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As She Likes It part 1 (bd)
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
-------------------------- As She Likes It ----------------------------
Part Deux
[In the last installment we found our heroine hanging from a bathroom door,
having been thoroughly trussed and placed there by our so far mysterious
artist. Part deux will reveal how our lovely redhead came to be in such
a predicament...]
"You have nice ass," he said.
I was surprised to find myself blushing. I turned my face away from him in
shame. I was feeling a little light-headed and more than a little scared.
"I came back to check on you," he said. "It's not often that I catch a pretty
thief in my bedroom. I've been wondering if I should call the police, or
handle this matter myself -- in my own way."
I turned my head to look at him. I wanted to see if the look in his eyes
matched the steel in his voice. It did. He reached up and unhooked the chain
on my collar from the hook on the door.
"This isn't a good place to talk."
I couldn't believe he was doing this to me -- leading me by a damn chain into
his bedroom! I was getting angry now. The sheer arrogance of this man was
too much to comprehend. I was dizzy with anger and fear and curiosity. Was
he going to hurt me? If so, how badly?
I realize now that I had only myself to blame. I knew I shouldn't have taken
my editor's suggestion: Do whatever you need to do to get some good material
on Mr. Arlan Jennel -- The Reclusive Artist, the most famous of all living
sculptors.
He didn't give interviews. He never allowed himslef to be photographed. He
never ever authorized so much as a press release about himself or his work.
No one knew where he came from, where he went to school, how much he earned
in a year, not even his age was certain.
I knew I would have to explain what I was doing in his bedroom. He had walked
in on me as I was rifling through his desk like an FBI agent. He came up behind
me, threw me across his huge bed and had me handcuffed before I could say,
"First Amendment". He found the Minox camera in my purse and took great
pleaseure in pulling out the film. He also enjoyed pulling off my clothes
looking for a "wire", he said. Now he stood over me as I sat on the edge
of the bed. Without a word he reached roughly behind my neck and undid the
buckle that held that nasty gag in place. The bulb popped out from behind
my teeth with a wet plop. I was futher humiliated as a stream of saliva dripped
onto my right breast. I was sure I was going to die of embarrassment!
"Talk," was all he said.
I obeyed, telling him why I was there and making sure I apologized at least 12
times. I was hoping that contrition on my part would soften his mood. I did
the old, "let me go now and I won't tell anyone" routine. He smiled a wicked
smile. I smiled a pleading smile. I stopped smiling when he explained to me
that he had decided to punish me himself instead of burdening the judicial
system.
I knew what he had in mind and begged him to be gentle with me. I told him
that I'd had only two relationships in my whole life and to please get it
over with quickly.
He laughed, I mean he really laughed, his eyes got teary he laughed so hard.
He said something that I didn't understand then, but have since come to
understand all too well.
He said, "If I decide to fuck you it won't be before you're begging for it."
I was shocked at the way he used the word "fuck". No one had ever uttered
that word to me that way before. Nice girls don't "fuck", they "make love".
I blushed again. He smiled again. I was ashamed, but there was something
else making my cheeks red. I didn't know then what it was. But I was going
to find out soon enough.
He was standing in front of me, maybe two feet away. I was staring at the
floor.
He said, "Get on your knees."
I looked up at him, not moving. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and forced
me to kneel before him. I was staring at his belt buckle. He jerked my head
back and said, "I don't want to have to repeat myself. You can make things
very hard on yourself. It's up to you."
"Please." I said.
"Unbuckle my pants," he said.
I stared again at his belt buckle. It was a large silver affair. I looked
up at him unsure how to proceed. I couldn't help but notice the added bulk
pressing against his fly.
"I can't," I said, "my hands."
"Use your fucking teeth, Miss MacNamara."
I was shocked to hear him use my name. He must have seen it when he went
through my purse.
I decided not to make him repeat himself, besides, I had a strange urge to
do exactly what he told me. I grabbed the strap between my teeth and
pulled out from the first loop. Then I bit firmly onto the end of it
and pulled until the buckle loosened. I felt like an animal, kneeling
and using my teeth to do something I'd normally use my hands for.
His erection grew even larger while I was lossening his belt. He leaned
toward me, pressing his bulge against my face. I could feel heat coming
from it. He smelled as wonderful as he looked. My mouth actually watered!
I looked up at him. He must have seen something in my eyes. He grinned
and said, "Don't stop now."
I eagerly used my teeth to yank open the clasp of his pants and pulled until
the fly parted. His erection strained against his silk boxer shorts. His
scent filled my nostrils. It was like a drug. I had never truly enjoyed
giving a man oral sex before. Now that's all I wanted to do. My mouth
ached to suck on his cock!
I leaned against him, pressing my lips to his pulsing cock. I was afraid
to use my teeth to pull down his shorts for fear I'd hurt him. I used my
tongue instead, searching for his flesh through the small opening.
I expected him to help me with this part, but he grabbed my collar and
pulled me away from him. He had shocked me yet again. Now what?
He looked down at me, not grinning now.
"What do you want to do?" he asked.
I had to catch my breath. I was confused. Did he actually want me to say
what I was feeling? I tried to speak but couldn't.
"Do you want to suck me?"
I managed a nod.
"Say it, Miss Wordsmith. Articulate for me your present desires, in 25
words or less."
I couldn't speak. I couldn't do what he demanded. I couldn't say those
things to a complete stranger.
He pushed me away from him and pulled up his zipper.
"When you tell me what you want, you might get it. Silence will get you
nothing."
He lifted me from my knees and dropped me face down on the bed. I could
feel him unbuckling the strap that held my cuffed wrists high against my
back. I was grateful to him for removing it. I felt a little let down. Like
I had failed to please him so thoroughly that he was simply going to send
me on my way.
"I have to get back to the party. I'll leave you to think things over."
He walked to his dresser and returned with something I couldn't see. He
sat next to me on the bed and gently lifted my hair up from my neck. The
thing in his hand was a hairbrush. He was brushing my hair! Within moments
he had my waist-length locks brushed straight up from my scalp. He deftly
twirled my hair into one thick strand. I could feel him tying something
around my hair, then looping the strand over and tying something again.
He rose and said, "Get up."
I did, and he led me to a far corner of the large room. My hair felt funny
pulled up to the top of my head. Whatever he'd tied into it felt heavy.
He glanced up, and tossed the other end of what I realized was a black
nylon strap over a large hook in the ceiling. He quickly pulled out the
the slack, forcing me on tip-toe. I couldn't even look at him now. I
squeezed my eyes shut while he forced the strap between my teeth, wrapping
it around several times and knotting it at the back of my neck.
"Ciao, Miss Wordsmith. Feel free to hang around as long as you like."
I silently cursed my editor and myself.
--------------------------End of Part Deux --------------------------------
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