Daddy

by DX

Copyrighted, 9/2024 all rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced in any format without previous written permission from the author.

 She was bubblegum and candy.  She had puffy, petulant lips and a button nose.  She was petite and slim, with perky firm breasts she liked to display through her flimsy tube top emblazoned with the words, Daddy’s Little Girl. 

 She had playful tattoos of teddybears and unicorns.

 For her, everything was fun.

 She was sprinkle cupcakes and rainbows.  She was a pink forest nymph in short-shorts and sandals with a magic of wand of glitter.

 We had to get rid of her.

 Every season someone arrived in the logging camp who was wholly unprepared for the hard and dangerous work of felling trees.  Most were tree-huggers who didn’t understand that a properly managed forest was healthy for the environment and provided renewable resources, and only wanted to wreck things claiming to save the planet.  They usually weeded themselves out within the first few days when they discovered saving the planet involved walking up a hill and no social media.  The remainder actually wanted to be lumberjacks, enthralled with the romantic idea of manliness, until they discovered the high rate of amputations.

 Every once in a while we got someone like Pink, charmed by woods and nature and cycle of life but sadly, too delicate for the job.  People like her are the weak link in the chain, and weak links caused injuries.

 So when Pink stepped off the bus, giggling and cooing, no one was surprised when Boss Eve took one look at the bouncing fluff-ball of joy and assigned her to me.  

 My job was to get her back on the bus and on her way home before she got hurt, or worse, hurt someone else.

 Officially, I was to get her up to speed on doing the job properly and above all, safely.  I have resting grump face and permanent, glaring eyes of disapproval.  My heavy beard fails to hide my scars, earned over a life of hard work.  

 The bets were on that Pink would be on the morning bus for home.

 I planned for her to be gone sooner than that.

 I started with showing her how to identify Black Widow Spider webs, where Brown Recluses like to live, and how to treat for a Copper Head bite, followed by the many ways loggers get their arms ripped off, or the legs mangled, and how to avoid all of those things.

 While the safety briefing alone usually drove off the pretenders, Pink wasn’t phased in the least.

 She didn’t flinch when I showed her the first aid kit which included tourniquets and a bone saw.  She only nodded, smiled sunshine at me and cooed excitedly, “Yes, Daddy.”

 “Don’t call me, Daddy.”  I responded gruffly.

 In twenty-four hours my new nick-name in camp was Big Daddy.  Even Eve started calling me Big Daddy.

 I took Pink to the thrift store where we got her proper clothes and boots, and I kept the receipt knowing we would be bringing them all back the next day.

 But we didn’t.

 The smallest equipment looked huge on her small frame, but properly decked out, we started her training.

 She paid close attention when I pointed out the poison ivy, oak, and sumac, and she quickly learned the knots every woodsman knows, practicing earnestly with the six foot cord I gave her.  She learned how to field strip a two stroke, sharpen an axe, and how to find North with a watch and a stick.

 She learned to use her tools.  Although cumbersome and heavy, she hauled them up the slope with determination, and in a few, short weeks, she began to put on lean muscle, which she liked to show off, flexing when she caught me looking.

 I couldn’t help but think she was showing off only for me.  Although she flirted outrageously with everyone, she seemed to have a special glance for me alone.  I dismissed it as an old grump’s folly, but it was hard to dismiss whenever there was a muster she was beside me, close to me, brushing against me.  When I looked down, she was always looking up at me, her huge eyes searching for details on my leathery face.  Her proximity to me quickly became normal, expected.  At chow she always sat next to me, and her warm body quickly became familiar.  “More coffee, Daddy?”  She would ask.  “How about an apple for the trail, Daddy?”

 “Don’t call me Daddy.”  I would reply as I put the apple in my cargo pocket.

 As for being on the team, Pink stepped up and proved she was as tough as all the guys.  When they got boisterous, she would just giggle and be coy and cute and diffuse any situation.  

 She instantly mastered the small back hoe.  Soon the guys would ask for my partner specifically, and she would nimbly drive that thing up the steepest, narrowest trail.  “Who called for a hoe?”  She’d announce as she arrived with a big smile on her face.

 Even Boss Eve, a woman who hates women, clapped me on the shoulder.  “I guess your Little Girl Pink’s working out all right.”

 One early morning, just before sunrise, I watched Pink do the walk of shame from Georgie’s trailer.  Gerogie was the camp Lothario.  No woman, not even Eve, could resist his devilish looks and wild flirtatious glances, so it was no surprise seeing Pink sneak out of there.

 I guess it made everything official.  

 At that point I figured she would gravitate towards hanging out with Georgie, but every day she added her name to my roster, and everyday we headed out together, and every day the guys would giggle and smirk, “There’s goes Big Daddy and his Little Girl.”

 On days off, when we headed to town and eventually the bars, she would dress up in her pink short shorts and tight t-shirts.  She often caused a stir at the bar when she put money in the jukebox and took to the dance floor and did a one woman performance that sent many a man to a cold shower.  Occasionally, it caused a stir that usually required me getting up and giving everyone, The Look.  “We’re not going to have an issue, are we boys?”

 “No, Big Daddy.”  Everyone would murmur.  

 “Don’t call me Daddy.”  I would grunt, and go back to my beer.

 But I couldn’t help notice her dance as her lithe body gyrated to the music, almost making love to the melody.  I teased myself that she was dancing for me alone, a silly thought, but I couldn’t help it when I stole a glance from the corner of my eye I saw her looking back at me.

 On night, while Pink was racking up a big score on the pinball machine, Sol slid over to me at the bar.  “Why does she have to dress like that?”

 “‘Cause she wants too.”  I said.

 “Yeah, but it gives guys the wrong idea.”  He replied.

 I eyed him.  “Sounds like that’s their problem.”  I turned, and watched Pink at the machine.  “Besides, I heard she and Georgie.”

 Sol shrugged.  “Fuck that guy.”  He held up his beer.

 I touched my mug to his.  “Yup.  To his health.”

 To Sol’s point, the male to female ratio in the camp was steep, and you either hooked up elsewhere, or like me, learned to enjoy solitude.  Pink, with her unerring beauty, was a disruptive factor, but she found safe harbor with me.

 We were a team.

 Which was no surprise at the end of the season, when the snows threatened, she added her name to my roster to winterize the fire towers on the Ridge.  This meant taking the half-track up the fire road to all the fire towers.  The mission was to make sure the fire road was clear, pull down any big branches that would compromise the fire break, and service/repair/restock the fire towers.  

 Back in the day the fire towers were manned, I mean, attended, 24/7; a lonely post looking over the canopy of trees for the tell-tale signs of fire.  Now there’s cameras and central monitoring to handle that, but during emergencies the towers may be attended, possibly for long stays, so they needed food stuff, cots, a working stove, heat, water, toiletries, ect.  

 This was a tough job that had to be done correctly.  I often had to do it alone, which was why I liked it.  

 Pink was just plain excited.  This was a test of all of her skills.  There was no back up.  If the half track broke down, we had to fix it.  If one of us was injured, the other had to be the doctor.  We would be alone and isolated for a couple days or more, depending on the weather.

 Although I didn’t show it, I was happy to have her along.

 With the half-track loaded with building materials, food, fuel, roof shingles, nails, screws, and a kitchen sink we needed to install, we headed out before the dawn and made it to Alpha Tower before daybreak.  It was an easy service, but the real work was ahead of us.

 The road was shit.  The fire break was put in seventy years ago and the wheel ruts were so deep you didn’t have to steer.  Even though the half-track crawled at a snails pace, we were tossed around in the cabin as if we were trying to break a bronco.  Our first obstacle, a fallen tree, was hung up against another fallen tree and dangled precariously over head. 

 Trees like these were the worst.  In case of fire, they could form a bridge allowing fire to spread across the break so they had to be removed.  But falling them, tangled in a web of branches, made them unpredictable, and many expert lumberjacks met their fate dealing with them.

 Which was why we called them, Widowmakers.

 Pink got her climbing spikes and went up a nearby tree and cast a line to the widowmaker.  Pulling the rope through, she then connected a cable and fed that along, dropping the end to me where I connected it to the half-track winch.

 Getting to a safe distance, we pulled it down, sawed it up, and shoved it off the road.

 Goes easy when you’re a team.

 It took six hours to make ten miles to Bravo Tower.

 We were tired, but Pink gave me her little smile and we pressed on.  Bouncing over the rough trail, we made it to Charlie Tower by sundown.

 The storm was approaching.

 We secured our gear, battened down the hatches, lit a fire in the wood stove, and readied to hunker down.  For privacy, we hung up a curtain.  To save on fuel for the backup generator, we used kerosene lanterns.

 I gave myself a quick sponge bath, then dressed and headed out to the observation deck, whiskey in hand.  From there, above the trees, I watched the quickening night approach with the bubbling clouds of heavy weather in its wake.

 We were in for a wild one.

 I felt the thunder rattle my bones.

 As I sipped my whiskey, I wondered what was keeping Pink, and I looked back.

 Through the observation window, glowing from the lantern light, I saw her laid out on the futon, like one of those fancy, French paintings.

 She was naked, and beautiful, her face flush with passion.  Her eyes were closed and her full lips were parted as if she was tasting something sweet.  Her nipples were bursting with passion as her fingers played over her body. 

 It took a moment for me to realize, as her fingers toyed with her body, Pink, to my surprise, was not born a girl.

Teaser:  For the whole 5,300 word story, plus many more fetish and erotic stories and art, please consider supporting us at,
https://subscribestar.adult/posts/1454229


Copyrighted, 9/2024 all rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced in any format without previous written permission from the author.

[email protected]

The Gift of the Ball Thief

By DX

Copyrighted 4/2024, all rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced in any format without the author’s permission.

 He watched her from across the street.

 She lived in a quaint, charming house in the middle of the block, like the candy and gingerbread cottage in the middle of the woods that lured prey in.  Her front yard was a tiny maze of bursting roses, and every year the block association presented her with a certificate for most beautiful floral display.

 But she wasn’t a witch.

 She was the Ball Thief.

 Her real name was Candice Starling, and back in the day she was the focus of every boy’s wet dream.  Her hair was black as night, and her eyes as cool as winter.  She had strong, full lips permanently shaped in a bemused smile.  Her wholesome, fulsome breasts were magically light, and somehow bigger than her callipygous hips.

 She wore high heels, even when tending to her magnificent roses, and her tiny feet danced like giggling fairies.

 When the kids played in the street, eventually a badly thrown ball would smash into her roses, splinter their delicate limbs, and scatter petals everywhere.

 More often than not, a ball smashed her front window, or dented her screen door, or cracked the siding of her house.

 Even in her controlled, steaming vexation, she was alluring, and the kids would gather and stare as she chided them.  “You must learn to be mindful of other people’s things.”  She would always say.  “You may have your ball back when you return with a parent.”

 No parent ever came.  No ball was ever returned.

 Now, twenty years later, maybe twenty-five, he stood across the street and watched as she came out with coveralls clinging to her wonderful curves and picked apart a load of cinderblocks she had delivered to her driveway.  She hadn’t aged.  The few strands of grey only highlighted her hair.  Her cheeks deepened as her looks soaked in.  Her curves became more curvier, and she was still certainly the subject of every wet dream.

 His wet dream.

 He walked across the street, not because he wanted too, he could watch her haul cement blocks all day, but because he couldn’t look away and was quickly becoming a voyeur.

 She looked up as he approached her, and her steel blue eyes snatched his breath and stopped him from introducing himself.

 “William!”  She said with a breathy smile.  “How are you?”

 William was stunned to silence and only stammered before he regained his footing  “Miss Starling!  You remember me?”  He laughed breathlessly in surprise.  “After all these years.”

 “Of course, and please, call me Candice.  You were in my class in the eighth grade.”  She said knowingly.  “You were all about word problems.  You loved logic.”  Her smile deepened.  “I used to stay up and write them just for you.”

 “I’m honored, and flattered.”  He managed to say.

 “You were an excellent student.  One of my best.”  She pulled off her work gloves and shook his hand.  “How have you been?  You went to work for that big firm… United, something something.”

 He shook her hand and marveled at its softness.  “United Conglomerate Corpora.  Over twenty years now.”  His voice saddened.

 Her face showed his pain.  “Oh, I heard, they just…”

 He shrugged.  “Crumbled like a house of cards.”  His voice lowered.  “We had agreed to stock options instead of a retirement plan.”  He grunted.  “All gone now.”  He forced himself to smile with retuned energy.  “I have prospects, and many, many options.”  He said brightly, then motioned back across the street.  “I’m with Mom until the dust settles.  And she needs the help.”

 “Of course.”  Candice said sympathetically.  “You’re bright and skilled.  You’ll be okay.”

 He nodded.  “I saw you out here and I thought that a little manual labor would be good for me… get some blisters on my hands.”  He reached down and picked up a cinderblock, surprised at its ungainly weight.

 “Oh, no!”  She said, a little embarrassed.  “I can handle this.”

 “Please, let me.”  He said, smiling.  “Mom’s out, and I need something tangible to do.  Seriously, you’d be helping me out.”

 Her eyes were full on concern.  “Well, if you’re sure.”

 “I’m sure.”

 They hauled the blocks down her driveway into her backyard, a wonderland of flora and fauna.  There, they neatly stacked them to wait for her next project, a raised bed herb garden.

 When they finished, they retreated into her kitchen and had a proper visit over tea and cake.

 He returned the following day to help her build the raised bed.

 He returned often, sometimes a few times a week.  Sometimes to help, sometimes to just visit.

 “My boyfriend and I,” she delicately slipped into conversation that she was spoken for, “are going to the open air concert tonight.  Maybe you and your… girlfriend,” she winced slightly, “boyfriend?…would like to join us?”

 He dismissed the idea.  “It’s just me, right now.”  He said, trying not to be too much a downer.  “Three’s a crowd.”  He finished his tea then looked up.  “I just… I appreciate visiting you,”  He grinned.  “and I appreciate you putting up with me.”

 She touched his hands.  “I enjoy your visits!”  Her face brightened.  “I delight having someone to talk to in the afternoons.”  She looked over her tea ware.  “I have all these herbal teas I grow in the garden and I get to share them.  You would be amazed what grows back there.”  Her eyes searched his.  “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

 “I am.”  He assured her.

 As time went on he became a fixture at her table.  Sometimes she had friends over, and on more than one occasion she tried to introduce him to friends closer to his age, subtly playing the matchmaker.

 It never happened.

 Days and weeks, then months flittered on the calendar, until one day, as the fall leaves fell like snow, he went to visit.  She smiled like a spring morning when she saw him at the door.  

 “Come in!”  She ushered.  “There’s something I want to show you!”  She moved with the energy of bee, almost buzzing, as she sat him down in the kitchen in the chair where he usually sat.

 He watched her in askance as she retrieved four little jars from the shelf above the door.  They were glazed, earth-ware pottery about the size of a baseball, fat and stout, with proper fitting lids.  He had seen them a thousand times and paid them no mind, figuring they were the part of the wonderful, magical decorations she had throughout the house.  Seeing them up-close, he noticed the lids were wax sealed in place.

 She took her usual seat across from him.  She picked up one of the jars.  “I take a pottery course at the community college.”  She studied the jar, scrutinizing its invisible flaws.  “I made each of these.”  Her eyes flashed at him.  “They are very special.”  She set it down on the table for him to inspect.  “Each one contains a man’s testicles.”

 Her voice was like a saber, so keen it took seconds to bleed.  

 He said nothing as his mind tripped and fell and lay on the floor wondering what it could have tripped over.

 She went on, picking up the first jar.  “A man broke into my house.”  She said, almost speaking to the jar.  “He was going to hurt me.  He had duct tape, a gun… but I lucked out.  With my self defense training I got the upper hand and restrained him.”  

 She rolled the jar in her fingers before setting it down and picking up the second.  “This one is his brother.”  She snorted a laugh.  “His sister-in-law came to see me.”  She pushed forward the first jar.  “She figured out something had happened because her abusive husband had changed almost overnight and she put it all together.  She was also in my class, and smart like you.”  She pushed forward the second jar.  “So she introduced me to the sister in law.”  She shook her head sadly.  “Poor thing, looked like a prize fighter… he had beaten her so bad.”  She tapped the lid of the jar, brightening.  “He’s nicer now, and getting nicer by the day, or so I’m told.”

 She pushed forward the third jar.  “This one’s empty.  It’s sort of a place holder in my collection.  I found out about this guy through a series of friends of friends.  He was a human trafficker.  He forced girls into prostitution.  He was the first I used my special herbal remedies on.”  Her face hinted of pride as she thought.  “Grown in my garden and distilled in my basement, my little magic potion drugged him up so I was able to get a band on him.  It’s a very strong, very tight, rubber band that cuts off all the blood flow to the testicles.  After a couple hours the testicles are unsalvageable.  I stayed with him for several hours after to be sure.  My potion not only dopes him up, but it messes with his memory so he woke up with no idea what happened and a black ball sack with dead balls.”  She smiled gently.  “I hope he went to the ER.”  She nodded.  “I’m sure he did.”  She shrugged.  “Or maybe not.”

 She regarded him, watching for some reaction, but he only watched her numbly, unable to process what she was saying.  

 “This guy was a college.”  She pushed forward the last jar.  “I discovered he was…” She paused, thinking of a diplomatic term.  “behaving inappropriately with students.”  Her lip sneered with disgust as she set down the jar, unwilling to touch it any more than she had too.  “No need to be ribald.  Let’s not get caught in details, but to say the least, he doesn’t do that sort of thing anymore.”

 She sat back, and her eyes smiled at him as she presented her little collection.  “Do you remember what the kids used to call me back in the day?  The Ball Thief.”  Her hand fanned across the table.  “How prophetic.”

 He looked at the jars.  He felt a touch of delight that she trusted him enough to share her secret.  What she had done was illegal, albeit justified; but she trusted him enough to disclose her superhero secret identity.

 He nodded.  “Thank you for telling me.”  He finally said.

 She watched him for a moment, then slid forward and touched his hands.  “I have one more thing.”  She rose, and returned the jars to the shelf.  She then opened a cupboard and retrieved a fifth jar.  “I made this last month.”  She set it before him.  “I wasn’t quite sure why I made it, or why I glazed it in these colors and pattern.”  She admired it.  “Sometimes art is that way.”  She looked up at him.  “I also think it’s my best work.”

 He smiled simply as he admired the squat, little jar.  “Yes, I think so.”  He noticed the lid had not been sealed in wax.  He looked at her curiously, then slowly lifted the lid.

 It was empty.

 “I think I know why I made this now.”  She said warmly, and held his hands as they held the jar.  “I made it for you.”

Teaser.  If you want to read the whole story, please consider supporting us al:
https://subscribestar.adult/posts/1246272

Copyrighted 4/2024, all rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced in any format without the author’s permission.

[email protected]

Victim

By DX

Copyrighted 10/2002, 12/2023 all rights reserved.

I remember their innocent, dough boy faces, so arrogant, so confident, as they stood before the judge and the jury.  They wore suits too big for them-making them look younger than they were, making them look like children standing against a backdrop of a cadre of bullet proof lawyers. They were rich, stupid rich, and Daddy's money was going to get them out of this like it had rescued them in the past. 

All I had was a harried, overworked prosecutor, who was only armed with the truth.

She was horribly outgunned.

The jury of eight women and four men found the boys, those mischievous little scamps, guilty of Criminal Misconduct and Trespassing. 

It was all just youthful shenanigans!  A little prank, that’s all!  It was a Huck Finn adventure. That's what those little imps did, nothing more than end of semester fun.

Not rape. Not Aggravated Sexual Assault in the First Degree. Not Breaking and Entering. Nothing like that at all. Just a little funnin' is all. The bruises, the scars, that was only enthusiastic love making. In fact, I should be happy that they don't charge me with improper use of tax payer's money for making everyone waste their time with my petty problem. If I really didn’t want to have my front door kicked in and gang raped, I should have invested in a stronger door with better locks. 

I was ASKING for it!

I did come close to getting arrested that day when I stood up in the courtroom and screamed bloody murder. I called them every name in the book at the top of my lungs. I ranted for almost a minute before the bailiff stepped toward me. 

"Today, I have been raped again." I said, and stormed out of the courtroom. 

I did the therapy thing. Counseling, group sessions, drugs; intoxicating, mind draining drugs, on the long road to recovery rehab. I did role playing, self defense classes, meditation, and spent hours in my 'Happy Place'.

The nightmare was still the same. 

The last week of the semester, and I, the studious senior in her dorm room getting the last scrapes of knowledge into her head when four drunk seniors slipped past the lame security, jimmied the downstairs door, bribed the Resident Grad Student with a six pack of beer, then broke into three rooms until they found a girl, me.  

They ignored her pleas of mercy.  They held her down, gagged her with a sock stuffed halfway down her throat, and raped her. 

In my dream I watch like a ghost, standing over them as they take her vaginally, orally, anally, they grope her breasts like dough balls so hard they bruise.

After the attack, I no longer felt safe. I barricaded myself in my dorm room at night. My roommate understood in that respect but it was a pain in the ass moving the heavy dresser back and forth. I finally moved to an apartment off campus and put a bank vault of locks on the door. 

I still didn't feel safe.

I had been putting myself through college and I couldn't afford to go elsewhere. They, my rapists, had already been thrown out of every college in the state. They finished their sentences, some measly hours of community service, and returned to campus like celebrities. In no time at all it was I who was the villain. I failed to fight back enough was the first rumor. Soon I was the harlot, who seduced the innocent boys and then cried rape to extort their wealthy daddies for money.

I ignored the rumors. I tried to ignore the rumors. I could not ignore the rumors. 

Every day I felt the pangs, the barbs. Every day I felt raped all over again. When I saw them on campus, passed them in the halls, I felt their eyes mocking me, laughing at me, committing their crime again and again. I could only look away with shame and fear. In the minds of everyone, it only confirmed that I was the bad guy.

Until during one of my group therapy sessions, I met a woman who had a Chasti-Permalock.

"It is the ultimate protection!" She said as she hiked up her skirt and showed me the shimmering plate of gold. "I leave the key in a very safe place." She was so happy. "I have my life back. I have control over the fear and feelings of violation."

I went to the website and ordered mine.

Five pieces. I wanted them crude and brutal. I didn't want fashion accessories. I wanted them to look as secure and impenetrable as I wanted to feel. They were to be public displays of chastity with patterns of rivets adorning them.  They looked like an iron clad battleship. 

Teaser: for the whole story and image, consider supporting us at:
https://subscribestar.adult/posts/1112319

Copyrighted, 10/2002, 12/2023, all rights reserved.

Sex Object
By DX

A woman transforms herself into the perfect bimbo for the sake of art!

A teaser.
For the whole story and line art, consider supporting us here:
https://subscribestar.adult/posts/955092

Copyrighted 10/2001, 2016, 2023 all rights reserved.

 Talia stood at the rear of the theater, shrouded in darkness.  The small, round room, ringed with over padded seats, was packed to capacity with all eyes on the brightly lit platform.  It was warm, at the brink of being uncomfortable, and the men, stuffy upper crust and proper, dressed in tails and canes, had already done away with their silk jackets, starched collars and strangling ties.  The women that dotted the crowd could sense the tension in the air.  Their blouses unbuttoned beyond respectability, and the tops of their breasts, gleamed in the dim light.  

 They were unaware of what was happening.

 Talia could taste it.

 The white roving shaft of the spot light appeared and cut the thin mist of cigar smoke.  Carefully, avoiding highlighting the faces in the audience, it scanned the archways.  Talia stepped deeper into the shadows and let it slip past her, somehow knowing its seemingly random pattern.  She didn't follow it, but instead watched the shadowy faces, the white sparkle reflected in their eyes.  She had performed the show a hundred times before, followed its progressing evolution.  Everything was planned, controlled, from the expensive cigar tobacco to the humidity and temperature, all calculated, recorded, and perfectly scientific.

 Everything was planned to entice the neither regions of the mind, a direct hardwired link to subconscious sexuality.

 They were already horny and didn't know it.

 They were here to see a show, performance art.  Little did they know they were to be the show and they were to do the performing.  The previous audiences through persuasion, or extortion, were sworn to secrecy, and would only share scripted hints and clues as to what the show was all about, so each new group with teased curiosity would be completely surprised to find themselves in a broiling, soul cleansing orgy of Bacchanal proportions.  

 Now, they were primed.  All they needed was a spark.

 On cue, Mistress entered the stage.

 The white disk of light crawled slowly up the wall and fixed on the curtained archway.  Royal purple folds parted to the gentle probe of Mistress’ delicate foot, painfully yet elegantly arched en-pointe, the shoe almost non-exist, provided only a spiny heel.  Her leg, longer than law allowed, was ivory in the harsh light.  She stepped forward and emerged fully to the gasp of the audience as the pungent, yet erotic odor of latex filled the room.  The women panted in sympathy at the corseted waist no bigger than a hand's breath resting atop her callipygous hips.  Her breasts dominated her presence, each one as big as a zeppelin, somehow suspended over her tiny frame, threatening to snap her in half.  Her nipples were shroud in heavy gold caps.  Titanium bolts pushed through the caps and pierced her delicate nipples, and then welded shut to insure her nipples were forever locked away. 

 Her neck, shrouded in steel, was stretched like an African Queen, her regal head rising majestically from her shoulder-less body. 

 Mistress had no arms.

 Her bemused smile took in her audience as her enchanting eyes flashed and spilled diamonds down her cheeks and cast her spell on her unsuspecting worshipers, lifting their attention from her body to pay homage to her incredible beauty.  Full sculpted lips, high carved cheeks, a near invisible dimpled chin, cascading scintillating wet tar hair and eyes that captured her audience and held them in their tiny prison.

 Mistress’ skin was flawless, smooth as porcelain and unbeknownst to them, completely made of rubber.

 From the special stage hidden fans gently blew puffs of air and spread her enhanced pheromones across the audience.  The audience was trembling, perspiring, squirming in their seats and she had yet to begin.

 From the darkness, a Romanian violin began to play and Mistress began to dance.  Slowly, stiffly yet fluid, her expression unchanged, and yet her eyes cast spears of fire.

 From the darkness, Talia nodded to Sacha and the young woman activated her video camera.  Its invisible inferred light took away the crowds anonymity and their eyes glowed like demons as their lust took possession of their bodies.

 Suddenly, a man climbed up on stage.  His shirt was stripped away and hung from his belt like a tattered sail.  He paused as he stood before Mistress, his shoulders rolled back, his head jutting forward with his square chin in the lead, his chest obscenely puffed out like a fighting rooster.  Mistress turned and danced for him, her breasts undulating for him, her eyes calling for him. 

 He yelped like a wolf when he grabbed her.  

 His hungry mouth sought hers and her breasts crushed against his chest.  From behind, another man grabbed her, his hands groping handfuls of her breasts for purchase, his mouth clamped like a vampire at the uncovered nape of her neck.  Talia recognized the man's wife.  She had stripped off her bra and crawled up onto the stage.  Her hands reached for her husbands pants.

 Backstage, Talia smiled as she watched Mistress.  Everything was going as it should, and it was going to be a good show.  She glanced at Sacha and nodded with a knowing smile.  It was important for Talia to show Sacha what it all should look like when everything clicked just right. 

 It was Talia's last show. 

 "I am an artist."  Mistress announced the first time Talia met her.  She moved delicately, like a dancer, around the exotic plants of the green room.  She pounced on the squares of falling sunlight like a child playing hopscotch.  Her arms outstretched for balance and her tiny breasts, only the size of bowling balls, jiggled tauntingly.  Her impish nose crinkled and her expansive eyes became glistening slits as she smiled. 

 Talia smiled weakly, a little embarrassed.  Her eyes respectively averted from Mistress' nude form.  "Yes, your husband mentioned that.  I have my references..."

 "He's not my husband." Mistress said quickly.  "He's my benefactor and the financial backer for my latest artistic endeavor.  Although he will sign your paycheck, your job will be to tend to me."  Mistress turned and leapt, spinning quickly.  Her foot suddenly caught and she stumbled ungainly forward, threatening to fall.  Talia quickly reached out to catch her, but Mistress pranced back like a ballerina.  "Ha! Made you look!"  She smiled.  "Come on, you're a nurse, you've seen naked women before."

 "Never at a job interview."  Talia said curtly, a little miffed.

 Mistress's eyes sharpened like a cat's.  "You must have had boring jobs. Would you hand me my robe?" 

 Talia looked at the rubber cape draped over the chair.  She picked it up and held it open so Mistress could turn and slip her arms into the long flowing sleeves.  Mistress turned, leaving the robe open and her breasts exposed, creating a contrast of shiny black and white skin.  "The job of an artist is to solicit an emotion from the audience.  In you, I have so far gotten embarrassment, fear, anger and possibly a little desire."  Mistress pulled the hem of her robe and stretched it tight across her heaving bosom and let her thumb thick nipples poke through.

 Talia blushed scandalously.

 Mistress winked.  "Am I good or what?"  She released her robe.  "I am going where no other artist has gone before.  I want to not only drag a reaction out of someone, I can do that in my sleep, but I want that response to leap out of them.  Control them.  Unfettered, unstoppable and primal."  Mistress sat down and crossed her legs.  "Fear is easy.  I had you leaping to save me from a fall.  But what is the most repressed, raw human emotion?"

 Talia shrugged. "Love?"

 Mistress smiled devilishly.  "Lust!  We all want it, but we steel ourselves from it.  Deny ourselves the one thing we want most.  We have walls and minefields around our libido.  Well, I plan to break those down."

 Talia's eyes were wide with wonder. "How?"

 Mistress smiled; her spell cast.  "Your job will be to care for me.  Feed me, clean me and put me to bed.  You have to care for all of my needs."

 "All?"

 "Except sex.  I plan to be raped several times a day.  In the name of art, of course."

Teaser: for the whole story, consider supporting us at:
https://subscribestar.adult/posts/955092

Copyrighted 2023, all rights reserved.