Vanishing Point Ch. 03 page 2

Bobby took a swig of his freshly anointed beer and then ran his tongue over the neck of the bottle. "Fuck, yes. Come home with me tonight, Alice. God, you make me so goddamn horny all the time."

"Careful there, stud. You keep licking that Corona like that, and everyone's gonna start thinking you're gay and you suck dick instead of pussy. Now where's my real tip, asshole?" Alice smiled sweetly, after laying her tits on the bar and looking up into Bobby's lust-filled eyes.

Bobby stuffed a ten dollar bill down the front of her top and between her breasts.

"Thank you, honey. Now you just let me know when you're ready for another one of those. And I'll make it another Special, if you want." Then she returned her attention to Jean.

"I really do like it, the hair. It's fucking hot." Alice pointed again towards Jean's chest. "And I like those, too. A pretty hefty gauge. That must have hurt like hell, getting them done like that. You're full of surprises today, aren't you, Jeannie?"

"I guess so. I mean, I don't know. I don't remember it hurting." Of course not. I don't remember it at all. "But I love the way they feel and the way they look. My nipples are always so hard, now."

"Any more, besides those?"

Jean blushed, her face warming at the question, even though no one could see her flushed color in the smoky darkness of the club. "My clit. I've got a third one, right through it. Not through the hood – it's drilled right through the clit. I am always so wet now. I can't ever stop thinking about fucking."

The very round "O" of Alice's mouth should have been captured on film. The look of envy and astonishment on her face was priceless.

"You've been gone for a while, getting your new look." Alice aimed her finger towards the other side of the room. "It's been too long. We've missed you. And so has Tai." The girl nodded in the direction she was pointing. "She bought your Amaretto, darling. Just like always. Or don't you remember?" she teased.

Tai. What a lovely name. And no, I don't. Remember, that is.

Jean looked down the barrel of the girl's finger to where it was aimed. There, on the other side of the room, a man and a woman sat snuggled in one of the VIP loveseats while a honey-golden-hued dancer knelt in front of them and dragged her long blonde hair over the man's lap and the woman's completely bare and exposed legs.

Jean instantly fell in love with the dancer's ass as the girl's dress rode farther and farther up towards her waist while she caressed her customers with her sensuous waves of hair. Jean could see that the blonde goddess had one hand in the man's lap now, stroking his erection through his pants beneath the concealing curtain of her hair. Her other hand was under the narrow strip of tight latex that was all there was of the woman's gleaming black rubber skirt. Her hand was in the woman's cunt, and she was thrusting it in and out in time with the powerful bass underbeat of the next stripper's first, tit-baring stage dance.

Jean's eyes followed the dancer's hand, and up the tightly molded latex of the woman's body. And then she gasped. I know that face. Oh, god, I know her! From where, and from when she couldn't tell. But she had touched the rapturous redhead with the creamy smooth tits spilling out of the top of her painted-on rubber dress and with the leather collar fastened firmly and blatantly around her neck.

She turned her eyes back to Alice, her face a jumble of confusion. "Who? Who is that?" she managed to croak.

"The man?" Alice offered. "He comes in her often with her. He owns her, like he's her Master; and he likes to have Tai dance for her. He loves showing her off, too. Like he's doing now. And Tai, she eats it all up. Literally, if you know what I mean."

"What's her name?" Jean breathed. She had to know.

"I don't know. In here, she has no name," Alice said. "She answers to 'pet' in here. Of course, she answers to whatever she is called. Her name doesn't matter. Who knows, maybe she doesn't even have a name any more."

At that moment the golden blonde rose to her feet and turned around so she could sit on the man's lap and grind her g-string covered pussy on his erection. And Jean was confronted with a second, gut-wrenching shock.

Jean moaned aloud. It was her. Oh my god, it was her. The naked girl in the picture frame on her nightstand who had posed for a photographer with her arms wrapped around Jean's neck and with a loving smile on her face. Her. She was here. Right here. Now.

The implication of what the green-haired nymph behind the bar had just said finally registered in her brain. The dancer. The woman in her picture frame. Her name was Tai. And she knew Jean. Really knew her. Tai knew the body and the person who had been Jean before Jean had melted away in the still impenetrable fog in her head.

Jean sat, open-mouthed, as the woman in her photograph – Tai, now - masturbated the unknown man and his voluptuous redheaded pet – the woman Jean knew somehow, but couldn't place. Tai had one hand between her legs, fingering her own cunt along with what she was doing to the man's pet. She was on the brink of orgasm, as the redhead clearly was, too, when the man abruptly stood up and pulled his very weak-kneed companion to her feet by her leash.

He nodded to one of the bouncers, who plowed a path across the room for him through the teeming crowd of raucous men and hovering dancesluts. And then they disappeared through an unmarked door.

Jean pinched her clit and squeezed it tight to will her orgasm back into its cage as Tai followed them through the door into the murky darkness that lay beyond and pulled it shut behind her. But before her golden form dissolved in the hazy fog, Tai paused and turned to look directly at Jean. The expression on her face was unreadable, but her eyes held Jean's gaze as if she was a deer blinded by an onrushing car's headlights.

And then she was gone.

Jean held on to her clit for dear life. Her other hand gripped her glass of Amaretto so hard, it fractured, sending the remains of her drink and a small rivulet of blood spattering over her Fantasies tank top. The icy brown liquid chilled her to her bones and made her nipples flare into instant hardness as the cold wetness soaked through the skin-tight white fabric and changed it from painted-on opaque to obscenely translucent. Her silver rings leaped into view, their color and shape completely visible now against her wet flesh.

She fought her orgasm and barely contained it. The pain from pinching her clit so hard brought tears to her eyes. She wanted to come so very badly, but she couldn't – not now. Not with Tai and the redhead and her mystery man having vanished from the room. She needed them to see her, so she could orgasm in their presence. She had no idea why, but she knew that was the only way she would be able to orgasm this night.

So she waited, squirming and crossing and uncrossing her legs, and fending off a continual parade of intoxicated men who either made lewd comments about her tits or offered to buy her another drink. Crass or shy, each of them wanted a small slice of her, to dance for them or to go home with them; or else simply shine her light on them for a few minutes, and acknowledge their presence and validate their existence.

These men wanted just a few minutes of her time, just enough to make her more real and more tangible, so that when they went home later after their wallets were drained and their cocks still ached with the release they so desperately wanted; she would be there with them, in their dreams, while they masturbated and jerked off into their hands.

Jean wanted that, too, only she wasn't interested in the men's dreams and how they wanted to fuck her. She wanted her own reality. She wanted Tai and the redhead and the man who held the redhead's leash. She needed them to make her dreams, and herself, real. So she waited, silently hoping and pleading for them to return.

Alice had produced a fresh glass of Amaretto and a Band-Aid, between filling the never-ending orders for drinks. After she wrapped the Band-Aid on Jean's finger and held it to her lips to kiss and make it better, Alice looked towards the door that Jean kept staring at. "You're look like a lost puppy, girl. Like you saw your owner go away and you're pining for his return."

"What? I'm sorry. Did you say something?" Jean said without taking her eyes off the door.

"I said you look like a lost puppy, waiting for Tai to come back out."

"No, well, I, um. I can wait," Jean fumbled.

"Well, I should tell you that when someone goes through that door, they don't come back. Not the same night, anyway. They go in there and they're gone. Disappeared for the rest of the night. Some of them never come back."

"What...? What do they do in there?" Jean asked. Her voice was small and weak, and filled with confusion.

"I don't really know. I've never been in there. I'm not allowed," Alice said quietly.

It was only then that Jean saw the pair of beefy men guarding the bland, featureless door. They weren't about to let anyone pass who didn't meet whatever criteria they set to gain admittance to the darkness on the other side.

"I'm going in there," Jean said to no one. She slid off her chair and started to walk towards the door.

"They're not going to let you in, Jean," Alice called after her.

But Jean was already lost in the maelstrom of men and women that thronged the stage, and she didn't counter Alice's prediction. She also did not hear Alice's second sentence.

"Or if they do, you're not coming back."

The Edge of Darkness

Jean hesitated as she drew near to the featureless, unmarked door at the rear of Club eXtreme's chaotic, frenzied mainstage room. The bulky, impassive men who flanked the doorframe stared at her, their tattooed arms folded and theirs faces as hard as stone. Alice the bartender's cryptic words echoed in her head.

They're not going to let you in, Jean.

But she had to, she simply had to cross that threshold. The redheaded woman was in there, on her leash, tethered to the man who had brought her here. She simply had to follow her - and Tai. She had found the woman in the silver-framed photograph on Jean's nightstand so unexpectedly, and now the urge to touch her and speak to her and to bask in her presence was overpowering.

The men guarding the door leered at her Amaretto-soaked top; and at her hard, erect nipples with their obscenely large, heavy silver rings that were so shamelessly visible through the filmy wet fabric that was polka-dotted with her blood from when she had broken the glass in her hand at the shock of seeing Tai in the flesh for the first time.

Her silver-ringed clit throbbed as she approached the door. Jean could see the smear of lipstick on one of the men's neck, where a dancer had snuggled up to him and marked him with her slut-red paint. Whoever it was had probably been trying to escape a fine, or worse, for doing something truly wicked and perverted that compromised the shaky and weakly-enforced morals of Club eXtreme.

She was within two steps of the door, and afraid that she was going to be stopped with her face inches from the scratched and gouged panel of wood, when lipstick-neck glanced at his partner and then twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open.

There was only a faint hint of light on the other side, with moving blobs of almost-black milling about in the near-total darkness. The scent of danger was there, though she wasn't sure whether it wafted towards her from the darkness, or whether it seeped from her own pores and created a cloud of fear that enveloped her in its embrace and followed in her wake.

The guard on the other side of the door put his hand in the small of her back and shoved her forward, into the darkness. And then the door slammed shut behind her.

Jean fell hard, onto her knees. She just barely caught herself with her hands before she pitched forward and almost landed flat on her face. Her blood roared in her ears and it was nearly a minute before she could hear, and focus her eyes on the barely visible sight in front of her. The first sound she heard was the 'snick' of the door locking behind her. The second was that of a woman moaning softly. And then the room swam into focus.

The redhead was there, in the center of the room. Her wrists had been tied together and she was slowly twisting back and forth, suspended from a hook in the ceiling. The tips of her stiletto-clad toes barely scraped the floor, held far apart by the ankle cuffs and spreader-bar that prevented her from closing her legs.

She was naked now, too, save for her collar. Naked that is, if you didn't count the dark stripes and welts that crisscrossed her body. They would have been very red in normal light. But here in the near-total darkness, where only the faint glow of a single, guttering candle provided the only illumination, they appeared almost black.

The man who had led her into this hellish place stood to one side, holding a whip. Golden-girl Tai was on the other side, holding the redhead's leash and jerking her slowly-turning form every few seconds to force her to face the man who had brought her here and who was now scoring her flesh with the leather snake he held coiled in his hand.

Jean breathed in the intoxicating, raw sexuality of this primal moment from her position on the rough concrete of the floor.

The man lifted his arm and pointed at the redhead's breasts, as Tai jerked her back around to face him again. The naked, sweat-sheened woman's eyes widened and she visibly trembled. Bu t she said nothing and she did not attempt to twist away.

And when the whip cracked against her titflesh, she shuddered and exhaled and moaned again, quietly. But she did not scream or cry out. Her body swayed and recoiled from the blow and she shut her eyes and bit her lip. But other than the low, guttural moan, no sound escaped her lips.

The man coiled his whip and aimed it at the redhead's cunt. And then he snapped his wrist and again she danced and moaned and spasmed when the tasseled tip of the whip kissed her flesh. And again, Tai pulled her twitching body back into position to face her Master.

The vision of the redheaded beauty in front of her suddenly leaped into crystal-clear focus. Her name was Nicki Whitmore and she was English and a schoolteacher and she – Jean – had massaged her, and she had a trainer, and - Oh god, this must be him. Her Trainer. With a capital "T". He can't be anyone else.

The schoolteacher's Trainer cracked his whip again and marked her left breast. This time her moan was more audible.

Jean was immobile, kneeling on the floor as if she was worshipping at an altar, honoring and reveling in the magic and the mystery of Nicki Whitmore's breathtaking performance. She had one hand on her left breast, cupping it and with a finger in her ring, tugging and stretching her nipple. It was as if she were pledging allegiance to the sinfulness of what was being done to the young schoolteacher. Her other hand was on her cunt, with her fingers in her slit and tugging on her clit ring.

"Not yet," the man's voice said. His words were softly spoken, but they were formed of forged steel. "You're not nearly ready, yet. You need to be stripped bare – from the inside out."

Stripped bare. From the inside out. Jean shuddered at the image his words implied. And she lifted her blood and liquor-stained top over her head, and pulled off her skirt. Stripped bare. Yes. I need to be stripped – of everything.

"Does my pretty little slut want to be fucked tonight? Does she want to cum?" The man's words were underlined by the quiet sound of the ropes creaking as Nicki Whitmore spun in a slow circle.

Jean's mouth formed the word "Yes," at the same time as Nicki Whitmore. Their single syllable answer was spoken as one, though no sound passed her lips save for an outrush of air.

As she slumped and hung from her wrists and twisted slowly from the most recent stroke to her ass, Nicki Whitmore's eyes focused and found Jean in the near-darkness. And she smiled and kissed Jean across the gulf of space and pain that separated them. She had heard Jean, and she understood.

She understands. She understands everything. Oh god, she knows. She knows who I am.

Jean rose shakily to her feet. Nicki Whitmore's eyes were summoning her; beckoning her forward like the sweet, seductive call of the Sirens. She stepped forward, closer to where the dripping wet slave slowly twisted back and forth on the hook embedded in the ceiling above.

A whimper and a grunt from a corner behind her distracted Jean for a moment. She turned to peer into the darkness. There was someone else in the room – two someones, in fact. The leggy, raven-haired girl who had been on stage when she'd entered Club eXtreme was there, grinding her naked ass on the lap of a bare-chested man with long, flowing shoulder-length hair who was sitting in a tall, straight-backed wooden chair.

Raven-girl fished her hand into his already-opened zipper and pulled out a straining, phallic stone of a cock. She was watching Nicki with rapt, wide eyes and not even seeing Jean.

The sound of the whip cracking against Nicki Whitmore's tortured flesh behind her made Jean jump. The sight and the sound and the scent of the redhead's succumbing to the whip lit up the dark-haired stripper's face. It was as if Jean was looking at the face of an angel in the presence of her god.

Only then did the dancer's eyes see Jean and acknowledge her presence. She took the hand that had been kneading her breast and ran her fingers over the head of the cock that she held tight against her pussy. Then she stuffed her fingers into her mouth, tasting the blended flavor of sweat and pre-cum and her own juices while she slowly slid her bare, wet slit up and down the cock, just like she had made love to the brass pole on the stage an hour earlier.

It was at that moment that Jean saw that the man sitting in the chair wore even more metal than she did – with hoops of silver glinting in the flickering light on his face as well as from his nipples. And even more stunningly, he had his ankles bound to the chair legs and that his wrists were tied to the chair behind his back. He was struggling mightily to not orgasm, Jean could see, and he was slowly losing the battle.

As Jean stared at the conjoined pair, the whip cracked against the redhead's flesh again. This time she moaned louder. Nicki Whitmore was very close to her limit.

As the schoolteacher's strangled cry rent the air, the dark-haired girl lifted herself up and impaled her cunt on the cock she had been riding. She rammed herself down on the cock and reached into the man's pants to squeeze his balls while she lifted up her left breast and bit her nipple.

Jean needed to turn and bask in the reflected heat of Nicki Whitmore's torment, but she could not take her eyes off the raw display of animal lust she was watching being acted out in the corner.

The girl humped the man's cock until she stiffened and her entire body began to visibly vibrate. Tight little squeals escaped her lips as she rode the cock that filled her to a mind-crushing orgasm. All the while, the man was thrashing about, as if he was trying to snap the ropes that held him captive; as he, too, succumbed to the sheer carnality of the moment.

"Come here, angelslut," the man with the whip commanded. Share your gift with the slave."

"Yes, Sir," the girl replied. "With pleasure."

As she rose, Jean saw droplets of semen drip from angelslut's cunt and onto the cock head that reappeared, glistening and gleaming and sticky, from her pussy. The girl knelt and deep-throated the still-hard cock and licked up the cumdrops, and then she pirouetted and strode to where Nicki Whitmore sagged on her ropes.
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