My Pleasures Were (To Say The Least) Undignified

by Optimizer

 

*"...I had voluntarily stripped myself of all those balancing instincts by which even the worst of us continues to walk with some degree of steadiness among temptations..."*

 

So it was that Sherry arrived home comfortably ahead of Sal, and had exchanged the ridiculous trappings for a garment that was more suitable. One that invited an entirely different kind of attention. She waited on a couch in the front room until the doorbell rang.

Opening the door, she was pleased to note Sal's double-take: the nearly universal human reaction to encountering Sherry's raw, animal aura. While he worked to recover his composure, she stole the initiative. "You must be Sal," she purred. "Carl told me to expect you." She stepped back and waved him in.

He entered rather dubiously. The dress she wore had a plunging - indeed, dive-bombing - neckline, and slits ran up both sides of the short skirt. "So, I take it you're Sherry?" Sal was trying to keep his eyes from roaming over her body, with strictly limited success.

"The one and only." She smiled in a satisfied way. There would be no trouble getting what she wanted, she was quite sure of that now. "Can I get you something to drink?" She led him to the living room.

"Not just yet." He looked around; the ground floor of the house hadn't changed noticeably since Sherry had 'moved in'. "Where's Carl?"

She sat down on the couch, leaving plenty of room for him to join her. "He's resting upstairs. He tends to be worn out when I'm through with him." She smirked. "Didn't he tell you about me?"

"I... think I'm beginning to understand." He stood uncomfortably, clearly having trouble focusing on the business he'd come for. "I thought you worked nights?"

"I got off early tonight." Another smile. "Are you disappointed?"

"Uh, no, not at all. But I'd really like to check on Carl."

"Oh, you just had dinner, give him a break. I'd like a chance with you. I've heard so much about you." She patted the cushion next to her. "Come, sit."

He did, carefully, a few inches further away than he really needed to.

"What do you do for a living?" he asked.

"I'm a dancer at the Corinthian Lounge."

"Ah. Really." He absorbed that for a moment. "How did you and Carl meet?

"

 

"We've been... intimate for years now." She stretched a little, drawing his attention to the benefits of intimacy.

"I never would have suspected that." He sounded doubtful.

"I think he was worried that associating with me would sully his reputation." She tossed her head and swept her hair back, grinning mischievously. "He was quite discreet."

"Apparently so." He looked away. "What changed? Why tell me about you now?"

"I'm a much more important part of his life these days."

"So I gather." He cleared his throat. "I have to admit, you don't seem quite the type I'd have pictured for him."

"He's been fantasizing about me for a long time."

"I can well imagine." She could see him struggle with his duty. "Forgive me for the way this question sounds, but... I wouldn't picture Carl as being your type. What do you get out of the relationship?"

"He... takes care of me."

"Why can't I get a straight answer out of either one of you?"

"I'm sure it sounds strange, but it's simply that our relationship is... complicated." Now she leaned forward and shifted closer. "But it's a very open one."

"That doesn't sound much like Carl." Sal seemed to be having trouble figuring out what to do with his hands, fidgeting and backing up slightly.

"I know what you mean, but you'd be surprised how much he's changed."

That seemed to shore up his determination a little. "I might be responsible for that. If I'd known about all this, I wouldn't have..." He moved to stand up. "I really think I should see him."

Sherry put her hands on his shoulders, holding him down. It didn't take all that much effort. "You're a good friend, Sal," she stated, hiding her exasperation. "Now, will you be my friend? Will you help me move a body?" A sinuous ripple of her form as she slid close left no doubt whose body she referred to. "After, you can see Carl if you want. I promise."

Still he hesitated. "Believe me, you'd be doing him a favor, too," she pleaded earnestly. "Carl wants this."

She saw the war inside him. He was Carl's friend... but he was also a man, and she was Sherry. She leaned forward the last few inches, pressing her chest to his and kissing his lips sensuously. His eyes told her the battle was won.

He didn't say anything. Instead, he put his arms around her and kissed her in return, drawing her close. Some of her enjoyment came from the perverse, wicked pleasure of fucking an old friend, someone who'd known Carl. But she'd been right, too. Sal did know how to treat a woman. He used his hands and tongue skillfully, and most importantly he didn't rush things.

While their tongues wrestled his fingertips roamed across her back, her sides, her hair, her cheeks. One sought lower, and ran along her thigh, following the split in her skirt. Then it slid back up and cupped her rear. He pulled her close, turning her onto his lap.

Gently he brought his hands up to her shoulders, and even as their lips remained locked, he eased the dress down over her shoulders, liberating her only nominally-constrained breasts. Sal sat back and paused, dazed at the splendor before him. Sherry was literally too good to be true. Her smug wink spurred him to further action. He brought his lips to the side of her neck, trailing feather-soft kisses down to her chest. Her breath caught in her throat. He took a nipple gently between his teeth and tickled it with his tongue, prompting a shiver and a gasp.

Meanwhile, his hands kept wandering about her body; the one stroking her back as the other moved from her rump around under her skirt, to her crotch. There it found no cloth, only the lubricious signs of a very ready female. He teased her for a few minutes, splitting his kisses between her breasts and her lips, while he played his fingers in and around her pussy.

Sherry repaid him with impassioned kisses and strokes over his form; but she did not reach for his cock, not inclined to interfere with his efforts. Eventually he shifted to a more direct and forceful mode, and called forth shrieks of joy from her.

Once this overture had come to completion, they moved in concert to ditch their clothing entirely. Sherry's insubstantial outfit was speedily dispensed with, but she took her time disrobing Sal. His suit progressively revealed its contents to her probing hands. Sal, for his part, displayed admirable patience as she labored.

Once finished, she lay back on the couch, one leg stretched to the floor, the other pulled up, her breasts bobbing gently with her fevered breath, and drank in the sights. He was in good shape for his age. A bit of fat, but on him it looked distinguished. She was reminded of an older wolf, one who had beaten rivals by strength before and still was canny enough to remain head of the pack. An attractive mate. His prick was of average size, but she was untroubled, confident he'd wield it properly.

Sal, too, had paused to admire the view from his perspective. His gaze was hungry but controlled; a general surveying territory he planned to conquer, working out a lengthy campaign. She experienced it as an almost physical caress, anticipation stoking inner fires. Then he strode deliberately forward, laying hands on her to guide her into the position he'd selected. He eased her back onto the couch, and kneeled by her hips.

She was on her side as he penetrated her, one leg tucked between his, the other wrapped around his waist. Many women would have found it uncomfortable but she accommodated it easily with her pliant, supple joints. Her back arched and she let out a loud low moan when he began to stroke in and out. She shrieked happily as one of his hands reached down and his fingers tickled her nub. "Oh, fuck, Sal, fuck me! Fuck me!" He complied with increased vigor. He'd made a good choice; he could excite her easily in multiple ways while still having a commanding view.

One hand helped support her and the other probed her anus, a double penetration far easier to allow for than two cocks, and much better coordinated. Her juices were flowing liberally so he had ample chance to make his fingers slippery. She hissed with pleasure, muscles stiffening. After a sharp explosion, he backed off to simple penetration for a time, then made another move, thrusting more aggressively.

A hand darted to her clit, maximizing her stimulation. Absently but approvingly, she noticed that it was not the hand that had recently been in her backside; that was a mark of experience, not wanting to leave any discomfiting infections later. She was immune, but he didn't know that.

After that, however, she left off appraising his technique and simply enjoyed the results of it. He continued to change things up, never quite letting her get used to any one mode. She came, enthusiastically, several times, before she decided to show off some of her skill. She commenced a spectacular display of muscular control, massaging him inside her with ripples and clenches and waves. He maintained control for a while longer than she expected, but finally gave in and shot a intense load within her.

Breathing deeply, he pulled out of her and sat back on the couch. Sherry sat up and put a hand to her pussy, twirling a little cum onto her finger. As he watched, she brought it to her mouth and licked it up. "Mmmmmm. I knew you'd taste good. As good as you fuck."

"I'm pleased to have been of service," he said, dignity maintained even as he panted. "You are truly an expert in the field."

"Oh, you can't say that now," she pouted. "You haven't seen anything yet." It was her turn to advance on him.

"Sherry, I'm flattered, but I simply cannot..." he trailed off as her talented mouth met his penis. His recovery was not instantaneous, but she was able to clean him off and coax a handsome erection faster than Sal had apparently believed possible. When she sensed he was getting close to his summit, she abruptly disengaged, to his unmistakable disappointment.

He was mollified in short order, however, as she shimmied up his body and began positioning herself atop his pelvis. In truth, he was also distracted by the sudden, immediate proximity of her spectacular tits.

She paused there, her vagina hovering inches above his stiff prick. Gazing into his eyes for long moments, not sighting her target at all, drops of her wetness fell unerringly onto the head of his dick. Languorously, and again unerringly, she descended to capture him inside herself. Both of them let out gentle appreciative gasps as docking was achieved.

Then she initiated a serpentine wriggling of her entire body even as her almost superhumanly-controlled internal muscles quivered around his member in a startling manner. He gasped again, this time in sheer disbelief. He regarded her with nearly superstitious awe; she laughed and intensified her motion.

Sal was panting heavily, struggling to maintain some kind of control, holding onto the couch with a deathgrip. Sherry bent forward, never slowing down, placing her bobbing rack directly in his face. Trying to delay the inevitable, he rocked his hips lower, attempting a partial withdrawal. But instantaneously she matched him, offering no respite. He groaned and closed his eyes, the war evident on his face.

At the last possible moment, she froze. He hovered for a time, right on the border of coming, then began to recede from the brink. She let it happen, but not very far. Within seconds she was moving again. Sal was helpless, dragged again and again to the razor's edge of release and then carefully ushered away.

There came a time when she did not stop. She clenched tightly and rippled her body and laid herself upon him and moaned loudly and Sal felt his cock tear itself violently apart in a cataclysm of ecstasy.

Sherry watched, amused and pleased, while Sal regained consciousness. His eyes fluttered open as he drew in heaving gulps of air. "That was... the most incredible thing that has ever been done to my dick in my entire life." He shuddered with reaction. "I thought my heart was going to..." he trailed off.

Sherry chuckled. "*Now* you can call me an expert."

 

 

...the horror of my old friend perhaps affected me somewhat...

They lay intertwined on the couch, resting, neither speaking. It took Sal about ten minutes before he remembered why he'd come to our house in the first place. He worked to pull himself out from under her with a serious expression on his face. "I'm sorry, but I think I need to talk to Carl. You said he's upstairs?"

Sherry resisted his attempts to extricate himself. "What's the rush?

He'll keep." She wriggled enticingly. "Besides, aren't I a lot more fun?

"

 

"Sherry, please. I..." He gulped as she groped at his equipment. "This is all very strange. I need to talk to Carl."

Sherry pouted. "Oh, come on. Just one more..."

It seemed that his suspicions were aroused again. "Later, perhaps. Right now I need to clear up a few things."

She sighed and rolled off of him. "So, do you really want to know what's going on?" she smirked. "Or will you take my word that Carl's never been better?"

"I'd like him to tell me that."

"If that's how you feel." She stood and motioned for him to rise.

"Follow me."

"Excuse me a moment." He quickly put on his pants and shirt while Sherry watched with unveiled amusement, not bothering to clothe herself. Then she led him upstairs to her room. Unlocking the wardrobe, she revealed the supplies and premade doses of the concoction. Sal watched wordlessly as she poured a premeasured amount of the powder into a vial of the precursor. The reaction proceeded as usual.

"Enough of this," Sal bit out, angry. "I want to see Carl right now."

He nodded at the mixture in her hand. "I don't need to see..."

She interrupted. "I'm showing you Carl, I promise." She looked him up and down one last time, lasciviously enjoying the sight.

Sporting an evil grin, she toasted him with, "Here's to us." She downed the philtre; the pangs of the transformation waxed and waned; I looked over to see Sal backed up against the wall, sheer horror pasted across his face. For a long time he couldn't speak, and I had nothing to say. I rapidly covered myself with a nearby robe, and didn't realize for several seconds it was one of Sherry's frilly peignoirs. Unfortunately, nothing more appropriate was at hand.

Our discussion after that was strained and awkward, as you might imagine. I haltingly explained most of what had happened, what I theorized, what I suspected. I began to apologize but the words died in my throat in the face of his blank stare. In all truth, what could I have said?

He left fairly soon thereafter. I remember thinking how tired, how much older he suddenly looked. I never heard from him again. Barely two weeks later, when I listened to the message on my answering machine informing me that he had died , I realized I had almost expected it.

I don't know if it was really just the shock of seeing the transformation. A very similar fate had befallen one of Tawesson's friends. I wonder if perhaps there's some kind of 'psychic fallout' or radiation or something if another person is too close during the transition? Neither of us have ever been tempted to find out since.

I went to the viewing but I didn't stay long, and I couldn't attend the funeral. I just wasn't sure I would be able to keep Sherry from manifesting herself, even in so somber a situation. Instead I sat alone in the store and drank a glass of wine in his memory.

 

 

*"I have more than once observed that, in my second character, my

faculties seemed sharpened to a point..."*

About five months had gone by since Sherry's "birthday". Fall was approaching, and she had become something of a phenomenon in the Boston area. The club was filled to capacity every night, and she was clearing tens thousands of dollars a week. Much of that cash was immediately spent on clothes and partying, but even she couldn't outspend that income. Had she bothered with cocaine or heroin or that ilk she could likely have done so, but she wasn't tempted. Sex was her addiction, and she never ran out of fresh suppliers. (Although Sherry did keep a stash of Viagra and Cialis on hand; very few unaided men could keep her satisfied for terribly long.)

I was spending less and less time as myself; Carl no longer existed at night anymore. The store wasn't open more than three days a week, which took a toll on business, but with Sherry's earning power I couldn't manage to be terribly concerned. And truth be told, Sherry didn't feel the guilt that I did over what happened to Sal. Other people have drowned their sorrows in drink before; I simply took that to new heights. Or perhaps depths is a better term.

As I noted, her profile was skyrocketing. After an eventful night that led to the arrest of several of the Red Sox (and subsequent divorces for two of them), one of the larger area churches decided that a useful object lesson might be made. So it came to pass one Friday night that perhaps two dozen parishioners from Rock Baptist Church were picketing near the club when Sherry arrived. They were carrying signs citing verses of Scripture and generally denouncing sexual licentiousness.

She waved a hello to Dawg on her way backstage but then noticed his frown and slowed down. "What up, Dawg?"

"It's what's down. The damn crowd. Those fucking Jesus-freaks are scaring people away!"

"Oh," she replied. Sherry hadn't really noticed; she didn't care about mundane business details unless they affected her. She didn't even care about the money she made except insofar as it let her do what she wanted. She gave a "so what" shrug and started to turn away.

Dawg was uncharacteristically worried, and snapped at her. "It ain't just them outside. I found out that they're gonna try to do some kind of zoning shit, close us down!"

That got Sherry's attention. "When?" This was the closest club to her house; if it closed down she'd have to drive at least ten extra minutes to get to another one.

"I dunno for sure. They gotta talk to the city council, all that shit.

But I hear they're serious."

She thought for a moment. To her, the solution was obvious. "Call the news types, get them out here to cover it."

Dawg practically exploded. "You dumb bitch, that'll fuck up my business even more! Those assholes want publicity and shit!"

But he'd forgotten who he was dealing with, and he was suddenly taken aback by her intense glower, falling silent. "Shut the fuck up," Sherry said, redundantly but very deliberately. "You don't get to call me 'bitch' unless you're fucking me, got it? I'll handle those shitheads. You just get a crew here." She turned on her spike heel and marched to the back. "Let me know when they get here," she called over her shoulder.

Sherry had finished one set and was entertaining a gentleman in the VIP room when a girl came in to let Sherry know that a news crew had arrived on the scene. She wrapped up her dance and hurried backstage to change. In a very brief time she was clad in sandals, a t-shirt, and cutoff jeans. Dawg hovered impatiently nearby as she dressed, not quite daring to say anything. When she finished, she turned to look at him. "They still out there?"

Sullenly: "Yeah."

"Get me Phil's boom box and one of his CDs."

"What the hell..." Dawg began heatedly, but then moderated his tone under her murderous stare. "Uh, which one?"

"I don't care. Something I can dance to."

Minutes later, she emerged from the lounge carrying the DJ's portable stereo and ambled nonchalantly across the street toward the protestors. Two were being interviewed by the reporter. The man who was speaking trailed off into silence as he caught sight of Sherry. His companion's jaw had already dropped.

The reporter turned at that point, and had his own jaw-sagging moment. He waved his hand urgently toward the approaching vision, and the cameraman focused on her as she arrived. Smiling openly, she called out, "What's going on here?"

The representative from the church stammered for a few moments, then collected himself, struck a heroic pose, and began holding forth. "We are here to protest this sinful and immoral establishment that is corrupting the morals of our community!" He stopped to inhale. "We do not accept the degradation of culture that the purveyors of..."

"Whoa, there," Sherry broke in, grinning. "I'm sure you've got a whole speech planned, but you're way off base." She looked earnestly into the camera. "We're not corrupting anybody. It's all grownups here at the Corinthian Lounge. We just want people to have a good time. It's about fun, not 'degradation' or whatever."

"Treating women as objects, selling sex and depravity? That is degradation and sin, not just of the women who dance but the men who..."

Sherry interrupted again. "How would you know? Have you ever been in there?"

Angrily, he began, "I don't have to..."

Not letting him finish, Sherry overrode his incipient tirade. "I didn't think so. Ever seen an exotic dancer anywhere?"

"No, but..."

"Okay, let's fix that now." With that, she took a few steps back, bent over (making sure her ass was aimed toward the camera), and put down the boom box.

"Wait, what..." Alarm had crept into his voice.

"I just figured you should have some idea what you're protesting." She turned on the music. It wasn't as loud as the speakers in the club, but it carried well enough. She whirled back to face the crowd and began a striptease.

Her dancing, and the whole persona she projected was... not exactly innocent, but not malicious. Playful is perhaps the best term. She was saying, with her smile, her body, "Isn't this fun? Don't you want to join in?" It was also, in the way of everything Sherry did, highly arousing.

None of the protestors could ignore it, but different people responded in different ways. Some were enraged, screaming epithets. Others prayed and averted their eyes, unable to bear the temptation before them. And many were mesmerized, staring raptly at the tantalizing display. (Nor were all of these ardent observers men.)

Sherry wrapped things up as the song drew to a close. She had revealed the immodest but legal bikini she'd been wearing underneath her clothes, but no more. This time when she bent to turn off the music, much more of her hindquarters were visible. Smiling, she waved to the camera. "If you want to see more than that, you'll have to come inside!"

The reporter and cameraman, protestors forgotten, followed her back toward the lounge, requesting an interview.

The resulting footage was television gold - plenty of sex as well as humor. Sherry had been careful to reveal nothing that the FCC could legitimately file a complaint over, so the protest was the lead story on the late news that very night. The protestors, with their comical mix of reactions, came off as complete buffoons. The item appeared on cable news over the weekend, and by Sunday it was one of the most-viewed clips on YouTube.

There was some talk of charges being pressed, but no one could name anything Sherry had done that was illegal. She hadn't collected any money, or stripped fully nude, or done anything but dance in public. The talk quietly withered away.

It was a PR disaster for Rock Baptist. They had not merely failed to harm the club, they had given it a massive publicity boost and damaged their own reputation in the process. They couldn't move forward in the political arena without opening themselves up to further derision. A change of strategy was called for.

 

 

"...leaping impulses and secret pleasures..."

Thus, the following Wednesday, Mrs. Patricia Palmer walked up to the front door of the club in the late afternoon. The wife of the head pastor, Michael Palmer, she was a formidable woman, as befitted one of the leaders of a church with several thousand members. In her late 30s, she kept herself in shape and well-groomed, though her dress maintained the modesty of her station. Her gentle manner was disarming, but rivals at the church had learned that steel lay beneath the surface, and her husband's position owed no small debt to her adept political guidance.

The jaundiced eye of the bouncer up front looked her over doubtfully, but she was unfazed. "Is Sherry Sweet in? I'd like to talk to her."

"Is that so? What for? You applyin' for a job?"

"No," she replied patiently. "I'd just like to talk."

A moment of thought. "What about?"

"That's really between me and her, isn't it?" she said brightly.

The bouncer wasn't too fleet of mind. Another moment or two passed.

"Well, you pay cover to get in, I'll let her know you're here."

"I'd really prefer to talk to her out here..."

"Then you'll be waitin' out here all night." He smiled unpleasantly. "And she's usually got somebody with her when she leaves. Good luck talkin' then."

Reluctantly she brought up her purse. "If I must."

Shortly thereafter she sat at one of the back tables, surveying the room with thinly masked disapproval. The place was much busier this early than she would have thought - and in the middle of the week at that. Confirmation that things had gotten out of control, and that her mission here was vital.

Patty didn't anticipate a total, immediate triumph, of course. Few people were saved on their first exposure to the Gospel. But she had faith that closing this den of iniquity was God's will, and she was confident that He could use her to help accomplish His purpose. So she had come to talk with the woman who had so thoroughly embarrassed her church and parishioners. If she could discourage her from supporting the club, it would be of help. And who knew? If the girl were saved, she would be a powerful witness... in the religious and legal senses.

They would offer her financial assistance, scholarships, housing, drug counseling, whatever she needed to get away from this immoral lifestyle. Patty couldn't imagine a woman wanting to do such things unless there were pressing circumstances. In many - perhaps most - cases, she would doubtless have been correct.

But she hadn't watched the video of the protest, so Patty was unprepared when Sherry appeared from backstage. She was striking, not just for her beauty but her personality. Something about her spoke of - and directly to - the id. Patty drew a sharp breath, and began to suspect that this would be an even more challenging meeting than she'd anticipated.

Sherry strutted over to her table, acknowledging the hoots and whistles of the patrons with gay aplomb, and sat across from Patty with easy grace. She was topless, wearing only heels and lewdly meager panties. "What can I do for you, Mrs. Palmer?"

Forcing a smile she did not truly feel, she called out over the thumping music, "Call me Patty, please. I'm from Rock Baptist Church."

Sherry's face betrayed a shift from mild curiosity to bored annoyance.

"Oh, crap. Look, I don't think we have anything to..."

Patty interrupted. "Please, I'm not here to condemn you or anything like that. That's really not what we're about. I'd just like to talk."

A smidgeon of curiosity had returned to her expressive face. "So, talk."

"If you don't mind, I'd rather we discussed things somewhere else." A pause for breath; she wasn't quite shouting, but it was a very loud environment. "Perhaps we could meet for lunch tomorrow?"

Sherry considered that for a moment. Then she seemed to focus carefully on the pastor's wife, looking her up and down. There was no doubt what kind of study she was engaging in. Patricia had been ogled like that before, though never by a woman. Then Sherry looked her in the eye and said, "Why not now? You had dinner yet?"

Mrs. Palmer was now convinced that Sherry was under the influence of a sexual demon. But she reflected that all things worked to the Lord's purposes. If a perverted attraction was what He would use to lead this woman out of sin, so be it. "I don't want to get you into trouble with your job..."

Her answering grin was positively wicked. "They need me a lot more than I need them. Besides, it's only Wednesday. C'mon, let's go." Then she looked down at herself and giggled. "Well, okay, let me throw on some clothes first."

Not long thereafter Sherry drove them to a nearby restaurant. Patty was somewhat discouraged by the expensive sports car the girl was driving; financial assistance might not be the incentive she'd hoped. She didn't begin her pitch the moment they'd sat down at their booth. Being too pushy would turn people off. Instead, she gently pumped her for information; some intelligence would help her tailor the approach.

"As you know, our church doesn't exactly approve of the Corinthian." She essayed a rueful grin. Then, earnestly, "But please don't think that means we hate the people there. Far from it. All we want to do is help them avoid what we view as a mistake."

Sherry smiled back. "Fair enough. But you understand, I kind of disagree about the 'mistake' part. Like I said, I think you have it all wrong."

"Okay, then. How should we 'have it'?" Patty asked, trying to convey trustworthiness, an absence of judgement. She was quite skilled.

With that, Sherry began a monologue about life as a stripper. It was a tissue of lies, but truth was not her objective. The seduction proper had begun.

Mrs. Palmer would never have succumbed in ordinary circumstances. Her sexual tastes were quite in line with her moral beliefs. Sherry was certain that Patty found the idea of sex with another woman incomprehensible, distasteful, even disgusting. And her instincts in such matters were practically infallible.

But Sherry was astronomically far from ordinary. She was Eros personified, and her every thought and faculty and talent and ability was devoted entirely and unreservedly to sex and enticement and arousal. She could intuit, and exploit, the desires of anyone she set her sights on.

It started gradually, Sherry using the way she moved, the tone and pace of her voice, her choice of words, when she made eye contact and when she looked away. For Patty, there probably was no clear dividing line. As they talked, her subconscious attitude easily moved from "She's so pretty, it's a pity she's wasting her life so," to "No wonder the men fawn over her... what does she do with them?" to "What would it feel like to do those things with a man?" to "What would it feel like to do them with her?"

Sherry reached out and took the woman's hands in her own, gently stroking. Patty's heart leapt at the touch, and she was suddenly, finally aware of how excited, how wet she was; how she'd stopped talking herself, listening entranced to Sherry's almost hypnotic voice; how her thoughts had turned so completely to "I want to do things with her, dirty things, again and again..."

Sherry could see all this clearly, as it happened, with an exquisite animal sensitivity that was nearly telepathic. (Given her origin, perhaps on some level it was.) This was a critical moment. Patty was horrified at the extent of her own raw lust, and Sherry didn't want this 'Church Lady' to regain control of herself.

"I... I really... should..." Patty stammered.

Sherry put on a concerned expression, shading it just so, innocent and open, knowing it would entrance her victim even further. "Is something wrong, Mrs. Palmer? You look... I dunno... flushed or something."

"It's... I can't..." Words wouldn't come. Sherry continued to rub her hands, and it felt as though they were connected directly to her nipples, to her pussy, to her soul...

"Man, I think you need to lie down for a bit." A cute little frown. "My place isn't far."

Patty shivered, her heart galloping at the thought. But she despairingly (and greedily) understood that if she went home with Sherry, she would do... anything. Everything. And that was wrong... wasn't it? She gathered the scraps of her willpower, and pulled her trembling hands away.

"I really shouldn't," she stated with little conviction. "I mean, what would people think..."

"I understand," Sherry smiled sadly. "After all, Jesus never hung out with sinners."

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that... and He did..." She trailed off, confused, trying to get hold of herself. She had come to try to convert Sherry, and now... But she was a fine, upstanding citizen, she couldn't...

Patty realized no one would 'think' anything. No one would believe what she wanted to do, even if Sherry tried to tell anyone. The storm was inside her and she didn't believe it. Her sin would be hidden... "I'd love to go home with you." Sherry's deep eyes, her sudden sweet smile...

 

 

"...drinking pleasure with bestial avidity..."

Patty walked into the house in daze. She was more than half convinced she was asleep. She couldn't really be doing this, feeling this way, could she? And Sherry herself... something about her was so uncanny, so otherworldly, as if she belonged more to a dream than reality.

The stripper closed the door, and turned to face her directly. Patty started to mumble something. "You have a lovely home. I wouldn't have..." She trailed off. The girl's eyes were boring into her own. She couldn't think, looking into those eyes. Sherry came nearer, nearer. Not saying a word.

She almost said something then, but Sherry's hand brushed her face and left a warm trail behind, warmth that spread everywhere. Her breath was coming so fast, she leaned back against the wall. But the woman she'd come to save stepped forward and leaned in. Their breasts touched through their clothes, and for the first time in her life Patty found that inexpressibly erotic. Sherry's face was inches away, hovering. It was too far away. Compelled by forces she could scarcely acknowledge, she brought her lips to Sherry's.

The kiss might have appeared gentle, even tentative to an onlooker. But it was in that moment Patricia was lost. Sherry's lips, so tender, but still insistent... not like a man's, urgent but not needful...

The kiss deepened. So different from Michael's... her impudent, unashamed tongue... and now her hands, stroking... approving of what they found, but somehow not possessive... lustful but not territorial...

There was no resistance left in her, and reluctance had vanished long before she'd walked through the door. The two were embracing, exploring each other with impassioned caresses. She discovered with faint surprise that they had moved to the living room, and they had shed their purses and shoes. Sherry deliberately worked at Patty's dress, unzipping it, then easing it up and away. Patty stood, her only motion a shivering with desire, as the girl removed her bra with equal deliberation. It fell to the floor as Sherry's lips fell to the newly-revealed breasts. She gasped as an acrobatic tongue performed lazy somersaults across her nipples for several minutes.

Sherry stood up again and gazed once more into her eyes. This, too, was different - taking one's time, savoring the moments, not hurrying. She realized that all she was wearing were her panties. Sherry could see all of her, but she could not see Sherry's body. That was suddenly intolerable. She reached out and began undressing the girl with the compelling eyes.

The dress came off with a little work. Sherry's waist was so tiny, her clothes had to be custom tailored. But with a modicum of gentle tugging, she was released. Her breasts, firm and high despite their generous size, invited touch, and taste. Patty found herself suckling and licking another woman's nipples, and revelling in it. But then she looked further down.

Now she saw Sherry's underwear again. So small, but it covered what she needed to see. Patty knelt down, and reached forward, grasping the spaghetti straps across her hips, and pulled them down, and away.

She had never really seen an adult vagina, not even her own. The hair was fine, and seemed to naturally limit itself to a neat triangle; the labia were clearly visible. She felt herself drawn forward. She was conscious of the smell of Sherry's arousal, the same as her own, yet subtly different, too. In her keyed-up state it was darkly tantalizing. The thighs parted gently, invitingly. Before she was even fully aware of the impulse she was exploring that delightful pussy with her mouth.

It was exotic and enthralling. Patty was licking clumsily, hungrily, insatiably. Her nipples rubbed against Sherry's legs and she absently thought she could feel the juices from her own vagina dripping through her conservative panties. Sherry's hand stroked her hair, and she let out gentle sighs from time to time.

Then the dancer shuddered, crying out softly. After a time she stepped back and knelt down herself, and they traded impassioned kisses. Patty was frenzied, completely out of control. She fell slowly to the rug and laid on her back under Sherry's easy guidance. Then she felt the other woman pulling off the last of her clothing. Animal-like in her balanced poise, she dipped between Patty's legs and suddenly the world lurched as a woman's mouth touched her inflamed pussy.

It had been years since anyone had licked her down there. When she and Michael had been younger, early in their marriage, they had experimented more, but after a while... Sherry's lingual ministrations were stimulating her clitoris beyond endurance. Michael had nicknamed it her 'kitten' but now it was a tigress, roaring exuberantly, alive and hungry as never before.

Moments stretched, apart from time. As if she'd been carried along a raging stream but now had been thrown out over Niagara Falls, dropping down to the water so far below. She could feel the orgasm coming, like the ground rushing up to meet her, and she knew it would break her as completely as a literal impact.

And then she hit the wall. A hole was burned into her personal reality, the universe warped as she experienced literal convulsions of pleasure. Only afterward did she understand how violent it had been, by the aches in her joints, in her throat raw from screaming.

Her thoughts were streaking along in channels she'd never suspected lurked within her mind. She'd already come but Sherry wasn't stopping, she kept going, and it was going to happen again, she couldn't stand it, Michael always stopped but Sherry wouldn't stop, that tongue, and now oh God was that a finger in her asshole and oh God she was coming again oh God oh God oh God...

Sherry liked women for their stamina. They didn't have pricks, sure, but they didn't run out of steam as fast as men. And an uptight prig like Patty, who barely knew how to fuck and hadn't had a decent screw in her life... she had a lot bottled up. She'd last a while.

That was proven almost immediately. Following climaxes like those, any male would have been reduced to jelly for an extended period. But scarcely half a minute had passed before Patty was attacking her again, begging to be allowed to try fingering Sherry's rosebud.

It went on like that for hours, Patricia acting like a fawning, adoring puppy eager to do any trick her mistress commanded. She did things she'd never heard of, never conceived of, played with dozens of marvelously twisted, disgusting objects, and Sherry made her love every depraved second of it, doing things in front of, and with, and to this pagan goddess, this succubus.

 

 

"*I must here speak by theory alone, saying not that which I know, but

that which I suppose to be most probable.*"

Dawn found the two women still fucking furiously, at that point on the staircase leading up from the foyer by the front door. They had screwed in almost every other room in the cottage by now. Sherry was sitting with her legs spread, leaning back on the stairs. Patty knelt on a lower step, eating Sherry out while she busily frigged herself, working around the harness of the strap-on dildo she was wearing.

She was lurching in the throes of yet another volcanic orgasm when she heard the chiming of her phone. The ringtone was "Household of Faith", the song she had danced to with Michael at their wedding. An icy chill ran through her body, cutting short the pleasure. She stumbled down the stairs and picked up the purse she had dropped the night before. She pulled out her cell phone as the music died; there were fifteen unanswered messages.

The chill intensified as she looked down at the phallus jutting out of her own crotch. What had she been doing? What would Michael be thinking? He would be frantic, and she hadn't thought of him in hours, hadn't thought of anyone but herself and...

"Everything okay?" Sherry called down, casually. Even in the midst of her sudden, crushing guilt, when Patty looked up the stairs she was amazed at how sexy the girl was, at how much she still craved to just put the phone down and march back up to her... To sin again, and again...

She jerked herself away. "I... I have to get home."

"Oh," Sherry replied, unperturbed. "You're gonna need to call a cab, I'm going to bed. Phone book's in the kitchen." She stood up and ambled away in the direction of the bedrooms. "See you around, maybe?" Patricia snapped back to herself as Sherry moved out of sight - she realized she'd been staring, hypnotized, at the stripper's magnificent rump.

She tore the obscene tool from her body and made her way unsteadily to the kitchen. She called the first taxi company in the book. The dispatcher seemed unaccountably excited and amused by the address she gave. Then she numbly went to gather her clothes, trying not to think about the woman in bed upstairs. If she did too much of that, she would find herself in that bed too.

The taxi arrived with amazing promptness. She hadn't even found all of her things before it pulled up to a screeching halt in front of the house. Patricia was grateful that it was early morning and no one was about to see her leaving. The taxi driver pushed open the door next to him, and appeared to be very disappointed when she got into the back seat instead. At her direction, he headed off to the club in a surly fashion.

Away from Sherry, the spell was wearing off further. Patty was suddenly aware of her disheveled appearance, of what the driver was seeing with his sneaking peeks at her in the rearview mirror. She summoned her dignity and stared resolutely out the window until they approached the club.

The parking lot was nearly empty since the club was closed. Finding her car was easy, a police cruiser was parked next to it. Two uniformed officers were examining it. "Wait, stop here!" she cried to the cabbie before he could turn in. She got out paid him, not able to look him in the eye. Then she started the long walk to her car and the waiting police. Michael must have called them, she suddenly realized. Of course he would have.

Her nipples were pierced. How could she face Michael, how could she face her children? She was an abomination, a harlot with pierced nipples and shaved pubes and no panties and every inch of her skin stank of sweat and pussy, even her hair smelled like cunt, and every hole was sore and aching... and she still wanted more. More from the very Whore of Babylon herself. Patty sagged down in the middle of the lot and sobbed brokenly. She cried out to Jesus for strength, for forgiveness, not caring about the police coming towards her. She'd never prayed more fervently; and she'd never prayed with so little faith God's answer would be "Yes".

/Popular Pastor Takes Leave Of Absence From Rock Baptist Church, Cites

'Personal, Family Issues'/

 

 

*"...habit brought—no, not alleviation—but a certain callousness

of soul, a certain acquiescence of despair..."*

No church ever directly challenged the Corinthian again after that. Before long Sherry was gone, anyway. There had been some preliminary discussions already, but the news story sparked a tempestuous bidding war among the various adult video companies and when the dust settled she had moved to L.A. That was over a year ago now. I sold off the store; she only let me bring a few of my possessions along.

A porn star's life suits her perfectly, of course. Filming takes up only a few weeks of each year. The rest of the time, she's stripping on stages around the world, or dancing in clubs, or fucking anything that moves, or doing photo shoots. (Nor are all of those for porn magazines; the more respectable media has taken notice of her, too.)

She won almost a dozen AVN awards this year, and her salary is closer to that of mainstream celebrities. (So, too, is her fame.) Her future seems extraordinarily bright; she's one of very few porn stars who look good in HD. And certainly no actress has ever been as... accessible to her public.

Unlike stripping, porn requires gynecological exams. Sherry's first trip caused something of a stir; it turns out she has a male chromosome or something. Her 'ovaries' are like failed testicles. Apparently most women like that don't even undergo puberty, but that's pretty obviously not the case with Sherry - the docs say she's "hypersexualized". They're calling it "Atypical Swyer Syndrome" if I remember correctly, though they promise not to use her name when they publish.

She's quite undisturbed by it - as far as she's concerned periods and pregnancy would just interfere with her activities. Personally, I'm quietly grateful. I wouldn't want any child to have Sherry for a mother.

I do have some small power over her, a 'nuclear option'. I'd kill myself if she molested a child, and she knows it. Fortunately children aren't exactly common in the circles that she travels, and she must 'bring me out' at least every few weeks. Otherwise, she'd have a truly legendary collection of STDs. Still, she hates to give up valuable fucking time, so I spend most of my few scattered hours making up doses of the potion; she doesn't have the patience. It's not much of a life but it's something.

Rereading this account, I have to admit that the risque details I've included might seem excessive or merely titillating, but I couldn't help including them. Chalk that up to Sherry's influence; she's a part of me. The strongest one, now. Even as I write this, I can feel her stirring inside. My 'turn' is running out. I just want there to be a record, some kind of trace that Carl was here. She'd probably want to destroy this account if she thought I would try to publish it, but she's pretty focused on her own pursuits. She'd never waste time going to look for it so long as I don't do anything to jeopardize her lifestyle. Maybe I'll hide it in the bureau this all started with. We brought it to L.A. with us.

Some of this is extrapolated, like poor Mrs. Palmer's thoughts. But the fact that she did what she did means that Sherry read her pretty well. She babbled enough about herself and her mission in the course of that night; I don't think she's misrepresented.

To anyone reading this at some future date, who may be tempted to follow

in the footsteps of Tawesson and myself, heed our warnings. The id is

more powerful than we, with our millennia of civilizing influences,

might credit, and ta

Poor Carl dear, you waited too long, didn't you? It's all right, I won't destroy your little confession. I know you'll hide it; you wouldn't dare spoil my fun. But I like the ideas you didn't want to write down. I agree... take some submissive, work them up into a frenzy of sexy obedience, and make them drink the potion... Why, you'd have the perfect slave!

I think I'll go hunting tonight. Someone who won't be missed... Thanks for providing me some extra doses!

Love, Sherry

XOXOXO

  

  

  

*********************************************
© 2007 by Optimizer. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without the express written consent of StorySite and the copyright holder.