Bond Girls & Baby Dolls, Vol. 1: Prospect free porn video

AUTHORS NOTE: Copyright mine. Mean people suck. If not 18 get a signed permission slip from your Mom before reading. Any resemblence to persons living or dead may be untentional (unless it's Dolly Parton, Tom Cruise, or Timothy Dalton's chin). No fictionalized renderings of imaginary people impersonating minors were harmed in the production of this novella. BOND GIRLS & BABY DOLLS VOLUME 1: PROSPECT 2006 D: We need a new Fall title, and we know you're a good writer [H]. Me: I guess. D: I'll pay 50 cents a copy. We'll move 6,000 easy. Eight to ten, if we're lucky. Me: Ten-thousand? Didn't "Manfred Becomes Mandy" sell nearly 25,000! D: Well, right, but it was our bestseller, and it's 5-years old. All that free crap on the web has been reducing sales ten-percent a year. Z: Tough making an honest buck from sex, what with whores giving it away. Me: Seventy-five cents! D: Sixty. Me: I'll try. What should I write about? D: Easiest to go with what you know. Write from experience. Me: What!!? With the Lodge? D: Sure, but you need to fictionalize it. Change all the names, and personal descriptions. Change the settings. Uggh ... call the Lodge ... I dunno ... the Temple maybe. Yeah, that sounds classy. Me: Mmmm D: You girls sort it out ... and let me know. [D] was getting too distracted to talk, so [Z], her mouth no longer full, picked up where he left off. Z: It's easy [H]! That's what I did with "Biography of a Boy Whore." Me: Gee! I'd never have guessed! Z: You need to disguise the identity of the members. All the politician and movie star bits won't sound believable. Tone down the drugs and crime. Me: Mmmm. Z: I've got lists of alternative words for dick, fuck, pussy, to help you out. Me: Mmmm. Before you think I'm a total airhead, I ought to mention that [Z] and I were taking turns with [D's] dick in our mouths. This wasn't exactly a typical conversation to have while on my knees, in the kitchen, servicing a cock. But in our house it wasn't that out-of-the-ordinary. [A] waltzed in, topless as always. A: What are you guys doing? Z: What does it look like, dizzy bitch!? A: Ummm ... blowjob, I guess. Z: That, and me and [H] are having an editorial meeting. A: Well ... if y'all need to talk, Daddy can fuck ME!! This wasn't a bad idea. I had a few questions. There aren't many disadvantages having a penis in your mouth, but talking is definitely one of them. [A] quickly stepped out of her bikini bottoms and bent over the countertop, while [D] greased his erection, and [Z] and I stepped aside to chat. Me: Don't you have a bunch of manuscripts from that guy who wrote "She-male, Queen of the Jungle" and "I Was a Teenage Boy-Bride". Z: He can't write three pages without someone getting pissed on. Only reason we use him at all is he works without pay if we pee on him! Me: Ewwww!! Thanks for sharing. Z: Anyway, [H] he's a hack. You can do better! We figure the only way to survive against free sex fiction is go upmarket. Offer better quality. Appeal to the 'literate masturbator,' as [D] calls them. That, and more explicit covers. Me: How about a leather-bound, library-quality series! Z: Funny [H]! "Fifty Classic Wanks of Western Literature." Me: When do I start. Z: Today, if you feel like it. Me: No, silly. When should the story start! First time in Mom's pantyhose? First time with a man? Lodge initiation? Z: I started by introducing an important character who changed my life. Me: O.K. It was getting hard to converse over that minx [A's] squeals of "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!!!" Her bronzed titties smeared the counter with tanning-oil, as she slid in response to the staccato ramming. [A] could still manage a lusty stiffy herself, and was desparately trying to hold still, so it didn't bang the cutlery drawer. [D], now covering the petite, ponytailed pansy, had abandoned the upright position he'd used to penetrate her back passage. His hand worked her girlish glans, quickly producing cummy dribbles from [A]. Her orgasmic whimpers soon became a contented humming sound, as she sucked her thin fluid from his thick fingers. His instruction for her to "clamp down" heralded completion of the act. As I wandered to my room, [D's] distinctive squeak told me another load of his inseminating sauce was filling my slippery little sister. It wasn't the only seed planted that morning. MID-MAY 2002: AN OFFER I CAN'T REFUSE "Bond, James Bond," the tall, handsome man intoned. Well, not exactly. I found out later that his name was (honestly!) James Bond. But he introduced himself with the more practical alternative of J. Robert Bond. "I'm the new owner of the house at Black Mill. I had an idea that might benefit all of us, Mrs. Hollis," he smiled. Right away my Mom got all fluttery in his presence. He was a commanding figure. His custom- tailored suit, and the watch that probably cost more than a new car, would have suited James Bond himself. His face and manner were a bit more rugged, and American, than the famous spy (though his cleft-chin made him look a little like that guy who was in the one movie in the 80's). "Four thousand dollars is a lot of money for a boy. And as far as I can tell Patrick wasn't too active in the vandalism. Haven't we all done something foolish when we were young? Foolishness aside, I'm sure your son is a fine young man, Ma'am." With a sharp glance in my direction, my mother conceded that I was, usually. Mr. Bond was doing the same; addressing my mother with politeness and smiles, while regarding me with stern appraisal. Thus, they discussed the fate of the poor wretch beside them. "It might be a good lesson for Patrick to work repairing the damage he and his friends have caused. If you approve, Mrs. Hollis," Bond offered, "I would be happy to reduce the bill at a rate of $10 an hour, if Patrick would do grounds-keeping three or four days a week." "Please call me Sharon," Mom bubbled. "That's a very kind offer. And a good lesson, like you said. I'm sure Patrick would appreciate the opportunity." I suffered another look that told me I'd better like the idea. "Excellent!" Bond cried "We are just preparing to move, and I'm quite busy with work. We'll see about starting him next month. Maybe Patrick will have the community service out of the way by then." I was always bad at math, but good enough to realize I'd be at least the entire summer working off the debt. I had no experience and no interest in hard outdoor labor. Still, ten dollars was a lot more than I could get for any other job. And maybe they'd let me use the pool. Anyway, all that really mattered was what my mother thought. I got an earful of that on our trip home from the courthouse. "That Mr. Bond! Such a nice man! Such a gentleman. Handsome too. And loaded! That's a five million dollar house, at least. Did you see he wasn't wearing a ring? If it weren't for Mike ..." Mom tittered. She was fooling herself. Bond was way out of her league. But Mom always gushed about wealth. To me rich people were just people with a lot of money. To Mom they were a separate race, whose mysterious ways could only be decoded by dedicated study of celebrity magazines, and TV shows like "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous". Her other core philosophy was that her destiny was ruled by the will of the Lord and "finding the right man". All her misfortunes were summarized by listing "deadbeats" she'd been involved with. Only my Dad escaped this list--not because he wasn't deadbeat (he left us when I was two)--but due to Mom's strict observance of not speaking ill of the dead. "You be polite, and mind Mr. Bond, son. He's not just rich. I'll bet he knows lots of important people. Those kind of men write letters that can get you into colleges, or set you up with a good job. You want him to like you. It would be good if you had a ... whadya call 'em ... sponsor!" It was funny Mom preaching her "find your prince, and live happily ever after" mantra with me in the role of Cinderella. I couldn't have known how right she would be! But that's the future. I guess I should backtrack a little first. ============================================= "Forty hours community service. Four thousand dollars restitution. See the bailiff. Next case!" That was my punishment, aside from the boozy, fat judge's lecture that I should think myself lucky this hadn't happened a few months later, and gone on my adult record. I guess he was right about that. Me, Buzzy, and Walter had all been held back in school somewhere down the line. Buzzy was a junior like me, but a few months older, and turned eighteen. Walter was a senior, nearly twenty, and likelier to leave high-school by forced retirement than graduation. Both had trials scheduled in adult criminal court. Despite a modestly respectable juvenile record, Buzzy wasn't facing hard time. But he did have to face his hypocritical, alcoholic, ex-con father, Marion, Sr. Buzzy fought back for once. Though he looked pretty rough when he came to say goodbye, he said his Dad got the worst of it. Thrown out of his house, Buzzy decided not to stick around for his trial. Walter already had an adult conviction for dealing. On top of which the doped-up doofus hadn't handled the arrest very well. I mean either trying to head-butt a cop, or ratting out your friends wouldn't be great. Doing both suggests a lack of strategic vision. I never did hear what happened to Walter, but six months to a year is a safe bet. Though instrumental to my tale, Buzzy, Walter, and Carlos are minor characters. Black Mill, though, is a bigger presence, so I'll tell you about the four of us going there for the first time. MID-FEBRUARY 2002: FOUR GIVE TRESSPASS It was one of those rare warm winter weekends that tease with a taste of spring before coyly withdrawing to let you shiver for another month. Buzzy, Walter, Carlos and your humble narrator were enjoying the afternoon as boys will--skating, drinking stolen beers, and firing up a few joints. At sunset, Buzzy (usually the ringleader) proposed a visit to Black Mill. So off we went. The Black Mill wasn't a mill and it wasn't black. It used to be a mill, but it got abandoned. Then roadwork diverted the stream that used to serve it. The Black part (depending on who you believe) was either 'cause they used to have segregated mills, or the guy who built it was called Black. Carlos was a nickname, and he wasn't Hispanic. Buzzy was really called Marion Busby, Jr. But he had a temper, especially about being called Marion. After having my dad's surname for a few years, I'd settled into a spell as 'Patrick Owen Hollis,' but this wasn't to last (I've had two first names, four last ones, and I invent a new middle one as often as I buy shoes). Too much information, perhaps, but it's appropriate to a story where things aren't always as they appear. Things change. Lives change. Sometimes frequently. Sometimes suddenly. Sometimes drifting in a direction you can only appreciate in hindsight. Walter, to the best of my knowledge is, and always has been, Walter. Black Mill was a legendary teen hang-out from forever. Kids' parents talked about going there. It was at the start of the descent into the Potomac gorge and, when the leaves were off the trees, had great views of the river. Cruelly, my generation had been denied the pleasures of this monument to underage sex and drinking. Five years earlier the area had been divided into large lots, and the Mill reduced to an outbuilding behind a mansion built by a guy rumored to be an arms dealer. That winter a "For Sale" sign appeared out front of the property. We'd heard around school that the house was vacant. Now a "SOLD" plaque sat on the sturdy wooden sign. This might be our last chance to honor the hallowed teen hang-out! A huge iron gate guarded the drive, but it was easy to hop the low stone wall beside it. We found a good place to stash our cars, and walked the quarter-mile to the Mill. Kids had told us the house was packed with sensors, alarms and lights, but if you skirted it, it was safe out back. In back of the house was the Mill--it's derelict shell now renovated as a guesthouse, or something. There was another new building (a four-car garage, with a floor above it) that had been built, of the same size and same stone, to be the Mill's younger twin. A tennis court was behind the garage, completely caged-in because the steep descent beyond would swallow up lost balls. Between the two buildings sat a dry swimming pool, which had been our main reason to come here. Hoping for a nice slope-walled amoeba-shaped pool, we brought our boards. We were instantly disappointed to find a very traditional rectangular pool with a semi-circle of steps at one end--practically useless to a skateboarder. But we rocked some tunes, and had a few more buds and brews. Walter popped a random assortment of lint-crusted pills that were always lying around in his pockets. In our daytime clothes, the night air and chilly breeze forced us to seek refuge in the pool. Being high (both us and the pool) the harsh reverb inside made the music sound better, or angrier anyway. Buzzy started searching for downed tree limbs to make a bonfire in our sheltering hole. For Carlos--the only kid in our crowd who got called "faggot" and "pussy" more than me--this was too much. He asked if I wanted a ride with him. I thought about it. Walter was starting to get wild. Helping collect, he started pulling up live shrubs, and continued with this fun even after we told him they wouldn't be good firewood. But I usually stuck with Buzzy, and in choosing that course again on this night, I took one step further on my continuing journey. Me and Buzzy, you see, had been friends since almost as long as I could remember. More truthfully, I guess you'd call me his sidekick. Buzzy was bigger, brasher, tougher, and just that little bit older that actually makes a difference when you are six or seven. I'd always been small. Slim, and even now barely 5'6". I'd also always been "pretty" in a way that older women would coo about, to the extreme embarrassment of a young boy. I had delicately-boned, fine features, soft brow, long lashes, very full lips, and was naturally blonde. Fortunately it was dirty blonde, and at the moment longish, unwashed, and dyed black. This, baggy black clothes, Doc Martens, and a scowl were my defenses against my Mother's dimwit friends telling me I should have been a girl. Not that this bothered me if men or kids my age weren't around to hear it. About the only things keeping me from looking feminine were a small scar on my slightly off-center nose (courtesy of roughhousing with Buzzy) and a chin which, though delicate, had an aggressive forward thrust to it. "Irish. From your Dad," my mother said. So Buzzy was my big brother and protector from the taunts slung at a small prettyboy. Not that he was a giant himself; and he was usually pretty calm, and always nice to me. But his Dad roughed him up a bit, and Buzzy would sometimes let off steam. Even bigger, older boys respected his reputation for sudden violence. What I contributed to our partnership was basically following-along with anything Buzzy liked. Tree houses, comic collecting, and Jackie Chan movies were my interests, but all Buzzy's ideas. Later, the skateboards, dark metal music, and our 'goth' style were tastes I acquired in response to his lead. So tonight I stayed with Buzzy--my best friend and protector. Things quickly got out of hand once Carlos left. Walter tried to kick in the door to the Mill, but only succeeded in denting it. We discouraged his plan to break a window, so he returned to menacing the shrubbery (more just kicking them around now, rather than collecting them). Buzzy pulled a couple of spray-cans from his backpack and started tagging the pool. I added a few anarchist symbols and some more artistic efforts. Buzzy was driven more by message than art, which was basically: "Yur pool suX! SkaterZ Rool! Build a Skate Pool, Fuckers!" We were too trashed to drive. We were bored. Walter was barely conscious, and at 250 lbs. we weren't carrying him anywhere. "Fuck It!" said Buzzy "It's only a two mile walk! Let's march! He's got the keys. Fat bastard will wake before sunrise, and get home." So as I, again, followed Buzzy, we left Walter to be gently awoken by the long arm of the law. 2006 Omigod Diary! You'll never, ever guess who I saw today. Buzzy!!! Well he goes by something closer to his real name now--Mario! He's grown into a veeery handsome man. Clearly, he's made the most of the warm California sun and the gym! Bulked up a bit, with a totally tight butt, and (I suspect) manly abs you'd just die for! Still with that same Buzzy brashness, but not so manic. I'd never noticed how cute his eyes were before. I'm trying to remember if he had a big one. Hanging out with him for years, of course I'd seen it, but I guess I wasn't paying much attention back then. He's only my height, in heels, but otherwise definitely my type. I wonder what he'd think if he knew he'd given his number to his old sidekick Patrick Hollis! Not that I'm thinking of telling him. Would it be weird, you think, to date him? I mean I'll be free in a few months, and complete early next year. He definitely wanted to peel- off my panties! Not that it's surprising or anything. I'm smokin' hot!!! That 'little old me' act works wonders out in the world, but I can't lie to my diary! I don't think I'll call him. Just visit the bar again when I know he's working. Oooopsie! He says he's getting more work as a stunt coordinator, and won't be tending bar too much longer. Sissy, if it's true! Of course that's the kind of thing wage-earning guys say to every pretty girl here in La-La! We'll see. I'm just happy to see him happy and well. Our latest candidate is called Keisha. I'm still a bit troubled by the deceits we need to use getting a new girl ready for the Temple. But Keisha is fabulously gay and her Dad is a real bible-beater. He keeps throwing her out, so she's basically half homeless, and will probably be tricking before too long. I'm confident we are saving her from a much worse fate. Anyway, Allison is doing most of the training (I'm just sorta supervising). EARLY JUNE 2002: BIRTHDAY BOY The next few weeks were marked only by my birthday, and the end of the school-year. Mom was slowly releasing me from the dog-house. June 1st passed without the presents and fanfare I'd expect from an eighteenth birthday. But my few months 'grounded' ended. "You're a man now, I figure, Patrick," Mom worried. "I can't punish you no more. Just got to rely on you making mature decisions." I'm still not sure whether 'mature decisions' or 'trickery' are more responsible for where I am today. But, either way, I can't believe my luck. Mike Aaron gave me a present. Two tickets to a 'Monster Truck Show' that I had no intention of going to, and no obvious friend to take. Mike was my mother's boyfriend. We just barely got along. He was ex-military. He never lost an opportunity to rag me about bulking-up, cutting my hair, or ditching my 'noise' in favor of good country music. A bit of an asshole, really (and with a 11-year-old emerging asshole of a son). Still, I tried to be civil, and was happy for my Mom. Just because we didn't see eye-to- eye, didn't mean he wasn't good for her. The rotation of boyfriends and 'step-dad's' when I was growing up changed almost yearly. Compared to most of them, Mike was a catch. He had a good job, owned a home, was financially responsible, didn't get hammered too often, and didn't get violent when he did. He did think cracking a fart was the height of sophisticated humor and voted Republican--but a reliable Neanderthal, on the whole. Most importantly, he seemed to like Mom for more than her rack. Mom got compared to Dolly Parton a lot. They didn't look much alike, but being a small, large-breasted woman with big blonde hair, and a hint of Appalachian mining-town in her voice, made comparison inevitable. She was forty and (to be honest) looked older, but she'd been the local beauty queen back in the day. She still has sashes from county fairs, and once was first-runner-up to a girl who went on to be first-runner-up Ms. Kentucky. She'd look right at home in a hick-town beauty parlor--overdone hair and make-up, and a slightly trampy, slightly dated style. Pretty though, and I often thought about getting her on one of those make-over shows. So yeah, a lot of guys just saw two things. They weren't like ZZZ monster porno jugs. But on a very petite lady (Mom claimed 5 feet, but that was likely with low heels) 32D was plenty large enough. I knew Mom's bra size, and all her sizes from a childhood raiding her closets. I'd started quite young, clomping around in her pretty heels. I can remember my Mom's amusement with this. But growing and my over-enthusiasm for this fun eventually soured her to it. Before I got close to fitting her size 5's, I knew to play in private. I was upset to outgrow her shoes, but this coincided with me growing into some of her clothes. My discovery that I could tease my penis to squirt occurred while wearing Mom's satin nightie and dime-store pantyhose. Sadly, puberty caused me to outgrow all her outfits. At fourteen it was my greatest wish to have a bigger mother. But, I could still squeezed into her slips and panties, and I'd started to buy or steal a few cheap items of my own. I'd never been flat-out caught, but lived in fear of it. And that's where I stood on my eighteenth birthday. Mom got me a Playstation game, and some clothes. No chance these were going to be a miniskirt and halter top, but I was especially crushed to find they were some heavy work- gloves and boots for my new job. MID-JUNE 2002: HARD LABOR Having completed my public service (collecting litter in the county parks) and hearing that Mr. Bond had settled in, it was time to make my first daylight visit to the Black Mill. Driving by on the narrow road that edged the valley, you'd hardly even notice the place. A stone wall had been built beside the road at the same time as the house, but if you slowed you could catch a glimpse through the gates. It appeared to be a ranch-style home, spread wide across the property. While very large for a rancher, it seemed modest compared to the massive mansions scattered along this road. Pulling up to the gate I found an intercom on a post, accessible without leaving the car. The answering voice was female--calm, soft, and sexy, somehow foreign, with a touch of haughtiness. "Drive around back, Mr. Bond is waiting," the silky, icy voice instructed. Passing through the gate, the long driveway first split-off to the left and circled under a small portico by the front door to the house. The yard was a huge, flat, lush lawn that would have been perfect for a soccer field, if not for three large oaks standing as defenders near the road, and one magnolia in the home-end goal. I continued straight and down a slope--as the house sat right where the descent to the river began. From the rear, the house revealed itself to be much grander than it seemed from the road. The wings of the house in the back were each two stories high, due to the incline. The ground also fell in a "V" at the center of the house--where the dry streambed once fed the mill--so that the middle section was three storeys high, which, except for a large balcony on the second floor, was basically a massive wall of glass. Ahead of me laid the garage and tennis court; its twin, the mill, to the left, and pool between--the scene of the crime! I saw that the pool had been repaired and filled. A huge heap of mulch nearly blocked entry to the garage. There was a big flatbed truck, loaded with plants, at the end of the drive. Beside it, Mr. Bond talked with the driver. I couldn't think of a thing to say as I got out of the car, but Bond immediately called out, "Here's the young hoodlum now! Ten minutes late Hollis! I might have to dock that from your notional wages." I said, "Sorry Mr. Bond," with a nervous grin. But he seemed in a joking good mood, and not nearly the stern figure I'd remembered from the courthouse. Perhaps it was the sunny day. Plus, he seemed less imposing in dorky business casual wear. He was even wearing those shoes with the tassels, which is kinda gay if you ask me! Still, he was big and fit, and (as he was directing the nursery guy) had a quiet authority which was no nonsense but gracious. "Alright Mr. Bell," said Bond, a minute later, "just show Hollis what to do. He looks a bit pale and skinny, and I'm sure he hasn't done much landscaping. But I know he's bright. I'm confident he'll make my beds bloom." Bond walked toward the house, pausing only a moment to pat me on the shoulder and said, "Hollis, don't disappoint me, OK? I'm sure this will work out very well for both of us." So I worked for a while helping Mr. Bell from the nursery offload the truck. He gave me printed planting and watering instructions for each type of plant, as well as a basic map of where to put them. This was a simple matter of replacing dead plants with green ones, though there were some spots where the new plants were different because the old varieties shouldn't be planted this season. He demonstrated, showed me the right tools, and was gone before noon. Most of the rest of the day was just pulling dead plants, then wheel- barrowing them to a big pile in the driveway. Dirty, boring work, but someone could be watching me from the house (I even got the silly spooky sense that sometimes someone was) so I applied myself. I'd put my Walkman on, so was surprised to find to find Mr. Bond behind me. "Hollis," he said, "you've done good work! You could probably use a drink." Bond was holding out two icy beers with condensation dribbling off them. I was surprised and hesitant. I mean this guy knew I was too young to drink legally. "Don't worry," he said, "they're light. Anyway you being so young and working so hard, you've no worry about staying trim, unlike us old guys." Mr. Bond was smiling while patting a stomach that was, as near as I could tell, rock hard. I took the beer, downing half of it in two gulps, while Bond congratulated me and offered to show me around. "Here's the key to the cabana, Hollis. Just up the stairs there." Once I took the offered key, his hand moved to the small of my back as he urged me over to the wooden stairs behind the garage, that led to its upper floor. "Thanks Mr. Bond," was all I could think to say, though it felt weird us walking side-by-side--his hand touching me lightly. It felt like I was being subtly steered. With a glance Mr. Bond indicated I should go up the narrow stairs, which he ascended close behind me. "Go on, unlock the door," Bond said. We were close, on the narrow landing. I could feel him behind me. "Look. There's water and a fridge." It was true. A kitchenette, and a small laundry area. The room beside it was like a locker room, with toilet, two shower stalls, a wooden bench down the middle, and a single stack of lockers. "Keep the key," he offered, "so you can keep hydrated, take a break from the heat and get cleaned up after work, without needing to disturb my assistant or myself. If you need something try this intercom. It works just like the one at the gate." A few days passed with little contact with Mr. Bond. One day he sent lunch out to me. A nice lunch, but a nicer waitress. "Hello Patrick, I'm Mr. Bond's personal assistant, Lisette Ohno," said the voice of the girl I'd heard the first day at the gate. The voice I now recognized as having a touch of French in it, though the girl looked somewhat Asian. She was stunning! Early 20's. Thin with perky, smallish breasts, slim boyish hips, and skinny but shapely legs--what you'd call coltish, I guess. She was tall. Not tall-tall, but tall for an Asian girl. Imposing in very high-heels, she had more than six inches on me. Central to her beauty was her exotic face, which suggested a mixed heritage--with eyes of almond Asian shape, but very un-Asian light brown. Her face was roundish, with delicate lower features--tiny nose and little doll-like mouth that accentuated her huge eyes. Her long silky, straight black hair, glowed reddish in the sunlight. Through that day and the next, she ferried me drinks, and carried hampers back and forth to the cabana. Apparently the machines in the house were being replaced, so she was using the other laundry facility on the property. She was pleasant and polite, but not inclined to chat. Her crisply enunciated, classy voice, had an air of entitlement. She had the composed, subtle feminine authority where a sharp glance and gentle flick of the wrist serves in place of rougher masculine assertiveness. Her comings and goings were a delightful distraction. Impeccably and expensively dressed, she was quite businesslike. But there was great sexiness in her grace and model's body. And the details of her attire were cumulatively too risqu? for an office girl: Super-tight skirt falling just below mid-thigh; simple conservative sandals, but with a four-inch heel; crisp simple white blouse, but open to between her breasts; scarlet painted lips. Anyone of these alone would seem right for a fashion-conscious young professional woman, but all together they were pure hottie--and she knew it! Late on the last day of that first week I spied Ms. Ohno reading on the balcony. Seeing me, she called to ask me if I'd 'be so kind as to' unload the dryer and bring the load to the house when I was done for the day. I'd done a lot of dirty mulching, and decided to take advantage of the showers before going home. Clean and with a towel around my waist I looked in the dryer. I was pleasantly surprised to see this was the delicates load. Examining each item as I placed them in the hamper, one-by-one, my excitement announced itself by pushing aside the wrapped towel. Mixed with some plainer underwear, were a few sexier silky camisoles and colorful thongs. Unzipping a lingerie bag, I found within some of the most richly exquisite dainties imaginable! There were a few pairs of stockings of luxurious sheerness, some lacy, frilly ankle-socks, a romantically ruffled garter-belt, and various scant panties that each had some fine detail of lace, bows, or appliqu?. My enchantment was interrupted by the sexy ice-princess voice over the intercom. "Patrick, can you hear me? Good. I just remembered you won't know how to enter the house. Glass door at the far left. Through that room and up the stairs." I said I'd be there in five minutes. Then I looked out the window and calculated. No sign of Mr. Bond outside, and I hadn't seen him all day. His assistant hundreds of feet away, inside the house. Plus, I could hear anyone ascending the wooden steps. All very safe, I thought, while taking the unnecessary precaution of locking the door. My first choice was sheer in back with a cluster of beautifully embroidered red and pink rosebuds at the front (offering some minimum modest coverage for the wearer). Sadly, the wide gauzy ribbons at four corners were to tie it, and I hadn't the time to create the pretty bows that these panties demanded. I settled on a purple satin pair. The front had iridescent beading in the shape of a heart. The back was designed to give a tantalizing peek between the bottom cheeks, by means of a row of small heart-shaped cut-outs running down the middle. As I eased the naughty undies into place, I found they fit me perfectly. Naturally, though, they were too small to hold my straining hardness--half of which lewdly poked above the waistband as I stroked it. I had a minute of peaceful pleasure before the tiny intercom again snapped me to life. "When you bring the hamper, Patrick," the cool voice suggested, "please keep that pair separate so it doesn't soil the others. Naturally, our intercom is camera-equipped. Please don't think about leaving the property without stopping by to talk." I walked as if to my execution. I barely noticed that the first room was all ill-arranged furniture, indicating the new residents weren't completely settled. I can't remember walking up the stairs to face this angry man and outraged girl. I didn't notice much about the enormous greatroom before me; just it's soaring 2? storey ceiling, and the expensive rear wall of glass. Blinded by the sun streaming in, it took me a few seconds to see the smart young woman lazing on an oversized couch. A jeweled sandal dangled from the toe of her crossed leg, as she casually filed her nails. "My boss isn't going to be pleased about you violating my privacy like that. He'll be even less happy with you abusing his trust and confidence." My eyes shot around for Bond. Stunned foolish, I imagined him behind me ready to pounce. "You can put that hamper down," she coolly intoned. "Are you still wearing the purple ones?" I shook my head, dumfounded by the question. "Well, I don't want them back until you've washed them. You may as well wear them home. Let me see them." I was frozen to the spot, as I tugged the mentioned unmentionables from my pocket. "Put them on. Immediately!" she snapped. "Where's Mr. Bond?" I quailed. "Left yesterday. Won't be back for a few weeks. I speak with him daily, of course. There's a powder-room just behind you," she suggested, almost with amusement. "You can change in there." For a moment, I'd thought she expected me to drop my shorts right in front of her. Refusing that seemed risky, but compliance was impossible. I eagerly escaped to the dilemma-solving privacy of the powder-room. Shaking with fear, I exchanged my frayed, sweaty boxer-briefs for the pristine pretty panties. "Let me see that you are wearing them," she commanded. I lifted my filthy t-shirt and eased down one side of my shorts to reveal the thin purple band at my hip. "Very demure, sweetie," she purred, "given that I've already seen your obvious enjoyment wearing my panties. First thing Monday, I want them back, and clean. Have a nice weekend, Patrick!" I don't know how I managed to drive home, distracted by the trouble I was in. But by Sunday I was calm enough to manage three delirious cums, while thinking of my satin encased balls rubbing against the same material that usually covered that gorgeous girl's snatch. LATE JUNE 2002: OVERWORKED, UNDERWEARED Returning with trepidation on Monday morning, I rang the front doorbell at exactly nine. Ms. Ohno was barely awake, and in some kind of exercise wear. She welcomed me and offered breakfast. I declined. She shrugged and asked for her panties. Satisfied they were washed, she excused herself to put them back in her room. Returning she said, "Those would be impractical for yard work, don't you think, Patrick? But these should be fine." I vigorously shook my head. "You know Patrick, as long as you don't get up to any more mischief," she winked, "I might see no reason to tell Mr. Bond about Friday's... incident. I'm very good at keeping secrets." No harm, I supposed, and great advantage in going along. They were, after all (Ms. Ohno helpfully pointed out) 'boyshorts'. Cotton and square- legged they weren't all that different than my usual shorts. They were much smaller, of course, didn't have a fly, and of a periwinkle color that would be very unusual for men's underwear. I had finished working in the plant beds, so pretty much corrected the damage Walter had done. But I still had hundreds of hours left to repay Mr. Bond. Once I'd donned the girls' boyshorts, Ms. Ohno sent me to mow the lawn. It had grown above ankle-height. Taming the huge expanses of lawn with an old push-mower took me all day. The hot work was relieved by lunch, lemonade, and encouragement to rest often and pace myself--all courtesy of my beautiful supervisor. She didn't mention what was under my shorts until the end of the day, when she said, "I expect you to wear that pair to work tomorrow. O.K. sweetie." Entering the cabana the following morning, I found a note in a graceful sloping hand: "Drop the used pair in the hamper, and wear these.-- Lisette." The pair beside the note were small white cotton briefs. They looked just like boy's briefs, even to having the seaming of a Y-front fly on the front, except it didn't open and was accented pink. The next day I found the same note. Beside it, cotton bikinis decorated with a print of lip-stick tubes and powder-puffs. Lisette--as she'd asked me to call her--was friendlier than ever. She often stopped by to chat with me; asking about my family, what shops were nearby, or getting my help with directions when she went out on errands. When I arrived in the mornings, she was occupied with exercising. Seeing her in her gym-wear I asked her about it, and she enthusiastically offered to demonstrate a few moves. This show made me grateful I was wearing my baggiest shorts, as my dick was bursting from my underwear (or rather, her panties!). She had amazing flexibility! It was tantalizing to watch her lithe body in the form-fitting outfit, as she performed a series of sensual stretches. Responding to my awed encouragement, she said she could put her feet behind her head. It was quite a horny sight when (after much laughter and failed attempts) she finally managed this. "Just some stretching, cardio, and a bit of yoga," she explained, after her display. "Join me tomorrow! You could use an hour of warm-up before a hard day's work." The next day I did join her. I was just getting started on clearing brush and leaves from the back of the property. She was quite right that I couldn't exercise in the heavy jeans and workboots I wore for this job. She offered me some exercise clothes. Women's naturally. And while they were a bit queer, not a big deal--just a very snug tank-top and sweat- pants, only flimsy and flared in the leg, with a stripe down the side. Anyway, I'd have worn a tutu for an hour watching this girl bounce, bend and stretch. It was genuinely like being with a friend during our morning hour. Completely delightful too, as she was always touching me to ensure I imitated her demonstrations, or putting her weight on my legs to get me one inch more limber. By the start of my third week on the job, this morning exercise had become routine. Our other habit was sharing her 'breakfast'. Breakfast for Lisette was always a big glass of something she concocted with the blender or juicer. Fortified with vitamins, amino acids, and a bunch of other stuff. She gave me a long lecture on nutrition. I didn't understand a bit of it, but the drinks did seem to raise my energy. I'd also had to inaugurate a new routine; masturbating myself every morning to ensure that my enjoyment of the time with Lisette didn't show through the snug, thin yoga pants. This was an absolute necessity, as I woke wearing the previous day's sweaty cotton panties, and an insistent hard-on that they couldn't contain. EARLY JULY 2002: WORK OR FIREWORKS "Nice derriere!" Lisette cooed on Tuesday. She's right, I thought, while changing from my exercise clothes to my work clothes. Using the mirror in the cabana I admired my tight ass. Arriving that morning I'd found a plain cotton thong waiting for me. The clingy yoga pants without 'panty line' did look rather cute. She'd patted my butt when she said this. The day before I had tested the waters of our friendship with the same gesture, only to be met with an imperious discouraging glare. I was totally confused by our intimacy. She was too smart to know she wasn't turning me on, but she was shocked by my tentative attempts to express this. After our work-out the next day, she told me I should take a break with her before the holiday weekend, instead of working. This sounded great. "You'll need something you can get a little sun in," she sang as she offered me a stack of clothes. Seeing my utter disbelief, she said, "Suit yourself. Work then. You can't possibly spend the afternoon by the pool in boots and jeans!" I sweated beneath the burning sun. Worse, I was clearing the very back of the property. Hard work on a steep slope. Beyond was a twenty-foot drop, and I was extraordinarily afraid of heights. By noon I'd decided on a shower and a change, to join the bikini-clad babe by the pool. I tried to justify my new outfit as I changed. Just flip-flops (though with a big daisy between the toes), just denim cut-offs (though shorter than a boy would wear), just a white tank top (well, cami, but not much different). Other than her tiny bikini top, I was dressed like Lisette, as we chatted and shared rum-fueled blender drinks through the afternoon, and well into the evening. I had the day off for the 4th of July, and the Friday after it. Except Lisette begged me to come over as she had nobody to play tennis with. Eagerly arriving for my tennis date, I found Lisette perfectly outfitted in whites, with a brief pleated skirt bouncing on her butt. She also had a matching outfit for me. Sensing my doubt, she prepared us some drinks and sat me down to talk. "Patrick ... honey," she sympathetically cooed. "I know how much you like wearing panties. And I'm sure this isn't a new experience for you. I don't have friends here yet, and treasure our time together. Just while we are together you can do this for me. Honestly, doll, you know you want to." And I did! Though no great tennis player, I ran and laughed for hours, delighted with the freedom of playing in the warm sun, and enjoying flashing the plain white spandex panties beneath the bouncing pleats of the tennis skirt. I hastily agreed to a 'pool date' for the following afternoon. And, the afternoon after that. Saturday, Lisette had a brilliant emerald one-piece ready for me. Sensibly, she also offered a cute sarong, to cover my bulge when I wasn't swimming. Her swimsuit was identical in color. But where mine was a practical full-coverage suit, hers was cut high at the leg, low at the cleavage, and fully scooped in back. On Sunday I was offered the same outfit, except she insisted I wore some gaudily jeweled, kitten-heeled plastic shoes. Also, she delighted in painting my toenails in a soft pearlescent green to match them. She, however, wore a skimpy red bikini the second day. It only covered half her ass (or none of it when she sunned her back; her bikini briefs snugged up between her cheeks, and the top untied to prevent tan lines.) Both days I augmented my morning pleasuring with a lunchtime trip to the cabana--to remove any signs of excitement. Not taking chances, I retreated to the toilets (beyond the eyes of the intercom camera). Throughout the weekend, Lisette inquired all about my life. She also talked of her job, Mr. Bond's business, and his family. I learned Mr. Bond was a widower, but had a daughter named Shauna who was had been staying with friends in California while he attended to the move and the demands of his work. Lisette's work as personal assistant was mostly managing Mr. Bond's home, while keeping his schedule, making travel arrangements, etc. She was also his French translator. Though he had an office in D.C. with a small staff of secretaries, lobbyists, and writers, he traveled often, and liked to work from home when he didn't need to have meetings or entertain clients. His business was 'international political P.R.', and currently he was combining a Greek vacation with business in southern Europe. He was meeting with various Directors of Tourism, Transportation Ministers, Under-Secretaries for Commerce, and mayors of large cities. He promoted other countries to U.S. businessman, investors, and sometimes wealthy tourists. I don't know if you've seen these ad sections in the middle of news magazines, but if you have, they were probably produced by Bond Global. They say stuff like: Malaysia is the hub of S.E. Asia; Malaysia offers easy air connections to X,Y, and Z; the language of Malaysian business is English; in 2003 Malaysia will finish construction of a new deep-water port; Malaysia's friendly business climate is exceeded only by the climate of its warm tropical beaches, and the friendliness of its inhabitants. Hey! I read the thing to save you the trouble! ===================================================== My Fourth of July fireworks occurred on Sunday the seventh. The sun was setting, as I was ending my delightful weekend with Lisette. I heard a high-revving, small car barreling down the driveway. "Sounds like Shauna has arrived!" Lisette whooped. I jumped up to hide in the cabana. Unfortunately I forgot the shoes I was wearing. One caught on the pool edge, my ankle twisted out of it, and I fell headlong in the water. By the time I'd splutteringly dragged myself out, Shauna had bounded to us yelling, "Hiya Lizzie! Who's your friend? I think she might have hurt herself." Herself? I was clearly a guy! Flat-chested, and hairy-legged (with hair on my legs--"hairy" is an exaggeration). Heels, and the banana clip that held my hair, were now floating in the pool. She hadn't seen my polished toes. The only female thing was the bathing suit and gauzy sarong. The girls helped me limp to a lounger, where Lisette examined my ankle. "Just twisted, nothing broken," she opined. "You'll probably have a very colorful bruise, though." Shauna had already retrieved ice and a plastic bag from a cooler in her car. She applied this to my ankle while saying, "Your friend doesn't seem too chatty. What's her name?" "Patrick," Lisette replied. "Doesn't work for me," Shauna grimaced, "I'm not gonna call her that!" So she got straight to the business of finding me a better name. You would expect this would have made me angry. But it was hard to be mad at Shauna. She was a bouncing, bubbly ball of energy. Impish, I guess. Playfully aware of her silliness, and inviting everyone else to loosen up and enjoy the fun. L: Patricia would be the obvious choice. S: Nah, everyone would call her Pat. Trish, maybe. L: That sounds a bit trailer park. S: I guess. Cute though. L: Any opinions, Patrick? Me: Uhhh, not really. S: Ooooh, she talks! Ariel wouldn't be a bad name for a bedraggled little mermaid. I don't like Ari though. You gotta think about the bad nicknames. She continued like this for some time. Like she was naming a new puppy or doll. The worrisome thing was her concern about what 'everyone' would call me. I just mumbled that I didn't care. Lisette shot down the odd "Amber" or "Heather" for lacking gentility. S: You got any other names we can work with, cutie? Me: Patrick Owen Hollis S: Owen is tough. Wendy, maybe. Nah! L: Gwen? S: If I can't be named after Gwen Stefani, nobody can! Me: O.K. S: Hollis, though. How about Holly? Holly Hollis sounds sorta cute and bouncy! L: Makes me think of covered wagons, and sunbonnets. S: No it's cute! More unique with an "i" at the end so it matches with Hollis. Plus then you can do a circle, or a heart or a smiley over the "i". Whatcha think Holli? Me: Well ... S: Used to it already, or you wouldn't have answered! Sold! So that's how I became "Holli". One big step in becoming Holli. 2006 Editors Memo--Thanks for the draft pages, [H]. I have a few thoughts on what you've got so far: 1. Forty pages of sex scenes! Why am I not surprised you wrote those first? They are good, and I've only made minor changes. Remember that each page will be nearer two when published, so you've got as much 'action' scenes as we need for the whole book. You just need to string them together. 2. Everything up to where you get your name looks good. Mr. D. is concerned that it's taking too long to get to the fucking. But just finish it. We can always add a scene where your Mom's boyfriend catches you and you blow him, if needed. 3. I hope you don't mess too much with the timeline. Simple chronology is best. Our readers skip to the "good bits." If p. 90 is the first time you got fucked by an elephant, but you were doing the whole circus on p. 44, you'll just confuse them. 4. Using the meeting with me and Mr. D is a good idea. Gives them some sneak preview sex. Except ... 5. You are a retard sometimes, [H]! I mean, we talk about obscuring identities, then you write the conversation using our real names! Duh! I've changed them all to initials for now. If my character reappears later, please call her "Zoe." 6. I've had to make some other characters less recognizable. You can't simply change "Senator" to "Governor." Likewise, there are enough rumors about [C's] sexuality--making him a TALL action-movie star isn't sufficient disguise. 7. Some details stretch belief for a reality story. Sure, [M's] cunt was filled for 14 hours at the Labor Day fuckathon, and [V's] rod is more than a foot long. But readers won't buy it. Accordingly, I changed these to 6 hours, and 10? inches. 8. I've taken a machete to some of your detailed two-page descriptions of an outfit! You can guess we are marketing to a male audience. They aren't interested in the brand of mascara each girl favors, and designers' names won't mean much. 9. Ditto with the 'tips.' Just say "I was reading about evening hairstyles." You don't have to give a synopsis of what the article said! That's all for now! Hugs! [Z] MID-JULY 2002: HOLLI DOLLI Shauna didn't get to try out my new name right away. My ankle kept me from work for two days. Even when I came back at mid-week it was still hurt and bruised. But any worries about working wounded were dispelled by the freshly mown lawn I saw when I drove-up to the house. "We had a crew here yesterday," Lisette explained. "Look at you, Patrick. You really shouldn't be working just yet. And you did, in a sense, get injured on the job. I feel responsible. These guys, with their big machines, did as much as you could in a week, honey. You can rest-up, and everything will still look perfect when Mr. Bond returns on Saturday." This sounded good to me, so we had our usual morning energy juice and exercise routine, with my gym partner particularly concentrating on massaging my ankle. By the time we finished in the gym, Shauna had roused herself and greeted me with squeals of "Holli you're back!" while giving me a deep hug as if I was a childhood friend she hadn't seen in years. I could feel her breasts swelling against me. She seemed unconcerned that she was only in her nightie. It wasn't lingerie--just a simple cotton eyelet thing, but it barely held her bouncy boobs and hung just a few inches below her round ass. Shauna was all plump jiggle. Not at all properly fat, just baby fat. 5'3" of buttery softness. Her peaches-and-cream complexion was lightly tanned. A spray of small freckles bridged her pert button nose. She had sparkling green eyes (honest-to-god green) and hair that I guess you'd call 'strawberry blonde'--red but pale--that was shoulder length, kind of shaggy cut, and at the time it was dyed pink at the tips. She had three piercings in each ear, and one in her navel decorated her soft tummy (I found that so sexy!). I'd have guessed she was at least my age, until she told me she had just turned seventeen. When she said "Let's do something about your hair, Holli!" I barely balked. She laughed if I played along, pouted prettily when I didn't. And anyway, she made it plain she would have called me "she" and "Holli" even if I had a long beard and biker tattoos! My mother had insisted I do something with my hair before my court date. Cut it was her demand. I compromised by letting the temporary black dye wash out, and pulling it into a tidy ponytail. Still, my hair remained ratty, split-ended and dull dirty-blonde. For this activity Shauna dragged me to her bathroom. I realized that even after a month at the Black Mill house, I'd never been on the upper (entry) level. I'd spent all my time inside in the gym on the lower floor, or on the main floor. I was usually in the kitchen/breakfast area, though I'd seen the greatroom, their enormous dining room (with its ornate 12-seat table), and a few powder rooms and hallways. The centerpiece of the upper floor was a huge entry hall that encircled the top of the grand main staircase. A wide gallery at the back of the hall overlooked the greatroom--beyond which was a splendid view of the valley from above the treetops. This hall (and the cathedral-ceilinged greatroom) effectively divided the bedrooms on this floor into two wings. "Lisette's room, spare room," Shauna nodded at doors before opening her own. "Daddy's suite is basically a mirror image, with a bedroom, sitting room and office." She hadn't yet decorated her new room. There were a few test-patches of paint on the walls, in eye-popping colors. Still, she'd managed to personalize it by the simple expedient of tossing skimpy colorful clothes everywhere. She had a huge corkboard crowded with clippings from magazines--mostly of fashions and hairstyles, with a few male actors, models and some anime characters mixed in. Pride of place was held by a large framed, autographed poster of Gwen Stefani. The bathroom gave her lots of room to work. It connected to the spare bedroom, so had a long double-sinked counter. In addition to the large well-lit vanity mirror, there were swing-out make-up mirrors at both ends of the counter, and full length mirrors covering the backs of both doors. Naturally, there was a toilet, plus something she told me was a "bidet". There was a large glass-walled shower stall, and a deep whirlpool tub. "We'll just trim the edges," Shauna said, as she happily started to work on me. I could use the trim, and the worst she could do was cut it too short. She was slow and not too skilled, but made decent work of trimming tangles from the ends while keeping my usual style. Confident she wasn't out to give me ringlets or a bouffant, I agreed to her suggestion of a few highlights. That was a mistake! I enjoyed the time spent with tin-foiled hair and Shauna dipping brushes into acrid tubs of goo. She prattled endlessly about herself, and I learned she was going to be a junior at my school in September. Still, as she admitted, she might have gone too far. When I looked at the finished product it was shiny bright blonde. The 10% bright highlights I'd expected, turned out to be more like 10% low-lights of my normal color. I was now very, very blonde. Lisette thought it looked great, though. So did Shauna, though she endlessly apologized, while brushing my hair for me and trying various arrangements of colorful barettes. Anyway, I was grateful she wasn't trying to force me into girl's clothes. Shauna favored a cartoonish, candy-colored, over-the-top girliness for her own style (a bit punk and a lot pink, almost like those girls in Japan). I didn't want to think what she'd pick for me. Luckily she thought my simple exercise gear fine for our salon day. "Besides, you can't wear anything really cute and summery, with all that yucky leg hair," she pointed out. After hair, she wanted to tweeze my eyebrows. I consented, but given the dye fiasco, I reined her in from doing as much as she wanted. Then it was onto manicure/pedicure. Shauna loudly complained about my short, chipped fingernails. She suggested I try out some artificial tips. While I did think it would be cute to see what this looked like, I declined. After the hair, I could easily imagine Shauna accidently using some adhesive that wouldn't come off. She finished with a polish that was nearly clear, but had some glitter in it. I was pleased with the result, especially when wiggling my toes to watch them sparkle! Though I'd have to clean off my fingers before I left, I was committed to keeping the toenail polish for a few days. Seeing my delight with my feet, Shauna finished the job by plucking the few pale hairs I had there. Leaving me to enjoy my tootsies, she returned with shoes. They were low-heeled sandals with wide criss-cross straps. Though they were Shauna's, and a size too small, the metallic silver did go great with my sparkly toes! "You need maybe a 9, 9?" she mused. "Next time we'll borrow some of Lizzie's, hers are only the tinyest bit bigger than that. Now for the finishing touch!" From her pocket she produced something small and sparkling, which she slid up my middle toe. It was a silver toe-ring with four tiny diamonds perched on the wings of a butterfly. "That's for you, Holli. A gift for my new little girlfriend." Barring morning exercise, I spent my next day entirely with Shauna. As the day before, Lisette excused herself to work preparing for Mr. Bond's return. Shauna coaxed me into some light cotton leggings (to cover my hair) and a cutesy over-sized t-shirt (to cover the bulge in the leggings), but the morning was spent in sufficiently boyish play. She was a whiz at Playstation! She crushed me in the cutsey games (that she knew like the back of her hand) and was a bit better at the racing games. She didn't have any 'shooters' though, which I'm sure I'd have won. The amazing thing was that I'd spent endless hours doing the exact same thing with guys. How pleasantly different it was to play with a girl, though! I was used to yelling, cursing, and bragging that "I stomped your ass, dude!" With Shauna it was all bright laughter, no concern about winning, and insistence that I was much better, and she only won because she had more practice with the game. After a while I stopped being annoyed about being beaten by a girl, and joined in the infectious graciousness and praise. Growing tired of winning all the time, Shauna proposed make-up play for the afternoon. One-by-one, Shauna arrayed her playthings on the counter-top. She described each one to me as she put them into some sort of order. I'd made some inartful stabs at using my Mom's lipstick and mascara over the years, but Shauna had items I never knew existed! Brow brush, lipstick brush, cream blush, concealer, and electric lash-curler were all new to my cosmetic lexicon. She was running out of counter space before she ran out of make-up. She didn't even try to put out the lip products. They were in a big make-up case that looked like a fishing tackle box, except for the quilted white vinyl outside, and pink satin-lined interior. The hinged lid swung open to reveal two terraced compartments. Glosses on the upper shelf, lip- liners on the lower. The bottom was filled with lipstick tubes (there must have been a hundred!) all stacked on end and arranged by shade, like a carton of crayons. What was amazing about all this was the meticulous arrangement. Organized isn't a word that would spring to mind to describe Shauna. She'd flit between thoughts or amusements without care of finishing the last. Her bedroom suggested the need for bloodhounds to search for a matching pair of shoes. But with cosmetics, she was the model of orderly professionalism. I can't begin to describe everything that she did to my face over the next eight (!) hours. Her lecturing was too much information, too fast for me to absorb. A few minutes after completing one look, it was time for the cleansers, and start the next. Other than refreshment and bathroom breaks, the only other pauses were when she had managed something she particularly liked. Then she'd summon Lisette to get her opinion. I went from vamp to gamine; go-go girl to glamour girl. Even a look she described as "natural", though it took half-an hour to look like an air- brushed version of my normal self. I was completely enchanted! In the more complimentary styles, I'd nearly have mistaken myself for a girl! Always I was astonished by the amazing transformations of image that came from these pots of powder and paint! Looking at myself wasn't even the best part, though. Having someone do your make-up is just the most tingly intimate thing! Like a massage or getting your hair washed at a salon. It's such a relaxing, trusting feeling, sitting still while your girlfriend stares deeply into your eyes--her profound focus, tempered by her humming and gentle monologues. Divine deliciousness! By the time we were done, I wasn't in need of blusher. I was spellbound. I enjoyed these wonderful feelings well into the night. As I scrubbed my face before leaving I fixed Shauna with the most serious look I could manage. "Look, Shauna," I said, "I'm having so much fun hanging out with you. But, please, when your Dad comes home you have to stop calling me Holli!" "Oh, but," she simpered "I already told Daddy about Lizzie's new friend Holli. It's all good! Did I screw up, or something?" MID-JULY 2002: CONTRACT REVISIONS My weekend was spent furiously masturbating. No change from recent weeks, then, except that Shauna had pulled even with Lisette in my fantasies. I was surprised to find I couldn't decide who was the more attractive of the two. I mean both were fantastically beautiful, and any man would give his left you-know-what to be with either. But, I'm sure Shauna would win the vote by a wide margin among my guy friends. She had more boobs and booty, more provocative displays of skin, and a sweet, dizzy openness, that made her seem an easy score. Lisette, on the other hand, would be the one women would think the most beautiful. Their taste is more influenced by the ideal of the fashion model than the bouncing bikini babe. Plus, her sexy outfits were balanced by sophistication that might possibly keep women from whispering "slut" behind her back. At 5'9", with slightly boyish svelteness and amazing posture, carriage and exotic features, it was difficult to understand why Lisette wasn't already on a runway in Milan. Her not being a model was like a 7-foot tall high-school kid not being on the basketball team. Neither fantasy, though, could compete with the vision of the two girls entangled and licking each other's moist pussies. I imagined their vaginas as extensions of their outer image. Lisette's silky black pubes were meticulously waxed. Her pussy was delicately discrete. Shauna's plumper labia swelled to reveal vivid pinkness inside. I wondered what her real hair color was. My imagination settled the issue by selecting a heart-shaped carpet, dyed bright pink. I'd also hit on the minor variation of not being under the sheets--the better to see my pretty toes and toe-ring wiggling as I came. ===================================================== I crept back to my job early, hoping that getting diligently to work might offset Mr. Bond's opinion of my recreational activities. Shauna had phoned to insist that I needn't worry because "Daddy didn't mind," but this was surely absurdly wishful thinking. I'd worn men's briefs, and as I dropped Friday's panties in the hamper, was relieved to see no note or replacement pair. Lisette woke first. She brought our breakfast drink out to me, but didn't invite me to exercise. I asked what she thought