Vanishing Point Ch. 01 page 1

Triangulating Her Existence – Side One

Jean Bujold awakened to the reverberating wail of an ambulance careening down the street three floors beneath her apartment. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. It was the only word that she could form, but it was appropriate, and it bore repeating. She lifted up her head and blinked. It was light out, at least. Thank goodness for that. Then she rolled over and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It's rigidly pointing hands signaled that it was 8:15. Whoever was dying and on their way to the hospital had been courteous enough to awaken her only fifteen minutes early.

She flopped over onto her back and muttered a small curse. She had landed on her vibrator – again -and the hard plastic base was digging into the small of her back. Jean fished it out from under the tangled sheets and placed it on her chest, hugging it between her breasts. It was coated with her orgasms from last night, and the scent of herself on the polished silver metal made her nipples hard.

Jean tilted her head forward and kissed the tip of her inanimate friend, while she stroked her clit and watched the clouds scudding by in the morning breeze outside her window. It was time to get moving now; but still she lay there, lingering.

She had fallen asleep with the vibe inside her last night, purring and lulling her to sleep at its lowest setting. She often did that, after several intense hours of cybersex and reading porn. It helped her to unwind and to calm herself enough to let her sleep, after fucking and coming with the women and men she fornicated with on her screen.

She had been fucking herself with the vibrator for a man last night – an author whose erotica she was addicted to. He seemed to know exactly what was going on in her head, and he could always find exactly the right words to make her burn with an incandescent fire fueled by the lust and passion he ignited within her. It didn't matter whether she read the words in a story he had written about someone else, or if they were aimed directly at her in a chat window.

And last night, he had really pried open her soul, as well as her cunt. He had teased out of her secrets she had never told anyone else, ever, and she had ridden her vibrator to one cresting orgasm after another for him. She couldn't tell, really, whether he had orgasmed, too; or if he had simply enjoyed leading her to the brink and dangling her over the precipice for a cruel number of minutes before pushing her over the edge with his yearned-for words of permission for her to orgasm for him.

She liked that – being told when to come.

The vibrator was dead and inert this morning, its batteries exhausted by her body and her dreams. She had dreamed especially vivid and colorful dreams last night. Dreams of wild, uninhibited sex, and more. He had been there, doing her. And so were many of the women he wrote about. They were all there, all focused on her; teasing her, playing with her, and fucking her.

But now it was time to return to reality. Shit, shower, and shave – her legs, that is. Her author friend was trying to convince her to shave her pussy, but she wasn't quite ready for that. She had a nicely sculpted, perfectly symmetrical triangle, with the bottom-most point aimed at, and directing the eye towards, her clit. The few people who got to see it thought it was attractive and sexy, so she kept it.

Her life was like that triangle, really. The shape on her mons was a symbol of who Jean Bujold was. Each point on the closely trimmed patch of hair represented one of the essential elements of her life. She was a woman in three parts. Just three. There was nothing else of significance in Jean Bujold's existence.

The downward pointing tip of the triangle represented Jean the cybervixen and the woman who slept with her vibrator and dreamed extraordinarily detailed and kinky visions of lust and passion. The other two; well, each would have its turn today.

In the bathroom Jean turned on the water and sent clouds of steam swirling through the small tiled room. She liked it hot, and nearly scalding. She liked the way it felt, the stinging droplets lashing at her flesh; and how her skin glowed when she toweled herself dry afterwards.

As she soaped her belly and tits, Jean sorted and arranged the things that would be the signposts for today in her mind. They were nearly the same as yesterday and the day before that. She lived an outwardly unremarkable life, one in which she made few waves – or even ripples – in the small corner of humanity that she inhabited.

To those who passed her on the street, she was a pretty young woman of twenty-two, with reddish-blonde hair that spilled over her shoulders and drew a person's eyes to her nicely shaped but perfectly average breasts. If she was wearing something daring, which was seldom, the eyes would be drawn to the light patina of freckles that decorated the swell of her breasts. She liked her freckles. She'd even tried counting them when she was a girl and before she grew breasts. But there were too many, and her interests had drifted elsewhere as her body and her spirit had ripened and matured.

These days, Jean mostly hid herself behind a white oxford shirt and a stylishly snug and short –and always black - skirt. It was her 'uniform' as it were, and it helped her to move through the world with a minimum of fuss and care. She wasn't terminally shy, but she tried to not draw unnecessary attention to herself. She liked to control her surroundings and be the one to decide when, and how, and for whom, she would let down her guard.

So she hid behind her shirt and her skirt and her ordinary shoes, and the black-rimmed glasses she always wore. Her few friends had always urged her to wear contacts or get her eyes lasered so people could see the startlingly-green and expressive eyes that her parents had blessed her with. But Jean had always refused, not wanting to let the outsiders see her so open - and vulnerable - like that.

She wiped an oval on the steamed-up mirror and brushed out her hair. Then it was white thong panties, the skirt, a less-than-demure little white lacy bra, and her standard-issue shirt. She left the top three buttons undone today, so a bit of lace and a scattering of freckles were showing. Her author friend had told her to do that, but he had urged her to undo four, instead of three. She liked the idea of doing this for him, and knowing that he would ask her about it later that night, when she had her vibrator in her pussy and a finger in her ass and she was typing words of lust one-handed on the keyboard and waiting for him to tell her to tell her when she could orgasm for him.

But three buttons was as daring as the public Jean was going to be today. She would tell him of course, that it was three instead of four; and he would use that to torture her a bit longer before he let her come. But that was OK. She liked the idea of being punished a little bit and made to wait. It made her feel special. Having all of his attention focused on her and directing her masturbation like a marionette with his words on the screen made her orgasms even more intense, with the delays and the denial adding even more fuel to the carnal fires he fanned within her body.

But now it was time to start her day. After a hurried cup of coffee and an apple, she was out the door, headed for the bus stop. She was going to have to move fast, though. The indecision over four buttons versus three had taken a precious few extra minutes.

It was nice being able to sleep until eight-thirty each morning. She got to avoid some of the rush hour hassles and she always got a seat on the bus. She wondered if Amir would be driving the Number 127 this morning. He was always trying to get her to go out with him, and telling her about how he could take the bus out for their date, and hinting at what they could do in each and every one of the seats.

Amir would notice the missing three buttons. She would have to tell Him, tonight, about Amir, when she fucked for him.

Jean had the luxury of getting a late start every day because the Anything Goes Salon and Spa didn't open until ten o'clock in the morning. Her first massage client usually wasn't until close to eleven, either. Her clients almost always had something else done before they came to Jean.

On her way out the door, she spotted an envelope in her mail slot.

Now that's odd. I picked up the mail yesterday, and it doesn't arrive until late in the afternoon. How did this get here?

She unlocked her box and took out the letter. It was a standard-sized envelope, and her 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 yesterday. How in the world…?

But there was the bus. Amir tooted his horn at her and waved to get her attention. She sprinted for the corner so he wouldn't have to wait for her, and she breathlessly climbed the steps of Number 127 and greeted Amir with a quiet smile. She sat two rows behind him and listened to him begin his daily seduction. There were only four other people on the bus, back towards the rear, and they paid Jean no attention.

Jean had never told Amir what she did for a living, or where she worked. She knew he would definitely get the wrong idea. For while she was a masseuse and the salon's name could be interpreted as a place men went to for 'non-therapeutic' massages, there was nothing untoward about the Anything Goes Salon and Spa other than its name. Its clientele were almost all women and there was no hanky-panky at all that went on there. Well, almost none. At least nothing the vice squad was interested in. Jean was a registered professional - and a good one. There were dozens of women who swore by what she could do with her hands on their overtired muscles.

Jean let Amir's prattling continue on, with an occasional "uh huh" and "you don't say" reply tossed back to be polite. But her mind was on the envelope in her lap. It's creamy, heavy texture and the ornate lettering made it seem special. Someone wanted to impress her in a big way. Amir? Not possible. He couldn't even pronounce the words well, much less spell them.

Jean held the envelope and ran her fingertips over the lettering. It wasn't every day that a girl got such a mysterious and intriguing letter, and she wasn't going to rush opening it. But four stops before where she got off the bus, she couldn't resist any longer, and she did open the letter.

The crisply folded single sheet of paper inside was equally finely drawn with ink and pen. She studied the words, and groaned. Shit, they really had me dreaming. What a way to let a girl's hopes down.

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, somewhere on a street she had never been down on the other side of the park. Hair, manicure, pedicure, waxing, massage, the works. Talk about a poorly aimed bit of advertising. She spent five days a week at the Anything Goes and here they wanted to treat her to a day at a salon.

Wait a minute… What if they KNOW that I'm a masseuse and that I work at Anything Goes? Maybe this is a come-on to try to get me to switch to their place. It must be new… I've never heard of them before.

The idea that she might be courted by someone who recognized her talents was an unexpectedly delightful thought. Now that's a way to start a girl's day!

The bus yawed to a halt at the curb. She had arrived. She hopped off the bus and blew an unexpected kiss to Amir, and scampered down the sidewalk. It was a lovely day.

Triangulating Her Existence – Side Two

Jean strode through the doors of Anything Goes with a spring in her step. The mysterious envelope was carefully tucked away in her shoulder bag. She didn't want it to get creased or smudged. It was too important for that.

Once she was inside, she made a beeline for the changing room. She peeled off her skirt and hung her shirt on a hanger in her locker. Her bra was the next to go. She reached for one of the salon's namesake-logo'd spaghetti-strapped little shirts and pulled it down over her breasts. In here, unlike out in public, Jean liked to show off her body. There were a few women she had as regular clients who liked to look. Jean didn't mind that – because she liked to look, too.

A low-slung pair of clingy spandex leggings that left a generous amount of bare flesh between her hips and the bottom of her one-size-too-small shirt completed her work outfit. After rebrushing her hair and adjusting her breasts beneath the taut ribbed cotton and checking the rest of her appearance, Jean was ready for work.

The freshly printed sheet of paper at the receptionist's desk listed her appointments for the day. Victoria, who ran the front desk, handed Jean a copy. "Hi, darlin'. Here's your list."

Jean scanned the list of names. Mrs. Abbot, Connie Brubaker, Carrie Ramirez all in the morning, and several more crammed in on top of each other in the afternoon. It was going to be a busy day.

While she waited for Mrs. Abbot with her chronic back pain and her thirty extra pounds around her middle to arrive, Jean relaxed in one of the hairdressers' chairs near the reception desk. She closed her eyes and let her thoughts return to the mysterious letter tucked away in her bag in the locker room. She wanted to read it again, and to savor each carefully scripted word with her eyes, and with her tongue silently speaking them inside her mouth. But she didn't want anyone else to see it, or start asking questions – especially if Fantasia was going to try to recruit her away from Anything Goes.

Besides, this was hers, alone; and it felt slightly wicked to be thinking about being immersed in such a sensual experience without anyone else in the world knowing about it. This was going to be her secret. She wasn't going to tell anyone – not even Tai. But she was going to find Tai tonight and release some of the sexual tension that was building between her legs.

But Tai was for later. Right now, she was gong to fantasize about being Fantasia's courted and seduced goddess – and she gently stroked her clit through the spandex that covered, but did not hide, her pussy while she roleplayed what she imagined it would be like to have that kind of attention lavished upon her inside her head.

Yes, Jean Bujold was smitten with what the letter hinted at. It had definitely done its job, and had done it well.

"Hey girl, Mrs. Abbot is here. Get your mind out of whatever porn flick you're watching behind your eyeballs and go greet her like a proper employee." Victoria prodded Jean's foot with her own.

"Sorry, I was daydreaming about something. I'll be right there," Jean replied as she jerked upright and quickly moved her hand away from the well-defined line of her green-spandexed slit. Her face burned a deep red, redder than her hair.

"I should say so," Victoria teased. You looked like you were ready to disappear into that fantasy, and not come back for a loooong time. Move that ass now, beautiful. Your adoring public awaits your magical ministrations with those amazing hands."

"Oh, please, stop," Jean begged, as she laughed. "I'm coming, I'm coming."

Victoria mimicked Jean's words, turning them into a lewd pantomime of the unintended double meaning of what she had said.

Jean glared playfully at Victoria and gave her the finger before she made her way to the rear of the salon and the massage room where Mrs. Abbot waited, freshly showered and scented and covered in a towel, waiting for Jean's hands.

Jean was kept busy all day by her appointments and the walk-ins and the occasional chair massages for clients getting their hair or nails done. All in all, a very good day for her wallet. But throughout the day, she kept returning to Fantasia and her daydream of being the one that a dozen other women doted on and served at her beck and call. Even if it were for only one day, it was going to be a high point in the flat terrain of Jean's everyday existence.

When it came time to change back into her oxford shirt and skirt, Jean's hands were tired. But not too tired for Tai. She really hoped she was going to be there tonight. Jean stripped off her leggings and top and her now rather moist thong and then showered and dressed, but not before masturbating with the pulsing water jet of the shower head thrumming against her pussy and two fingers inside her cunt. And when she dressed, her minimal excuse for panties ended up in her purse instead of covering her pussy. She was already looking forward to seeing Tai, and releasing the sexual energy she had been accumulating since opening her letter from Fantasia.

Triangulating Her Existence – Side Three

Jean's heart always skipped a beat when she crossed the threshold of Club eXtreme. The pounding backbeat of the music and the lasers and strobes piercing the smoke-clouded air made her feel like she was entering a very foreign and alien place. And for most women, Club eXtreme was not a place they would even dream of going – and especially if they were going there alone.

But Jean found herself drawn there more and more often, to sit at the bar drinking Amaretto while she watched the action – and sometimes more than that. It was like she was forcefully pulled here, like a comet sucked in by the sun's gravity well, and with nearly the same mathematical precision that charted the celestial visitor's elliptical course around its incandescent center of gravity.

The only times she did not make it to her usual seat at the end of the bar at the back of the main room was when she was diverted by a greater urgency to reach out and connect with one or more of her cyberpartners and masturbate and fuck with them across the uncharted terrain of cyberspace.

Each place drew her in with near equal ardor – the abstract world of words and imagination and mind-shadows dancing across the flickering computer screen and flowing out of her fingertips, where she could share her passions and fears and wickedness without shame and cloaked by anonymity - and the intensively visual and graphically physical world of Club eXtreme.

Jean was alternately voyeur, participant, partner and fuck object in each realm. Each served to fulfill her needs in ways that neatly complemented the other. She had discovered long ago that she needed both to survive, and to stay sane. Whether it was all grounded in logic and meaning or it was the result of an out-of-control addiction that enslaved her mind didn't really matter. Jean didn't analyze it or try to understand it – not any more. These places were simply a part of her existence, in equal standing with her daylight existence at Anything Goes.

Her world in three parts: cyberfucking, Anything Goes, and Club eXtreme. Everything else was superfluous and irrelevant and occupied little of her time, thought, or imagination. And now she was here, her legs curled underneath her stool, sipping her Amaretto, and watching Tai make love to the pole on the stage.

There were a dozen men crowded around the tiny platform, each one waving dollar bills and competing for the opportunity to slip them into Tai's minuscule g-string and to touch her glistening, oil and sweat-sheened skin. Jean knew the texture and taste of that skin very well – silky smooth and buttery soft, and the color of sun-kissed honey. Goddamn, she was so beautiful - an exquisitely choreographed ballet of sinuous, slow-moving body parts that could drive you nearly insane with wanting her – no matter what the price in money or time or eternal damnation.

Jean knew all of that, and 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.