Sex Object
By DX

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

A teaser.
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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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Hand on Scripture

By DX

A man meets a beautiful woman, but she is betrothed to a Prince and secured in Chasti-Permalocks until she marries.  If she doesn’t, she will face the full might of Chasti-Permalocks!  Who will she marry, or live in permanent chastity?

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https://subscribestar.adult/posts/942702

Copyright 1/2018 6/2023 all rights reserved.  May not be reproduced without prior written permission from the author.

 Sitting on a bench, overlooking the grassy quad, I watched with bemused eyes as an invisible wind god scooped up a girl’s stack of papers and ran madly through the grass, scattering them as he went.  She frantically chased the pages drifting in the air like snow in early winter.  She wore a gray and black jilbab, a long tailored coat of Middle Eastern wear, and its hem dashed around her ankles and bogged her down, frustrating her attempts to grab her work.  Other students were giving chase trying to catch the sheaves of paper, but the god of wind mischievously plucked them out of reach.

 As the god of wind ran past me, I slowly rose, grunting, and calmly, carefully, reached up and snagged them one by one.  Peeved, the god of wind sensed the game was over and dropped them all, scattering them like fall leaves across the grass.

 The students gathered them all up and brought them to me, their professor, as a central drop off point, and I jotted them all neatly for the girl to reclaim.  She was panting as she came up, winded from her mad dash.  I noted she wore a black and red Hajib over her head, and a black Niqab, a black scarf that covered her face but left her eyes exposed.

 She looked up as I handed her the pages.

 I knew it was rude in some cultures to look a woman in the eye and I tried desperately to avert my gaze but the instant I saw them, that flash of expansive, expressive, melted chocolate and star burst hazel eyes, I fell headlong into them.

 Through sheer will I looked down at my hands and the papers they held.  “Here you are.”  I said with a cough.  “To your pile I add one more.”  I laid a flyer on top of her pages, trying not to marvel at the creamy skin of her hands.  “I’m doing a talk tomorrow at the Warren Building on the Byzantine economic structure and its ramifications on free market today, to a bunch of dust covered academics.  A lethally boring topic, I’m sure.”  I smiled, still looking at her hands.  “Tell your friends!  They can cheer me on and help keep me awake.”

 She nodded, placing a hand on the flyer.  I tried not to react when her hand, warm and soft, brushed mine.  She then touched her heart, again nodding.  I returned the standard Arabic gesture.  She nodded again and walked away, her classmates chittering around her.

 I sat back down on my bench and unwrapped my lunch.  As I ate, I watched the students wander off, confident I would never see her again.

 The following night, as I addressed the facility about Byzantine economics, I was shocked to see her looking up at me from the front row of the audience, her eyes, her mystical, powerful eyes peering up at me.  She had with her a cadre of other students, most bored out of their minds before I even spoke.  I focused on my talk, dipping into my passion reserves, to try to sell the importance of the topic, and got a surprising, rousing applause at the conclusion.  I had even won over some of the kids who asked poignant and relative questions after.

 She had said nothing.

 I tried not to be aware of her magical eyes during the talk or during the question and answer phase, but it was impossible; sharp and aware like a jungle cat, filled with shades of darkness like an anti-rainbow.

 All I could see of her was her eyes.

 And that was enough.

 I soon learned her name was Malika, and she was an Islamic studies research associate and not a student.  She was in her early thirties and engaged to be married to an Arabic Prince.

 A Prince.  Of course.

 I chided myself for being a silly old man.  What was I thinking?  Well, the obvious, of course--those wondrous, wondering, and wonderful eyes.  Either way, my talk on Byzantine economics must have been pretty good.

 She popped up again during another of my talks, sitting in the front row.  She also stayed for the Q&A and the refreshment phase.  I never saw her eat or drink anything, but I simply chalked that up to dietary restrictions.  She had a friend, a charming blonde girl with dual hearing aids, who seemed to be a confidant and bodyguard.  I knew her as staff from the math department.  Eve.

 I chided myself for calling them, ‘girls’.  They were certainly women and paid faculty staff.  Being in my (cough) early fifties, anyone in their thirties began to look like children to me, Eve especially.

 I, as a proper teacher, did what I was supposed to do.  Encourage them academically and professionally and otherwise ignore them.

 Ah!  Those eyes!  I treated myself.  That small slice between her scarf and her veil was a full turkey dinner.  Through glances from the side of my vision, I dinned.

 Malika and Eve popped up at more functions and even during lectures, and I noticed that although Malika never spoke, the two seemed to communicate.  I also noted that Malika would always stand between Eve and me.  I experimented, casually standing next to Eve, and within moments Malika gracefully, subtly positioned herself between us.  I then tried the experiment on other women, older and younger, and each time Malika would somehow, her ninja powers brimming, find herself closest to me.

 When I expanded the test to men, and the same result occurred, I quipped.  “Keep this up and people will talk.”

 But she only looked at me as she always did, her dream filled eyes studying me, and I shamefully adored the attention.

 She never seemed to acknowledge when I spoke to her, almost as if she didn’t hear me.  While speaking with Eve, noting her hearing aids, it dawned on me that Malika was deaf.  This suddenly explained why she was watching me.  She was reading my lips, I assumed.  Well, we all know what happens when one assumes.

 I met up Professor Washington, a language teacher, and began studying American Sign Language.  I only hoped Malika knew it.  Arabic Sign language was different than American.

 When I met her again at a semester end faculty party I signed, Hello, how are you?

 Her face lit up and her hands flashed and I had to stop her and sign, Student, which practically exhausted my vocabulary.

 She nodded and began a lesson, pointing to glasses and forks and trays and signing the words for them as the party went along around us.  As I watched her, I realized she was a beautiful, intelligent woman who saw me as a safe, respecting friend, something rather rare in a male dominated academic world where women with doctorates were still expected to fetch the coffee.  Most men knowing her betrothal gave her a wide berth, but with me she could have a person to talk to like proper adults, someone who understood her culture.  She saw me as an ally and I accepted my role happily.  It allowed me to continue to satiate on her eyes in the edge of my vision.

 While my lesson continued, her boss, Margaret Cho, stepped over.  “Malika?  Eve may have gotten a hold of bad oysters.”

 Malika bowed to me, hand on heart, and walked off following Margret.  I figured I would not see her again for the evening and indulged in Euan MacTugg’s whiskey tasting, but Malika was back at my elbow by the second drink.  I signed, Ok?  And she answered, Eve is all right.

 With index finger and pinky extended on both hands, she crossed her hands, taping her wrists together.  She then spelled out the word, alcohol.  She then declined any, simply enjoying watching us.

 After the sixth round of drinks the party was well over and Eve was no where around.  I signed to Malika, Eve?  And she responded, Home.

 Margaret was blitzed, as were the rest of the staff, and Euan asked if I could see Malika home.  Everyone knew my answer and everyone expected the next words out of my mouth.

 “Of course, most certainly, if Malika will mind my company.”  And as gently as I could manage I said:  “But it still distresses me to know that in the hallowed grounds of intellectualism of this esteemed and ivory league campus, a member of staff or student is not safe to walk home at night.”

 Everyone politely nodded, not wanting to get into an argument they all agreed on while three sheets to the wind.  We said our goodbyes, and Malika and I headed out into the night.

 It was cool, but we were properly dressed.  Knowing full well she couldn’t hear me I talked about the history of the campus which ultimately got me on the subject of campus security and the truth of women being sexually assaulted in the one place they should be the safest.  I felt guilty for taking advantage of the situation as I got to spend time with her aura, her gaze.  She tended to walk behind me and I would stop and wait for her to walk beside me.  When she did, she pointedly averted her gaze, as appropriate.  I did walk closest to the curb.  The irony was not lost on me.

 It was a winding college path, about a half-mile to the apartments where the associates lived.  I still had a lovely mile to walk home.  Nice weather and quiet, I looked forward to muttering to myself, arguing with the night.  If I timed it right, I would not be quite sober before I topped off from my own cache of Scotch at home.

 At the front of her apartment I signed Goodnight.  She touched her hand to her heart and nodded.  I responded, smiled and turned away.

 She grabbed my elbow.

 As I turned around I realized how close she was.  She was looking down.  I instinctively stepped back but she stepped forward, clutching my arm.

 She looked up into my eyes.

 A cobra can freeze its prey with a glance and I thought of that as the dim street light flashed in her eyes.

 We stood there for, I don’t know how long.  I could feel her hand on my arm.  I could feel the tiny space between us.  I could feel the cool night.  I could feel her eyes cast upon mine.

 They were sad and wondering and confused and fascinated and terrified.

 She reached up and touched my face, my beard, my lips.

 She stepped closer.

 Her breasts were up against me.  I stood like a statue, unable to do the professorly thing and step back, nod regally, stoically, and run like hell.  Her arms moved like serpents, sliding around me, hugging me.  I tentatively touched her shoulder only so I wouldn’t look like a proper goober.  I allowed her warmth to flow through me before I motioned to break.  She didn’t for several seconds longer.

 Free, I nodded and smiled weakly.  I went to say, Goodnight, then run for my life, but she stopped me by placing a finger across my lips, shushing me. 

 Freezing me.

 Her eyes locked on mine.  She reached up and pulled down her Niqab.

 Like the Fox and the Sour Grapes I had imagined she had a bare-knuckle boxer’s nose, flat and misshapen, and a witch’s wart complete with hair sticking out the end, but instead it was perfect in every way, narrow and chiseled.  I had imagined her mouth to be bulging fire hose ringing around a smashed picket fence of teeth but like her nose it wasn’t what I expected.

 Nothing like I had imagined at all.

 She looked at me defiantly, proudly.

 There was a shining disk of gold where her mouth should be.  Contoured to the curve of her face, an escutcheon from the bottom of her nose to the top of her chin somehow glued in place.

 Before I could speak she grabbed my lapels and pulled me down as she rose up on her toes and placed her metal plate against my lips.  It was as anyone would expect, like kissing metal.  

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Copyrighted 6/2023 all rights reserved