True Love

 

                                True Love

 

                                      by

 

                                Night Writer

 

 

 

                             III - The Dancer

 

 

Erin dresses you an hour before the party, encasing you in a fiery red

sheath that clings to you like a second skin. She puts your hair up in

a dark swirl of elegance, stopping to plant a lingering kiss on your long

neck as she works. You warm inside, feeling her hands on you, thinking

about the evening ahead.

 

You'll meet her friends tonight, all the flawless creatures she

surrounds herself with, men and women of wealth and society, brought

together for you and you alone, on your birthday.

 

She leads you from couple to couple as the guests arrive, and you're

dizzy with pride as they accept you so warmly. You belong to her - they

must know it, by the way she holds your hand, by the way her eyes light

up when she tells them about you. They all smile at you, and you see

the knowing glances they exchange when Erin says your name. "Blair".

You adore the sound of it as it almost slithers from her lips.

 

You drink her champagne from each tall, slim glass she brings you -

three, four, five, until you lose count. When the volume and rhythm of

the music increases, you find it easy to accept offers to dance from

any number of willing men, young and old alike. But once in their arms,

you feel their hands on your body in places and ways that shock you.

But you let them. They're rich and refined, and, well, you're just

Blair.

 

Soon Erin approaches you and whispers in your ear. "Come on Blair! You

dance like you have a stick up your ass! Let them see how you can shake

that body!"

 

So you dance faster, shaking your bare shoulders, moving your hips to

the thumping beat. You can feel your breasts sway lewdly, your nipples

hardened as they rub roughly against the flimsy wisp of a bra that

barely contains them. The man you're dancing with smiles

appreciatively, then steps back to watch. You dance faster, thrusting

your hips, holding your arms overhead, letting them feast their eyes on

you, as Erin wishes.

 

Erin steps from the crowd that has gathered around you, walks up to you

wearing a dazzling smile, and whispers to you again, briefly. "Strip

for me, Blair. Get out of that dress. We all want to see you." You

freeze for a second and look into her eyes. You can see she's serious.

The alcohol dissolves any remaining inhibition, the only thread between

a sense of decency and your devotion to her. You have to do it. For

her. For your sweet Erin.

 

So you do. You unzip the dress, wiggle out of it, let it fall to the

carpet, and begin to dance again. Now you're not the Birthday Girl, the

guest of honor - you're entertainment. Only seconds ago you thought

they liked you. Now you're little more than a cheap stripper to them. A

piece of meat. But you're Erin's meat. And you'll do anything to stay

that way.

 

You thrust your hips harder, shaking your shoulders until your

breasts strain violently at the transparent red bra. You'll give them

what they want, if it makes Erin happy. You'll give them what they

want, and more. You can see them smiling, the men wanting you,

the women envious of your writhing body. And in the midst of them,

you see Erin and Bridget side-by-side, holding hands, smiling at you

like hungry predators, waiting to be fed.

 

After a while, she gives you a sign through the crowd. You know you

have no choice. You'll do anything to try to please her. You reach

around, open the back of the bra, and shrug it from your shoulders,

making sure your movements are as wild as before, your meaty tits

bouncing and jiggling as you dance. The men cheer and whistle. The

women laugh hysterically. But you have to keep dancing, faster, faster.

 

Erin gives you a second discreet sign, unseen by all but you. She

points to your lacey red panties. Even through the thick, alcoholic

fog, you're startled for a second, slowing your dance, your abandon

throttled by a sliver of remaining modesty. It's not just your sex

they'll see, it's how willing you are to give up everything you are for

her. They'll see how wet you are between your legs, how swollen and

throbbing your pussy has become as you dance for them. They'll know.

They'll know what you really are.

                                       

You slide the scrap of red lace over your hips. Burning with

embarrassment as your eyes stay glued to the floor below, you inch your

hands lower, slowly, so slowly you appear to tease them with your

hesitancy. When the air falls coolly against the wet folds of your sex,

you know you've given yourself up to them. All that's left is to slide

the lace quickly over your thighs, let it drop to the floor, and resume

your dance of shame.

 

This time there's a short hush as her guests stare at your shaved

pussy, now so swollen and wet from Erin's long sexy stare that your

labia and clit are thrust out in front of you. The sensitive little

wings of flesh and swollen cord between them boast a blush of bright

pink, pouting obscenely as your juices drip for Erin.

 

You can see that the men are erect, their cocks hard and throbbing

after just seconds of watching you. A few of the women have put down

their drinks. Running the tips of their fingers lightly over their lips, their

hands unashamedly caress hard nipples that show through their

expensive clothes. But only a few. Most of the women are snickering

and pointing, at your tits, at your naked, sopping cunt. But you keep

dancing, harder, faster. Erin would have it no other way. You're so tired

now you start to stumble as you try to stay on your feet. You fall, not

once, but three times, before the laughter becomes so loud Erin has you

stop before the neighbors complain.

 

Just before she joins her guests for dinner, she kneels and whispers to

you quietly. When she leads you to her bedroom, your heart almost

bursts with joy. As she works her fingers through your hair, you close

your eyes, drinking in her loving touch. Minutes later you open your

eyes as Erin guides you toward a full-length mirror beside her bed.

She's gathered cascades of raven hair into two ponytails, each

sprouting from the top of your head, now hanging in wavy cords at each

side of your face. She takes a pink rhinestone-studded dog collar from

her purse and fastens it about your neck. The tag says, "Erin's Bitch".

You stare into the mirror as she looks on approvingly. Below your

collared throat, you're a succulent, ripe woman, your body screaming

for Erin, your satiny skin glowing with a desperate need for her touch,

your belly on fire with a relentless burning to be her favorite

plaything. Above the collar, you see something else altogether. A face

once classic and proud, with wide mouth, perfect cheekbones, and

confident brown eyes, is now a ridiculous caricature of your former

self. The arrogant smirk that had taken years to refine is now a mere

helpless stare, the empty, frightened look of a toy poodle. But you're

Erin's toy. What would have been a small consolation only a week ago is

everything to you now. Everything.

 

She leads you to the entrance of the dining room, within plain sight of

her guests, now seated anxiously along both sides of the long, black

table. The first course has been served, and the rich aroma makes your

mouth water. They all stop to look at you, savoring both the flavor of

the thick, white chowder, and the sight of Erin's new pet, so naked and

willing. Your reflection in the glassy tabletop makes you shiver.

 

You get on your hands and knees and wait, just as she tells you, the

collar stiff and irritating around your neck, the little metal tag

jingling each time you move. You can see them in the next room, all

seated around the long table. You can smell the delicious food. Erin

brings cans of cat food to your trailer - smelly, fishy paste that you

took so long to get used to. The warm, irresistible odor of sizzling

steaks and fresh vegetables makes you drool, just a bit, from the left

corner of your quivering mouth.

 

Thirty minutes pass, then forty. Finally, she looks over at you,

smiles, and nods. You do exactly as you were told. Crawling on all

fours, you approach the table beside her chair, your whorish red mouth

open wide, waiting for her to drop the remaining table scraps from a

foot above you. You slurp and drool as you do your best to catch

every delectable bite. After that, the others offer you bits of

leftovers, holding them high in the air so you'll beg, up on your

haunches, naked tits covered with small bits of juicy food your mouth

fails to catch. Everyone's laughing, but everyone wants a turn, and

they get their way at Erin's parties.

 

After, the walls seem to breathe a quiet, earthy jazz that sets the

mood as her guests mingle and chat. She leads you by a thin, leather

leash from one small gathering to another, your cheeks burning, your

shiny metal name tag glittering at the front of your throat. They talk

about you like you're not even there. A distinguished man with salt-

and-pepper hair runs the palm of his hand over your breasts, belly, and

thighs as Erin proudly encourages him. A skinny, flat-chested blonde in

a chic halter dress takes your breast in her hand and lifts it, gently

squeezing and weighing it. Erin laughs and shakes her head. "They're

real," she assures her. The blonde's bright blue eyes widen as she wets

her lips and stares, her tiny hard nipples straining at the gossamer

fabric of her dress. A young boy, no more than eighteen, hugs Erin

warmly and thanks her for inviting him. His skin is a golden brown, and

his shoulder-length sun-bleached hair frames a wide grin of youthful

arrogance. You glance at his muscular, bronzed chest through the open

front of his shirt and blush shamefully when you imagine him naked. He

spends a few seconds pulling your nipples until they're fiery and

rigid, then puts two fingers inside you and watches with amusement as

you squirm. "I'll never understand your taste in women," he tells Erin,

dismissing you as just another party favor as he eyes a young hardbody

half your age, then wanders off to meet her.

 

An hour passes, and everyone has their fun with you, leering, pawing,

with no regard for your thoughts or feelings. They treat you just as

they would Erin's house pet, a dumb animal, unable to understand or

respond to their graphic verbal comments and amused fondling, other

than to show your appreciation by spreading your legs and offering them

your sex, much like a dog might when its belly's rubbed. You cringe

when you think back at what you were only a week ago, and what you've

become, so easily, in such a short time. But why don't you care? Why

does it feel so good, so right? Your head hurts when you try to sort it

out. Erin wants her guests entertained, and pleasing her is everything

to you now. You're her total slut. Her total slave. Her fuck-meat.

They're your words, but they have you dripping wet.

 

At her insistence, you go to the bed and lie on it, spread-eagled and

naked, except for your collar. A tear rolls down your cheek. Then they

come to you, one by one, until the bed is surrounded, a wall of

beautiful people in beautiful clothes, wealthy, successful people, so

far above you, so much better than you, staring down at you as though

they were watching a dirty movie, a dirty whore, bought for an

evening's fun.

 

Erin slides a finger inside your collar and gives it a slight tug. It's

your cue. You know what she expects of you. Bridget appears at the side

of the bed, the first to have you, while you're fresh and willing. She

straddles you, wearing only a sky-blue silk blouse that clings to her

perfect breasts and urgent nipples. You look up into her icy-blue eyes,

seeing that she's what Erin becomes in those moments when the one you

love becomes what you least expect - cool, calculating, and gluttonous

for your pain.

 

She lowers her steaming pussy over your face, and you open her with

your tongue, letting her juices fill your hungry mouth. You bury your

face in soft, golden strands of hair, their caress an irresistible

invitation to cover the length of her clit with your tongue in a

rhythmic massage that has her panting. Her thighs tighten against you,

and you stroke them lovingly from knee to hip. They're long and lean,

but so very hard beneath the velvety skin - a dancer's legs, you think

to yourself. But she's not a ballerina, not some anorexic woman-child

on tip-toe. Her body's panther-like - strong, agile, and powerful.

Not like yours. Not a dancer like you at all.

 

You feel her thighs tighten, and soon struggle to find a moment to

breathe. She's grinding against your mouth, the pumping mound of her

sex driving your head deeply into the mattress, her wet cuntlips

sucking life's breath from you. You lash at her with your tongue,

frantic to finish her before she smothers you. The sounds of the people

around you begin to fade as you use everything you know on her,

everything that makes you cum quickly, like a wanton whore. Your legs

thrash about wildly, the seldom used muscles beneath your soft thighs

standing out in tight bands as your hips rise off the bed in a futile

attempt at escape.

 

Those around you watch your body twist and heave, your head and

shoulders pinned under Bridget's athletic torso and hips, your hands

clutching her strong thighs, fingers digging into her unrelenting

flesh. They see what you can't. Her eyes drift closed, her broad

shoulders shudder briefly, and with a wide, satisfied smile she beckons

the oncoming orgasm, then lets it wash over her. She rides your mouth

with shocking viciousness, her eyes closed, her face turned upward,

her cruel smile never fading.

 

When she's finished with you, you're alone again so quickly, limp and

trembling on the large bed. But they're all still standing over you,

watching your twitching belly and the obscene way your tits seem to

double in size as you inhale deeply, catching your breath. Your head

swims with confusion as you hyperventilate.

 

When the large man works his way between your legs and sticks his cock

in you, you close your eyes and play your part. They all think you're

so easy, but Erin's in your thoughts and heart. Your pussy flows for

her - no one else.

 

They all have you, one after another, the men like rutting beasts, the

women less predictable, sometimes sensual, sometimes cruel. Erin stays

by the bed, always so close you can reach out and touch her. You see

her smile, and go on, knowing you've pleased her. All that remains is

that you allow what your body seems to beg them for, and that they give

you what you ask.

 

When they leave, Erin takes you to her shower, then to her bed. She's

freed your hair and unravels the tangles with her fingers, all the

while planting soft, lingering kisses over your eyes and lips. You

service her without a thought for your own reward, your mouth finding

every fold and crevice of her slender body. Finally, nursing between

her legs, you drink the nectar that pours from her as she convulses,

then melts in your very hands.

 

You sleep with your cheek against her inner thigh, your hand on her

belly, convinced beyond all doubt that you've made her happy, that

she's pleased with you. That she loves you.

 

And in the morning, the lingering taste of her now hours old on your

lips and tongue, she dumps you back in your trailer, ready to face a

brand new day.