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The Choir

By: LongLane



She was a young woman, still but a girl. She felt very young as she stood, waiting to experience something the thought of which quickened her heart and moistened her woman's core. This was her first time. A solo test that, if she passed, would allow her to join that elite group of women at the Palace. The Choir. Many tried. Few passed.

She did not fully understand why she had put herself forward to join the Choir. There were riches to be had, but there were also many bad things that could happen to her. There were so many things she did not know, but had heard whispered. Pleasures beyond endurance for those who were good enough. She did not know why the Choirmaster had decided to allow her a chance to show whether she was good enough to become part of the elite. He was an old, crumbling man with hands that felt like damp tree bark on her smooth, young skin. His voice had been cold and empty as he had told her to undress. During his first assessment his rough fingers had lingered on her breasts and pubis. His dark, lizard eyes had stared into hers as he slipped his finger between her vaginal lips, feeling for her nub and tracing its size and profile, as if he was academically appraising a precious artefact. She had shivered inwardly in repulsion, but she'd refused to flinch or show embarrassment. When he had finished he stood back and looked into her eyes. She returned his stare with youthful boldness, and saw what might have been a shadow of respect flit across his ancient features.

Now, three days later she had once again left her family and her home in the village, and had approached the rear entrance of the Palace. She was met by a nervous young male servant who led her through writhing corridors to a room where he told her to bathe and changed into a dress. He watched her from the door, told her that he had to so that she did not escape to parts of the Palace that were forbidden. She dried herself and put on the dress, moving with young, innocent grace. There were more corridors that finally uttered into this place where she now stood. The Performance Chamber.

It was smaller than she had expected, more a large room than what she might have called a chamber. The walls were hung with velvet drapes in blue and purple. The curved row of thirteen Performance Chairs were a mere ten paces from the Prince's Choosing Throne. Next to the Throne was a low, wooden platform which she knew from her preparation studies would become the Bed of Devotion each night the Prince required a Performance of the Choir. A spicy musk scent hung in the air of the room, something ancient and primitive.

Here was the Choirmaster again, in his blue silk robe. Tall and still upright, despite his heavy years. She had heard scandal that his son was unlikely to be made his successor. There were rumours of his secret meetings with more than one member of the Choir. Was this why the old man looked so cold and inhuman? Like a living corpse. She shivered, although the room was warm, heated from a fireplace on either side of the room. She calmed herself by closing her eyes and listening to the soft crackle of burning logs.

She was startled by the percussive clap from the Choirmaster as he dismissed the young man who had brought her here. She had noticed the man lingering in the doorway, giving her curious glances. Before he turned to scurry away he stared at her. There was wonder in his eyes, and something else, a widening that could have been fear. For her?

The Choirmaster gestured for her to move towards the left hand Performance Chair. If she passed this test this would be the chair she would use when she sang with the Choir for the Prince. The thought made her heart beat quickly and her breath caught in her throat. Stop! She must no allow herself hope. Not yet. She forced her breathing to slow.

Silently, and as if from nowhere her Performance Partner appeared. He was perhaps five years older than her own seventeen summers. He was tall, strong and sleek. Naked to the waste. Beautiful. Her eyes dropped lower, drawn like doomed moths to the huge bulge in his fine white silk trousers. She felt his eyes blazing at her, but she could not meet them. She could not bring herself to lift her head or she knew she would be drawn to his mouth, as a wild animal stares at succulent food inside a deadly trap.

And yet she knew she must now step forward and form the Bond with this strong, hard man. The protocol demanded that such a Bond be formed between all Choristers and their Partners. She knew that, because she was new, he would have been chosen for his expertise. She held on to the same determined courage that had first brought her to the Palace, and took the two steps needed to press her body against his warm, perfect skin. He responded to her approach, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into him. She felt his firm muscles through the fine black silk of her performance dress, the only item that clothed her. She closed her eyes as she raised her head to him, surrendering, waiting for the touch of his big, hot lips upon her own mouth.

This was her first kiss. She had read about the Bond, knew that this was a necessary part of her initiation. But no instructional text had described the sensation she felt now, as his lips caressed hers. The sensual power of him made her gasp, and with the parting of her lips she felt his tongue glide inside her mouth with an intoxicating mix of strength and tenderness. The tip of his tongue traced patterns over the surface of her own. The sudden intimacy of it was overwhelming. She felt wet tension in her loins. The feelings that ran through her were strange, and delightful. His bulge pressed through the fine fabric of her garment, pushing hard into her moist softness. He was kissing her, but slowly, she began to know that she was returning his kiss, as their lips and tongues brushed and curled in gentle copulation. What had started as an act of necessary acceptance was becoming something more mutual. Something that made her legs quiver and her insides throb. A pleasure she had never known. Until this moment.

The sigh from the Choirmaster was almost inaudible, but its authority caused her Partner immediately to pull his lips from hers and to step back from her. Now she looked into his eyes. Yes, they blazed. A primordial blue. Her gaze could not leave them as he led her to her Performance Chair. She finally broke her locked stare and looked down at it. It was made from finest, oiled walnut wood and did not resemble a normal chair in any way. She sat down on two round disks that were a hands width apart. She made sure that she did not sit on the fabric of her short dress, but that it hung behind the backs of the discs. It felt strange, but not uncomfortable. The discs projected towards each other from an outer frame. At the front of the frame was a bar just above the surface of the Performance Stage. Her Partner knelt and tied her ankles to this bar so that they were spread apart by perhaps the length of her forearm. The straps were made of finest calfskin, soft but very strong. Now he tied her thighs, just above her knees, to a different part of the frame. A wider strap went round her lower stomach and pulled her tight into the wooden back of the Chair. Finally her wrists were tied to another bar of the frame so her arms were pulled out almost straight, at breast height.

She knew the final part of his preparation required her to sit very still. Firstly he placed a small, sticky pad either side of the softy, curly hairs of her pubis. Wires from the two pads led to a small box on the wooden frame. She had read that one of the greatest sins during a Performance was to falsify a Song. These sensors would indicate that her Performance was genuine in every part and a light on the Chair would illuminate if it was not.

The final and most intimate part of her preparation was about to begin. Her big, beautiful Partner lay down on his back and reached under her. She felt the soft grip of what she knew were rubber tongs closing round each of her labia. He adjusted something which pulled them apart very slowly. At the point where she tensed with discomfort he wound the adjustment back a little. The whole preparation had taken perhaps two minutes. Enough to allow her anxiety to build, but not enough for her to start thinking of what was about to happen to her. Now her Partner moved beside her, bent forward, kissed her again with his sweetness. Her helpless vulnerability heightened her excitement and her lions began to ache with need. But for what? She did not know.

The Choirmaster dusted at his gown as her Partner moved behind her. She heard the sound of a mechanism sliding and then felt his breath under her, blowing hot, intoxicating wafts against her most private place. A place that was now utterly exposed. To him. She gripped the bar in front of her to steady her head as feelings and anticipation of unknown desires whirled inside her.

The first touch of his tongue upon her made her cry out softly. Her mouth opened involuntarily. She knew that the muscles in his tongue would be mightily powerful, built through years of training. If she had anticipated anything it was that she would feel that strength against her. But she was not ready for this! This glorious stirring of her very core. A slow, licking caress that made her shudder with pleasure and arousal. His hot, wet strokes rasped against a part of her body that she herself had only touched by accident while washing herself. That self touch upon the strange nub had felt nice, but her watching mother had looked with disdain, so she had never explored herself further, believing it to be forbidden.

Now the tip of his tongue traced circles around her nub, probing other intimate parts of her. She fell into a swoon of sexual delight. His tongue pressed more firmly against her now, and began to lick her with a rolling rhythm of pure ecstasy. His stroking of her gradually became faster and faster, building huge, oily waves of sensation inside her that caused her to squirm in her chair. It was too strange. The intensity was too much. She wanted to push his mouth away, to give herself respite for a moment. But there was no rest for her. Only his long, tormenting tongue, stroking faster and faster. Something was building inside her, like a giant coil of rope being wound tighter and tighter. The heat from his mouth seemed to burn upwards through her soaking passage and into her womb. She began to cry and moan in time to the building waves. His eternal, infernal licking grew faster and harder still. She was slipping, falling.

She screamed as her loins unleashed unbearable tension in boiling spasms of joy and release. Pleasure enveloped her and stole her control. The overwhelming surge of her orgasm shivered through her lower body like a huge, primitive fist, clenching and relaxing, clenching and relaxing.

It was over. She panted and felt sweat running down between her breasts. Her lower body was singing a single, monotone note of tingling fulfilment.

It was not over. Her Partner, stimulated by her Song, was renewed in his desire to make her Perform. His tongue writhed against her again, each stroking lick impossibly long, impossibly beautiful. When he stopped licking her there, he showed no mercy, for his deep, lingual probing pulled her irrevocably towards a second, agonising wave of arousal. She needed desperately for it to stop. Her mind and body shrieked in protest at the burning, sparkling stimulation that roared from his huge, quivering tongue against her enraged, throbbing clitoris. His Partnering was expert, and relentless.

She screamed. Again, and again.

Later, when she awoke, she was told by a soft spoken female servant that her assessed Performance had lasted for three hours. In her hazy memory there was no recollection of words from the Choirmaster, but she must have passed, for here she was in a beautiful bedroom with soft sheets and fine furniture. Her next Performance would be in the Choir. For the Prince himself! Thrilling darts of fear and excitement fluttered through her, like silver birds chasing one another. She could not stop herself from thinking of her Partner, seeing his strength, feeling his touch. Experiencing again what he had given to her, those huge and mysterious detonations that had unpeeled her humanity and exposed the screaming, naked animal within her. 

For the next three days she received personal instruction from an older woman, a Choir Tutor. Those very few who were successful in maintaining a long career in the Choir were often able to stay on to perform other roles at the Palace when they were considered too old to Perform. The woman was kind; she was the first person in the Palace that the girl had seen smile. It was a smile of kind contentment; surely the woman had wealth now.

The girl also saw that it was also a smile of relief, for now the woman was safe. The instructional texts had described the prescribed punishments for wrongdoing by Choristers. And the Prince ruled by fear. The closer he was, the greater the fear, and here in the Palace that fear crouched in every dark doorway and grim passage.

No-one in her village pretended that the Prince was loved or admired. He largely ignored his people and allowed them to get on with their lives while he executed his many perversions. But he could be generous. He had amassed his riches through bloody wars in other lands. When people pleased him he rewarded them. The Choir was very pleasing to him, and its members and their families could expect wealth, over time.

The fear grew from the many tales of what happened to those who did not please the Prince. Brutal cruelty, sometimes beyond belief, pervaded these stories. She had a friend in her village who had lost her brother. He had presented himself to the Palace as a prospective Choir Partner two summers ago. He had been successful in his application. There were rumours that he had tried to extend his role with his assigned Chorister beyond what the rules allowed. His body had been returned to the family, in such a condition that they wished it had not been. There were other rumours that the Chorister herself had played a hand in his downfall. For she still sang in the Choir, while her younger brother now performed the role of her Partner, and her family grew richer. 

It was the evening of her first Performance. She was filled with swirling waves of anxiety and excitement. Her excitement prevailed as she thought of her Partner. She had not seen him since her test, but she knew that he would be assigned to her now, that he would not have Partnered with any other woman, and would not, until they both agreed to a reassignment. He was hers. She was his! That thought made her breathe more quickly.

Her Choir Tutor soothed her with soft words of encouragement. She told the girl that the Palace had whispered of the great length and intensity of her Singing during her solo test. The woman had seen perhaps fifty summers, but she was still very beautiful, and she moved, spoke and behaved with a grace that made the girl adore her. So when this woman told her she was special, the girl felt something new alongside the resolve and ambition that had brought her here. It was pride, and it filled her with comfort and a little certainty that helped her hold herself steady in this whirling new world she had entered. The woman had helped her prepare and dress, and now led her towards the Performance Chamber.

Here were the other Choristers, waiting in an enclosed hallway with an arched roof. She had been here before, during her test, but had been filled with too many other thoughts to take it in. The Choristers stood in a line, facing towards the door that opened into the Performance Chamber. Their dresses were shaded from back to white, in increasing order of seniority. She was the last one, facing twelve backs, twelve dresses in a spectrum of increasing lightness. The Chorister immediately in front of her also seemed very young and the girl lifted the hem of her dress to compare the colour. The shade that this nearest Chorister wore was a dark, almost imperceptibly grey, which meant she was no longer a novice. The confidence that the girl had felt earlier shrank inside her, enshrouded in a cold knot of fear. Her Choir Tutor must have seen her moment of distress, for she rested her hand on the girls arm and gave her the warmest of smiles before turning and leaving her.

Now they were alone. The thirteen Choristers for tonight's Performance. There were other Choristers than these, for there were various reasons why one or another could not Perform on a particular night. She looked further down the line, wondering if one of the more senior women was the one who had helped cause the end of her friend's brother. She saw that movements and behaviours showed hierarchy as well as the shade of clothing. Nervous fidgeting at the back flowed into self assured preening as the dresses became paler. Her passive inspection helped keep her mind calm.

The Partners entered. Each stood beside their assigned Chorister. The girl had not been told what the protocol was for this moment, and she took her lead from those in front. Some did not change their forward gaze towards the door. Others turned and looked up at the faces of their Partners. And she saw at once that not all of those looks were returned. Indeed some of the Partners were staring at their Choristers without meeting a responsive turn of the head. If she looked, would he look back? She had to look. She turned, and almost took a step back in the face of the ferocious blue desire that poured from his eyes. They had to stand slightly apart, side by side. But for one exception, the rules forbade touch of any kind until the Performance. That one moment of intimacy came now, as each Partner knelt to remove the soft, leather scandals the Choristers wore to keep their feet warm and clean from the cold dust of the Palace's marble floors.

She quivered at the touch of his strong hands and long fingers. He was tender, but she felt passion as his mouth came close to her thigh and his hot breath caressed her skin. As they were at the back of the line he seemed driven to extend their physical contact beyond the strict protocol. His fingers lingered against the inside of her knee as he steadied her. She closed her eyes as his touch moved up the inside of her thigh. Her physical response was intense and immediate. Her loins coiled as they expressed a cry of liquid arousal. She heard his thrilled gasp as she dripped onto him. He seemed to realise he risked betrayal from the others, for he pulled away and stood beside her again. She stared, fascinated as he brought his forearm to his mouth and kissed from it her vaginal teardrops of passion. As he did so he returned her look with azure eyes that burned with wanting.

They broke their gaze at last. She sensed they were about to enter the Performance Chamber and, in her anticipation, she felt gratitude for the softness of the carpet that silently swallowed the exquisite splashes of her unbearably wet ache. The door was opened by the Choir Master. He watched silently as the Choir assembled on their Chairs. As with all things, they were seated by seniority. Only one wore pure, shining white, and she took her place on the centre Chair. Palest grey sat either side of her, darkening outward. The one that had stood directly in front of the girl while they waited took her place on the leftmost Chair. She was by the rightmost, the one that had been used for her test. As before, her partner was swift and gentle as he strapped and prepared her.

The Choir Master walked along the row checking bindings and sensors. As he did so the girl heard gentle padding of female feet as others entered behind her. She knew these were the Enhancers and the Rewards. A Partner could choose to have an Enhancer who would apply her mouth to his arousal during a Performance, but she must not fulfil him. If she did, even if accidentally, punishment was quick and brutal. Enhancers were made up from those who had tried but failed to join the Choir. Sometimes a Chorister would be made an Enhancer as punishment for a mild transgression. Once they became an Enhancer they could never return to Singing in the Choir.


The Choir Director



I'm 38 years old. I sing in the choir at our church. The choir is a relatively small choir; our church is a small country church. We have, however, a very accomplished organist and a highly talented Choir Director. 

The Choir Director is probably in her mid-sixties; she's been running the choir for close to forty years. I find her to be very attractive. She has a pretty face, a beautiful smile and a great personality. At her age of course, she doesn't have the body of a 20-year-old. But I still have the hots for her in a lecherous sort of way. Her breasts are not large, but they are very prominent, and I find myself staring at them frequently. 

I've been singing in the choir now for almost 10 years. I often fantasize about playing with the Choir Director's boobs. I know she likes me. I have a pretty dry sense of humor and I make her laugh a lot. But I'm sure she doesn't know how much I've fantasized about playing with her breasts.

The choir only sings a couple of times in the summer, since vacations make it so hard to coordinate everyone. I tend to miss church a lot in the summer, as weekends are pretty full.

One day during the summer I was at the grocery store and chanced to meet the Choir Director doing her food shopping. We talked briefly about how our summers were going and she told me that her husband was away for a couple of weeks. And then she said something that I found very out of character, given our church relationship. She said, "He's gone for two weeks, so no sex for me!"

I was a bit taken aback by this comment, but my response was something I immediately wished I could take back. I told her, "Well if there is anything I can do to help you out, let me know." She laughed, touched my hand and said she would see me later. I felt kind of embarrassed.

One Wednesday evening after we had resumed choir practice in the fall, she let the choir go early. As we were cleaning up our music, she came over to me and said "My husband's away again this week. Would you like to come over to my house to help me make music selections for the next six weeks or so?"

We do a wide variety of music in our choir at church, and I was sure it would be fun to go over the music options for the choir to sing. It sounded like a great opportunity to me. But most of all, I wondered if she was sending me a subtle message; perhaps this was my opportunity to feel her breasts. 

I followed her to her house in my car and parked in her back driveway. I had been to her house before, but only when her husband was home. 

I wondered why she had invited me to her house, when her husband was not there. We went in and stood in her kitchen. I leaned against the kitchen counter; she asked if I would like a glass of wine. I said, "Sure."

She walked into the dining room and came back with two glasses and a bottle of wine. She filled the glasses and came over to me and handed me my glass of wine. I took it and placed it on the counter beside me. 

It seemed to me that she was standing rather close. I took my left hand and gently touched the small of her back. I don't know whether I drew her closer to me or she simply moved toward me, but there we were standing in her kitchen with our faces only inches away from each other. 

I took her closeness as a sign and leaned forward to kiss her. She turned her head and we brought our lips together. I put my left arm around her back and held her close and we kissed. I gently used my tongue to open her lips and she responded very willingly. We were in a full embrace.

I reached my right hand up and touched her left breast. She gently removed my hand, but kept kissing me, with continued passion. I figured this is what church Choir Directors were supposed to do when a younger member of the choir places his hand on her breast, so after a couple of seconds I put my hand on her breast again. This time she let it remain. I softly fondled her breast and we continued our embrace. 

Our kisses became more passionate; I began to get an erection. I pulled my head back and said "Wow!"

We each took a sip of wine and went back to kissing. I moved my right hand up to the buttons on her blouse and, one by one, began to unbutton her buttons. She didn't resist. 

The thought in my mind that I was attempting to seduce a woman thirty years my senior did not muffle my desire to press ahead. I wanted this woman. But, my perverse longing for older women, particularly one I'd fantasizing fucking so many times, led me to recognize that I had to be gentle.

When I had unbuttoned the final button, I pulled her blouse from her shorts and opened her blouse away from her breasts. She had on a white lace bra. I started playing with her breasts through her bra and she didn't resist, again. I continued to kiss her and fondle her breasts. I really like selecting choir music. 

I removed her blouse completely, reached behind her and unfastened her bra and pulled it from her arms. There she was, bare chested, only inches away. Her breasts were everything I had imagined. All these years of fantasizing of the opportunity to play with her tits, and now she was standing in front of me, bare chested. I bent down and kissed each nipple and licked them; her nipples became erect and I kissed and licked and massaged them. I was in "Seventh Heaven."

She moaned. I went back to kissing and playing with her now hard nipples. With my left hand I unbuckled my belt, unhooked my shorts and pulled down my zipper. I let my shorts fall to the floor. I dropped my boxers as well, and there I was standing with a raging hard on, still kissing her and still playing with her nipples, massaging her breasts. 

She reached her hand down and cupped my balls. I stuck my tongue as deep into her mouth as I could; we were both breathing very heavily. I continued to massage her breasts, as we kept kissing and tonguing each other. 

After a while, she leaned down and took my cock in her mouth and began sucking. She licked my cock from top to bottom over and over again. She licked my balls and began stroking my raging hard on. She ran her tongue back and forth on the head of my cock until I was almost ready to shoot into her mouth.

But then she stood up and said, "I just wanted to find out how far you would go to 'help me select music' while my husband is away."

She continued to massage my balls and began stroking my unqualified erection. It didn't take me long to shoot my load out onto her kitchen floor. She bent over and licked the head of my cock, until I told her I couldn't take it anymore. She then stood up, kissed me again and began putting her blouse back on. 

Then she said, "Now, let's look at the music."

Epilog: Caught by the Choir Director

I write erotic fiction as a hobby, and publish it under a pseudonym on the web. I put my stories on several sites. I'm a manager in a large retail establishment. I'm now 40 years old. A couple of years ago, I wrote an entirely fictional story about my feelings for my Choir Director. In my story I had described my fantasy about being invited by her to her house to review new choir music, because her husband was away. My story involved playing with her tits. 

In my story, we disrobed and played with each other's bodies, resulting in my ejaculating all over her kitchen floor. But this was all fiction. And I had never discussed my fantasies with her. The story set forth above is what I published on the internet. I was simply trying to share a fantasy I have had for years about my Choir Director.

One night, a couple of years after I published my story, the Choir Director was passing out new music for the choir to sing. She passed my chair she said, very quietly to me, "I read your story." 

I said, "What?" I almost choked.

"I read your story," she repeated.

Caught.

The Choir Director is decades older than me, but I find her to be very attractive. In fact, I fantasize about her a lot. She has a very pretty face, and she has a body that belies her status of a 70-year-old woman; I love staring at her tits. I have often fantasized about feeling her breasts and sucking her nipples. 

When choir practice was over, I went up to her and said, "What did you say?"

She responded, "You heard what I said. I read your story. I knew it was you."

I was so flustered, I forgot to lie. I asked, "How did you know it was me?"

She said, "While you changed some of the descriptions, there were enough unique facts about your story, that I knew you had written it." It occurred to me that perhaps my description of our brief conversation in the grocery store made it rather obvious to her that it had to be me. 

I must've turned 50 shades of red at that point. Here I am, a forty-year old man fantasizing about all sorts of sexual activity with a 70-year old woman who serves as Choir Director in the church. How sinful is that?

My mind raced. My Choir Director knows that I have the hots for her, that I fantasize about her, that I fantasize about playing with her tits and that I fantasize about her sucking my cock and jerking me off. All I learned about her is that she reads erotic fiction. I became rather tongue tied.

I tried to apologize to her, but she just smiled and coyly looked me in the eye and said, "No need for that. I actually found your story to be rather erotic. How would you like to come to my house tonight to look at new choir music? My husband is away."



The Choir



Rewards were another elite. They received extended training for they were the only women allowed to provide fulfilment to Partners. More, this was the only fulfilment of any sort that a Partner was allowed. Self fulfilment was a great sin and was punished accordingly. The Rewarding was applied orally, but with far greater expertise that the application of an Enhancer. A Reward could only be allocated by the Prince during a Performance, and was given if he felt particularly pleased or gratified by a Chorister and her Partner. There were always three Rewards present for a Performance. They were dressed by expertise. Blue, red and gold. A gold reward was rare, and highly prized by Partners.

As she sat waiting for her first Performance, the girl remembered what she had read. For each gold reward the Partner received a small gold button that he would sew onto his belt. She was searching through her memories, trying to bring the image of his belt. But her eyes had been drawn to his face. Or to a place that was below his belt. A place that fascinated her. Now her torment moved on to wondering if he had requested an Enhancer to kneel by that place, waiting to encourage him with a silky mouth. Surely, with the desire she had seen in him, he only wanted and needed her. A tiny part of her knew it was insanity to think such things, but this rational thought cowered in the corner of her mind, threatened and terrified into submission by the insanity itself.

The Choir Master left by the door they had used to enter the chamber. At the back another, larger door opened and the Prince walked in. She had never seen him. Few had. Stories of his size and strength were thought to be fables. She saw that they were not. This man, if he was a man, and not the god he pretended to be, was a forearms length taller than her own tall Partner. He was slim, dressed far more simply than she had expected, in a fine silk robe that shone like silver. His face was thin with a disfigured nose that had been cut in battle. She could not see his eyes properly in the gloom of the room, but they seemed to shine with obsidian emptiness in the flickering of the two fires.

The Prince sat in the Choosing Throne. It was ornate, but cushioned with leather for comfort during a Performance that could last for many hours. Next to it was the Bed of Devotion, now made up with sheets that matched the silver of the Prince's gown. She had been taught that once he had entered, the Choir should not take their eyes from the Prince. He gave no signal for the Performance to start and she stole a quick glance to her left along the row of Choristers. They were all staring at the Prince. She quickly looked back at him and saw that he was looking directly at her. Oh forgive me!

A soft, sibilant cooing from the white Chorister marked the commencing of the Performance. The girl's anxious thoughts collapsed immediately into a point of pure delight as her Partner's tongue reached up to caress her. The murmuring moans of twelve other aroused females joined with her own. Again there had been no words or instruction as to how this might affect her. She had not even thought about it herself, but now the sense of being one among many, one part of a greater thing, only amplified her own sexual activation. The earlier touch from her Partner had brought her close even before she had sat in the Chair. Now the flicking rasp of his loving tongue pulled her into herself, past the point of no return.

She closed her eyes and screamed in shrill release. Her orgasm recoiled insider her in violent fulfilment. As her waves subsided she forced her eyes open and looked at the Prince. His eyes did not leave hers. No other Chorister had yet Sung, although two seemed very close. Her Partner, again driven by her climax, renewed the speed and intensity of his oral heaven. There was no other sensation, only his tongue, licking, licking. Hot and wet. Stroking and sliding. Helplessly she uttered another anguished Song. And another.

Her eyes opened again. Dimly she took in the image of the Prince walking towards her Chair. She must be attentive, staring with respectful and devoted obedience at her master. But she was lost to the ecstasy of perfect cunnilingus delivered by her glorious Partner. He who was so expert, so obvious in his desire for her. She felt something other than pure sex. Love? How could this royal monster compete? He was close now, as another giant spasm gripped her lower body and pummelled her loins with more exhausting explosions. She was deaf to the other Choristers, trapped inside the endless cycle of building and destruction inflicted by her Partner's tongue.

The Prince was very close now. She must look into him, must not close her eyes. He leaned on one of the bars in front of her chair. She could smell his sweet, powerful breath. She was transfixed, impaled upon his stare as her Partner's devotions took her closer and closer to the edge. Surely she could not Sing without closing her eyes. Surely she must not close them. She was doomed. Her eyes widened in desperate obedience to the twin and conflicting demands. The black, smouldering gaze of the Prince bored into her soul as she came, her screaming Song washing over his face.

Her Partner, lying prone under her, must have sensed or somehow seen that the Prince was at her Chair, for his incessant caresses slowed and softened. She was gasping and panting, but this kindness allowed her some control over her mind and her body. The Prince pulled an item from a pocket in his gown. Gold shone as he held it up. A Reward Token. She knew that the gold Reward would now step forward and kneel over her Partner. He would receive his precious fulfilment to the sounds and cries of the Choir. The Prince was holding another token now. The Choice. He held it under her chair so that her Partner could see it. She felt her Partner releasing her from her sensors and her labial tongs. She had been Chosen. The Prince took a glass blade from his gown and slowly sliced her leather binds to release her from her Chair.

Her Choir Tutor had given her much instruction as to what would now happen to her. She would be led by the Prince to his Bed of Devotion. While the Choir sang its Songs, while her Partner received his golden Reward, she would Devote herself to her Prince. He was very large. Her Choir Tutor had tried to be kind in her description of the Devotion. But the girl knew that she would be pounded senseless while she Devoted herself to her Prince. He would demand her Songs real or false, with his huge thrusting. It would be many days before she would be able to Sing again in the Choir. It would be many days before she would even be able to walk.

They were on the Bed of Devotion. He lifted her over him with reptilian might and coldness, and began to lower her onto his rigid enormity. As he did so she shielded herself from the fear of her impending ordeal with thoughts of the gold coins for her and for her family. Her final feeling, before the Prince took her mind and body apart, was of the Choir, and of her Partner. She surrendered herself to demented love. For both.



The Choker



"Have you arrived at your hotel yet?"

"Yep, just checking in."

"Where's tonight's fancy dinner?"

"Nothing planned. Meetings don't start until tomorrow. Taking it easy tonight."

"You're kidding! In Paris, and no date. That's tragic."

"I know. I could really use a gin and tonic and your company."

When Andy travels, that's my opportunity to text him and wind him up from a distance.

He's gone to do a tour of European clients. I am always jealous of his job as he gets to do the most exciting things and travel to Europe, the Caribbean, New York. Me? I get to travel to North Dakota. Maybe Texas. Gus' Barbecue Palace has nothing on La Compagnie des Vins Surnaturels. Andy's probably sick of hearing me compare his flashy work travel to my rustic adventures. We both often wish I could arrange to be there and we could have a whole different, amazing city to be in. Together. But the reality of our jobs means this is highly unlikely.

I've recently been promoted. Something I've worked hard for and has been a long time coming. While, for the most part, my travel requirements are still not quite as exotic as Andy's, there's definitely been an upgrade in that department. It's taken quite some doing, but I have managed a conference in Paris. I haven't told Andy.

"Well. I am pretty sure "gin and tonic" is a euphemism for something equally as delicious and slightly less alcoholic. I'm also pretty sure we could arrange that. Look over to the left of the red door."

I can't stop myself from laughing. I see Andy check his phone as he is answering the desk clerk. He stops speaking mid-sentence, peering down at the phone as if he's confused. Then slowly, he looks up and, starting in the totally wrong direction, turns on his heel, surveying the perimeter of the room, doing almost a full revolution, until his eyes lock on me. He still hasn't quite registered what's happened yet. He smiles, completely caught off guard, then he notices the cherry red stiletto boots I'm wearing and the tight black dress. His smile changes, and I know he's rewriting his evening plans significantly. Suddenly, the desk clerk no longer exists, as he walks to where I am standing, mouth open.

"Surprise." I whisper. "Are you looking for a date?"

I slip a room key in his pocket, and, wordlessly, walk to the elevator. 

He must have finished his check-in in record time because, all of a sudden, he's beside me, waiting for the lift. The door opens, and we get in. I know he is dying to ask what the fuck I'm doing here, but he's waiting for the door to close. Just as it starts to close, he grabs me by the hand and pulls me into him for a kiss, wrapping his arm around my waist and pressing his body as close as possible to mine. I love nothing more than the feel of his hot tongue on mine, and I absolutely don't want to come up for air, but, eventually, gasping, my heart beating a million times a minute, I do. 

"What. The. Fuck?" He says, eyes wide, disbelieving smile on his face.

"Well, I had a choice of locations for this conference, and it just happened that the Paris conference was this week. Pretty serendipitous, yeah?" I say, my right hand on his chest, while my left curls around the back of his neck, bringing his lips close enough to mine to grab one more quick, but hot, kiss before the doors open. We are still on the ground floor. Neither of us had pushed the button.

We separate a bit, as others get on the elevator. I ask the gentleman nearest the door to please push 11 for me. He does, and turns to ask Andy what floor he needs. 

"I'm with the lady." Says Andy. 

The old guy smiles, raises his eyebrows, "I am sorry to hear that ,Sir.", he says, looking at Andy's expensive briefcase. "It looks like you will not be getting much sleep tonight, and you must have a business meeting tomorrow!"

Andy and I both laugh. 

"The lady's worth it." he says.

"That, I do not doubt, Sir."

The elevator doors open at 11, and we exit to the hallway.

I walk down the hall, locate room 1124, and pass my swipe card over the magnetic plate.

As the little light turns green, Andy grabs my ass hard in one hand and pushes the door open swiftly with the other.

We tumble into the room, laughing.

He grabs my face between his hands, kisses me hard, and then sinks down to sit on the bed. Clearly, he still can't believe it. Neither can I, frankly. I am a horrible secret keeper, and am almost bursting with pride as to how well I kept this secret, and delighted at the effect it has had on him. He's not a man of many words, but I have never seen him at this much of a loss to express himself. 

I drop my bag on the floor, and sit next to him, my hip pressed tightly next to his, my hand on the back of his neck. He closes his eyes as I run my fingers through his hair, nails grazing the nape of his neck. His lips are gorgeous, soft, wet and I kiss them as gently as possible, barely touching them with mine. His eyes are still closed. My left hand finds the top button on his shirt. Opens it slowly. Then the next. I slip my hand inside his shirt. His skin is warm, soft, and I can feel his heart racing. He grabs me and pulls me on top of him as he lies back on the bed, using his free hand to hike up my skirt to the tops of my thighs. I straddle him, revealing the lacy black tops of my stockings, and the hot red garter holding them up. He playfully stretches out the lacy top, away from my leg, and lets it snap, gently, but sharply, back against my leg, then runs his hand, slowly up to my ass, and gives me a playful spank, with just a little sting in it. I bite his lip and let out a barely audible moan to let him know how good that feels. He spanks me again. A little harder this time, and I dig my fingernails into the back of his neck, breathing hard and deep. Moaning more loudly his time.

I lean over him, letting my long hair brush his face, my mouth on his. I can feel my breasts pressed against his chest. My body, moving over his in a slow, seductive rhythm, sliding, ever so slightIy, along his.

I slide to his right side so that my hand has easy access to the remaining buttons on his shirt. I open them, one, by, one, painfully slowly, as I kiss his neck, and then his chest. When I've brushed his shirt away from him, exposing his chest and belly, I run my fingers over his body. 

"So, are you still planning on a boring evening alone in your hotel room in Paris." Tracing a line with my finger from his nipple down to his belly button.

"Well, I can't possibly turn down the prospect of a date with you. Can I? Do I even dare ask what you have planned?"

I smile, not answering, as I let my fingertips gently brush down his chest, his belly, and slide under his belt, feeling the top of his swollen, hard cock, begging to be let out and teased. Kissed. Licked. Sucked.

I use my fingertip to trace the very tip, wet already with drops of cum that tell me how very badly he wants to fuck. I've been waiting for a chance to torture him, so I withdraw my fingers slowly, raising them to my mouth to lick those drops of cum off and say, "dinner, 7:00 pm. Meet me downstairs."

He doesn't move. Then grabs my hand, and pulls it back to his cock. "That gives us plenty of time to start the evening right."

It gently push him away, and stand. 

"Oh, the evening will start, and end, right, don't worry. Now, off you go. I have a few things to do. See you downstairs." He pretends to be disappointed, but it can tell by the glimmer in his eye, that he's willing to wait and see. 

As soon as he's gone, I lay out my bag, peel off my clothes and hop into the steaming shower. I wash my body with the deliciously scented soap I brought, savouring the silky smoothness of my own skin, closing my eyes and imagining that the hot water on my skin is him.

I dry off and carefully dress. I brought my favourite Agent Provocateur panties and bra - cherry red, and the panties are the ouvert style - an artfully placed slit in the crotch for easy access. I imagine him, seated beside me at the restaurant, hand under the table, one long finger sliding into me through that slit. I can imagine how wet, and hot that will be. Who am I kidding? My pussy is already throbbing, hot, and wet.

I pull my stockings on, and attach them to the garter. I slide the black silk shirt over my head. It's just a tiny bit see through, so Andy will be able to tell my bra is "fuck me red". And that it doesn't really cover my nipples. They are hard, and the silk of my shirt rubbing over them, makes them harder, and my pussy wetter. 

I slide on the black skirt, it is short, but not tight, with enough swing in it that it'll be easy for him to push it up my hips and fuck me pretty much anywhere.

I finish with my hair, and makeup, and the perfume that winds both of us up. I'm reminded of how much I love the smell of him, and can't wait to breathe him in deeply, like a drink of cold water on a hot, sweaty day. The last thing I do before I make my way downstairs to meet him, is put on the beautiful gold choker I bought. What's hidden underneath my shirt is the long, black silk cord attached to the back, that runs down between my shoulder blades. 

We enter Flute d'Etoile just on 7:30, and it's not quite busy yet. The red velvet banquettes are a little naughty looking, and the whole place has a bit of a sex parlour feel to it, which is why I chose it. Oh, it also has an excellent champagne list. As we are led to our table by the maître'd , Andy gently places his hand at the small of my back as I walk in front of him. He is a consummate gentlemen. He always places his hand gently in the small of my back when we cross the street, he opens doors, and is unfailingly polite and kind. I love that he can be so smart, and funny and gallant (for lack of a better, less terribly cheesy, word) and yet still be so hot, and dirty and fun to wind up, tease, kiss and fuck.

Our table is in an intimate little alcove upstairs, and we can hear the live jazz band playing. We order several small sharing plates and a bottle of Laurent Perrier Rose. His eyes are sparkling with excitement, and I'm pretty sure mine are too. We talk for what seems like hours, heads close together, his hand, gently on my knee, just enjoying each other's company, and getting slightly, giddlily drunk. I get to see him so rarely these days, and I love talking to him so much. Everything else aside, he's a good friend, colleague and mentor. He's my sounding board for all sorts of things, and ultimately, it's the way his brain works that I find most appealing about him. Leaving aside the fact that the his motherfucking hot in so many other ways too: the way he smiles, his gorgeous brown eyes, his laugh, the way he laughs when he realizes I have just caught him bullshitting me. And his fingers. I would love to suck I them right now, at the table.

"That's an interesting necklace." He says, one eyebrow raised, and I know it's time to switch gears.

"Yes, it's a very unusual piece," I say, taking his hand, and leaning as far forward as possible to kiss him, I place his hand on the back of my neck, his fingers on the spot where the silk cord attaches to the choker. I can feel his fingers searching, trying to figure out what it means. They trace down the cord, as far as they will go, which is not actually terribly far, but he's a clever man, and the increased intensity of his kiss tells me he knows what it's for. He pulls away from the kiss long enough to brush his lips against my ear and says, "let's go."

We've long since paid our bill and it's getting pretty late, so I stand, and he ushers me out in front of him, allowing his hand to slide from my waist to my ass as we cross the threshold into the street. I'm hit by a few drops, and although the day started warm, it's now raining gently and there's a slight wind. Good thing we borrowed the hotel umbrella at the urging of the concierge.

Andy opens the umbrella and we walk down the street together. As we pass a narrow cobblestone alley, I yank on his arm, and pull him round the corner and in a few feet. I press my back up against the wall and allow him to pin me there with his hot fucking body. It's impossible to keep the umbrella up, so he drops it and grabs me hard with both hands, shoving me roughly into the stone wall. Kissing me, and pressing his body hard against mine. There are people walking down the street only a few feet away, but it's dark and frankly, I don't care. I can feel the rain on me, and although it is not heavy, it is wet enough to make my clothes stick to my body. Andy cups my breasts and sucks my nipples, hard, right through my thin silk shirt. Using one hand, I undo the top several buttons on my blouse allowing him to push the wet fabric aside, exposing my bare skin and painfully hard nipples to the rain, pinching them hard between his fingers.

I use my hand to pull his mouth back to mine. Hot, and wet, my tongue finds his as I run my nails down his chest. I don't care if I leave a mark. I head for his jeans, and undo his belt buckle while he runs his right hand up my thigh, fingers pausing slightly at the top on my stocking and then moving onward to my panties. His left hand reaches up under my shirt, and around to the back, where he feels for that black silk cord, and gently pulls on it, until I tilt my head back and expose my neck to his lips, and teeth, biting gently. 

I run my hand, up and down, the length of his cock. It's hard, and more than ready to fuck me. He's sliding his hand down into my panties from the top, so I use my free hand to guide him to that hidden slit in the fabric. His fingers find it, and it can feel him suck in his breath as he realizes what is going on. He slides his finger into my wet, hot pussy, and with his palm, caresses the silky, soft, bare skins that I just had waxed. I am about to come just from his touch, so I squirm away with my hips, as I use my fingers to push his pants and underwear down just enough to access his cock and his balls. I want to drop to my knees in the alley and take his balls and cock in my mouth, but even more than that I want him to fuck me right now, in the alley.

I use a free hand to hike up my skirt and I wrap one stockinged leg around his hip, using my calf to press on his ass, drawing him to me and using my hand to guide his cock inside me. I gasp as it slides in. So does he. My boots are high enough that this is fairly easy, but there's no fast, hard fucking standing up against this wall, so he slides his cock in and out, gently, slowly. The movement so small, but so delicious and intense. I can feel every millimetre of his cock in my pussy and I never want it to stop. I know there's activity only feet away, people on their way to dinner, to a show. Cars revving and honking in the street. But I can't hear or see anything beyond Andy, and the way he is moving his body with mine. I can't smell the baking in the patisserie whose back wall we are fucking up against. All I can smell is Andy: his cologne, his skin, damp with rain and sweat.

His hand is on my hip, holding on for dear life, the other is twisted in the black cord attached to my neck, as he fucks me in the most fluid, slow and agonizing way. I grab his ass with one hand, trying to drive him as deep as possible, and pinch my nipple hard with the other, my head back, my mouth open, rain falling on my face. His face is buried in my neck, and he's in me so deep, that I can't help but come. I tell him I'm coming, and I can feel his body tense as he forces his cock deeper and bites my neck. I'm still fucking coming when I feel his hot cum shoot into me. It seems to go on forever. 

It feels a little like he might fall over, and truthfully I don't feel too steady either. I draw him closer and then, kiss him hard on the mouth, and then we separate, my skirt falling back down over my legs,I button up my shirt, both of us leaning back against the wall, breathing heavy, and just recovering.

I kiss him once more. "Shall we head back to the hotel?"

He nods and smiles, and does up his pants. He picks up the umbrella, puts his hand on my lower back, and we walk the three blocks back to the hotel.



The Choking of a Beautiful Girl...



The Choking of a Beautiful Girl by the Bastard George Clooney

Authors note: Lisa is young. Beautiful. She is a little bit shallow, but it's not something she notices about herself. She goes to Mexico for a little fun. Some excitement. She would not have picked Mexico, because she is a bigot, but her boyfriend takes her. He tells her it's all on him. Top shelf all the way. He gets the best room at a fancy casino. It's the presidential suite. But then something goes wrong, and Lisa finds herself face-to-face with her own limitations. Fortunately for her, she meets Americo, a Mexican kingpin who is only too happy to help her imagine herself differently. Perhaps even as an entirely new person!

*****

She has a delicate face, a slim figure. 

Shrugging her elbow from the hand of the man escorting her, she looks at the brown people packed onto the floor of the casino. She is nineteen, maybe twenty. Furious. The man at her arm is old enough to be her father. He is thin, wizened. He lets his hand float in the air near her arm. He sighs. His lips press together, making a tight little line under his thick mustache. He gives her a tired smile and nods in the direction he wants her to go. He averts his eyes. Folding her sun-kissed arms under her small breasts, she scowls. She is wearing an expensive Egyptian cotton top, tight jeans. The top is sleeveless, all the better to endure the stifling Mexican heat. 

Why did it have to be Mexico? Her blue eyes blaze. When the man reaches for her elbow to get her walking again, she hisses. Her cheeks have faint acne scars, but her high cheekbones hide this imperfection. 

"Senorita," he says. His voice is plaintive. Pleading. 

Two men in dark shirts skirt the roulette table, moving fast. She sees them coming toward her and bites the inside of her cheek, bracing herself for confrontation. Her nipples stiffen. She appreciates a good fight, likes it a little rough sometimes. The man makes a gesture with his head and the two stop. They are younger than he is. They fold their arms and glare, like hounds at bay. One of them puffs out his cheeks, blows air from his mouth. 

"Senorita," the man whispers. He clips the last syllable, holds out his hand.

Balling her fists, she sets her boney shoulders and starts walking, her honey-blonde hair shimmering with each step. Her heels clip on the tile floor. The walls are painted that horrid orange you find in Mexican restaurants. Why do Mexicans always use such tacky colors? 

She strides through the casino, not really sure where she is headed or why. The man is behind her now, but there really is only one way to go. When she exits the casino through an arch and finds herself in a courtyard, it's not clear which way he will want to go, so she stops. He trots to catch up. He points to a door that leads through a small restaurant with booths against the walls, small square tables piled into the middle, and young families milling about. The people here are eating and talking. Watching the television on the wall. Three children wearing diapers and little else race past her. One child reaches for her, trying to put its sticky hands on her designer jeans, palms opening and closing. It wants money. 

She moves a chair between her and the child.

The old man leads her down a hall, then into a narrow stairwell that circles around. The walls are yellow, peeling plaster. Bleeding. They go around and around and down a long way, and then he opens a heavy wooden door at the bottom. She has a bad feeling but goes inside. Her eyes need time to adjust to the dark. She can smell incense burning, hear soft familiar sounds. It soon becomes apparent that there are almost half a dozen people in the room, some kneeling at the wall. 

Is it a church service? 

The far wall has holes cut into it, and then a cock appears in one of the holes. The noises are wet slurping sounds. Her mouth dries up and a throb of terror fills her chest. 

Turning on her heel, she makes for the door. 

The Mexican who led her into this room grabs her, fingers digging into her arms. She twists an arm free but he forces her hard against a wall, his hand winding into her hair. She tries to knee him between his legs, but it's a glancing blow and he just laughs. Her head is yanked back as his chest crowds her. His hand is on her breasts. She whimpers, trying to twist out of his grasp. His hand sinks past her belly, down between her legs. 

Her breathing is getting shallower. Her legs feel weak. 

He cups her pussy.

And then her scalp sings with pain and her vision goes white—she finds herself on her knees. Putting her arms over her head, she waits for what will come next. Something heavy crashes to the floor, but it's over on the other side of the room. She steels herself for her own heavy blow, but it never comes. Instead she hears a man exerting himself. Softly cursing in Spanish. Something is happening in the room, but it's not happening to her. She raises her head, opening her eyes. 

Americo is here. 

He is cursing, kicking the old man who tried to rape her. Americo's dark hair is hanging in his eyes, but he doesn't stop kicking. Stomping. Spitting. He looks like a fucking mad man. She watches him do his violent dance of kick ass. His boots are white with red tooling. Soon the man on the floor curls into a ball. He holds one hand out, his fingers splayed. 

Americo glares at the old man on the floor, then looks at her. Using both his hands, he smoothes his wild hair back on his head. He adjusts the waistband of his pants, pats his ribs, and finally he says, "Forgive me." 

He is breathing heavily.

She uses her fingertips to help herself stand. Rising to her feet, her head throbs. One of her heels has snapped. She takes off both shoes. They are beautiful shoes. Red patent leather. Ruined. Holding them by the throat, she lets her arms hang at her side. 

Americo takes a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. He is holding a stained white hand towel. He methodically cleans his hands with the towel. His breathing returns to normal. 

The man who assaulted her cowers on the floor. His soft moans mix with the wet noises in the room, the occasional moan from a man on the other side of the wall. 

"Where is Danny?" she asks, her voice trembling. 

Americo gazes at her evenly. "Danny . . ." Americo says, his voice trailing off. 

He pauses to study his hands and she sees the towel he's holding has deep crimson stains on it, almost a muddy brown. "Danny is unavailable," Americo says. 

Something in her stomach sinks. 

He shrugs, smiles. "Danny asked me to send you his regrets." 

"Regrets?" she says. Her voice is shrill.

Americo notices a wet stain on the toe of his boot. It's dark, like mud. He bends to wipe it with the towel and it smears like blood. He spits on his boot to clean it. 

When he stands, he grins at her. 

Her small upturned nose starts to quiver along with her upper lip. The acne scars brighten on her cheeks. 

"There is the matter of your bill," he says.

"My bill?" she asks. Her voice rises with a note of optimism. A bill is a simple problem, a solvable problem. 

"For dinner. Your room." He smiles at her. 

"Danny said—" 

"Danny said—," Americo shouts, raising his hand imperiously. 

She goes quiet. 

"Danny said," he repeats in a lower voice, pausing and pressing his lips together. He takes a moment and then smiles. "That you would settle the bill, offer . . . recompense." He pronounces this last word deliberately with his thick Mexican accent. 

Americo tilts his head. He smiles. 

He waits for her to absorb what he just told her. 

Her head is swimming. The pain in her scalp has receded to a dull throbbing in the front of her head. She wonders if this is Danny's idea of a joke. It would be just like him to set up something elaborate. Something crazy. She looks at the far wall. A dark haired woman has a cock in her mouth, her own hand buried between her legs. The man on the other side bucks his hips and the woman closes her eyes and places her hands on the wall.

"And you will," Americo whispers. 

Hot tears run down her cheeks and she uses the back of her hand to wipe her eyes. "I want Danny," she says. "I want to see Danny." 

Americo sighs. He drops the rag at his feet. Takes a knife with a long silver blade from his boot. He uses the tip of the knife to clean his fingernails. 

The girl stops talking. She wants to stop crying, but she can't. She whimpers. Fat salty tears roll down her cheeks. 

"What is your name?" Americo whispers. 

She's not sure she heard him right. She wipes her eyes. 

He tilts his head. "What did your mother name you?" Americo asks. 

"Lisa," she whimpers. 

The man Americo kicked rises to his feet, retrieving his hat. Americo watches this man collect himself. 

"Not anymore," Americo whispers. "Tonight you are Natasha." 

"Natasha?" she repeats. 

"One of the girls is sick tonight," Americo says. He holds his hand out to where the women kneel. "Natasha will take her place at the wall." 

She looks at the wall. 

Americo grins. 

"It is only for one night. It won't kill you." He taps the blade of the knife in his palm. "Tomorrow you can go back to America. Tomorrow you can go back to Lisa. Tomorrow you forget Natasha. Forget Danny. Forget about Mexico."

She looks at the knife, the way the blade picks up the light. She wipes her nose with her arm. Tucks her hair behind her ear. She ought to say something, she knows, but it's hard to imagine what would make sense. What would be an appropriate response? 

"How . . ." she says. She stops, unsure how to put into words what she wants to express.

Americo raises an eyebrow. He listens. 

"How do you know . . . ," she says, her voice trailing off. She is looking at the wall. Americo is giving her his full attention, but there is a girl at the wall who has caught her interest. This girl wears designer jeans that are worn and shiny on the thighs. She has dark hair and a round face. Looks about nineteen or twenty. Her thin arms are folded in front of her and covered with dark wispy hair. She is staring at Lisa with a look that's hard to read.

"How do you know if the men . . ." Lisa says. Her voice trails off and she stops looking at the girl and sees that Americo's brows are knitted together. He is looking at her closely. 

"If they're good-looking," she says. She hears the words come out of her mouth and it's as if someone else has spoken. Her eyelids flutter down and she shakes her head. It's not at all what she meant to express. 

Her cheeks warm, the scars glow. 

Someone laughs, breaking the quiet. It's loud and boisterous and the back of her neck grows moist. Her clothes feel uncomfortable on her body. Americo is still looking at her with that same even expression. He turns to the old Mexican man who is laughing and whips the knife at him. It strikes the old man in the shoulder and skitters across the room. Americo steps toward the old man, but he scurries out of the room. 

Americo curses at the door.

He comes back to her, puts his hands on her shoulders. Lisa shudders. She wants to lay her head on his chest and cry. "Natasha," he whispers. He coos softly in her ear, leading her to the wall. "This is your hole." He says something in Spanish to the woman already at the part of the wall, and she moves off. "This hole is reserved for only the most attractive men." 

"Don't'," she whispers. Her voice breaks and she looks away from him. "Don't patronize me," she squeaks.

"It is the truth," he says. "The truth." His voice rings with confidence. 

She turns to him and falls to her knees. "I'll suck your dick," she whispers in a throaty voice. Reaching for his belt buckle, she looks up at him. "I won't tell Danny," she says. 

He takes her shoulders in his hands and squats, his face inches from hers. 

"Danny knows." Americo grins at her. He has a gap between his bottom front teeth. "I told him I would bring you here, put you at the wall." 

Lisa doesn't know what to do with this information. His somber grin. 

"It was the very last thing I said to him," Americo says. He tucks her hair behind her ear, then puts his hand on her cheek. He has rough, calloused hands. A cock comes through the hole in the wall. It's long and brown. 

"I promised him I would watch you tonight." He strokes her head. 

Her breath is short, her mouth dry. She licks her lips.

"And I will." 

Americo leans forward, inspecting the cock. 

"Natasha," he says, pointing to the wall. "It's Brad Pitt." He makes a face as if this is an impressive development. 

She sits back on her haunches. The woman to her right has her breasts in her hands, her mouth on the cock jutting from the wall. Americo raises his brows, and Lisa takes a deep breath. Taking the cock in her hand, she wipes the pre-cum from its head. 

She puts it in her mouth and Americo makes a soft sigh of delight. 

He strokes her back. He whispers encouragements in her ear. She'd sucked Danny's cock on the ride across the border. He couldn't come. He was too high and too stressed about his meeting with Americo. The hole is big enough that she can see the man on the other side is wearing denim work pants. His pants are down around his thighs and he wears no underwear. No shirt. He has a small tattoo on his abdomen. She wanted Danny to fill her mouth with semen, but he couldn't. 

The cock in her mouth swells, and the man presses his hips against the wall. 

Taking the dick from her mouth, she fists him. To protect her shirt from his cum, she puts her other hand over the head of his cock. He sprays into her palm. After he finishes, she sits back on her haunches and looks into her hand. 

Americo grabs her wrist, glaring at her palm. 

"Natasha," he hisses. A lump of fear rises in her chest and she closes her fist. Pulling her wrist from his grasp, she wipes her sticky hand on the seat of her jeans. He moves his face inches from hers. She can smell mint on his breath. 

"Not attractive enough?" Americo asks. 

Another cock comes through the hole. The man who owns it is still fisting it. This cock is dark and thick, with a fat head and a veiny shaft.

"George Clooney," Americo hisses. 

She puts the cock in her mouth. The man who owns it is wearing slacks, his fly is open and his boxers are white with some sort of pattern. Maybe he is George Clooney. His cock swells in her mouth. She touches one hand to her breasts, the other strokes George Clooney's cock. In the car with Danny, her head in his lap, she settled in for the tiresome task that lay ahead. She squeezed her thighs together, the tight denim rubbing between her legs. When it took Danny a long time, she'd learned to satisfy herself. He could take forever. He was always stressed. Always high.

Americo snakes his hand between her legs from behind. She instinctively pulls her hips in, then lowers her body, trying to squirm away from his touch. His hand follows her, rubbing between her legs. He is right behind her, whispering softly in her ear. She squeezes her thighs together, his hand jammed between her legs, fingers rubbing where all the seams run together. The cock in her mouth is thick and wet, its owner humping her face. 

Soon she realizes Americo's hand feels good, better than her own, so she relaxes her thighs, opening her legs. Before long his other hand is on her breasts. 

She rocks her hips, surrendering her bottom to his touch. It is not impossible that George Clooney is in Mexico. It's unlikely, she knows, but not out of the realm of possibilities. He has to be somewhere. Why not here? She presses her face into the hole, and George Clooney jacks off into her mouth, his fist brushing her lips.

Americo stands, his hand still between her legs. He lifts her by the crotch and she squirms against his hand. She finds she must rise from her knees to keep his hand in the right spot. It's awkward and unwieldy, especially with George Clooney's cock in her mouth. 

She does it. She has to put both hands on the wall, but she does it. 

Her hips are higher than her shoulders and her weight is against the wall when she comes. She squeezes her thighs together and moans with the cock in her mouth. George Clooney comes in her mouth. A thick rush of semen hits the back of her throat and she gasps and swallows. She chokes and swallows, struggling to retreat from the wall, the cock firing into her mouth. Americo has his hand between her legs, his other hand on her hip.

He sees she is in trouble and pulls his hand away. She bends over coughing, then falls to her knees, her eyes filling with tears. The crotch of her jeans is wet and she feels the afterglow from her orgasm, but her throat burns and the acrid taste of cum fills her mouth. 

Her cheeks burn with shame. 

Americo grins, touching himself between the legs. His cock makes a visible outline in his pants. 

"Well done, Natasha," he laughs. "Well done." 

She pushes the hair from her face and finds a strand of semen lodged in her hair. She tries to remove it with her hand. Americo finds a stool and moves it near Natasha's hole. From inside his vest, he pulls a small silver flask. "I am going to enjoy this night immensely," he says with glee. 

She lifts her shirt to wipe the semen from her face. 

Another cock comes through the wall. 

It's long, black. Hard.

Americo sips from the flask, then points to the wall. "Denzel," he says. 

Leaning forward, Americo offers her the flask. The whiskey burns going down. She winces and wipes her mouth. She takes another long pull. 

The girl with the round face and dark hair approaches, saying something in Spanish. Americo listens with a bemused look. She points to Natasha and says something else. Looking at the cock in the wall, the Mexican girl puts something in her mouth. 

"Ja, ja, ja," she says, pointing her finger at Americo, her words garbled by whatever she put in her mouth. 

She leans down and takes Denzel in her mouth, her silky black hair glowing in the soft light. In seconds she stands, puts her hands on her hips, and leans toward Americo. "Ja, ja, ja," she says. Whatever was in her mouth is gone. 

She glances at Natasha and smiles, then retreats back into the room. 

Americo sips from his flask. 

"Denzel," he says flatly. 

She puts the cock in her mouth and discovers it is covered in a condom. 

Inspecting his cock, she sees it's just half a condom, the open end jagged, as if it had been used before, rescued, and then pressed back into service. The tip covering his cockhead is whole, though, and unbroken. Natasha looks at the Mexican girl. She has a cock in her mouth. She takes the cock from her mouth and grins, sticking her tongue out, and making a face. 

Natasha puts Denzel back into her mouth. 

The small piece of latex is such a comfort. Finding a better position, she moves her head, uses her hand. It's a relief she'd like to believe she would have offered the Mexican girl in similar situation, where their roles reversed. 

Natasha's jaw aches and she takes the cock from her mouth. 

Her head is woozy from the whiskey and she looks down the line. The Mexican girl works on the cock in front of her, her hand buried between her legs. Natasha sighs. She looks at the black cock jutting from the hole. It's not Denzel. It wasn't George Clooney. Not Brad Pitt. 

It's just a bunch of Mexicans.

She returns the cock to her mouth. If their positions had been reversed, it's not something she could have done for the brown girl. It's not something she would have done for any girl. Her cheeks burn hot. She throws herself into the task before her. 

But it could be, she thinks. It could be.



The Choosing



AUTHOR's NOTE

This isn't a slam bam thank you ma'am, it takes a little while to get to the hotness. The story builds slowly, think of it as sweet descriptive foreplay. If you're after pure fuckety fuck fuck fucking (and don't we all just need that sometimes?) then I'm not at all bothered if you skip along.

If you want to indulge in a delicious sweet build then please...read on.

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There was little comfort in the fact that I was the only one smart enough to recognize the irony of my being forced to The Choosing. Irony was too subtle a concept for my Uncle whose fat little fist gripped my elbow. He preferred brute force and any reflection of his actions was far beyond his mental capacity. Ordinarily I found great comfort in my self-righteous intellectual superiority. The quiet certainty of knowing I was smarter than them all usually got me through anything. It had certainly gotten me through the last six years of being fostered by my Uncle—that, and my mental calendar, counting off the days until I finally reached my legal majority and could escape his authority.

But not today. Today I felt not superior, but instead small and foolish.

Glancing over my shoulder at Uncle Hawthorne I caught his eye and he sent me a brief jowl jiggling nod. He turned away almost at once as if he could not stand to look at me a moment longer. He rarely met my eyes. From the moment we met my quiet determination disturbed him—at the very least he found it irritating and at the most it sent him into a frothing rage. I was still watching him when his fleshy lips curled into a satisfied grin and he gave a little snort of pleasure, sounding like a well fed pig. It was the happiest I think I'd ever seen him, he was so very pleased with himself. As he should be. He had finally bested me. 

He'd won.

That fact crawled under my skin. It itched and burned—a sensation so real that I fought the desire to claw at my own skin. If only I could rake my nails deep, slice into my soul and remove the burning indignity. But I couldn't so I did nothing, showed nothing. Anyone who looked at me as I walked along would assume that I was not at all bothered by the proceedings—neither happy nor sad. My façade was perfectly ambivalent. 

I was well schooled at hiding my thoughts. Outwardly I made sure that I remained serene, appearing calm and above it all. I never lost my composure; I learned early to keep my true feelings locked, hidden deep inside. It had been so long since I had let myself access my vault of stored emotion that sometimes I wondered if there was even anything there—whether I was capable of feeling at all. If perhaps I was naught but numb. As cold a bitch as my relatives had so often accused me of being. It was indeed bittersweet that after so many years of icy indifference to know that today I was at least capable of feeling shame and foolishness.

At my other side—his fingers biting into my arm—was my cousin Bandar. I may have felt foolish, but certainly not foolish enough to look to him for comfort—or remorse. There'd been nothing but hate in his cold grey eyes since I'd denied his claim. Anyway, I didn't need to look to know where Bandar's gaze would be. Not with the array of nubile young flesh also on their way to the Summer Choosing. As decreed by Vandarran law, one maiden from every shire was now walking the Chosen Path to the Night Palace. 

I was one of them.

I didn't blame Bandar for staring. I could barely keep my eyes from the other Candidates myself. They seemed to me like a flock of butterflies. Bright flashes of multi hued splendor sprung fresh from cocoons to dance before my eyes. The glistening fabric of their gowns appeared to float over the gray cobblestones as if their feet did not touch but instead somehow hovered, gliding effortlessly.

Not me.

I did not float. The heels of my boots sounded off like cracks of thunder, pounding out in futile protest. 

Each crack of my heel asking Why? Why? Why? 

It was so ridiculous for me to attend The Choosing. So humiliating. Who would choose me over all that young lush beauty?

Not that I wanted to be Chosen. 

The other Candidates—those who no doubt long dreamed of being Chosen— laughed and chattered with their escorts. Their excitement was palpable; it brushed against my skin like the prickle of static electricity. One of the girls, a blond wearing a gown that shimmered like liquid silver was so happy that she started to dance. I watched her leap forward on pointed toes—performing as if she were already on show.

Perhaps we are, I thought and looked up at the Night Palace. The windows that faced the Chosen Path were either dark or shuttered tight. The balconies were empty and shadowed. There was no movement, no light. I felt cold just looking at it. I fought a shudder and looked away.

I'd never been this close to the Palace. Few had, as only The Chosen and those in Blood Service could come within three miles of the Night Palace compound. It was restricted and trespass was punishable by death. 

We walked a street lined with rows of identical brownstone houses. Each one indistinguishable from the next. They butted up against each other in a seemingly endless row. Homes, I thought, for The Chosen. Would I end up here too? It was doubtful. Far more likely that I would be housed in the Blood Service Dormitories. 

Occupants of the cookie cutter brownstone houses had spilled out onto the streets to watch our procession. Watching along with The Chosen were many who were in Blood Service. Easily recognizable by their austere black uniforms. Curious, I looked into the crowd of watchers, unwittingly catching the eye of one of The Chosen. I knew he was Chosen, not just because of the cut and color of his fine clothing but because of his stare. Intent, hungry, consuming—it burned. Feeling as though he could reveal my very soul, peel back my shields and spread me open with just his gaze. It made me ache. Want, for what I wasn't quite sure, but the need settled low and heavy in my stomach. The feeling was disturbing, I wasn't one to want. I planned, wanting was a useless endeavor. Plan for the least and expect the worst. Wanting led to nothing but disappointment.

Heat throbbed between my legs and I knew that the ache he'd caused had made me wet. Did he know too? His smile seemed to suggest that he did. Shame burned through me, racing across my skin in a heated blush. I had to learn to harness my curious nature, push it deep down. Hide it or for the next five years while in service to the Night Masters I would be sure to find myself in deep trouble. 

I hugged myself. Wrapping my arms around my body I rubbed my palms up and down the chilled skin. I was wearing a low cut sleeveless gown. The best the Shire seamstress had to offer. The fabric was gossamer-fine pale pink. I was uncomfortable so exposed, but discomfort with my clothing was the least of my worries. My fingers trailed down my bare arm to circle the band of raised skin around my wrist. I looked down. It was still red from where they'd tied me last night.

They hadn't needed to do that—I wasn't running and they knew it too. It was done out of spite, out of the desire to hurt me. Break me, make me cry. Bandar had tightened the straps, pausing between each vicious pull to intently watch my face. Hoping no doubt to see me crack, see me cry out in pain. But I didn't. I gave him nothing, the same as I had for the last six years.

Because they could not claim nor break me they had made the only threat that could bind me to their will.

"Talia, you will submit to The Choosing or we will take Leia in your stead."

Leia, my sixteen year old sister. No matter how badly I wanted to escape the stifling boredom of village and my Uncle's authority they knew I would never sacrifice her. More than just being young, Leia was sickly, too frail to endure the journey let alone whatever The Choosing would bring. 

I'd asked him 'why', a futile question I realized as soon as the word left my lips. I knew why.

"Your pride," my Uncle had all but hissed at me, "by remaining unclaimed your arrogance has forced us to this Talia."

Pride? Arrogance? I'd bitten my cheeks at the words, the iron taste of blood filling my mouth. I wanted to spit the bloody words back at him, but I didn't. I did what I always did; I pushed down the feeling—smothered it like a spent hearth fire—smiled and turned away. 

My refusal to accept any claim had nothing to do with pride and everything to do with self respect. I'd watched the women around me claimed, one by one they submitted to their husband's will until they were little more than shells of their former self. Used, rearing child after child, merely vessels to carry Vandarran heirs.

The only legal right a Vandarran maiden had was that of choosing her claiming. A claim could not be forced. Because of that law I'd thought myself safe as long as I remained unclaimed. I thought that all I had to do was wait it out until my twenty-fifth birthday and then I could escape. I had no grand dreams, no delusions of my life after I'd reached majority. All I wanted was to head to the Capitol and find work as a servant, hopefully as a governess, but now those meager dreams were gone, just three months shy of my twenty-fifth birthday.

Now I would either become a Chosen novitiate or go into Blood Service to the Night Masters. 

The Palace gates came into view, bringing our procession to a stop. We stood suddenly quiet. All awed by the wrought iron shaped into giant black wings, the tips extending high above the six foot stone walls. Four guards dressed in shining black regalia opened the gates. They moved silently, without even a creak.

Bandar's grip tightened on my arm. "I hope they bleed you dry, frigid bitch," he hissed, breath hot with the stench of last night's malt liquor.

"I'd rather choose death than you," I answered him. He seemed surprised that I spoke rather than given him my usual calm smile. In truth I'd surprised myself and it felt... good. I didn't pull away or flinch when he raised his hand to me. His hand was up but he had not yet swung when his father pulled him back.

"Don't damage the goods. She's the Night Master's problem now."

Bandar slowly lowered his hand. Finally releasing his grip on my arm. With a hollow laugh he said, "They'll see you for what you are Talia. A useless dried up old bitch. They'll suck you dead if they can stand your bitter taste. My only regret is that I will not see it."

I met his eyes and finally, letting the years of hate seep into my voice I said, "And with my dying breath I'll tell them you deliberately sent your worst. That your offering to the Night Masters was made not in reverence but in anger and spite. They'll come for you then Bandar. My only regret is that I will not see you beg for your worthless life."

He blanched, stepping back with wide frightened eyes. He had not expected a response to his cruel words. My usual response was silence. I came to them already schooled in restraint from the harsh life of serving my own brutal father. I didn't speak out. I didn't curse. I kept my tongue, locking my resentment behind a curtain of cool indifference. Over the years my quiet disdain became more than a shield; it became a weapon against their arrogance. They both hated my refusal to yield. I did what they said, cold smile locked in place, but they knew in their hearts that I never really submitted to their will. Because of the years of passive resistance Bandar had never known the whip of my tongue and I would not let him leave now without a final taste of my hatred. 

I said in a calm, measured tone, "You were never man enough Bandar. You know that don't you? That was why you could not claim me. You had not the strength nor the skill to own me. You think me frigid? You think me dried up? You fool. I am no virgin. I took whomever I wanted. I just never wanted you."

"Quiet bitch," my Uncle said from clenched teeth, "Shut your filthy mouth."

Around us Candidates cried their bittersweet farewells, clasping their escorts as if they did not wish them to leave. Me, I grinned. Even fearing what I faced ahead could not dampen the joy of knowing I would never again answer to Bandar or my Uncle. 

I watched them leave. Bandar looked back at me one last time before mounting the steps to the carriage. I met his eyes and smiled again. A true smile from a free heart. I closed my eyes and savored the short lived feeling of liberty. An instant of freedom I knew was fleeting, but for that brief moment was mine alone. 

I was the last to walk through. For one brief charged minute, I considered running. Adrenalin shot through me, singing through my veins as my body prepared to take flight. But I didn't. I didn't run. Where would I go? What would I do even if I could outrun the guards? I would be an outlaw. No money, no hope. No choices left. I looked up at the forbidding façade of the night Palace and gave in. I submitted to the inevitable, and with head down I walked through the gates and on to The Choosing.

Inside the winged gates we were ushered through huge black lacquered doors into a hall. A Great Hall. Vast and empty, it held only a wooden table, two chairs and a large bronze gong in the back corner of the room. The walls were lined with flocked black velvet wallpaper. I longed to run my hands across the raised wing design but instead I clasped my hands together, gripping tight until my nails bit into the skin. Light filtered in through floor to ceiling windows. It shimmered through what I first thought to be sheer bronze curtains but on a second look realized were thousands of hanging strands of fine metal. I kept focused on the details to shield myself from thinking. From wondering.

The sound of nervous chatter echoed in the cavernous room—whispered gossipy threads of what to expect weaved in through my focused shield. I dismissed them, shut them down turning away from the nearest Candidate who tried to draw me into her supposition. No one knew what to expect. It was futile to suppose. There were countless rumors of course. Drunken stories told by firelight, but no one actually knew. No one other than those who had undergone The Choosing and they were blood bound to silence. 

I looked around, this time focusing on the other Candidates. The more I looked the more sure I became that I would not be Chosen. I was certainly not the most attractive Candidate and I was most definitely the oldest. Surely they would take one of the young beauties. I would end up in Blood Service, in apprenticeship to a trade. In the seamstress rooms or perhaps weaving. 

My wondering ceased upon the abrupt sound of wood hitting stone. I looked up to see the double doors behind the great wooden table open, the doors flung wide. One male and one female Chosen entered through the space. A third person, a woman bound in fine black ribbons followed. She was almost naked, strips of shiny black wrapped around her breasts, wrists and torso. Her lower body from the waist down was completely bare—even of hair. Shocked, I looked away and a heated blush crept up my chest and neck. 

The Chosen man clapped his hands. The sound inhuman, like a crack of thunder it echoed off the walls, so loud it hurt. I brought my hands up to protect my ears. I was not alone. Other Candidates too held their ears, some cried, whimpering in pain. The mood in the room had changed, instead of palpable excitement now there was fear. We had huddled together. Unconsciously forming a tight circle that had shifted back, away from the Chosen and closer to the doors through which we had entered.

"Move to the markings that match your shire," he said. His voice was compelling—almost physical—it brushed against my skin like sharp nails down my back, half pleasure half pain. The throb I had felt when I had seen the Chosen in the street returned to settle deep between my legs into a damp heat.

The Chosen man clapped again, not so loud this time and to my shock the floor began to glow. Multi colored lights appeared beneath us, a map of Vandarra. Each shire glowing a different color. Around me the Candidates started to move from the protective circle to the markings of their shire. I followed, finding mine. Grateful that it was in the middle near the back, making me but a small hidden tree in the forest of Candidates.

I wasn't sure what to expect once we were all placed upon the map but it certainly wasn't the ominous silence that followed, laying like a thick blanket on a Summer's day. Suffocating me as I waited, waited for what was to come. Through a gap in the map of bodies I spied the Chosen male. I watched him take a seat on one of the high backed wooden chairs. The ribbon bound woman settled at his feet between his sprawled legs. He ran his fingers through her hair, tugging at the strands, making fists in her long bangs. I didn't know why but the manipulation of his hands unfurled a lick of heat in me. A sudden strong desire that I had never before known.

The Chosen Woman did not sit. She stalked the room, not speaking, just pausing every now and then near a Candidate. The waiting made the throb worse. I squeezed my thighs together as if I could somehow stem the wet flow of heat. The Chosen woman wore pants—the first woman I had ever seen do so—sleek black tights that hugged the length of her legs. They cut low on her hips leaving an inch sliver of pale skin showing between the waistband and her corseted top. I concentrated on that pale line, keeping my eyes low hoping to somehow melt into the background thinking that if I did she would pass me by unnoticed. 

Finally she spoke, where the Chosen man's voice had hinted at seductive pain the woman's spoke it clearly. It cut like a razor, sharp but not shrill. She spoke not to us but to The Chosen man. 

"I love the sweet smell of fear in the morning. Don't you my brother?"

He laughed, a deep throbbing chuckle that made the thin bronze strands in the window thrum.

"I can taste it." She stopped and opened her mouth, swirling her tongue out as if tasting the air. "Not just fear brother, but more. So much more. Can you taste it too?"

I titled my head so I could see him clearly. He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply and nodded, "Yes sister. It smells good."

She then began to weave through the Candidates, trailing her fingers across us as she did. She moved quickly, building speed until it seemed she was just a black blur moving above the glowing colors. When she reached me she trailed a sharp nail along the exposed skin of my collar bone. I held my breath, waiting for her to move on, but she didn't. Instead she circled me, prowling around me like a cat. Her finger trailing down my body in circles, from my collarbone to my pelvis. 

I did not flinch. I did not move.

"This one," she said and I could not believe my ears.

This one what? What did she mean?

The Chosen man gave a lazy wave of his hand and the Candidates in front of me parted. Shifting aside like a sea of grass waving in the wind. 

He looked at me. I felt his stare come in a wave of heat. It washed across me and I had to lock my knees to stop from falling.

"This one," the Chosen woman said again, "this one... is interesting."

I did not look at her; I kept my eyes on him. His hand pulled at the short hair of the woman between his legs. He dragged her up onto her knees. She writhed into him purring as if urging him to tug harder. He did, pulling roughly at her head until he positioned her mouth at his crotch. As he watched me he pumped the woman's head at his groin, rubbing the obvious bulge against her face. He pulled at her head, jerking her as if she were an inanimate object. Not a real woman—a puppet for his pleasure. I tried to look away. Tried to be disgusted by the show of pain and dominance as I knew I should, but I couldn't, and the feeling that coursed through my body was not disgust. 




The Choosing



It is one hundred years into the future and not much has changed, aside from an alteration in the way society is organized. There was a reversion to patriarchy and a more rigid class system, particularly for women. 

Ladies of higher classes are married and act almost solely as brood mares. Contrarily, women of lower classes are trained from the time they are five years-old to be the best maids they can be and from the time they are thirteen how best to attend to a man's pleasure. When they are eighteen, they are sent to a market, where they are eligible to be owned by a man and his household. 

Typically, these women are treated poorly by members of his household, as the man is only interested in the pleasure they can provide and his wife is usually quite strict about their housekeeping duties and often requires them to attend to their pleasure, as well. In addition, the wives are usually quite jealous of these women, as wives are typically unattractive due to years of inbreeding and lower class girls are required to maintain a lovely appearance for their owner's pleasure.

Adrienne was one such lower class girl. It was the day after her eighteenth birthday that she was finally placed on the market and dreaded her future. With her long, shiny, naturally wavy golden hair, bright blue eyes, large breasts, and slim body, Adrienne had always been told she would by purchased by a wealthy man. She had been told by many that they were the worst type of owners, as they and their wives demanded the most of their slave girls.

She was placed in a relatively large room with several other naked girls who were for sale by a male proprietor. There was a metal contraption that the girls were tied. to. They resembled hurdles, only they were solid sheets of metal. Their shoulders and arms were tied tightly with ropes to a bar on top of the metal sheet. Their breasts were placed through two holes, so that potential owners could see and test them. Their knees were placed on a bench, with two medium-sized, wooden planks sticking up on either side of what would appear to be a seat. Their thighs were tied tightly with ropes to each wooden plank, so that their holes were easily accessed by a potential buyer. The girls were instructed to be silent under all circumstances and not to cum unless instructed by buyers; if they disobeyed, punishments would be inflicted. Vibrators were strapped just below their pussies, turned to a volume so that they would be wet for the aforementioned buyers, but not so they could cum.

Adrienne's stomach twisted nervously as the proprietor and several other workers entered escorting the first potential buyers—men in expensive looking black suits. Many of them bypassed girls who were more plain looking.

When the first worker and buyer pair, the latter of whom appeared to be about forty, reached Adrienne, they stopped to appraise her. "She is a fine looking one, isn't she Mr. Woods?"

"Indeed she is. Mind if I take a more thorough look?" asked the buyer.

"You may do whatever you wish, sir."

Mr. Woods reached out and grasped one of her breasts in his large hand, squeezing it tightly and moving his thumb over her nipple. "Nice and firm," he commented in a completely business-like tone. He released his hold on her breast and moved behind her. "Mind if I test her out?"

"Absolutely, sir," the worker hurried around to Adrienne's backside and removed the vibrator.

Mr. Woods undid his zipper, and lowered his pants and briefs to reveal his , relatively small--sized cock. He placed his hands on Adrienne's hips to brace himself and positioned himself at her entrance. Mr. Woods pushed his cock into her pussy and groaned. "So fucking moist and tight," he moaned, as he began thrusting in and out, quickly and roughly. "It is rare any of these whores have tight pussies from all that training they undergo."

"Yes, sir," commented the worker, refraining from commenting on the man's size as the reason for his dilemna.

"How much?"

"One mil. She is very young, quite fine looking and, as you mentioned, extremely tight," explained the worker.

The man groaned as he came to orgasm, pulled his cock out, and zipped up his pants. He sighed. "This is quite out of my price range. Perhaps some other whore will do." 

The worker nodded, reattached the vibrator, and took his client onward.

The day carried on in such a way. Adrienne was obligated to endure big cocks, medium-sized cocks, and small cocks in her mouth and in her pussy, and was obligated to endure several spankings with various instruments. All men reacted the same when learning of her price, until one of the last men came through.

"I would like try out this one," stated a young man, of about thirty years, who was referred to as Mr. Stafford. He had an aura of authority and importance. 

"As you wish, sir. I wish to warn you that this one is quite expensive," replied the worker. 

"Money is no issue," replied Mr. Stafford, undoing his zipper and lowering his pants to reveal the largest cock Adrienne had seen all day. "Open your mouth," he ordered, positioned his cock at her lips. Adrienne's heart pounded, worrying that he would not fit in any of her holes, much less her tiny mouth. 

Mr. Stafford inserted his cock into her mouth, nearly causing Adrienne to choke. She breathed through her nose deeply and took him deep into her throat as she had been instructed since she was thirteen. "Suck. Swirl your tongue around the width of my cock," he instructed, gripping her hair tightly. Adrienne did as she was instructed. She could see in his eyes that he was enjoying himself, as thrust his hips, but he made no vocal acknowledgement of his pleasure. He came into her mouth after about five minutes and moved to her backside. The worker scurried after him and removed the vibrator quickly.

He positioned himself at the entrance to her pussy, regained his grip on Adrienne's hair and entered her quickly and unexpected, fucking her with furious speed and roughness. As Adrienne felt herself about to cum, due to the feelings she had due to the man's large size, he pulled out of the wetness of her pussy and inserted his large member into her asshole, slowly, but steadily, causing Adrienne to let out a loud scream at the unexpected discomfort and sensations.

The worker moved to her breasts with the whip. Mr. Stafford shook his head. "Allow me," he held out his hand and was handed the whip. As he continued moving and in out of her asshole, Mr. Stafford smacked the whip on the top of her ass, resulting in the formation of a soft red mark. He set the whip down and moved his hand to her pussy, slapping it as he inserted himself into her asshole.

Finally, after what felt like forever to Adrienne, he finally came. "I will take her, no matter the cost. Have her delivered to my mansion as soon as possible." He returned his cock to his pants and exited the room without another word.