Valentine, Be Mine, Ch. 03 free porn video

Valentine, Be Mine, Ch. 03 By Cherysse St. Claire This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters herein described and persons living or dead is purely coincidental. *** I had to go back to work Monday; there was no way to avoid it. It may not have been much of a job. It may have even been counter-productive, in terms of the case against my wife (I wonder if that had been a factor in her placing me there? Joanna had always had a sharp, detail-oriented mind and was meticulous to a fault in long-range planning), but it was all I had and I didn't dare give up the income just now. Leave it to Helen to have the clout to get an order of protection signed by a judge on a Sunday. I had stared in fascination at the initial application for the writ, to which I had just, without thinking, signed "Bobbi Valentine" in flowing script, dotting each "I" with a cute little heart. Needless to say, that warranted a 'do-over'. Helen had Joanna served as she stepped out the front door to go to work Monday morning, ordering her to stay away from me at both my place of business and my 'residence' - listed as Helen's house. Oh, Helen tried to get me to move in for safety's sake. She didn't think I was in any immediate physical danger, but her experience with previous clients - and their husbands - taught her to err on the side of caution. I was sorely tempted, but just couldn't do it. I was already imposing on her so much by having her take my case on not much more than speculation. It just didn't feel right to mooch on her further. I wanted to maintain some modicum of independence; if for no other reason, to hold my head up and say I could contribute something to my own life. We listed Helen's address on the O.P. for disinformation's sake - and, perhaps a little counter-intimidation. The writ declared not only my intention to fight, but who my 'champion' was. Let Joanna stew on that! We discussed following up immediately with the second blow of the one-two punch; the motion for Dissolution of Marriage. In an age of no-fault everything, I didn't realize "Extreme Physical and Mental Cruelty" were still valid grounds for divorce. Helen felt the same about this action as she had about civil and criminal charges; until we had more solid, admissible evidence, Joanna held the upper hand, owing to my gender status. If I filed now, it would have to be "Irreconcilable Differences" - and I would fare badly in the eyes of the court. My attorney counseled a wait-and-see strategy; she wanted to know what Joanna would do, given the certainty she knew by now we had the laptop and disks in our possession. Helen had Stan Waters, her investigator, review some basic security procedures with me. He convinced me to change motels. As unlikely as it was, people (okay, two sexual partners) knew where I was and there was no sense tempting fate. My cell phone went into a drawer in Helen's desk for the duration. She provided me with a new one - a nice one at that - with herself and Stan on speed dial. They set up a schedule for me to call in regularly at specific times each day, so they would know I was okay. We even established an innocuous code phrase I could use when I called in to let them know I was not alone and under duress; send help! The wily investigator taught me some basic survival skills; random routing, doubling back, staying away from usual haunts and normal routines (no more BBG; in light of what I did the last time I was there, that was probably for the best) and keeping my eye on the rear-view mirror as I drove, to watch for cars that might be following me. "It's the same advice I would give any girl as beautiful as you," Stan asserted. "I'm sure you already know; you turn heads. Sometimes you attract the right sort of attention, sometimes not. About the only way to keep people from noticing you would be to throw a gunny sack over your head. At least I can make you aware of your surroundings, in case... well, just keep your eyes open, Kiddo. Okay?" "Thanks for the compliments," I noted dryly, then, with more sincerity, "and thank you for watching my back." Per Helen's and Stan's assertions, I supposed I had to start getting used to being 'a girl as beautiful as me' - not that I hadn't already been basking in all the attention I had been receiving the previous months, when I wasn't consciously aware of the reason for it. After all, it was "perfectly natural," wasn't it? Stan also began separate investigations on Joanna and Joyce Mayweather, her secretary. I had always wondered about Joyce. With her face and figure, she had struck me as movie star material herself, rather than being resigned to just reading about them in People or Us. She and I had been flirtatious since we first met, but always in a friendly way. I hadn't had any notion to cheat on Joanna and I sensed Joyce wasn't willing to betray her boss, whatever her feelings towards me. She couldn't not be aware of what Joanna had been doing to me these past months. How had she felt about it? Stan tried to get me to tone down my appearance to make me less conspicuous. I'm sure he meant well, but that lasted about two days. First, there was no way I could be a 'plain Jane'. I'm not even sure if Stan's gunny sack would have helped. I just stood out. Second, attempting to look plain while working in the offices of an adult video company - where heavily-made-up starlets in varying stages of undress roam the hallways and relax in the lounge for hours between takes - made me stand out that much more. "Are you feeling all right, Bobbi?" I was solicitously asked about a dozen times the first day. "You look... pale. How about some nice chicken soup?" Third, I just felt... creepy going through my day with no makeup and my hair in a bun. I'm sure that was Joanna's influence at work, for which I would have liked to wring her long, delicate neck, but for better or worse, I was now a woman who dressed to impress and that was the way it would have to be - to be able to live with myself. There were a couple of basic facts in my life beside my centerfold good looks which rendered attempts at maintaining a low profile absurd. My silver SL55 AMG (a recent gift from my wife) may have been ubiquitous in the "Three B's" (Beverly Hills, Bel Air and Brentwood), but was not the ideal vehicle for getting lost in a crowd in the Valley. More to the point, the thirsty supercharged V-8 was not a good mix with a limited budget and soaring gas prices. Used car lots are more omnipresent in this area than McDonald's. Any one of them would have gladly traded me, even- steven, for a 'gently-used' (i.e., police-impounded or repossessed, then purchased at auction) Civic or Celica. Such a deal - NOT! In the end, I wasn't tough enough; I just couldn't bring myself to part company with the beautiful little Mercedes. Grrrrrr; sometimes being a little bimbo sucks! Problem solved. I laughed until I cried at the clich?; the dutiful little secretary motoring down Nordoff Avenue to her job in Chatsworth in her 'chauffeur-driven limo' - the MTA # 166. In a cursory nod towards anonymity, a brunette wig and sunglasses became as de rigueur for my commute as my bus pass, and I did not put on my makeup and heels until I arrived at work. A trench coat was fine for covering up the rest, but I would need a better solution when summer brought its bone-dry, triple- digit temperatures to the Valley. There were other 'adjustments' that required addressing. Helen had wondered aloud how these changes in me had messed with my perceptions of my own sexuality. Prior to Valentine's Day, that hadn't been an issue. I had dressed and made myself up the way I did, then gone to work, because it was 'natural' to do so. I had made love to my wife - rather, she had made love to me - for the same reason. The attention lavished on me by men had merely been an amusing, if puzzling footnote. Now that I was aware of myself and what those men saw in me, Helen's off-handed remark took on a life of its own. I was still attracted to good-looking women. They still made me hard and wet, although it was embarrassing to admit to myself it was my nipples that now got hard, rather than my drooling, hormonally-shrunken little 'clitty'. Worse, I realized I was now checking men out in more than a casual way. My multiple sexual encounters of Valentine's weekend were etched vividly in my psyche, although I could not for the life of me understand what had made me do it. I made a conscious decision to reject any further male advances, no matter how much my body might persuade otherwise. After all, I was a kid in the candy shop. There was no end to the parade of sensual, nubile nymphs stepping off before my eyes every day at the office. If that weren't enough to remind me, Helen Henderson was one hell of a desirable woman, despite the difference in our ages. Contrary to popular mythology, you don't just flip a switch in your head one day and decide: "Hey, I'm Gay." Yet every time I stared myself in the face in the mirror, I struggled with the perception of what "Gay" really meant in my case. What was I? Who was I; Bobby, Bobbi, or Evie? Whether I was male or female, the fact that I was attracted to both men and women meant I was Gay one way or the other, didn't it? This kind of trauma could drive a girl into therapy! Wait a minute; I've already tried that.... It wasn't possible to avoid Matt Michaels completely. He was a 'star' - to the extent any male performer could be in a market driven by the attraction of beautiful women to the mostly-male customer base - and my job required me to be nice to him, just as I was to the other 'talent'. He continued to be as smug, self-absorbed and cocksure as ever. "Being nice" did not mean I had to have sex with him. I continued to rebuff his advances and went out of my way to ensure we were never alone together. I don't mean to imply it was easy. Even knowing what I knew about his involvement in my wife's plot, I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair whenever he was around, pressing my thighs together a little more forcefully. Damn her for what she had done to me! Stan was a happy camper at our next meeting. Joanna played it close to the vest for nearly two weeks, doing only the routine actions of her professional and personal life. Finally, she must have felt confident she wasn't under suspicion (Stan is very good at what he does) and she met Jake at a motel room. From there, the information flowed. Jake Holcomb was a personal trainer at Joanna's health club (how mundane!). His apartment was modest, his bank account showed no unusual pattern of deposits, and since Stan had begun his surveillance, the hunk had not returned to my former home. Aside from their 'workouts' - both in and out of the club - there did not seem to be any undue connection between the two. They didn't use the same room or even the same motel for their rendezvous, making it problematic to get video. That was not the end of the story where Jake was concerned. 'Desperate housewives' seemed to be his stock in trade. He had a half-dozen or so whom he saw on the side with varying degrees of regularity. I wondered idly if Joanna was aware she was being cheated on by the man she was cheating on me with. Perhaps there might be some value in 'educating' her.... Joyce was a busy little girl in her own right. She supplemented her income as Joanna's secretary by doing occasional porn videos on the side. Although I had never seen her at the company where I worked, it wasn't difficult to deduce how Joanna had made her connections to get me hired. That put my suppositions about Joyce in a different light. She wasn't just aware of my transformation; she was, at least peripherally, a participant. This was like peeling back the layers of an onion. How deep would it go? What would we find when we got there? How badly would it stink in the end? The nights were the worst. In the daytime, I was surrounded by other people with whom I could interact, communicate, bounce ideas off, even if I couldn't discuss the thousand and one things that were bothering me. At night, I had only myself to keep me company; that, plus a television, Joanna's laptop computer - and those insidious DVDs. The television got a serious workout. I hate so-called "Reality TV"; there is nothing real about it. Larry King is okay for a dirty old letch. Bill O'Reilly, Glenn Beck and Nancy Grace are a waste of good air, much less airtime. A person can stomach only so many re-runs of Star Trek, Law and Order or CSI - the same re-runs at that, over and over - before his or her brain rebels. There just had to be more to the meaning of Life than I Love Lucy and Andy Griffith! That left The Erotic Network, to which the motel subscribed. I will admit; I derived more than my fair share of comfort from watching it; much more, thanks to the appropriate 'toys' I gleaned through the office (our 'Prop Department' is a bit different from those of most television and film studios). It was one thing to endure Matt Michaels, the arrogant ass, in the office. It was something else to watch Matt Michaels, the porn star, put one nymphet or other through her paces on screen. I almost tripped over my own jaw when, in a video produced by yet another of the Valley's many adult entertainment houses, the nymph du jour was 'Fiona Flouss?'. Fiona - a floozy by any other accent - was none other than Joyce Mayweather! Connecting the dots is a bitch. Ooooooo, I wanted revenge! What was I going to do; have sex with some guy, then flaunt it in Joanna's face? Isn't that exactly what she had set me up to do in the first place to justify her affair? I could make a video, then send her a copy.... I knew immediately that was a really bone-headed idea. Although my employers had been trying right along to get me into the studio, having that kind of video, starring me, floating around the marketplace would have been disastrous for my case against my wife. One night, I decided to do something constructive. I had been wondering about Joanna's thoughts on the subject of my transformation since it had first come to light. I still had no desire to talk to her directly - partly out of fear of what she might be able to make me do, even over a telephone line. I did have her notes, on her laptop; it would almost be like having my wife there, whispering in my ear, telling me why she was doing this and what she was thinking. I had already voiced my plan for retrieving the notes and set about to implement it. It was then that I got a healthy dose of Reality; the guys at Microsoft were a hell of a lot smarter than me. A security 'failsafe' had been written into the XP operating system; when you change an account's password externally, access to personal files and folders is shut off, even when you log back on under that user's ID. Granted, a forensics technologist or other data recovery specialist - not to mention your garden variety teen hacker - could have retrieved the data for me, but that would have piled illegality on top of illegality. Without a court order, I was up the proverbial creek. I shoulda installed a key- logger.... Bob-bi! Come and waaaaatch me! You know you are losing it when a pile of DVDs starts calling to you by name. The debate rages on about those guys who get hard watching their wives have sex with other men. I wasn't getting hard for anyone; not that way. "Betrayal" is an ugly word for an even uglier act, but there was a certain prurient appeal to the 'Jake' disks. When all was said and done, Joanna was a beautiful, desirable woman and Jake was a really good- looking guy with a really nice cock. If taken in that context, what I had witnessed so far was at least on a par with the 'content' my company cranked out every day. Maybe if I could view it like those old porn movies where they blacked out the lovers' eyes to hide their identities.... There was a feeling of detached fascination as I watched the third 'Jake' disk disappear inside the DVD player and Joanna's face appeared on the screen.... "I don't care what time it is, you bastard! Get your ass over here and take care of me - if you ever want this pussy again!" That exchange had taken place almost an hour before. I was pacing my room like a caged tigress that hadn't been fed in a week. My reflection in the mirror echoed my mood. The room lighting flashed across my shimmering black latex micro-sheath. Stocking-clad legs segued smoothly into black patent sandals with three-inch platform soles and rapier-like eight-inch stiletto heels. My heavily made up eyes, cheekbones and mouth were perfect for studio or street - and if this clown didn't show up soon, I was gonna take my act on the road! You know those old National Safety Council films they show in high school Driver's Ed, where the car hits the brick wall at sixty miles an hour? I was feeling every bit of that when my body collided with Vince's in the doorway of my motel room. 'No prostitution', huh? I'm sure somebody would have gotten the wrong idea if they had seen us before my door slammed shut. I took him right there on the floor, his jeans tangled up around his ankles, and rode his boner like the devil himself possessed me. I screamed. I shrieked. I swore at him worse than any sailor. I ripped at every exposed inch of his flesh with my talons. He grunted heavily each time my weight crashed down on his crotch. After he came - I had already cum twice - I dragged his carcass to the bed and started again. He did me doggie-style for a while, then rolled me over on my back and pressed my legs so far over my head, my ankles were resting on the headboard. My lover pounded me hard, causing me to whimper with each downward thrust. The exertion was getting to him. By the time he came a second time - my fifth - I was able to push him into the room's single straight-backed chair, positioned next to the bed. It took a skillful application of lips and tongue to bring Mr. Happy back to full staff, at which time I climbed the heights and plumbed my depths. We were only able to come once more apiece before he was done. He sat in the chair with a glazed expression on his face. I was the only thing holding him upright. That's it? I thought to myself. I warned you what would happen if you disappointed me, you wus. The bundle of clothesline was in the bottom drawer of the bedside table. I retrieved it and began looping it around his torso and arms, binding him securely to the chairback. Then I bound his ankles to the chair's rear legs. Vince wasn't going anywhere. I spent the next ten minutes repairing my hair and makeup. I was just applying a coat of gloss over my freshly-painted lips when the knock sounded at the door. Time for Act Two! Mr. Right Now was the consummate gentleman - and a gentleman was always punctual. I had made my best guesstimate of Vince's capabilities and done a damn good job of it. As it turned out, R.N. had a kinky streak too - and was up for it when I called him, right after I hung up with Vince. I welcomed him at the door with a deep, sensual kiss, rubbing my body up against his suggestively. Then I walked him inside, gloating over my hapless, trussed-up 'hubby'. "My wimp can't satisfy me," I purred seductively, nuzzling up against by backup lover's cheek. "Want the job?" He did - and suddenly, he wasn't such a gentleman anymore. That was fine with me; I let him use me any way he wanted me. I was deeply appreciative of his efforts and let him know - vocally. All the while, I gazed haughtily into Vince's eyes, daring him to complain in light of his previous 'inadequacy'. He didn't, couldn't. His eyes flicked between mine and the generous tent pole plowing my shemale pussy. His own pole was standing tall once more. I like that in a man! When at last he was sated, R.N. and I rose from the bed and stood next to my bound boyfriend. His gaze was more apprehensive than angry. If his cock had been any harder, it would have shattered. I picked up R.N.'s dripping, semi-flaccid fuckstick and showed it to Vince. "Now that's what I'm talkin' about," I crowed. "This is a man who really knows how to satisfy a woman. Still, I can't send him home like this; it would make a mess in his pants. I can't have his wife see him this way; she might not allow him to come out and play anymore. What's a girl to do?" Without waiting for a reply, I pressed the cock to Vince's lips and pushed. At the same time, I grasped his balls with my free hand and gave a little squeeze, just enough to convince him to play nice with the other kids. He responded by relaxing his clenched jaws, allowing R.N.'s cock to fill his mouth. Words cannot express the range of emotions that embraced me as I watched Vince clean that cock, never taking his eyes from mine. I suspected this of him from the very first, when he ripped away my panties, exposing my sex to him and his mammoth hunk of manmeat had lurched between my thighs. I liked R.N. a lot, but if I were at all capable of loving a man, it would be the one tied helplessly to the chair before me. I escorted Steven - 'Mr. Right Now' and I were finally on a first-name basis - to the door around 3AM and gave him a final lingering kiss. Although unbidden, he insisted on showering me with a four-figure token of his appreciation. We all have our little twists. In our telephone conversations, it had come to light Steven had lost his wife to a man much like Vince. This was 'payback' for him, a kind of ad hoc therapy no licensed psychiatrist could ever offer, even at twice the price. Damn; maybe I had a future as a therapist! Did it bother me that he seemed to envision me as a 'pro' of a different stripe? I suppose it should have, but it didn't seem to bother him; there was no denying the glint of satisfaction in his eyes. It hadn't exactly been a bad time for me, either, so who was I to pick nits? I closed the door gently behind him, then turned, smiling, to address the other 'sick twist' in my immediate existence.... There were, perhaps, three or four steps between the door and my trussed- like-a-turkey companion. I stretched that distance out for all it was worth, slithering towards him like a snake stalking its prey, rolling my hips generously to and fro. His apprehension had morphed into genuine fear. I had seen him, made him do something he would never admit to in a million years; not and keep any semblance of male pride. I understood that emotion perfectly. I had had sex with women and had made love to my wife more times than I could count. They had all been satisfying experiences, but this was the first time I had ever held power over another human being. To say the least, the feeling was... intoxicating. It was time to ratchet that power up another notch. I laid Steven's 'token' on the bedside table in full view of Vince's astonished eyes. With my best come-hither smile, I straddled his thighs and slowly descended, making contact with his plum-sized knob right on target. I settled onto his lap with a satisfying sigh, enveloping his spear with my loose, sloppy love nest. Once fully seated, I wriggled around a bit, delighting in the soft squish as his cock was bathed in the satiny wetness of another man's cum. My eyes were locked on his. I could almost hear his thoughts. It was time to have some fun with this. "I could ruin you," I intoned softly, rising up and down on his rod. "I could 'out' you to your friends, family, everyone who knows you. 'My gayboy husband has a thing for chicks with dicks. He gets off watching his wife getting fucked by other men, getting paid to be fucked by other men. He has a thing for sloppy seconds. He loves to suck cock and swallow cum. If I wanted him to, he would even take it up the ass for me - and I would make him worship me for it.' "If I told them that, your reputation would be shot. You would lose everything; your job, your friends and family, and the respect of everyone who knows you. Your life, as you know it, would be over. I have you by the balls, Lover, and I'm not letting you go." Some would call this 'catharsis'. With only a few changes to the script, I was verbalizing the words I could envision Joanna speaking to me. Would they have had the same effect on me as they were having on a bound, helpless, hyper-aroused Vince? We went on like this for some time; not the fierce, frantic pummeling of before, but a slow, languorous fuck, laced with obscenities, taunts to his 'manliness' and other verbal abuse. I controlled all the action and was taking my own sweet time to get him off. When he came, it was even more intense that before, flooding my insides with thick, creamy spunk. Did I cum too? Oh, yeahhhhh.... I wasn't done with him yet. Climbing off his softening member, I stepped to one side, judging his seated height in the straight-backed chair. I took a pillow from the bed and dropped it on the floor a couple of feet behind him. Stepping around in front of the chair, I planted one stiletto-heeled foot dead-center in his chest and thrust sharply. He toppled backward, chair and all, landing with a crash like a tree falling to the forest floor. My aim was perfect; his head hit the pillow squarely, softening the impact. I settled onto his face and lifted his head to me, burying mouth and nose deeply into my essence. "Eat me," I commanded softly. "Clean me out. You know you want to, like a good little gayboy." He did just that. I pushed down with my muscles, expelling his and Steven's goo into his eager mouth. This whole notion was so wildly improbable, it defied belief. There was nothing remotely gay about Vince in appearance or behavior. Under any other circumstances, he could have snapped me in half like a twig. If there was any one man I would surrender myself to for protection and succor, this would be the one - and feel utterly safe in his arms. Yet here we were, gripped tightly in the thrall of a Femdom/submissive-cuckold scene and loving it. Never underestimate the power of fantasy. It was a struggle to return the chair to its upright position; after all, Vince is a very big boy and I'm not. I resumed my perch astride his lap; this time, atop his masculine bulk, not impaled on it. If he had still been hard, it would have hurt him. I took a certain smug satisfaction in being able to so thoroughly satiate my man. His eyes were still furtive, seeking reassurance. "You wouldn't... really..." he began. "Damn right I would," I interjected, encircling his head with both hands and kissing him deeply, then releasing our liplock. "If you treated me badly, took me for granted, or gave me any grief whatsoever, I wouldn't hesitate to 'out' you to the four corners of the earth, with your 'boyfriend' as my witness. Absent that..." I wriggled my ass in his crotch and smirked. "... your secret is safe with me - just as I entrust you with mine. Whatever we do together is nobody's business but ours. Don't let me down, Lover." I untied him, climbed off his lap and helped him to his feet. A little vigorous rubbing restored circulation in his limbs; then he swept my up in his powerful arms like a rag doll and cradled me there. I instinctively put my arms around his neck and gazed into those incredible blue eyes expectantly. His kiss rocked my world. I could only hope mine did the same for him. Eventually, he put me down. We got him dressed and I walked him to the door. It was only 4AM; I could still get a good two, maybe three hours of sleep. Then again, his parting kiss at the door all but blew me out of my fetish heels. I might not get to sleep at all.... Music from my clock radio roused me from a deep slumber. That was some dream, I thought to myself. I shifted on the bed and felt the tug.... Looking down, I saw supple black latex, much of its Armor-all-ed sheen rubbed off after a long night. My stockinged feet were still strapped into those killer stilettos. My ass was... oh gawd. I hadn't even slipped under the covers before going out like a light. I fell back and just stared at the ceiling in incredulity. "I can't believe I did that... again," I groaned to no one in particular. I knew I had; the memories were still fresh and the evidence, irrefutable. Why? I couldn't remember getting dressed, nor even making the decision to, much less deciding it was okay to resume my 'career' as an insatiable, lascivious slut. That was bad enough; the icing on the cake was, it hadn't really been that bad. In fact.... I wiggled my butt beneath me, summoning up memories of the night just past. I smiled a little, then erased that shitty grin just as fast. "Jeezus," I moaned, slapping my forehead. I reached into the top drawer of the bedside table, pulled out the phone book, and started looking for yet another motel.