The Price Of Perfection free porn video

The Price Of Perfection by Marlissa Candy was ready to roll. Damn, I'm hot, she thought. Pretty blue eyes, with thick Madonna-thick eyebrows, winked at her from the mirror. The small bow- shaped mouth all wet and ready for kisses, her scultpted cheekbones framing her face with assertiveness, her small, pointed chin proof of her femninity. Her long dirty blonde hair gave her such a party-girl look all teased up like that, but her perky little Irish button-nose said "good girl" all the way. She had probably gone overboard with the make-up but she couldn't help it. It was her first time out on the town in her new persona and she would allow herself to go a little crazy. Which explained the light blue eyeshadow, the blush and the lipgloss her tanned, flawless face certainly didn't need. Like the admittedly garish hot orange polish she had used on her Lee press-on nails. She liked the idea of long nails, but the maintenance didn't justify all the work. Though she was going to enjoy herself, she wasn't willing to put herself through daily misery just to look sexy. This was the 90s after all-- Women's Lib and all that? In any case, she liked what she saw--all made up with somewhere to go. Dress-up was going to be so much fun. Just getting ready to go out tonight was more fun than she had had in a while. She had tossed new clothes right and left, cleaning out her still tagged wardrobe from her closet in a frenzy of delightful indecision. The "right" look was so important for a modern gal. Not too conservative or you may as well just sit home and watch tv. Not too slutty or you might as well get paid for it. She had plenty of clothes to choose from. Candy was a classic clothes horse-- she adored clothing and couldn't resist the temptation to buy anything that took her fancy. Whenever the mail arrived, it was the myriad clothing catalogs that she devoured like chocolate-- the bills were tossed aside immediate. Page after glossy page of pretty women wearing blouses, swimsuits, skirts, dresses of every imaginable hue and material. Lace, velvet, silk, cotton, leather-- she loved the feel of all of them against her soft skin. What you could do with your clothing was to Candy what her new freedom was about-- choices, choices, choices! So she made her choices, choices that should send the right message: a silk floral print blouse from House of Silk which buttoned up in the front, a cute yellow knee length cotton mini-skirt from the Limited that showed off her long smooth golden legs, a pair of taupe flats from Papagallo's and a blue headband to keep her wild hair out of her face. She accessorized with gold hoop earrings, a gold bangle on her wrist, a cute big blue wrap-around belt, hot pink sunglasses and a small white clutch purse for her i.d. (it was amazing to think she would get carded-- how exciting!). It was the perfect look for her-- spoiled Ivy League college girl with a rich daddy and a sex drive in mid-gear. Everything bright, promising and fun. Underneath the sex drive might go up to high gear-- for the guy of her choosing. Candy made ached for the day when she might indulge herself with the biggest, most colorful lingerie collection the world had ever seen. She didn't wear pantyhose because it was so warm, but in cooler weather she most certainly would. To hell with garter belts, she thought impishly. Even though guys loved them , Candy would dress for comfort. Maybe-- and only maybe-- when she met a guy she wanted to keep, she would wear garter-belts and stockings for him. But she was a long way away from tying her self down to one guy. She was just starting to live for God's sakes! But she did want to show off her prize possessions-- her firm 36C breasts. And to do that, she would err on the side of naughtiness. So she had slipped into a pretty bright blue lace brassiere with lots of underwire to get those boobs in the face of every guy she ran into tonight. It had been her first purchase from Victoria's Secret-- the perfect way to show off her best feature-- with a pair of matching blue French-cut lace panties. Candy looked again in the mirror-- wasn't the mirror becoming her best friend? She put her hand on her hip and gave a teasing come-hither at her reflection. What a catch she was! Blonde, early twenties, a 36-32-36 figure, living in an exclusive waterfront penthouse apartment, in the garage a red Mercedes convertible ready and waiting and in the bank more money that you could possibly spend. What a dish. . Any guy would be lucky to get in my pants, she thought playfully. And when they did get in her pants, a surprise would be waiting for them. She would see then how sexy they found Candy. She was fully confident that she could pick and choose the bedmate she desired for the night, then seduce and manipulate him into raging, full-bore lust for her-- a lust she would harness and control for her own needs. By the time she was ready to reveal all underneath those hot little lace panties, her Romeo would be quite ready to do what she wanted in order to reach relief. Exactly what she wanted. Her hunch was that her needs would be satisfied-- or Romeo would go away with his tail between his legs. That was why she had refused to let Dr. Slate remove her maleness in the sexual reassignment surgery. She had done her research like a smart little girl. A lot, not all, but a lot of transgendered gals said they regretted giving It up. "Don't do it," one said. "You'll miss the sensation of ejaculation. There's no replacement for it." So Candy had had everything else done, except the one thing that would make it all permanent. Why should she? She was paying for it-- she could just what she wanted, no more no less. She was paying enough, that was for sure. When it was said and done, Dr. Slate's bill had passed the five hundred thousand mark. Not that Candy cared. Her last year on Wall Street, she had banked a cool ten million in salary and bonuses-- the culmination of a fast and furious investment career that had astounded even her jaded peers. But Charles "Boy Wonder" Dane had done it in an effortless way before he had hit twenty-eight. Not bad for an orphan who had grown up in the mean streets of L.A. And when he had hit the mark, he had abruptly resigned and disappeared six months ago. Why had he done it, the Street asked. Where did he go? What did he want? He smiled at the reports as he read them in the Journal. What did he want indeed, he mused, even as Dr. Slate had transformed him into Candy Cane. What he had wanted all his life, what had kept him going through the intense insanity of the high-stakes global investment game-- he wanted to be a California girl. He had always wanted it. The bright, laughing girls of Venice Beach, the bikinied beach bunnies of Leguna, the hot pants honnies on the boulevard of Hollywood-- he was obessed by them all. To Charlie Dane, dirty unwanted street kid who flew in and out of state institutions, neglectful or even abusive foster homes and reformatories, the California girls of his youth epitomized everything he wanted-- beauty, security and power. And here he was, fresh out of the Slate Clinic, ready to try out her new body-- ready to be a SHE. She had chosen to base herself in the East Coast because blowsy blondes like here had a higher value than the already blessed West Coast. Less competition, better hunting she thought as she arranged a bra strap. But she needn't limit herself to the East Coast. With her money, she would go wherever and whenever she wished, collecting lovers and enjoying the good life. She was all estrogen, all curves and jiggles and all girl. Michelle Pfieffer, no-- but she was definately Dallas Cowboys cheerleader-class. And she was free at last-- free from doubt, guilt and fear of being discovered. SHE was living the way SHE always wanted to. With purse in hand, she trotted out to the elevator, which carried her to the garage and her gorgeous Mercedes convertible. As she sped out of the garage, she gave the building attendant a coy smile and peeled out to begin a night of romance and adventure. Little old me, a cocktease? she giggled. You better believe it! ******************** Le Temps was THE place to be seen, if you wanted to crack the rich and beautiful scene in the city. She considered sitting at the bar, but that looked a trifle obvious. Instead she allowed a cute Italian waiter to deposit her at a small table for two. The place was packed and she thought she might have a problem getting a table. She was prepared to pass a folded twenty to him to ensure prime seating, when she realized that no such consideration would be necessary. The way the waiter's eyes rolled over her cleavage, albeit respectfully. Candy knew it would be his pleasure to seat and serve her. Feminine wiles beat the power of money any day! Her Chardonnay arrived in a heartbeat. Dry, exquisite and much needed, the wine calmed her fluttery nerves. Her eyes danced across the room. It was a chic crowd, the guys all in Gucci loafers, J. Press shirts and Joseph Aboud suits. Most were attractive. There was an English-sounding guy with a beard that looked way too intense and some too-young, too-immature types, but otherwise a promising crop of men. She knew that not a few of the male half of dates were drinking her in. How much fun it will be to steal other girl's men, she thought evily with one particulary yuppie-looking brunette in mind. The bitch, with her butch short hair and tres boring Talbot's career gal outfit, was trying to pull her date into some stupid discussion about politics, even as the guy's eyes were doing It to Candy, seated next to the couple. How will it feel to lose your guy to a gal who is better looking than you, huh honey? she thought. To lose out to a gal with a hard, thick cock, huh honey? She sipped her wine. This would be fun. She picked up her clutch and began fumbling through it, tsk-tsking to herself. "Oh, pooh!" Candy exclaimed, just a tad too loud. She had the guy's attention fixed now and she turned. "Excuse me-- could I borrow a dime? I need to make a call." The guy, a successful lawyer-looking guy who might have walked out of an L.L. Bean catalog, was already handing her one, even as his date glared at her. She thanked him, scrapping her nails on his palm as she took the dime. Candy did her best catwalk as she minced over to the payphone and smiled back. The brunette shot daggers at her but she continued to smile as she fake-dialed a number. Suddenly she frowned; her eyes began to tear. She minced back sadlt, pretending to brush a last tear out of her eye. As she passed by the table, she stopped. "Thanks for the dime," she sniffled. Male Model looked up. "Everything o.k.?" How sweet he should ask. She shrugged weakly. "M-my boyfriend can't come. He broke up with me just now. Oh I could die!" The brunette looked coldly at her, her short dark hair vibrating like porcupine needles. But Male Model was up on his feet and she conveniently collapsed in his arms sobbing. "I'm sorry! I don't know what I'm doing!" she whimpered. The brunette's eyes said it all...Like Hell You Don't, Bitch! Candy wanted to smile and suggest she leave the two to get acquainted. In two minutes flat she held the property deed to Male Model. Candy had already taken possesion and was moving in. She had a silent message for Porcupine Hair: Don't you get it babe? Blondes DO have more fun She gave Male Model a secret cock stroke as he helped her regain her balance. Candy clutched her purse and sat down, taking the new glass of wine he had already ordered for her. Candy winked at Porcupine Hair, who blushed, looked down, made her regrets and left the restaurant. Male Model smiled weakly then fixed his whole attention on her. "She wasn't your type anyway, was she, cute stuff?" Candy insisted. Male Model muttered no, she was just a friend. Candy smiled. They would be more than friends before the night was over. She dabbed her now-smiling face with a tissue she pulled from her clutch and began to fill the air with small talk about her favority subject-- herself. She must have been weaving quite a seductive web-- even the intense guy with the beard was tuning into her stream of chatter. God, being a sexy girl just didn't get any better! ****************************** She hunted for her bra in the dark, found it and slipped it on. She could still feel his kisses on them as the blue lace covered her magnificent pair of melons. He snoozed on the bed, exhausted beyond all expectation. Candy's first night as a bitchy vixen had gone well. Extremely well. Male Model had drunk a couple glasses of wine, screwed up his courage, then asked if he might take her to a trendy dance place. She looked bored and finally consented. He nervously slipped his arm around her waist as they left and though she didn't look pleased, she allowed it to stay. She wanted to pace her new stud carefully. Dancing was fun and the place was hot. Even the bearded guy had eventually shown up, sipping a scotch from the sidelines. Watching the show, Candy wondered. She made Male Model stay there til the place closed down in order to get a sense of how much stamina he had. He was still on his feet by two o'clock-- a good sign. She hadn't given him so much as a peck on the cheek, though she had flirted with him like crazy, grinding her hips against his and casting her best bedroom eyes upon him. Her hands drew lightly accross his chest teasingly, but when he tried to put a hand on her ass, she angrily shook him off. She made him beg a good twenty minutes for foregiveness before she took the dance floor again. As they left, he wondered if he might walk her home. She smiled. "How 'bout I take you home, babe? I don't want to leave the Mercedes at Le Temps, so I'd be happy to drop you off at your place." He shrugged uncertainly. "Sure, I guess. It's funny-- I've never been taken home by a girl--uh, I mean, woman, before." She pulled up outside his place, a nice if not stupendous place in a fashionable, quiet part of town. He sheepishly asked her if she wanted to come in for a nightcap. She nodded and followed. As he mixed her drink, she decided to take what she wanted. She crept up behind him and pounced, her hands roaming his chest and unbuttoning it. He was taken by surprise and turned around. "I want you," she whispered I his ear. "I'm going to have you." He moaned as she rubbed his cock through his pants, unbuckling his belt and pushing him gently into the bedroom. They collapsed on the bed together. Soon he was nude, though she was still dressed. On his back, he looked up at her. "You're gorgeous," he exclaimed. She smiled. "Good boy. Keep saying things like that and we'll have some fun." She flicked his erect cock. "Poor thing needs attention, doesn't he?" Male Model nodded desperately. She leered cattily. "But I don't do blow jobs, babe, not unless the guy does me too. Fair enough?" He nodded. He was so horny, he'd do anything for some action. Guys were so pathetic. "Fine, but how do I know if I do you, you'll do me? I mean most guys don't like to go down on girls. I have to be sure I'll get my part of the bargain. Will you help me to trust you?" He nodded, bleary from booze, sleep and lust, all combining into a weird daze which she could take advantage of. Which she knew she could take advantage of. Without explaining, she rose, still in her skirt and blouse, though kicking her heels off. She opened up his closet drawer and pulled a couple ties off the rack inside. "Tie to tie you up, babe," she explained. He smirked. Kinky, he's thinking. A bonus he didn't count on. As she tied his wrists and ankles to the headboards, she chuckled. You don't know what kind of a bonus you're about to get, Cute Stuff. Now that he was tied down securely, she peeled off her blouse, exposing her blue laced breasts. "Like them, babe?" she purred, pressing them in his face. He grunted and licked the lace cup. She straddled him, then slipped down. "I always keep my word, but a warning, babe," she continued to make her way down his chest to his waist. She brushed the hard cock with her nail. "You don't cum in my mouth. You cum in my mouth and you stay tied up and I'm out of here in a heartbeat. Got it?" He nodded, the poor sap. She began to lap at the cock teasingly, then too the thick bulb head in her throat. It was her first deepthroat and she enjoyed it more than she thought. The meat thrummed within her throat filling it with gaining girth as she plied it more and more with her fast-learning tongue. Male Model was moaning loudly now and she pulled his member out abruptly. She blew on it and pointed it at a framed museum poster on the wall. He exploded and sent a bullet of goo a good three feet, hitting the poster on the wall. He sighed and she patted him. "Good boy. Now it's my turn." He watched in anticipation as she unzipped her tight miniskirt, leaving her straddling his chest in only her bra and panties. It was dark, but she knew he had discovered her "bonus" when she pressed the panty bulge against his handsome face. She yanked down the little panty and her own cock bobbed out. Ironically it was bigger than Male Model's. She pressed it against his cheek while he yanked his hands trying to free himself. The ties held. He looked up in dawning horror as he realized the enormity of his position. "O.k. babe, get to work. Give me some head, cute stuff. If you're a good little cocksucker, I'll let you go. If not, I'll leave-- but not before pulling the fire alarm. How would you like to explain to all the firemen why you're all tied up like this? Bet the neighbors would be curious, wouldn't they babe?" He whimpered. "Please don't make me! Please!" he begged furiously. She patted him. "Sorry babe. You're just too cute a morsel to pass up. A girl's got to have her fun when she wants it." She directed the cock toward his clenched shut mouth. "Don't make me ask again, babe." Grudgingly he opened his mouth and accepted the ever alien yet so familiar object of Candy's desire. It wasn't long before she told him that unlike himself, she WOULD be cumming in his throat. And she expected him to drink every last drop. He groaned in despair as she tugged the ties tighter reminding him of his position. And now she was slipping her skirt on. It was five o'clock and she had just finished with him. He had been slow at first, but Male Model was a fast learner. By the time she had finally begun to tire of him, he had turned into a very accomplished cocksucker and she told him so. But by that time he was so exhausted that he merely fell back and sighed in defeat. His face was sticky and messy with Candy's cum, his eyes glazed and mouth slick with the goo too. She patted his head and slipped her flats on. "Good job babe. Maybe I'll call you sometime. Would you like that?" He buried his head in his creamy pillow and sobbed pitifully. She gently untied the restraining ties, patted him on the ass and slunk out triumphantly. The virgin voyage for the HMS Candy was over. She knew just what to do from now on. ********************** The message had been clear and mysterious. "Have your purse. Call me to get it at 555-9832." Click. Was that an English accent? Candy rubbed her head trying to remember. Her purse. Missing at Male Model's. Her i.d., her credit cards, her keys. The cab ride home. The doorman letting her in. Damn! She looked at the clock. Eleven in the morning. What a night! She suppressed a guilty smile as she thought of Male Model trying to explain to Porcupine Hair what happened last night. She dialed the number. A deep baritone answered. "Yes, you have my purse?" The voice was amused. "Yes, I do. Hope you don't mind-- that was how I got your number. You left it at Le Temps last night. I thought you should know. It's all here-- nothing's missing." She was relieved. "Great. Let me dress--" "Late night?" the cavernous voice queried. She ignored the implication and hurried on. What a pain in the butt this whole thing was! "--and I'll be right over. Where are you?" The voice gave her an address in a prestigious section of the city, not far from her own. She jotted it down and rang off. Only then did she realize he hadn't given her a name. She was standing in front of the massive townhose door, pleased she had dressed appropriately. She was in a full-tilt Donna Karan casual daysuit of navy and white polka dots, accented with a red silk scarf and wide brim black hat. Not her favorite California Girl look, but a good choice based on the stares of the toney inhabitants that passed her by. Candy walked up the steps to the massive, antique door. She had read somewhere that these old townhouses were built like mini-fortresses because the original owners back in the 1800s had feared riots might break out. This place looked like a fortress alright-- huge overarching twin towers stared down at her-- at least five stories tall. The structure was dark, Gothic even, if that was possible in the heart of luxury skyscraper central. She looked for a bell and pushed it. Footsteps, then the huge double door creaking open. It was the bearded man who she had seen last night at Le Temps! He gestured her inside. The gloomy interior was less than inviting but she needed her purse. She followed. "Come in. I apologize for my tardiness. I am currently without a maid. Good help is so hard to find-- trite but true," he stated flatly. "I saw you last night," she offered as she took the proferred Queen Anne chair. The parlor was dusty and unused, furnished with heavy stained wood furniture and bizarre knick-knacks. It was like the Addams Family had decorated the place. The sun barely penetrated the deep purple velvet of the sash drapes. A black and white photo on the finely wrought mantle showed two men shaking hands. M was one, but the other figure's face was hidden by a chunky silver candlestick, man or woman she couldn't make out. Though it was all done in a dry, dark antique style, the furnishings were sumptuous and very costly. Her host nodded. "And I you. What a pretty girl to be vamping about in such a naughty place!" He utterred the words like some superior being from another age. In fact, she guessed he was forty, forty-five tops, powerfully built with tunnel-deep set eyes. He examined her openly, from head to toe. Where was her resolve to get her purse and get the hell out of here? "Look," she interrupted the dead silence, "can I please have my purse, Mr....?" He smiled, his dark deep-set eyes laughing at his guest. "Just call me M. It's a nickname, if you like. Just call me that till we get better acquainted." Candy blinked. "O.k....M...how about handing over my purse?" She watched as he pulled it from behind the chair and opened it. "Hey, that's private!" Candy protested. M reached into the purse, pulling out a condom package. He shook his head. "Very, very naughty. And what is this?" he demanded, wryly presenting Candy with a license. "Charles Dane? THE Charles Dane? And here," he pulled out Candy's new i.d. "Candy Cane?" he spat dismissively. "Is the Wizard of Wall Street a 'she' now?" Candy squirmed in her chair, looking at her expensive pumps not daring to say a word. Finally she looked quickly up, then back down. Damn his eyes-- they bored into her! "Yeah, well, that's what happened. It's none of your business. If you don't like it, tooo goddamn bad." Her high-pitched voice made her sound sulky rather than furious. M leaned back. "Please don't be offended, Miss Cane-- oh, I'm sorry but I can't abide that 'Candy'-- how dreadfully tacky!" he lamented. Before she could protest again, he smiled at her. Candy thought it was like the smile the spider gives its prey as it spins the web around it. "Now, don't think I'm offended by your transformation. In fact, it suits you well. I find creatures such as yourself fascinating in the extreme. I've had more than a few dalliances with stunning things like yourself. I like favor them to genetic women, in fact." She didn't like being referred to as a 'creature,' but she did appreciate the kind words. "Why is that? Is that why you filched my purse?" He nodded slowly. "A little larceny on my part. You'll have to forgive me, but I had you spotted at once. Don't be upset-- no one but I picked up on it and then only because, as I've said, I've had some experience in the area. I'm sure your new boyfriend was in for quite a shock when you revealed yourself." The boy-girl patted her skirt down kittenishly. "Let's say he had a mouthful on the subject before the night was over." M chuckled warmly. "So you forced yourself on him. How amusing to think a pretty, delicate thing like you could be so devious as to force yourself on a virile red-blooded male! Never had I had that experience-- nor will I, I promise you! Anyway, I adore androgynous playmates like you." "More than real girls?" Candy asked. Her big blues batted at M now, facinated by the revelation. Candy's mysterious host crossed his ankles, resting them on the footstool comfortably. "Indeed. What discipline does it take for a so-called 'real girl' to be feminine? Why very little! They are to be congratulated and admired for their femininity as much as the sun should be congratulated for rising each day-- it is it's nature. But," he grinned hungrily, "creatures like you must work hard indeed. You must have the commitment and the dream to achieve feminine perfection-- and you must be willing to pay the price." Candy leaned back, somewhat mollified. "So you won't tell anyone about me, will you M?" M shook his head. "No, I promise. And my word is a solemn pledge, I assue you Miss Cane. Your secret is safe with me-- in exchange for a request." She eyed him narrowly. "What?" she demanded, unsure of his motives. He stretched out his arms. "Allow me an evening's dinner with you. As you can see I am intrigued with you and regardless of your rather flamboyant appearence and ludicrous new name, I find your essential femininty quite appealing." He cleared his throat. It was a startingly rumble. "I paid you a compliment," he informed her impatiently. The deep eyes roved shark-like over the seated guest. She felt his eyes reached into her blouse and ravish her body. It was at once annoying and mildly exciting. "Thank you. And if I go out with you, you'll keep my secret to yourself?" The last thing Candy wanted was press. Anonymity was crucial to her new, free-wheeling lifestyle. M nodded again and she stood up. "Fine. Tonight for drinks and dancing at the Hot Tub." As she turned to leave, he coughed. "No. You will dine with me here tonight. We will not go out in public," he informed her. She looked at him again. Damn! He wasn't budging and his eyes stayed locked on hers. Again, she blinked. "Alright, alright. I'll be here--" "At eight," he finished. ************************** And she was. She appeared at the door promptly at eight. She was getting the feeling that he didn't allow for much deviation from his plans. She was dressed rather conservatively in a little black cocktail dress, her blowsy blonde hair combed back and less wild than usual. Just a mild trace of red lipstick and rouge with a hint of Excite! perfume gave her a subdued yet womanly glow. Single pearl studs on her earlobes and simple black flats completed the striped down version of Candy Cane. And if M thought he was getting lucky tonight, he had another thing coming. Tonight Candy did wear black pantyhose over a simple black cotton Cross-Your-Heart bra and full-cut black panties. Candy wasn't out to seduce tonight-- it was all about getting this oddball of her back. Get in, get out that was the rule. He met her, dressed in casual black turtleneck and olive trousers. "Good evening Miss Cane. You look more fetching than you did earlier today. Not perfect yet, but better." She ignored the discourtesy. Who was he that he thought he could speak to her that way? She let it pass and sat down. He shook his head. "You don't have time to sit, my dear. Dinner is waiting for you to prepare. The kitchen is that way." He pointed down a candle-lit hallway to the far recess of the townhouse. She looked at him in amazement. "You want me to cook you dinner?" He shrugged. "I'd hate to have to call the Journal, wouldn't I? I find it extremely exciting to have a woman wait on me. Do indulge me." Candy was ready to walk out. The only thing that kept her there was the fact the she was getting into the way he looked at her-- like she was some kind of precious doll. Granted he was treating her with absolutely no respect, but his eyes danced around her. It was still so new to be treated like a real woman that she couldn't resist it. "Fine. Give me an hour." She trotted off dutifully to the kitchen. As she did, she could feel his eyes practically pinching her ass all the way there. *********************** "Dinner was marvelous. You are a gifted cook, my dear." Candy blushed. It was the first meal she had ever prepared for a man. She didn't know she had it in her, but the meal had been tasty. The compliment felt like a warm hug. "Thank you, M." "Tell me, do you clean as well? I imagine you might make a wonderful little housewife for the right man, one who would be understanding of your...special situation." Was he proposing marraige? She giggled. The wine was wonderful. "I'm not a Suzy Homemaker type M. More like a California surfer girl. You like those types?" She was thinking she could get into having this stuck-up guy do things for her. He smirked. "I'm afraid I find the genre abhorrent Miss Cane." "Oh, you think we're all airheads, huh?" she demanded indignantly. She was slurring slightly. He shook his head. "Hardly. American women are far too bright for their own good. I believe your own IQ is 175-- too high by far. When given too much thinking to do, pretty things like you lose sight of their real purpose in life. You forget the very reason you are given beauty to begin with. The price of beauty, if you will." "And what is that 'real purpose' for women M? Praytell, hotshot. You've got me on the edge of my seat." She was furious and curious. How did he know what her IQ was? M folded his hands and stared staright at her. She blinked and looked down. "To serve the superior gender. By cooking, by cleaning but most of all by servicing sexually." Candy laughed. "Please return to the nineteenth century where you belong M! I've had enough. I'm leaving." She rose, patting down her skirt hurriedly as she did. M rose too, pushing her down into her seat. "Sit down. I have been watching you for awhile and your performance last night was abysmal. It has convinced me that you are precisely what I want in one role in my life. A role you will be well-suited to once certain...alterations are made." Candy was growing afraid. "What in the hell are you talking about?" she stammered. Suddenly it occurred to her that no one, not a single soul, knew she was here. Indeed, no one even knew abouther new identity other than Dr. Slate. If anything happened, he would find out. He called every so often and he would check into any disappearence. The thought calmed her slightly. M returned to his seat. Why didn't she bolt for the door? Because he wouldn't let her leave until he was through. He continued. "You think you have freedom of action, freedom from want and freedom to choose your pleasures. You are wrong. It is all an illusion. You have no such freedoms. You are clay waiting to be molded into what I have already decided you should be. I have very definite ideas of how you may be of use to me-- very detailed ideas and plans. Your California Girl persona bores me. I have no need of such an independent personality, all brash and mouthy. Your beauty is as garish as your choice of clothing, your speech inappropriate as your attitude towards men. Yet the essential feminine being within has such potential to be sweet and submissive, respectful and ravishing, docile and delightful." He assessed her like a collector, then added with gravity, "Miss Cane, what I am saying is that you are imminently trainable. That is a compliment for a woman such as yourself." The warm feeling that Candy had been accumulating seeped out of her. Creeping anger replaced it. "I'm not the one who gets trained, M. I do the training. Everyone knows the female holds the power, not the male." More confident, she continued. It was important that this creep knew what she was all about. "Just ask my stud from last night how easy I was to 'train,' you sicko!" M wasn't riled in the least. It was as if Candy were a child who was disagreeing him. He remained firm and patient as he explained. "Miss Cane, the idea that you should manipulate males is laughable. The problem with your 'stud' as you put it was that he didn't properly remind you of your place. He was also looking for a one night stand. I have need of something entirely different in you." Candy was too astounded to speak. Nor could she move. "And what would that be, you lunatic? A wife? A girlfriend? A squeeze?" He ignored the jibe. "Hardly. A man such as myself is not suited for marraige. Marraige can only dilute one with compromises. Even relationships are a drain. No, what I need Miss Cane is something much less consuming, much more manageable. Are you familiar with Impatients?" he inquired, quickly changing the subject on Candy. She shook her head, clueless as to what he was getting at. "Impatients," he rambled, "are pretty, if common, flowers that thrive in the dark, with little light or nurturing. What I need is the human equivalent of an Impatient-- someone I can keep with minimal effort that will amuse me without requiring any emotional investment. What I need is a doll. A pretty little French doll to play with. One that will obey me and do my every bidding." Now she rose and prepared to storm out. Strangely he didn't move to hold her there. "You may go. I have learned what I needed to know about you. This interview is concluded. I will summon you when you have thought about your fate." He waved her away and she half-ran, half-sobbed her way out of the dark, dreary townhouse. *************** Candy double-locked her door as soon as she returned home. The doorman was told that no visitors-- absolutely NONE-- were to be allowed up unless she said otherwise. M, whoever he really was, was crazy. He would try to hurt her! What would she do? Who would she go to? She grabbed her address book, flipping to the S page. She snatched up the Princess phone and began to punch in numbers. "Dr. Slate speaking." The voice was calm, reassuring. She spilled out her story, from beginning to end, omitting the details of the Male Model encounter. "Someone's got to know, so in case something happens," she explained disjointedly. The inevitable, superior sigh, then "It's alright, calm down Candy! Please calm down! Now just stay there and relax. You haven't been hurt so you're lucky. You knew there were going to be some men who would try to take advantage of yoy this way-- they can't help it. Pretty girls like you are like magnets for a certain type of man, understand my dear?" Candy downed a glass of wine and nodded into the phone. "I know, you said something weird like this might happen. But still!" His deep authoritative voice continued to sooth. "Just calm down. I want my star patient to relax, take a bubble bath and dive into a copy of Cosmo, alright? I'll send over something to cheer you up. Now follow the Good Doctor's orders and be a good girl, alright?" She agreed and hung up feeling worlds better. Dr. Slate had a bedside manner that made you forget what he did for a living and how much he charged. His suave English accent would put any transgendered gal's fears to rest. True to his word, the doorman called up and said there was a visitor who wanted to bring up some flowers, a Doctor Slate. She told him to let just THIS visitor up and threw on a silk kimono. The knock on the door brought a smile to her face. Candy opened the door. "Doctor, come in, please!" Dr. Slate smiled and took her offer to enter the penthouse. He was holding a box. Roses she wondered? He handed the box to her and she took it greedily. She opened the box. It was a dozen gorgeous American Beauty longstemmed roses. She took one out. Without explaining, Dr. Slate put his hand around hers. She gave him a pouty smile. Was Dr. Slate coming onto her? He didn't speak. Instead he crushed her hand around the rose stem. He watched impassively as tears sprung from her eyes, then spoke. "The rose is a beautiful flower is it not? Perfect in every way. But for it's beauty, it pays a price-- doesn't it, my dear?" She retreated from him, cradling her wounded hand. There were thorn pricks on her palm "I-- I. uh, what did you do that for, uh..." Candy felt woozy. From rose thorns, she thought wildly? I'm on the verge of passing out from rose thorns? She fell to the carpeted floor. She began to snore unconcious and flat on her back as he went to work. He looked down at the prone feminine form. If he wanted to, he could easily rape her-- if he found the prospect exciting. But he didn't. He started fishing through her desk for the numerous passbooks, stock and bond certificates, as well as legal documents, expensive jewelry-- anything that might have value. Slate knew a number of unsavory acquaintances he had met in the transgendering racket who could easily forge Charles Dane's name to release and transfer forms. It would be risk-free too. There would be no Charles Dane to object to the transfer of the ten million dollars in question. He waited for ten minutes as the narcotic from the treated thorns did their job. Then Dr. Slate hit the intercom button for the doorman. "I need your help! Ms. Cane has passed out and I need to get her to my car at once!" ******************* She woke in stages. There was a blinding overhead flourescent light and it was difficult to see. Between her dry-eyed blinks, she could make out a white jacketed man wearing a mask. A doctor? And a smirking bearded man whose eyes rolled up and down her body. M. She limply struggled but it was no good. Her arms were securely fastened to the table. An operating table. Candy screamed. They ignored her screams-- she was gagged anyway. Her body was bare, pressed hard against the cold stainless steel table by the restraints. She made herself be still, though her body shook with fear. In reward, M turned off the overhead light. Her eyes sought out M's then, filled with what she hoped would be interpreted as respect. He smiled. "My pet wishes to speak?" She nodded weakly. Keep it calm. Keep it still, she told herself frantically. He pulled the tape off gently and addressed her. The doctor left the room. Something familiar about him, but the mask... "You want to know what is going on-- why you are here, what is being done to you. You think I wish revenge for your impertinence-- perhaps torture you, kill you. You are wrong," M informed her, "I don't seek revenge." Candy swallowed in relief. Thank God. Thank God! M continued. "Revenge is visited upon those whom we fear and respect on some level. I neither fear nor respect you. So I do not seek revenge. I will kill you though. I will kill Candy Kane." She started to shreik, but the tape was reapplied. The scream died in Candy's throat. No one could hear her in this place. This place...familiar somehow... M stroked Candy's thigh. "Let me finish-- I will kill Candy Kane," he spat the name out in disgust. "Candy Cane was a cheap oversexed little nympho, one not deserving of life. BUT in eliminating her--" his eyes gleamed in triumph, "I will give birth to Dominique. Just Dominique-- you'll have no need for a surname." Candy's face pressed against the table. She understood now. How could she have ever thought it would turn out any differently? Her tears dripped on the shiny steel unchecked. He was going to make her into the creature of his dreams. Candy, the life-long fantasy of one man's imagination, would be transformed into Dominique, the fantasy of another man's desires. M pulled off the tape again. Candy looked up at him, shaking the short curly blonde hair out of her eyes. "Will you tell me what you are going to turn me into? M shook his head. "No, because it makes no difference whether you know or not. You will be Dominique and that is that. You will come to learn that your identity is mine to decide and yours to accept." He stroked her cheek. "You'll see, soon enough. I can't say whether or not you'll like it, but that matters least of all." Candy looked at him and sobbed inconsolably. He was going to do this somehow. She had no doubt all he said would come true. The dark light in his deep-set eyes told her that Candy Cane's fate was sealed. "P-please, may I ask one thing? Just one promise? Please?" M shrugged. "You have no right to expect anything, but go and ask. I am in a gentle mood." Candy looked down betwen her legs. "M-may I keep it?" M considered and smiled. "I'll consider your request. But there will be a price if I allow it." The doctor returned with a syringe and nodded at M. M looked down again at the bound she-male. "My brother is ready to work his magic. I believe you are aware of his work?" The doctor pulled his mask down. It was Dr. Slate. She was at the Slate Insitute. M smirked. "Your American dollars will do much to revive both my and my brother's family fortunes. My family made it's fortune in the floral business in England-- do you see the irony? In our own ways, my brother and I are both gardeners of a sort. He says this will be his transgendering operation. He finds this work frankly...appalling." Dr. Slate winced in distaste. "Putting tits on perverted American financiers is not why I obtained a medical degree at Oxford, I assure you." M nodded. "True, brother. And once you performed the changes so direly needed by Missy Cane, you need never pick up a scapel again. And your big brother will have the woman of his dreams, a woman like the one who served our father so many years ago back in England." He smiled broadly. "We will have our family fortune back, you shall have leisure and I shall have..." M looked down at Candy with an openly carnal appetite. "We are ready to begin. Goodbye Candy." Dr. Slate begin to inject her with the anaesthetic. As he began to pull up the tape again for the last time, Candy blurted out the last question she would ever ask. M retaped her mouth and as she slide into unconciousness, he answered her question. "M stands for Master, my pet. Your Master." *************************** Dominique bent over prettily to fetch the Master's morning paper, which was shoved through the mail slot in the front door. As she did, she felt the short hem of her black tafetta skirt rose up over the top of her black fishnet stockings and even over the catch of the black lace garterbelt. Even when she was most ladylike, the hem always threatened to reveal the black lace thong panty underneath. Instinctively her hands flew back to restrain the skirt hem from showing even more of her feminine dainties and rose in place. As she rose on her three inch shiny black T-straped pumps, Dominique unfolded the paper and placed it on the silver platter. A rose-- an American Beauty- adorned the platter in a small crystal vase. The Master insisted on a rose each and every morning. He said he loved beautiful things captured in attractive vessels. She examined herself in the hallway mirror. She must be perfect for the Master. Dominique's face was longer now, less pretty than before but more striking. Prettiness, the Master said, was a common thing. What he preferred was an oval-shaped face with flawless classic European elegance, not a commonplace showgirl looking face. The doe-like baby blues were gone forever. Her eyes were a synthetic smokey gray now, to better match her surroundings as well as to impart a sulky suitability for sexual use. Candy's unruly mane of wild golden curls were no more. Dominique's hair was straight and deeply dyed an inky boot polish black for eternity. Master thought curls an aesthetic extravagance in a mere servant such as Dominique. Short hair, even stylishly cut, was inappropriate in a serving girl so it was worn long, though in a bun when engaged in domestic service. All other body hair had been removed, giving Dominique's skin a silky smoothness for the Master's touch. The upturned button nose Candy had paid so much for was history. In it's place was a small, straight thin nose-- a more aristocratic, aquiline look that appealed to the Master. The only reminder of her former face was the thin-lipped, bow-shaped mouth. The Master enjoyed the mouth precisely the way it was-- small and tight. The Master had decided to remove any temptation for Dominique to alter her facial appearence by making permanent alterations. His maid need not make any decisions regarding her appearence, he said. He would fashion her in such a way that required no thought on her part. Her eyebrows were no longer thick. Instead they were plucked razor-thin, like mere pencil lines that framed her now- dark eyes. Long luscious, and false, black lashes had been fixed for good to give her come-hither expression more seductive allure. The dark of the Master's residence had erased the once golden California glow and replaced it with a vampiric paleness, her complexion wan bordering on moon-whiteness. The Master thought the complexion contrasted dramatically and aethetically pleasingly with the permanent blood red lipstick applied to her mouth. Her pierced ears had grown together-- the Master said a mere maid had no place wearing such distracting baubles. But her counterfeit inch long nails, painted a matching blood red that never needed additional finishing, were considered attractive and feminine and these were likewise attached for all time with locking glue. All these features she considered as she fearfully brushed a straight raven tress back into her bun. She must be perfect for the Master. To serve the Master with even a single flaw was to earn his wrath. The Master taught and trained his maid with only two lessons-- those involving pleasure (for him) and pain (for her). And Dominique had no wish to be taught a lesson in pain. She picked up the tray and knocked once on the door. "Enter," the deep English voice bade her. He sat up in his king-size four poster bed watching her enter to serve him. As Dominique bent over to place the tray before her master, she felt the skirt hem rise up again. This time she allowed it to rise, giving the Master a peek at the negligible black lace dainty beneath the errant hem. Serving the Master necessitated such naughty displays, in deed was the point for her service. Sexuality was identity now, though not the slutty bar girl playfulness Candy had exhibited. No. It was now the practised, choreographed seduction of Dominique, the Master's French maid, who lived to entice him to use her. He placed his hand firmly under her black tafetta skirt and squeezed the skimpily- pantied buns underneath. Dominique, eyes kept respectfully downcast, offered him the little sphinx-like smile she had been taught was the appropriate way for a maid to exhibit her emotions to her master-- small, deferential gestures that gave the merest hints. "May zee maid haf permizshon to playshur her masteer?" Dominique humbly asked. Candy's American English with its grad school-level vocabulary had been erased from her memory. French had taken its place, a low-class French at an sixth grade vocabulary level. But to further complicate Dominique's life, she was not permitted to speak that "barbarian tongue." The Master expected her to speak only in the pidgin English she was taught-- a few words sufficient for her to carry out the menial duties of a gentleman's maid. He found her sweet-pitched French-laced English simply intoxicating. "Yes, Dominique. You have permission to pleasure your Master," he replied in the assuming tone he took with his maid. He returned to his paper, turning to the Financials as he always did to check on his many investments. A meticulous man, the Master oversaw his five million dollar portfolio with close attention. Dominique nodded and stepped back from the bed. As coyly as she might, she pranced on the toes of her black patent leather heels to the foot of the oversized bed, swaying her barely skirted backside for her Master's amusement with exagerated hip swings. Though he ignored her seductive strut, she continued it methodically till she reached the foot of the bed. Keeping her eyes cast downward, she untied the miniscule white lace serving apron in back, tossing it aside. Dominique then reached back to unbutton her form-fitting black maid's uniform blouse, careful to unbutton the frilly white lace collar and separate cuffs. Sinuously the blouse and skirt dripped off the pale thin feminized body. The plush tanned party girl body was gone. The 36C breasts had been reduced to small girlish 30As-- the Master preferring "fruit not yet ripe" to "gross melons." The petite mounds jiggled ever so slightly in a black lace demi-bra, underwired to give the trifling buds as much cleavage as possible, which was very little indeed. The bra was decorated with French lillies and closed in front with a small black heart-shaped close. Dominique's nipples poked against the lillies, making a tiny bullet against the sheer material. Just below Dominique's precious black lace brassiere, the French maid's waist disappeared under the harsh insistence of a corset. The corset fitted an unforgiving wall of steel-bone reinforced black lace around the pale, moon-white torso. The once womanly 32 inch waist had been subjugated by the corset and pinched into a waspy 24 inch schoolgirl measurement. The corset was locked in back and was worn without respite. Frilly black lace wafted off the edge of the corset, tickling Dominique's flat, sensitive tummy. Dominique's slimmed down alabaster hips were framed with an enticing garter belt of gossamer fashioned black lace. Tiny clasps at the ends of narrow black straps supported black fishnet stockings of the most common variety. What had been 36 inch hips were now a svelte 26 inches in diameter. Over the wispy garter belt, Dominique wore her black lace thong panty. In the center of the panty panel was a Frnch lily, an embellishment that pleased her Master. The French maid now stood before her Master. With a single fluid motion, she reached behind to the nape of her neck and pulled out the pins which kept her raven hair in a bun. The Master had instructed her to perform all sexual service with her hair long and loose at scheduled times such as these. Dominique shook out the jet hair, feeling it cascade to the middle of her bare spine. She furtively looked up to see if her Master was watching. He flipped the newspaper pages, oblivious to her presence. She suppressed a sigh. With well-practised grace, Dominique knelt before the foot of the bed and with the utmost care buried her head under the bedcovers. Like a well-trained diver, she bored through the fine linen of the Master's private bed, till she found a leg of the Master's pajama bottoms. She gently tugged the end of the garment and could feel the Master raise his hips to better let her pull the garment off. It came free and she pulled it entirely off. Next the French maid began to lick the feet of her English master. Pressing her small mouth downward, she took each and every toe with her wet, tight mouth and fellated them like small cocks. Hungrily, she drew the toes in and bathed them hotly with her tongue. When this was complete, Dominique ran her tongue from the base of the Master's ankles, up and over his thick, wire-haired legs, switching off leg to leg to ensure complete adoration. The minutes passed as Dominique continued the ritual-like servicing. As she climbed deeper into the bed, she remembered not to let her heels touch the clean sheets. Once she had ripped a sheet-- inexcusable for a maid. She was well punished for her indiscretion by the Master and was eager not to learn the lesson again. Would that she might take off the heels. But they, like the corset, were locked on, never to be removed, giving her permanent heels. Finally she had reached as far as she would travel in her voyage up the Maste's body-- his long, thick and emi-erect cock. Dominique's task was to coax her Master to pleasure with her pretty, tight mouth and she set herself to her assignment with the fervor of a fearful worshipper. Balls were lapped first, Dominique hoping to stir the Master's cum within to spurt out later. His pubic hair scratched against her pale face without mercy as she took the balls in her mouth, sucking gently on each. The Master's hand descended beneath the covers, catching in it a bridle of her raven hair too direct her efforts. Without pity, the hand ynked the hair up, her face to the shaft. Suppressing a tear, she opened her mouth as the Master positioned her lips over the flesh scepter. A brutal yank down and Dominique's mouth was impaled by the Master's lance. She took it as deep as she might within her throat, feeling the precum drizzle down and coat her mouth's insides. The Master remained silent and unseen as Dominique obeyed the imperative of his lust, sucking and deepthroating him with every piston of the mighty rod. Hot splashes of cum shoot within her and Dominique moaned like an overheated whore in simulated orgasm for her Master. He had taught her she might display her obedience to him by cumming just after he had. Never before. Not that she could cum anymore. But she understood his meaning-- he wanted her to make a display for him, to moan and buck. It gave him pleasure to see her humiliate herself this way. And if she failed to make this sluttish display of affection, he would further instruct her in the importance of discipline and her submission. Dominique knew this meant his strap or his belt or his crop or the paddle he kept for such purposes. She whipped her tongue over her lips, panting with abandon for the delectation of her Master. Finally he released her hair. She understood he was finished with her for the moment. With speed, she crept out from the bedcover the way she had entered. With considerably more rapidity that she had taken them off, Dominique dressed herself in her uniform clothing again, clipping her hair back into a tight black bun. Without a word, the Master waved off the tray and newspaper. Dominique took the silver platter wordlessly and wriggled her way trembling from the bedchamber. Behind her the Master rose an began his day, thus. ****************** It was eleven o'clock and Dominique still had to dust before preparing the Master's mid-day repast. She took the little feather duster and began dusting the top of the parlor mantle, with especial care to dust the photo of her Master and his brother, Dr. Slate. It was one of the Master's favorites from their Oxford days. Dr. Slate was in the South Pacific now, living in a private compound. He called from time to time to speak to the Master to discuss business matters. Together they administered a large fortune. She reached to give the framed photo another swipe with the duster. As she did, she felt a pair of strong hands clasp her tiny waist. She gasped. "Pleez Sir! I beeg you! My Masteer iz oopstares!" The words in her ear answered, "Your Master is behind you, my petite Dominique!" A hand roughly pulled up her skirt and spanked the small buns sharply. Dominique dropped the feather duster and tried to turn around. But the Master held her fast against the mantle. His hands were now yanking down her lace thong panty. She understood what he wanted. The Master often enjoyed sneaking up on her and using her in various positions around the townhouse. Dominique let her hand drop down under her skirt and helped the Master de- panty her, the better that he might rape her. Her hand snuck between her leg and tried to brush his cock through his trousers. "Masteer!" she breathily moaned. He took her hands and pressed them up into the small of her back with one hand. The other hand unmistakably unzipped his trousers. Dominique heard them drop to the floor. The hard way he was pressing her wrists up was hurting her. He whispered into her ear. "Is my pretty Dominique performing her chores like a good maid?" he asked harshly. "Oh yas my Masteer! I a-ham! Dominique swa-ayers she is being a goood girl for her Masteer!" she yelped meekly. He was pushing her wrists up so hard now she wanted to cry. He was kicking her legs apart and his cock was poking between her legs. She nearly toppled in her high heels but regained her balance cat-like. "Oh no. I think my Dominique is being bad. She is thinking of Candy, I think. Very bad girl!" The Master swatted her bare moons with a thunderous smack of the flat of his broad hand. Candy Cane-- a vivid ghost of glamour and power. Dominique shook her head, sniffled. "No, my Masteer! No Can-dee! She bad! I goood girl maid, your Dominique!" "Then you will have to keep showing me what a good maid you are, my slinky slut! You will spend the rest of your life proving to me what an obedient little pleasure maid you are, won't you Dominique?" He swatted her again. She screeched. "Yes, Masteer! I weeell show you! I weeel be a good maid!" She struggled trying to escape the punishment, but the Master held her tiny wrists tight. "Show me then, Dominique. Show me, my little pleasure maid!" the Master growled. Dominique turned her tear-stained face, pressing it against the teak panelled wall of the parlor. "How Masteer? Pleeze tell Dominique!" she pleaded. Anything to make the pain stop! He chuckled cruelly. "Show me what a pretty French maid is really for. It isn't for cleaning, wench. Tell me what a French maid is kept for! Tell me why I keep you!" He swatted again, sending shock waves up her narrow buns and waist. "For sex, Masteer! FOR SEX!" Dominique sobbed, her humiliation and degradation complete. The unseen Master patted her bare derriere "That's right, Dominique. For sex. Which makes you a cheap little whore." Dominique closed her eyes. She could hear the derision in his voice, how little he considered her feelings. He unclenched her wrists. "Now show me what a shameless little whore you are. Bend over for your master, bitch." She obeyed, keeping her eyes closed lest she begin crying again. With all the strength she had left, Dominique spread her legs, flipped up her maid's skirt and offerred up her ripe ass for her master's use. She buried her head in her small bosom as she felt the man stroke his cock against her soft thighs. He entered her dry and she began to buck in pain. The Master held his filly tightly as he felt his cockhead pop through the tight sphincter of his dainty French prize. The dry penetration would have been painful in any case, but there was something which made it all the more so. Dominique often wondered why she remained so tight for Master, though he used her roughly and often, sometimes three and four times a day. Unbeknownst to the enslaved shemale maid, her Master had had the Good Doctor Slate fit her sphincter with a special "O" ring made of the most taut man-made material available, a rubberized cement developed for the Space Program. It jealously guarded Dominique's pleasure hole from ever widening, giving her rectum an airtight resistance to penetration. And by surgically interlacing her nerve-endings with the "O" ring, the good Doctor ensured Dominique would feel each and every assault made on her tender portal. Agony and ecstasy would be her fate with each rape. It was why she so dreaded being used by the Master this way. And why it was the Master's pleasure to do so. Dominique whined as she felt the familiar invader occupy her most private place, forcing its pleasure out of her at will. She twisted this way, then that as the Master rammed one way, then another-- a marionette doll on strings. She tried to stay bent-- it was more comfortable-- but the Master clutched her tiny breasts through her blouse, mauling the defenceless globes and pinching her too- sensitive nipples through her bra. As he drew her onto his lap, she felt the cock bore a hole through her very soul. For the thousandth time, Dominique felt as if she existed only for this use-- to be gored and filled by this cruel man, this Master who possessed her. She let the thought blow away quickly because she could feel him building within her. He was approaching a massive, volcanic cum-- which meant she must soon after begin her own "orgasm." The blnding white lighting of the explosion rocked within her, sending tremors through every nerve of her being. For a split instance, her hole felt as if it might snap like a broken rubber band against the pressure of the cudgel inside her. Tears flowed freely down her face, tears she always pretended to be from the joy of Master's passion, but was actually the indescribable pain of a vessel overflowing with misery and the complete abasement of a human being. He grunted and she began moaning. "Oh, zat ess sooo good, Masteer! Puuut eet eensiide meeee! I feeeel like a whore! I am a beetch for you!" she exclaimed, as convincingly as she might. Putting her hole being into it. "I looove you Masteer! I am a slut for you--- only you!" And with that, she gasped and swallowed deeply. His cock popped out of her loudly. Quiet at last, she feel back against him, a sated kitten filled with Master's milk. The Master grunted again and dropped his hands from her aching breasts. They fell into Dominique's lap and began tugging at the finely wired chastity belt that had imprisoned her male member for such a long, long time. The prisoner was overheated and strained futiley against the mesh prison. Pressure on Dominique's prostate such as rape always urged the little rebel on, but to no affect. It thrummed inside the hot metal cup, scraping against it without hope. The chastity belt would never be removed. "Was the price for keeping it worth it?" the Master demanded slyly. Dominique bowed her head. "No, Masteer," she answered sincerely, sadly. Once it had provided so much pleasure. But that was long ago. Now she hated it. It only increased her pain and shame. He pushed her off his lap roughly, leaving the room. He looked at her once in disgust as she fingered her dainty hole. It was all red and throbbed maddeningly. Sometimes it took hours for the pain to abate. Dominique let her red nail caress the damaged hole, sni