand, and repeat. “Pull up your skirt.” I take my hand and rub it between her cheeks, sliding it firmly on her pussy. She is drenched. I grab her pussy with my other hand, hard. “You like this, don’t you? You like being bent over like this for me to see, don’t you, you slut. You like having me grab your hot pussy and make it mine, don’t you?” She shakes her head, indicating at once her desire and fear. “Tell me you want to get fucked. Tell me you are a slut who wants to get fucked with her skirt pulled up, bent over like a bitch. Say it.” I hear a low chuckle from the other side of the room. It is him. “Did I ask for your opinion?” He grins. That’s what I get for not training him properly. “Excuse me slave, did Maitresse ask for your opinion?” “No.” “No?” “No Maitresse.” “Correct. Now keep your utterly worthless opinion to your slave self.” “Get on your hands and knees and stay there until I tell you to move.” Where was I? God, it is hard when you are dealing with not one but two worthless pieces of ass. Getting them together is even harder. I walk back to the couch. The blond is still bent over in an open position. She wants it. I take two fingers and unceremoniously shove them up her pussy, holding my hand firmly in place. I remove them, take off my right shoe and hand it to her. “What do you think I want you to do with this?” “How should I know?” “Excuse me?” “I mean, Maitresse, how should I know what Maitresse wishes of me.” Wow, she would be easy to train. A lot easier than the one over there on his hands and knees. “You are going to fuck yourself with this.” “With a shoe?” “Do you see any other potential object?” “We could use this crop if you like.” The thought of that makes her yield. She takes the shoe and starts to rub it on her pussy. I can see it glisten with her juice. “Stick it inside you. I want to see you fuck yourself with it—fuck, do you understand?” She moves it in and out, faster and faster. Man, she is really getting off on this. I knew she was a born slut. I take it out of her hand. She almost falls over, losing her rhythm. “Lick it clean.” I watch her little pink tongue slowly emerge from her mouth, gently licking her own cum off my shoe. “Better get it perfectly clean. I don’t like dirt.” She licks harder, rapidly. I hit her on the ass a few times just to keep her going at a reasonable pace. “Stay there.” I go into my closet and pull out a few costume items. When I return, I lay them on the couch: a white cheerleader outfit, knee socks, cropped sweater, and of course some pom-poms. She looks at me quizzically. “Put it on, now.” “But it won’t fit. It is too small.” “I said now. Don’t tell me you’ve never worn a cheerleader outfit because you have “I am a bimbo’ written all over your face.” “Yes,” she mumbles, “but that was back in high-school.” “Well, we will just play high-school tonight. Put it on.” I hear a certain panting from the other side of the room, but ignore it. I have to stay concentrated on this. I watch as she slips off her skirt and blouse. “Take off your panties and bra.” Her perky little breasts slip out. I grab a nipple and pull it hard. “You wear the sweater without a bra.” “Your tits are ridiculous, by the way. But I guess I’m stuck with them now, aren’t I. At least do something interesting with them.” She hasn’t a clue. I take a nipple clamp out of my bag, take two, put them on her. That should keep her in line as we prepare her little routine. “Let’s go. Put on the skirt, socks. You are wearing heels. I don’t like flats. Fuck it if it isn’t ‘authentic’.” “Grab your pom-poms too. You will be needing them.” The blond gets into her outfit. She looks absurd. So absurd I’d like to fuck the shit out of her right on the spot. That’s all she is good for. Control. I have other plans. “Okay, let’s see a routine.” “What do you mean?” “What do I mean?” “I mean, what does Maitresse desire?” “You are to do one of those routines you learned in school. You know, as you cheered the other future brain surgeons on the football team on or whatever.” “I can’t remember any. It was so long ago.” This bitch really tries my patience. I hate stupidity, and blonds offend my aesthetic sensibility. She is both. Blond, dumb as a pole, and now she can’t even remember the one thing she did actually “learn” in high school. I get up. I stand in front of her, and grab both nipple clamps through her sweater with my hands. “Does this help jog your memory,?” I ask, pulling her tits while I turn the clamps. She starts to whine, to cry really. I could care less. She deserves a lot worse—and she is going to get it. I stand back. She starts to move, her arms going up and down with the pom-poms, kicking her legs, jumping around. She looks like a total idiot. “Get on your hands and knees, with your ass facing me.” She complies. I put a bowl down in front of her. “Eat.” She looks up at me. “I said eat, bitch.” She looks at the dried pellets in the bowl, shocked. This can’t be happening to her. She doesn’t even give her own dog this shit. “I’m counting to three. If you don’t start eating by the time I stop, you will get something that makes this look like child’s play.” “One, two,..” I see her mouth move down to the bowl. This is too much. Too humiliating. To be treated like this, like a dog. “Three” On the count her mouth goes down to the bowl, she takes out a pellet and starts to chew it. “How is it? Does it meet you gourmet standards? Come on, eat up. I don’t have all day. If you make me wait I’ll just refill it and you will start again. I don’t care if you throw up. You’re eating it.” She picks up the pace. I hear her crunching. It gets on my nerves, but at least she is behaving. Before she is finished I go pick up the bowl. “Good bitch. Now get back in the position, ass in the air.” I walk over and take him by the leash. He is pretty eager. Always had a thing for pom-poms and dumb blondes. “Heel,” I say. He walks on all fours next to me. I walk him around the room, just to make sure he is ready to perform properly, smacking his ass every now and then with the crop. “Okay, you’re a dog, she’s a bitch. Now show me how dogs fuck.” This is something he has down. I walk him over behind her. “Check her out. Does she smell like she is ready?” The blond tries to stand up. I grab her by the hair and push her down to the ground. “Stay put you stupid bitch. You are going to get fucked. Do you understand—fucked--by him. Consider yourself lucky. Not only is he a good fuck, when he tries a little, but he is a lot gentler than me. I’ll give it to you right up the ass where you deserve it. And you can forget the lube.” I take a strap and collar from my bag and tie her hands to her neck. I’d like to hogtie her, but all good things must wait. He comes up behind her, still on the leash. I’m tempted to take it off so he can penetrate her fully, but I want to watch his cock on my cock-ring, like a marionette, moving as I say, doing what I tell it to do. Besides, by the time he gets done with her she won’t even notice that she has a cock-ring and part of a leash inside her. She will just be begging for more or for mercy. Which is what I want. “Mount her. Mount the bitch, now.” For him, a true sexual acrobat, this command is easy to follow. I watch him get up on his knees behind her. He takes his hand and slips it between her legs. “I said fuck her. I don’t give a damn whether she is ready or not. Just fuck her like she deserves to be fucked—hard, no mercy.” That said, he just rams his huge cock right into her, so hard that she falls forward on her face. “Get up. Now.” She starts crying again. That’s just wasted lubrication as far as I’m concerned. I go around to her and pull her up by her hair. The tears are streaming down her face. Her makeup—way too thick, but hey she is a cheerleader—is running. This is not a pleasing site. I quickly leave and come back with a rubber head mask. She is out of control crying. I grab her hair and pull the mask over it, ending with a medium size ball gag so I don’t have to listen to her insipid whining. “Alright, let’s try this again. Spread your cheeks—wide. Give me any more trouble and you won’t be leaving this apartment.” “Fuck her slave. Fuck her for me.” He starts at her again. This time he really is sans pitié. I hand him her leash. He pulls it tight so she almost chokes while he continues to fuck her hard. I can hear her gasping for breath. It turns me on. I hold his leash while I watch his cock go in and out of her, pulling on it now and then just to remind him of whose cock it really is, who owns it. “Do not stop. I will be back.” He knows what that means. I return and he feels my hand on his ass, the familiar wetness of the lube. Is this a reward or punishment? Depends on how you do it. I think punishment is in order. Really he has been a pain in the ass when you think about it, second-guessing me all night long. I come up behind him and just ram it up his ass. He pauses. “Do not stop fucking her, do you hear me?” Could have taken the rubbery pink dildo, but tonight he deserves this one: the huge “realistic” version. I ram him a few more times, pulling the leash up between his ass cheeks hard, compressing his balls. I know it hurts. I really don’t care either. “Are you my bitch?” Silence. “Don’t know yet? Well, maybe this will help you recall what you really are: a worthless slut.” I grab his head and pull the blond wig down onto it. God, I wish I could just stand back and watch this scene, with him fucking her in that wig. That’s hot. I pull out and move around in front of him. “Suck it.” Pause. “I said suck it bitch.” Then I just take it and shove it in his mouth. I pull on the leash and tell him to stop fucking her. She is worthless anyway. She just falls to the floor like used goods. “What’s wrong? Don’t like the taste?” Here, have some water. I point to the bowl at my feet. “I’m not thirsty.” “As if I care. I said drink. And if you don’t start drinking now, you will be drinking something other than water very soon—that is, after you finish the food left over in your mate’s bowl.” He grabs the bowl in one hand. “I mean drink like a dog, like what you are. Slurp, in any case just use your tongue.” I take my foot and push his face into the bowl, holding it there. Imagine drowning in a dog bowl. How ridiculous is that? I release him. He starts to lick it up. This is a truly beautiful site. I move back, just stand back and watch him, how his tongue moves in and out as he slowly drinks what is in the bowl because I command it. “Good boy.” That deserves a reward. I pull him by the leash over to me, and sit on the couch. I spread my legs wide. “You know what to do.” Indeed he does.