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Private Dancer

2/19/2007

Sherry sat at the breakfast table, alternating between
staring at the pair of sparrows busily constructing a nest
amidst the explosion of small white flowers that enveloped
the crabapple tree outside the window, and trying to figure
out what the nine-letter word for "without modesty"
was in her crossword puzzle.

She put down the newspaper, and stared into the murky depths
of her coffee.

Her mind idling in neutral for a moment, she poured another
dribble of cream into the cup and watched the whiteness
create a small abstract design on the surface of the brown
liquid before it sank into the depths and disappeared,
leaving the surface just as brown and dark as it had been
before.

Just like the semen her husband had pumped into her pussy
thirty minutes ago.

His passion had disappeared inside her and had been swallowed
up, and dissipated and dissolved in the anticlimax of their
coupling. Only now was the sticky wetness beginning to
ooze out of her onto the contoured blonde wood of her chair
beneath her short, white satin nightgown.

The birds, the nine letter word for "without modesty",
the coffee ‒ all were a diversion and a distraction. None
of them mattered. Not today.

She had the itch again. That same recurring craving, the
one that she hadn't been able to shake since she had
done it the first time. She was a fucking addict now, and
utterly unable to stop. And today, she needed her fix.

"Are you going to be late tonight?" she asked,
while she penciled in "hard" for the four-letter
word meaning "difficult", and giving her the
"H" as the second letter in "without modesty."
At the same time, she pressed her index finger against her
clit under the table and dragged her long, red manicured
nail over the come-soaked pink nub.

"Yes, probably. You know how it is, " he replied
from behind the sports page. "More fucking reports
to do, and fewer people to do them. I ought to simply make
up the damn numbers and see if anyone notices."

"That doesn't sound like a smart thing to do.
You could get in trouble." Her finger slid into her
cunt, his come and her fresh surge of wetness lubricating
its entry.

He laid the paper down and looked at Sherry. "They're
all idiots. Nobody would notice, or care, for the most part.
We all know we're going to be downsized or off-shored
or laid off anyway. So why even bother?"

"Because we need the money, that's why. And because
you're better than that. You still want to do a good
job. You talk it down, like everyone else, but you could
never simply fake it. That's not you." Her rebuke
was mild, though it was carefully worded.

She didn't want to upset him. Especially not this morning.
He had to leave ‒ soon, dammit.

Or perhaps it was because she had faked her orgasm after
their frenzied wrestling match in bed earlier. She had
given it a good go, like she usually did, but it was no use.
Not any more. She was doing that all the time now ‒ faking
it. Ever since.... yes, ever since she had gotten the itch;
since she had become enslaved by the sudden, wicked rush
of sensation she felt when she scratched it.

His voice jerked her back into present tense.

"I am such a moron, for still doing it. Jeff was let
go just last week. I told you about that, didn't I?"


"Yes, you did. But he was a goof-off - not nearly as
smart as you. Or as aware of what the reality of the situation
is. He was a 'dead man walking' for months. That's
what you said." The pauses between her sentences
conveyed almost as much as her words did.

"I know, I know. But lately, it just seems like nothing
I do makes a difference any more. I want to make a difference,
but I don't know how. I just feel lost, most days."


Sherry's finger worked its way in and out of her pussy.


"I know what you mean. Everything seems so faceless,
so impersonal now. People never talk to people. It's
all ATMs, and email and buying over the internet, and crap
like that. I even check myself out at the Safeway, for god's
sake. Not even a smile and a bit of gossip over a head of lettuce
in the checkout line while reading the cover of People and
Cosmo and the tabloids."

A second finger disappeared into Sherry's pussy,
joining its neighbor. And her thumb began to rub her momentarily
neglected clit with a renewed passion. She was ready. Ready
for him to leave, and ready to step off the precipice into
‒ into what?

"I've got to go, " he announced as he stood
up and brushed the crumbs from his pants. "I'll
be late. Don't make dinner. I'll get something
on the way home."

"OK. Love you..." Her thumbnail dug hard into
the base of her clit. Ohgod, it hurt. But she couldn't
stop. She bit her lip to keep her face from betraying her.


"Bye, babe. Do something memorable today, OK. At
least one of us should get to do something that means something."


"Yeah, sure, " she replied. "I'll
find something. Maybe, I'll be on the evening news...."
Sherry put her hands back on the table. Will he notice how
wet my fingers are? No, of course not. He's already
gone...

She made a face and pretended to be hiding behind her hands
while doing a perp-walk to the refrigerator. It was all
she could do to keep from licking her glistening wet finger.
Please, hurry up and go...

"Yeah, right. Just don't get put in jail, "
he laughed. "We don't have the money to bail you
out."

"OK, no jail. I can handle that. And no dinner. That's
easy, too."

And then he was gone, a flurry of coat and briefcase and shuffling
for car keys, and a quick grab for some of the not-yet-stale
cookies Sherry had made the other day that were slowly getting
hard and dry on the kitchen counter. In his hurry, he almost
knocked over the vase of fresh daffodils she had brought
home from the Safeway yesterday.

"Easy, big guy!" she joked as she caught the
vase before it tumbled over the edge of the counter onto
the floor. "Don't fuck with my daffodils."


The moment the door to the garage closed, her hand was back
between her legs, savaging her cunt and clit like a woman
being . She leaned over the kitchen counter and let
her satin-covered breasts touch the cold, polished granite.


Oh, please fuck me. Fuck me hard. Make me your whore. I'll
do anything you want. Just fuck me and hurt me and make me
your cunt.



.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sherry saw his car back down
the driveway and into the street.

He tried, he really did. He was the epitome of the dedicated,
loyal company man. He loved his work, despite all he said,
and all of his complaints. And he loved her. He loved her
more than anything in the world, even if the stress of his
suited-up life had drained most of the passion from him
lately.

She had been surprised when he had fucked her that morning
before rolling out of bed to take his shower. It was as if
he had somehow sensed the buildup of static electricity
inside her and had wanted to channel and conduct it out of
her and ground her to make her safe again.

He had been rough and aggressive and had fucked her hard,
first on top of her with her legs wrapped around his waist,
and then with her on her knees with her ass up in the air while
he drilled into her pussy from behind while he pulled her
hair.

He had come inside her, orgasming with a short, sharp grunt
of satisfaction. She had ‒ well - she had almost come. She
had gotten closer than she had been for weeks, with the way
he had held her and how he had talked dirty to her and had taken
her from behind like that. But in the end, she had faked it
again, squeezing his cock and mewing and crying and thrashing
about.

It had been a good show. Even memorable, perhaps. She had
gotten very, very good at faking her orgasms lately.

Sherry wondered if he had any idea of what she really needed,
or wanted? Because what she needed now was very different
from what she had been satisfied with a year ago. She needed
it constantly now, and he had no clue; about how she had changed,
or about how to scratch her rapidly ripening and developing
itch.

And all of that made him so very much out of step with the present
reality.

Sherry took her hand out of her now-spasming cunt, drained
her coffee cup and placed it in the dishwasher. The newspaper
with its unfinished crossword puzzle was tossed into the
recycling bin.

It was not time, not yet. Her orgasm would be there for her,
after she had done what she needed to do.

She pulled her satin nightshirt over her head and tossed
it over her chair at the breakfast table. Being nude in her
kitchen, with the spring sunlight streaming in through
the window, was deliciously deviant, all by itself. Sherry
stood in the center of her kitchen ‒ her domain and her turf
- with her hands cupping her breasts.

Right here. I want Him right here. Fucking me. Using me,
taking me, me. Here, bent over the counter I put the
freshly baked cookies on. Here, with kitchen utensils
stuck up my cunt and ass.

She tried to imagine His face. She had painted innumerable
mental pictures of what He looked like, only to cast each
one away. He had told her that He would demand that she perform
unimaginable, wicked and obscene tasks for him, and that
no part of her body was off-limits.

Did the tired, earnest man she had married fifteen years
ago have any idea that the utensils she used to prepare his
dinner had been used as fucktoys in her bare, wet cunt? That
they had been coated with her juices, and gripped by her
clenching, spasming muscles?

Of course not. How could he possibly know? That I'm
not his any more? I'm his wife and his housekeeper and
his friend and confidant, and his sex partner; but I'm
not his. Not any more. I can't be his. It's all changed
now. And I can't stop. I don't think I can ever stop
it.

Sherry stood up and swayed unsteadily for a moment. She
jerked open the utensils drawer and touched them, one after
the other, remembering when and how each had been used in
her naked cunt. It was all so obscene, so shameless.

Shameless....

Yes. The nine letter word for "without modesty."


The partially filled in crossword puzzle stared up at her
reproachfully from the blue recycling bin next to the garage
door.

Shameless.

She was so fucking shameless now. It had been hard at first,
but now... it was so damn easy now. The intervals between
had become so much shorter now. The risks taken so much greater.


Why did that word have to be in today's puzzle? What
did it portend? Anything? Nothing?

Fuck the self-abasement and the psych assessment. It's
time. Now.

Outside the window, a beat-up old pickup truck squealed
to a stop along the curb.

It was Cesar, ready to take up where he had left off last October.


Sherry had forgotten it was Tuesday, and that this was the
gardener's first visit of the spring season. But there
he was, right on schedule, to begin the process of making
the lawn and the gardens the envy of the beyond-their-means,
appearances-are-everything neighborhood they lived
in.

Sherry smiled. And today was such an unusually warm spring
day, too....

The windows were just going to have to be open. Yes - the windows
wide open, with only the sheers pulled closed for a bit of
privacy - dancing and swirling in the breeze. And only the
thin, porous mesh of the screen keeping the outside out.
She would hear Cesar's every move, every snip of his
pruning sheers, every scratch of his rake, against the
winter-burned turf.

She rubbed her clit with her fingertip. Mmmm, yes. Oh, yes,
indeed.

Old Cesar hobbled out of the truck, slamming the door and
whistling like he did every time he arrived. A different
tune every visit, but always something light and cheerful
sounding. And he was very good, too. His ageless, sunburnt
lips had the talent for it ‒ remarkably so, Sherry thought.


He had explained, the first time she had asked about it,
that it was his way of pre-announcing his presence when
he entered a yard, so that the senoras and the senoritas
had time to cover themselves before he came around the corner
to see them sunbathing by the pool or on the terrace. He did
not wanted to intrude upon their modesty.

Or so he said.

Perhaps it was more about not wanting to get fired if he caught
one of the senoritas nude or masturbating, or if he stumbled
upon a senora having a tryst with someone who was not the
senora's husband.

Sherry smiled at the memory of his halting, heavily accented
English explanation. She had been nearly naked in the yard
soaking up the sun's energy that day, her mind replaying
the climactic scene from the trashy romance novel she had
just finished, with her fingers idly stroking the very
moist triangle of spandex that covered her pussy, when
she had heard him whistling.

It had been a near thing, too. He probably did catch a quick
glimpse of her bronzed and oiled tits before she had covered
herself. And while they had talked, she had caught him stealing
leering looks at her breasts beneath the silk of her hurriedly
tied robe.

And after their chat, she had stretched back out on the chaise
on the pool deck like an eager young Hollywood starlet auditioning
for a casting couch, with the silk of her robe casually draped
over her still-firm tits, to watch him drinking in the sight
of her preening and posing from behind the shield of his
sunglasses.

Watching him rake and weed and trim, all the while surreptitiously
touching his cock and staring at her every chance he got.


The whistle was his job-protection defense mechanism,
but Cesar did love to watch when one of the women was willing
to put on a show for him.

His words and his furtive looks that first time had excited
her far more than if he had paid her a more direct compliment,
or if he had actually touched her. His overt interest in
her had been a revelation, and it had opened a door into her
psyche that she had never even noticed before. Yet there
it was, cracked open just enough to let a hint of the delicious
wickedness on the other side waft through the opening to
seize her imagination.

Sherry was a changed woman since that day. Cesar had been
her epiphany.

It was amazing, really, to have such a clear, wide, and arrow-straight
dividing line between the past and the present. For most
travelers on the road to perdition, their journey began
with a series of small sins and little increments of wickedness
that shaved away at their innocence. For Sherry, though,
Cesar had lured her across that line and through the door
in one life-altering moment.

Ever since then, she had tried to be there on Cesar's
gardening days to lounge about wearing something scanty
and revealing. By the end of last season, before the weather
turned ugly, she had worked her way down to a translucent
silk thong that was really more of a g-string and one of her
husband's shirts, left completely unbuttoned and
gaping wide open with the bottom knotted together over
her bellybutton. She knew that he did not want her to be completely
naked or do anything that was undeniable.

That would have ruined the dance.

Cesar had spent most of that final Indian Summer autumn
day manicuring the shrubbery by the pool, his eyes glued
to Sherry's deeply bronzed flesh, and his hands never
more than a few inches from his erection.

Fore the entirety of the summer, he never said a word to her
about their game, or complimented her on what she so freely
displayed for him other than with his eyes and his erection;
and she never crossed their unspoken, yet mutually agreed
upon limits.

But she knew. They both knew what their tightly scripted
dance was all about. Thinking back to that warm autumn day
when Cesar had been here last, Sherry smiled at the images
burned into her consciousness.

Standing in front of him and sipping on her drink through
a straw while she played with the buttons on her husband's
shirt, pulling it farther open. And toying with her g-string
to more overtly delineate the outline of her labia, while
they talked about the plans for the garden for the following
year. It had gotten so much easier, so fast. By the end of
the summer she was touching herself ‒ discreetly, of course
- in front of him while they both pretended that none of it
even existed.

She had felt so completely wicked, and so proud and thrilled
knowing that her breasts ‒ no, her tits ‒ and her nearly naked
body could still do that to a man. After all, fifteen years
of marriage and a couple of children aged a woman's
body far more than the simple passage of time.

Today, Cesar was whistling something lyrical and plaintive,
his pursed lips creating an evocative image of herself
in her mind - splayed open in front of him, masturbating
and fingering her wide-open, bare pussy for him while he
stood over her holding his uncircumcised erection in his
hand, waiting for her to be ready to be turned over on her
knees and taken from behind, first in her cunt and then in
her ass.

Sherry leaned forward over the kitchen counter and held
her long, flat-bowled wooden spoon between her legs, pushing
apart her lips and pressing the smooth convex bowl against
her clit.

She was soaking wet now. Cesar had done that, with his whistle.
His presence fed even more fuel to the fire that was already
blazing inside her.

Doing what He required her to do today was wicked enough.
Doing it with Cesar outside would be pure, unadulterated
sin. She wondered if He knew about Cesar. He seemed to know
everything about her, right down to her love of daffodils.


And after fulfilling her commitment to Him, it would be
Cesar's turn. Now that he was here, Sherry was as eager
as a schoolgirl with a crush on her teacher to run to him and
to bask in his presence. She wanted to see him. No, strike
that. She wanted Cesar to see her.

"I am such a slut, " she confided to the vase
of tall yellow flowers, as she tore off a petal and balanced
it on the tip of her outstretched tongue. And then she whirled
around to peer out the window, the fleshy yellow petal fluttering
unnoticed to the floor.

Today, Cesar's self-heralded arrival was accompanied
by a second door-slam and a burst of youth-tinged Spanish
syllables.

Sherry peered through the gap in the sheers in the dining
room. A toned and fit young man in a "wife-beater"
t-shirt and a tight pair of faded black jeans stood on the
parkway grass with his hands on his hips.

And again Sherry remembered what had been forgotten across
the long, dark winter. The young man was Cesar's nephew
Miguel, fresh from Oaxaca, here to help the old man this
summer and to learn the business of manicuring rich peoples'
suburban lawns. That, and learning how to succeed as a mercenary
in the polite suburban warfare everyone in the neighborhood
engaged in. The never-ending war in which the battles won
were tallied in the prestige and bragging rights among
the competing neighbors who expressed themselves, in
part, through the absence of dandelions and crabgrass
in their lush, emerald-green lawns.

Sherry reflexively jumped back from the window and executed
the classic female defense mechanism of crossing her arms
over her breasts when she locked eyes with Miguel staring
at the house ‒ and her.

At least it seemed he was staring at her. Whether he was really
looking at the dining room window where she stood, and whether
he could actually see her or divine her nakedness behind
the off-white gauze of the curtains was moot. She felt seen
‒ and exposed - to his dark, virile eyes.

She had forgotten her nudity for the moment, distracted
by Cesar's whistled tune and Miguel's lean, well-muscled
frame. But the sudden jolt of knowing that she might have
been seen, and by such a well-chiseled wolf of a man, brought
her back to reality.

Miguel was striding directly towards the dining room window
now, a rake in his hand and a smile on his face. Stopping mid-way
across the winter-ravaged lawn, he turned to look at his
uncle. Nodding in reply to Cesar's gesture and calling
out a burst of syllables, Miguel began to whistle. Sherry dropped to her knees beneath the window. A puff of
flower-scented air sent the sheers billowing cloud-like
into the room above her head. When Miguel's rake began
to pull the winter debris from around the bushes right outside
the window and scrape against the house's foundation,
Sherry pressed herself against the wall; both to hide herself
should Miguel look into the house through the open window,
and to offer her body to the rake.

The image of her lying spread-eagled on the ground with
her arms and legs bound with rough twine to the crude wooden
stakes that Cesar used with the young saplings while Miguel
stood over her, dragging the metal tines of his rake down
her body, leaped into her mind and refused to leave. Every
rasp of the rake against the outside wall felt like it was
being dragged across her breasts and belly and over her
pussy. Leaving vivid, parallel lines on her smooth, bare,
winter-paled skin just like he was creating in the sun-warmed
dirt only a few inches away.

Miguel said something to his uncle. He was right there,
his hand resting on the windowsill. She could smell him
now, his pheromone-laced, sweaty scent an aphrodisiac
pipelining directly to her brain ‒ and her clit. His words
were unintelligible, except ‒ except for "Senora
Sherry" dropped in the middle of his opaque soliloquy.


What had he said about her? Did he know she was there, naked,
completely bare, and wet, and fingering her pussy on the
other side of the wall, mere inches away, and separated
only by her remaining inhibitions? Good god ‒ can he smell
me? Can he smell the perfume on my fingertips and on my thighs?


Sherry stabbed at her pussy with one hand, three fingers
disappearing between the soft pink folds of her labia while
her thumbnail pressed against the base of her clit. A whimper
escaped her lips.

I can't. I want to. Fuck me, I want to, but I can't.


Her image of Him crowded Miguel out of her mind. She wasn't
permitted to share her nakedness with anyone but Him. She
wanted to fuck Miguel more than anything in the world right
now, to be taken and ravaged and sodomized and and
made into his whore. It was impossible, but that only made
her want it ‒ and him ‒ even more.

Her husband did not even enter into the equation. The contest
and the competition for Sherry's body was between
Him and Miguel. It was close, so fucking close. And no matter
who won, Cesar would be there to watch. She wanted him to
see her on her knees, being taken and used and being a wicked,
nasty slut. But whose slut? Miguel's? Or the man who
owned her soul?

Miguel picked up his rake and continued his work, moving
slowly along the wall.

There was no way she could get to the bedroom without being
seen.

The wide, sun-lit gallery hallway that separated the public
spaces in the house from the bedroom suite was all windows
on the garden side. And the shades in the gallery were pulled
up, leaving no way for her to scamper down the long passageway
past the evenly spaced portraits of her children and the
rest of her family that lined the opposite wall.

And she had to get to her bedroom.

His requirements had been quite explicit. It had to be the
bedroom. She only had this morning to fulfill His requirements.
She had to be finished by noon, at the latest.

There was only one way.

Sherry put the wooden spoon between her teeth, and she began
to crawl.

She moved slowly, keeping pace with the sound of Miguel's
rake. She hugged the wall beneath the windows, and kept
as low to the floor as she could, stretching her arms and
legs out as far in front of and behind her body as possible.
Crawling like a leopard stalks its prey through the tall
grass.

Only Sherry wasn't the leopard, or the hunter. She
was the prey and the hunted. But did she want to escape from
Miguel? Or did she want to be caught? Exposed and discovered,
and forced to show him her naked, wet body and to kneel in
front of him to perform wicked, unspeakable and perverted
sexual acts for him?

The taste of herself on the wooden handle between her lips
only added to her torment. A small part of her brain wondered
if her husband had ever picked up this spoon on the nights
he cooked stir-fry and smelled her cunt on the handle and
wondered what it was. It was only a momentary diversion,
though.

As she crawled, Sherry watched Miguel's shadow move
on the opposite wall, projecting his physique onto the
portraits of her son and her daughter and her husband, one
by one. She moved in concert with him, photograph by photograph,
taking care that she did not let her own shadow break the
slanted golden rectangles on the blue-gray, slate floor
to reveal her presence.

Each time Miguel stopped to rest for a moment, Sherry reached
between her legs to masturbate. She urgently frigged her
clit and thrust her fingers into her pussy to bring herself
closer to the edge ‒ if that were even possible. The mere
act of being naked and crawling at his feet like his blonde
slutpet was intoxicating, all by itself.

It took almost twenty minutes, but Miguel and Sherry finally
arrived at the door to the bedroom. She waited for him to
step away from the window to pour his accumulated pile of
leaves and sticks into a bag, and then she made her move,
scampering on her hands and knees like a scared rabbit through
the bedroom door and into the safety of her bedroom.

The bed sheets were still mussed and the pillows tossed
about from her husband's frenetic attempt to give
her an orgasm earlier. Their conjoined scents still lingered
in the air, too; making the presence of the naked, wet wife
seem like a prelude to a repeat performance.

The scene of the crime. No, the crimes ‒ plural. The faked
orgasm from the first act of today's small slice of
reality ‒ and the crimes yet to be committed.

Sherry knelt and felt around under the bed for her marabou-frilled
mules. The bad girls always wore heels when they fucked,
didn't they? And Sherry was going to be bad today. Very
bad, indeed.

Of course, she hadn't worn them earlier, for her wakeup
fuck. Her husband didn't even know that these shoes
existed. They were only a line item on a charge statement
from Nordstrom's to him. These shoes were not for him.


No, they were for Him ‒ the director of the script for Act
II in today's dance. The Owner of her soul and the wellspring
of her insatiable craving to serve and submit and obey.
Her Trainer and Mentor and Director. Him.

She dragged her spike-heeled black shoes out from under
the bed and stepped into them. The mere act of balancing
on the four-inch dagger-spikes sent her pulse racing.
She remembered the reaction she had gotten from the shoe
salesman who had waited on her when she had bought them last
week.

He had told her to buy them, telling her exactly what He wanted,
down to the color and style. He had even specified how she
was to buy them. She had done as He had demanded - wearing
a short, tight skirt, a dangerously low-cut top, and a pair
of stockings and pumps. Just that ‒ and jewelry and perfume.
And she had let the poor man catch a glimpse of her bare pussy
‒ her bare, very wet pussy ‒ when he slipped them onto her
feet; and she had rubbed her stocking-covered toes up the
inside of his leg to tease and torment him.

She had felt so wicked and sinful and so very much in control
of the helpless, powerless man she had tortured with her
presence. But she hadn't been in control ‒ not really.
She had been following His orders, right down to rubbing
her freshly-painted, nylon-covered toes against his
erection until he had embarrassed himself with a wide,
dark wet spot on the front of his pants.

Impulsively, she had walked out of the store without paying
for the shoes; with only a single, quick glance over her
shoulder at him, still sitting on his little stool, immobilized
by his lack of control.

Later, after masturbating to orgasm in the parking lot
while she left a long, wicked message on His voicemail telling
him all about it; she had gone back and bought a pair of wonderful
red Manolos, and paid for both pairs to assuage her guilt.


But that had been a mere warm-up, and a preamble for today.
For now.

Already half-drunk on her arousal, Sherry strutted around
the bedroom, her fingers alternating between stroking
her pussy and cupping her breasts and running her wet fingers
through her hair. She stood in front of the window, legs
spread wide, and with her fingers buried in her cunt.

Miguel was a few feet away, still methodically raking the
leaves from in front of the gallery windows; his whistle
a steady reminder of how close he was. His presence added
a dangerous new element to the game today. A new risk. And
that made Sherry want to please Him even more. She knew He
would approve ‒ doing it while there was a stranger nearby.
Someone who might catch her in the act. He didn't want
to share her with anyone else. No, but He did enjoy having
her walk on the edge of discovery for Him.

Sherry continued to play with her clit in front of the window.
She adjusted the drapes so that there was a two-inch gap
between them, and she cranked open the casements so the
breeze could make the pleated silk dance and move with each
puff of air and let bursts of golden sunlight wash over the
scene of her damnation and her deliverance.

She got her equipment from the bottom drawer of her dresser
and set it up. The tripod at the foot of the bed, and the camera
perched on top, aimed at the center of the bed. Sherry focused
the lens on the crumpled up pillow in the center of the wrinkled
plateau.

Outside, she heard Miguel whistle his way out towards the
curb. Peeking between the curtains, Sherry saw him lighting
a cigarette and leaning against the battered, multi-hued
side of the pickup truck, talking to Uncle Cesar. He turned
to look at the house while his lips moved, telling Cesar
something that the old man evidently found to be of great
interest. He, too, looked in the direction of the dining
room window, when Miguel tilted his head in that direction
and smiled.

An illicit thrill raced down Sherry's spine at the
explicit inference that Miguel had seen her in the dining
room while she had masturbated. She held the remote control
for the camera against her clit, and pressed it against
her wet flesh. Behind her, the camera clicked and cycled,
taking a picture of the empty bed.

Empty now, but not for long.

Sherry turned away from the window and crawled onto the
bed, facing the headboard. She lifted her ass up in the air
and eased her legs apart. And then she began to masturbate,
her fingers dancing along the insides of her thighs.

Click.

Dragging her fingernails over her ass, leaving red streaks
across her smooth, tanned flesh.

Click.

Spreading her labia and opening up the glistening, wet
pink flesh between her legs.

Click. Click. Click.

Her fingers probed inside while she pressed her face against
the pillow. So lovely.... So fucking lovely...

In her mind, her fingers were His cock, teasing her pussy
with its girth; it's large, flared head forcing her
lips apart and making wet, sucking sounds as it pushed against
the entrance to her cunt.

Someday, someday, it will be His cock. I want to feel Him
stretch me and push into me and bang against my cervix.

She snapped off several more shots.

Yes, Sir. I am your obedient little cunt. Exhibiting myself
for You ‒ and You alone. Fuck me, hurt me, make me your whore
and your slut.

She spoke the same words aloud, proclaiming her wickedness
to the walls, while she spasmed and clenched around the
three fingers inside her pussy, while she reeled off a half
dozen more photographs.

Her nose and her tongue found a damp spot on the sheet. She
licked at her husband's residue while she fucked and
masturbated and danced closer to the brink for her Trainer.


"Fuck me now, Sir. Please fuck me. Hurt me. Use me.
Fuck me in my tight little cunt and then take me in the ass.
Tell me what a wicked slut I am. Your slut ‒ your whore and
your cunt."

She slapped her other hand against her ass cheek, and then
found her clit, savaging it with her newly manicured, blood-red
nails.

"Fuck me, it hurt's so good. Now, please fuck
me now, " she panted.

Another four frozen images of indecency and wickedness
were committed to the tiny sliver of silicon inside the
digital camera.

He had specified exactly those poses. Wearing her new shoes,
and on the bed, ass towards the camera in the morning light,
after she had been fucked by her husband and his come was
still fresh in her pussy and oozing out of her slit. He was
explicit and graphic and very specific in His instructions.
Sherry knew that He expected perfection ‒ and she intended
to give it to Him.

She wondered if He would be hard when he saw them, His cock
in his hand, stroking it, while her pictures painted themselves
on His computer monitor. She so very much wanted Him to be
hard ‒ and to come ‒ at the sight of her. She was His exhibitionist
and His slave. And she would be anything ‒ absolutely anything
‒ He wanted her to be.

He made her feel so fucking alive, the way He talked to her
on the telephone and the wicked and erotic and profane emails
He sent to her. She was putty in His hands, really ‒ shameless
and obedient and so very much craving His approval. It had
been that way since she had first written to Him.

She had stumbled across His wonderfully lewd and pornographic
stories on a web site, and once she had read them, she knew
that she had to write to Him. The possibility that she could
be one of the women He wrote about was suddenly the most important
thing in the world to this fashionably-suburban housewife.
She wanted to live in His world, rather than the tidy, well-ordered
world of malls and crabgrass-free lawns she inhabited
now.

Faster. Faster, now. She let her knees slide farther apart,
and she turned to look back over her shoulder at the camera.
"Fuck me now. Make me your prize, " she declared
to the lens, while her fingers clenched the firing button
on the remote control. So close now, so very fucking close.


She wanted Him to see her come. She had never yet sent Him
a photograph of her in mid-orgasm. He had dozens of pictures
of her, in every room of her house, and in a Kama Sutra compendium
of poses. But never frozen in mid-spasm, showing Him in
megapixellated details that she belonged to Him and that
every orgasm she had now belonged to Him, and Him alone.


She had the spoon in her hand now; the wide, flat bowl cupping
her clit while she pressed the shaft between her lips. Her
whole world contracted to center on her clit, and the remote
control in her hand.

Now... Now... Now...

Sherry screamed and dived under the sheet when the scent
of sweat and cigarettes and freshly mowed grass finally
reached her brain. She turned and lifted her head and screamed
again.

Miguel leaned against the bedroom doorway, his arms folded
and a wicked smile on his face.

"Buenos dias, Senora Sherry. You are even more beautiful
than Uncle Cesar says." He ran his fingers through
his hair, wiping it off his forehead. "But then, Uncle
Cesar has never seen you so... so.... so naked. Am I correct?"


"Get out of here! This instant! I'll call the
police. I'll..."

Miguel stepped forward and pulled the obscenely wet spoon
from Sherry's gesturing hand.

The act of surrendering her meaningless weapon turned
Sherry into a statue. Miguel used the spoon to pry the sheet
from her fingers and drag it down her body, exposing her
nakedness.

"There. Better, no?" he chuckled. "Senora
Sherry likes being naked and showing off, I think. I want
to watch you fuck for your camera. And I want to hear you,
and smell you, and taste you."

Sherry began to shake when Miguel lifted the spoon to his
nose.

"Very nice, Senora. A lovely scent."

Miguel stood directly in front of Sherry and lifted her
exposed breast with the bowl of the spoon. "I like
you, Senora. And I think you like me, too." He jiggled
her tits, first one and then the other. Sherry's arms
were dead weights at her sides. She was a deer caught in the
headlights, frozen in place; her eyes fixated on his.

"Please continue, Senora." He tilted his head
towards the camera. "For you? Or for someone else?"
He grinned. "Not for your husband, I think, yes? I
can see it in your eyes. No, not your husband."

"You bastard. Get out now."

"So the kitten has her voice back? Good. I want to hear
you moan and whimper when you fuck for me, " he said.
"But no, I am not a bastard. Me? No way. I just like naked,
blonde sluts ‒ like you."

"What do you want?"

"I want to watch you fuck. And then I am going to fuck
you. With this." Miguel's words were carefully
and precisely formed, his enunciation slow and sure. He
unzipped his pants and took out his cock, and held it in his
hand and aimed it at Sherry's face, as he stalked closer.
To Sherry's wide, panic-filled eyes, it got longer
and thicker with each step he took.

"Do you want this cock, Senora Sherry? Tell me with
your mouth. Tell me with your tongue and your lips. Confess
to me how much you want it. But do not deny it. Your beautiful
blue eyes have already betrayed you."

Sherry shrank back against the headboard of the bed. The
wind stirred again, sending the curtains billowing and
undulating into the room and sending a dancing, slashing
stripe of sunlight across her body. The sheet was long lost,
at the other end of the bed. She was naked now, defenseless
- and very, very wet.

And then she heard Cesar's whistled melody. He was
outside the window, raking.

Did he know where his nephew was? Was he edging closer, to
watch her humiliation and her...her what? Was Miguel going
to her? Here, in her own bedroom? Sherry's eyes
darted back and forth between the slice of daylight between
the curtains and Miguel's erection.

"You have not answered my question, Senora."
The tip of Miguel's cock was only inches away from her
face now. "Tell me, tell me how you want me to fuck you."
He glided closer, so close that Sherry could feel her breath
reflected back from the head of his penis. <b>
"You want to taste it, I know you do."

Sherry closed her eyes. Uncoupled from her mind, her tongue
moistened her suddenly dry lips.

"I'm much bigger than your husband. I can tell
by the way you look at me. Have you ever been fucked by a cock
this big? Tell me, Senora." His words were soft and
gentle. "Kiss it and tell me you want me to put this
inside you."

Sherry leaned forward, her lips slightly parted. Her eyes
were still closed. She dared not look. She couldn't.
She was a prisoner of his voice and his sweaty, masculine
presence. Her heart trip-hammered in her chest and the
sound of her own breathing was deafening.

The moment her trembling lips touched the wet tip of his
cock, the camera cycled.

Click.

Moaning, with all of her remaining inhibitions stripped
away, she fell forward onto Miguel's cock, taking
it to the back of her throat in her uncontrolled lunge.

Click. Click. Click.

He was holding her hair now, not letting her go, keeping
her lips wrapped around his erection.

"Very good, Senora. You are quite talented. I think
these will make for some excellent pictures. I like your
mouth. Yes, I do. Here, show me what you can do." He
pushed her head back and then pulled her face forwards while
he thrust his pelvis towards her while he held his finger
down on the camera's trigger switch. "Like that.
Suck it. Yes, just like that. Senora Sherry likes to suck
cock, doesn't she?" The clicking and whirring
recorded her surrender, frame by damning frame.

Outside, Cesar's high-pitched notes were snatched
away by the rising wind. He was still there, outside the
window; a silent partner to his nephew's conquest
of his employer.

Sherry's fingers found their way back to her pussy
and her clit. Miguel was so big, so hard, and he tasted...
goddamn, he tasted so fucking good. He was exploring virgin
territory now, forcing himself down her throat, gagging
her with each thrust and giving her just enough air to survive
another dagger-like plunge. "Yes, Senora, put your pretty manicured fingers
between your legs and play with your beautiful cunt. You
don't shave your pussy for your husband, do you? You
shave it for... for him." He pointed at the camera.
You are married to the man who owns this house, but the man
who you take the pictures for ‒ he is the one who makes you
wet and who you want, isn't he?"

Sherry nodded, her voice still strangled by Miguel's
cock. The tears streamed freely down her cheeks now; from
the shame of what Miguel was doing to her and how unerringly
he had cut open the darkest secrets in her soul.

"I am going to come in your sweet, very delicious mouth,
Senora Sherry. And then, you will finish with your camera,
and send your secret friend your photographs. And then
you will come outside to entertain my uncle by the pool.
You will keep my come in your mouth and on your tongue until
after you come outside."

He held onto Sherry's head with both hands now, ramming
his cock down her throat with a savage intensity. "I
am going to come now, Senora. Now, yes, right... right...
now."

Sherry felt his cock twitch and jump in her mouth and her
tongue felt the pulsing bursts of semen as they rushed down
the length of his cock to splash against the roof of her mouth.
She pinched her clit with her fingernails and forced three
fingers up inside her spasming cunt. Her own orgasm nearly
crushed her with its intensity. Before it was over, she
was actually holding onto Miguel's cock to keep from
falling over.

And the camera clicked and whirred until it beeped, its
capacity exhausted.

As soon as he had emptied himself into her mouth, Miguel
slapped his cock across Sherry's cheeks and wiped
it in her hair. "Very good, Senora. Very nice, indeed.
It was an honor and a privilege to fuck your beautiful face."


Sherry tilted her head back to look up at the man who had shamed
her so completely.

He wagged his finger at her theatrically. "Ah, no-no,
Senora. No talking. You wouldn't want to swallow my
gift just yet, now would you? That would be so very bad. Disobeying
me so quickly like that. You will show it to me on your tongue
after you are outside." He leered at her crimson-red
face while he tucked himself away in his jeans. "Or
else, I will have to shame you outside ‒ perhaps bending
you over my lap and spanking your bare ass."

He laughed at Sherry's embarrassment. "Do not
trifle with me, Senora. You have acquired some new obligations
today. To me." Again, he nodded at the camera. "As
well as to him." Miguel turned to walk out of the bedroom.
"In a few minutes, yes?"

Sherry followed him to the bedroom door, as if she were an
attentive hostess escorting a departing guest across
the threshold of her home. She nodded, her tears flowing
feely now.

"Yes. Of course, you will. Showing off and exhibiting
yourself, and doing wicked things with men who want to have
you, is part of who you are. It is what makes you feel more
alive than anything else".

He paused for effect.

"And we both know that, don't we Senora?"


Sherry sank down to her knees in the doorway and slowly nodded.


"Yes, of course we do." And then he was gone,
his jaunty whistle echoing down the gallery back towards
the main part of the house. He paused for only an instant
to straighten the family portrait, smiling at her husband's
and her children's images before he disappeared around
the corner into the family room.

Looking at the clock, Sherry hurried to boot up her computer
and download the photos from the camera. It took her only
a few minutes to select five of the best ones to send to Him.
She hesitated over the last row of thumbnail pictures ‒
the ones where Miguel's cock was jammed down her throat.


She had never kept anything from Him about her sex life and
her obedience to His orders. But this? This was virgin territory.
Unfathomable, really. Would He be more angry if he found
out about Miguel some other way, knowing that she had kept
the young gardener a secret? Or would He punish her for her
inability to keep herself dedicated solely to His service?


The agony of her decision tied her stomach in knots. To cheat
on Him and keep Miguel a secret, or to confess and accept
His discipline and punishment? She knew that Miguel would
not be satisfied with today's encounter.

And, frankly, neither would she.

The knowledge that he would be b



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