Vinnie's World 3: Changes

I rolled out of bed Saturday morning in a strange mood and I didn't know why.

On Friday night, I attended a play at Our Lady Catholic High School staring Teresa Barton, a blossoming angel who called me Uncle Vinnie. Her parents, Lorena and Phil Barton, were there. Teresa had introduced me to her best friend, Heather Brooks. Heather's parents, Herbie and Lily Brooks, were there, too.

Teresa and Heather both flirted with me. Having two darling, fifteen-year-old babes flirt with you feels good when you're thirty-six, no matter have many women you have.

Teresa looked like her mother - short and stacked with raven black hair. But, while Lorena's eyes were black, Teresa's were a light brown, no doubt due to the presence of my light-eyed genes. Heather looked like her mother, too. She was short, with small, high breasts, a jutting, delicious ass, brown hair, and blue eyes.

Their mothers didn't flirt with me. I would've been surprised if they did. But it was the mothers, Lorena and Lily, who, unbeknownst to anyone except their respective husbands, wore an eagle tattooed on their lower belly identifying them as my woman.

Maybe I should explain what I mean by "my woman" because I have more than one.

Most of the women in my world I don't know. Of the ones I do know, most are friends and acquaintances that aren't my sexual partners. And many of my sexual partners aren't "my woman."

Bertha is a good example of most of them. She's the assistant manager at the motel and has worked for me as long as anyone at The Sunset. Sixty-two, black, and heavy set, she treats me like her wayward white son. She and I will never have sex. It's not that kind of relationship.

There are women like Connie, who wander into my world for a short time. Connie was a wife out for a night of cheating. I picked her up at the bar Friday night after the play, fucked her long and hard, and sent her home to her husband. Usually those relationships are only for a night, but sometimes the woman returns seeking a repeat engagement. Connie was eager and willing, a good, but not great, fuck. Before we parted, she asked if we could do it again sometime. I told her we could if her friend joined us for a threesome. She blushed and shivered. I wondered if she'd get up the guts to talk her friend into it.

There are women who are with me for a short while, usually for a specific purpose. Women who seek my protection, which is sometimes exchanged for their warmth. Women who have wronged a client or friend, which requires their punishment. Or women whose husbands have wronged someone and his punishment requires her being taken. Sometimes, the woman's in the wrong place at the wrong time, but the situation demands her silence.

There are women like Prissy. She's one of my bodyguards, and she's a friend, but she's not "my woman." She and I have sex when we both want it, but there's no possessiveness, no ownership, by either of us. We have our little signs to let the other know we're ready for a coupling. I've got no problem with Prissy fucking someone else. In fact, I joined her for threesomes both with another man and another woman. It was a hell of a good time.

Then there are the special women. The very special women. The women whose appeal reaches into my guts and grabs me. The ones who make me ache from wanting them. The ones I want at my beck and call.

Women I want to own.

I've told you not to bitch when I say "own." I've told you in Vinnie's world women are possessions, and that the women like it as much as the men. That's the way it is.

I've told you what about a woman appeals to me. It's not their tits or ass or pussy. They've all got those. It's not size or hair color. It's what's inside them. In their minds, their hearts, their souls.

And what reflects what's inside? It's their faces - those facile kaleidoscopes of emotions and thoughts that tell a man what she thinks and feels.

When one of those special women comes into my life, I want to make her mine.

Sometimes she comes willingly, skipping into my arms, squirming against me with sexual fire in her eyes, and sweet compliance in her voice, to beg me to have her. That's what Lorena did sixteen years ago, when I was a college student, and she was a waitress. That's what she does today.

Some are like Lily. Six weeks ago, I kidnapped her, bound and gagged her, and carried her to my lair, to punish her husband for a wrong he'd committed. I took her, possessing her body and soul. I kept her as my woman not to punish him, but for me. For her. She comes eagerly to me when I call her and calls me pleading for more time with me.

When a woman is mine, she's all mine or not mine at all. I told you that. I told Sonya that, too, but she forgot. It cost her dearly. When I met Sonya, she'd fucked about a hundred guys, but she was giving it away. Her mother, who was a call girl, and Phyllis Green, who was her madam, asked me to be Sonya's first professional trick. When I saw her face, I changed the game. I made her mine until she cheated on me and I got rid of her.

Let me be very plain about what I mean. My woman doesn't fuck another man without my permission. She doesn't even flirt. She knows she belongs to me, and she doesn't seek other men, except her husband.

That's right. Her husband. Since Sonya left my world, all my special women, except Gretchen Welch, have husbands. I need to tell you about Gretchen because she's important in my world, and she's different than my other women. I'll save that for a later day.

I put my mark on these special women, but it's never a ring on the third finger of her left hand. That's where she wears her wedding ring.

With Sonya and the ones without husbands, that mark was a gold necklace or locking collar with a V-shaped pendant dangling in the hollow of her throat. It's visible for all to see. Or she wears a gold ring on her thumb, with the letter V engraved around the ring's circumference. 

But all of the women who are mine now, except Gretchen, live in your world with husbands and children and friends. They exist safely behind closed doors and white picket fences of suburbia, or the city equivalent, which is a high rise with security guards, or a brownstone.

If they're good little girls and their husbands are good little boys, I don't embarrass them with a visible mark. Why embarrass them? If the wife comes to me when I call, if she is sweating and eager for me, if both of them obey my commands, embarrassment is counterproductive.

Those women I tattoo with an eagle on their soft lower bellies. Only they, their husbands, and I know it's there. I tattoo them so when they look in a mirror, or when they crawl into their husband's bed, both of them are reminded who owns her. It's not the husband. It's me.

Let me tell you something else. They love it because women like a deep, dark, sexual secret.

Like the housewives who work part time as call girls for Phyllis. They are paragons of virtue in their worlds and secret sluts for Phyllis. They get off on fucking men other than their husbands, and on being paid for it. Most of all, they get off on being whores in my world and nobody in their world knowing it.

My women like the thrill of belonging to me, of being my secret slut. The sexual secret appeals to her woman's soul. When she sits in her church circle, or at her PTA meeting, she'll get turned on knowing that while her friends are cooking dinner, she'll be kneeling between my legs with my cock in her mouth. When she's gossiping with her girlfriends about a woman from their world who did this or that, she feels the warmth her own dark secret gives her. When she's at a cocktail party and some man comes on to her, she'll turn him away knowing the man who owns her will please her and the man who approached her will never know.

And being mine balances the power between her and her husband. She knows she has to be a good wife and keep him satisfied, but if he mistreats her, she knows I'll step in to settle it my way. I've only had to do it once. It's an interesting story.

I thought about them - those special women - as I showered and dressed. I went to the coffee shop where I ordered three eggs over easy, six slices of bacon, bagels with cream cheese, coffee, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. I read The Times as I ate.

After breakfast, I met with Raoul Granger, the manager of The Sunset Restaurant. We went over the financials, discussed a few menu changes, and talked about personnel, which we do regularly. There was nothing new except he'd hired a new waitress he thought I'd like to try out. She was on the high side of fifty, but well preserved. The important part was her sexual motor ran at the redline.

Jaime Gomez, manager of The Sunset Motel, was next to meet with me. Occupancy was good. Problems were light.

He reminded me that next weekend one of the area wife-swapping groups had their regular quarterly meeting at the motel. They'd reserved thirty-eight rooms. We have three wife-swapping groups who regularly meet at the motel. There are a lot of room rentals to informal swappers, too. They're the people who rent a room or two for an impromptu romp. There's an organization of gay men and another of lesbians. Of course, there are a lot of room rentals to couples that want a nice, safe place to fuck. I don't think any of that sexual activity equals what happens on senior prom nights, or when one of the university's sororities has a social function.

I told you The Sunset is the place where the players come to play.

After meeting with J.D., the bar manager, who also reported things were running smoothly, I went to the gym for my regular workout, which I do three times a week. While nature blessed me with height and good genes, sweat and hard work keeps my machine running smoothly.

A multi-story, steel, chrome, and glass, structure, the gym pays homage to our lean, yuppie world. It has every conceivable piece of equipment, racquet ball and squash courts, massage rooms, and a restaurant specializing in healthy cuisine. There are two steam rooms, one for each gender, and four saunas, three large ones designated male, female, and coed, and a smaller one that holds four or five people.

The gym was busy that Saturday afternoon. Some people were there to work out. Others came to work out unless something better came along. As usual, Mica and Bigun came with me. I started with stretching exercises before hitting the Stairmaster for half an hour of cardiovascular.

A stunning black woman, with bit tits, great legs, and an ass to match, was climbing the Stairmaster next to me. I knew she'd been there awhile. She was gasping for breath, her skintight workout clothes were soaked, and her eyes had the look of someone who was near exhaustion.

A narrow steel collar was around her neck, and the free end of the leash attached to the collar's D-ring had been wrapped around the handle bars of the machine.

"Are you for sale?" I asked her.

She nodded as her big, black eyes took me in.

"For rent or trade?"

She nodded and tried to smile, but she was too tired to make it work. She moaned, stopped exercising, and rubbed a muscle cramp in her thigh.

A yuppie couple was having a contest to see who could do the most situps on the slant benches. The woman, whose face I'd seen on magazine covers, was ignoring the lesbian trying to catch her eye, but she winked at a pretty boy across the room. She wore an engagement ring with a diamond the size of a robin's egg.

The man with her was named John. He and I had talked a few times. He was serious, sincere, hard working, and successful, and he was a nice guy. I liked him. He didn't see his woman giving the come on to the other guy. I wondered if he knew she was the type.

What was their agreement? You know, the deal they made when they agreed to become a couple.

Did he buy her, gaining exclusive use of her forever and disguising it as marriage?

Was it rent, giving him possession for a period, whether specified or unspecified in length? You know that one. It's called marriage and divorce, or an engagement all parties know will end before they reach the altar. She gets to keep the diamond and other goodies he gives her. He gets to keep the memories of being between her legs.

Or was it a more commercial deal? If she planned to fuck around without him knowing it, she was a whore. A piece of paper blessed by church or state didn't change that. If she insisted she could have other men, then she might still be a whore. It depended on how she felt about him and only she knew that. A good guess would be that she selected him because he could provide a luxury nest for his sweet bird to rest between outings. If he insisted she fuck around, and he got to name the guys, then he bought her.

All that's the same in my world. We're just more honest about what we call it.

There were people of varying sizes on various machines. I watched them all as I climbed the stairs to nowhere.

Jumbo White lumbered into the room. Jumbo was two or three inches taller than my height of six three, and he weighed close to four hundred pounds. I told you there were good and bad people in my world, just like in yours. I told you I had a lot of friends. Jumbo was one of the bad people and he wasn't a friend.

"Afternoon, Vinnie," he rumbled.

"Afternoon, Jumbo."

He unwrapped the leash from the handlebars and the woman collapsed as she stopped exercising.

"How do you like my bitch?" he asked.

He yanked her head back so I could look at her face.

"Very nice, Jumbo. What do you want for her?"

He named a ridiculously high price.

"No doubt she's worth it, but it's too rich for my blood," I replied. "Let me know if you decide to reduce her price."

She wasn't worth it, but I didn't want to put down his woman.

"Not likely," he grumbled. "She fucks as good as she looks. You like fucking, don't you, bitch?"

"Yes, Jumbo," she said. Her voice was sultry and low.

"And you're a good fuck, aren't you?"

"The best," she growled.

"Maybe we can make a deal sometime," I said.

"Yeah, maybe," he replied arrogantly. She smiled at me as he tugged her leash to lead her away.

Two middle aged white women exercising nearby had been watching our scene. One of them had been eyeing Bigun and me like a dog eyes a T-bone steak. The other, who looked softer, had been mesmerized by Jumbo's leashed woman. I started watching them.

The hard one looked mid thirties. Her face lift was excellent, but observation is my strong suite. Her breasts jiggled without a hint of sag under her workout leotards, telling me her friendly plastic surgeon had worked that region, too. Her hair was cut short and sassy, and dyed a light blonde. Nobody had green eyes that color unless they wore colored contacts.

The other one was new to the gym. Her workout clothes were soaked in sweat, even though she hadn't been working that hard. The workout equipment seemed unfamiliar and she acted like a newcomer. Her body showed it, too. She didn't have the hard muscles as her girlfriend. She did have the same blonde hair, probably from the same bottle and same salon. Her eyes were a medium brown. She had the same heart shaped face with the slightly drooping nose, but she looked a few years older.

That one, the soft one, had stared intently at the leashed black woman. I saw that stare and knew what it meant. She was intrigued at a minimum. Maybe she wanted to be owned that way. And her expression confirmed her interest when she stared at me after Jumbo and his woman walked away.

Mica was doing the speed bag off in a corner. The black girl who worked the front desk was hitting on him without success. She was a darling, lithe creature, with a sweet, expressive face, and the hard legs and ass of a dancer, but Mica was a one-woman man if ever one was born.

Bigun and I moved to the free weights. I pump iron and use the machines for an hour to build endurance and strength, and for that hard, cut, look the women love.

"What do you think?" I asked Bigun as I lay down on the bench to do my military presses.

"The two dyed blondes?" he replied as he stood over me to spot.

"Yeah. I want the soft one," I replied.

"Fine with me, Boss. The other one looks like she'd fuck all night," he replied.

I caught Mica's eye and motioned for him to join us. The girl padded along beside him like a love sick puppy. She waited happily as I gave Mica his instructions, then followed after him again.

The two blondes whispered as they did quad lifts on the machines and watched us. I was spotting Bigun as he did presses when they couldn't stand it any longer. The hard one pranced toward us with the soft one tagging along behind her.

"Hi," the hard one said.

"Hi, yourself," I replied.

Oh, I love faces. This face told me all I had to do was ask and she'd spread them wide. Bigun, who'd been pressing one hundred and sixty kilos, lowered the barbell into its support and sat up, flexing as he did. The hard one trembled and her eyes widened as she stared at his chest and arms.

"My name's Suzy, and this is Musette," the hard one said. There was an eager tone to her voice.

"My friend's Bigun," I said. I pronounced it as that Texas slut had those years ago - "big gun." "The women call him that because he's got the biggest cock you've ever seen, unless you've seen the porno films he made."

When Suzy turned toward Bigun, she spread her legs, put her hands on her hips, and arched her back to thrust those melons in his face.

"Oh? Is that right?" she said, challenging him with her voice.

"Sure is, dear lady," Bigun said in a low, melodious voice he uses during seduction.

"I'll want to see for myself," she demanded.

Bigun smiled his ever present, woman-winning, boyish grin. He took her hand and she twitched off with him.

As the soft one watched me, emotions flickered across her face. She was interested but tentative, wanting but unsure, afraid of releasing the dark desire in her soul, but more afraid of living without it.

"Hi, Musette," I said.

"Hello," she replied, but it was pronounced "Allo," with a French accent.

"Want to join them?" I asked.

"I think maybe so," she said.

I took her hand and she let me lead her toward the rendezvous, but when we got to the door, she hesitated. I gently tugged her inside, shut the door behind us, and locked it.

Suzy was naked and in Bigun's arms when we walked in. Her body was thick, with strong shoulders like a swimmer, and a hard ass above muscular legs. She was only about five five, but I guessed her to be one hundred thirty-five to one forty, and it was all muscle.

He turned her around so I could see her, and she squirmed back against him. Her breasts had been augmented to a double-D, which made her areolas seem as small as quarters and her nipples like erasers. Her bush was trimmed into a heart. Her navel was pierced with a piece of semi-circular jewelry.

Musette resisted slightly when I tugged upward on her top, but she sighed and raised her arms. I removed her top and bra to find full breasts, a soft belly, and a little roll around her middle. I squeezed her breast and rolled her nipples in my fingers.

She blushed as emotions played over her face.

"Oh, Jesus in heaven," Suzy exclaimed.

When Musette turned to see, she folded her arms behind her back, holding her elbows with her hands. I knew what that meant and reached for the top to her leotards.

Suzy was on her knees with Bigun's cock dangling before her. Reverently, Suzy touched it.

"You're huge," she said.

"It's not hard yet," Bigun said proudly. "Suck on it to get it ready for you."

"I can't get it in my mouth."

"Sure, you can," he said.

He put his hand on the back of her hand to guide her toward his cock. Musette shivered in my arms as Bigun's cockhead slipped inside Suzy's lips. Suzy wrapped both hands around Bigun's shaft. Musette was enthralled and didn't notice as I slipped her roped leotards around her forearms until I cinched them tightly, which bound her arms behind her back.

"Don't," she snapped as she spun to get away. "Let me go."

"Say it like you mean it," I replied as I smiled at her.

She blushed. "I-I do mean it," she stammered, but she couldn't hold my gaze.

"No, you don't. Look me in the eye, say it truthfully, and I'll let you go."

Her blush deepened. She tried to stammer out the words, but couldn't do it. When she sagged against me, I kissed her roughly, holding her head by her hair and yanking down her leotard bottoms.

"Get on your back," Bigun commanded.

Suzy flopped back on the floor and spread her legs.

"Give it to me!" she barked as her legs waved in the air and her fingers made frantic little motions to hurry him on.

"Spread your lips."

As Suzy opened her pussy and guided Bigun's cock to it, I made a rope of Musette's leotard bottoms.

Bigun and I have had more than a few threesomes, foursomes, and moresomes. The two Texas sluts who gave him his nickname was the first. Like me, Bigun knows how to feed his cock to a woman's pussy in a way that lets her become accustomed to the size, and builds her desire at the same time. Suzy didn't have that problem. Her desire was off the charts, and she dug her nails into Bigun's hips as her cavernous cunt sucked his cock in to the hilt.

"Don't," Musette whimpered as I tied the roped leotard around her right thigh immediately above the knee.

"Be honest," I said.

And her face said it all. It wasn't like Lorena's face that said I love you and love having sex with you. It wasn't like Lily's face that said I belong to you now and I love making you happy because you make me happy.

Musette's face said, "I want to explore a deep and dark path, but I'm terrified."

I smiled at her reassuringly.

Leotards are designed to stretch. When I'm binding a woman, I prefer lots of thick, white rope, or sometimes chains with shiny stainless steel links, which I attach to restraints of leather or steel. Belts work nicely in some circumstances. But leotards were what I had to use.

I pulled her right knee back to her breast, wrapped the leotard behind her back, and bound the other knee in the same position, which spread her knees and held them secure beside her breasts.

Musette twisted and turned in her bondage, but she didn't want to get away. She wanted to make sure she was secure. The security of knowing she's bound properly, and that escape is impossible, is important to a woman. Then she knows the matter is beyond her control. The loss of control - the feeling of helplessness - increases her enjoyment and heightens her submission. That's another advantage of ropes or chains over leotards. Leotards can tear.

Musette watched with a soft and sexual passivity as I leisurely undressed. We both ignored the groans and whimpers emanating from Suzy as Bigun fucked her on the floor by us. Musette was on the bench. I rolled her on her back and put my cock at her entrance. She tried to raise her hips to get me in her. I didn't move, and she was tied too tightly to get my cock where she wanted it.

Her face had said, "Fuck me," but I wanted her mouth to say it. When she did, I drove my cock into her. Her face contorted in pleasure and pain as her pussy spasmed to accommodate me. Those spasms caused her first orgasm. Then I fucked her in earnest, and she orgasmed repeatedly.

"Yes, oh, yes. Yes," Suzy whimpered.

Bigun had her hands pinned over her head and her legs trapped in the crook of his arms. They were crotch to crotch as he pumped her full of cum. Suzy was in that never-never land of sexual ecstasy, with flaccid muscles and unseeing eyes.

Suzy and Bigun were quiet, and Musette was limp as a dishrag, when I pulled out of her, turned her sideways, and came on her face. My hot cum landed in slimy ropes as she smiled up at me. My cock smeared my cum like face cream before I stuck it in her mouth and let her lick our juices from it. She didn't hesitate. She took me eagerly. I dried it in the hollow between her breasts.

There is something uniquely erotic about a well-fucked woman. Something primal and unexplainable. Something so deep in man's genes it engenders feelings of pride and self-satisfaction as nothing else does. I could see it on Bigun's face as he looked down at Suzy.

I could feel it on my face as I looked at Musette. More important, I could read her face. Musette was going to come to me to fulfill her hidden desires.

When I sat down beside her, I wiped my cum from her cheek with a finger. She opened her mouth and sucked my finger between her lips. Her eyes, which had long since surrendered, shone happily.

"There's a business card in your purse with a number on it. Call me tomorrow at exactly ten in the morning if you want to pursue your dark side."

She nodded.

"I won't be easy on you, but you don't want that, do you? You want me to be rough. You want me to demand and make you surrender your inner self," I said gently. She quivered and reddened before giving one slight nod. "You'll love it." I stood to leave. 

"What's your name?" she asked softly.

"You don't need my name. My cock's named Big John. Big, bad John. If you call, Big John will do the wild, nasty things you've dreamed about," I said.

She blushed again and there was a hotness in her face.

Bigun and I left them there to go shower and dress. Mica was waiting in the limo when we went outside. The black girl who'd been bird-dogging him was hanging on the door with her head stuck in the window.

"Hi," I said.

She returned my greeting, but looked at me like I was a non-entity. She watched us drive away.

"That's a fine piece of pussy you turned down, Mica," I said.

"You know me. Leekeysha's all I want."

"Send the girl my way," I said with a laugh.

"She thinks white guys don't know how to fuck, Vinnie."

"All the more reason to push her to me, Mica. After I fuck her, I'll give her to Bigun. We can change her mind."

"When you try white, you know it's just right," Bigun said in a sing-song voice.

"I got the info you wanted," Mica said.

I'd instructed him to get Musette's purse from the locker room and see what was in it.

"What is it?" I asked.

Her handed me a photocopy of Musette's drivers' license. It said her name was Musette L. Gerard and that she was forty-four, brown eyed, brown haired, and lived in Quebec City.

"Anything else?" I asked.

"I found both Canadian and US dollars. A key ring with keys to a Ford and what looks like a residence. No telephone or address book. Birth control pills. And this."

He handed me a photocopy of a piece of paper that had neatly printed on it, "Master Samuel," an Internet domain address, and a city phone number. Scribbled at the bottom was Monday, seven p.m., and an address.

I called Prissy and gave her instructions. Within ten minutes, she and Donnie, another of my people, were on their way to Master Samuel's house to see what they could find. No doubt he'd tell them whatever he knew about Musette and about everything else. Prissy knew how to interview a man.

I sat back and closed my eyes. Pictures of Musette in bondage in my dungeon - the interview room - flickered through my thoughts like high quality video. I wondered how far we'd go together.

There is one thing that approaches the feeling of pride and satisfaction of seeing a well-fucked woman. That's seeing a woman in bondage when she realizes that you're the man who can bring forth her deep-seated submissiveness, and hold it in your hand like a beating heart. Seeing her indescribable satisfaction from her surrender to you makes a man's heart throb. 

For the first time all day, the sour mood had gone away and I was feeling good.

The cell phone rang and Bigun answered.

"That was Phil Barton, Boss. Lorena's in labor," Bigun said.

"To the hospital, Mica," I said.

As Mica sped us through the streets, the disquietude returned.

Lorena's due date was in two weeks, but this was her fourth child so the early date didn't appear to be a problem. When we arrived at the hospital, Phil, their three children, his parents, and Lorena's mother, Rita, were there. Rita was in the delivery room with Lorena.

"Uncle Vinnie," Teresa squealed when we walked in.

She jumped up, threw her arms around me, and gave me a hug not normally given uncles, the kind where her body's pressed tightly against mine. It was a nice body, too, already a pronounced hourglass of full breasted femininity. She didn't yet have her mother's double-D breasts, but it wouldn't be long.

She was wearing a blouse as tight as a sausage skin, equally tight jeans, and athletic shoes without socks. Her raven colored hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which hung between her shoulder blades almost to her waist. After the hug, she held my arm against the softness of her breast as she leaned on me.

"Hi, Vinnie. Lorena wants to see you," Phil said.

"I want to see, Mom," Teresa piped up. When Phil gave her a look that said no, she complained, "I'm old enough to be in a delivery room, Dad."

Phil glanced at me before answering.

"No, honey. Just your Uncle Vinnie."

"Damn it. I don't like being treated this way," Teresa barked.

Phil and I had talked several times about how to raise Teresa. Since she was my daughter and her mother was my woman, Phil was sensitive to my feelings on the matter. He loved her like she was his daughter and he'd done a good job of being her father, but I was in her life.

"Ladies don't curse, Teresa," Phil said firmly.

"Daddy, you're still treating me like a little girl," she protested.

"Phil, can I talk to her?" I asked.

"Sure, Vinnie," he replied with a wry smile.

"Come on, Teresa," I said gently as I took her elbow.

"No," she snapped, as she yanked away.

I suspect no one had done to Teresa what I did. I spun her around, jammed one hand through her belt and lifted, seized the nape of her neck in the other hand, and propelled her out the door. Her feet barely touched the floor until I sat her down in the hallway outside the waiting room.

"Uncle Vinnie," she whined as she squirmed to pull her jeans down. "I can't believe you did that."

Her big brown eyes stared up at me as if seeing me in a new light. She wasn't seeing how much I enjoyed watching her wiggle her jeans down. My face only shows what I want others to see.

"Teresa, your Mother deserves your respect, and if she wants her privacy, you shouldn't complain. And don't speak to your father that way."

"You're not my father. You don't speak to me that way." Her eyes were angrily defiant, and the surprise at being given a wedgie as she was transported out of the room was gone.

"You're acting like a spoiled, bratty, little girl."

"I'm a woman," she sniped. She stepped back, turned to give me a three quarters view, stood on tip toes, and arched her back. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed."

It was a blatant sexual challenge. Only a young woman who has recently discovered the impact her body has on men could have that combination of innocence and unbridled arrogance. I had noticed her. Who wouldn't? She had a body that gave men lusty thoughts. But I'd always been gentle with her, using a benign loving and tenderness in our dealings.

"I've noticed, Teresa," I said gently. "And I've noticed that while you've got a woman's body, you're not behaving with the maturity of a woman. You're acting like a spoiled child."

"How would you know? You don't have any children."

"True," I lied.

"Anyway, you should treat me like a woman," she commanded.

How quickly they rush to grow up. Oh, hell, I was that way. You probably were, too.

"You think I should treat you like you're a woman?" I asked innocently.

She had good instincts. She hesitated before answering, "Yes."

I leaned toward her. She stepped back, bumped into the wall, and raised her hands protectively. I wrapped my fingers around her wrists and slowly lifted. She gasped when I stretched her arms over her head.

"Put me down, Uncle Vinnie," she said. Her tone was pseudo-defiant and tinged with fear.

She squirmed when her feet left the floor and she was dangling by her wrists. When we were eye to eye, I held her there until she quit wiggling. My look wasn't intentionally sexual. It was intentionally threatening, demanding, and dominant.

"If you were a woman and acted the way you did, I'd cross your wrists behind you and bind them with a strong rope. That rope would wrap around your waist to keep your hands against your back and out of the way. I'd yank your jeans down to your knees and jerk the belt tight to hold your legs together. I'd pull you across my lap and spank you."

Her eyes were wide and unblinking, and she held her breath.

"I wouldn't stop spanking you when you cried or screeched or sobbed. I wouldn't stop when you begged me and offered me anything if I relented. I wouldn't stop until your bottom and the back of your thighs were so sore that it hurt too much to pull your jeans up, and you'd be too sore to sit down for a few days. Do you understand, Teresa?"

Teresa had never heard that tone of voice from me, but a lot of other people had. It was a cold, unflinching, fear-inducing tone that left the listener no doubt I meant every word. She took a deep, halting breath and swallowed hard.

"Yes, Uncle Vinnie," she said, sounding very much like an obedient little girl.

"Then you'll continue to be a girl rather than a woman?"

"Yes, Uncle Vinnie."

"While we're having this little talk, let me make another thing clear. Being a girl means you won't do sexual things with boys."

She blushed a beautiful crimson and her eyes looked guilty.

"What have you done?"

"Nothing. Yet."

"I mean it, Teresa. I want you to remain chaste."

"Yes, Uncle Vinnie," she whispered. It was a woman's voice now. A woman with a sexual need.

I won't lie to you. You wouldn't believe me if I did. Teresa turned me on. That wasn't a surprise. She looked like her mother and her mother had turned me on since the day I met her. But it was more than that. Teresa was delectable. I forced myself to focus on our true relationship and told my cock to lie down and be quiet as I slowly set her down until her feet touched the floor.

I released her wrists, but she kept her arms over her head with her wrists pressed together and her hands balled in fists. A woman's eyes stared up at me. A woman who knew what her pose meant. A woman who wanted to play sexual games. As she slowly lowered her arms, those eyes twinkled and never left mine. She kept her wrists together after her arms were down, which meant they squeezed her breasts and made them appear bigger.

"Ready to go back inside?" I asked as I fought my own desires.

"If that's what you want," she said sultrily.

She took my hand and padded along beside me. She walked tenderly, as if her ass had received a few swats. And she walked sensually, as if she was thinking the same kind of thoughts I was thinking.

When we returned to the waiting room, we saw that the Brooks family had joined the little waiting party. I shook Herbie's hand, hugged Lily, and spoke to Heather. Teresa grabbed Heather's hand and dragged her into the hallway. No doubt she was going to regale her best friend with what Uncle Vinnie had done.

In an hour, it was over. Lorena had a healthy baby boy they named Harry, after her father. Both were doing well. The Brooks family left. Once again, Lily and I acted like we weren't lovers. When I said goodbye to Heather, she gave me a sweet, wanting smile no one else could see.

I said goodbye to all. Teresa took my hand and walked with me down the hall to the elevator.

"Uncle Vinnie?" she said. She stood on tip toes with her legs slightly spread, her back arched, and her big eyes shining up at me.

"Yes, Teresa."

"I want you to think of me as a woman, not a little girl."

"There's a world of difference."

"I know, and I know what that difference is."

The elevator arrived, saving me further discussion with her. I wasn't sure where it would've ended. She raised her head to be kissed. She did that like a woman, too, and not like a niece, but I kissed her like an uncle, on the cheek as I squeezed her hand. I was watching her ass sway down the hall as the elevator doors closed. The little minx knew I was watching.

My mood dropped as fast as the elevator. By the time we reached the ground floor, I was in a deep funk.

I called Kate, but she was at the bishop's house for a dinner. I buzzed Lily's pager. She and Herbie were going to a dinner party after they dropped Heather off at home. I called three other of my women, but it was Saturday night.

The primary problem when your women have husbands is that there are times that you want them, but discretion prevents your demanding they come to you. That's the way the game's played.

I wished one of them had been disobedient, or one of the husbands had challenged me. Then I could act. I'd love to walk into that dinner party and fuck Lily across the table as the others watched. Or have Carolyn suck my cock in the middle of the floor at her dinner dance. Or pull Frank and Mary out of their evening with his boss. I'd tie him up like a Christmas turkey and let him watch me fuck her. He'd like that as much as I would.

Shit! I needed a woman who was all mine all the time. Mine the way Sonya had been. There beside me unless I wanted someone else there. Then she'd wait sweetly until I called for her.

Back at The Sunset, I trolled the bar and didn't find anyone who appealed to me. My funk deepened. I have a social drink occasionally, a highball with friends, wine or champagne with a lovely lady, but I don't consider myself a drinker. The night I drank myself into a stupor over Sonya was the first time I'd been drunk since college. I was thinking about getting drunk again when the phone rang.

"Hi, Vinnie," Prissy said. "We got the info you wanted."

"What is it?"

"Sam met Musette over the Internet. He says he's been working her along for three months and she came down here to meet him."

"What else?"

"She's divorced. She's staying in the city with her sister, whose name is Suzette. Sam's never actually met her, but he had her do some self-bondage and self-flagellation tricks while they were online. He said she claimed to do everything he asked and that she said she orgasmed from them."

"Anything else?"

"Master Sam was waiting for a woman when we arrived."

"Oh? What happened to her?"

"I sent her home."

"Too bad."

"Your hand would be better, Vinnie," Prissy snorted.

"Thanks for looking out for me," I replied sardonically. She laughed.

"Sam keeps some good files. Pictures. Measurements. Like and dislikes. The whole bit," Prissy said.

"Go through it and pull the info on any woman you think would appeal to me," I said.

"We've already done it. Sam had about sixty in the file, but we got the info on only four of them."

She was silent. I knew she wanted to say something, but she was searching for the words.

"What is it, Prissy?"

"Well, it's been a long time since I worked on a man, if you know what I mean, and Sam's got a neat dungeon setup here. Do you mind if I spend the night?"

I laughed. "No, but what does Sam say?"

"It's hard for him to talk right now because he's wearing a full head harness, but he'll agree to whatever I want. We've already had a long talk."

I imagined Prissy talking to him. She was built like a middle linebacker with tits, and she could act mean as a rhino in heat. She knew how to work Sam, to take him to the breaking point.

"Have fun, Prissy," I said.

As soon as I hung up the phone, it rang again. This time it was Kate.

"Hi, Vinnie. Are you all right?" she asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"You sounded down and that's not like you."

I told her my problem. She chuckled.

"I told you what to do. Find some young ones and train them like you want. Get three or four. Leash and collar them. Have them sit around in harem clothes or bondage costumes awaiting your next command."

"You're right. I'm going to do it, but, Kate, what about tonight?"

"I'll be there in half an hour. You better be horny. I was with the bishop tonight and his four-inch cock is always disappointing," she replied.

"I can do better that that," I replied.

"You can do better than anyone, lover," she said.

I had a shot of straight Maker's Mark bourbon, undressed, took a shower, and laid down to wait for Kate.

Maybe I dozed or maybe it was a daydream. Whichever, my mind was filled with scantily clad and nubile young ladies who were giggly and happy as they pleasured me. My cock rose and throbbed in the air.

The End 

