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.”

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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. 

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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!

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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."

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Payback

By DX

A woman is given a choice for her infidelity, permanent chastity or divorce.  Which will she choose?  A Chasti-Permalock tale!

Copyrighted 02/2005 7/2023 all rights reserved

 Marilyn admired the pool boy's tight, six pack abs as he hosed off the deck.  She caught him stealing glances, longing glances, at her long, shapely legs, whisper slim waist and massive, battleship breasts.  Marilyn delighted in the attention as she shifted in her lounge chair to give him a better view.  As she did, the sunlight sparkled off the mirror steel disk at her crotch.  Marilyn was naked, save for metal plates at her pussy and nipples that locked her sex away. 

 You may look, she thought, but you can't touch.  She sighed as she stood up, stretched and made her way pool-side to do some laps.  She figured her husband Michael would be home soon and decided to ambush him with a slow blow job when he walked in the door.  The idea amused her.

 She noticed the pool boy look up.  Marilyn turned and looked where he was looking and noticed Barbra make her way from the house.  She was carrying a valise in one hand and a tissue with the other.  She was distraught.

 Marilyn sighed and sat back down.

 "He found out about Eric!"  Barbra shrilled.  "I don't know how, but Oscar found out!"  Barbra dropped the valise on the lounge.  "We were so careful!"

 Marilyn looked at the case and the breath chilled in her lungs.  It was from Chasti-Permalock, makers of chastity devices that once secured, were unremovable.  Marilyn knew them all to well.  It had been a year since her introduction.  Her husband had caught her cheating on him and gave her a choice; a life of chastity, or divorce without a penny.  Marilyn chose chastity.

 "What am I going to do!" Barbra whined.

 Marilyn soothed.  "You're going to calm down."  She motioned to the other lounge.  "Sit, I'll have some daiquiris sent over."

 Barbra wiped her tears.  "I don't want a daiquiri. I want to know how he found out!"

 Marilyn caressed Barbra's shoulder.  "Oscar is not an idiot.  He found out just like my Michael found me out."  Marilyn smiled sadly.  "I was so careful, I thought Michael would never find out.  But he somehow did."  She glanced at the case. "So Oscar gave you, the choice?"

 Barbra nodded.  "Chastity or divorce."  She sobbed.  "I can't give up sex!"

 Marilyn touched her knee.  "Then walk away.  Take the divorce.  The Chasti-Permalock Company will not allow anyone to force you to put it on."  Marilyn looked at the valise and sniffed contemptuously at it.  "Divorce him."

 Barbra dabbed her tissue to her eye.  "If I divorce him for infidelity I get nothing.  No credit cards, no cars, no alimony.  I'll be penniless."

 "So? You're smart.  You don't need his money.”  Marilyn scoffed.  “Let the lawyers duke it out.  I’m sure you’ll get something.”

 Barbra glared at her.  “And when that’s gone?  What then?  I have never worked a day in my life. I can't start now."

 Marilyn shrugged. "Marry again.  What about the guy you were sleeping with?"

 "He's married." She blew her nose.  "Who will marry me?  I'm forty-four!"

 "You're a beautiful woman.  Guys will be all over you."

 Barbra let out a mirthless laugh.  "But not as rich as Oscar.  I had it all and I threw it away!"  She looked at her reflection in Marilyn's nipple shield.  "Look at me. I'm old!"

 Marilyn covered her shield with her hand.  "No you're not. Now stop crying, you’re making your eyes all baggy."

 Barbra grew horrified at the idea and shielded her eyes. "Oh, no!"

 Marilyn set her lips.  "Now just stop it.  You're beautiful and many men will want you."

 "Oh, easy for you to say."  Barbra scowled.  "You look like you're eighteen."

 "That's the nanites.  Little machines which not only bind the chastity to my body, but also repair everything in my body.  They will make me look this young for a very long time."

 Barbra blinked away a tear. "Really?"

 Marilyn gestured at herself.  “Oh, with nanites in my system, I can have a hundred daiquiris without issue.”  She nodded, laughing gently.  "You think these boobs stay up by themselves?"  Marilyn turned and gave Barbra a profile view.  She relaxed her pose and faced Barbra.  "Do you remember a year ago when I said that I would die without sex?"  Marilyn shrugged.  "I'm not dead!"  She said happily.  "It's funny.  The thing that keeps us apart, have made Michael and I closer.”  She tapped a nail on lower chastity.  "We went from having sex once every six months to sex three times a day."

 Barbra was surprised. "You can have sex?"

 Marilyn rocked her head side to side.  "Not in the conventional way.  I don't have sex.  My pussy and ass are locked up.  But I use my mouth, my hands..."  Marilyn shrugged, making her blimp sized breasts bulge.  "Before, our sex was plain, boring.  Now it's sensual, passionate.”  She shrugged,  "I keep him coming home... if you know what I mean.”  Marilyn winked.

 "But what about you? Your orgasm?"

 Marilyn smiled, refreshed.  "I don't orgasm, per say.  I have these mental thrills that run through me when I feel that hot splash on my neck when Michael comes between my boobs, or unloads deep in my throat."  Marilyn sighed sweetly, her eyes closed.  "We merge together then.  I become in tuned with his passion.  I can feel it."  She opened her eyes.  "I call them, 'Me-gasms'."

 Barbra's mouth hung open. "Are they as good as a regular orgasm?"

 Marilyn looked her in the eye.  "The nanites in my body detect if I tell a lie and hit me with excruciating pain.  So, I can say with all honesty I am addicted to my me-gasms."  She held out her arm.  "Look, I get goose bumps thinking about them!"

 "wow," Barbra said softly.

 Marilyn nodded, and looked at Barbra carefully. "Being without sex is not the hell I thought it would be."

 "You make it sound wonderful."

 Marilyn smiled deeply.  "When Michael and I go to parties, I am the center of attention."  Marilyn leaned in.  "I am a total flirt. It super charges me.  I have to take Michael into the broom closet and suck him off just to keep me until we get home."  Marilyn sighed dreamily.  "I wish he were home now."

 Barbra nodded at the pool boy sweeping up.  "What keeps you from taking the pool boy?”

 "One, I can't lie.  Two, if my body comes in contact with anyone else's sexual fluids I'll have an allergic reaction.  Three, Michael has promised to add more Chasti-locks if I'm caught."  She shrugged.  "So, I'm a good girl."

 Barbra shook her head. "But Oscar is eighty. I don't think he can even get it up anymore."

 "When was the last time you tried?  I mean, worked it?"  Marilyn asked.  "It's like a muscle, the more exercise it gets... Plus, Chasti-Permalock has nanite packages that will keep Oscar humming for years."

 Barbra nodded.  "So you think I should do it?"

 Marilyn shook her head.  "It's not about what I think.  It's your life."

 Barbra sighed.  "I can't give up the money."  She said sadly, then laughed breathlessly.  "And who knows?  Perhaps I'll learn to love the old codger."

 Marilyn dismissed it with a wave of her hand.  "I'll order us some daiquiris and you can think it over."

 "Let's do it now.  Before I change my mind."

 Marilyn shook her head.  "What's the hurry?"

 Barbra stood up and pulled her hair back.  "What's to decide?  I can't give up the money, the cars, the yacht.”  She looked up wishfully at the pool boy picking up towels.  "The massages in the afternoons..."

 Marilyn turned and signaled the pool boy, dismissing him.  "It was the afternoon massages that got you into this."  She stood up and looked at her friend.  "Are you sure you want to do this?”

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