Climax: Volume 2

by Ella Ford

  The four girls were moaning and panting in perfect unison, a hot chorus of pure pleasure, their voices dovetailing together, harmonising their ecstasy. But there was one voice that stood out from the others. An increasingly frantic and urgent song. Charlotte’s lone voice, rising out of the lusty throng as the weight of sensation rocked her body. She began to pant quickly, soft cries that ramped up in frequency and power. The three girls locked on her body seemed to sense her mounting climax and redoubled their efforts, pulling themselves into her, giving her no respite from their constant attention.

  “Oh god! Oh god! Stop! I… I…” she cried out, her words begging for release but her tone pleading for more.

  Faster and faster they moved, tongue on pussy, tongue on tongue, tongue on nipple. A thrashing hydra with multiple heads, smothering Charlotte with attention, allowing no room for escape.

  Then something snapped inside the pretty young submissive, the student who had found her way to my house without any help from me. A sudden strength powered her body to new feats, causing her to push her hips up off the bed into Christa’s face, arching her spine. Christa, Beth and Chloe held on, locking their mouths on the soft flesh and riding her orgasm like rodeo cowboys.

  “Ah!” screamed Charlotte, pushing her head back into the bed. Her hands flew out to her side, grabbing at Chloe and Beth, frantically pawing the other girls. Her legs went rigid and straight, laser beams of toned, young flesh, shooting out to frame Christa in their majestic length. She began to quake violently, rocking back and forth, gripped by an intolerable maelstrom, a private tempest that raged in her young body.

  I felt a pang of jealousy, a fleeting wave of longing. But the thought was soon banished by the remembrance of ownership. There four girls were mine. This scene of total pleasure and utter fulfillment was mine to invoke or take. Charlotte’s pleasure was my pleasure, and that one thought thrilled me more than anything. Above all else, I felt joy that it was Christa and her skilfull, attentive tongue that took Charlotte’s virginity, that introduced her to the world of lesbian love. It was a wonderful initiation.

  Charlotte’s writhing and quaking reached a peak, an apex of sensation and pleasure. Then her orgasm pulled back from her like a receding tide and her body fell still, collapsing back to the bed with a long sigh. Chloe, Christa and Beth shifted, realigning themselves to snuggle into Charlotte’s cooling body, resting their heads on her chest, her stomach, her thigh; laying tender touches on her burning flesh. Playtime was over, for now, and my dolls seemed to lose their animation, becoming lifeless and still, like discarded toys.

  ---

  “I want what you have,” said Christa.

  It was hours later. Hours after Charlotte’s initiation and her introduction to my small harem. Christa had left her sisters and approached me in my office, knocking decisively on the panelled door and stepping in with definite purpose. She still wore her doll costume, black nylon stockings and high stiletto heels, perfectly smooth pussy exposed for my inspection.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, inwardly knowing what it was she was saying, realizing that this was the endpoint of a trajectory initiated all those years ago in the stuffy law office bathroom. The realization made me a little sad, but also thrilled me somewhat.

  “I want…” she began with her head lowered, falling into the submissive stance with an autonomous ease. Then she raised her head and fixed her eyes on mine. “I want to be a collector, I want girls of my own,” she said firmly, narrowing her lips, clearly fearing how I would react.

  I nodded and glanced down at my papers, closing my file and considering her words. Christa wasn’t my first doll to graduate, and she wasn’t the first doll to want her own dollhouse. A previous acquisition, Paige, had found her submissiveness was merely a fleeting phase, that she much preferred to dominate the other girls in my collection. It had been a turbulent time, but we had both agreed that it would be better if she found her own way, sought her own dolls. Paige was not a bad girl, and I’d used a tiny slice of my fortune to set her up, to buy her property and get her started. She was now a prolific collector in her own right, and we remained good friends and occasional lovers.

  But Christa was different. She’d been with me for years, my second girl and a particular favorite. I’d always known she had a willful side, but the limits of her rebellion always fell well short of the limits of her submission. In truth, I always thought it would be Sarah who made this request, not Christa.

  “Very well. That is your right,” I said, attempting to smile but feeling deeply bereft. “We will all miss you Christa,” I added, my voice trembling.

  She nodded, her pretty, sculpted face ashen and grey. “Thank you mistress,” she said, and with those words, I realized that no matter where she went, she would always be my doll, would always belong to me. Sending her out into the world was like spreading my seed, creating enclaves of Claudia Ross that would always see my house as theirs. A sudden notion struck me.

  “Christa, I want to give you a gift, something to help you on your way,” I said with a wry smile.

  “Mistress?” she said, her sad face regaining a hint of color as she realized that my acceptance of her wishes was total.

  “In good time my pet,” I replied, “in good time.”

  Epilogue: The Gift

  Now

  “I’m ready, mistress,” said Christa from the door to the viewing room. I finished straightening the delicate lace at the top of Sarah’s white nylon stocking, and then gave her thigh a gentle pat. The tiny brunette straightened her back and lifted her head, falling into the virginal pose that she knew I loved. I gazed up at her on the onyx plinth, admiring the gentle rise of her tiny breasts, the way her long tresses of dark curls tumbled over her shoulders. The young doll gazed forwards into empty space in the center of the room, her face blank and expressionless, hands held out before her, palms upturned in a gesture of silent offering. I knew only too well what she was that she offered, it was the same thing all of my girls offered me - herself. Totally and utterly.

  I glanced around at my other girls - Beth, Chloe, Mai, Elise, Brittany. And finally, Charlotte, my newest acquisition. Charlotte stood on a plinth at the end of a row alongside Beth, Chloe and Mai. The pretty college girl had been dressed in the revealing attire of a slutty sorority girl - a tight, white blouse, tied in a knot beneath her breasts to reveal her flat, unblemished stomach. A short, plaid skirt, barely long enough to a called as such. On her legs, knee length, white socks, with ballet flats on her feet. She looked delicious, utterly corruptible, with her hair in pigtails and her lips gleaming seductive red. I felt a pang of self doubt as my eyes fell to her neck and the sparkling jewelled collar that I’d put on her moments before.

  “Come in, Christa,” I said, snapping myself out of my momentary flutter and moving to stand beside Charlotte. “It’s time to say goodbye to your friends.”

  Christa stepped into the room. It was the first time I’d seen her fully clothed in a long time, the first time she’d been dressed in something other than a pair of black stockings and precarious stiletto heels. Instead, she was wearing a red skirt suit, with a black blouse. Her legs were bare and she wore high red pumps and a delicate ankle bracelet. Her hair was held back in a tight ponytail and she’d found her old glasses from wherever she’d hidden them. No longer Slave Christa, no longer Doll Christa, this ravishing beauty was Christa, the lawyer, Christa the collector.

  I sighed and watched her circulate the room, touching each girl in turn on the thigh, seemingly animating each one from her rigid pose, then beckoning them forwards for a passionate kiss. First Brittany, then Mai, then Elise, then Chloe, and finally Beth. Christa lingered longest here, locking her mouth on the pretty brunette, her oldest slave-sister. Charlotte and I peered at the two girls as their tongues slid together in a sensual dance, a seemingly never-ending clinch that was both wistful and sensual at the same time. Then Christa released Beth and the elfin brunette returned to her mannequin pose, a glist
ening jewel of a tear springing from the corner of her eye.

  Christa turned to face me and pursed her lips, nodding. “Thank you,” she said, “for everything.”

  I nodded, knowing that she was referring to the downtown apartment I’d gifted her and the contact I’d given her in one of the most prestigious law firms in the city. Christa would not have difficulty establishing herself in this town, not while I watched over her. But I knew that she was also thanking me for the last three years, for the gift of ownership that I’d given her, for allowing her to discover her true calling.

  “Come over here Christa,” I said, “I have one final gift.”

  She stepped over and stopped beside me, crossing her hands behind her and lowering her head. I reached over and touched her chin, encouraging her to look me in the eye.

  “You’re not a doll any more Christa,” I said tenderly. Then I reached beside me and picked up a red velvet box from the shelf on the wall. It was tied with a satin bow. I held it out to her and she took it gingerly, as if expecting a trap or a trick.

  “For me?”

  “Yes. Open it,” I said, growing impatient.

  Christa plucked at the bow with slender, manicured fingers and slowly eased the lid off the box. Inside the gift was a black velvet cushion and a folded length of leather leash. The leash was studded with jewels and glimmered in the soft light of the viewing room. She gasped and lightly brushed her fingertips over the exquisite object. “Thank you!” she exclaimed, her eyes filling with tears.

  “That’s not all,” I said, and glanced at Charlotte, focusing on the collar around her neck. It was studded with the exact same gemstones as the leather leash, a companion piece that had no equal.

  Christa gasped again and Charlotte unfroze, turning to face her new mistress.

  “Will you have me?” said the student, purring seductively with a tone that dripped with wanton lust.

  Christa nodded, face lighting up with an expression of joy and desire that I’d seldom seen before.

  “Take her,” I breathed, “before I change my mind!”

  Christa giggled like a schoolgirl and unfolded the leather leash, clipping the metal snap at the end onto the silver ring on Charlotte’s collar.

  The two girls’ eyes met and a sudden unspoken communication flashed between them in an instant. Do you submit to me? asked Christa without saying a word. I do, mistress, was Charlotte’s implicit response.

  In that instant, a new collector was born and a new collection established. A new bond between mistress and slave, owner and owned. A bond that was between themselves, and the other girls that Christa enticed into her collection.

  But Christa and Charlotte would always belong to me, deep down. They’d always bow to my will and come running when I called, to do whatever it was that I asked. And rest assured, I would call and I would ask.

  Because, really, some girls just want to be owned.

  THE END

  Pantyhose College

  by Ella Ford

  Prologue

  If you’re reading this, you probably like feet. No, don’t panic, I’m not judging. You’re in good company here. I’m one of you! And if you have a thing for pantyhose and stockings and sexy, strappy shoes, then I’m especially one of you!

  Now you probably feel a little alone with your fetish, am I right about that? Sure, your wife sometimes gives you a footjob, and she’ll probably wear those cute open-toe pumps that get you going so badly. She may even put on some sexy black stockings and slink around the bedroom like a seasoned provocateur if you asked her nicely.

  But you always get the feeling that she’s playing along to humor you. Your six monthly footjob is a reward for good behavior, a treat for getting that barbecue setup going in the yard like you said you would; and the pantyhose you bought her for date night are worn with a weary sigh that suggests that she doesn’t really understand what it means to you, how deep your feelings run.

  I get it, I sympathize.

  Now, imagine what it’s like to have that same sense of isolation from the mainstream, but that you’re also a girl-who-likes-girls-who-also-likes-feet. Imagine cutting your audience by ninety percent and then looking for that one-in-a-million chick who digs sucking on toes, or the feel of silky hosiery on her face.

  Oh boy, you think you got it bad? Try being a lesbian foot fetishist!

  ---

  Don’t get me wrong. It’s not all bad. I love pussy as much as the next girl, and I’m totally capable of having my mind rocked by an eager tongue and some fancy fingerwork, even if I don’t have a big toe rammed in my asshole or a stiletto heel in my mouth. But sometimes it nice to have those things, right? That’s totally normal.

  I guess I’ve always felt like this, for as long as I can remember. As a young girl, I’d lock myself in the understairs closet with my Mom’s Macy’s catalog and pore over the shoe section. I’d spend hours fixating on the fancy ladies in pantyhose and towering heels, their toned calves pulled taut under the thin nylon gauze, and I’d wonder what it would be like to run my fingertips over those soft limbs, what it would be like to… kiss them.

  My Mom, bless her heart, thought I was obsessed by fashion and would go on to become the next Vivienne Westwood or something.

  “She loves shoes!” my Mom would drawl in that thick New York accent that she never bothered to correct when we moved out to Wisconsin. “She think’s she’s Carrie Bradshaw off the Sex in the City!” she’d add, and her friends would coo and purr and pat my head as though I was the cutest six year old in the world, instead of some proto-pervert who was secretly plotting to steal a pair of their pantyhose the next time we went over for a playdate.

  As I got older, I became more daring, but not massively so. Like, I’d always make sure I was first onto the floor when Miss Anderson was reading a story in elementary school. Not because I found her tales to be particularly enthralling, but because she was the only teacher in school to wear tan stockings with cork wedges that she’d dangle absent-mindedly from her foot as she was reading.

  To this day, I couldn’t tell you what stories she told us or even who else was in my class. But I could spend a long and pleasant afternoon describing to you the captivating arc that the bouncing shoe followed as she tapped her foot up and down to some unheard internal rhythm, or the time that she flicked a little too hard and the shoe fell to the floor, leaving her perfect stockinged-feet exposed for all to see for the remainder of that homeroom session....

  Oh boy, I’ve got to take a break. Back soon.

  ---

  Where was I? Ah yes, the growing pains of a young lesbian foot fetishist.

  When I got to high school, I began to realize that not everyone was like me. For a start, most of the girls seemed to like boys - eww! Strange, lumbering neanderthals who liked football and fighting and swearing and didn’t even have pretty feet. Never saw the appeal myself.

  It’s true that there were some girls like me at my school - it was 2009, not 1809 after all! But mostly they were into kd lang music and flannel shirts. None of them, to the best of my knowledge, liked feet.

  So I played along with the normals and pretended to be pretty and shy, and avoided pretty much all conversations about sex. I joined the cheerleading team and made sure that I was always on the bottom of any pyramids (for the barefoot practise sessions), I was voted class president three years running and I even went to my own prom (I took a well meaning nerd called Irvine Fletcher who seemed far too interested in Firefly and Yu Gi Oh to ever pose much of a threat). But mostly I spent my teenage years resigning myself to the fact that people like me were like unicorns: rare and precious and doomed to be perpetually horny. I gradually came to accept that it was highly unlikely that I would ever meet someone who shared my particular peccadillo.

  And then I went to college… and my whole world changed!

  Spoiler - there’s a lot of us out there! We just don’t like to talk about it. Think about it. How much do women spend on shoes? On pedic
ures? On pantyhose? Look at every fashion ad and what do you see? Pretty feet in pretty shoes. Take a look at any TV show - pretty feet as far as the eye can see. Somebody must like them!

  Look at porn - wall to wall stockings and heels; lesbian porn, straight porn and every type in between. There are feet everywhere, even the non-fetish stuff. Feet, feet, feet.

  Everyone. Likes. Feet.

  It took me a long time to realize this simple fact, but it was a very pleasant journey to take. And these are the stories of that journey. I hope you’ll indulge me a little, I do like to witter on.

  My name is Becky and I’m a lesbian foot fetishist...

  Professor’s Pantyhose

  April, 2013

  In my freshman year, I took a macroeconomics course. It seemed like easy credit towards my major and the scheduling was conducive with the hard drinking, long sleeping college life I’d decided to devote myself to. In truth, I’d never even heard of Maynard Keynes and wasn’t even totally sure what macroeconomics were. Frankly, it bored the shit out of me for the first semester.

  Macroeconomics was taught by the ancient and lumbering Professor Jacobie, an octogenarian who had defied every betting pool for three decades by somehow continuing to teach despite a body that started a slow decline in 1985 and didn’t look like halting its descent anytime soon. Prof. J. walked slow, he talked slow, he thought slow and he had the perpetual stink of mothballs about him, in that strange way that old people tended to have. If there was ever an upbeat huckster who could enliven the fascinating topic of macroeconomics with a little bit of life and energy, Prof. J. wasn’t it.