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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o  	The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of  o
o  stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the  o
o  world.  Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups).   There is no  o
o  particular  order  other than offering them to you in  alpha-  o
o  betical directories.                                           o
o   	Lest we forget!!!   This story was produced as adult en-  o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors.   Kristen         o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o


Fairie Tale (MFF, FF, prost)
by Q. Daphne A. (qda@mindless.com)


***


   This story may be distributed via any on-line medium, so
   long as no one is charged any amount for access to the
   story, and the above e-mail address and this disclaimer are
   retained verbatim.

   Copyright 1998 Q. Daphne A.

--

Upon reflection, the building should have been a warning.  Had I realized
that, things would be different now.  When I made my 1:30pm appointment
with Laurel, the address she gave me was in a bad part of town, but that
wasn't the problem.  I had gone to bad parts of town before in the course
of "frequenting prostitutes" (in the charming phrase of a newspaper
copywriter), and bad parts of town didn't intimidate me.

Had the building been merely run-down, I wouldn't have thought twice, but
that it was not.  It wasn't the least bit decrepit; it was in perfect
condition, an ornate three-story Victorian, coated with enough gingerbread
to stock a bakery for all of the Christmas season.  The building was
mostly green, the color of pool table felt, trimmed with a lurid magenta,
as if the painter had used bottle after bottle of pink cough syrup.  Other
vivid colors also vied for attention.  In the middle of a block of
nondescript and mostly derelict gray and beige buildings, it was like a
huge tropical plant oozing malignant energy, draining the life force from
its surroundings.  As it regarded it, it regarded me back with supreme
indifference.  If the building had been decorated with neon signs reading,
"A Whore Lives Here, and That's Her Customer There," I could not have felt
more conspicuous.

This was not what I had been anticipating.  Every second Thursday of
every  month, I skipped my usual afternoon visit to the gym for physical
therapy of another sort.  A different girl each time.  Neither my wife nor
the others in the practice were aware of my excursions, of course.  The
gym appointment provided a convenient reason for returning showered and
refreshed.  I never thought of it as cheating; rather, it was a way of
staying invigorated, satisfying my need for variety without becoming
foolishly involved in an affair.  I hate chaos in my life, but I also hate
to be bored.  I rigorously practiced safe sex with my ladies of the
evening; I knew I could never forgive myself if I ever brought anything
home with me.

The block was deserted, baking under the sweltering sun.  I could only
think of how visible I must look, standing in front of the lurid
building.  It was entirely the opposite of the tasteful, elegant
white-on-white house that Jen (my wife) lovingly maintained for us, or the
ultra-hip black lacquer-furnished office in which I worked.  It didn't
seem right to me that any place should have that much color and vigor. 
But I had made an appointment, and I always keep appointments punctually.

Misgivings filed away, I rang the doorbell; I could hear the buzzer sound
up on the third floor.  The glass in her front door was covered with a
tapestry, all writhing orchids and ferns, perfect accompaniment to the
building.  I studied it while waiting for her to answer the door; with a
blink, the design seemed to resolve itself into coupling men and women, an
orgy mixed up in the orgy of color.  I started, amazed and more than
slightly embarrassed for both her and I.  Why would she have such an
obvious indicator of her profession right there in public?  But then, in
this neighborhood, who would care?  With another blink, the design was
just flowers and plants, and I couldn't pick out the couples again , try
as I might.  The door opened.

Her ad had given me a rough idea of what to expect: "38DD-25-34, 28 year
old busty brunette gives unique sensual massage in her lovely townhouse. 
Generous gentlemen only."  Even giving the usual concessions to the
numbers (a DD cup usually means a C, and 28 means 35+), her description
still had promise, and her voice and manner, when I called, were terrific:
throaty and soft, but still friendly and with a note of laughter.  She was
articulate and professional, without being cold.  An appointment was made
for the afternoon.  Her fee was quite high, especially by the standards of
this neighborhood, but I never quibble with a hooker's going rate; my fee
for legal work isn't negotiable, so why should hers be?

My first surprise was that she met my gaze at my level.  I'm 6' 1", and
she was not an inch shorter than I.  Her eyes were huge, gray and full of
lively intelligence.  She spoke before I realized that I was just staring
at her without even having introduced myself.

"Michael?  Hello, I'm Laurel," she said with a smile, pulling me out of my
reverie.  "Come in."  She turned, and started up the long flight of steps
to her flat.  I watched her climb the stairs for a moment, still feeling
disoriented.  I shook my head, and started to follow her.  As far as I
could tell, she was dressed in only a long black silk robe, masses of
curly black hair falling down her back nearly to her ass, which rocked
provocatively as she mounted the stairs.  She was barefoot, making her
height all the more impressive.  She was displaying lovely strong calves,
her pale skin appearing almost white against the midnight black of the
robe.

Approaching the top, I studied the walls of the stairwell.  She must have
chosen the color scheme for the building.  I realized she might even own
it, which considerably raised her status in my eyes, taste in decorating
notwithstanding.  The walls were encrusted with tapestries, hangings,
pictures, all of them heavily laden with colors: purples, reds, blues
mostly, voluptuous and rich.  It could have been extremely tacky, but
somehow the effect went past tasteless to almost organic, as if the flat
was an exotic forest of strange plants.  Indeed, some plants were there
too, hanging over the railing at the top of the stairs, cascading down and
blending with the tapestries.  Some of the vines were starting to make
inroads into the plaster of the walls, I noted with disapproval.

As I approached the top, where Laurel had disappeared, the air became rich
and still, laden with incense.  It smelled like sandalwood.

I reached the head of the stairs, and turned into the living room.  The
front windows had been blocked by yet more tapestries, and candlelight was
the only illumination.  It was enough; there were dozens of candles of all
kinds on every flat surface: tapers, votive candles, even those prayer
candles, glowing and flickering.  The room itself was a mass of pillows
and cushions, with a low soft platform in the middle.  She was standing
next to it, waiting for me; I had regained enough of my composure to
examine her properly.

I was impressed with what I saw.  I couldn't describe her as beautiful,
but she was very handsome, a sadly neglected word for women.  She wasn't
28, or even close, but her triangular, open face had character, and was
thus far more attractive than that of a sweet young thing.  She had not
lied about her figure; her large chest filled out the robe.  She smiled as
I ogled her.

"So, glad you came?" she asked.

"Definitely.  I, uh, have the fee right, uh," I stammered, fishing the
envelope out from my jacket.

She waved a hand, lightly dismissive.  "Just leave it on the table there,"
she gestured.  "Undress, and I'll be right back."  I watched, eyes wide,
as she strode past me, into the depths of her apartment.

I complied, carefully draping the clothes over a nearby chair, the only
solid piece of furniture I could see.  I felt as though I had wandered
into a deep cave, and it was strange to remember that I was in the middle
of a busy city, with the harsh summer sun pounding down outside; in here,
it was cool, dark, and full of mystery.  A room shrouded in perpetual
twilight.

Naked, I lay down on the platform, and stared at the ceiling.  Cloth
hangings covered the ceiling as well, and the candlelight flickering over
them made shapes appear and disappear, like small animals playing hide and
seek among the curtains.  Music started playing; she had put something on
the stereo.  It was soft, slow drumming and singing in a language I didn't
understand; the perfect music for this otherworldly room.  I was already
half-hard, thinking about what might be waiting under her robe.

I must have dozed off, because I don't remember her coming back into the
room.  I looked over, and there she was, standing by the platform, looking
down at me with a secret smile.  I didn't even try to stop staring.  Her
figure was astonishing.  I don't mean that vaguely; her body was an
adolescent boy's image of the perfect woman, and although that hadn't
previously been my idea of perfect for that instant, it was.  Her breasts
were huge, but high and firm, topped by large, dark areolae and hard pink
nipples.  Her narrow waist offset her flaring hips, her neatly-trimmed
bush a black triangle, her skin pale gold in the candlelight.  She had
oiled herself, and the shine made her look as though she was glowing. 
"You're... uh... you're amazing," I managed to croak out, drinking in the
sight; my cock was well on its way to a raging hard-on.

She smiled back, and gracefully swung herself onto the platform,
straddling me.  I started to try to say something, to object, talk about
using a condom, or at least make a witty comment, but I was paralyzed;
just watching her breasts swing as she moved took all of my attention. 
She put a finger to her lips.  "Michael, don't make a sound, just let me. 
Keep doing what you were doing."  Which was nothing, but it made sense
nonetheless.  She went down on all fours, and moved up so her breasts were
level with my face.  She swayed them in front of me.  "Just keep staring
at my breasts, Michael... stare at them all you want.  Watch my tits."

Now, I should make it clear that I'm not much of a tit man.  I enjoy large
breasts as much as the next red-blooded male, but a long, slender pair of
legs had long been my favorite characteristic on a woman.  (Indeed, Jen
possesses an outstanding pair of legs, among her many delightful
attributes.)  But there was something about the whole situation, her
voice, the music, the incense, the light glistening off her oiled body
that made it impossible to look away.  The light scent of the oil reached
me, combining with the incense and yet another scent, at first too faint
to place.  After a moment I realized it was her, the scent of her arousal.

"That's good, Michael.  It turns me on when you stare at my tits.  You
called me from work, didn't you?"

"Ah... yes," I said, hearing my voice as if it were coming from far away,
someone else saying the words.

"What do you do, Michael?"

"I'm... I'm a lawyer.  My firm does, uh, real estate work, mostly."

"That must be interesting.  Are you married?"

"Yes, Laurel."  I was astonished; I never told the hookers I saw that I
was married.  But my astonishment was at someone else, as if a friend
sitting next to me had said something unexpected.  All I could do was
watch her amazing breasts swing, back and forth, back and forth.

"What's her name?"

"Jennifer, Laurel.  She goes by Jen."  Back and forth.

"I'm sure you love her very much."

"Yes, Laurel.  I love her very much."  It was so hard to think of things
to say.  It was much easier to just say what she said back to her.  That
way, I could watch her breasts, back and forth.  Her nipples were so hard,
her scent of arousal so strong.

"What does she look like?"

I wracked my brain.  What does Jen look like?  For a moment, I couldn't
bring her face up from my memory.  Just Laurel's tits.  "She's about, ah,
5' 9".  She's a blonde, natural, she keeps her hair short, sort of a
pageboy cut.  Blue eyes.  Very slender, long legs.  Very cute.  Perky. 
Beautiful smile.  Used to be a cheerleader when we were both in school."

"Did you meet in school?"

"Yes, Laurel."

"How old are you?"

"30, Laurel."

"And her?"

"28, Laurel."

"Is she sexy?"

"Ah... yes, Laurel.  I think she's very sexy."

"But not as sexy as I am."

"No, Laurel."

"No one is as sexy as I am, Michael."  Not a question anymore.  That was
fine, I was tired of answering her questions.

"No one is as sexy as you, Laurel."

"I'm the sexiest woman you've ever seen."

"Yes, Laurel.  You are the sexiest woman I've ever seen."

"You love my big breasts."

"Oh, yes, Laurel.  I love your big breasts.  I love staring at your big
breasts."

"You want to worship my body.  You love my body."

"I will worship your body.  I love your body."  It was true, too; she was
a Queen, a goddess, and I wanted to kneel before her.  Worship her
breasts, back and forth.  My dick felt full, harder than it had ever been
before, straining, throbbing.

"Don't think anymore."  Oh, it was so wonderful to let go like that!  I
could feel my eyes get wider, my mind felt so free, liberated, as if a
huge weight had been lifted from me.  "Yes, Laurel."

I don't know how I knew, since her boobs were all I could see, but she
smiled, and I felt a shiver of pleasure.  "Good.  Now, this."  She raised
herself, and moved up, kneeling over my mouth.  I could see her pussy, hot
and wet, hovering over my face, I could smell her wonderful musky scent, I
needed it, I wanted it so badly.  I think she may have softly said,
"Drink."  She reached down, and slid a long, black fingernail over the
slit, and I opened my mouth.  Ready to receive her blessing.  As her
wonderful musky lubrication dripped down into my mouth, I blacked out. 
Or, at least, I stopped thinking so completely I have no memories; later,
I found out what must have happened.

Then, suddenly, I was dressing.  Laurel had pulled her robe back on.  The
envelope had disappeared from the table.  I was feeling satiated, wrung
out, and very, very happy.  I could vaguely remember having sex with her,
and even little snatches of the conversation.  I grinned wryly.  I had
done a little bit of light domination role-playing with other hookers;
maybe I was developing a taste for it.  Laurel regarded me silently for a
moment, sitting on the platform.  The top layer of sheets had been
stripped off, and were lying in an untidy pile off to the side.

"Did you enjoy yourself, Michael?" she asked, cocking her head to one side.

"Very much.  Thank you," I replied as I finished shrugging on my jacket,
giving her my most winning smile.

"I hope I'll see you again."

"Absolutely," I lied.  I felt bad about the lie, but I never saw the same
girl twice.  No attachments to cause trouble at home was my rule.  Anyway,
there always seemed to be someone new to try, each month.

She nodded, stood, and walked to the head of the stairs.  I understood the
etiquette: the visit was over.  As I passed, she gave me a brief peck on
the cheek.  Perhaps I was just startled, since hookers almost never kiss,
but I could feel my cock stir again as I gave her a last smile.  I
descended through the dark stairwell, and let myself out into the bright
sunlight.

As I walked, or rather staggered to my car, I looked back at the building,
still sitting in all its glory in the afternoon glare.  I blinked, shaking
my head, feeling as though I was waking up from a dream, something that
hadn't actually happened.  Of course, many of my adventures with working
girls had that quality to me.  My car was, mercifully, unmolested, and the
air conditioning quickly dispelled the oppressive heat of the day.  I
drove to the gym to shower, letting the cool air in the car clear my mind.

The rest of the day passed in a blur.  I was supposed to be reading a
brief, but the words kept slipping and sliding under my vision.  Finally,
I gave up, and called Jen.

"Hi, love.  What's up?"

"Hi, lover.  I'll be late tonight.  Maybe 10 or so?  Go ahead with dinner."

"Big case?"

"Yeah.  I gotta be ready for tomorrow."

"No problem, sweetie.  I'll see you when you get home.  Love'u."

"Love'u.  Bye."

After hanging up, I stared at the phone as if it had made the call
itself.  Why did I do that? I thought.  I didn't need to work late; I
almost never worked late.  I scanned my desk, everything in place, all the
desk accessories black, angular, perfectly arranged in a neat row.  They
looked like incomprehensible alien devices, like props from a bad science
fiction show.  I picked up the photo of Jen, in its austere brushed metal
frame.

Was our marriage happy?  I always thought so.  We got along great, we
laughed together, we liked the same stupid television shows, we could talk
for hours.  All of the little things which might make a couple
incompatible were avoided in us.  Our house was tidy and neat, full of
interesting things, without being cluttered.  We paid bills right on time,
we always showed up at the right time for parties.  We enjoyed sleeping
together, and if we didn't have sex that often, what about it?  Wasn't a
marriage more than just ritual screwing?

Of course it is.  But if it is so much more than that, why the hookers? 
I'd never marry someone like the whores I saw; so many of them had messy,
chaotic apartments in messy, chaotic parts of town.  Looking at them, or
even just talking to them on the phone, you could tell that they were
behind on their bills, that they had a boyfriend who sponged off of them,
that they were late for everything, that they lost their keys, that their
whole lives were ready to spin out of control.  The idea of spending any
more time with them than the usual hour, with the usual routine of
stroking-blow job-fucking, gave me hives.  They may be fantasy creatures
in bed, but they had no place in my real life.  It was like those old
Irish stories about travellers who wandered into a fairy hill, disported
themselves with elf maidens, and returned years later, still young.  I
ventured into Elfland once a month, but escaped every time.  I put the
photo of Jen back down.

I shook my head, and stood; clearly, I wasn't getting anything more done
that day.  Grabbing my coat, I fled the office, mumbling excuses to the
receptionist.

I passed the hours until 10pm in a bar, nursing a couple of beers, trying
to clear my head.  I couldn't think of a single reason not to go home, but
each time I tried to get up, I found myself sitting back down with a thump
to think it over further.  Nothing made sense, not the TV, not the
conversations around me.

By 10 o'clock, I was able to pull myself far enough out of my stupor to
drive home.  I'd never before lied to Jen about something as trivial as
staying late at work, I thought as I got out of the car.  What am I going
to tell her?

As I approached the front of the house, I stopped.  The lights were off,
even the porch light.  She always turned on the light for me, and I
constantly kidded her that she could not remember to turn off a light to
save her life.  I scanned the block; no, not a power failure, the other
houses were lit up, the streetlight in front of the house was on.  A
sudden feeling of dread came out of nowhere, making my legs heavy as I
turned my key in the lock.

I stepped in, calling out "Jen?  Honey?"  No answer.  I closed the door. 
No lights on inside.  The terror had taken control; I couldn't bring
myself to turn on the lights, for fear of what I might see.  The
streetlight poured through the decorative grille over the window in the
door, making shadows like crawling vines on the back of the entry hallway.

I stepped forward, slowly, scared I might collapse.  Everything seemed
precisely in place, the pegs for coats (all Jen's coats in place), the
light watercolor paintings that Jen loved so much, the hallway mirror.  As
I approached the doorway into the living room, I could see that there was
some light in there after all.  A pale, flickering light.

And then, the scent of sandalwood.

I fought down the urge to turn and run, and stepped around the corner to
look into the room.  Candles were everywhere, and a small incense burner
sat on an end table.  There were clothes scattered across the carpet; part
of me thought how upset Jen would get if she saw that, she hated things
being out of place.  But all of my attention was on the couch, where
Laurel kneeled.  She was naked, oiled, stroking her breasts, fondling
them, staring down at someone, someone lying on the couch.  The back of
the couch was towards me, so I couldn't see who it was.  But, of course, I
knew.

I started to say something, make a noise, scream, but Laurel saw me, and
put a finger to her smiling mouth.  I felt all desire to make any sound
fade away.  She looked back down, continued her writhing, continued
sliding her hands over her boobs, squeezing them as though she were
milking them, smiling down at whoever was collapsed on the couch.  She was
grinding her hips as if mounted on an invisible lover.  Without looking
up, she spoke.

"That's right.  Just watch my big breasts.  Keep watching them, watch me
stroke them."  I walked forward, slowly, in a trance.  She looked up. 
"You never told me that your wife was a closet bisexual, Michael."  I
could now see Jen, collapsed down on the couch, the ottoman pulled close. 
Her blouse was open, her hands fondling her small, pert breasts, her eyes
locked on Laurel's much, much larger tits.

Jen managed a soft moan, her eyes huge and terrified.  "No, please. 
Stop.  I'm not a..."

Laurel looked down with a mocking smile.  As if she were talking to an
infant or a pet, she said, "Oh, yes, you are, Jennifer dear.  You're a
little rug-muncher.  You wouldn't be doing this if you weren't getting all
hot and bothered by my big boobs."  Jen gave a little sob, still staring.

I barely found my voice.  "How... how did you find out where I lived?"

She smiled, still looking down at Jen.  "You told me, Michael.  You told
me all sorts of things about you and your lovely wife while we fucked."

"You don't have the right, you, you shouldn't be here," I stammered, my
cock hard, throbbing in my pants.

Her eyes flashing, Laurel's head flew up, hair wild.  Despite myself, I
took a step back.  "Don't have the right?  That's what you think about us
whores, don't you, Michael?  We're good enough to fuck, as long as we stay
away, keep our place, and remember that we're not real women, that we
don't deserve to get treated like real people.  As long as we don't mess
up your life.  That's what you told me after you told me how frigid your
wife was."

"That's not what I meant."  Did I tell her that?  I couldn't remember. 
What else had I said?

"That's exactly what you meant.  You want your fantasy women to keep to
their dark caves, so you can have your nice little life with your nice
little wife.  You kept babbling about trips into Elfland; didn't anyone
teach you not to drink anything there?"  She looked at me, mocking; I felt
my heart collapse.

"You thought you could just run back to your wife, and I wouldn't follow
you.  Stupid.  This evil fairy decided to come to the ball without an
invitation."  She smiled at me for a moment, never stopping her
movements.  "Now, Michael, you just stand there."  She turned back to Jen,
whose eyes were still locked on her breasts.

"Jen, you love my breasts, don't you?"

"I... I... I love your... breasts, Laurel," Jen said, her eyes growing
wide.  My cock was ready to burst out from my pants, but I couldn't move
an inch.

"That's very good, Jen.  I am the sexiest thing you've ever seen."

"You are the sexiest thing I've... I've ever seen, Laurel."

"But you're not sexy at all, Jen, are you?"

"No," Jen replied with a small sob, "I'm not.  Not like you."

"You want to be sexy, too, don't you, Jen?"

Jen smiled, slightly.  "Yes, Laurel.  I want to be sexy."

"Even if that means being a whore?  Like me?  Like all the other whores
your husband has been fucking behind your back?"

Jen blanched, but her mouth seemed to move independently from the rest of
her.  "Yes, Laurel.  Even that."

"That's good, Jen."  Jen sighed with pleasure, the pleasure I had felt
from giving Laurel what she wanted.  Laurel slowly slid up the couch,
bringing her pussy close to Jen's mouth.  "That's right, Jen," she
repeated.  "It's time.  Taste my fruit, and be my slave.  Be my slave,
just like Michael is."  She presented her pussy close to Jen's face,
smiling with pleasure.  With triumph.

Jen's eyes grew wide, her voice gained back some of its strength.  "Oh...
please god no, don't do anything, don't do that... please... Michael,
please, stop it, please help."

I blinked, and came forward, my mind feeling numb, not believing what I
was seeing.  This was all a dream.  Just like before, this was all a
dream.

Jen was starting to thrash, sluggishly, as if drugged.  "Please help me,
Michael.  Please help," she cried, softly.

Laurel looked up, her gray eyes met mine.  "Yes, Michael.  Please help."

I understood now.  I blinked, and lunged forward.  I reached down, over
the back of the couch, reaching for Jen.  I'll never forget her
expression, first of relief, then of horror, as I grabbed her shoulders,
and firmly held her in place for Laurel, whose hand had found her own
pussy, and was sliding a finger between her cunt lips.

The first drops of Laurel's liquor fell into Jen's open mouth.  With a
long groan, she collapsed, and I watched, fascinated, as the intelligence
faded from my wife's eyes.  Her movements became weaker and weaker.  It
only took a few seconds.  Soon, she was staring blankly up, allowing the
nectar to drip into her mouth, holding it rigidly open to allow Laurel's
cunt to do its magic to her.

Laurel smiled down at her, satisfied.  She swung off, and reclined
gracefully on the couch next to Jen.  Jen continued to stare up blankly,
her breathing now slow and regular.  Laurel waved at me with a hand, and
suddenly I felt as though I could move again.  "Michael, I need some tea. 
Jen and I have a lot to talk about.  Right, Jen?"  Jen just murmured,
softly, "Talk.  Yes," as I turned towards the kitchen.

Before the water boiled, I could hear the cries of Jen in orgasm.  I had
never made her come like that, but I knew that Laurel could.  Laurel could
do anything.  I wondered what the new Jen would be like, as I carried the
tea service out.



Yesterday, I got home from work just as Jen ("Celeste") was getting ready
to leave.  She looked stunning, as she always does when decked out for
work: a tight bustier top, a short black miniskirt, stockings, heels.  A
vision in black.  The makeup, carefully designed by Laurel to tread the
line between cheap tart and sophisticated lady of the evening, takes her
features from cute to gorgeous.

"You look so hot, Jen.  Save some for me, OK?"

She smiled.  "I always do.  Laurel called; she said that she was very
pleased with your work on the Corron Street building deal."

I closed my eyes, and sighed as the feeling of contentment spread through
me.  "I'm... I'm glad."

When I opened them again, Jen was bending over, getting her purse; she was
flashing her exposed, hairless pussy.  I couldn't help myself; I stole up
behind her, and ran a hand up between her legs.  She was, as always,
already wet in anticipation of her first client.  She wiggled her ass
delightfully, but then stood up and turned with a mock-stern expression. 
"*Later*, love.  Don't wait up, my last appointment is at 2am.  I'll wake
you when I get in."  With a deep cock-stiffening kiss, out she went.

I looked after her, smiling.  Ever since Jen had joined Laurel's stable, I
hadn't felt the urge to find another hooker.  Why bother, when there's a
great one in bed with me nearly every night?  As if the house is a little
messier, if my life is more chaotic since Jen got a job, what about it?  I
hate to be bored.

-- 
--
QDA <qda@mindless.com>