Vanishing Point Ch. 02 page 3

"You're an unusual woman, Jean," Nicki replied. "May I ask for you again, when I return? That is, if my Trainer allows it."

"Yes, please. I do want you… I want you to. Very much so." The heat in Jean's cheeks began to fade. "I would like that very much."

"Then I will do that. Thank you, Jean 146. I'll tell my Trainer – and yes, my husband, too – all about you."

"Thanks. I appreciate that."

"Wonderful. Bye, Jean." Nicki pecked Jean on the cheek, and then she was gone, off to Hair Styling.

For the rest of the day, after Nicki Whitmore had dressed and departed, Jean floated through the minutiae of cleaning up and closing the salon. More than once, though, she stopped and held her hands out in front of her; flexing her fingers and studying the tracery of veins and the straight lines of her tendons that made those hands appear so tangible and real in her otherwise still somewhat-abstract existence.

Jean. One. One-forty-six. Fantasies can come true. One hundred forty-six. One four six. One.

The words that framed her reality tumbled about in her mind, too; with the words in random order, and with each refrain louder than the one before it.

The Fantasy of Reality

When Jean found her way back to her apartment building, she stopped in the foyer and pressed her hand against the battered gray metal door of Jean Bujold's mailbox. The mere act of finding it again – still there, and still real – after her day of endless discoveries was comforting. After all, who could tell when she might be evicted from this Jean Bujold's body?

As she pulled her hand away from the little, rectangular door, Jean saw something through the scratched and smudge glass window. There was an envelope, leaning casually against the side of the tiny prison, as if didn't have a care in the world and was loitering there, waiting for her. Jean's heart suddenly beating like a jackhammer in her chest, she rummaged through her purse to see if there was a key that might fit the mailbox door. There was.

She unlocked her box and took out the letter. It was a standard-sized envelope, and her name – well, Jean Bujold's name - and address were engraved on the face of the envelope in a stunningly done bit of calligraphy. There was no return address, though there was a stamp, and a postmark.

From here, sent tomorrow. Tomorrow??? How in the world…?

Her fingers shook as she tore open the envelope. The crisply folded single sheet of paper inside was equally finely drawn with ink and pen. She studied the words, and wondered. It was an advertisement – or an invitation, if you wanted. The neatly worded sentences announced that she – Jean Bujold – was the winner of a free, full day at the Fantasia Salon. Hair, manicure, pedicure, waxing, massage, the works.

She stared at the words scripted across the tight white fabric that hugged her tits.

'Fantasies can come true.' Is this the fantasy, or is this real? And is it mine? Or is it Jean Bujold's fantasy?

Pressing the parchment to her chest, Jean climbed the stairs to her apartment. Nineteen steps – now that's an unusual number. She wondered why that mattered or why she had even noticed it.

When she was back inside the place where she had begun her existence this morning, Jean sat down on the ugly green chair by the window and stared out at the deepening twilight. She watched as the lights came on in the buildings across the street, marking the return of the other souls who inhabited this place to the little rooms where they ate and fucked and dreamed and slept and died.

What am I going to dream tonight? Or, who am I going to dream tonight?

Jean folded and unfolded the piece of paper in her hand. Suddenly, she had an urge to look at herself in the mirror. She almost ran the short distance to the bathroom. She banged her shin on the doorframe as she careened into the tiny room and stood there, hands palms down on the vanity top, her heart beating like she had run a thousand steps instead of less than twenty, and stared at the girl with the dark red, shoulder-length hair and the silver chain welded around her neck. The little emblem with the cryptic number 146 on it swayed back and forth as she steadied herself from fainting.

Yes, the hair, oh god, it's so long… And so light. It should be darker, much darker. And shorter. How could I have let it grow so long? She tugged on the ends and curled small circles of hair around her fingertips. The russet-colored tendrils she twisted seemed almost alive. Like they were growing and lengthening right before her eyes.

Opening The Door

"Hello. Is this, um, Fantasia?" Jean sat on her bed, staring at the unwashed vibrator that was still there from this morning while she stared at the telephone number on the invitation she held in her hand.

"Yes, this is Fantasia. Hello, Jean Bujold. We've been waiting for you to call."

More confusion. Am I really her? Jean took a deep breath and gripped the handset tight. "Yes, um, yes, this is Jean Bujold. How did you know…?"

"Caller-ID, Jean. Nothing magic, really," the woman's voice said. "We've been expecting you."

"But how did you know my telephone number?"

"We knew your address, Jean, so why not your telephone number?"

"Oh, yes, I see. I guess so."

"Are you ready to make your appointment for you visit to Fantasia? We have an opening this Thursday. How does ten o'clock sound, Jean?"

"Um, yeah, I guess so," Jean replied. The next sentence literally popped into her head. "That's perfect - Thursday's my day off."

"Excellent. We shall put you down for ten. Please be prompt. We have so much to do, and so much to accomplish. We'll see you on Thursday, at ten, then."

"Don't you want to ask me about what I would like to have done?" Jean asked.

"You are going to receive an introduction to all of our services, Jean. Everything that we offer. And we are quite sure you are going to have a wonderful time with us."

"Um, OK, I guess. I really need my hair cut. It is so incredibly long. I have no idea why I waited until now to get it cut. And I want it darker. It's getting so much lighter, somehow. It needs to be darker – darker and shorter."

"We know, Jean. We know exactly what you need. Be assured that we will take good care of you. Now I must go and attend to another guest, Jean. We'll see you on Thursday. Oh – and there are no second chances, or rain checks, Jean. If you are not here promptly at ten o'clock, our offer expires. There can be no rescheduling."

"I understand. I'll be there. I promise."

"We know, Jean. Goodbye."

"Goodbye…" Jean said to the dial tone that buzzed in her ear.

I have to be there. I just have to. Oh god, I don't know if I can wait until Thursday, the way I'm going.

She twisted the hair in her fingers and tried to calculate the number of hours between now and ten o'clock on Thursday morning. It was far too big a number.

The Girl Who Wasn't There

Jean was pleased to find that through some miracle of deliverance the refrigerator in her apartment had been restocked with enough food to last her several days.

Until Thursday...

She had circled Thursday on the calendar that served as the refrigerator's only decoration, so she wouldn't forget; not that she ever stopped thinking about it.

The calendar had caught her eye and her imagination when it had first made its presence known, earlier. It featured a series of unusual series of small, yet exceptional, pastel sketches of serene garden scenes and murals and served as advertising for an artist and interior designer. Other than the nude photograph of her and – Tai? – on her nightstand, it was the only other thing in the tiny apartment that bespoke the presence of another spirit in the volume of space that defined her existence.

She came back, again and again, to riffle through the twelve images on the calendar's pages. There was something about them that resonated with her. She had never been privileged to surround herself with such beauty as was depicted in the dozen pictures, but somehow, they connected her with something. She studied the initials in the corner of the images. They matched the name of the woman who owned the design studio whose logo was on the calendar.

Though how or why the person who lived in this cramped cage of an apartment would have ever met someone who could create such beauty and who was so far removed from Jean's existence, was something she couldn't fathom.

This month's image was of a log bench, set in a grove of pine trees and surrounded by wildflowers. A woman's cotton dress was draped casually across one end of the rough-hewn log seat, and the shadow of a person – the woman who owned the dress? – fell across the dappled sunlight that lit up the ground and the bench.

Yes. It is her shadow. The woman who has shed her dress. It's her, standing motionless next to the trunk of a nearby tree. And why is she naked? Is there anyone there to see her? Or is she invisible to the world?

Maybe, sometime, in this life or the next, I'll know her. Or maybe Jean does.

But the calendar and its red-circled Thursday was her sentinel and the anchor to the gritty fog of her current reality. The countdown of hours and minutes to her appointment - well, her summons, really - was always front and center in her thoughts. That, and the way she could simply feel her hair growing; growing longer by the hour, and lighter every time she dared to look at herself in the mirror.

She had taken to yanking strands of hair from her head and stretching them out on the kitchen table and laying a ruler down next to them to measure them, and so she could grasp the full extent of what was happening to her.

After a while, though, she threw the ruler away, when it, too, started to deceive her. She could feel it every waking minute – her hair growing, the strands oozing out of her follicles and seemingly dripping down her head. But the damn ruler didn't agree with what she knew was the truth.

And each day she awoke at eight-thirty and put on a fresh Fantasies Can Come True top and her little black skirt and stood on the street corner to wait for Amir to pick her up and work his seductions on her while he delivered her to Anything Goes' doorstep. She went through the motions of being Jean, and of teasing and playing with the men who ogled her and wanted to fuck the body she inhabited.

She was even offered $500 one evening, as she stood on the corner waiting for the bus to take her back to the cramped little apartment where she fantasized and dreamed, and drew "X"s across the face of the calendar. She had turned and told the man "I'm not who you think I am."

The man had mumbled something inaudible and then hurried away.

She wished she had called after him to tell him what she had really intended to say – that she wasn't Jean, but she – fuckdoll 146 - would love to let him fuck her, and she wouldn't even take his money; but he had vanished before the words had materialized.

She had thought about his offer all the way home during her bus ride. Masturbating and bringing herself to the brink of orgasm with her hand up underneath her skirt, and imaging what it would be like to be an anonymous man's whore for an hour – or more.

That would have been nice. Interesting and nice, she speculated, amused at how she had sullied and perverted the usual meaning of 'nice'.

And that was the best thing about it. About being who she was and who she wasn't.

After all, there are no rules. I wouldn't be the whore – it would be Jean who did it. Or simply this body, this cunt, fucking for money. She could simply lie back and enjoy it, the way all of the little-minded men imagined it to be when they bought a woman to fuck and to feed their vanity.

And each night, when she returned to the prison of her apartment, she signed on to the Internet and went in search of deliciously wicked things. And One. And one hundred forty-six.

She found him on the third night. Or rather, he found her.

His words blared out at her from the blue luminosity of the screen.

"Hello again, little one."

"Good evening, Sir," Jean typed, unsure what she should say, or even how she should address him.

"Have you been a good girl?"

Shit, how do I answer that? Is what I've been 'good,' or is it 'bad'? And which does he want me to be?

"I've been," she paused in her typing, knowing that he would see the hesitation in his IM window. "a good girl." She waited with bated breath for his reply.

"Excellent."

Jean exhaled a heartfelt sigh of relief. "Thank you, Sir."

"Does my pretty little slut want to be fucked tonight? Does she want to cum?"

The sight of his graphic and undiluted words of enticement, offering her the release she didn't realize how much her body craved at this moment, made her wet in an instant. "Yes. Yes, please," she typed back.

"Good. Now, strip. I want my slut naked tonight."

"I'm already naked, Sir. And wet. Very wet."

Even though she could remember nothing from any previous encounter with this man, her fingers flew over the keyboard, seemingly typing the words before they even registered in her brain. And her body responded like a finely-tuned musical instrument, being tuned and prepped by its owner-musician.

"Stand. Spread your legs and put the vibe in your cunt now, girl. On Low… And then pinch your clit and hold it tight between your fingernails. Very tight. Do it now."

"Yes, Sir. Oh god, this is intense. I've needed this. I've missed you." Jean spasmed and lurched. That last part – about missing him – that had been her cunt talking, and not her brain. Her flesh remembered, even if she didn't. She was dripping with need now, almost literally panting for breath. Like an addict on her second day without; with a bag of salvation in front of her, tantalizingly close, yet just beyond her grasp. She would do anything to grab hold of what she needed. Anything at all.

"It's in. Sir. I have it in me now."

"Arch your back now, and hold your tits in your hands. Squeeze them. Roll your nipples between your fingertips. I want you… I want you to beg tonight."

"Yes, Sir. Doing it now. I am so ready for you." Jean did as she was told and kneaded her titflesh as she bent her body backwards. Her body protested as she contorted herself into the position he demanded. It hurt, but oh god, it felt so good.

She didn't dare move again, until the words on the screen gave their consent. The vibe in her cunt was churning her ever-closer to insanity and her legs grew weaker as she bit her lip and stared at the screen.

How much longer?!? Please. Please let me cum.

"Stay like that, don't move," he ordered. "Spank your wet cunt with the palm of your hand. Nineteen times. Hard. And wait seven heartbeats between each stroke. I want them to reverberate all the way to your toes, girl."

"Yes, nineteen. Oh god, that's going to hurt."

"Yes, it will. But that is of no consequence now, is it, girl?"

"No, Sir."

"I thought not. Begin now."

Jean smacked her hand against her labia as hard as she could. "Oh, god!" she cried. She felt every spasm of her heart pulsing in her clit as she waited, and counted to seven. She hit herself again, and counted to seven. And then again. And another.

The waiting in between was agonizing, and even harder than it was to hit herself again. The throbbing echoes of each blow lingered longer than the one before it. Seven heartbeats wasn't nearly long enough for the pain to subside. Instead, it was just enough for the wave of sensation to engulf her and for the painspasms to reach all the way to her toes - and her brain - and be seared into her awareness.

Again and again, she waited and breathed and gasped and then spanked her now-red cuntflesh; all the while repeating the same sequence of words over and over. "Don't cum. I can't cum," she told the room and the words on the screen.

Finally, she was finished. "Nineteen. I'm done, Sir." Her fingers shook as she typed the words.

"So, tell me, little one, is your cunt still wet? Do you still want to cum? Or have you had enough?"

"Oh god, Sir. Yes. Dripping. I'm so hot. It hurts. And so red. And I so need to cum."

"You have to earn that, slut. You cum when I tell you that you can. And not before."

"Yes, Sir. I'll do anything. Anything to cum."

"We both know that, don't we? All three of us, actually. You and I – and your cunt. That aching, red fuckflesh rules your existence, doesn't it? I own it - and it controls you. You are a slave to your cunt. Aren't you, girl?

"Yes. Yes, I am, Sir. You are exactly right. How do you know me so well?"

"How do I know you so well? Know you as well as I know my own flesh and blood?" His words paused for a moment. "Why? I'll tell you why, cuntgirl."

Jean waited, near hyperventilating; waiting for the next sequence of words to leap on the screen and into her brain. The IM window said he was typing. Pausing. Typing again. Another hesitation. And then more typing. And then the words appeared, in a bold, blood-red font.

"Because I created you."

Jean shuddered, the vibrator nearly slipping from her cunt. She grabbed onto the chair to keep from falling over. She was afraid of what her fingers were going to type as her reply.

"I am yours, Sir. For as long as you will have me."

What???

She wanted to pummel him with questions. To ask, no to shout and scream… Created me? Created me HOW? Am I your daughter? Is Jean? Did you make Jean your slut and your slave? Did you take an innocent girl and seduce and corrupt her? Please tell me. Who am I? And how did I come to be here? Fucking for you, and so desperately needing to cum and needing your permission?

But instead, she had typed "I am yours, Sir. For as long as you will have me."

Whose words were those that flowed from her fingertips? Hers? Jean's? Had he put those words into her, and drawn them back out? Like an author taking a randomly selected volume from his library and opening it up to enjoy again a few pages of what he has created, and then marking his place and putting the book back on its shelf to wait until it was summoned again to serve its owner once again?

"Stand tall, mine. Legs apart. And with that metal prick shoved deep inside your fuckhole."

"Yes, Sir. Standing. Spread apart. Oh god, I need to cum, Sir. The vibe. It's still on high. It's driving me insane. I'm dripping. Just dripping."

His words were cool and stripped of any hint at sympathy. "I know that. I know everything about you. And I know exactly what you want."

"Please?"

"No."

"What do I have to do to get to cum?"

Again, his reply was swift and succinct. "Obey. Complete, unhesitating, and breathtakingly shameless obedience."

"Tell me. Please tell me what to do. I can't stand this much longer."

"Yes, cuntgirl, you will. You'll stand there with that evil metal cock in your tight, wet cunt for as long as I wish you to. And more. You'll do it because you need that orgasm far more desperately than you know."

"Yes. I do. I can feel it."

"It's far more than what you realize. You need it to survive, to live and to breathe. This is who you are. Isn't that right, my pretty little one?"

"Oh, god, yes. Yes. Please let me cum. Please?"

"You will spread your legs wide, cuntgirl. And you will pinch your clit and hold it. As tight as you can. Hurting it. And you will lower yourself down until your ass touches your heels. And then…"

"Yes? Please, can I cum then?" Jean stood there, waiting and dripping, for his next fusillade of words. It arrived and lit up her screen a few seconds later.

"The instant your ass touches your heels, you will squeeze that vibe out of your dripping wet cunt and into your waiting hand. Without orgasming. And then you will place the vibe on the side table there next to the couch."

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Submitted by : Anonymous
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