June
VI
Doctor Bell was very slow in coming to the bedroom. I had removed my panties and I now lay on top of the comforter, rubbing my pussy beneath a slowly swirling fan. He would like this, I thought. He will like to enter the bedroom and find me this way. He will fuck me.
The last thought roared in my mind like flames. He had told me I would want it. I didn’t care because I’d wanted it already, since the first time I’d met him. Since the first time I’d met Phoebe and seen what she’s become, what, oh god, a woman could become. I’d known I wanted that. But now…Jesus. I knew what he was warning me of. I knew what it could be like. It had just started, that night and already I felt changed. I felt that if my pussy could not be rubbed, that if my cunt did not get fucked, that I would die. And I smile at those thoughts, now, because I was still to learn what yearning really is.
“How do you feel, June?” He said as he entered the room.
“I feel wonderful…” I searched my mind seeking the right name for him “…Sire.” Damn! What a stupid word to choose. It had just come to mind. He seemed amused by my discomfort. I had never been so flushed in my life. Was he controling me? I couldn’t tell what that crazy headset was actually doing. I felt my body moving to heighten the show I was giving him, like a flower seeking the sun. I wanted to show him my pussy. His pussy. I wanted to show him his pussy. His everything. And he wanted to see it. He wanted it. I knew he did, like I knew anything. Like I knew that we were there, and I was melting before him. That I was a woman, now a real woman. “Oh god, what am I thinking?” The hand that wasn’t occupied went to my head.
“Shhh.” His hand cupped my face in a soft way. He was caressing me, protecting me. It sent a hormonal torpedo into my genitals. “You’re very warm,” he said. He felt the back of my head, his fingers over my incision. My passport into his world. “Mmm. No safeguard. Bastards.” I didn’t know what he meant. I was rubbing my lips against his wrist.
“Fuck me,” I said, speaking into his flesh. I had probably said it already, many times.
He inhaled. “Watch the fan, June,” He said. I did as I was told. Pleasure followed like a starburst from a roman candle. The fan blades were wood, or faux wood. The light was low, but I could see the features on the blades as they lazed by, dark knots like eyes watching me out of some fairytale forest. I was aware that Doctor Bell was taking off his clothes. To my lust crazed mind the accompanying sound of rustling cotton was beautiful. It was like someone dying of thirst hearing a canteen being slowly unscrewed. But I want to screw him, not unscrew him, I thought. I wanted to face him now, to turn to him. Instead I watched the wandering blades above. He moved close.
“Be still,” He said.
I felt a prick in my arm, followed by a cool swab. “What was …?” I looked to see him place a small syringe on the bedside table. I looked into his eyes and found them studying me observantly, kindly. My head began to swim. He sat next to me, his shirt open, trousers undone. He reached down and pulled my hand out of my pussy, pressing his thumb into my slick palm, our hands twisted together.
“It’s an aphrodesiac,” he said. I had known before he told me. Something was feeding the heat in my body like a breeze on a forest fire, strengthening into a gale. My world was disolving into a sexual…Into sex.
“I’m going to want it…more…?” I choked out. I think I may have been crying. He was holding my hands, firmly now. I hallucinated, or felt, that I could actually experience my vaginal walls touching each other. My clitoris felt like it must be the size of a dumptruck. It was fiercy, impatiently echoing the pounding in my chest.
“You’re going to want what more?” He asked.
“Fucking,” I said, squirming against him like a child.
He was taking my pulse with his wristwatch. He seemed to note the time. He lay next to me, holding my hand. “Just wait a few minutes,” He said. With my free hand I played with myself, with my left hand I held him. We watched eachother. I loved him, I realized. I could feel him wanting me to love him. I wanted to hold him, it was…compulsive. It was bliss. We loved each other. I could feel it. “Now,” I said.
“Please let it be now.”
With a strange grace he rolled on top of me, his thick cock free from his pants and hovering over my snatch. “My legs are spread for you. I’m so wet for you. I’m so wet.” I was near incoherence.
When he hesitated, my hand started wandering helplessly back toward my sex. I had an index finger on my slick thigh, almost home, when he caught my hand. “None of that. Not without permission.” I groaned in frustration. My hips were rising and falling of their own accord. He placed a hand on my hip, feeling my undulations. The fingers dragged themselves lightly across my pubis, following a faint bikini tan line like a highway to my sex. They brushed my drenched lips, teasing me, up and down. His thumb gave my clit a nudge that made me see stars. “Yessssss.” I hissed. His lips found my right nipple and I swooned, pulled him to my breast. Abruptly his hands were gone, followed by his mouth. I opened my eyes to see him watching me, blue eyes above mine. My mind was a storm of feelings, lust, anger, worship, swirling together. As his cock pressed against the entrance to my cunt, my back arched and everything became religiously clear. “Come,” he said, as he pressed into me, his cock like a piece of a beautiful white star. I came.
VII
The next morning, the bedroom was abandoned. I was alone, sprawling over a disshevelled bed. For a few moments I enjoyed a warm silence, watching the motionless plants guard the corners of the hardwood floor. Skylights staked slanted columns of sunlight through the ceiling. The roar of the ocean was weak, but present, punctuated by the cries of some island bird. Perhaps a bird of paradise. This island makes birds exotic, I thought. Or vice versa. Why, in this place, do the birds become so pink and strange? What seductive power makes a bird want cease being like a normal bird, and start being so…like that? To forget the boring freedom of unencumbered, unadorned existence, and to become something purely sexual. Absently, I touched the small shaved region of my head, beneath which the device was buried. The island was affecting me as well, it seemed.
Ideas were sprouting in my mind like the first eruptions of a bright pink plumage. My tits were tits in a way they had not been before. The flesh was the same, but the word had grown, acquired more texture. It felt pillowy and sexy and sweet. The easy deasy, oh so fun to say, Tits. God, it tightened something in me. Every nerve in my breasts constricted electrically at the thought. It made me wonder. I thought of Pussy, experimentally, articulating the word deliberately in my mind. I felt my groin inflate hotly. I squirmed. I smoothed the panties over my pussy. “I can’t,” I said to myself. “He said I can’t.” I fondled myself lightly. That made it so much worse. My words are deciding what I mean, instead of the other way around, I thought.
The night before had been transformational, a sexual baptism. I had rutted on him, him on me for hours, his cock twisting in me, my body a twisting mewling conduit for inhuman pleasure that flowed from our joining. He had talked to me, held me, degraded me, kissed me. He spanked me. I was a cumming machine. I had shaken, and he had talked, and I had listened, when I could. Something in my mind was different now. Something he put there. Would keep putting there..
There was a mahogany dresser a few feet from the bed. It had a mirror. I brought myself erect and walked to it. The mirror was antique, the glass drooping slightly, like an old window pane. I did not look quite like myself. The woman in the mirror seemed skewed, indeterminate. The room swirled behind my reflection like a desert horizon, obscured by heat. I looked ethereal. In flashes, my reflection seemed to have a sybaline smile. At other times, she appeard small, and lost, helpless. On the dresser there was a note. As I opened it, I heard a faint tinkle of distant conversation.
VIII
The note had said,
“In the bureau there is a vibrator. You need it in your pussy.”
I needed it in my pussy. Soon I was holding it. It was blue. I spread my legs to shoulder width. With my left hand I pulled the crotch of my panties to one side, while the right pressed the tip of the invader against my netherlips.
“Noo,” I groaned. I could not play with myself without permission. My hands refused to cooperate; I had the strength of an infant when the device was near my sopping well. I looked at the note. There was a post scriptum:
“Bathe.”
I showered with the vibrator, pressing it limply against my entrance, rutting my hips against it. My urgency was extreme, but my hands refused to comply. They were obeying another, an authority they considered above my own. In my excitement I lacked the presence of mind to marvel at my behavior. I wanted to put the toy in my pussy. If I didn’t I would die, a sad romantic death, with the toy pressed against my wanting yin. My frustration reduced me nearly to tears.
After the shower, I returned to the bedroom and dressed. I found a sleeveless white linen blouse and a shortish but respectable blue skirt and sandals. With the vibrator clenched between my thighs, I performed a short but successful grooming operation at a vanity mirror, brushing my hair and applying nominal cosmetics.
I stood up, preparing to leave the room. Dr. Bell could help me fuck my pussy. Even in my lustful haze, my embarassment at that thought left me crimson. I looked at the vibrator in my hand. I couldn’t leave it in the room. I needed it in my pussy. My ensemble lacked pockets. Reluctantly, I raised the front of my skirt and shoved the vibrator into my panties. The device was small enough that I looked almost normal, enough to escape casual notice. Checking my composure a last time, I went in search of Dr. Bell.
I found him on the veranda, occupying one of two reclining beach chairs. He was smiling brightly, wearing a half open white shirt, with beige khakis and flip flops. The other chair was occupied by a girl, or so it seemed to me. She was tall, lithe and blonde, her thinness giving her a maidenish air. Her dress was elegant, almost formal, a black sheath tapering to the middle of her lightly tanned thighs. Both she and Dr. Bell were holding long thin mimosas, the champagne chilling in an ice bucket which occupied the small space between them. The veranda was large and bathed in sunlight, with no other furniture. I felt on display.
“Ah, Good morning!” said Dr. Bell, as I approached. “June, I don’t think you’ve meet Chloe, and Chloe, may I present June.”
“Why Bill, she’s lovely,” Chloe commented with strange maturity, watching me with predatory eyes. She was smiling at me. If she were less stunningly beautiful it might have been a leer.
There was an awkward silence in which I was expected to say something. I had only one thing on my mind, the shaft tucked into the waistband of my underwear. I rubbed my thighs together childishly. “Dr. Bell, may I talk to you please, for a moment,” I said. As soon as I started speaking I found that my voice sounded strained.
“Oh, look, there he is again!” said Chloe, gesturing casually to the ocean. In the distance I could see the shining back of what looked like a porpoise.
“Yes, you’re quite right, my dear,” Dr. Bell said. “Excellent eyes,” he was smiling, touching her arm. He was looking very directly into her excellent eyes. “Funny thing about porpoises…”
“Dr. Bell,” I said again.
“Yes June,” he said, turning his attention away from Chloe.
“May I speak with you please for a moment?” I was speaking into the floor. I found that if I flexed my buttocks I could tighten my panties enough to press the vibrator ever so slightly into my slit. My panties were nearly saturated with moisture, and my thighs were clenched together partly to prevent the escape of a lazy drop of my juice. I needed the vibrator in my pussy.
“Yes, certainly.”
“In private, please?” I pleaded.
“June, don’t be rude!” His reprimant hit me like a physical slap. “We have a guest,” he touched Chloe softly on the arm. “There won’t be any whispering of childish secrets, or whatever it is you have in mind.”
“But…”
“But nothing!” Dr. Bell said with finality. “Chloe, I’m very sorry.”
“Oh, don’t be Bill,” she purred. “June, darling, what’s wrong?”
It was surreal being addressed by a teenager in such a superior tone. All I wanted was to be alone with the phallus in my panties. My patience was almost totally exhausted. I was visibly trembling, my hand wandering to the front of my skirt, then retreating. Pretending to adjust the waistband of my skirt, I was able to spin the vibrator against myself slightly. “I want…” I didn’t know what I was going to say. My voice cracked and I found myself unable to talk. The slickness between my thighs was becoming unmanageable, and I could feel a bead of moisture begin to wind its way down the inside of my leg. It would soon be visible beneath my skirt. I knelt to the floor. The dildo pressed against my cunt illiciting an almost irrepressable surge of desire. I needed it in my pussy. I sobbed.
Chloe rose from her chair and knelt beside me. She cupped my chin in her hands and raised my face, wiping away my tears with her thumb. How she knew, I’m not sure but her hand slowly slid from my shoulder, across my collar bone, brushed over my breasts and pressed against the waistband of my skirt. She held the vibrator through the material. With her thumb and forefinger she removed the toy and held it for display without looking at it. She was watching me. Her eyes were half lidded and her voice caring, soothing. “Is it this?” She said. “Is this what you want?” She used the blue wand to wipe away the tears on each of my cheeks.
“Y-yes.” I couldn’t hold her eyes. I crossed my arms across my stomach and looked towards the house.
Wordlessly she pushed me back, so that I was lying on the warm wood, hot on my calves and arms. I watched the large tropical clouds overhead. Cumulonimbus, I thought. Chloe’s hands were folding up the front of my skirt. I felt her fingers working on my thighs. She slid her hands under the waistband of my panties and my stomach spasmed deliciously.
“Up!” she said.
Transferring my weight onto my shoulders, I lifted my ass from the porch, allowing her to slide my panties down my legs.
“Spread.” I spread my legs for her. I knew my behavior was bizzare, but I wanted my cunt filled so bad. She held the vibrator to her lips, kissing away the remenants of one of my tears. “Lick,” she said as she held the rod in front of my face. I obeyed. She moved the blue cock down my body, and allowed me to watch it dissappear below the rise of my skirt hem. She pressed the tip against my mound, twisting it lightly. “Do you want it?” she asked, with the same half lidded expression, her lips parted in expectation of a reply. I could see her tongue glistening between her perfect teeth.
I tried to press my hips downward against her hand, but she moved backwards, teasing me. “Say, ‘yes Mistress Chloe’,” she said.
I resisted for less than a fraction of a second. “Yes Mistress Chloe!” I said, feeling my sanity bend beneath the scrutiny of her young eyes.
She looked at me. Her face was smooth, unreadable. She bent her mouth to my ear, brushing my lobe with her lips. “Slut,” She whispered as she penetrated me.
IX
I dreamed about Pheobe. I dreamed about her pale face framed by long brown hair, straight and limp, doe eyes over a rose mouth. She was watching me mockingly. “Happy now?” she seemed to be saying.
My dream was of one of the stories she told me in her interviews, before I had even heard of Dr. Bell. Before I ever imagined that I would someday look like her.
“It was a bathroom,” she was saying.
“I thought you said you were blindfolded when you woke up.”
“I was, but it was a bathroom, I could tell, there was water dripping, gurgling…”
“What were you doing there?”
I imagined myself as she had been. I saw myself in a large tasteful bathroom, beside a row of four sinks, separated by a small wall. To my left and my right were small leaves of brown aluminum. Beyond my stall, further back, there were urinals and commodes, a small counter with mouthwash, mints and other toiletries. Everything shone with impeccable cleanliness beneath the soft light, which issued from several lamps mounted on the walls. It was the kind of luxury that many people never saw.
I was wearing a pink taffeta dress, with a bow in my hair, a gausy white veil over my blindfolded face. My hands were sheathed to the arms in white silk gloves, and my feet wrapped in shiny black pumps, with very high heels. In my stall I stood, facing the wall. My hands were placed before me, on a raspy kind of wallpaper that looked like thousands of tiny ropes.
“Then some men came in,” Phoebe was saying.
“What kind of men? Who were they?”
“I don’t know, they had been drinking. They had icey cocktails with them, something fruity. One had on a tuxedo with a blue bowtie.”
“You were blindfolded, you said.”
“I saw from under my blindfold.”
“How many men?”
“Two.”
“What did they do?”
The men were laughing about something. One was in his mid-thirties, the other older.
‘So, Whitfield, you bastard, what about the Onsco sale?’ Both men were jocular, slightly drunk. The younger one put his drink down on the sinks.
‘Fine, fine. Charlie got most of the credit, but what you don’t see is Phillip following him around with a big hook trying to stop him from stepping on his dick at every goddamn turn.’ The younger man was standing behind my stall. His put is right hand lightly on my shoulder while his left went to the wall past my head. ‘You ever use these things?’ he shouted to the other man, who was shuffling to the rear.
‘Nope, too damned old.’
‘Liar,’
My hands were pressed against the wall, my legs spread slightly. I felt the man lift the rear of my dress and pin it above my waist. He ran his hands over my exposed ass. I wasn’t equipped with panties. ‘This one has garters,’ he yelled to the other man. A murmur of acknowlegement filtered forward. The hand on my ass reached to the little piece of thigh above my stockings and pinched it gently. ‘Cute as hell,’ he muttered to no one in particular. His cold beltbuckle brushed across my rear as he opened his pants. His hand left my shoulder for a moment. He applied four swift pumps to a small dispenser next to my head, collecting the material in his palm. A moment later he was slathering the cold fluid over my bare labia, working in quick rough circles. My back was arched, and my ass extended. He put one hand on my hips and the other on my shoulder. He eased himself into me.
‘Ahhh, lord I tell you I been needing this,’ he yelled. ‘I feel about as cooped up as a cougar in a volkswaggon on this damned trip.’ He gave another hiss of satisfaction as his prick pushed into me to the hilt. Soon his thrusts were coming with a regular tempo. The hand on my hip made a quick slide up to my breast and cupped it, using it for leverage. After a few thrusts, he hooked a finger into the neckline of my dress, pulling on it, and both of my tanned tits to spilled over the taffeta.
‘Get used to it!’ the other man said.
The left hand soon joined the right at my breasts, and he ravaged them lightly as he worked my cunt. His thrusts began to produce small squeaks from me which echoed off the tiles. Another man came into the bathroom, also tipsy. He walked over to my stall and slapped the younger man on the back.
‘Bob!’
‘Hey, how’s it going John?’ A hand came off my breast for a handshake.
‘Not bad, not bad. You’re working that little pussy there I see,’ the new man said as he settled himself in the stall next to mine. I heard a shuffling of fabric and the rip of a zipper.
‘Yeah, little bit, little bit,’ Bob said. From next door I heard pumps at a dispenser.
‘Whitfield, you know John?’ Bob yelled. His hands had returned to my tits.
‘Sure do. How’s it going, son?’ the older man said, puttering back from the rear, approaching John for a handshake.
As the two other men chatted, Bob’s thrusts became more urgent. He moved his hands from my tits to my hips, and I felt him adjust his stance. Soon he was rabbit fucking me, pressing my breasts into the rough wallpaper. Beneath my veil my mouth was open in a wordless moan, as my pussy was worked. The bathroom resonated with the sound of Bob slapping against my ass as he took me, punctuated by my occasional voicings and breathing. Bob came with a low growl. ‘Mmm Hmmm!’ he said, as he leaned against me, panting. It took him only a moment to recover. He gave me a little pat on my wet pussy as he withdrew, wiping his cock on a moist towel from a nearby warming rod. He pushed a button beside me, and stepped outside to join the other men washing up.
As their chatter echoed around me, a small scepter began to emerge from the floor. It was gleaming white, glistening with some kind of fluid. Slowly it rose, between my legs. I manouvered myself over it, allowing it to extend into my pussy. It parted my vaginal lips gently, extending a few inches inside. The device then began to whir softly, and a warm trickle of water began to issue out of me, and roll into a drain below. My fingers tightened on the wall, but the device was actually quite pleasant. After a few seconds, it removed itself from me, and performed its slow rise in reverse. With a click, the little phallus disappeared into a tiny silo in the floor. The men left. My neighbor’s stall, after a series of clicks and drizzles, became silent. The only sound was of dripping water.
“And that was all?”
“That’s all.”
“How could that be all?” the interviewer asked, a little brusque.
“That’s all.” The tape showed Phoebe smoking through a glib smile. She is beautiful even in the drab coveralls. Her legs bob slightly beneath the table. Above them, over her folded hands, she glances at the interview room door. In a moment she turns, observing the camera in the corner. “Happy now?” she seems to say.