Vanishing Point Ch. 02 page 1

The chiming of the alarm clock on the nightstand brought Jean to wakefulness. She was sprawled on the bed, her sheets wrapped around her limbs and the vibrator wedged under her back. She grimaced as she sat up. Sleeping on the hard metal shell of the vibrator after it had slipped out of her had given her a very real cramp in her side.

Based on the torn-apart condition of her bed in the morning light, she must have had some sensational dreams. Or she had been fucked long and hard. But she remembered none of it. Not the dreams, or the fucking.

She frowned and tried to concentrate. No, she had not been fucked – at least not by a man, last night. There was none of a man's residue in or on her body. It must have been dreams. Or could it have been the woman in the photograph? Could she have snuck in and ravished her without waking her last night? Jean shook her head and tried to clear her thoughts. But everything was still a featureless blank space in her memory. It was no use.

She was still unsure of her name as well. She remembered 'Jean' from last night and about how it seemed to fit. But even that memory was clogged with doubt. But for today, she would be Jean, at least until something better came along.

Jean looked at the clock on her nightstand. The digits glowed back at her like inscrutable, alien symbols.

8:30. 8:30 in the a.m. Morning. Is that early, or late? And what day is this? Am I supposed to be somewhere today?

She really had no idea. She had a head full of questions; but a big, empty blank space where the answers were supposed to be.

Jean crawled out of bed and staggered into the bathroom to prepare herself for her day. When she emerged from the steamy fog a half hour later, she threw open her closet door to see what she might wear.

That's odd…

Inside the closet, neatly arranged on a row of hangers were five identical outfits. Five sets of two-sizes-too-small "Fantasies can come true" tank tops and black spandex skirts that matched the pair that was crumpled up on the bathroom floor from last night. There was nothing else – not even a pair of pants.

Jean opened the drawers in her dresser and her nightstand, leaving each one gaping open as she proceeded. They were all empty – completely devoid of any items of clothing whatsoever. Not even a single, lost sock.

Seeing that there were no choices to be made, she pulled one of the tank tops down over her tits and wiggled into the companion skirt. Then it was off to the kitchen to forage for something to eat.

Jean was disappointed to learn that there was only a bottle of juice and some slices of cheese in her refrigerator, and a forlorn, half-eaten bag of potato chips on the counter. So that was breakfast. It only took a few minutes, and it left her unsatisfied and wanting more.

Now what?

Jean stood there, with her eyes closed, trying to decide what came next. It was time to go, but go… where? Her purse held the keys to her apartment, a small wad of currency and a handful of coins, and lipsticks and combs and the other everyday tools that a girl always had with her to maintain her appearance. Her momentary surge of excitement was crushed when she discovered that there was no driver's license or credit card or anything else with her name on it in the rat's nest of stuff in her purse.

She simply had to trust her body to find its way; the way it had led her here last night; following the dimly lit and overgrown path that snaked through the tangled underbrush of her memories.

At the bottom of the stairs, she pressed her fingers against the row of mailboxes, touching each of the names written on the faded and smudged rectangles of paper that were wedged in the little frame on each metal door. There she was – 'Jean Bujold.' That was her, right? She dutifully looked at each of the remaining boxes before she accepted her name as fact. Jean was a common name, after all.

She took a small measure of comfort in the fact that there were no other Jeans on the mailboxes, or even any other "J-something" initials. Jean was starting to come into focus a little bit more now.

But now it was time to face the world.

The sudden hubbub and noise of the city sidewalk assaulted her senses when she pushed open the apartment lobby's heavy front door. She floated out onto the pavement like a bit of slow-moving flotsam disgorged by a river into its mud-clogged delta where it's robust current dissolved into the sea. Passers-by bumped and ricocheted against her as she stood there blocking their purposeful strides. She collected glares and muttered epithets as she drifted towards the curb, oblivious to their urgency and direction, and the jostling and the bumps they inflicted on her.

After a few minutes of indecision she turned and craned her neck to look up at her apartment, shielding her eyes against the glare of the morning sun, to see if it sparked a hint of recognition. But there was nothing - nothing to tell her anything about her history in this place. It was simply a building, like thousands of others that housed an aggregation of mostly-anonymous souls, stacked together in their warrens of tiny rooms.

The tootling blare of a transit bus's horn behind her made her jump. She spun around to see a bus driver waving and flailing his arms at her, and blowing her kisses. Jean stared open-mouthed at the man as she tried to place him in her memory. The bus veered and yawed erratically and then slowed down and sidled up to the curb down the block to pick up passengers. The driver was leaning out of the window, motioning at her to hurry.

Hurry, where?

She ran for the bus, dashing on board just as the light turned green and the driver threw the transmission in gear and lurched back out into traffic. The driver blew her another kiss and pointed to the seat right behind him, motioning her towards it, while she fumbled for the fare.

He waved her to her seat with an expansive gesture and announced in heavily accented English, "This is your lucky day, Miss. Courtesy of Metropolitan Transit. You have won free ride today."

Grateful for the unexpected gift of a free pass and ignoring the glares of the passengers who had been required to pay for their rides, Jean flopped down onto the seat.

The driver was watching her in his rear view mirror every chance he could steal away from preventing the bus from crashing into some small bug of a vehicle in their haphazard path through what was left of the rush-hour traffic. The placard above his head said his name was Amir – Amir something. There were far too many conjunctions of letters that were not often neighbors in European names for her to decipher his last name. But Amir knew her; and quite well, it seemed.

He was complimenting her on her new hair, and telling her how sexy she was today, and how he loved her darker, more sultry look, and asking if she would go out with him now, and would she marry him and have his babies, please? Jean blushed, and put her foot on the seat to use her leg as a shield to hide her tits from his salivating, ear-to-ear smile. She didn't want him to see how hard her nipples were. She could tell that he had never before seen her tits so blatantly displayed as her "Fantasies can come true" tank top allowed.

She didn't know Amir from Adam, but she was secretly thrilled to know that he wanted to fuck her and make her his queen. She could tell that he was touching himself while he was chattering away at her and steering the bus with one hand.

It was only then that she realized that he was also staring at her naked, freshly waxed cunt as well as her tits. She looked around, suddenly aware of how exposed she was, to see if anyone else was leering at her, too. Thankfully, everyone else was either behind her, or hidden behind a newspaper or staring out the window. Amir Something was the sole voyeur to her nakedness.

He was in love with the sight of her - that was plain to see. It was as if he had died and gone to heaven, the way his eyes bored into her. She didn't quite know what to make of it – his gaze darting back and forth between her pussy and her face. Was he afraid of her reaction? Afraid she was going to close the curtain on the loveliness that bewitched him?

Or was he ashamed to be seen staring at her so – and wanting to see how she reacted to his looking at her like that? All she knew was that he wasn't leering at her like so many other men might. Amir Something was in love with her. Yes, he wanted to touch and taste and fuck the smooth, bare flesh his eyes fixated on. But he also wanted her eyes and her heart – he wanted to love her, and not just fuck her.

She turned that thought around and studied it from different angles.

Am I worthy of being wanted like that?

She wasn't sure. Small, persistent voices whispered contrary thoughts in her head. She was sure, though, that she wanted to be taken, and used like Amir wanted to have her. Yes, and right now. The tingling she felt and the sudden, aching hardness of her nipples bore testament to her desires.

Does Jean want to fuck him?

Or, has he already had me?

Those twin possibilities made her squirm in her seat. She wasn't sure which one aroused her more – the idea that Amir had already spread her legs and put his cock into her; or that he hadn't, and Jean was seducing him and luring him towards her bed.

His eyes were like a snake-charmer's – holding her captive and unable to move away, glued to the fake leather cushion on the bus seat. She could feel the air swirling around her cunt. She was wet, and her fingers were already creeping around her thigh to find the smooth, bare flesh that was responding so shamelessly to Amir's attention. When her fingertips parted her labia and slid inside to feel the incredible heat welling up from inside her, her mouth opened in a little "O" shape and her eyes went equally round. It was like her cunt was calling to her fingers, pulling them in.

She locked her gaze on Amir's dark brown eyes and she began to masturbate. The sounds of the other people on the bus going about the ordinary minutiae of their morning commute made what she was doing even more intoxicating. Whenever Amir called out a stop and flung the doors open to let new passengers on, Jean would put her leg down and cover her lap with her skirt and her hands. But as soon as they were past her row, she raised her leg and opened her cunt lips and continued where she had left off.

Oh god, this is so intense… is this what Jean is like? Does she get off on doing things like this, for an audience?

She was in a quandary. How should she respond to this amorous man with the unpronounceable name who was making her wet simply by the power of his eyes? She had no idea how well he knew her. But she also knew that she didn't love him. Or rather, that Jean didn't. Jean might be seducing him, or fucking him, but she was sure that she didn't love him. But that didn't change how her body was reacting to this titillating little bit of exhibitionist foreplay. She was dripping wet, and aching to come. And she was definitely going to leave her mark behind, on the seat.

Twenty-five minutes later, Amir docked the bus along the curb and flung open the doors as he had for the twelve previous stops. But this time, a perplexed look came over his face when she remained sitting quietly in her seat, her leg down and her skirt covering the wetness between her legs.

Oh, this must be my stop… I should get off now…

Jean stood up and looked around, wondering what she should do. When Amir told her to have a beautiful day and that he would bring her flowers tomorrow, she knew that she had to get off the bus. Wherever 'here' was, this was where she was supposed to be. She stumbled out onto the street corner and stood on the curb with her arms folded protectively under the "Fantasies Can Come True" scripted across her tits.

Jean shuddered as the bus enveloped her in a cloud of exhaust when it accelerated back out into the rush hour traffic.

OK. Now what?

Everyone around her was going somewhere, somewhere important; and most of them were in a hurry to get there. Jean stood there, feeling very much untethered from the world around her. She already missed Amir Whatshisname, with his cheerful banter and his hungry eyes. He had known her, from before. He was her only link to who she was, and now even he was gone.

She could feel the leering, sidelong looks that the men in their business suits gave her as they hurried by. They would turn their heads so they could keep their eyes on her for as long as possible without being really obvious about it as they strode past; or they would slow down and saunter past, to ogle her more overtly and blatantly.

One man looked her at her directly and frankly, his eyes communicating the lust in his heart as his eyes swept the length of her body before settling on her breasts, until he finally turned away and disappeared around the corner. Another stopped and pretended to study the display mannequins in the little hosiery boutique behind her while he stared at her reflection in the window. He knew what he wanted, like the others did, but this one was too timid to risk making eye contact with her.

The steady stream of blatant and covert feedback that the parade of men gave her felt good. Strange, and different, though. But good. Unimaginably good. Their eyes bore into her, but they seemed to pass right through her without touching her. Like she wasn't the person they were ogling and fantasizing about. They didn't care who she was, or what her name was. They simply wanted to fuck her.

She wasn't sure whether she was the person these anonymous men wanted to fuck – in fact, she knew that she wasn't. But knowing that she inhabited the skin of this fucktoy, this killer-hot body that all these men wanted to do the nasty with, and that she was looking out through this woman's eyes and feeling this body respond to the sexual heat welling up from inside her… yeah, that felt really, really good.

And yes, she was a voyeur, too. Drinking in the lust and the wanting in the men's eyes, and imagining them fucking and sodomizing this girl's body and making it do all the sordid, perverted and sinfully wicked things that polite society couldn't acknowledge in polite conversation.

It was this body – this Jean's – that they wanted to fondle and squeeze and fuck. But it wasn't Jean's body - not now. That she knew for sure. Maybe it had been Jean's in the past, or maybe she had crawled inside the skin of a woman who was no longer there, to take up temporary residence. But knowing that this body didn't really belong to her made it all feel so… so fucking hot.

There were no guidebooks or rules that applied to what was going on here. She could make this body do anything she wanted. She could let any of the wolves who surrounded and stalked her on the sidewalk lead her away and perform unspeakably wicked and perverted acts of deviance and lust with her, and in her, and on her. They could do anything they wanted to this fucktoy – and she would get to watch the entire scene unfold. It was like watching a porn movie, really – only better.

Millions of people got off on watching porn flicks, even if they would never in a million years step into their fantasy, and drop their clothes and their inhibitions in front of the camera and actually do it. Today, though, she wasn't merely in the audience; in the flickering darkness in front of the screen. The body she inhabited – it was at center stage, bathed in the hot klieg lights in front of the camera. And this body's flesh was ripe and wet and wanting.

And there were no limits. And no boundaries.

If Amir were to appear next to her now, she would probably drag him off into the alley and tell him to press her face into the grimy brick wall and pull up her little black skirt and take her right there – to make his babies and to satisfy the overpowering need she felt right now to be taken and fucked and made to do whatever wicked things he wanted of her.

"Come on, already! Do you want to be late again?"

The demanding voice was accompanied by a hand gripping her bicep and another in the small of her back, propelling her forward down the sidewalk and away from the porn-movie reverie.

"What? Huh? Where..?" Jean stammered as her fantasy dissolved and drained away. She looked at the young woman steering her along the concrete and maneuvering her around the passersby who were still in their own daydreams of lust-soaked move clips while they stared at her tits and measured her mouth for its potential to deliver mind-blowing oral sex.

"Goddamn it, Jean. It's going to be your ass, if you're late again! Hello?!? Earth to Jean… Are you in there, sweetheart?"

"I'm… I'm OK. Just a little disoriented. It's been a rough… night."

"Was it Tai? Or the vibrator again? Or was it that guy you do all those deliciously wicked things for when you're online, wanting to be a shameless slut? Was he the one last night?" The woman was taller than she was, and pretty, though in a more subdued and less blatant way than her own image.

Damn! I should know her name. I know who she is…

It came to her, from nowhere. This was Victoria. Victoria…. someone… someone who knew her. She scrambled to remember and replay Victoria's question again, in her mind.

"Tai? Um, not Tai, not last night," Jean replied. Was Tai the woman in the photograph, on her nightstand? She had awakened with the vibrator underneath her, drained of power and coated with her scent. It must have been the vibe, last night.

Jean allowed herself to be quick-marched into an office building halfway down the block. Her mind, though, was caught on Victoria's last sentence.

The man on the internet, who made her do things. Who was he? And how did he figure into any of this?

The hint of his existence taunted her and teased her from Victoria's its veiled reference.

The one who made her do wicked things… Last night… oh my, yes. Yes , he was The One.

Was that his name? Or was that what he was – the one who made her do wicked things?

She knew that he was real, but he was somewhere in the shadows. Did he know her? Or did he know and use the body that she inhabited; using it for his pleasure, like all these men wanted to?

The fleeting image of the man who might know something about who she really was dissipated in the cacophony of sounds and scents and images that crashed around her as she was steered through the plate-glass door that opened in front of her.

And then Jean was standing inside the threshold of the very ordinary Anything Goes salon. She stood there, frozen in place. I work here. I'm a… a… It was on the tip of her tongue.

Victoria strode over to the reception desk and sat down behind it. She adjusted her breasts in her very-cantilevered little push-up bra and then she rummaged around on the top of the desk. "Here's your schedule for today, darlin'. A full house. Queens over Princesses."

Jean looked at the piece of paper. I'm a masseuse. No, she corrected herself. Jean is a masseuse. She flexed her fingers and looked at her hands. Yes. I can feel it, this part is real.

Victoria's eyes swept up and down Jean's body. "Decided to change your image, a bit?"

"Um, yeah," Jean answered, not knowing a thing about what her old image had been.

"I like it. I always thought you should show off your tits more. You do have nice boobs, girl, and great legs. And I like the new hairstyle. Definitely sexier. You're a whole new you, today. Where'd you get it done, anyway? And why not here?"

"I, um, it was just an impulse. And, well, I don't know. Just did it. Yesterday..." Her voice trailed off. She hoped Victoria wasn't going to quiz her any more.

For More Mind Control Stories Please Visit

http://collectedmindcontrolstories.blogspot.com

For More Blogs Please Visit

http://moreblogsss.blogspot.com
Submitted by : Anonymous
(Do You Like This Story? Post Your Comments Please.)
Disclaimer: All stories posted here are fictional erotic stories.