The Adventures of Belinda Nicholson, AKA Flapper Girl
Chapter 2
A day at the office, and a night somewhere where I shouldn’t be!
Oh, hi again, back for more?
Well, nice to know how popular I am, 90 years on!
So, shall we carry on from where we sort of left off? Not literally, but moving forward...
Right. Stephanie as a brainwashed sex slave, hmm? Mr. Boone definitely liked the sex slave bit, but he wasn’t so keen on the brainwashed bit, as it made her a lousy worker, so, even with his priorities ... Thankfully for him, the local police hadn’t found the dungeon downstairs, and the criminals hadn’t told them about it. So, when I was bribed—sorry, asked—to tweak her programming a bit, I was able to do so. It wasn’t tricky; these guys had all the options covered. I found a pre-arranged secretary programme and just ran that through her mind. And no, I haven’t used the machine on anyone else ... yet.
Seemed to do the job, making a decent worker of her again, without seeming to affect her desire to be his sex slave in the slightest. So guess who is in Mr. Boone’s good books! Alright, one disadvantage, he’s found out I’m a Super, care of Stephanie, but doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest by that. In fact, he’s even more obliging now if I need a ‘quick break’ from the office, for other duties, so, all well and good. Now whether that’s because he wants to help fight crime here in River City, or because he has a good looking woman who wants to fuck him like a rabbit in heat, care of me, not for me to say, darlings! ;)
“Alright,” I can hear you asking, “why is a science genius”—if I may cheekily call myself that—“working as a typist in an office?” Mainly convenience, darlings; you see, with daddy being even more of a genius in those fields than I, well, the whole family doesn’t lack for money. So, darling daughter Belinda (yes, Belinda to them; they are a bit old fashioned when it comes to the new style of life, so I’m Belinda to them, Billie to nearly everyone else) doesn’t have to worry about scraping the rent together for her apartment and all that; she’s got enough money behind her to take a humble little job like this. And besides, as I said, even before this latest escapade, the hours of a typist tend to fit in with my ‘other job’, whereas a Chemist’s hours can be more lengthy, and harder to get away from in an emergency! Besides which, the sort of science experiments I do wouldn’t quite be ethical in the normal workplace, darlings!
Mind, if anyone can find a way to send me one of those modern keyboard things you have, instead of these ancient typewriters we use, feel free to do so. But, as far as I know, time travel isn’t an option for anyone as yet—famous last words! Keys keep jamming, folks, bane of my life!
But enough of my office concerns! Let’s face it, you want to hear more about the exciting side of life for us vivacious flappers, and not about my boring day job, don’t you? So let’s start by telling you one piece of information: we don’t have to operate as Supers every night; there is a sort of agreed arrangement, so there is always some cover. But it means a girl can have a few nights off during the week, and at the weekend, have some fun! And I might just ... (notice my failed attempt at an angelic look).
Yes, I’m old enough to drink, fine? Or would be if we weren’t in the Prohibition era, at least. So, in theory, no one here in River City ever drinks alcohol (let me remove my tongue from my cheek). Yes, honest, everyone in town obeys the law implicitly, especially Supers. Ah, well ... Like most around here, I know where the best, err, tea parties are. One of the best teahouses is a place called the Funky Kitten, just off the main strip. Makes it very popular with workers, and others (notably Supers), especially at the weekend. So, given it’s a Friday night, a few of us ‘gals’ from the office decide to head off there after work, for a nice cup of, err, tea. No, I wouldn’t put milk or sugar in the tea they serve there, though—just saying (with a wink) ...
If you’re known—and, believe me, I am—it’s not hard to get in. If they don’t recognise you, it’s a whole different game! I know, I know, I drink, I have sex: what a shocking young floosy I am, (I say with a laugh)! But fine, getting in through the door is only half the battle. Next is the lift, down to the basement, where the club actually is.
Most lifts—well, probably all lifts but this one—you press the button, and it takes you up, or down to the desired floor. This one isn’t so obliging. You get in, press the button to go down, and nothing happens. Come back in time and try it for yourself, if you don’t believe me.
Oh, sorry, unless time travel has been invented, you can’t! If it has, bring some money with you, to buy the drinks.
Fine, the lift. As I say, if you stand still, nothing happens. If you do a few steps from the Charleston, it starts to move. Do a few more, and—yes, you get the idea—you dance your way into the club. Thankfully, when it’s time to go back up, the lift works normally. Just as well really, as a good number of patrons aren’t quite in a state to dance when they leave! (I continue with a wink) Who, me? Never been known … oh, alright, once or twice ... Fine, once they even let me sleep over, in the room out the back, but that’s another story!
So there we are, sipping our, err, tea and gossiping about the office, when I notice this woman eyeing me up in a way that suggests it’s not just my health she’s concerned about. Sorry, dear, I might do this faux kissing other women thing, but sex with another woman just doesn’t rock my boat. I like my sex coming with a penis inside me, darling, and not the fake type, either!
But alright, after I’ve had, say, one or two cups, I’m not as sharply focused as I was. So when a special teapot arrives at my seat, from the management, I pour myself a cup. A few minutes later, I’m excusing myself, to go to the ‘little girls’ room, and all that. But, when I get there, I don’t go in, as I should; I walk straight past, down the passage, and into that little back room I mentioned earlier.
Yes, guess who’s waiting for me! Her!
“Why, hello, beautiful,” she says cooly to me. “What took you so long to get here? I wanted to talk!”
I get the feeling it’s not the weather she wants to discuss with me.
“Listen, lady …”
“You can call me Mary.” she replied.
“Fine. Listen, Mary, I don’t know what you have in mind, but I can make a pretty good guess. Just so you know, I don’t swing that way; only interested in men.”
She roared with laughter. “How many cups of that special brew did you have? Even one should loosen you up nicely, two, and you’ll be putty in my hands.
Oh, hell. Yes, I had two cups, before I got up.
“Fine, I had two, so what are you planning to mould me into?”
“Oh, nothing much, just my personal pussy muncher and lesbian sex slave, nothing more.”
What is it about these folk around here and sex slaves? Sheesh! Is that all they think about? Oh, hang on, I’m no angel, am I?
“So is this it, my fate settled?”
“Oh heavens no, darling. You get a whole lot of hypnotic entrancement and programming before you will be purr-fect,” she husked, drawing out the first part of the word, presumably a play on the club name. “But even now, with two cups inside you, you should be controlled enough to ease my itch.”
She dropped her skirt, and her panties, and yes, she was right, I was far enough under her control to see her pussy as a tasty treat. I licked my lips at the sight.
“That’s the way, darling. Now, why don’t you try a sip of that delicious nectar that you will be drinking in the future?”
I tried to resist, but no go; I’ve not got special resistance powers, as some of the supers do, so ... I start licking, not really having a clue what I’m doing. Clearly, my lack of knowledge annoys her. My head gets forced between her thighs, and she tells me what to do, what not to do, and, eventually, I get her off.
Then she makes her one big mistake, especially given the effects of whatever she dosed me with are beginning to wear off. She offers me a post coital cigarette, I ask if I can have one of my own ‘special brand’, and she says yes. So, I pick out one of my sleeping gas specials and start to smoke it. A minute or so later, she’s sleeping like a baby! I smile at her, shake off the last of my own drowsiness, and head to the girl’s room to clean myself up. Then, back to the table, and the other girls, with apologies for being so long, but saying something came up.
Given that the whole office now knows about my super status, they just assume I meant a call to an incident, not what actually happened.
No, I never saw her again. In a sense, a bit of a shame: I would have loved to have hypnoed her into returning the compliment—just for revenge, not because I would have really enjoyed it. And alright: it wasn’t as bad as I’d expected it to be. No, I have no desire to go lesbian … but bisexual, darlings, well, just maybe ...