Vanishing Point Ch. 03 page 3

Angelslut embraced Nicki Whitmore and wrapped her arms around her whip-marked body and kissed the redhead in a deep, open-mouthed kiss. She slid her body up and down the Nicki's slick, wet skin while her fingers massaged and caressed the redhead's cunt and ass and breasts and counted the vertebrae in her spine. She brought the pain-wracked teacher to the brink of orgasm – and then she stopped.

Angelslut stepped back from Nicki's bound form and she turned to face Jean. "It is your turn now. Taste her. Touch her. Feel her heart beat against yours." She walked towards Jean and took her hand. "You know you want to. You cannot say no." Then she led Jean forward and placed Jean's trembling hand on Nicki Whitmore's heaving breast.

Yes, I can feel her heart beating. Oh, god, she is so hot.

Before Jean realized what they were doing, angelslut and Tai were spreading her legs and binding her ankles to Nicki's and to the spreader bar. Then they each took one of Jean's arms and lifted them up to bind her wrists and attach them to the same hook in the ceiling that held the whip-weakened Nicki Whitmore upright.

Jean's lips brushed against Nicki's and she tasted the arousal and the pain, and the exhilaration and the fear, on the naked slave's lips. Their eyes met and Jean saw the reflection of herself in the wide, wet eyes of the woman she was now bound to.

"This is my wickedness," Nicki Whitmore whispered while Jean's tongue licked a drop of cum and sweat from her chin. "This is my sin, and this is the One who is my deliverance."

And the whip cracked against their pressed-together flesh. The leather tendrils struck Nicki's ass with the full force of the blow, propelling her forward into Jean's tits and cunt as she exhaled her scream into Jean's kiss. The tip of the whip curled around the redhead's body to snap against Jean's hip. The sudden, electric-shock jolt brought Jean to the brink of orgasm.

"You will learn to love this," Nicki managed to say as she struggled to breathe. And the whip kissed them again, this time exploding against Jean's ass and searing her flesh and flashing like a thousand flashbulbs to seemingly thrust her into a brilliantly bright, klieg-light illuminated infinity of pain.

Permanent Marks

She awoke bathed in sweat, her damp sheet slimy with her residue and twisted around her legs. Every bone in her body ached. Groggily, she lifted up her head and surveyed her surroundings. She was in a bed and she was sprawled on her belly with one arm hanging over the edge of the bed and touching the stained and ancient carpet on the floor.

A dead vibrator lay on the floor next to her hand. Its shiny chrome shape was dulled by the stickiness that coated the entirety of the shaft. She must have fucked it until either she, or it, had died last night.

About last night... what, exactly?

She furrowed her brow and strained to retrieve a thought. But it didn't work. Nothing worked, anymore. She wasn't even sure of her name. J... J... She pasted vowels and consonants next to the 'J' she felt confident of, and within a few minutes, she settled on Jean. Jean she would be until something better came along.

Then she rolled over and tried to get up. Oh god, oh god, oh my fucking god. The pain was like a deep-rooted toothache that permeated every one of her bones. Sitting was nearly impossible, so she twisted back onto her belly. She managed to turn her head far enough to catch a sidelong look at her ass. Her ass was the wellspring of the throbbing ache that made her blood pound in her head.

Her voice caught in her throat. Oh... my... god...

What she saw was shocking, and unnerving. A single, diagonal red welt sliced across her ass, from her left hip to her right thigh. It's angry, red color was risen into a curdled, rough-textured welt that looked far too painful to touch, much less sit upon. How she had gotten it, she had no recollection.

Jean slid off the bed and onto her knees on the floor. Even that simple act made her cringe. Who did this to me? She tried again – nothing. And why? Then the most amazing thought of all leaped into her mind, triggered by the sight of herself and a second naked woman in the silver-framed photograph on her nightstand.

She was there. When this happened. I can feel her presence, somehow. Jean touched the blood-red line that divided the rear of her body into 'above' and 'below.' Yes, she was there. But she was not the one who did this to me. Another tendril of recollection rose to the surface of her consciousness. And I, yes, I liked it. The how or why or where of it remained a blank. But the honey-colored blonde in the picture had been there, and she had watched it all; and she had orgasmed along with her when that stripe had been painted on her flesh.

Jean levered herself to her feet and managed to stay mostly upright. She made her way to the bathroom gingerly, and with a minimum of zigzags. She had to study herself in the mirror and survey the entirety of what had been done to her.

In the expanse of mirror and the fullness of the light, she saw that there were other marks, too. Less severe and brutal than that one amazing three-dimensional, technicolor stripe, to be sure; but not the kind of marks that could be from anything other than a whip. Jean traced the entirety of the raised, curdled masterstroke that had seared her flesh with her fingers, wincing at every raised, blood-filled dimple she encountered.

How can I not remember this? She marveled at the reality of it – having been flayed so severely and not having the slightest memory of it. But the fact that it was there did not trouble her. She thought that was odd, that she had been hurt like that and she wasn't scared or afraid.

And the idea that someone might do this to her again did not terrorize her. Far from it. It excited her.

It was exciting...beyond words. That someone would be willing to do that to her, to score her flesh while she writhed and moaned and screamed like she must have done. To find the beauty in doing something like that to her holding the raw, carnal intensity of it in his hand, coiling and unleashing the whip, again and again and again. The thought of it was... exhilarating.

She bent over the vanity, holding onto its edge while she brought her face close to the glass. A small cloud of fog appeared as she approached her image. The face that stared back at her was filled with wonder and arousal, the eyes luminous with passion and unfulfilled desires. She ran her fingers through the matted and clumped spikes of dark, red-black hair that formed an irregular halo around her visage.

The metal chain around her neck seemed tighter, and more constricting. She turned the little oval medallion over. It was still there. '146'. The enigma of her identity.

God, I'm so wet. Just from this. I'm alive. I am so alive. Please...

She clenched her ass cheeks together, sending a firebolt of pain radiating from her whipmark leaping and arcing through her body. The eyes in the mirror flashed and widened and misted over, as she stiffened and then pressed her cunt against the cool marble edge.

"Again. Please, I need it again. Don't leave me here like this. Take me. Please." Her lips were pressed against the mirror now, one hand pinching her clit while the other traced the full length of her whipmark. Then she dug her fingernails into her clitflesh and spanked her ass, full force with the palm of her hand, and screamed.

"I'm ready. Nothing else matters now. Just this."

Her tears were flowing feely now, as she crested, bringing herself to the edge of orgasm.

"No. Can't. Have to... Have to stop. I can't. Not like this." She was suddenly filled with panic and dread. The urge to tumble over the edge into an orgasmic paroxysm of pain and lust and bliss was overpowering. But she fought it, and writhed and shuddered as she forced the unstoppable orgasm that was consuming her to stop – at the very last heartbeat before she ignited in a pillar of flames.

She sank to her knees and sobbed, not knowing how or why she had stopped, but only that if she had orgasmed she would have died, and been denied permission to enter the heaven she sought. She would have been cast out into the darkness and the hellish fog of nothingness, and never again permitted to experience the pure white light of limitless, boundaryless ecstasy. She had been given a taste of it, and she was on the brink of losing it now.

There was no way she could put it into words or even describe it; but she knew that it was real and that she was circling faster and faster as she spiraled inwards from the edge of the whirlpool, getting closer and closer to the event horizon where the gravity well at the bottom of the spinning tornado would suck her in and never let her go. But she also knew that she would have to be taken there, and that there was no way she could find her way, on her own.

Jean crawled back to her bed and pulled the covers over her head. She curled up and clutched her pillow to her breasts and slept; and dreamed vivid amorphous dreams of dark, writhing, nameless shapes dancing by the guttering light of a single candle and the metronome-like crack of leather on flesh.

Fade to Black

It was late afternoon when she awakened. She fought her way out from under the covers and sat up, slowly shaking her head as if that would clear the ever-present fog. She was bathed in sweat and she stank. Of sex and fear and dark, sordid, haunting dreams. She was hungry, of that she was sure; but everything else was a jumbled heap of disconnected body parts and broken shards of memory.

She crawled out of bed and into the bathroom, every inch a painful reminder of what she could no longer grasp. Collapsing on the floor of the shower, she managed to turn the water on and she sat there in the hot rain, feeling the water drops hammer at the surface of the skin she lived in. The skin that hurt and ached and had these incredible, wicked and extravagant marks etched across its surface – the skin that kept her a prisoner within its fragile cage, but that she could not claim as her own. Had it ever been hers? She had no way of telling.

She sat there, quietly soaping and massaging away the stink - and breathing – until the water ran cold.

There was only one Fantasies Can Come True tank top remaining in the closet and a single, tiny black spandex skirt. This one was even shorter than the others had been. She had to choose between tugging it down so low on her hips that the crack of her ass was in danger of being exposed, or showing off her labia with each step she took. There was no way to even imagine sitting in this minuscule excuse for a skirt.

And the shoes, the only shoes there, were skyscraper-tall black spikes with laces that wrapped around her ankles and calves. Ten minutes later, when she was as dressed as she was going to get and had a smear of red on her lips, she was an advertisement for sex, pure and simple. Blatant and uncompromising and without a shred of decency about her.

She teetered into the small living room in the apartment, each step an adventure in maintaining her balance. It was then that she saw it. The computer monitor was turned on, with a small, red-bordered window of black text on a white background centered in the middle of the wallpaper image. The wallpaper was a photograph of her. She was kneeling on the floor in a darkened room, naked, her hands on the floor in front of her and looking up at someone above her.

The words on the screen echoed loudly in her mind.

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

A second sentence, below the first and in a different, more delicate font, resonated in her soul as if it were a bell that had just been struck.

"You know you want to. You cannot say no."

Her mouth formed the word "Yes," as soon as her brain had processed the symbols inside the glowing, red rectangle. Her single syllable answer welled up from inside her without even having to think, though no sound passed her lips save for an outrush of air.

She was shaking, trembling as if she were kneeling in the midst of a raging blizzard, frozen to near hypothermia. It was all rushing towards her so fast. She had no idea what it was, but it was nearly here and it was about to consume her. It wasn't fear, or panic, or horror, though. It was anticipation and euphoria and an awareness that her life was about to be altered beyond comprehension. It was nearly here, and she was about to cross the threshold into heaven.

There was a letter balanced on the keyboard beneath the illuminated rectangle of stained-glass-like light that was the computer monitor. The envelope had a small, elegantly scripted line of calligraphy on it. She reached for it with her hand. The heavy weight of the envelope surprised her. The paper was as luxurious and sensual to the touch as the script was to the eye.

"For 146" was all it said.

She worked the flap of the envelope open carefully. There was no way she was going to damage the parchment inside. Her hands shook as she worked her blood-red fingernail beneath the edge.

And then it was open, and ready to divulge its Pandora's Box of secrets.

She extracted the single sheet of paper and unfolded its precisely-folded thirds. She held the letter in both hands to steady it enough so she could read it.

Fantasies do come true, the gently curving loops and swirls of ink said. Beneath that single line was an address, and a date and a time.

She felt as though she should recognize the address. She knew where it was, though. How or why she knew escaped her. She glanced at the small text at the right of the Start menu on the computer. The date was today and the time was forty-one minutes from now. She would have to hurry, though her shoes would limit her speed considerably.

She took one look around the silent and completely disinterested furnishings of the small, drab room. And then she walked out the door without even bothering to close it behind her; with the piece of paper in her hand and leaving the computer screen glowing, its rectangular, red framed words there for whoever might chance upon its titillating message.

When she was outside, she turned and strode up the sidewalk towards the park. It was this way. She would have to cross the manicured green sward, following the curving ellipses of the graveled path to the other side.

Everyone who passed her gawked and stared and leered, but she saw none of it – or even registered anyone else's presence.

Mid-way across the park, she slowed. A woman in a wife-beater t-shirt and a black and white striped skirt sat on a bench, masturbating. Her long blonde hair was a cantankerous cloud of curls and kinks and her face was a study in concentration. The woman was pinching her nipples and tugging at her labia beneath her skirt.

She slowed her pace. She was going to have to traverse the narrow length of gravel right in front of this woman who was on the brink of orgasm. The woman wasn't embarrassed or hesitant about being so close to her while she fingered her pussy. Not at all.

Jean wanted to linger and watch, and hopefully be close enough to share the sensual backwash of her orgasm. She so very much wanted to come. Her need was palpable and it was surging. She needed it, now. As much as the woman on the bench did – or more.

As she drew closer, the sounds and even – she would swear to it – the scent of the woman's urgency and arousal washed over her. The sounds of wet fingers thrusting in and out; and of the woman's labored breathing and her quiet, unintelligible words, hit her like the sudden rush from a line of cocaine. She so very desperately wanted to linger and watch and to let her body vibrate and resonate in time with the woman's fast-onrushing orgasm.

She stopped right in front of the woman, her shadow falling across the woman's scrunched-up face. If she lifted her arm and reached out, she could lay her hand on the woman's head and caress her wondrous hair. She so very much wanted to do that, to make that intimate, skin-on-skin connection and to be sucked into the tight-spinning vortices of the woman's passion. She wanted to become one with her, to surrender her own existence and disappear within the private intimacy of the long-haired blonde's orgasm.

The woman was oblivious, and unaware that she was being watched. Nothing existed for her other than her cunt and her fingers and the lewd images of sensuality and depravity that flickered behind her tightly-closed eyelids.

At the very last moment, an instant before she convulsed and shed the last little bit of control over herself, the woman's eyes flew open and she looked up, directly at her.

"No, no, I can't. It's not permitted. I'm not allowed. Not yet." The woman was looking right at her – or through her, really. It was as if she wasn't even there, watching this exquisite sliver of agony.

The woman winced her eyes shut again and whipped her fly-away blonde hair back and forth as she forced herself back from the edge, pinching her clit and savaging a nipple with her other hand. "Please, oh god, please. Take me soon. I can't stand much more of this."

Jean's cunt was dripping and spasming little fuck-spasms as she watched the blonde twist and writhe and beat back her orgasm.

"It's getting late," the woman on the bench gasped. "It's so very late. Please hurry," she said without looking up.

While the woman's eyes had never even focused on her or given any sign that she knew that there was someone else there, she knew that the woman had been speaking to her.

It was late. She was late now – dangerously late. And she would have to hurry now, to make up for the time lost here in the park, in this exquisitely frozen slice of time. If she was not there at the appointed time, the door would be locked and she would be denied entry, and admission. Of that, she was certain.

She started to run, awkwardly, and with her arms flailing about to help her keep her balance in the spike heels. After a few minutes of that, she kicked off her shoes and scooped them up in her hands and started to run, barefoot, on the graveled path.

Her lungs burned and her feet felt every sharp stone and twig as she raced across the park. To be late would be unforgivable.

When she reached the street on the other side of the park she continued to run barefoot across the baked-in heat of the street. A shard of glass cut her foot but she didn't stop. She ran, leaving bloody footprints down the sidewalk as she dodged and weaved around the others who stood there and gawked at the underdressed young woman who sprinted past them, leaving a trail of blood spatters behind her.

They all turned to see who was chasing this terrified girl. But of course there was no one pursuing her. What she feared wasn't behind her – it was in front of her. And what she feared was also what she craved. She had to have it, or she was lost forever. And she was almost out of time.

Finally, she was there. She burst through the door into the cool and serene quiet of the foyer. She fell to her knees, panting. The blood from the gash in her foot made a long red smear across the black and white tiles of the floor, while sweat dripped from her face to mix with the sticky wetness beneath her.

The blood was on her hands and her legs and on her face now. It was everywhere. Everything she touched, she left her crimson imprint behind.

Leaving her shoes behind, she began to crawl up the gleaming wood stairs. Her eyes were fixated on the glowing rectangle of light at the top of the stairs. She was almost there. She could taste it now.

She counted the stairs, as she crawled and climbed. It was all she could do, counting, to keep her mind from exploding. By the time she reached nineteen, and the cool white frosted glass on the door at the top of the stairs was close enough to touch, she was dizzy with exhaustion and from the loss of blood.

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Submitted by : Anonymous
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Disclaimer: All posted stories include descriptions of sex scenes that could cause offence to some people. Please do not read this story if you are offended by perverse sexual material, or if you are under the legal age of consent for your own country. These stories are pure fiction and are not based on anyone living or deceased.