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Message-ID: <41052asstr$1046167805@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Night Writer <night_writer99@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} True Love {Night Writer} (FF, BDSM)
Date: Tue, 25 Feb 2003 05:10:05 -0500
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                                         True Love

                                     by Night Writer





                                                1.


"Lie still Blair, and I won't hurt you."

She stands over you - she in her smart charcoal jacket and slacks, you 
nearly naked, stretched out on your bed in black bra and panties, 
wrists burning from the handcuffs fastened through the heavy headboard.

You can see in her green eyes that she's serious. A short riding crop 
in her right hand guarantees it. She's partially undone her white 
blouse, just enough to tease you with glimpses of her small, round 
breasts tipped with pink nipples that reach out to you like tiny 
fingers, rigid with the hope that you will misbehave, and she'll get to 
use the crop on your smooth legs and belly.

So you stop struggling, pulling your bare thighs together and to the 
side to avoid the crop, should it fall.  But you're still breathing 
hard, eyes full of defiance, glaring at her for tricking you, for 
breaking her promise to eat you. 

She creeps onto the bed beside you, her face now so close to yours, her 
short red hair hanging just low enough to brush the skin of your cheek. 
You glance down her open blouse, wishing more than anything you could 
suck one of her nipples between your lips and push against the hard 
bead of flesh with the tip of your tongue.

"You must have wanted me very badly, Blair."

You think back, remembering how long you've lusted after her, the weeks, 
then months that passed before you could muster the nerve to even make 
a friendly advance. Then this. Working together later than usual one 
night at the office, lights low, desks all vacant, the windows of an 
adjacent office building sparkling like stars in the night sky - she 
looked at you for a long time, reached out to stroke your hair, then 
leaned close, her lips moving against your ear.

"You can have me if you want," she had whispered. "You don't even have 
to ask."

You remember the flutter that touched your stomach, and how your legs 
opened under your desk when she kissed you. And that's all it took. You 
were hers.

Silly you. Ready to play any game she suggested, if only you could have 
her naked body against yours. So willing, that you placed both wrists 
in the cuffs yourself, letting her snap them shut with a knowing smile. 
You were in heaven while she stripped you, raising your hips so she 
could tug at your skirt and stockings, not even caring when she cut 
your new silk blouse from your body. 

"Talk to me, Blair. Tell me what you want."

You're surprised by her demand, not sure what to say. She taps your 
belly with the crop, just hard enough to get your attention. It stings, 
but causes a flood between your legs at the same time.

"P-please," you stammer.

"Please what, Blair? Please beat me? Please eat me? Please fuck me? I 
didn't know you were such a girly girl. Afraid to ask for what you 
want? I expected you to beg. What a disappointment."

The crop comes down harder, across your ass, a forceful, lashing blow, 
and you cry out, twisting away from her.

"Ahh, she speaks! Perhaps another blow will make her sing."

"Nooo!" you reply at once, fearing a more painful strike. "I'll tell 
you - I'll tell you - please, please, eat me, fuck me, please..." Your 
eyes tear as you beg her for the sex you've wanted for so long. But not 
like this. Not like this.

"Spread your legs, Blair. Open them."

You do. You spread them wide, knees slightly drawn up, panty-covered 
mound already showing a dark stain from your juices. You pray she 
doesn't use the crop there.

She touches the plump mound with the tip of the crop, drawing it down, 
tracing the length of your slit as it yawns wider, now soaking the thin 
wisp of black cotton. The crop returns again and again, now with a 
firmer hand, teasing your clitoris until your hips rise to meet it with 
each touch.

"I knew you'd be easy. Such a slut. And to think, little miss perfect, 
the icon of professionalism, a true example of today's career woman, 
here in handcuffs, begging me to do all these nasty things to her. 
Admit it, Blair. You're a slut at heart. You've always been a slut."

She's raises the crop again, this time only a few feet above your cunt. 
It hovers in the air there, waiting, waiting, for your answer, the 
right answer.

"Yes!" you scream. "I am! A slut! Your slut! Please - no more - I'm 
begging you!"

She smiles with satisfaction and places the crop on the bed. Then, 
she's pulling your panties off your hips, down your spread legs, and 
over your toes. Next, with a quick snip of the scissors, your bra is 
gone, freeing your large, meaty tits. She licks her lips as they spill 
from the black lace, flattening only slightly, proud and firm with 
angry red nipples.

You watch, trembling, as she lowers her face between your legs, then 
moan with relief when her tongue dips into your cunt. But her eyes are 
on you again. She stops. Your eyes meet hers, pleading to continue. 
You're too breathless to speak.

"Shall I finish you?"

"P-please," you whimper. "Oh God, please."

"You'll be my slut?"

"Yessss!"

"No more panties at the office?"

"Yessss!" you agree, too excited to think about her demands.

"And no bra as well?" 

"Yessss!"

"And you won't mind if I tell everyone we're lovers?"

"I - I don't care, don't care at all, please..."

"My sweet Blair, you *were* born a slut, weren't you? Now, beg me to 
eat you."

You beg her over and over. You admit anything and everything. Yes, you 
were born a slut, and you'll die a slut.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes...

And when her tongue rolls perfectly over your clit, too many times for 
you to count, long after you stop begging, you cum long and hard, 
screaming her name into the night as your body thrashes and pulls at 
the cuffs above your head. 

And you know you are lost. Forever.





                                                2.


You're back at work the next day, sure she didn't mean what she said. 
You wear both panties and bra, never thinking about the consequences. 
Then she's behind you, running her hand over your ass, checking.

"You're a bad girl, Blair. You know what I do to bad girls."

You can't move. What if others should see her pawing you? Too afraid to 
turn to face her, you reply softly, "I'm sorry. I didn't think..."

Her fingers trail between your legs from behind, making you squirm. She 
pushes up against the wet spot already spreading over your tiny, white 
cotton panties. You're afraid she'll go further, and afraid she'll 
stop. So delicious, to be played with in public. You know you'll do 
anything she asks.

"Take them off, Blair."

She couldn't possibly expect you to...

"No Blair, not here. Go to the ladies room. Take your purse. Your bra 
and panties better be in it when you get back."

You don't move away until she stops fingering you. Then, without 
question or hesitation, you do as she says. You feel so cheap as you 
strip the panties and bra from beneath your slacks and blouse. You do 
it quickly, before someone comes in, before someone discovers what  
you've become. Your small purse bulges after you stuff everything in. 
A small piece of white bra strap escapes when you close the catch, 
hanging off the side, unnoticed by you in your haste to finish before 
you're found. Your nipples scrape the fabric of your blouse as you 
hurry to leave. Glancing in the mirror, you see your tits bouncing as 
you walk, hard points of your nipples straining against the sheer white 
material that clearly shows two dark circles of your areola. The image 
shocks you, and makes you wet at the same time. What will they think...

You hurry back to your office. She's there, of course. She tells you 
how proud she is of you, how luscious you look to her, and how she'd 
like to eat you, right then and there. But of course she doesn't. She 
couldn't in front of all these people. Could she? You wonder if you'd 
let her if she demanded it.

She pushes you into a corner where no one can see, works her hand down 
the front of your slacks, and slides her middle finger into your 
sopping pussy. You want her to keep it there, to take you in her arms 
and masturbate you until you cum in your own office. Instead, she pulls 
her hand free and offers the same finger to you, placing it lightly on 
your lips. You open and suck. It's the first time you've tasted 
yourself. But you'd do it again and again for her.

She leaves you, wet and wanting. She doesn't even speak to you, and 
disappears without a word at the end of the day. You wonder if you've 
displeased her in some way, but have no way of knowing. No sleep for 
you this night. You toss and turn, anxious, troubled, and in heat for 
her.

She's pleased the next day. Your slacks are light tan, and show clearly 
that you're naked underneath them. You choose a silk top to keep your 
nipples from aching, but hadn't counted on how the soft material would 
collapse over your swaying breasts, showing them off in exquisite 
detail.

You've earned a pet name.

"You look wonderful today, my little Pussy."

Pussy. You're insulted at first, but before long convince yourself it 
fits. Like a glove.

At lunch, she closes your office door and fingers you again. You're 
melting in her hands when she stops.

"You do it, Pussy. I want to watch. Do it till you cum."

You do your best to work your hand inside the narrow belt and 
waistband, but soon give up and open the slacks, letting them slide to 
your knees. Your fingers are soaked, plunging in and out of your cunt.

"Taste yourself, Pussy."

You bring your fingers to your mouth and lick them, one by one. She 
watches, running her hand lightly over her meager breasts, breathing 
deeply as she takes in the sight of you, the sight of a bright, 
attractive woman slowly losing control of her life.

She takes a few steps toward you, now close enough to smell the musk of 
your sex. The green of her eyes holds you with an unseen force, 
powerful and paralyzing. 

"Cum for me, Pussy. Show me how wet I've made you. Show me everything."

You tug your panties over your hips and slide them to mid-thigh. The 
soft, dark hair that covers your cunt is wet and matted. You plunge 
your fingers into it again, desperate for your orgasm now that she's 
given you permission. It doesn't take long. A minute, maybe less. She 
sees your hips begin to thrust suddenly faster against your hand, knows 
you've come to the edge, and covers your mouth with hers, muffling the 
long, guttural moan that escapes from deep within your body. Leaning 
into her, you finish yourself, savoring each precious second, holding 
it, making it last until you're limp in her arms, panting like a bitch 
in heat.

She's happy with you for a week, but then feels the need to dress you 
in clothes of her choosing. She brings a large shopping bag to work one 
day, full of your new clothes. And you wear them starting the next day 
- clothes you would never have worn before - but for her, anything. 
Tight, fitted blouses and sweaters with deeply cut V necks, showing off 
your round, succulent breasts. Tiny, pleated skirts that barely fall to 
your upper thighs, flaring to show your round ass every time you turn 
too quickly. They can't keep their eyes off you in meetings. Even 
trying your best to keep your legs tightly pressed together, sooner or 
later you shift just enough to show a glimpse of the long, pink gash 
between your legs, now shaved bare at her request. Men stare at you. 
Women snicker behind your back when they think you aren't listening. A 
week passes, then two.

Your boss calls you in for your annual review. He dismisses much of the 
good work you've done. He stares at your tits. He tells you to work 
harder. Longer hours. He's given your project to someone "more 
appropriate." You struggle to hold back tears, forgetting to keep the 
brief plaid skirt tucked between your thighs. He looks through the 
glass desktop, down at your lap, where rounded inner thighs part to 
reveal your cunt, freshly shaved this morning. He doesn't even pretend 
to look away. After an hour, you've lost your office, and gained more 
menial tasks - filing, copying...

By the time he's done with you, you wonder why you haven't been fired. 
Then it comes to you. He's a man, just like all the others, just 
waiting for the chance to stick his cock in you. You're an office pet 
now. A curiosity, more suited to organizing office parties than to the 
position that you worked so hard for, for so long.

But then she comes up behind you again, lifting the narrow pleats that 
barely cover your ass, trailing her fingers deep into the space between 
your thighs. Whispering, purring, in a voice meant only for you.

"Good Pussy. Sexy, hot, girly girl Pussy. You really do look good 
enough to eat. And I am very, very hungry. I think I'll take you home 
tonight."

And you start to cry. Not for your project. Not for your office. Not 
even for your life. You cry because she loves you. You're absolutely 
sure of it.





                                              3.


Her apartment's spacious - tasteful, clean lines of glass and 
gray. Not like yours - fluffy white pillows and fancy french doors. 
She pours you a drink, white wine in a tall slender glass, then goes 
to change. Modest-sized Rodin replicas dot the perimeter of the room - 
cold, white, flesh-from-stone women with faces hidden, lying twisted 
into shapes that flaunt their bodies in the most sensual ways. You're 
drawn to one of them, a voluptuous female form lying with legs curled 
under her, face nearly obscured by a river of flowing hair. You trace 
the lines of her sinuous back and rounded ass with a single 
outstretched finger, and worry that your body may not be worthy of her 
collection.

She's back in minutes, wearing nothing beneath an oversized white 
shirt, fastened at the front by a single button. Now she's all red 
hair, green eyes, and full, wide lips atop two long, finely chiseled 
legs that move so gracefully under her. You stare at her, not believing 
she can be so beautiful, catching glimpses of the neatly trimmed patch 
of red where the shirt-tails part. 

She's as at home in the kitchen as she is at work, confidently wielding 
a large knife to turn raw, fresh tuna into thin slivers of flesh, so 
sweet in your mouth you would have never known it was taken from the 
sea. You feast, until the wine has you both giddy. Between fits of 
laughter she says your name. Then, in a careless, unguarded moment, 
you tell her you love her.

She's still laughing a little when you tell her. She's unfazed, still 
giggling, allowing a trickle of wine to escape down her chin. She 
catches it in the palm of her hand, then feeds it to you off her 
fingers.

"Come to bed, Pussy. We haven't had desert."

It takes her only seconds to strip you. The little skirt falls to the 
floor, the sweater slips so easily over your head. She opens the only 
button and the shirt slides off her shoulders. Her mouth is on you at 
once, quick kisses over your neck, lashing your nipples and breasts 
with her tongue, nibbling at your belly with gentle bites. 

Then you're on her bed. She ties a long scarf around your neck, now 
both collar and leash. Her hands guide you, turning you onto your 
stomach, lifting your ass until you're on your hands and knees. A sharp 
tug on the scarf and you turn your head back to look at her. She's 
there behind you, eyes glittering. Thin, delicate shoulders and bare, 
upturned breasts cause your pulse to quicken, your cunt to swell and 
open. 

She retrieves it from a drawer from at the side of the bed, so long and 
thick that you gasp when you understand. She fastens the straps about 
her waist. It wobbles slightly, stiff, black, and glistening with 
slippery jelly applied with the loving care you hope she shows you as 
well. Taking her position behind you, she pulls your fleshy ass cheeks 
apart, fingering the deep crevice lightly with a touch that drives you 
mad. You feel her pulling at your inner lips, running their length over 
and over, then cradling your swollen clit between thumb and forefinger. 
At that moment you feel it breech you, stretching you where you've 
never been entered before. It burns, until you learn to let it have its 
way with you. Even then, as it fills you, inch by inch, you can barely 
breathe. It's so large, a monstrous invader, filling you to depths you 
could never have imagined. And when you cry out, begging her to stop, 
she rolls your clit with fingers so skilled, everything else is 
forgotten. 

Eventually its careful entry and slow retreat increase in pace, until 
she's plunging into you, pounding against you with her hips, shaking 
your quivering body with savage thrusts. You grunt each time her hips 
slam against your ass. Never have pain and pleasure held you so tightly 
at the same time. Surrendering yourself so completely would be 
terrifying, had it been to anyone but her.

The scarf tightens around your neck, and you raise your head in 
surprise, suddenly struggling to get your breath. It pulls harder with 
each violent lunge, choking you, causing you to gasp for each precious 
ration of air.

"Do you love me, Pussy? Do you love me *now*?"

Her words are laced with sarcasm, almost vicious. 

She pulls harder still, enough to keep your head back, your neck 
strained to the limit. You're crying, never more unsure of yourself, 
never more terrified, never more excited. She sees your tears and bends 
over you, the nipples of her breasts now pressed into your back, her 
free hand moving down your belly, finally making its way between your 
legs. Even though impaled on the full length of the heavy phallus, you 
breathe easier as you feel the welcome slack in the scarf. She finds 
your clit and takes it between her fingers, milking it slowly, careful 
to make you wait.

"How much do you love me, Pussy? What would you sacrifice to be with 
me?"

Her voice becomes more threatening, the words uttered between clenched 
teeth as she tightens the scarf once again, choking you, keeping you 
from answering even if you had the answer she wanted.

"I want everything, Pussy. Everything you have, everything you are, and 
everything you will ever be. Give me all that, Pussy. Give it to me. 
Give it to me now. Give it to me now! Give it to me! Now! Now! Now, 
Pussy! Now!"

She's shrieking at you, pulling the scarf tightly enough to stop you 
from taking even the smallest breath. Pressing the rubber cock deep 
into your bowels, she works your clit furiously between her slim 
fingers. You slide over the edge, feeling your body twist into violent 
spasms. Your cunt gushes, and you give up everything as a tunnel of 
black closes in around you and swallows you whole.





                                                 4.


You wake in your own bed before the alarm sounds, legs tangled in damp, 
wrinkled sheets.  Stretching, then throwing bare legs over the side of 
the bed and yawning, as you do most mornings, you remember almost 
nothing of your dreams. 

The shower feels especially good this morning. You've made it as hot as 
you can stand, and it brings your body to life. You choose your face 
for the day - lipstick, mascara, all from a collection that litters the 
counter top on each side of the sink. You choose carefully. It's an 
important day. You'll pitch your project to the new client, and 
everything has to be perfect. Then, after, a promotion, another step up 
the corporate ladder, one you've worked so long and hard for. You've 
put your work before relationships, and having a family of your own. 
You never seemed to have the time. You know they call you ruthless, 
driven, and words much worse. But who's laughing now? You've made your 
plan, and unlike most, have had the brains and guts to see it through.

In the mirror, you try to see what your client will see. The navy 
power-suit is the perfect choice, bought for the occasion. The smart, 
tailored lines of the jacket and slacks show you off to the best 
possible advantage - conservative enough to keep their minds on 
business, yet showing enough curves to remind them that a woman's 
hand has crafted a part of their future. Dark hair cascades over your 
shoulders in thick, generous waves, cut and styled to perfection. A 
few final touches of makeup and you're ready.

You find yourself staring at your reflection, held there in front of 
the mirror. Something nags at you, something not quite right. You 
open the jacket and run your hands slowly over the pristine white 
blouse. Your hands pause over the fullness of each breast, then cup 
them gently, unconsciously, as your eyes stay fixed on the mirror. 
The minutes that pass seem like seconds to you when you button 
the jacket to leave.

There's just time for a light breakfast and a quick review of your 
notes, sorted between pages of legal documents, each with the 
familiar signature in clean, round script. She'll be there today, the 
uptown attorney with hair the color of fire and wide, emerald eyes. 
You decide that today's the day to make a casual gesture of 
friendship, something you've put off far too long. Perhaps you'll 
offer to buy her lunch, to celebrate the occasion. After all, you'll 
be working closely together once your plan is a success.

You drive the hour's drive to work buoyed with confidence, as the 
project folder lies carelessly forgotten on the kitchen table. You 
smile as your thoughts turn to her, a new friend perhaps, and a 
valuable one at that. You'll start with small-talk, then perhaps a 
light touch with just a hint of intimacy. Such a small thing, really. 
Why hadn't you done it long ago?

You think about how perfect your life is, and how you've made the 
right decisions at every turn. And you marvel at how even the most 
insignificant events, manipulated wisely and carefully to your own 
advantage, have such power to change your life. Forever.







Read more of Night Writer's works at: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Night_Writer/www/

Contact me at: night_writer99@hotmail.com



What are all of those funny letters after the titles of stories? And what do they
mean? Find out here: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/code/scfr.htm

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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