Ringer
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Ringer free porn video
Ringer
By Cherysse St. Claire ©
As always, the characters, places and events depicted in this story are
fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely the
product of your overactive imagination. I ain't takin' the rap for it,
Bud!
*****
"Nicole Norman, you have to be out of your mind," I murmured to myself
disbelievingly, as I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. I was in the
pink tonight - Shocking Pink to be exact. This was a first for me.
Usually, I'm the 'classy brunette professional' type; sophisticated, a
little aloof, definitely not easy pickings. My friend Cindy had been on
my case for weeks, telling me I needed to loosen up a little, take
chances, have more fun.
"Try going blonde for a change," she badgered. "Get a new dress and new
heels, too; something more daring. It will give you a whole new outlook.
Trust me."
I wasn't really sure I needed a 'whole new outlook'. For that matter,
Cindy was already 'blonde' enough for both of us. She was the flighty,
flirty, bimbo-ish social butterfly of our improbable pairing, drawing
everyone to her like bees to honey. I liked having a friend like Cindy. I
will be the first to admit; I was still a bit inhibited as 'Nicole',
though not nearly so much as 'Nick'. I enjoyed meeting and chatting with
the people Cindy inevitably drew to our side.
So, okay; I spent a little money this week. Who am I kidding? We're
talking about women's clubwear. I spent a ton of money. I found the dress
- believe it or not - on a rack in my favorite adult magazine, video and
toy store. It was appropriate for the venue, looking like something right
out of a Vivid or Wicked Pictures video; a four-way stretch spandex
bustier-style micro-minidress in a tight hooked knit, with long sleeves
which 'attached' via some stitching just below the armpits. The overall
effect was a sprayed-on Shocking Pink tube which left my upper chest,
back, and shoulders bare and just covered my boobs and tush - as long as
I didn't sit down, bend over, or move around too much, as in walking or
dancing. That would reveal the dark welts of my sheer black stockings,
held in place by my tightly-laced corset's eight garters, as well as a
generous expanse of creamy thigh. Understated, it wasn't. Overexposed?
Well....
The dress was a perfect showcase for my new silicone breast forms. I had
spent five hundred fifty dollars on the D-cuppers, plus an extra hundred
to match the color to my own flesh tone. When the manufacturer promised
'exact match', they weren't exaggerating. When attached to my chest with
the special medical adhesive, the beveled flanges showed barely a trace
of seam. With a little theatrical makeup, they looked for all the world
to be real, right down to the dark areola and erect nipples.
I had the tush for it, too. When I was younger, 'Nick' had been razzed
mercilessly by his schoolmates for his round, firm, prominent butt, so
unlike the taut, flat rear ends of his friends. Since coming out as
'Nicole', I thanked God every day for my generously-proportioned caboose.
With diet, exercise and a tight corset, I had the perfect twenty-two-inch
waist and bubble butt to compliment my new boobies.
The gods smiled; I found matching purse and five-inch ankle-strap
stiletto sandals at Wild Pair and earrings, necklace and bracelet at
Claire's. Serendipity? Kismet? Karma? Dumb, idiot luck? Whatever; I'll
take it all! Cindy and I had originally met at our mutual favorite wig
store. She insisted on accompanying me this time to select just the right
hair. Knowing Cindy's tastes in tonsorial artistry, not to mention her
powers of persuasion (damn it, why did my best 'girlfriend' have to be a
lawyer in real life?), I tried to gracefully extricate myself from the
experience - without success. So, I wound up with this....
Okay, stick to the good points. It does coordinate nicely with the rest
of the outfit. I like the soft, tickling feel as it brushes back and
forth across the bare skin of my shoulders and back; mid-back, actually.
Do I look good with a mane of big, loose curls? Well, yeah, I'm willing
to concede the point - but it's not so outrageously full and poufy that I
can't walk through standard doorways without snagging it on the frame. As
long as everyone around me is wearing sunglasses (a big thing in the club
scene here; everyone wants to show how 'cool' they are), they won't be
flash-blinded when the lights hit my dazzling pale-champagne tresses. To
be honest, it sorta-kinda looks like something you would see in a music
video.
I did my makeup accordingly; not Tammy Faye, but provocative. I guess
that was Cindy's influence on me, too. Well, it went with the outfit and
hair, didn't it? I looked at myself in the mirror and nodded. Here we go;
I'm ready to take my place next to the other trashionistas. What the
hell; it's only one night. If it doesn't work, no harm, no foul; I'll
just go back to being Miss Understated-Hard-To-Get-Brunette.
It was my turn to drive. (Actually, I try to make every turn my turn to
drive. Cindy tends to overdo when guys start buying her drinks. It simply
would not do for us to get pulled over by the police on our way home.)
Bless her heart; for once, my partner-in-crime was waiting outside the
entrance to her building when I pulled up. She slipped into the passenger
seat - and a state of shock when she saw me. Really, Girlfriend; I'm
flattered you want to show me how healthy your tonsils are, but you can
close your mouth now.
"Oh... my... God," she gasped.
Always ready with a snappy comeback, I gave her one.
"What?"
"Just... drive," she murmured, her mouth drawn into a huge smirk.
During our trip into the city, she only broke her silence once.
"Did you get implants, Sweetie?" she teased. "I thought you were...
smaller."
"Cute," I responded tersely. "You should try out for Last Comic Standing.
Break a leg!"
Another reason I like to drive on our little excursions is I like my car.
So does Cindy. Yes, it was absurdly, obscenely expensive. Yes, it is
utterly impractical. Even though it is a V-Six, is has the same or better
power than many American V-Eights. The sleek, low-slung Japanese styling
is reminiscent of the best of the Italian exoticars. What's the point of
having a dream car if all you do is dream about it? I'm sure, some day,
I'll have an old, dependable family sedan or minivan, complete with
family (will that make me a Soccer Mom?). Until then, this is absolutely
perfect for teleporting two gorgeous chicks (Cindy and me) to their
weekend destination-of-preference - and making them look like stars in
the process.
As we approached Showbar, our favorite chic, trendy, see-and-be-seen
dance club, Cindy broke her silence.
"Valet it," she murmured.
Well, yeah; I'm not an idiot. As much as we like to strut our stuff up
the street to the door - or, at least, the end of the line with the other
schlubs - I would much rather pay a little extra to some movie-star-
wannabe to park it in the lighted, secure lot across the street so it
won't be missing anything (wheels and tires, battery, seats, stereo,
doors, body panels, glass, engine, transmission) when we returned for it.
Okay, I like seeing the way we turn heads when we pull up, too.
We pulled up and heads turned. Sigh. A bright-eyed, dimple-cheeked next-
Brad-Pitt type in a red vest hurried around to my side, opened my door
for me and held out his hand for mine. I stepped out, tugging down my
skirt in the process, then looked up to smile my thank-you. The goof was
just standing there, stunned, staring at me with a huge grin stuck on his
face. I snapped my beautifully-manicured fingertips a couple of times to
get his attention. Hello, I'm here. Thank you. You can get in and park
the car now.
"Huh?" he uttered. "Oh, sorry. I'm just... thank you, Miss Spires.
I'll... take care of it right away.
Miss Spires?
I walked around the front of the car to join Cindy on the sidewalk. As I
rounded the passenger-side fender and turned in the direction of the
waiting line, the crowd fell silent, as though God himself had reached
down from the heavens and snatched the breath from their lungs. Then the
chant began.
Cassie! Cassie! Cassie! Cassie!
"We love you, Cassie!!!!"
"I have all your CDs!"
"Smile for me so I can take your picture with my cell phone. My friends
won't believe this!"
"Hey, Cassie! Did you get new implants? Lookin' good, Girlfriend!"
I looked around, then at Cindy. The smirk on her face was even bigger
than before. I started to strut down the sidewalk toward the end of the
line. Before I had taken my second step, the door guy had unhooked the
red velvet rope leading to the entrance.
"Right this way, Miss Spires," he gushed deferentially. "It's a pleasure
to have you and your entourage here tonight. Have a good time."
Entourage? I glanced once again at the empty space behind us, then at
Cindy, then back at the door guy.
"My 'entourage' and I thank you," I responded brightly, relishing the
special treatment.
As Cindy and I advanced towards the door, I tilted my head close to hers.
"Miss Spires?" I murmured in her ear.
"You didn't know?" she asked, astonished. "Girl, you could be her
identical twin. Let's run with it a while and see what happens."
Believe it or not, there are people on this planet who do not hang on
Cassidy Spire's every song, video, interview, romance, public appearance,
photo op, sound bite, smile, frown, sneer, denial, arrest, emotional
breakdown and/or fart. I know that sounds like heresy in this "It's now,
it's happening, it's trendy" culture, but that's just the way it is. For
instance, the Amish have neither televisions nor the electricity to power
them. There are still a few wayward Imperial Japanese soldiers hiding out
in caves in the South Pacific, unaware the war is over, let alone who or
what is 'in'. The Dalai Lama and his acolytes have more important
spiritual issues to dwell on. Then, there is me.
At least, I am aware of Cassie Spires. I didn't see her movie (singular).
I don't buy her CDs. I am certain I could name all her songs that I know
on the fingers of one hand and still securely hold a beer mug - that is,
if I drank beer. I stopped following the exploits of Pop divas after
Cher's absolutely-positively-I'm-not-kidding-this-time-this-is-for-real-
your-last chance-ever-from-now-on-I'm-only-doing-Vegas-like-Celine-and-
you-can-come-to-me 'Farewell Tour.' Would I recognize Cassie Spires if I
saw her on the street? Probably not. Apparently, all I had to do tonight
was look in the mirror.
We were 'comped' right through the front door. No cover charge? Hey, I
could get used to this. I was having more trouble getting used to the
expressions of abject shock on the faces around me as we made our way
across the main floor. I scanned my outfit more than once, making certain
nothing was showing. I felt vaguely uneasy about all the attention, as
though I had worn a pink polo shirt, plaid pants, white leather belt and
shoes and a bad comb-over, like some beer-bellied country-club duffer.
The difference was, everyone was fawning over me, not smirking. Cindy
just strutted regally, her arm through mine, as though it was the most
natural thing on earth.
It wasn't our first visit to the VIP Room by a long shot. We practically
lived there, thanks to Cindy's quasi-celebrity. This time, I was given
the star treatment; best table (overlooking the dance floor),
complimentary champagne (my first time for Cristal; highly overrated, but
what the heck - it was free), the works. I had several opportunities to
scribble my autograph - well, Cassie's autograph - on napkins and
business cards. As long as there isn't an authenticator from Christie's
or Sotheby's on hand, everything will be hunky-dory.
The conversation was a little difficult to keep up with, coming as it was
from several directions at once.
"Cassie, are you in town for a concert? I never heard a thing about it!
Can you get me tickets?"
"Cassie, did you get new implants? Your boobs used to be... smaller. I
adore the new ones!"
"Cassie, that look is so right out of your Ballistic video. I love it!"
"Cassie, where's the baby? Didn't you bring the baby?"
I fielded that one.
"No, she has a drinking problem. She's okay with formula, but really
can't handle the hard stuff. I left her at home with..."
(Kelvin? Kris? Conan?)
"... Kyle."
"Kyle? Who's Kyle? What about your husband, Kenny?"
"Oh Honey, that was soooo last week," I ad-libbed glibly. "Don't you
watch Access? God knows, I pay them enough to shill for me. Anyway, after
nine months, it's my turn to go out and have a little fun."
"I can't believe you got your figure back so fast! What's your secret?"
"Surrogacy," I responded matter-of-factly. "Try it some time. Waitress?"
The second bottle was better than the first. Maybe it was just my
perception of it (I already had a nice buzz going from the first bottle).
Maybe it was because the hangers-on actually went to get drinks of their
own and left Cindy and me a little breathing room. Of course, that
couldn't last forever.
Song! Song! Song! Song!
The floor trembled from the stamp of feet on the main floor. My chair
moved, unbidden, a little with each thundering pulse. Even the exposed
steel I-beams above our heads were vibrating in perfect sync. I looked
over the edge of the balcony and saw the sea of faces staring up at me
and chanting. I stared at Cindy - and gulped.
"You'd better do it," she urged, stifling a guffaw. "They won't let it
go."
"Do?" I repeated. "What?"
"Sing one of your songs," she answered, as smug as could be. "I'll do the
background vocals, if you want. I've always wanted to be on stage."
"Sing one of my songs?" I aped incredulously. "You gotta be kidding me!"
She wasn't kidding me. Cindy snared my arm in hers, hustled me down the
stairs and up on stage before the amassed throng on the dance floor. The
applause and cheers were tumultuous. I looked around the stage at my
feet. Don't these things usually have a trap door? Won't they be kind
enough to open it and let me drop out of sight? No such luck on either
count.
"You're fine..." Cindy hissed in my ear.
Easy for her to say; they won't be lynching her when they find out I'm a
fraud.
"... just sing the song, then wave and get off the stage. Don't thank
them, don't say anything. They're used to that kind of diva behavior. In
fact, they'll expect it - and love you for it."
"Wha-what song should I sing?" I stammered. "I don't know any of..."
"Sing 'Ballistic', Silly," she chided, shaking her head. "Don't you know
anything? It's Number One on all the charts. MTV is playing it to death.
Now, smile and be fabulous. I'll be right here behind you. No one will
suspect a thing!"
Yeah, right. After this little stunt, I'll be Number One, too - on the
FBI's Most Wanted list.
The Jumbotron behind me exploded into life with the real Cassie Spire's
Ballistic video. The cacophonous sound from the speaker banks was almost
a physical force, nearly blowing me off the stage. I didn't trust the
crowd to catch me, but I'm sure they would get in a grope or two before I
crashed to the ground.
If I hadn't been a couple of sheets to the wind, I would have been
paralyzed with fright. As I listened to the intro, I suddenly realized I
was sorta-kinda familiar with it. I flipped through MTV a lot - on my way
from NatGeo to The History Channel and back. Cindy was right; Cassie's
new video seemed to be on every time MTV came up on my television screen.
"I saw you 'cross the dance floor and my heart stood still, I never
knew someone like you could make me feel such a thrill. I slinked
up to your side, caressed your cheek and nuzzled your face, I wanna
sex you up from head to toe, I'm such a disgrace.
I'm goin' ballistic!
Oh, baby can't you see,
I wanna be your everything
and keep you here next to me.
I'm goin' ballistic!
Don't treat this as a game,
I wanna feel you in my body,
I don't have any shame."
Would somebody please move the cat's tail out from under the rocking
chair? Oh, wait; that's me. I was singing the lyrics of the song, as
though I actually knew what I was doing. It was a good thing the DJ had
that sound track cranked up as loud as he did. If anyone could tell how
awful I actually was, this little charade would be over in a hurry - and
I would be on my way to the hoosegow. I didn't even realize I knew the
lyrics. Okay, I occasionally stopped flipping the channels long enough to
watch Cassie's video; just for a few seconds, mind you. When I said I
wouldn't recognize her on the street, I may have misspoken. I mean, she
is a dish. Maybe there is something to this subliminal-programming-on-
television controversy after all. God, could that be why I'm addicted to
Twinkies?
They couldn't hear me. I couldn't hear me, as several hundred voices sang
along with me - each in his or her own key. All I could hear was the wall
of noise from the speakers behind me and an equally-deafening wall of
noise in front of me, drowning out everything else. I stopped attempting
to sing altogether, just lip-syncing to the video.
When the song was over, I smiled, waved and escaped the stage as Cindy
had prompted, amid thundering applause and cheers - without them
realizing I couldn't carry a tune in a sack. Eat your heart out, Ashlee
Simpson.
"Not to worry," Cindy assured me as we once again climbed the spiral
staircase to the VIP room. "The real Cassie Spires lip-syncs her
concerts, too."
I reached the top of the stairs, only to be engulfed in a wall of solid,
rock-hard flesh.
"Cassie, sweetie," a baritone voice boomed. "It's been way too long!"
Do you remember those Saturday morning cartoons where the main character
is suspended off the ground, her two legs flapping back and forth
helplessly? That was me. After a few more moments of this bone-crushing
mid-air-collision of a hug, my admirer set me down as lightly as if I
were a feather. That was my first chance to get a good look at this
hunka-hunka burnin' love. Wow, I've only seen muscles like that on comic
book superheroes! He's really cute, too - for a guy.
"So, how are you..." I began, leaving him an opening as big as the
Lincoln Tunnel.
"Dick," he filled in, rubbing his crotch against mine. "You couldn't
forget that, could you?"
"Oh no," I replied with a straight face. "I never forget a dick."
Truth be told, if the bulge in his pants was any indication, his was not
something even the most devout man-hater could forget - and I wasn't
exactly that. I guess I'm kinda-sorta ambivalent about the whole sex-
with-a-man thing. 'Nick' would have been running for cover by now.
'Nicole' could appreciate a fine figure of a man, as long as he was cool
about the whole issue of a woman with something extra. That was the
problem; damn few of them were. To make matters worse, this guy thought
he was hooking up again with his pop diva lover. Giving him yet another
once-over with a critical eye, I realized he could do some serious damage
to my person if he discovered the ruse. With the way he was coming on to
me, that was a distinct possibility.
"I didn't think so," he went on, overflowing with confidence. "I never
understood what you saw in that wimp when you had me to come home to any
time you wanted."
"Hell if I know," I agreed sagely, shaking my head.
I was being completely honest on that one. I remember reading somewhere
Cassie's husband, Kenny, was a small-time hustler with aspirations of
becoming a big-time Rap artist - and had connections with a certain
'family' on the East Coast. He was allegedly insanely possessive of his
trophy/breadwinner wife and had punched out more than one guy who had
gotten a little too friendly with Cassie in her husband's presence. It's
no wonder so many of these laughably-mismatched celebrity couples get
divorced so soon. I couldn't figure out why they got together in the
first place. I swear, they must hook up in a chat room on
CareerBuilder.com. As far as I was concerned, the clock started ticking
on Cassie Spire's marriage the moment she vowed "I do." Mr. Muscles here
was certainly doing everything he could to hasten the countdown - or so
he thought.
I instantly regretted my previous words to him; Dick must have
interpreted them as a green light. I didn't even get the chance to go
into Damage Control mode (I winced at that choice of words). Dick picked
me up, cradling me in his powerful arms as he carried me towards the
darkened 'conversation pit' at the back of the VIP room. Cindy had told
me stories of the goings-on in that dimly-lit room-within-a-room - mostly
from a first-person perspective. The bitch didn't even try to intercede
on my behalf. She just waved, winked and blew me a kiss! I hoped she
recognized my evilest 'I'm gonna get you for this, Sucka' glare as Dick
carried me away.
At least he was gentle with me. He set me down on a cushioned ottoman and
stood next to me - which was how I came to be eye-level with One-Eyed
Jack. I could tell Mr. Johnson was angry within the confines of his cloth
prison; very angry. I suppose I should have been flattered. Okay, I was -
a little. In my head, I ran through the permutations of what could happen
and decided the obvious course of action - from this perspective - was
the best one. I unzipped his fly and gently reached inside...
As I said, I don't hate having sex with men; I'm just very cautious about
it. Forget STD's; there is a more obvious and immediate danger for girls
like me that must be faced every time we get into a compromising
situation. It is best to deal with it from a position of strength - and
there are damn few men who are going to complain when your nose is buried
in their pubic hair.
Dick certainly didn't. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out he
and Cassie had played out this scenario before. So much for her
publicist's contention that Cassidy Spires was a perfect angel who only
played a bad girl in her videos. Dick's dick was most women's dream-come-
true; nicely thick and somewhere around nine inches, maybe more. One
advantage we have over genetic females is, we know what feels good in a
blowjob and act accordingly. I was certainly getting aroused by the
intimacy of the moment. Gazing up into Dick's eyes, I could tell I was
pushing all the right buttons for him, too.
Too well, I guess. He pulled out and turned me around, pushing me down on
my hands and knees on the ottoman. Before I could utter a word of
protest, he reached under the hem of my dress and pulled off my pink
satin and lace French-cut panties. This was a dangerous development for
me. Although I was facing away from him, he could discover my fat seven-
incher at any moment.
The next thing I felt was a lubed finger pressing home in my little
puckered rosebud. Lube? Where did that come from? Maybe they have it in
the vending machine in the Men's Room, right next to the breath freshener
and condoms. In all my visits to Showbar, I had never had occasion to
visit that facility. My bad! After a fair amount of time wriggling around
inside me, one lubed finger became two, then three. Whether it was the
champagne or my own libidinous thoughts, I just gazed over my shoulder,
smiled and wiggled my butt at him, inviting him to continue. Talk about
taking your life into your hands...
I whimpered piteously as the fingers disappeared - only to be replaced by
something much bigger.
"Oh, oh, oh, ohhhhhhh," I gasped in rapturous delight as he pressed his
advantage home.
You remember that scene from Young Frankenstein? You know the one; "Sweet
mystery of Life, I have found you." Yeah, it was like that. I was only
semi-aware when his hand reached around my hip, under my hem and grasped
my erect, throbbing cock.... There was nothing I could do. In my dazed,
this-close-to-cumming state, he could have ripped it out at the root and
beat me over the head with it and I couldn't have stopped him. Dick did
neither; he just kept hammering his rod home while stroking me off. I
shot - and so did he.
After a few minutes of shared bliss, my lover did the most astounding
thing. He turned me over on my back and sucked me back to full erection,
cleaning me of all my fluids in the process. If that wasn't already
pegging the needle on the weird-ometer, he then bent over the ottoman
next to me, supported his weight on outstretched arms, looked at me and
grinned. O-kaaaaaayyyyyy... Well, that was unexpected - but if I need to
go along to get along... At least he left his tube of lube out for me. I
needed it, too; he was tight. Afterward, we both saw the discretion in
cleaning up with cocktail napkins. I mean, if I had had the foresight to
douche before leaving the house...
I was applying a fresh coat of lipstick, then gloss, as he was buckling
his pants.
"You were great, as always, Sweetie," he complimented; then his forehead
furrowed.
"Babe, did you... get an implant?" Dick inquired cautiously. "I seem to
remember you were... smaller before."
"I get that a lot," I sighed expressively as he escorted me towards my
table, my arm looped through his.
I stopped short, then gazed over my shoulder towards the darkened room
from whence we had come. Gee, you don't suppose anyone had a camera phone
in there, do you? The tabloids ate up that kind of thing. What would poor
old Cassie do if her little secret got out? Heh, heh, heh!
At our table, he cupped my bubble butt with both hands and pulled me into
him. I draped my arms casually over his shoulders, ground my crotch into
his and gave him a scorching kiss. Screw Madeline Kahn; I gave him oodles
of tongue! So what if I had to fix my lipstick again? Cindy got an eyeful
she would be teasing me about for a month.
"Now, you're not gonna give me a hard time about getting together again,
are you?" Dick admonished. "That wimp doesn't deserve to lick your boots.
I'm the man you really need; right, Sweetheart?"
"Oh, absolutely," I cooed in perfect agreement, squeezing his crotch
firmly. "The wimp has been making noises about wanting to see me with
another man. I would love to tie him to a chair and do it right in front
of him, then have him lick my sissy pussy clean - and your cock, too! You
still have my number, don't you? Call anytime, Lover, and we'll set it
up."
Oh, to be a fly on Cassie Spires' wall when that call comes in. Still, he
was a good lay, despite all the macho crap. I'm sure I could get his
number from someone here if I changed my mind. I guess being a blonde
does have its advantages...
I still had a silly little grin on my freshly-painted lips as we walked
out the door - signing autographs all the way. It seemed someone in the
club had alerted one of the local radio stations of my unannounced visit.
There were hundreds of shrieking fans waiting outside, not to mention
paparazzi. Our Brad-Pitt-wannabe must have been alerted beforehand, too;
the NSX was idling curbside as we approached. I smiled appreciatively and
kissed him on the cheek as camera flashes erupted, lighting up the Valet
station. It was time to put the nimble little coupe through its paces -
and see if the camera ghouls knew the side streets in this neighborhood
as well as I did.
"So, Cassie," Cindy smirked. "Where would you like to make a 'personal
appearance' next week?"
I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the lights of the paparazzi's
SUVs vainly trying to keep pace. I still had a few tricks up my clingy,
Shocking Pink sleeve. We would lose them completely after a few more
turns. We had gotten away with it this time - but twice?
"Next week, it's Shania Twain or nuthin'," I insisted. "Man, I feel like
a woman!"
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