"Tough crowd, huh?"
Your reflection in the mirror looks much the same as it did earlier this morning. The suit, the hair - except now eyes once full of confidence, even arrogance, are red and moist, threatening to overflow with tears of sudden defeat and disappointment.
Her hand touches you lightly, first on your shoulder, then runs sympathetically down your arm, finally taking your hand in a warm, comforting embrace. You turn to her, fighting with every ounce of strength to prevent the first tear from rolling over your cheek. But those eyes. Those crystal emeralds, sapping what little strength you have from you, the small, perfect upturned nose - lips, wide, red and begging to be kissed. You're shaking, a little at first, then violently, and before you realize it, you're squeezing her hand, afraid she might let go, clinging to her like the last and only lifeline to your sanity.
She sees your distress, pulls you close, and you give up a single sob before your tears fall freely into soft, cropped strands of luminous red hair. Her body is lean and hard against you, but somehow soft at the same time, melting, shifting, accommodating every contour of your flesh with her own.
You blame yourself, hate yourself, for your carelessness. She had tried her best to cover for you, but without your notes, your plan of so many weeks of tireless labor, they were less than impressed with your competence, not convinced you were the person with whom to entrust their future. The disappointment on their faces had shaken you further. Had they seen the single tear form, embryonic, hinting at your defeat?
"Let's go, Blair. I know just what you need."
You follow her as she takes you in tow, hating yourself for your display of weakness, but unable to shake the welcome comfort of her touch.
It's 3:00 in the afternoon. You haven't left the building before 7:00 PM in months. She takes you to a quiet bar and you both sip your first Manhattans without a word. Later - you can't remember when - it's margaritas, the tequila tasting at first like fire and cactus, then later like the perfect way to drown your life.
In a few hours your head is swimming, your senses reeling with equal parts of anger, shame, and desire for your newfound friend. The soft touch of her hand on yours, at first so comforting, now makes your pulse race and your breath come faster and deeper. When she suggests both of you find a quieter place to talk, you're beyond refusing.
She leads you through the gleaming glass and chrome revolving door of the hotel, just a few blocks away. The tall, well-dressed woman at the front desk smiles warmly as Erin offers her credit card. Beside her, a man much too thin and business-like scowls at both of you, but you couldn't care less. You move closer to Erin, your breast pressing into her shoulder, and give him a drunken, lusty grin.
The room is on the ninth floor. She takes you by the hand again and pulls you inside. The spacious suite overlooks Lexington Avenue and the jagged skyline beyond. The far wall, a wide stretch of glass, fills the room with light. The sun is low in the sky, retreating now behind the city skyline. Wispy curtains and downy bedspread, only minutes ago as white as her silky skin, glow with the color of a fresh peach from the sun's last rays.
Her grip tightens, and she pivots suddenly to face you, so close, so beautiful.
"Do you want me, Blair? You can have me if you want. You don't even have to ask."
The words are strangely familiar, almost disturbingly so. Her lips almost touch yours, begging, pleading, silently, to be kissed. But there's something else in her sparkling eyes. Something daring, even dangerous.
She guides you to the wall of glass, only the width of a city street from the facing buildings. The windows form a checkerboard of activity - a beehive of ambitious workers, all staying late to better their position, to gain the upper hand over their peers, if only by the slightest edge.
The sun drops suddenly below the horizon, plunging the city into darkness, the array of lighted windows now just as suddenly a collection of luminous vignettes, each featuring a single, driven figure lost in the obsession to succeed.
She turns you, pushing you closer to the window, her body warm but forceful behind you. Her arms close around you from behind, her hands now cupping your breasts softly, her lips finding your ear through a wall of thick, dark hair.
"Is that really what you want? Look at them, Blair. Dead from the neck down - all of them. So alone - lives so empty they can't even see it yet. They never will, until it's too late. You deserve more, Blair. I can show you, if you'll let me. If you must be a slave, be a slave to your own passion, not to tedious, empty routine."
You feel her hands undo the buttons down the front of your blouse, then she lets the soft fabric of your skirt slide over your hips and thighs. You want what she promises more than anything. You want the pain to go away. You want to love, and even more to be loved, for the first time in your life.
You let her strip you, almost naked, so welcome to be free of the clothes that still cling to you, reminding you of the worst day of your life. Only the black thigh-high stockings remain. They looked so proper beneath your expensive suit, the lace borders hidden away, clinging to your luscious thighs, concealed from the sight of others. A chill runs through you as you see your reflection in the window. Now you look like a common whore, the dark nylon and lace a brazen mockery of your reputation and accomplishments.
Suddenly you're pressed against the wall of glass, the weight of her slim body forced against you from behind. The glass is cool and smooth on your breasts, now flattened against the transparent surface. You gasp when her fingers trail between your legs, spread the lips of your sex, and slowly trace the wet length of your cunt.
"Tell me you want me, Blair. I need to hear you say it."
You can only manage a whimper as she works her finger inside you. Finally, stroking your pussy, gliding through the slick juices that now flow uncontrollably from you, she pauses briefly, pressing firmly just once over the hood of your clit, then cradles it between her fingers, kneading the swollen cord of pleasure in circles until you release a loud moan.
When she stops, you find the strength to tell her.
"I want you. Please. Please, Erin. I want you."
"Look at them," she orders.
Across the street, anonymous faces peer through the glowing windows, all fixed on you, now naked against the glass, lost in a lust so consuming this frozen moment is all that matters. You shiver with unexpected excitement. You feel a brief surge of power over them, a sense of discovering a freedom they will never know. And then the sense of power dissolves in an instant.
"You like this."
Her voice was suddenly filled with sarcasm.
"You really do. Exposing yourself in public. It's such a cheap form of vanity, Blair. I thought you had more class."
She withdraws her hand from between your legs, leaving you empty and aching for her. You push away from the glass and turn toward her, your face an embarrassing mix of confusion and lust.
"But - I thought you... "
"Get dressed Blair," she interrupts with disgust, or is it something else? Her back is turned toward you, and you can't see the wicked smile.
She strips off her blouse and tosses it to you. You catch it in mid-air, by reflex. You're still crumbling inside. Her skirt comes at you next, then her panties. You stand there holding the ball of clothing, now more uncertain than ever about what she wants from you.
"Well, put them on!" she orders impatiently. She retrieves your clothes from the floor and begins to step into them, running the silk of your blouse between her fingers, smoothing the skirt over the front of her thighs. You're a head taller than she, and two dress sizes larger. Her lean, tight body swims in your clothes, but with her jacket over them, she looks almost stylish.
You try your best to squeeze into her bra, but it's ridiculously futile. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head.
"It'll never fit, Blair. Leave it."
Her blouse fits you like a corset, with open gaps between each button. Her skirt fits at the waist if you hold your belly in, but only covers you to mid-thigh, stopping just short of the lace at the tops of your stockings. The crotch of her panties collapses and disappears between your cuntlips, drawn tightly into the wetness there. They were made for her narrow, boyish hips, not the voluptuous flair of your pelvis and your round, firm ass. At least you have your jacket to cover you, you think to yourself. But she's already found it, and folds it under her arm.
She eyes you and smiles.
"Let's go."
You follow her out the door, glancing back over your shoulder with regret and a simmering heat that refuses to die, back at the large bed, still as pristine and empty as when you arrived. A young couple passes you on your way to the elevator. Their laughter echoes in the hallway behind you. The top button of your blouse pops open, and when you try to fasten it, the second opens as well. Erin rolls her eyes again.
"Leave it open. You might as well show them off. Isn't that what you want?"
Her voice still rings with sarcasm. "Cow," she mutters under her breath, but still loud enough for you to hear.
Tears form at the corners of your eyes for the second time today. You follow her into the elevator, again determined not to cry. It's crowded with businessmen - each one a success story in his black suit and briefcase. You feel them staring. The tiny blouse forces your tits up and out, until they spill over the top of the third straining button, two bare mounds of flesh swelling obscenely with each breath, now fully exposed just above your engorged nipples. Someone presses tightly against you from behind. You can feel his immense erection warm the small of your back. The ride down nine floors seems to take an hour.
When the elevator door opens, you step out into a bustling lobby. Erin waits until the elevator empties, leaving you on your own as the men push by you, leering at the hooker who looks so lost. Well-dressed couples enter and leave the dining room, stopping in the cavernous lobby to chat. The men steal leering glances at you; the women stare in disgust, or snicker and look away quickly. You burn with embarrassment, so out of place. How has it come to this, so quickly, so easily?
Across the room, behind the long granite counter, the same thin-lipped, wiry man scowls, then reaches for the phone. You recognize the tall blonde woman who approaches him from behind. She places her hand on his and returns the phone to its cradle. Then, with a look that could kill, waves him away like some annoying insect.
You've decided to run for the exit when Erin finds you.
"Wait for me in the ladies room," she whispers as she passes. She doesn't even look at you.
You don't know why, but you do as she says, without a pause, without thinking at all. Once inside, you hide in a stall to escape the other women's black looks and crude remarks. But you can still hear them. You sit and cry openly, something you've needed all day. Suddenly the third button of Erin's blouse gives way and your breasts fall from the opening, bouncing and quivering as you whimper into your hands. But why are your nipples so hard?
Then you hear her voice.
"Blair? Are you in here?"
You unlock the stall door to go to her, to have her take you in her arms, to hear that all this is a game or some kind of test, and that you've done well, passed with flying colors.
The blonde from the front desk is standing beside her. They both smile at you as you creep from your hiding place. You hadn't noticed how tall she was. She looks down at you with a perfect face, as though each chiseled feature was precisely cut and formed to a standard higher than you thought possible. Sleek, golden hair falls to her jaw-line, following it with razor precision from front to back. Her broad shoulders taper to a long, thin waist. Her breasts are full and round, placed high up on her torso, and her calves are slim and firm, showing hard, defined muscle as she shifts from one foot to the other on the four-inch heels.
You stop six feet in front of them, your face still wet with tears.
"Blair, this is Bridget."
You just stare. You're so small, so inferior, as she looks you over.
The blonde takes three bold steps toward you and takes your face in her hands.
"Is she housebroken?" she asks.
You hear Erin answer from across the room, but the blonde forces you to look straight into her piercing blue eyes.
"She's a baby," Erin answers. "What do you expect?"
The blonde lowers her hands to your neck, then to your shoulders, probing and kneading your flesh through your clothes. Her look is one of sober appraisal, as though you're nothing more than what you appear to be, meat for the taking. She puts a hand under each breast, lifting and weighing them, then closes her long fingers around them to test their firmness and volume.
"These have promise," she comments to Erin. "Will you pierce her?"
"In time - when she begs for it."
She takes your nipples between her fingers and pulls, lifting the full weight of your heavy tits until they're drawn upward as far as they will stretch. You hiss when she squeezes harder as she tries to keep them from slipping through her fingers. Her wide, red lips curve into a cruel smile.
"She likes this. Maybe too much."
You cry out from the pain.
"Owwww! Please, stop, you're hurting me! I don't like it, I DON'T !" Your voice rises an octave, sounding like that of a spoiled child. You hate the sudden thought that your shrill protests ring out like the "baby" of Erin's casual remark, but if it's what Erin wants...
The blonde looks surprised, but pulls even harder, stretching your burning nipples until you fear she might tear them off.
"Can't you keep her quiet?" she asks Erin, still watching you squirm.
"I told you, she's a baby," Erin answers absently, as she leans close to a nearby mirror to inspect her makeup.
She lets go suddenly, allowing your breasts to fall and bounce. Your nipples burn like fire. Her hands continue down over your belly, a finger trailing into the gap between the buttons now and then to tease you, then, over your hips, closing her hands around every curve of flesh and bone. Her perfect nails travel slowly over the outsides of your thighs, the thin layer of Erin's brief skirt a maddening barrier between her exploring fingers and your bare skin. Once under the tiny skirt, she plays with the lace on your thigh-highs, running a finger around the inside of the border.
Then, she traces lightly upward, along the smooth skin of your inner thigh. Your body tenses, and you gasp when she arrives at your throbbing cuntlips. You feel her finger worm into you, then another, and another, sliding so easily up inside your slippery hole. She takes your nipple in her free hand and twists it hard, so hard you cry out in pain again. But your pussy flows like an erupting volcano, out of control.
"She came to you like this?" the tall blonde asks Erin.
Erin still faces the mirror, now touching up the pale pink lipstick on her upper lip. She never looks at you when she finally answers.
"I wish I could take credit. She's a natural, from what I can tell."
"Hmmm - maybe...," Bridget answers. She takes a step back, still boring into you with those ice-blue eyes. "Play with yourself." She's not asking - every word is a command. Another chill runs over you.
Before you can refuse, Erin turns and gives you that look, the one that says, 'Do this, if you know what's good for you.' You've lost almost everything today - losing the only thing left, the one thing you desire most, is not an option.
You pull the skirt up and touch yourself, then run your finger slowly over the slick knob of flesh pouting from between your sopping cunt. Bridget returns to Erin's side, both of them watching intently as you close your eyes, imagining Erin's sweet tongue between your legs.
"She's a bit common, Erin. Your tastes are usually more exotic."
You try to tune them out. You're not common. You're not. You're not.
"True, but you know how I like a challenge. Besides, she's just so damned eager to please. She just might do - well - anything, if you know what I mean."
They talk about you as though you're not even there. Don't listen. Don't. A challenge? What does she mean, "anything"? Concentrate. For Erin.
Bridget's eyes brighten. Her smile grows with sadistic implications.
"You don't mean... "
"You remember," Erin answers with a satisfied grin.
"Ohhh, this could be good - very good. Do you really think she's the one?"
"Watch," Erin answers. "You know what to look for, if she ever manages to jerk herself off."
Don't listen. Think of sweet Erin. Naked. Her breasts against yours, her slim, hard thigh between your legs. Kissing you, so deeply, so savagely. Telling you in ragged breaths that she wants you - only you. She loves you...loves you...loves...
"Ooohhh. Mmmmmm. Ooooooh."
You can hear the sounds you make echo off the gleaming tile walls as you cum, so long and so hard, twitching and moaning, consumed by the duration and intensity of your release. But in the midst of it, despite the power of its delicious grasp, you open your eyes and look at them. You look at them watching you hump your hand, hips thrusting, smooth thighs now convulsing into spasms of hard muscle, flushed breasts crowned with burning, engorged nipples thrust shamelessly forward. You watch them watching you until it's over.
They turn to each other and exchange knowing, satisfied smiles. And as you pant before them in your makeshift hooker clothes, they embrace, each taking the other's tongue deeply into the warmth of her mouth, Erin's slim figure stretched against the blonde's perfect body.
And as the sweat drips from your heaving breasts, you wonder what you've done, what they knew to look for, and whether Erin would be pleased with you. When their embrace ends, the blonde looks at you and smiles, then turns with a final flourish, pivoting on those perfect legs, and exits. How can you be so completely filled with jealousy, lust, confusion, and shame, all in the same moment? You truly are a child compared to these two women, a rather common child, freshly delivered into this newfound adult world.
"Don't pout, Blair. She's just a friend - a very old and dear one. Besides, I think she likes you, very much."
She closes the distance between you with an easy, casual gait. Her wide green eyes are all you see until she takes you in her arms. She nibbles, then licks and sucks lightly, her full lips leaving your neck slick and cool. You feel her move lower. When she inhales, she fills her mouth with both nipple and meat of your jutting breast. You bury your fingers in her hair, pulling her face against you, giving up everything you ever were, so easily defeated, offering her as much as she wants, and more.
You follow her to her ride, six steps behind as you're told. Men leer at you, and one offers you money to fuck. You're all tits and legs and pussy to them, every one of them that pass you on the street. But all you can see is her pixie red hair bouncing, and her perfect ass beneath the skirt that used to be yours. If only she would own you the way she owns your clothes now, wearing you next to her immaculate skin while she tows you home with her.
Once there, she takes you to her shower, then to her bed. She's freed your hair and unravels the tangles with her fingers, all the while planting soft, lingering kisses over your eyes and lips. You service her without a thought for your own reward, your mouth finding every fold and crevice of her slender body. Finally, nursing between her legs, you drink the nectar that pours from her as she convulses, then melts in your very hands.
You sleep with your cheek against her inner thigh, your hand on her belly, convinced beyond all doubt that you've made her happy, that she's pleased with you. Everything you were or will ever be is gone, lost in the single, desperate hope she'll keep you. Now, after you've given up everything for her, she must love you.
You're absolutely sure of it.
