by Willow Sears
The package came almost as soon as she had left. I was all set to lie down and masturbate over images of me fucking naked Stephanie over my table whilst she nonchalantly smoked her cigarette, when the doorbell rang. The package was from X, another of her home-made DVDs. If these ever fell into the wrong hands she was in big trouble, but she sent them anyway, just to keep the intimacy going between us. The film started with a tight focus shot of a single lit red candle–long, slim and tapered, the background colourful but indistinguishable. The shot gradually opened and refocused so that the background came into view. It took a little while to be identifiable but suddenly it was clear: a female wearing a leather mask decorated with stars and stripes, like the kind you might see on a pro wrestler. It covered the whole head but cut away to expose the mouth, and this was set in a wide smile and was painted with glossy red lipstick. Even before the mouth opened to sing I thought I knew who it was, even though you could barely see the face. In her best husky, sexy voice, the wrestler delivered her version of “Happy Birthday to You”. Behind the mask, undoubtedly, was the Diva.
The song jolted through me and sent my blood fizzing. I had forgotten X’s birthday. I had bought and wrapped her gift but it still sat on the table waiting to be posted. I had been so preoccupied with Ariadne and Harvey that I had completely overlooked it. What a bitch I am! The Diva’s blonde hair had been taken through a hole in the top of the mask and was splayed out around her head, indicating that she was in fact lying on the floor and so the candle was horizontal, apparently being held a foot or so above her. She finished her song and grinned broadly, then opened her mouth, stuck out her wet tongue and caught a drip of blue wax from the candle upon it, which made her gasp and smile even more. The camera then panned slowly back and moved around, losing sight of the Diva and righting itself, following a dark shape until it panned out to reveal a delicious chocolate-skinned bare bottom, pushed right out so that the cheeks were splayed apart to show a neat puffy pussy and the candle, held securely by a tight anus. The camera loomed over the soft-looking bum and then travelled along the flank of the bent-over human candlestick, showing her Lycra wrestling suit had been unbuttoned at the crotch but was still in place and covering her lithe upper body. She too wore a mask, in black with red and orange flames upon it, and she too had a big smile for the camera. Again, her identity was hidden but I knew it was the half-caste model, the Diva’s girlfriend.
The film jump-cut and there was my X, her mouth held open by a thin strip of bright red plastic secured around her head. She was wearing a multicoloured paper crown and her heavy eye make-up was smudged as if she had been crying. The camera again panned out to show her in all her glory. She was naked except for a choke collar, a pair of knee length boots in shining black plastic, and a cross of black insulation tape over each nipple. The Diva moved into shot carrying a cream-covered birthday cake. Her star-spangled leotard had been unclipped at the crotch and pulled up around her middle, the same as the models, and she wore long laced boots in white with large platform heels–not much good for wrestling!
It was lovely to see her little bare arse. It was one I had fantasized about a number of times, and X knew this. She squatted down to show X the cake and I just caught a glimpse of her shaven quim. She grinned wickedly at the camera and then deposited the cake onto X’s face, cream side down. She then stood astride X facing the camera, proudly displaying the thin slit of her cunt, and then slowly lowered her backside down onto the cake, squashing it into my girlfriend’s face and grinding her hips to mash the spongy mess in.
The Diva was a right little booty shaker and X got a right face-full before the weight was lifted and she could be seen again, smeared with cream and sponge and jam. She looked up at the camera all forlorn. How could I be such a thoughtless bitch? I checked the time and saw that the situation was still salvageable. She would be waking up soon so I would ring to wish her happy birthday then. I would ask her if she liked her gift and be all upset and angry with the postal service when she said that nothing came. I send her stuff all the time so at least it looks like I am generally thinking about her, even if it’s not always the case. I wouldn’t mention her DVD until tomorrow at the earliest, to enforce the idea that the post was not to be trusted, and so that it didn’t seem to be acting as a reminder. In fact I would text her right now, so that she had it when she woke up. And I would send her gift today, right after I had finished talking to her and watching this sexy film (and after I had wanked, of course). I reckoned I could get away with it.
The Diva was obviously now taking her turn at the camera because the focus was on the model’s bum with the candle still sticking out of it, hovering this time above X’s groin. My dirty girlfriend’s upper body had been spattered with wax, not just from the red bum-held one but also from unseen blue and white ones, so that her belly and breasts, her neck and shoulders were all dotted with little splashes, like starbursts on her soft skin. She was slowly pressing and pulling at her puss, rubbing it in slow circles. She then raised her hips from the floor and splayed her pussy open with two fingers to show the pale pink of her vagina, and held it up towards the bottom above her. The red drip was clearly visible falling from the candle tip and landing inside her open quim. She gasped and writhed, clutching her sizzling parts as she took the burn, and then she settled and smiled proudly, and opened herself up once more.
She took five or six drips inside her, one of which disappeared from view, going right in her rather than landing on the smooth membranes just inside her entrance. Then the film jump-cut again and she was lying on her front, writing I Love You Forever onto a strip of paper in black marker pen, rolling the message up and placing it inside a slim metal canister which, once screwed back together at its centre, proved to be a long silver bullet. She then got onto her back once more, pushed the bullet completely inside her little puss and then held her hips up so that the Diva could drip more wax onto the this time tightly closed labia, the wax landing in little splats that made X flinch but slowly and surely covered her slit, creating a seal. She was barking mad, my X, but that’s why I loved her in the first place!
The next scene was a still of X, the camera now presumably fixed on its tripod. She lay completely bare, her puss seemingly with the wax seal still in place, although it was hard to tell because her legs were closed and bound in three places by wide black gaffer tape, which had also been wound around her body at her waist and just below her tits, pinning her arms behind her. She lay on her side, looking up at the camera with large, pleading panda eyes, the make-up smudged and running. She couldn’t speak because of a strip of tape across her mouth, so she had kindly added subtitles to display her thoughts, running to the soundtrack of the Diva and the model fucking noisily off camera. While the Diva yelled out things in the background like suck my cunt dry, you bitch! X looked straight at the camera and the subtitles read:
“I am full of you, and I want you to be full for me too. I miss everything about you. I want you to give me everything you have inside of you. I want to taste your rudeness. I want to be covered by your love, smeared and drenched in it. We are bright stars who share a dirty secret, but surely we can’t shine without each other?”
The film ended abruptly with the Diva still shrieking her off-camera climax. The screen went black and I was reaching for the remote when the screen lit up, displaying the bathroom in X’s apartment. The Diva walked in, clumping around on her white platform boots, her platinum blonde hair in a tail down her back, but now otherwise naked, except for the wrestling mask, of course. She leant against the sink, looking at the camera, her hands stroking her slim body suggestively.
“I’ve seen your photo,” she said, “and you make me want to come.”
She was talking to the camera but I knew she was addressing me. She parted her legs to the camera to give better access to her cunt. It was a lovely pink slit, just like X’s but with slightly thinner lip–a neat aperture despite her having borne a child. There was a short strip of pubic h
air, displaying her dark natural colouring. The thrilling notion came to mind that she employed a special servant girl, whose one job was to keep the Mistress’s private parts clean and tidy. The Diva could afford such luxuries.
“I want you to come to me,” she was now saying, pushing her fingers up into her puss so that she had to bite her lip. Through her gasps she spoke to me, telling me how she was going to make me her property and give me some of the dirty fucking she knew I gave X. When her fingers were coated and glistening she turned, as I had been praying she would, and thrust her little arse out. She continued her masturbation and rude talk, speaking over her shoulder, “I know you dream about my ass,” the Diva said, and she was right. “I know you want to bite my cheeks and taste my little hole.”
With that, the camera shot closed in on her behind and the tingles poured from my belly and into my body, not just from the excitement of seeing her bottom so close, but with the realization that someone, no doubt X, was actually behind the camera. My girlfriend was so strange in this respect. She yearned for me and yet pandered to my fantasies just because she wanted to please me. She knew I fucked other girls and yet here, on her birthday video that I was so selfishly unwilling to be a part of, she had the chance to fuck two beauties but instead had herself abused and then tied and sealed by them whilst they did each other. I wouldn’t have minded her fucking, although it would have made me insanely jealous to see her, particularly with the Diva. But she knew this and abstained, getting the Diva to do a rude private show instead, just so that I could see and have the pleasure. On her birthday she sent me this.
God, the Diva’s arse did look so inviting. Why had I never tried one? Why had I never taken the chance and lapped Alice’s backside all those times I had wanted to? Why was I this ridiculous mix of modesty and overt naughtiness? I robbed myself, all the time. Why had I never licked X’s bum? She would have loved me to and would never have taken it as a sign of my servitude. She would have called me Mistress even louder and made it a token of my power over her, just to soothe my uneasiness.
“Come to me and taste my ass,” the Diva was saying through gritted teeth, her fingers now pressing hard to her clit as they rubbed up and down. “I know your dirtiest secrets, you stuck-up British whore! Come and put your tongue right up my tight, little ass-hole, just like you dream of doing!”
I was glad she was struggling to speak because I was well on my way too, my hand rammed in my knickers and my fingers a blur on my clit. I closed my eyes and saw her and Ariadne, side by side with their bums out, slapping my face and forcing it between their cheeks. I could feel the beautiful warmth of their flesh pressing at my face, smell the delicious sweet pungency and feel the little knot of flesh on my tongue tip.
“Eat my ass you disgusting shit-whore!” she cried out from somewhere, and I knew she was coming. I was too, calling out her name and spurting the shuddering desire into my panties. The room eventually went silent and I slowly opened my eyes. I expected to see the screen blank, but instead there was the forgotten X, not part of my come-fantasy but now filling my guilty senses, bound and gagged and lying on her side, staring at me with those pleading, make-up smudged eyes, silently yearning.
***
At the duly appointed hour I visited Harvey and we went through our standard ritual of me arriving precisely on time and barging into his room without knocking, and him, already flushed and flustered with the anticipation of the session, having to quickly cross his legs to hide the bulge in his pants. He needn’t have bothered this time, since I had now seen his erection in the flesh and knew it wasn’t worth hiding, but I guess he didn’t know that I knew that. I was even tetchier towards him than normal, due to the jittery unease in my belly from the nagging fear that I was not in control of this situation. I was there out of hope rather than expectation and although I knew for sure that he took my secrets from me and used them to his ends, I clung to the belief that he could still help me exorcise my devils. I called him various names for his failure to have cured me thus far and he took the insults with his usual mix of outward umbrage and private delight. I am sure the creepy bastard instilled the need in me to carry on seeing him. I was reluctant to let him put me under but my skin was crawling at our shared knowledge, albeit unmentioned between us, that I had wanked him off.
Afterwards, when he brought me back up from the trance he was noticeably more animated than normal, flush-faced and beaming away. My gut-wrenching initial reaction was that he had somehow found his way beneath my layers of protection and into my rubber knickers, using my helpless state to have his dirty way with me. I’m embarrassed to say that in my post-hypnosis confusion I actually cupped my groin in belated defence of my virgin quim, an action which could have been taken as some involuntary wanton urge on my part, as if I was always grabbing my cunt willy-nilly if it called out for attention.
“What the fuck have you done to me, Harvey?” I cried out.
“Nothing–I promise I haven’t laid a finger on you, Miss Willow!”
He immediately clapped his hand to his mouth, aware of his unprofessional faux pas, cursing himself silently for letting slip this familiarity–obviously the title he addressed me with in his head in the countless fantasies he had fabricated about me.
“You fucking creepy bastard!” I spluttered, red-faced and uncharacteristically edgy without the comfort of my home turf for security. I had managed to get my hand off my crotch and check my zip and buttons for signs of unlawful entry. Everything appeared to be in order but how would I tell? My pussy didn’t feel violated but it felt warm, wet and tingly, like it always does the morning after my dreams. Perhaps he hadn’t managed to get his cock inside me but had licked it instead, his horrible flushed face pressed to my soft mound, going where no man had gone before, getting me all wet when I was off guard so that he could slide a finger inside me undetected. At least I knew for sure that he hadn’t been in my other hole, since it is very tight and I feel it for quite a while after I have been giving myself a finger-fucking. But what if he had smelt my bum? How could I have stopped him? I couldn’t have prevented him kissing or licking it and toads like him just adore worshipping a Mistress’s most private place.
He had leapt from his seat like a scalded cat, forgetting his omnipresent erection in my company until it was too late and then trying to cover it again, standing stooped and with knock-kneed awkwardness as his face went puce. It didn’t give me the greatest assurance that he hadn’t been after my bits as I lay in my trance.
“You’ve had another Life Episode!” he exclaimed.
That’s what he calls the individual demons that appear inside me: Life Episodes. I don’t think he is entirely sure what I want the cause or reason for my dreams to be, so he hedges his bets. He certainly refrains from saying you’ve been acting like a mental-case again! However, he had never been this excited about it before so I still suspected there was more to his agitation than he was letting on.
“Who was I?” I demanded.
“A girl called Salacia. She was in a prison, with her guardian.”
The words prison and guardian sent the cold shiver through me. The images from the dream of the Executioner’s Girl were flashing through my mind. But Harvey was unaware of my desire to find the character behind this particular dream, so why did he sound like we had made the crucial breakthrough? More importantly, why did the name mean nothing to me? Once this girl was eventually located inside my subconscious I had expected to be flooded with recognition of everything she was, to suddenly know all her thoughts and actions as if they were a part of my own. I had expected it to be like suppressed childhood memories, like when someone says: do you remember when mum and dad had any relatives over and you used to come down and make them watch you put your teddy on your old potty, and then you insisted that they all had to help wipe its bottom, and went into a screaming rage when they tried to hush you up? You know the tale of course, because it is well used by parents who seem to delight in telling of your past humi
liations, since they think it sweet somehow. You don’t remember the actual doing of it, except, when it is brought up, as a vague spectre of the original action, a blurred, edge-darkened image, like a dream. You know it is there because over the years the Secret Service within your brain has done its utmost to bury the event so that the shame cannot hurt you. It taught you to blank it out, to identify the wrongdoing and eradicate it in a flash, ensuring that you won’t do anything so mortifying again. I had hoped that finding the Executioner’s Girl within me would let me see and understand her inherent character deficiencies and let me put them to bed, with just a simple click of the fingers. But I didn’t recognize this Salacia. The name meant nothing to me at all.
“What else did I say?” I asked.
“I can’t tell, that’s the point,” he replied, presumably wanting me to punch him in the face for teasingly withholding information.
“So how the fuck did you know I was in a prison with my guardian? Did I mime it for you?”
The edginess was very apparent in my voice and I could see him struggling to keep any control over the situation. He was stuttering and giving “calm down” signs with his hands, while still trying to cover the silly, insignificant bulge in his pants that refused to retreat. In the end, when he couldn’t get a word in edgeways to begin to answer my barrage of questions, out of exasperation, he pressed “play” and had my own voice from the recording of the session silence me.
There followed a lot of jumbled answers and indecipherable mumblings, and then suddenly she was there, saying that she was cold and scared.