by Willow Sears
I know I should expend less energy on Ariadne and more on others that actually want me, but I cannot seem to. In truth I do already have a girlfriend of sorts–at least she would like to think of herself as that. I don’t see her too often because she’s from the States and when she’s not there she is off gallivanting around the globe. We text every day and talk fairly frequently, although this is more at her instigation than mine, a fact that often leaves me shrinking with guilt. She should be close to perfect, really. She is so sweet natured, warm and kind. She is very funny, quirky and surprising, hugely creative and intelligent. She is also strong-minded and independent, although she absolutely adores giving herself to me to do with as I will.
She shares my love of fashion and design. She has striking looks, a body that is fit and petite, and a lovely arse that perhaps comes out in public a little more often than I would like. Oh, and she is fast becoming one of the biggest-selling pop stars in the world, a veritable superstar no less. She is besotted with me and would love to cement our relationship if only she could, and if I would let her. But there is always this thing, this big Ariadne-shaped wall getting between us, stopping me from seeing straight.
I can’t divulge this pop star girlfriend’s name for obvious reasons (not that she is publically any more coy about her bisexuality than I am), but you will doubtless either see or hear of her in the media on any given week of the year, as sure as you will catch yourself idly humming one of her songs. I don’t want to give any clue to her identity, so I shall simply call her “X”, although if I don’t start paying her a bit more attention than “Ex” will be more appropriate. If I wasn’t so stupid then she would be my one and only lover, especially since I am rapidly losing faith that any man is capable of being my perfect match in mind or in body.
I should throw in my lot and be with her because she is fundamentally what I both need and want. However, for some twisted reasoning known only to some stubborn, blinkered part of my brain, she is neither the person I go to sleep hoping to dream about, nor the one already in my mind when I awake. Someone else gets that privilege, although they scarcely deserve it, nor do I even know that person well enough to judge her suitability as a life partner or even as a lover. I just cannot help but see Ariadne as my destiny, especially since I had the dream in which she appears as my fellow highway-whore. I am convinced we were together before in some past existence and our souls have been travelling down the centuries in various guises, trying to find each other again. Clearly Ariadne does not see things the same way.
I met X a couple of years ago in New York, when I was already established in certain fashion circles but before she had hit the big time. She asked me to create some costumes for her and I agreed, even though she couldn’t afford the prices I would normally charge. I assented in her case because I liked her feistiness and vision. I cannot truthfully say that I fell for her looks in any way back then and I actually refused to fuck her during those first weeks. However, the more I get to know her, the more attractive she becomes in all ways, and I now consider her quite beautiful.
When she was supporting another band on the European leg of their tour we met up again and she asked me to design some more costumes (she never confines these creations to her stage shows–she seems to wear them every day!). She flew in from Paris especially to meet me in advance of the tour reaching Britain. I took her to SaMmy’s and wore one of my first leather dildo cat suits, which she absolutely adored. I ended up giving the suit its first test-run, spanking and then fucking her over the hood of my Porsche down some dark back street at three in the morning. The night of her first UK gig (although no-one would have noticed except maybe a couple of her girl backing singers) on my instructions she sang one particular song with her hand down the back of her silver hot pants and her middle finger inserted in her arse. If she wasn’t already besotted with me, she was after that.
X is quite simply one of the dirtiest bitches you could ever hope to meet. Her rudeness can shock even me, and I thought I was a connoisseur of depravity. With women (but not with men) she always wants to be submissive. She loves to be abused physically and mentally, by me at least. She is one of the few girls to have seen my pussy for any length and with any real close scrutiny in daylight, and she kisses it like she could never love anything else as much again. She is addicted to my come and will happily play with my puss for hours just to coax more of it from me. She wants to bathe in it, drink it, and have me spray it inside her. She even likes to have me squirt it into pots or jugs so that she can pour it over her dyed blonde hair. One time when she was gigging at the other end of the country she sent down a minion with a written plea for me to squirt some of my come juice into the bottle provided, so that she could drink it during her performance and pour the rest over her head! I declined her request in this instance. If memory serves, I held her minion hostage for a couple of days, strung him up for a few whippings, took a mould of his cock and created a plastic copy of it and then stuck it up his arse and fucked him with it. I told him I was just carrying out his employer’s wishes, taken from the letter he had delivered. I sent him back with the bottle full of Kitty’s piss and only later told X the origins of the contents once she had admitted to drinking it down. Kitty is to this day unaware that her urine has been unwittingly gulped down by one of the pop world’s most famous faces.
X likes to be bum, tit and pussy spanked, and she likes to be spat on, particularly if you do it into her open mouth and then slap her face afterwards. And she loves anal sex. Apparently no man has ever been in her behind but now she wouldn’t have me take her any other way. After the first few pussy-fuckings I gave her, she literally got down on her knees and begged me to do her bottom for her. She even helped design a new dildo-suit for me, in tight black PVC. The dildo is nine inches long and very slender. It is ramrod straight and finishes not with a false glans but with the head of a woman, like the figurehead on a ship, her long hair streaming back down the shaft like she is sailing into the wind, and her mouth wide open, with a tiny tongue just poking out. X likes me to deposit a whole bottle of oil up her backside and then fuck her slowly and surely until she has taken all of the dildo and her rump is squashed against me. She can come almost continuously with me in her bum, shuddering and gasping until she is quite delirious.
Between us we have designed and produced a whole range of dildo suits and hot pants for girls to use on each other. Inside, at X’s insistence, is fitted a very soft ridged rubber pad so that the wearer can have her clit pressed and stimulated, keeping her thoroughly entertained for long periods as she dishes out her shagging. The dildos are made in the shape of mermaids, or huge, perky-breasted Amazons. There is now also a naked Joan of Arc with praying hands clasped to her bosom, and a topless Cleopatra, clutching an asp to her breast. X also wants to do a thicker version in the form of a kind of bare Barbie-like dildo-doll, complete with synthetic blonde tresses–clearly a nod in the direction of her strange penchant for soaking her hair in pussy juice. We also want to do a whole range of figures with the faces of famous beautiful women and dykons, but we need to sort out the legal issues and perfect a way of making them look close to the real thing, and less like something out of The Evil Dead. We have successfully made only one so far and, although we don’t yet advertise the fact, any girl on the end of one of these dildos will actually be having her bottom plugged by a mini effigy of X.
She likes to film us fucking and is even more vocal with the cameras running, giving a running commentary begging me to fill her ass to her belly, to fuck the shit out of her, to use her like the trashy piss-whore that she is. She likes to use two or three cameras simultaneously to provide different angles for her subsequent edit. It’s usually only my lower half that gets filmed but she is completely carefree with her own anonymity, always having one camera focused closely on her face. She likes to mouth words at the camera, which I didn’t hear at the time and only get to see once she has posted me the disc. Sometimes, when the camera catches he
r face etched with ecstasy, she adds rude subtitles like: I want your whole fist up my cunt, or please make me lick your dirty ass clean. Most times she just mouths the same three words, I love you. It’s the only the time she ever says it to me.
She sometimes sends me films of her masturbating, stripping off outrageous costumes to brazenly rub her shaven pussy as she gives me a spoken commentary of how much she wants me and all the dirty things she will do for me if I make her mine. One film showed her from behind, her kneeling on the floor, a long glistening cucumber held upright between her heels as she rode her oiled pussy up and down upon it. Another showed her laying a female mannequin dressed in a pair of my dildo-hot pants onto her bed and then readying herself into a plastic potty before mounting the dummy and taking the dildo up her dirty bottom. She can make me shudder from head to toe with her rudeness.
She knows I watch her films again and again, although I never tell her. I have my own wealth but she stands to be a millionaire many, many times over. The opportunity for blackmail is obviously enormous but she just doesn’t seem to care. Actually, I would never remotely consider doing it to her but she cannot know that. She is basically laying her fame, her livelihood, her huge chance in life on the line just for me, so either she trusts me implicitly or she secretly welcomes ruination at my hands.
Infatuation or love can make you do rash and stupid things. I should do the sensible thing and just be with her, but I don’t. If you want to hate me for anything then hate me for the fact that I have waiting at my doorstep the one person my soul needs, the one person who will make me happy and complete, who I can trust with my body and my insecurities. She is my biggest inspiration, the one who can make me swell with pride, think and laugh and come in any given hour, and yet I won’t just open up and let her in. I hate myself for it, or rather I detest whatever it is inside me that diverts the spark I should feel for her and makes me feel it for someone else.
I miss her badly sometimes. I remember everything she is and suddenly feel the void at my centre, feel the fury with myself at trying to fill it with someone undeserving. It makes me want to spit and scream, just like it does now. Her music is pumping through the sound system and has the dance floor packed. Everyone is laughing and gyrating and loudly singing along to her and I want to grab a microphone and shout yes, but I’ve actually fucked her! She loves me! It sounds so desperate, even in my head, especially when I’ve just dragged myself all the way across town only to have my face slapped. I rarely go to Pink Paradise these days as it just isn’t as classy as SaMmy’s and their champagne is always warm and nasty. Tonight, however, is Pussies Night, where only submissive men are allowed and the girls have to dress up as cats. I thought it an ideal opportunity to display some costumes from my new Mean Mistress collection.
Knowing Ariadne would be going I sent her a design I had spent ages on, one even more show-stopping than the one I chose for myself. It is a kind of super-heroine suit in shiny pink leopard-skin vinyl with a chunky zip going from crotch to neck, and a short pink flap like a cape attached to the shoulders. It has a matching utility belt with slings and containers to carry cuffs and clamps, a couple of dildo holsters and such like, all of which is carefully colour co-ordinated. At the rear is a built-in leopard’s tail that cost a fortune to have made. It is in cock-thick pink gel latex which hangs to the floor and is bendy enough to grab hold of and take around to your front and then use as either a dildo or as a weapon to beat wrong doers. If you lift the tail there is a small aperture in the suit, which shows off your anus if you stick your arse right out. On your back you wear a little rucksack-cum-harness which holds a bottle of champagne upside down. The neck fits into a nozzle within the harness and this in turn is attached to a tube that runs inside the suit down to your bottom where a longer, thinner nozzle can be inserted inside you. The wearer is able to release a valve that lets the champagne run down to give a shivering, fizzy, private enema. When full the dirty cat can bend over, raise her tail and spray-shower anyone she chooses. I thought it was utter genius. I even sent her the pointy cat ears and a pair of pink boots to wear with it, and what did she do? She came as Catwoman, just like she did the last time.
She looks sexy, but I feel massively rebuffed. Any glances I get from her are quickly gone and she can’t stifle her sly smile of contentment once she looks away again. I should go over and punch her in the face but I’m so wobbly on my platform, spike-heeled boots that I would probably end up veering off and crashing down the steps into a graceless heap upon the dance floor. That is the worst part: that I am sitting here in my version of the costume, feeling like I have a giant neon sign above my head flashing out the words Dumb, Misguided Fool. You see, I’m wearing a similar suit in the same pink leopard skin. Mine is open in a V all the way up from belly to shoulders, exposing my breasts except for the little cat-head shaped pasties covering my nipples. I have the same cat ears and also the same gel tail, except my suit has no hole to spurt from; that was to be her party-piece alone. We should be forming some kind of dynamic duo, a pair of peerless heroine Dommes in matching costumes. But instead it’s just silly me, one pathetic half of a double act that was never meant to be, and she knows it. She wears my defeat all over her smug face as she talks theatrically to her courtiers and steadfastly ignores me. I am bristling with resentment and that means that somebody, very soon, is going to pay.
Lilya was vying for my attention. She is a bleached blonde with pretty Eastern European looks and a fit body. I cannot guess her age. She could be anywhere between her late twenties and early forties. Her body is dancer-lithe and seems young but her nipples are rose-pink spreads over her small tits and can grow to more than an inch long when erect. She has thin marks on her body, scars gathered from whips or canes over the years. And then there’s her cunt. It is a long gash guarded by plump lips, which hang as heavy morsels begging to be eaten. She can stretch impossibly, something that surely requires years of abuse. I saw her once at a party, strapped to the host’s horizontal cruciform fuck-bench. Her wrists were chained and she was held at the neck by a plastic strap that could be tightened by a ratchet wheel. Men queued up to fuck her. Each one was allowed to tighten her neck strap one click. She had a clip on her nose to impair her breathing and force her mouth to stay open. All she had to do was outlast each man to earn more cock. As soon as she came she was to be released.
One by one big cocks stuffed her luscious cunt and one by one they had to pull out to rain their spunk loads into her mouth. Halfway through a fat arsed bitch was ordered to sit on Lilya and ride her face, if only to smear the excess semen over a greater area and stop her looking so downright mucky. She even took that smothering. With her face growing ever redder from lack of oxygen she bravely held back through another set of cocks including a monstrous black length as thick as my forearm. When the men were exhausted massive dildos were called upon, and then fists. It was compellingly grotesque to watch. She finally let herself come, purple and practically dead from asphyxiation, with both the host’s hands up inside her, holding a tangerine between his palms. I once told her in jest that I wanted to hang her by her neck and fuck her up the bum while the life drained out of her. She comes to me once in a while, hoping that I was being serious.
She was nearly naked tonight and had attracted a tall man with an oiled and very athletic body; a fine specimen. He was wearing boots and a short rubber kilt in black, which has just started to rise and define the long, thick prick beneath it. He wouldn’t particularly strike me as any kind of wimp, apart from the fact that he also wore a bizarre, smiling Mickey Mouse head, which must have been stolen from an employee of Disneyland. Around his neck was a tight chain bearing a cage-like locket of the type just becoming fashionable in the clubs. Most times the guys carry condoms or cock rings, as a sign of their willingness to fuck. Some more confident types have little boxes or sachets containing their coke, or acid tab or Viagra supply for the night. Mickey was being a bit different: he was carrying a small cube of hard cheese,
reminding me of a little torture I hadn’t inflicted for some time.
I decided that these two would provide my entertainment for the evening. I would have been cautious about Mickey Mouse, since he didn’t have the body or bearing of a wimp, but on Pussies Night no man is allowed to say no or not do as instructed. I wanted to stay longer, so it didn’t look like I had stormed off in a huff. I wouldn’t normally fetch my own drinks but Ariadne was pissing me off royally with her show of disinterest in all things me, so I teetered off to join the little crush at the bar. On my approach a short figure turned into me holding two glasses of champagne which he nearly deposited all over my tits. I almost screeched with my indignant rage but just managed to rein it in. I stood there holding my breath, looking down at the pathetic figure in front of me. I could make out the alarm in the eyes peering through the cut out slits in his mask. I might have remembered them from last time but his costume gave the game away anyway.
“Blueberry, you fat beach ball fuck!” I exclaimed. “I thought I said I never wanted to see you again!”
He tried to splutter his excuses but couldn’t, which to be fair to him was hardly surprising since this club was far from my usual haunt and he could hardly be expected to guess my every move. I grabbed one of the champagne glasses and slurped a mouthful, regardless of who his intended recipient was meant to be. I almost spat it back in his face.
“It’s warm, Blueberry, you useless blobby bastard! Can you do nothing right?”
I turned away with the ire almost bringing tears to my eyes. I went back to my table with as much grace as my boots would allow me, although for all my efforts at elegance, most witnesses would probably just think that I had pissed my pants. When I sat down I realised that Blueberry had trailed after me like some lost dog, perhaps hoping to retrieve the champagne I had taken from him. I was too exasperated to chide him further and you can’t help but feel sorry for a tiny-cocked nonsense whose fetish wardrobe runs to one single costume, and even that makes him look like a distended fruit. I gulped the rest of my drink and took the other glass off Blueberry. I was feeling edgy and vindictive, which spelled trouble for my followers. I left with Lilya and Mickey. I didn’t invite Blueberry but he trailed silently along anyway. It was a decision I planned to make him regret.