by Louis Friend
Freedom is Slavery
Louis Friend
All rights reserved.
Copyright 2012 by Louis Friend
No part of this e-book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including emailing, printing, photocopying, or faxing without prior written permission from Louis Friend
All Stories Originally Published At www.pornoperson.com
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
WARNING
This e-book is intended for adult readers ONLY.
This work of fiction contains sexually explicit scenes depicting extreme forms of BDSM performed by hetero and homosexual characters. The acts include, but are not restricted to: D/s, bondage, humiliation, flogging, oral sex, anal sex, strap-ons, TENS device, enemas, lactation, golden showers, cuckolding, and forced feminization.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Foreword
Introduction
Freelancing
Sybarta
Big Fun in a Small Space
An Afternoon with Suzie Cocksucker
The Club
Riding the Wave
Open-Minded Wet Nurse
New York After Dark
Anniversary Present
Showtime
Her Little Friend
Clean, Shaven
Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder
The Coupon Book
Between Friends
The Girl in the Mirror
The Forest
High School Bully
Personal Trainer
Daddy’s Boy
My Daddy and Me
An Itch Scratched
Good Night, Paige
Lonely in L.A.
Teacher’s Pet
The Spring Formal
Re-Education
The Houseguest
The Therapist
Dress Rehearsal
Cabaret Encounter
Flappers and Gangsters
Blood Red Saturday Night
Writers’ Conference
Acknowledgments
None of this could have been possible without the women in my life and the inspiration that they brought. I’d like to name them all but have neither the time nor the space. Instead, I’ll specifically thank Dr. Sue for her help in proofreading my stories. I always leave the reader wanting more (I hope), much to her chagrin.
I also want to thank Angela St. Lawrence for all of the help she’s given me in crystallizing my fantasies as well as showing just how common some of them truly are. Thanks, too, to all of the women who have tried to tame me over the years; thank you for failing but being so ardent in your efforts.
Foreword
Once upon a time, there was a boy who loved his fantasies soooo much, that he refused to feel guilty. Oh the fun he had, imagining the filthiest, the dirtiest, the naughtiest (and some would argue nicest) scenarios. He created svelte and leggy transsexuals, exacting Dominatrices, foul-talking FemDommes, and any other imaginary friend that suited his needs. He would kiss them (no doubt French) to life, and then play with them.
They would tie him up, fuck him with dildos and force him to suck cock. They would spank him, tease him, taunt him and cajole him into wearing panties. Some would queen him, shoving their asses down onto his face, while their girlfriends watched and giggled. Others would cuckold the boy, having him fluff and prepare their lovers, then clean up their cream pie cunts.
Eventually playtime would end. The humiliatrixes, the teasing teens, the raunchy bull-dyke man-fuckers, the demanding Goddesses would—poof—disappear ever so gracefully until the next time the boy wanted to play.
And the boy would go back to his important job and be an everyday guy doing everyday guy things. Just like everybody else in the world.
Imagine that!
The business of fantasy is an interesting thing. If you’re masturbating, you’re fantasizing, which means that, more or less, everybody’s doing it. Yet a significant number of us just aren’t ‘fessing up. And even when we do acknowledge our own penchant for a bout of solo sex now and again, we certainly don’t discuss the fantasies that are so very necessary to the act.
Which is a nifty defense mechanism if we happen to be a wee bit small minded, judgmental, or leaning just a tad too much to the right. Because then we can generously overlook (and in some cases totally forget) our own fantasies, while eagerly and even viciously condemning everyone else’s. Which is really just a low down, dirty rotten shame. Because the whole point of fantasizing is the dirt—the kind of stuff you just don’t really want to do as your everyday sexual self.
That sexual fantasy and sexual reality are two different animals seems to be something the sexual snob goblins just can’t get their heads around: Hey you! You over there with your hands across your crotch and aluminum foil wrapped around your skull to keep out the pervert rays: Fantasies are not wishes; they don’t have to come true. Surely most of us have a big enough brains to hold them safely inside, dontcha think?
It’s my contention that the smarter you are—numerical IQ, along with healthy helpings of emotional, mental and spiritual intelligence—the kinkier and more bizarre your fantasy life will be. And what’s so wrong with that? After all, the trite is no less true: the brain is the most powerful sex organ. And if you understand that, ‘nuff said. You know exactly where I’m coming from.
And while we may or may not know the specific etymology behind our psychosexual twists, they are constant and specific, and can be a lot of fun if we accept them for what they are: FANTASY … nothing more, nothing less. So why not enjoy them for what they are: a flight of dirty fancy, a day at the races, a time out, and the occasional Zen orgasm.
Which brings us to this tawdry little collection of stories you are about to read. And I do mean tawdry in a good way. Please do take a lesson from the boy in the above parable and just go with the flow. The only demons here are those you create. Which, if you’re into the succubus fantasy, well then, have at it. But there is a hell of a lot of dirty writing, which is exactly why we are all here, right?
So loosen your tie (or bra), turn down the lights and let the little boy/Porno Person show you his secret world. Be prepared for anything, and make sure you have a cigarette. Even if you don’t smoke, you will want to after we’re done here.
Angela St. Lawrence
July, 2008
www.zenfetish.com
www.literatesmut.net
Introduction
When I visit other cities, I love to check out the seedier side of town and purvey the local adult bookstores, curious to discover some untoward treasure. Like most men, I’ve been ingesting pornography since my late teens.
On my eighteenth birthday my first stop after school (and my complimentary dinner at Mr. Steak) was the nearest adult bookstore, where I quickly forwent the skin rags like Playboy and Penthouse to the scant but wonderful selection of “letters” magazines (Penthouse Variations, Options, etcetera).
Bound up in lurid color covers were tales of debauchery that ignited my brain and my loins. It was that day that I witnessed a whole new vernacular, one that provided terms to help me define what I was and what I could be. It was that day that my cloistered dome began to crack, allowing in notions of “fetish,” “sadomasochism,” “cunnilingus,” and more.
You could say that I’m a man of letters. Years after my first taste of sin, I spent evenings alone in my dormitory spilling my guts to anonymous women I found in the pages of fetish directories. I began to get in touch with myself (pun intended) and learn how to express my dreams, my fantasies, and my desires in the printed form, albeit even cruder than I ha
ve in the tome you are now reading.
Though produced in the Digital Age, this work is a throwback to something I hold dear—homemade magazines cranked out on a typewriter and mimeograph. These crude publications are a wonder. They’re like the underground newspapers of smut. The few that I’ve found deal strictly with one topic or another. They take risks with their material. They’re riddled with atrocious misspellings. They’re the products of obsession.
Freedom is Slavery runs roughly along the same lines, though great pains have been taken to eliminate typos and misspellings. What you’re about to read springs from some of the darkest recesses of my mind. At times it digresses into unadulterated smut. At others, I hope it attains the sublime. I make no apologies for this, though some think I should.
These stories were written over a period of ten years. They’re ordered by theme as best as I could find common threads. Many of them tread similar ground and that’s to be expected as they’re my obsessions; demons that I hope to exorcise or satiate.
Now it’s time to enter the roughly hewn cave of my imagination. It may be dank and a little scary but I hope you may find a little treasure along the way.
Freelancing
Code, Upload, Refresh, Edit, Code, Upload, Refresh, Edit… and so it goes. That’s the life of a web developer. The good thing is that this can be done anywhere with an internet connection. Today I was out of the office and at a little web cafe downtown. It was nice to be in a more relaxed atmosphere, sipping my chai latte and making some lovely web pages.
You know that feeling on the back of your neck when you know someone’s watching you? It took me a while to realize that it was nagging at me since I was so in the ‘zone’ working. I wished that I had one of those geeky rearview mirrors on my laptop so I could see who was spying on me without turning my head. Instead, I played it ‘cool’ and went back to the counter for a refill. Glancing around as casually as I could, I noticed a stunning woman.
She had incredibly long legs and I wondered how tall she was naturally. I knew that her height would be boosted by the thick heels of her black boots. Black seemed to be her main wardrobe choice as it comprised her stockings, her skirt, her blouse, and the elbow-length gloves. It was also the color of her wild hairdo that stood out in fronds like an electrified palm tree, the black set off how pale her skin was, as did the blood red slash of her lipstick.
She was reading a Joyce Carol Oates book but I caught her eye when she looked up. Great; now I looked like the person staring at her, rather than vice versa. I smiled and looked away.
Back at my laptop, she waited a few minutes before striding over and asking if the seat next to me was taken. Indeed, she was very tall. Her voice was higher than I imagined, almost childlike. She had a slight lisp that came from her big smile. I nodded and she took a chair.
She began asking me about web development and asked if I freelanced. She had a site that she needed building. I suppressed a sigh. Web development is typically viewed by the general public as either being hardcore voodoo or so simplistically simple that anyone can do it. I prefer the people that think it’s voodoo as they don’t start throwing out phrases like, “I build my whole site in FrontPage.” However, the voodoo people often think that making a website can be done by some ritual sacrifice and waving a magic wand. It’s difficult to the layman, but a walk in the park for the high priests and priestesses of the web.
That said, I tend to not freelance much. It’s the rare person who appreciates that the lion’s share of web development is getting all of the information possible up front in order to create specifications and stick to those. Too many people want to say, “Oh, and I want a page that does this…” when the build is 90% done. And, too many think that web development is all about attention-grabbing. “Can you make that animate?” is the question so many of us dread to hear.
I started giving this attractive lady my spiel about needing to define her business objectives and writing an outline of all the things her site would need before we even proceeded. To my surprise she took a notebook out of her oversized purse and asked, “Like this?” She laid out an entire site map along with pages of copy that had been heavily edited. I was amazed. And I was more than a little baffled as I started to read what her site was about.
“Yes… something exactly like that.”
“I’ve been working on this site my head for the last few months but haven’t taken the plunge to get it built. Would you be willing to help me? What are your rates?”
I usually work with clients whose product I like and try to work out a favorable agreement in trade. I told her that and added, “But I don’t know what you do, yet.”
She gave a hearty belly laugh, doubling over and covering her mouth with her hands to try to stifle it. Finally, her laughter subsided and she wiped her eyes of tears. She opened her notebook to another page and told me to look it over and that she’d be back after getting some more coffee.
The page was filled with a lot of terms and acronyms I couldn’t get my head around. There were mentions of “Greek,” “French,” “Russian,” and other things that didn’t seem like salad dressing though much of the page seemed like a menu. “GFE,” “PSE,” “BDSM” were listed in one column with numbers in another. Meanwhile, terms like “DATY,” “DFK,” and “MSOG,” were listed in another area. It might as well have been written in Sanskrit for as much sense as I made out of it and, upon her return, I told her as much.
“I know you don’t know me yet but if you trust me, I can assure you that you’ll figure it all out and will love the way I pay you,” she said with a large smile.
I don’t know why I did it but I shook her hand and introduced her to her new web developer.
Her name was Zoe. She had a lot of tattoos under those black clothes. I found that out the next day as she sat next to me in her living room. I tend to insist on having my clients work with me in order to have immediate answers and feedback. I found out about the tattoos from the photos on Zoe’s computer that she was sending to me via email. They were of her in various states of undress.
Things finally started to clear up for me when I began populating pages and came across this statement:
“Money exchanged is for companionship and modeling services only. Anything else that may occur is a matter of personal choice between two or more consenting adults of legal age, and is not contracted for, nor is it requested to be contracted for or compensated for in any manner. This is not an offer for prostitution.”
I read those words and lifted my head to see Zoe already looking at me, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth.
“You’re….”
Seeing me struggling for words she finished my sentence, “An escort. No moral objections, I hope?”
“No, none at all. I find it rather admirable and, well, intriguing.”
“Go ahead and ask me anything. I’m going to take notes and see if there’s anything I can use for my Frequently Asked Questions page,” she chuckled.
I spent the next hour or more haranguing her with questions; everything from safe sex to protocol to troublesome clients. Zoe answered everything with candor. The last question I had for her was the toughest of them all.
“So, when you said that you were… how did you… we talked a bit about payment?” I asked, fumbling over the words, afraid of being gauche.
Zoe smiled. She took the gum out of her mouth and put it on the rim of her coffee cup. She stood up—looming over me, even without her heels on—and came over to my chair. She swiveled me to face her before dropping to her knees. She looked into my eyes as her hands worked my belt, pants button, and zipper. By the time she took my penis out of my underwear it was already completely hard. She kept her eyes locked with mine as she started to stroke me.
“Do you want the nice French or can you take more?”
Not exactly sure what she meant by that I volunteered a fact that I hadn’t shared with anyone else before, “I… I don’t mind some teeth.”
Her eyebrows raised and she smiled widely. “Okay, you tell me if it gets too intense. And, before you ask, you’re allowed to cum in my mouth if you want.”
She lowered her mouth to my cock and took it all into her mouth. She began getting it as wet as she could, taking it out and spitting on it before licking it up one side and down the other. I’d never been spit on but I found it vaguely erotic to watch as she lubricated me this way. Normally I felt self-conscious watching as I received oral sex but I knew that Zoe not only wanted me to watch but that she enjoyed being looked at as she worked my cock like a pro.
She stuffed so much of my cock into her mouth that she also put my balls inside. She breathed through her nose as I felt her tongue slipping under my balls and back over them. She slurped and gagged a bit before taking it out again. She looked up at me as she slipped just the head into her mouth. I felt the slight bite from her teeth. I nodded and she bit down harder. I nodded again and she slid her teeth down the length of my cock, scratching and biting all the way. It felt painful but, oddly pleasing at the same time.
Down at the base of my cock, Zoe bit hard and sucked harder, creating a vacuum around me that caused her cheeks to sink in. I never usually do this, but I put my hands in her dyed black hair and held her in that position. She began to gag and I loosened my grip. She reached up quickly and pushed one of my hands against her head, letting me know that it was okay to do this. I held her down as she gurgled and bit harder, I knew that she was telling me that she was still in charge of the scenario even though my cock was down her throat.
She nodded her head a bit and I let go of her hair as she came up for air. She winked at me and we did it all again; the only difference was that I held onto her hair tighter and pushed harder, getting even more of me down her throat.
I could feel myself getting closer to the brink of orgasm. I remembered her words about it being okay to cum in her mouth. I was so glad that she gave me this permission as it relieved the stress—not knowing, holding back, and wondering. I also knew that she didn’t expect reciprocation. I’d never had a blowjob that didn’t require some kind of “payback.” This time, however, I knew that I was paying her back by building her website. With that, I leaned back and groaned, allowing myself to enjoy every sensation as she coaxed an orgasm out of me.