I am not a lesbian! she thought to herself forcefully as she plunged her fingers in and out to a steady rhythm. I'm
0972 Pussy in Boots
lying back in thigh-high boots as her Mistress smears her face with cunt
not! I'm [cummmmming...] not! When her hips stopped bucking, she relaxed back with a sigh, and she didn't even notice she had moved her fingers into her mouth until she opened her eyes and could see herself in the mirror again. She was
1417 Good Taste in Women
disgusted with herself, for multiple reasons, now, but she couldn't bring herself to stop, because she just looked too fucking hot that way, splitting her pointer and ring fingers languidly with her tongue, breathing softly on them and then inhaling her own aroma.
Linda had given up on trying not to think about the erotic imagery dancing in her head; every night it was the same: eat dinner, retire to her room, and be barraged with nipple-hardening thoughts until she gave in and got herself off. Usually three orgasms was enough to allow her to fall asleep and make it through the night; if she delayed sleep for any reason the pictures (she insisted they were not fantasies) would start showing up again and drive her to distraction. Twice, she'd tried to take Nyquil, but both times she woke up feeling as if she hadn't slept a wink, and she suspected from the aroma of her hands that she'd spent much of the night masturbating in her sleep.
Todd was back, now, but despite his enthusiasm, nothing he could produce would do it for her: he'd pound away at her for what seemed like hours and though it induced a pleasurable tickle, she couldn't attain the real pleasure she knew she needed. It was like having an itch she couldn't scratch. The closest she came was when she made him go down on her. By fantasizing that he was
0752 Worshipped by Goddess
the Mistress rewarding Her slave by driving her to the brink of tongue-ecstasy
someone he was not, she'd almost made it, but when she opened up her eyes and saw his brown buzz-cut instead of the long wavy blonde hair she wanted [needed], she lost the grasp of her orgasm and had to fake it to get him to stop his licking. After he'd uselessly fucked her again, they'd laid back in bed and talked. He wanted to know why she'd been so horny lately, and she'd been completely at a loss what to say. My head is full of pictures of tongue-fucking lesbos and I think I'm actually starting to like it seemed like it would have had the wrong effect, so she just said she'd been fantasizing a lot lately. He was so supportive that, in a desperate and vulnerable moment, she'd found herself asking him timidly what he would think of wearing a blonde wig next time they made love.
That had been a mistake. He'd laughed and then, when he realized she was serious, had made an excuse to go out and left her alone.
She'd cried, then; she was physically exhausted, mentally terrified...
... and sexually aroused enough that she started frigging her clit less than a minute after he left the room, imagining
1107 Mark of the Slut
fishnet stocking imprints on her cheeks as she parted the blonde's thighs to keep them open for her mouth
something, anything that would let her cum. And as her loins were washed by a fiery tingling, her lips pulled back from teeth in a grimace of concentrated effort, the tears streamed unabated from her eyes.
* * *
Penelope realized that things were getting a little out of hand, though; Linda had dark circles under her eyes every morning, and was obviously not sleeping well. The last thing she wanted was to have Linda have some sort of a breakdown, and go to a hospital or see a shrink or something. She wasn't sure if doctors could figure out what was going on in Linda's head without knowing about the computer thing, but getting caught was not her worry.
She realized with a perverse thrill that her real worry was that Linda would stop being hers to command.
At any rate, Penelope tried interspersing pure text in with the pictures. She gigglingly made an image with big block letters of
I MUST SLEEP EIGHT HOURS A NIGHT
and uploaded it once a day to her website, in a directory which had no real public access. Linda started to appear a little less hellish and terrifying and more well-rested. She was still incredibly distracted, though, and Penelope would often wander by her, pretending to talk on her cell phone, and tell imaginary callers "phone numbers" while surreptitiously glancing Linda's way.
"Brian? Oh, yeah, he's at four-four-six, one-two-oh-nine..."
Invariably, Linda would not catch herself in time, and her lips would part to
1209 Suckle Forever
accepting a breast in mouth with glazed over eyes
reveal her impression of what she saw in her head. The impressions were getting better, too. Linda, generally a fan of casual wear, had even started dressing sexier to more closely match the slutwear her models used. Three-inch pumps replaced her tennis shoes (it made Penelope squirm when she wore them out, but when she started wearing them around the house all the time, Penelope had spent an hour in her room fucking herself silly thinking about the power she held...), and the slits on her skirts went from Fashionably Flirty to Indecent Proposals.
One thing that did bother Penelope was the end of the nighttime field trips; it was one thing to know what was going on in her flatmate's mind, but quite another to see her in the flesh, acting out her [which "her", Penelope's and now Linda's?] twisted fantasies on the living room floor in the moonlight. Unfortunately, Penelope wasn't sure what had caused the somnambulistic episodes in the first place, so re-triggering them was currently beyond her means.
Wait a minute, now... if I can use messages to get her to sleep more...
* * *
It made her feel good to know she was not alone. The websites she'd checked said that it was perfectly normal for otherwise straight women to have lesbian fantasies from time to time; it didn't mean anything. [But all the time? a little voice inside her cried, but she ignored it] That helped in an otherwise traumatic time for her.
She'd finally cum with Todd again; he had fingered her through her panties, and by closing her eyes and picturing the outfit she was wearing (it was the same as
1265 Touch Me Harder
loose silk skirt hiked up around waist, stocking tops exposing creamy thigh, leading up to see-through panties with Her long-nailed hand inside
from the pictures in her mind), and thinking that Her fingers [not not not his] were touching her, stroking her, making her
1265 Touch Me Harder
1265 Touch Me Harder
[I look perfect I look just like it and Her fingers are making me]
she'd made it not once, but twice before he made an unwelcome male noise which disrupted her suspension of disbelief. She kissed him, then, though his sweat tasted unpleasant to her now, and apologetically told him she was too sore for anymore tonight.
Which likely would have worked out, too, if he hadn't walked in on her masturbating that night on the toilet. He'd obviously suspected something was up, as he'd waited a couple of seconds before switching on the light, exposing her shamed cuntlips to his incensed gaze. She'd tried to stop, to confess everything, to ask for help, something, but the angry look he fixed upon her was a spitting image of
1043 Apology Expected
angry Mistress demanding cuntmouth service
and she couldn't help it, she couldn't stop and she fucked her pussy with her fingers as he yelled at her, his exact words drowned by her own cries of lust.
He threw open the front door, gestured emphatically toward it, and threw her clothes down in front of it. With that, he retired to his own bedroom, and she heard the door lock.
She hoped he'd called her a slut.
* * *
It was only seven, but already Linda had made her excuses and was headed off to bed, if not necessarily to sleep. Of course not to sleep, she thought. There's pussy to be had tonight... Penelope had looked amused, and Cheryl inquisitive, but neither had commented.
She didn't give it much thought, though; as soon as she entered her room and closed the door, she took off her blouse, and sat down on the edge of her bed in front of the mirror. Slowly, elegantly, she eased a pair of fingerless satin gloves onto her hands and forearms. The dressy look contrasted markedly with her naked upper torso, but the satiny palms of the gloves felt soooo good on her breasts just like
fingers splayed around each nipple, presenting her tits for sucking to whoever was looking
she was supposed to. She was agonizingly hot from this, but wasn't about to cum until she'd done more
1378 Path to Paradise #1
gloves at ankles, skirt hiked slightly
teasing. She watched in the mirror as her hands slid up her calves, rounding her knees, and
1379 Path to Paradise #2
yanking her skirt up viciously, caressing seamed nylon stockings with the other hand
exposing her slit to her own hungry gaze. Now both hands were on her thighs, and slowly she ran her fingers up to press gently against both of her labia, trapping the clit in between them and massaging lightly, indirectly. She looked directly into her own eyes as she ground her pussy against her hands, and the sight of herself in deepest arousal quickly became a feedback loop which culminated in the expected
1380 Made It There
eyes rolling back, toes clenched and pointed into the high-heels while rocked by orgasm
wash of heat as she came.
The hose, like the gloves, were a bit too expensive for her, but she'd dipped a little into her savings and taken a horny little trip to Frederick's of Hollywood. When the cute gal behind the register had rung up the total for the stockings, and it was $8.49, Linda'd almost grabbed her and 0849'd her right then and there. She'd somehow managed to hold it together until she could make it to the dressing room, but once there she'd fondled her clit through the new pair of panties while thinking of the clerk's pussy and whether she was really a natural blonde. The look on the clerk's face when she left the dressing room told her that the salesgirl had known exactly what Linda had been doing, and that she'd better buy those panties now, dammit, or cause a scene. Linda had not begged forgiveness or asked to be punished or even licked off the mild imperfection in the clerk's lipstick, but she had thought of all of these things and more.
Now, however, after two more hastily conceived orgasms, Linda collapsed, spent, on her bed, a smile on her face, not even bothering to remove her clothes.
* * *
It wasn't even nine-thirty when Cheryl took her leave, citing her own tiredness and inability to get to work on time, and Penelope sat in her bedroom with the lights out, but the door open. Was this going to work? She'd uploaded the new text messages this morning, but wasn't even sure if Linda had used her computer since then.
Her alarm clock read ten, and eleven, and even midnight, and nothing was happening; Penelope was somewhat disappointed, but she hadn't really expected it to work, despite the seeming-success with the eight-hours-sleep messages. She got off her bed and was about to enter her bathroom to wash up when she heard a sound.
The characteristic clomping of heels coming down the hall from the other end of the apartment. She was coming.
Penelope waited until the heels had walked on by and had come to a stop in the living room before she left her own bedroom.
Moonlight streamed in through the front windows, illuminating the sleek and quasi-nude form of a girl standing at rapt attention, legs arched, hands cupped around an imaginary head nestled betwixt her thighs. It was intensely erotic, and Penelope gasped.
It was her roommate.
But it was the wrong one.
Instead of Linda, Cheryl stood posed, blonde hair flung back, lips curled, eyes slitted, hips caught in mid-wrench, fucking her imaginary cuntwhore's face.
"Cheryl?!?" escaped her mouth before she could stop herself.
Cheryl was oblivious to the meaning of her name, but she replied evenly, "STAY ASLEEP BUT MUST OBEY".
Omigod. That was one of the text messages. Cheryl had been using Linda's computer all this time. She'd been getting dosed, too, and Penelope hadn't known it because Cheryl wasn't taking midnight trips to the living room to jill off.
"MUST BE THE PICTURE MUST OBEY TONIGHT" Cheryl resumed, sleepily.
This is so wrong, thought Penelope. Cheryl was a sweetie; a little on the dense side, perhaps, but Penelope had absolutely nothing against her. This was not what Penelope wanted.
Then why is your hand still in your panties?
Another clatter of heels in the hallway gave her no time to ponder her own decreptitude. Linda was here.
* * *
Slave-Slut was in the room now, clad in the silken things which were right.
She was asleep, but she must obey.
She saw the moonlight, and she saw where she needed to be on the floor... and she saw the blonde Goddess waiting for her supplication. The Goddess was in black lace, pantiless, garter-belt framing the delta of her sex, and her ass was tightened with the effort of thrusting her mons forward. With a thrill of recognition, Slave-Slut knew from the position of her Mistress' body that it was 1401 she must be.
She must be the picture. She must obey tonight.
As the number flashed in her head, her knees folded of their own volition, striking the hardwood floor with a thud, and bringing her face to ... face... with what she wanted, what she needed, what she craved.
She was asleep, but she must obey.
* * *
Penelope saw what was happening and wanted to stop it with every last fiber of her being, but seeing her two flatmates like this, even Cheryl [especially Cheryl... no... stop thinking that way, she told the part of her brain which was connected to her pussy] was beyond arousing, it was powerful. It was like some kind of apotheosis, knowing that she had this kind of ability to manipulate their thoughts, their wills... [their cunts...]
As Linda's face sank into the fur between Cheryl's thighs, Penelope made her decision.
"1401," she said, softly but with authority. "Tasting Obedience. Must be the picture. Must obey tonight."
Both of the other women repeated, "Must be the picture. Must obey tonight. 1401."
Penelope fingered herself to orgasm as she watched Linda begin eating Cheryl out, and fucking her own hand.
Cheryl had no such need.
* * *
Morals can be a funny thing, and once cast aside don't seem to return.
Penelope still ran her website, but with an added bonus for members-- for an extra fee, a VIP membership could be obtained. VIP members got all the same benefits of regular members, but they were allowed to access the secret stash of Penelope's files.
VIP members got to see the same kinky poses rendered in real, honest-to-god, photographs.
Cheryl and Linda still didn't know about Penelope's website, or how they spent some of those early nights, but a significant number of text messages later, with Penelope's assistance, their fantasy sleepworld began to intrude on their daytime life. Though not advertising the information to anyone outside the apartment, both young women spent a good deal of their non-photography moments in Cheryl's bedroom, where submissive Slave-Slut Linda would worship at her Goddess's cunt for hours on end.
Penelope watched of course, but never participated, because... she never felt right about that. Her voyeurism, however, knew no bounds, and she was inspired by their acts to create impressive (and money-making) poses she'd not before considered. And to cum avidly when she told them, asleep or awake, what to do next.
She used the extra cash to keep the apartment running smoothly, so neither of the other girls had to work. Linda stayed in school, because Penelope didn't want her parents to suspect anything awry, but it wasn't too long before she realized that Linda had a lot of very hot friends. Some text messages suggesting that Linda might want to let these friends use her computer to send email were quite possibly in the future. As for Cheryl, she turned out to not be as dumb as she appeared. Penelope tailored some messages which made her more dedicated to her work-- both business and academic-- and as a result she was now assistant manager at her store and getting high marks in the computer science curriculum she was studying in her off hours. Which made Penelope feel good, and the delicious irony of Cheryl's major made her laugh from time to time at the situation, and at the sheer wrongness of the joy she found in it.
Morals can be a funny thing.