2 comments/ 23568 views/ 6 favorites It All Started . . . By: tryst It started with an antiquated copy of Paint Shop Pro 2.0. It probably would have worked if I'd been able to afford Photoshop, too. At any rate, I began to dabble with pics I found on the web or usenet -- enhancing this tree, removing that boulder, cloning a water feature from another landscape. Then, on to shots of people. I became pretty good, considering the limitations of the software. I was hooked. Digital photo manipulation replaced all my other hobbies and most of my friends and girlfriends. After about a year, I managed to upgrade to 3.0. Shortly thereafter, it happened for the first time. I'd been periodically emailing an old high school lady friend -- really, only a friend. We idly traded news and remembrances once a month or so. She'd sent me a few pics of herself and her family, including a bikini shot from their vacation of Florida the winter past. Chuckling to myself, I loaded it into my editor and began to play. Nothing obscene, mind you, but I shaved maybe 20 pounds from her belly, hips, and thighs, smoothed out her complexion, and lightened her hair. Pleased with my improvements, I sort of drifted away mentally, admiring Chloe's refound beauty. It suddenly seemed so real. I shook my head, laughed away my mini-hallucination, and closed the file. Six or eight weeks later, Chloe shipped me her next update, crowing about having lost so much weight that she had her hair done and felt like a teenager again. Attached was a new bikini shot. My head swam. Apart from her pose and a different background, it might have been my doctored pic. I don't know exactly how long I sat with my version of her side by side with the new true Chloe, emptily staring and the uncanny similarity. Shaking myself out of my near trance, I got up and fixed myself some dinner. A few days later, I cropped her revitalized head and chest and enlarged her for a better look. She did almost look like a teenager. She'd become even prettier as a woman than she'd been growing up. I imagined her dressed to the nines for a night out. Compositing her glowing face, with appropriate new makeup, onto a stock runway model's body, I was again amazed for long moments by the seeming reality of my work. Breaking free of my fantasy, I shot a sincere, congratulatory reply back to my old friend Three months later, another email with attachments arrived. She apologized for not keeping in touch, but she'd been so busy with her home life and new career that time was short. Shortly after her last message, she'd been invited to participate in a charity fund raiser as a model. She said she'd never had so much fun out of bed. She'd been talked up by an agent in the audience, and was now doing shoots as often as she could get away from family responsibilities. My pleased-for-her smile kind of solidified on my face as I opened her jpegs. There she was, in full, glossy glam. The images were quality scans of professional portfolio shots. I freaked. I shouted a best unrepeated curse and knocked the chair over getting away from the computer. It was just too fucking weird. It was as if . . . My mind veered away and I decided that maybe I shouldn't play with people's pics for a while. But I worried over the events almost obsessively. What if it wasn't coincidence? The correlations seemed too exact not to have been causal. And the very idea that I might have somehow brought about changes in Chloe's life scared me shitless. It might be an adolescent's wet dream literally come true, but if you aren't appalled by the notion of tinkering with something as complex as reality, then you must be either brain dead or a politician -- or is that the same thing? Inadvertently fucking up someone's life with a daydream isn't my idea of a good time. I mean, what if I'd been horny, and slapped Chloe's into some sleazy streetwalker's scene? I firmly, with all my soul, believe in karma. Ultimately, no matter what, you reap what you sow. "Do no harm" are words to live by. I couldn't leave PSP alone for long, though. Even as my mind ran over the insanity of it all, I began dabbling again, with safe subjects, and without ever experiencing that strange reverie as I stared at my techie art. So, since that seemed okay, I decided to be scientific about the problem: take a known, work it over and see if I could change something innocuous. Like the flowers in the neighbor's side yard. Iris, they were, and just coming into bloom. I made them larger and much more vivid on-screen. I visualized, trying to recapture whatever (if anything) I'd done before. Outside the bedroom window, nothing happened. So I tried a picture of a co-worker I nabbed from the company website. Jim occupied the cube across from mine. I didn't know him very well, but he was in my line of sight five days a week. I flopped a smiling shot from an awards banquet and grafted his watch from his left to right wrist. The next morning, sure enough, he was explaining to a crony about how his grandson had helped him get dressed for work, insisting on strapping his rolex knock-off on the wrong wrist and upside down. I took the rest of the day off sick, and I wasn't malingering. After I deleted Jim's photo from my hard drive, I spent the rest of the day in bed, dozing my way from one half-nightmare to another. Deleting it must have been enough, I thought feverishly, for the next day Jim's watch was righted. As I sat shakily in my cubicle that fateful Friday, I considered -- briefly -- getting psychiatric help, but opted out of that scenario. While it works miracles for some, thorazine is not my friend. I was just pulling myself together when the office manager hag dropped by to harass me about three inconsequential typos in a report I filed the week past. I plead weakness. The bitch had for some reason singled me out as a fresh hire, and had been favoring me with sniping remarks, unfounded vague accusations, and less than glowing reviews for three years. The instant her back was turned, I opened my personal laptop and downloaded her face from the company website in three-quarter profile. An adult site featuring mature housewives offered me a quick sample of a severely corseted woman of Maude's slightly chubby body type servicing a well-hung black man. By the time I finished, Maude's heavily made up eyes were glazed with lust, and her bright lipstick was smeared across her face. Her stocking clad toes were curled inside her clear platform pumps as she orgasmed. Maude showed up for work the next day looking more like a worn out hooker than a frumpy middle-aged office manager. While everyone else snickered behind her back, I quailed in my cube, racked by guilt. Yeah, she was a heartless, dried-up old bitch, but she didn't deserve what I'd done to her -- or imagined I'd done. Still, it was with mixed emotions that I deleted her altered photograph. In its stead, I did her up as a more kindly matron, removing some of the harshness from her natural features, trying to put some sincerity and compassion into her face. The results were oddly mixed. The following day, while she'd toned down her makeup a half dozen notches and substituted more modest heels for the unholy stilettos she'd worn the day before, she was still obviously more of a sexual creature than before I tampered with her image. Also, she was much nicer, acting like a human being instead of a sniping asshole. Curiouser and Curiouser, I thought. Several weeks, a lot of thought, and some cautious experimentation later, I came to several hesitant conclusions. First, I could not manipulate objects. Rocks, thimbles, dollar bills, and cars just sat there. Only people were susceptible. Cats, dogs, and parakeets seemed immune to whatever the hell I may have been doing. People I knew responded in various degrees, and most -- though not all - strangers were unphased. I didn't think my power was godlike. Maude might have always had a strongly sexual side that she'd never displayed in the workplace -- or, perhaps, it had been deeply repressed. I may have just freed her libido, and, once out of the cage, mere deletion of the pic hadn't re-imprisoned it. Also, her humanity could have merely surfaced with my nudge. My investigations definitely indicated that I couldn't manufacture a silk purse from a sow's ear. I didn't seem to be able to radically alter reality so much as influence it. If a seed of something existed in a person, I could help it germinate, but was unable to plant the seed directly. I wondered if poor Maude had really tarted herself up and jumped some black dude. But, on second thought, I didn't really want to know the answer. With judicious use of Paint Shop Pro, I cautiously altered my situation a bit. I encouraged Maude and a couple of VIP's to recognize my worth to the firm with a cordial smiling group shot. I tried to be scrupulously honest in my machinations. I didn't make myself a Vice-President, but I did manage to get a raise and promotion that Maude had unfairly denied me by picturing her revising my personnel reviews. I encouraged a car salesman to fight with his sales manager for an incredible deal on a new Mustang on my behalf via an image of he and I signing the right contract. Always, I rigidly adhered to my "Do no harm" mantra. Even when my current lady friend dumped me, I resisted the impulse for vengeance. Then I had the good luck -- or misfortune, depending on your point of view -- of meeting a woman named Bridgette Falcone at my favorite watering hole one Friday evening. Okay, so she was also a regular there, and I may have had something to do with the way she ended up on the bar stool next to mine. She'd intrigued me for months. She was in some ways a female version of myself. Decent looking, extremely slender, but introspective enough to seem isolated. She habitually and effectively diverted any male interest directed her way. The smile upon her face when I delivered my lame get-to-know-you line was really nothing like what I'd sketched upon her face from the sly candid I'd snapped with my cell phone, but once the ice was broken, we struck up an only slightly stiff conversation, and discovered that we had enough mutual interests to pass the time. While it was apparent that she was lonely -- maybe even desperately so - her refusal of my suggestion that we do dinner sometime was so violent that it shocked both of us. She hurriedly, with what looked like tears in the corners of her eyes, tried to soften the blow. I seemed like a nice guy, and she'd had a good time chatting, but she didn't go out. With anyone. Ever. Embarrassed and distraught, she excused herself and nearly ran out of the bar, earning me a glare from Harry, the barkeep. Despite my gentlemanly behaviour, I felt like a masher. At home later that evening, I reinforced Bridgette's attraction to me a little, with the aid of a couple of more candid images. Just nudges, mind you. Her hand in mine as we walked together. A truly radiant smile as we faced one another across a restaurant table. Still, I nearly jumped out of my skin as I hit the "save" button on the last image and my cell phone chimed. Bridgette was intensely apologetic about her behaviour. I deserved an explanation for her rudeness She'd truly enjoyed getting to know me. Was I still interested in dinner the following night? I tried to submerge my shame as I eagerly accepted and arranged to meet her at a ridiculously upscale restaurant downtown., all too similar to what I'd cloned into the just completed digital image. Romantic fantasies began to play through my head, but I stayed away from my computer. While the radiant smile I'd created was apparent when we met, her hand felt clammy in mine, and, as the evening wore on, her friendliness became more mechanical, her cheer forced. We both had a glass too much wine before adjourning to the lounge next door and finding a quiet place away from most of the noise. The silence between us was suddenly deafening. After thirty almost unbearable seconds, she opened her purse, extracted an envelope, hurriedly slid it towards me and leapt up, nearly running toward the ladies' room. Stunned, I watched her depart, then reflexively picked up the envelope. It was addressed to her, from a medical clinic. Inside was a standardized form under the letterhead of one James Laughton, MD, dated nearly two years ago. It reported, clinically, that the results of her blood test reconfirmed the fact that she was HIV positive, and urging her to make an appointment with him as soon as possible. Light dawned in my dim wits. Thus her isolation, her refusal of my initial invitation. I had the distinct impression that I was the only person who knew her shameful secret. Impulsively, I pulled out my cell and snapped shots of the form and envelope, my mind a mass of roiling, conflicted thoughts. They hadn't calmed when she returned and stiffly resumed her seat. "You're still here," she whispered hoarsely, refusing to look at me through tear-reddened eyes. "Where else would I be?" "Away. Far, far away." "Want to tell me about it?" "No." But she did anyway, in flat, unemotional terms. Her words came faster and faster, pouring from her like putrid bile. Her murder, as she called it, was the gift of her ex-husband, who'd contracted the disease from one of the hookers he'd frequented, without her knowledge, throughout their relationship. He hadn't told her he'd tested positive for three years, until he became symptomatic with AIDS and she'd been contacted by public health officials. "Devastated" is such an overused word. Usually, it's used to describe something relatively trivial. Obviously, not so in this instance. She'd immediately filed for divorce, but there was nothing left of their marital assets by that time, and she'd barely escaped being held liable for his astronomical medical fees. As it was, she was barely scraping by, struggling to make minimum payment for her own treatment regimen. By the time she was finished, she was drained. She looked ill. "I have to go now," she whispered. I grabbed her hand as she reached for the medical report. She stiffened, looked on the verge on panic. "Don't touch me!" I released her, but shook my head. "Holding your hand can't give me AIDS." "Look, Paul, you're a nice guy. If things were different, maybe . . . well, they aren't different. I'm a walking dead woman. Do us both a favor and leave me alone." "No. I won't. I can help." Her laugh was something ripped from a horror film sound track. "Yeah. Right." She stood and started away. "I'll call you," I said, loud enough to attract attention. She gave no indication of having heard. Here's another word enfeebled by over-use: shock. I found myself on the sidewalk with only the vaguest memory of paying the tab, and home with virtually no recollection of driving. Nothing seemed to be happening in my brain. All my higher mental functions had clicked off, leaving my subconscious in charge. AIDS. Walking dead woman. I can help. No overt thought. Download images. Clean up. Higher contrast. "Positive" becomes "negative." Appropriate text corrected to the becoming reality. Date changed. Save. I think I heard myself giggle softly. Yes, save. I left a brief message on her voicemail. "I know you'll think I crazy, but get retested, then call me." It took six weeks to hear from her. She sounded brittle, frightened. "What did you do to me?" "I honestly don't know. No mystical healing hocus pocus or anything like that. I just, well, changed it." She laughed quickly, hysterically. "You just changed it. Just changed a fatal condition?" I blew out a hard sigh. "I'll try to explain what little I know. Over dinner this weekend, maybe?" A long pause. "Well, since I don't seem to be dying anymore, why not? Saturday, six o'clock?" "Sure. Pick you up?" "Why not. I live at --" "Saw it on that envelope. It's etched into my brain." "So," she said with only slightly slurred words as she emptied the dregs of the bottle of chardonnay into our glasses, "you change things just by altering digital images. Dither, dither, save. That's it?" I shrugged. "Basically. Too weird, huh?" "Basically," she grinned. "Did you really do that to your manager?" "Yup. Guilty as charged. But I did undo it -- mostly. Some of it sort of stuck. I think maybe I keyed into something that was already real, and kind of amplified it, or made her more honest about it or something." "And you actually arranged our first meeting the same way? I squirmed. "Look, I'm really sorry about that. It wasn't very ethical, but --" "But it ended up saving my life. Somehow, 'No harm, no foul,' sounds kind of lame." She wiggled herself from beside me on the couch into my lap. Her brilliant blue eyes were wide and direct. "Thank you for being unethical," she whispered as she lowered her lips toward mine. Our lovemaking was slow and sinuous, warm and moist, gasped and sighed. It was, bar none, the most astounding round of sex I'd ever had. And, our second effort turned rapid and wet and loud and explosive and was even better. I was not only sated, but in love. We became inseparable. I was smitten. The better I got to know her, the more I adored her. Smart, pretty, affectionate, doting, and playful. Very playful, and very affectionate, if you catch my drift. I lived life through a rosy post-coital haze. The only apple in Eden was what I was able to do with Paint Shop Pro. She kept urging me to play with people or interpersonal relationships. Make her friend Dottie's boyfriend a little slimmer ("How could that do harm, honey? I'd be great for his health and self-confidence. Not to mention making him more attractive to Dottie."). Straighten out some slimeball co-worker who kept hitting on her ("Please, hon! It's poetic justice to give him a two inch penis! Just for a few days!"). Ever try to justify your ethical code to another intelligent human being? Try to present it as a coherent and seamless system, even though it's most likely a hodge-podge of notions tossed together from your life's bits and pieces? It ain't easy. Ultimately, decisions about right and wrong come down to gut feelings. There is seldom an absolutely black-or-white situation, no matter what your preacher says. Telling my love "no" wasn't always easy. Once, I capitulated. Bridgette sat, enthralled, beside me as I did my magic, in very small stages, gradually erasing the horrid scars from a mutual friend's disfigured face. At each session, Bridgette's breath became short, her lips slightly parted. Each time, immediately afterwards, we fucked like bunnies. "God," she groaned after the final session, trying to pull my entire body inside her womb, "I can't believe how much that turns me on, baby! Oh, yeah, just like that! Faster! Oh, please, faster!" Then, as if her approaching orgasm inspired her, she bucked wildly and growled, "Do me, baby! Change me! Do something to me! Make me --" Her words dissolved into scream, and I saw stars and I joined her. It became a little boudoir game. "Honey, you could make my breasts larger, couldn't you? Just for a weekend, I could be your centerfold, your own Hooters girl." Or, "Wouldn't you enjoy oral sex even more if you gave me great big fat lips." And, "Yeah, love. Right there! Just like that! What if you . . . ah! . . . bleached my hair and . . . oh! . . . made it long enough to hang down to a tight bubble butt . . . and when you did me from behind . . . like this . . . you could pull it . . . real . . . hard . . . and . . ." Well. I'm not made of steel, though I can sometimes manage a localized impersonation. And, especially when I'm ga-ga in love, I can get stupid. So, on the sly, I began seeing just what I could do with my love. I'm really glad I started off slowly and carefully, because the effects were immediate and drastic. I'd created a pic of Bridgette curled on the sofa painting her nails, and it came to pass, in excruciating detail, less than fifteen minutes later. Well, perhaps to you that might not seem drastic, but, given my lady's adamant anti-manicure attitude, I was left speechless. It All Started . . . "Hi, babe," she grinned. "Look what I found under the bathroom sink. What do you think? Like it? One of your femmes fatale must have left it behind. What kind of red would you call it? Fuscia?" I nodded numbly. She'd even changed into the jeans and checked blouse I'd imaged. She started on her toenails, glanced curiously up at me. "What? Don't you like it?" "No, I do! It's just that, well, you always said --" She waved me off. "The first thing mothers teach daughters is that it's a girl's prerogative to change her mind." She smiled lovingly. "Get used to it." I deleted the pic. The polish stayed for a week. I made another pic, sans nail color. The polish disappeared. I reapplied it. So did she. I admitted to myself that maybe there was the tiniest little bit of sexual rush in playing with her, and lengthened the nails in the picture a bit. I didn't mind the way she clawed my back with them at all. Over a Sunday brunch a week later, my guilt got the better of me. I confessed. Bri sat, blinking with disbelief for a few moments. She raised her hands, stared oddly at her moderately long nails. Her gaze lost focus. She wet her lips, and shuddered slightly. Her eyes sought mine. Her voice was a soft whimper. "I just came, honey." I had no time to ponder her reaction to being "changed" until Monday. The rest of Sunday I was busy being raped by an insatiably horny madwoman who couldn't seem to stop orgasming. There was a refrain; "More. God, please, more! Do me more. Anything. Anything you want!" In the bookcases of my parents' home, the Bagavad Gita and Upanishads were right beside, and equally important to, the Bible. My hippie parents had brought me up with the phrase "Do No Harm" about the only inviolable ethic drilled into my psyche. "Harm" isn't as simple as we wish it were when the reality of everything being connected to everything else is considered. Nobody has the right to dabble with anyone else's karma. That being said, as Bri was so fond of pointing out, one isn't granted a siddhe like the one I possessed without reason. During the weeks that followed, I pondered much more than acted. I again avoided PSP like a recovering addict avoided his drug of choice. I'm sure that, had I no been so distracted, I'd have noticed that my lady love was increasingly withdrawn -- even morose. I suppose it was about a month after the nail polish episode that I became aware, via some saved files on the home computer, that Bri had been playing with the devilish program herself. I was appalled, and, shamefully, aroused, by what I found. The attempts were untutored and unskilled, but their intent was obvious. One depicted her in a bar, wearing a barely-there red minidress, sporting overblown breasts and makeup, with a bulked up version of myself openly fondling one of her tits. Another showed us in a parking lot, with a similar looking and ecstatic fantasy Bri bent over the hood of a limo being pounded by a fantasy me, while a small crowd watched. Fetish wear of every sort, collars, tattoos, piercings - and in each, she was sporting a mammoth diamond ring on the appropriate finger of her left hand. I was dizzied. I was freaked. I was paralyzed. Is that what she really wanted, or were they merely masturbatory fantasies? At least, in the latter case, we were reading from the same page. But why the secrecy? Had she actually been hoping that program would work for her? I thought we'd already demonstrated that it wasn't the software that twisted reality, but rather my bizarre brain. But . . . I moped. I fretted. I stewed. Then, four and a half days after my discovery, I got a call at work from a nurse from Community Memorial's ER. Did I know a person named Bridgette Falcone? She'd been admitted earlier that day after collapsing and becoming unresponsive in a downtown bar. It seemed she'd accidentally swallowed a dozen or two tranquilizers and numerous shots of bourbon. My name was listed in her wallet as the person to contact if - I heard no more. I was probably out the office door before the poor lady finished her sentence, and running through the doors of the emergency room mere moments later. It took several very beefy uniformed security people to keep me in the lobby. A very small, very young, and very polite young doctor told me that she had been moved to intensive care, that I should come back when she'd been stabilized. I made it home somehow. I went straight to the computer and began frantically gathering stock photos, praying they were accurate enough. I took her out of ICU, put her in a private room -- conscious, aware, her normal smiling self, with me holding her hand. I saved the composite, made myself a stiff drink, showered and changed clothes. Then, as sanely as possible, I presented myself again at the hospital and found that she was just being transferred from intensive care to a room. But she wasn't smiling. The instant she saw me, she broke into nearly hysterical tears, earning me a hostile stare from the burly nurse pushing her wheelchair. "Go away!" she shrieked. "Leave me alone!" "Bri, I -" The nurse stepped between us. "You heard the lady." "But -" "Do I need to call security, sir?" Heartbroken doesn't begin to describe my emotions. For the next three days, she hung up with a sob each time I called her hospital room. After her discharge, she refused to answer her home phone, and her office informed me that she was on a medical leave of absence. I couldn't work, and dear, compassionate Maude ordered me to take a vacation. I did nothing but sit in my apartment and stare emptily at the tube, trying to keep my mind blank. I tried getting drunk. I tried meditation. I tried everything I could think of to either figure out of get past Bridgette. Nothing worked. Thoughts circled endlessly, like vultures waiting to dine. What had I done wrong? Why did she hate me? Why did she hate herself enough to attempt suicide? Why hadn't my healing manipulation worked? That question and its collories dominated me. I refused to so much as turn my computer on, but my Paint Shop Pro generated karma haunted me. My inevitable conclusion was that this payback for what I'd done, both to her and others. The universe did not brook even "helpful" interference with people's lives. I booted my desktop machine. I highlighted the Paint Shop Pro directory and all its sub folders. My finger hovered over the delete key. What would happen, I wondered? If every trace of the reality I'd altered disappeared, would Maude revert totally to her old self? Would Steph's scars reappear? Would Chloe return to being a dumpy housewife? And, most importantly, would Bridgette die of AIDS after all? Ultimately, I couldn't take that chance. Whatever happened to me, if there was the slightest possibility, the most remote chance, that I'd kill the woman I loved, then I'd accept the consequences of having saved her in the first place. I walked away from the computer and decided I'd try getting drunk again. I don't remember much about that afternoon, except becoming morose. In a moment of self pity, I send Bri a four word email: "Please tell me why." The next afternoon, just as my hangover was releasing me from its horrid grip, the computer I'd not shut down chimed at me. I had email. From Bridgettefalcone. She was even more brief than I'd been: "Starbucks 9am tomorrow." Why bother telling you that my night was sleepless? My self torture escalated to all new heights before the fateful hour arrived. The drive to Starbucks -- there'd been no need to specify which one -- felt like a trip to the gallows. Still, I put on my best game face and went in. I barely recognized her. She was sitting in profile in the most removed corner of the place, seemed to be staring blankly, expressionlessly, at a spot on the wall. She'd lost enough weight so that her slender face looked skeletal. Her skin seemed to have a greyish tint. Her brown hair was loose and limp and unkempt. The plaid work shirt she wore was wrinkled and far too big for her shrunken frame. As I approached, she turned towards me. Her eyes seemed glassy and unfocused -- dead. She seemed to shrink within herself as I neared the table. "Bri, I -" She spoke to the floor. Her voice was almost a whisper, but its intensity made me stop and listen. "I lied to you. My husband didn't give me AIDS. I gave it to him. I murdered him." "Are you sure -" Her mouth worked for a moment before sounds emerged. "I . . . he wanted me to be with -- fuck -- other men. I pretended not to want to, made him talk me into it. We were on vacation in Boston. We bought some sleazy clothes for me to wear. Went to the Combat Zone. I loved it. I'd been a virgin until we were married -- a good girl. I always fantasized about the other side -- being nasty and wanton and slutty. We watched strippers and I wanted to be one. We watched hookers and I wanted to be one. I didn't admit it, but went to the bar of the club we were in, just like he asked me to, and let some guy pick me up. I sucked him off and fucked him in the alley while Paul watched." She made a horrid face at a table leg. "God, I loved it. I orgasmed four or five times before he filled my cunt with cum. Then Paul fucked me, too. Still bent over the same trash can. I wanted more. I wanted every man in the club to line up and fuck me, too. "But I didn't. I made Paul take me back to the hotel. I cried for a half hour in the shower with the door locked. Never again, I promised myself. Never again. And I kept that promise. But it cost me. I became frigid, terrified of sex. When we made love, I had to fake any kind of pleasure. I refused to even consider any kind of sex games at all -- even innocent ones we'd played before. I drove him away. He warned me: what he couldn't get at home, he got from real whores." "So really, you don't know that -" Her resigned sigh was worse that a scream would have been. "Doesn't matter whether I was infected in that alley or not. I'm still responsible for what happened. A horrible death, just like Paul's, seemed perfect justice." She finally met my gaze, and I nearly wished she hadn't. Her eyes were bottomless pools of hopelessness. "And then I met you. I fell in love that very first time we spoke. Did you know that? No. How could you? I was still the ice bitch, safely locked away in my own private hell. "Then you healed me. Nothing was the same after that. I unlocked my cell door and stepped out into the world with you. For a while I hoped and dreamed. I had another chance. I was reborn. I was . . . lying to myself." "I don't understand, Bridgette. I thought -" She barked a shrill laugh. "We both did. We thought we had a future together. But I don't deserve you. You're a good person -- I'm still a murderous whore. You've saved my life twice, Paul. I was mostly out of it in the ICU, but I heard the doctors talking, almost like a dream, about brain damage and spending the rest of my life as a vegetable, and then I was miraculously coming out of it. Good as new. There's only one way that could have happened." "I couldn't let you die." "But I want to die. I deserve to die." Something happened inside me then for which there really aren't words. It was some sort of unholy compound made up of equal parts rage and love. I knew exactly what I was going to do. I slid out of my chair, onto one knee. I grasped her hand. She saw what was coming and tried to pull it away, shaking her head violently. "Bridgette Falcone, marry me." "No! You're insane!" "Guilty as charged. Can you deny that you're in love with me?" "No, but there's -" "Good. That's all I needed to hear. Now be a good girl and just say yes." "I will not! You can't just -" "But I can. I can force you to marry me, you know. I can tamper with your head and you'll happily walk down the aisle with me." "You wouldn't dare!" "Oh? Are you sure?" Her eyes went huge. "You haven't already . . . oh, my god, did you? . ." I shook my head. "Not yet. But, by all the gods, I will, if that's what it takes. I'd much rather not -- and do other things to you instead." She shuddered. She swallowed. "Like what?" My grin must have looked evil. "Like give you your cake and make you eat it, too." And so it came to pass that Bridgette willingly, and happily, became Mrs. Paul Williams. Most of the time, anyway. * She stepped into the room, nude, still toweling her wet hair, and caught me closing down PSP. Her eyes instantly became heavy lidded. Her lovely little nipples hardened. "What are you up to, my wicked husband?" "Oh, nothing." She rolled my chair away from the desk and plopped herself into my lap like she owned it -- which she does. She grabbed me by the ears and turned my head to meet her gaze. "Give, buster." "Just putting the final touches on our second anniversary vacation plans." "Our plans," she drawled, but her nipples stretched even further and her breathing quickened. She squirmed on my lap. "Tell me." "Well, we're going to Vegas." "And . . ." "Wait and see." "At least give me a hint." "I'll do better than that." I handed her a folded sheet of paper. "We're going to do it differently, this time. Here's a list of the first three things you have to do to get ready. You'll start on them this morning while I'm finishing things up at work." She unfolded the paper and started to read. "Oh, no, honey. I can't do this." She read further. "I can't do any of this. It's crazy." "Ah, but that's the beauty of it, my love. You won't be able to help yourself. You'll resist every step of the way, but won't be able to overcome the compulsion." She set her jaw and glared at me, but the intensity of her wiggle increased. "Oh yeah? Well, I resisted you before. I didn't come running back to you like some love stricken teenager after I came out of that coma now, did I?" She was openly humping my thigh now. I reached down to fondle her dripping slit. She groaned, and shook in orgasm. I was going to have to change slacks before work. As a going away gift, I pinched her clit and whispered in her ear. "Cum again, honey, then get your sweet ass up and make those phone calls." She screamed and slumped into my shoulder, nibbling my neck. "I hate you, you know. Do we have time to fuck before you go?" "Nope. Now get up. You've got a lot to do." "I won't," she said through gritted teeth as she stood and walked mechanically to the phone. She fought her fingers for all she was worth as she punched out the numbers on my list. "Oh, fuck. You can't -- oh, hello? Yes. My name's Mira Greenway, and I need to make an appointment for today." She glared at me over my choice of pseudonyms -- Ms. Greenway had been her very hot seventh grade teacher. "Eleven o'clock! Oh, that's only three hours from now. I -- oh no -- yes, that'll be fine." As I was headed out the door, she was on her third call, still struggling mightily, but her thighs were wet with her juices. "Motherfucker," she screamed at my back as she slammed down the phone, "at least make me stop cumming!" I didn't really get anything at all done at the office that day. All I could think about was Bri, and getting home to her that afternoon. But anticipation is a wonderful thing. The smell of musky perfume and wet woman greeted me when I opened the door. I followed her scent to the bedroom and sneakily peeked through the door. She was scowling into the mirror, turning this way and that, admiring herself. The lips with which she was frowning had been fluffed by collagen injections. Her chin length brown hair was now platinum blonde and swung down nearly to her ass. A thousand dollars worth of hair extensions are a wonderful thing. Her tits were nearly two cups sizes larger, thanks to another small fortune in saline injections, and those gorgeous, swollen nipples now each sported a lovely pair of crossed studs. To ice the cake, just above her delicious ass and just below the end of her tresses, she wore a bandage, hiding what I knew was a lovely tribal tattoo. When I stepped into the room, she whirled to face me, trying to cover herself with her hands. "Look at me!" she moaned. "Look what you made me do!" "Oh, trust me, I'm looking!" "Yes, I, ugnh, I see you are and, oh, shit, it's making me so hot. Fuck me honey. Please? Please fuck me before I go crazy." Her fingers, now ending in inch long red talons with ornate gold stencillings, were digging into her freshly shaven pussy -- and neither of those had been on her compulsory menu. "Come here and fuck your whore, baby. I need it so bad." She devoured me with her first kiss, grinding herself into me, and cumming hard when she felt my erection against her belly. "Oh, Mira's not a whore, honey. She a stripper, booked for a week at Club Runaway in Vegas." * So here I am, sitting where the view is best, watching my temporary stripper wife ply her trade. She's currently between sets and is working the floor for lap dances. She's wearing the tiniest imaginable sequined silver bikini top and matching thong panties which contrast wonderfully with her bronze, lineless tan. Her platinum mane swings forward as a man at a table lights her cigarette, illuminating her deep red, glistening blow job lips. Her tits swell as she straightens and inhales, thrusting her nipples to within inches of the guy's watering mouth. I chuckle as she glares daggers at me, blowing smoke in my direction. I thought the cigarettes were a fun touch. She leans down to listen to something her current admirer says, nods, then takes his hand and sways with him toward the private area, her six inch stilettos and bouncing ass making her tattoo dance. Security here is tight. I know she's safe back there, and all the dude is going to get on the couch for his fat fee is a nibble of pierced tits and his slacks full of his own cum. But after her shift is over and we're back in the hotel, her sodden little pussy will get all the pounding it's aching for as she tells me about her night's work. My stamina is a remarkable thing, especially with the aid of pharmaceuticals. And, trust me, a lot of stamina is utterly essential to keep up with her. Still, we're both happy this is her last night. She's seen through the romance of the fantasy into the gritty, often ugly world of exotic dancing. Her body is slowly absorbing the injected fluids, and she's sick of taking care of hair that brushes her ass. Home tomorrow, and a return to our real lives, will be more than welcome. But she's decided to leave the studs in her nipples, and dearly loves the ink on her hips. It'll be a while before the pressure builds to play another game. We'll have lots and lots of innocent, loving fun before she starts wheedling and dreaming and getting moody and depressed. I've got tons of sexy, nasty ideas for more immersion therapy, and, until the next time comes along, I'm sure I can force an occasional sloppy, wet, smoky face fuck from my dear, darling wife. It All Started As A Lark... It all started as a lark; I was in Las Vegas for a week attending a conference and enjoying some time away from the office. Staying at one of the casinos on the strip, I was attending meetings through the day, working out in the evening and seeing the town at night. In the two short trips to Vegas previously, I had never gone to any big shows or anything; I had gone once to an upscale strip club and quickly ran though a couple of hundred dollars on the good-looking and well toned dancers there. But no big adventures, no one-night anything; just a good time and some decent luck at the tables. Today was a light meeting schedule, so I was taking advantage of some extra gym time. I was midway into my routine when a woman I had noticed earlier caught my eye; she was very pretty, light blonde hair, lovely blue eyes and an awesome athletic figure – tight, toned, tan – very nice altogether. She was watching me lift which made me feel a little self-conscious but wanting to push a touch more weight. Our eyes met and she smiled, but then she looked away and moved towards a guy in another part of the gym. Oh well, I thought, and kept going. A few minutes later she was back, this time closer. I was in the middle of a lift, and she waited until I was done and came over and introduced herself. Her name was Amy, and she was there for a couple of weeks with her husband. They were vacationing there and enjoying the party atmosphere; they had been there ten days and had seen a lot of shows and spent some money at the casinos. We chatted for a bit, all the while I was trying not to stare at her in that tight spandex top. Her breasts were small and hard with her nipples clearly visible pushing up on the fabric of the top. On top of being beautiful, she seemed very nice and for some reason mentioned that she and her husband were a very open couple. I didn't really understand that, it must have shown on my face when she smiled again and invited me to join them for dinner that night. I had no plans, she was very friendly and I figured why not. Before going out, I took some extra time washing up and getting dressed – it was very tempting to stroke myself in the shower thinking about Amy, about holding her tight and taking off that spandex top. My cock grew just thinking about it, but I held off, thinking that I could spend the evening with them and take care of that later. I left the room in a nice Brooks Brothers shirt, slacks, and some Italian loafers picked up on my last trip to New York. I was getting a restaurant recommendation from the concierge in the lobby when Amy appeared in a magnificent evening dress – all blue sequins, with bare shoulders and a plunging back – her hair was down and she was quite the vision. I could not help but to smile taking it all in, and she appeared to appreciate the compliment. She came up and greeted me with a kiss to the cheek and said we could go ahead, her husband was not coming to dinner. I was a little confused but happy to have her on my arm as we left for dinner. We took a taxi and went to an intimate restaurant, getting a booth in the back. Amy was very friendly without being overly talkative; she was good conversation and had a tendency to lean closely to me and touch when sharing something. I could not help but to be charmed with her and she seemed to be enjoying herself. We started talking about our lives and she began talking about her and her husband. To this point we had been very casual, just small talk, but then she slid over to me, put her hand on mine and said she wanted to tell me something. Naturally I told her to go ahead. She leaned so close I could smell her hair, her subtle perfume, and was having a hard time concentrating on her words. She said she and her husband Mark had shared some amazing things together – travel, outdoor adventures – but there were other things they wanted to share as well. Amy looked at my eyes as she said during the last week they had lived out one of her husband's fantasies – they had invited another woman into their bedroom and shared her for the evening. Amy told me this with her face inches from mine, her eyes big and her hand touching mine. I started to understand something as she went on. Amy said it was one of the most magnificent experiences of their lives, that they both had re-lived it again and again over the last couple of nights. She stopped for a moment to gauge my reaction. I was incredibly turned on at the thought of this beautiful woman going down on another woman, and told her so. I went on and told her I hoped the other girl tasted good, because I was sure Amy would taste good to her. Amy smiled, dropped her hand to my leg, and looked at me very directly. She said, "It was the best sex I've ever had. It opened my eyes to the way sex can be. I've never come so hard or so many times." She leaned in so that her lips were barely touching my ear. "And now that we've lived out Mark's fantasy, it's my turn." With this, she moved in and kissed me full on the lips. Her mouth was warm and wet and as I started to return the kiss her hand moved up my leg and gently rested on top of my growing cock. She pulled back and said, "I saw you in the gym two days ago. I showed you to Mark and said 'He's the one.' Mark agreed and said I could talk to you about it." I was turned on, flattered, and hoping she would not remove her hand from my now hard cock. I wrapped her in my free arm, told her I thought she was beautiful and asked directly what they had in mind. She started a slow, teasing stoking motion on me, hidden under the table. "It's a little kinky," she said. She hesitated, then: "Maybe a lot kinky. I've always thought Mark is secretly bisexual. This time it's my turn to live out my fantasy, and that is to share a man between Mark and me." She looked a little anxiously at me, wanting to know if I was still alright. In my life, I've never been with another guy. It's always been with a girl – and on a couple of occasions, two girls. But to be honest, I have to admit to fantasizing about being with a couple. I've often come by my hand, stroking it fast until I squirted all over my hard stomach, thinking about being taken by two people at the same time. Here was this opportunity with this magnificent woman, asking if I was OK with it. I told her, "Honestly, I have never been with another guy, but have fantasized about it..." Looking at her, I wanted to kiss those lips again. My body reacted to the idea, I made a leap and said, "So long as I can have some more of you..." leaned in, and kissed her long and hard. Amy responded by kissing back, opening her mouth and letting our tongues touch; her hand reflexively tightened on my cock and my hips moved in response. We needed to get to a room quickly. But before I could stand, she put her hand on my arm and asked me to stop for a second. "Wait – there's more. This part may be hard for you." She looked at me earnestly. "I need to add something – something that might make you uncomfortable. Something I have thought about for years." I stopped and waited to hear the rest; I felt a faint touch of anxiety start to run through me. She said, "I have always wanted to have a man with us... but somehow anonymously. To share him with Mark, but for Mark and me to be in total control. For us to completely..." She was seeking words. "Have him." She looked up at me and in a rush, spilled out what must have been hidden within her for years. "I want to blindfold you, bring you into our bed and for both of us to fuck your brains out." The words, the thought, brought back to me my fantasy of being with a couple. The idea of being there, of things asked of me, of having my body used for pleasure... I could not help but smile at her. I leaned over, pressed my lips to her ear and said, "Let's go." She thrilled, kissed me, and we left. In the taxi on the way back, I was all over her. I pulled her to me and she went weak in my arms as I kissed her, pulled down that dress and began to suck on those perfect breasts. Her nipples hardened instantly in my mouth and she told me breathlessly that she was very sensitive there. Her eyes rolled back as I rolled her nipples around with my tongue; I grabbed her hair, pulled her head back gently and pulled her body to me as I sucked harder upon her and she made a sharp noise in her throat, her body convulsing against me. She pulled my head up and kissed me with all she had, pulling my tongue into her mouth. We were at the hotel quickly, and I paid the smiling driver. We ran through the lobby, and caught up in the elevator – this time she pushed me against the wall and ground her pussy into my cock, all the while shoving her tongue into my mouth. Her hands held me and I was surprised at the strength she possessed in those slender arms. We went to the top floor and she pulled me by the hand towards their suite. She unlocked the door and we went into the foyer. There were no lights on beyond. Amy turned to me and asked me to stay right there. "Don't move and don't worry – we are going to make you feel really, really good tonight." She kissed me again and ran off into the darkness. I was left there alone. From the foyer, across the darkened living area, the lights of the city were visible going off into the distance. I heard soft music coming from somewhere. Amy came back in a rush, her face glowing and something in her hands. "Everything is perfect," she said. "We are going to completely take care of you." With that, she came up close to me and moved behind me. Suddenly her hands were over my eyes, and she placed a blindfold there. She held my arm for a moment – I felt that she was looking at me, watching me. My body reacted in a way I never expected – I shivered, a thrill running down my back as I realized I was coming into her power, that she was directing things from here on. And that only increased as I felt another hand on my other arm – her husband. Until now this had been an exciting game, but here the reality of another man hit me. I was blindfolded, in a strange room with a couple. Someone started unbuttoning my shirt. Amy – I could smell her hair. Her soft fingers explored and moved down my chest as she undid each one. She purred whispered words as she went along – "look at his beautiful chest... how strong he is... and he's ours tonight..." She went down to my belt and stopped. Hands pulled my shirt down from my shoulders and ran over my bare skin... large hands, stronger than Amy's, somehow more demanding. They moved to my chest, ran across my muscles, stopped and pulled on my nipples. I gasped. I heard Amy giggle. My shirt was pulled from my slacks and taken off of me; her soft hand took mine and led me from the foyer. I had no idea where we were going. Another pair held and guided my hips as we walked. Mark must be walking behind us, his hands on me. I heard my shoes go from marble tile to soft carpet, feeling that change as we walked deeper into their room. We stopped. I was turned by the hands on my hips. Music was playing, I could smell vanilla. Someone was pulling at my belt, someone was taking off my shoes. Without warning, my slacks were pulled open and my cock – so long waiting for release – sprang out. "Ahhh..." said Amy. "It's beautiful." I felt her hands upon me, wrapping around my straining cock, and she began milking it slowly, up and down. I moaned, my head leaning back. My slacks were being pulled down and off, hands ran up my bare legs and back to my hips. My cock was being slowly milked, her hands squeezing at the bottom, pulling up, doing it again. Hands on my hips started moving around- exploring my body. Running over my back, along my sides, centering on my ass. I felt him come closer up behind me and his hands started kneading my ass, squeezing each side. One hand went between my legs and pushed them slightly apart. I made a low sound. I heard Amy move as the hand between my legs went up between the cheeks of my ass, felt my ass spread and fingers explore my anus. Amy whispered, "Do you want that?" A low "yes..." came in return. I was turned abruptly. My cock was being held up. "Do you want this, too?" "Yes..." "Come here then." Movement around me and I was pushed back. A bed struck my knees from behind and I was gently pushed down and back upon it, laid flat upon it, my legs dangling over the edge. My cock was held up and a wet mouth touched it, enveloped it, slid down upon it. I was no longer in control of my voice, I was softly moaning, aching at every touch. I felt the bed move around me. Another mouth started on my stomach, moving down towards my cock. They both left me for a moment and I heard a deep kiss, then both came back. They shared my cock between them, each kissing, licking, sucking it in turns. One hand wrapped around the base and held it firmly as they increased their intensity. Then Amy said, "Now – I want him in me. Now." She moved across me and I felt her wet pussy stroke against my cock once before she pushed it inside her and slid down. All that wetness from sucking allowed it to slide in fully on the first stroke and she made a wonderful sound as she ground it deeper into her. She pulled my hands up to hold her breasts as she rode me and I heard sucking sounds above me – Mark must have put his cock in her mouth. Amy rode hard and fast, her sounds becoming louder and louder until she pulled Mark from her mouth and screamed once, her pussy contracting hard on me, I could feel her womb brush down against the tip of my cock. "Oh, fuck yes..." she said, grinding against me, riding it out. "Oh God... That was incredible. He's perfect." I felt her lean down and kiss me, lingering, pulling my lips into her mouth. "Mmmmm..." she moaned. "Very nice." A pause. "Now let's get Mark to come." Amy pulled me so I was sitting up with her still in my lap. We were tummy to tummy and she lay an arm across my shoulder and around my neck. I heard a slurping sound, and thought she had pulled Mark into her mouth again. She moved her head and kissed me hard, then moved back to sucking Mark. She did this again, moving between us. Each time she kissed me, she ground her pussy harder on my cock, making me lightheaded. She went back and forth, between sucking Mark's cock and kissing me, faster between the two of us, she started sharing kissing and sucking almost at the same time, her mouth more wet and urgent each time. I could taste something new on her tongue, a sweet salty taste and knew that it was from Mark's cock, his pre-come. She kissed me again and held my head still with her arm and I felt something else warm against my lips, soft and velvety. It pushed in slightly, my lips letting it in, and heard Amy whisper into my ear, "yes... kiss it. Kiss it. Taste him. Open your mouth wide..." while it pushed deeper into my mouth. Amy ground hard on me, rewarding me for pleasing her husband. She moved my hand up to hold his shaft, moving it in a stroking motion. I wrapped my fingers around it and brought it deeper into my mouth, opening wide, keeping my lips tight, milking it in the way I love women to do to me. I stroked the underside with my tongue and tightened my hand on his shaft, starting to pull it harder. Mark started sawing his cock in and out of my mouth and moaning loudly. Amy was encouraging me on, telling me to suck harder or stroke harder, all the while grinding her wet pussy on my cock. I was getting close and could feel Mark's cock get bigger and bigger and I knew he was about to come. Amy knew it too and was nearly frantic, telling him to come in my mouth, me to come in her pussy, to make me taste him, to make me fill her wet pussy. Then I felt a warm squirt in my mouth and Mark started coming and moaning loud and squirting splash after splash into my mouth as I milked his cock for all he had. He filled my mouth with come, moaning how good it felt in there. It tasted salty and slightly bitter and I held it in my mouth as he finished when suddenly Amy held my face between her hands and kissed me more deeply than she ever had before. Her tongue was everywhere and I realized she wanted to share Mark's come, so I gave it to her with my tongue. As she greedily swallowed it I went over the edge and started pumping come into her with all my body. She kept kissing me, making more urgent noises, her tongue running along every part of my mouth, taking all of Mark's come into her own while I was filling her pussy with my come. I pumped her pussy with my cock and her mouth with Mark's come and she reared back and screamed "Aahh! God!!!" and came all over me, her body out of control, her thighs quivering uncontrollably as her body was racked by waves of pleasure. She pushed down on me with all her weight, wanting me as deeply into her as I could go, pushing down on me and riding me like a bucking horse. We nearly collapsed then, Amy and I falling back onto the bed, Mark alongside. I could taste Mark's come in my mouth and feel Amy's wetness on my cock, cool in the air. Amy giggled and Mark chuckled and they talked in quiet tones on how good that was. I was still blindfolded and reached up to take it off when Amy stopped me and told me to just relax – they were not done with me yet. Laying there, warm and feeling very much like I was in the middle of a dream, someone rolled me over onto my stomach and started to rub my back. It felt very nice, and I made appreciative noises when a second set of hands joined in. Someone started kissing my back, lightly moving their lips up and down over my skin and that gave me goose bumps all over. Then one bit me lightly, startling me, before moving on with more kisses and strokes. I sighed. Once in a while one or the other would bite, gently, but enough to send shivers all though me. The hands spread my legs and started caressing between my thighs and that caused an electric thrill to run straight up my spine. One pair spread my ass apart and held me that way – I felt like I was opened up, completely exposed, with nothing hidden. Amy whispered, "You want that, don't you." "Yes," Mark replied, his voice low with desire. She moved up to my ear. "Do you want that too?" "Yes." It was all I could say. "Tonight is the night," she said. I felt movement on the bed while whoever was holding me open started to run fingers down the seam of my ass, tickling my anus, making circles around the most sensitive part. My whole body was tensed and I felt every touch, every brush, every breath on my skin. My cock was hard again beneath me and I pressed it against the covers. Movement on the bed and I felt a shock as something cold and wet was dripped onto my anus. Fingers started rubbing it in, thick and well. I could not stop the moans that came from my throat. This was a different kind of desire, not one of taking, but one of being taken. A finger began pushing inside me and I tensed – it hurt, not much, but it was a shock. Amy lay down beside me and began stroking my back, my shoulders, my arms. "Shhhh..." she began. "Just relax. Let it happen." As she talked, the finger went out and returned, this time thick with more lotion, pushing farther inside. I moaned loud, my legs opening, my hips bucking spontaneously to allow better access. "You like that," she whispered. "You want more, don't you." It wasn't a question – she knew. She was stroking my hair, cooing softly in my ear as another finger joined the first. I was only desire at that point, only animal feelings as the fingers inside me started moving in and out, then pushing against the sides of me deep inside, then in and out again. "Is he ready?" she asked. "Yes," was Mark's reply. I wasn't sure I was, but it was too late – the bed shifted under his weight and I felt the warm soft tip of his cock push against me. He circled it gently, letting me get used to it before pushing. I felt the pressure, then my body opening and he slid the tip in. I cried out – it was far bigger than I expected. It All Started As A Lark... Amy was there, at my ear: "Shhhh.... Let him in... open up to him now, relax your muscles... open, you know how..." she began kissing and licking my ear between words. I was utterly lost, she must have been watching my face as he pushed again, sinking deeper into me. I could feel the warm cock, feel the pulse inside me now as he pushed in again yet further. I cried out again. "You need something to keep your mouth busy," she said and moved in front of me. She held my head and I could feel her move, then I could smell her wetness and I knew what she was doing. She moved more and turned my head and her pussy was right there and I began desperately drinking from her, licking every inch of her wet pussy, tasting her and tasting me all mixed in together. I was running my tongue along her folds, pushing it inside, licking circles around her clit when he pushed again, then grabbed my hips and pulled me hard against him, sinking in as deep as he could go. I could feel him inside my ass, could feel the pulsing of his cock as he rested inside me. He began slowly withdrawing it, then pushing back in. I could only keep sucking on the lips of her pussy, drinking our combined juices as he started sawing in and out of me, pulling up on my hips until I was up on my knees. I wrapped my arms around Amy's hips and started running my tongue around her clit in steady circles, making her tense and moan. Amy lay back, holding my head with one hand while Mark started fucking my ass. Amy was asking him if he liked my ass and he said yes, it was the tightest thing he'd ever felt. She told him to fuck it well then, and he kept his slow steady pace going, pushing deep in until he could go no more, pulling out and then pushing again. He leaned over my back, his weight upon me, and started biting my back and telling me how good it felt in my ass. He then reached around me and grabbed my cock, wrapped it tight in his hand, and started to stroke it with every stroke deep into my ass. I was lost in a world of sex, circling Amy's clit with my tongue, tasting our juices, bringing her closer and closer as she told Mark to fuck my ass; he was sawing in and out of me while milking my cock for all it was worth. Mark was getting close – I could feel him getting bigger in me and knew he was going to come in there, squirting in my dark hole. Amy was breathless, holding my head against her pussy, talking filthy and telling Mark to fuck me harder. I was growing in his hand and knew it was only a few seconds before he pulled it out of me. Mark came first, crying out, his cock pulsing in me in a way I had never felt before, he was squirting into my body when Amy's thighs locked around me and she came on my mouth, her pussy flooding my mouth with her fresh come. That sent me over, my cock milked in Mark's tight fist, squirting hard, over and over. My whole body felt like it was coming, my ass clenching down on Mark's cock. Mark put his other hand beneath and caught my come as he squeezed it out of me. Amy moved around quickly and pulled his hand to her mouth, drinking me in; she then moved underneath me, pulled my cock into her mouth, and let me finish into her. Mark pulled out of me and staggered away – I collapsed onto the bed. Amy wrapped me in her arms and held me for a few moments. I heard the shower going, and Amy finally took off the blindfold. She kissed me, and led me over to my clothes. I could barely walk. She ran to the bathroom and got a bathrobe, then helped me dress. We went to the door, and I was surprised when she went out into the hall with me. "You are not done yet," she said. "I'm going to help you go to sleep." Together we walked down the hall to my suite and I let us in. I led her to the bed, stripped my clothes, and joined her there. We began kissing, and before long I was hard again - she made sure of that, gently suckling on my cock. I laid her back and slid inside her wet pussy, enjoying how easily I could move in her. She sighed, held me close, and bucked softly against me. This time I could see her eyes, suck upon her breasts, watch her move like the beauty she was. Together we moved until I got close, then she told me again and again, "Come in me, come in me, I want it..." until I did, a long, lingering orgasm that left us both sated. We fell asleep then, wrapped up in each other. When I woke up, she was gone – with a note telling me how to meet with them again if I wanted to. Perhaps I will call...