Giselle Clarize a Love StoryChapter 14
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Giselle, Clarize - A Love StoryChapter 7 free porn video
Whore.
Her head split. Her mouth was the stinking den of furry animals. There wasn't a bone in her body that didn't ache. Even the air around her was hot. It felt wet and filthy.
She stumbled along the sidewalk. Her eyes blinked against the cruel light of day. She cursed the person bearing her name. She had thrown her broken heels away and tried to make her shredded top to at least cover her nipples. She walked with a curious gait. It was due to the delicate tenderness of both her cunt and her ass hole. The skin of her ass cheeks felt raw. So did the split skin of her lips and the membranes inside her nose.
My God, Kristie, where have you been? What have you done and why, why?
That early morning she woke at the centre of chaos. The bed was a pigsty. All sheets and pillows were a dirty mess. They stank of sex and excretions. Her skin was flaked with dried cum. She was unspeakable filthy. And most of all: she was alone. All yesterday's bodies had gone, except hers.
She felt a groan tear through her throat. She slid off the bed and scurried around the room. She looked for the remnants of her sexy outfit. Her head housed a complete rhythm section of crazed gorillas. She thought she'd pass out if she'd try to stand straight.
There was a shower. The water was icy cold. It made her shiver and shake. She avoided the mirror. Then she pulled up the tight skirt. The torn silver top took her minutes to figure out what was up and what was down. At last it served about half its purpose.
Heels and purse in hands she climbed down the stairs. She heard voices in the kitchen. Two men she vaguely remembered were drinking milk and eating donuts. They looked up as she entered. Then they negated her. She stood and felt like the cheapest shit. "Good morning", she tried, but it came out different.
The fridge was empty as far as edible or drinkable food was concerned. She took a dirty glass and filled it at the tap. The cold liquid plunged down her throat, soothing it.
A squarely built redheaded man with a freckled face entered the kitchen.
"You still here, slut?", he asked. It took Kristie a while to realize he meant her.
"Get out, filthy whore", he said. He pushed her out of the kitchen and into the hall. She wailed in protest. But he had her on the street in no time.
He slammed the door behind her.
And now she walked. Well, in a fashion. Her bare feet hurt from the broken concrete. A blister formed under her right sole. It made her limp. But most of all there were the eyes of people passing. They looked at her and looked away. Disgust contorted their faces. Or they laughed and made crude remarks.
Once she passed a construction site. A shower of obscenities rained on her bowed head. She hurried on and hurt her foot on a piece of metal sticking out of the sidewalk.
She knew she had to go quite a distance to her apartment. She blessed the fact that she still had her purse and keys. Her money had gone. She had found the purse under the bed in a puddle of foul smelling liquid. Even now she could smell it.
Her head was still too numb to start nagging. But right under the dazed blanket of indifference little voices started to make themselves heard. It got more and more difficult to shut them up.
She had been a fool, one of the voices said. It was the most moderate. Others assured her she was a cheap slut and whore. And also an incredibly stupid one.
Tears ran down her face. She tried to keep them back. Could things get worse, she thought. The next moment she knew they could. Across the road a woman stopped. She stared at her, calling her name. It was her sister. A searing wave of hot shame strangled her. She ran. She did not look back, until she knew she could not be seen anymore. Her heart beat like a steam hammer. She walked on in a forced step. Then she reached a posh shopping district.
A car hooted next to her. It was the delivery car of the Indian super market she often visited. At the wheel was the nice Indian boy. He always tried to get into conversation with her. He looked concerned now and asked if he could help.
Again she ran. She did not answer. She not even let on that she had heard him. God! All these people who knew her. To see her like this. Even her own sister!
After a while she slumped down on a bench. She cried her eyes out. What the fuck had got into her? The cheap whore's outfit she wore. The shameless way she had come on to the guys, all the alcohol and... She suddenly remembered the coke that seared into her nostrils.
She rummaged in her purse to find a tissue. She found her cell phone. It lay in the palm of her trembling hand. She just stared at it, as though she did not remember what it was.
The batteries were as good as empty. Her thumb almost touched the button with the little green telephone on it. Then she threw the machine back into her purse.
She looked up. She stared straight into a man's crotch and the expensive Italian designers' slacks that covered it. Her eyes travelled up. A white T-shirt hugged a rather hard, flat belly and strong, wide chest. It was framed by a loose jacket of the same linen as the slacks.
On top of it was the face of Jerome. He sported a wide, white grin. He cupped her chin with his large hand. And he forced her to look into his eyes. They were black liquid pools with the unexpected sweetness of a loyal dog.
He made a deep clucking noise.
"My sweet lil whore," he said. He shook his head. "Where on earth did you get your white slutty cunt into? Running around town in your bare trashy ass, oh my."
He chuckled.
"C'mon, honey", he said. He took her hand and pulled her up. She was stunned. Deeply tired and too shocked to resist she was. Even if she'd wanted to.
"C'mon with daddy", he crooned. He took her to his car, a convertible American dream. It was all done in gold and shining white. It left the curb with a roar and took her in the direction she had come from.
His apartment was huge and light. It had a terrace as large as a patio. Jerome was every inch the gentleman he wasn't. He showed her the bathroom. She could at last have her long overdue shower. And God, was it goooood. She stayed in it for at least twenty minutes. All her skin went soft and wrinkly. Then she dried herself with the softest of towels. She slid into the bathrobe that waited for her on a golden hook.
Then she left the bathroom. A smell of bacon and eggs hit her. It opened the bottom of her stomach. To her amazement Jerome had fried them himself. He served them with a tall glass of freshly pressed oranges and grapefruits. She emptied it in one endless swallow. Then she devoured the eggs and toast.
He just sat across the table. He smiled at the famished girl. He said nothing. Then, after she finished wiping her plate with the last of the bread, he sat straight and said: "You know you are my whore now, don't you?"
A flash of indignant protest washed over her. Then she only stared. She knew he was right.
"You must call me daddy. You must do what I tell you, lil white cunt," he continued, smiling softly. "Tell me who I am."
Kristie sat. She stared, her lip trembled.
"You are my daddy", she whispered.
"Louder, girl"
She freed her throat and said:
"You are Kristie's daddy."
He kicked back his chair and stood.
"Wonderful", he said. He zipped down his fly.
"Now suck me, baby."
She rose. She knelt in front of him and took his fat, tall cock between her lips.
That night he told her to get to his bedroom. She should dress in the things he had laid out for her. She had been tanning most of the afternoon. He had fucked her twice. Then she had stretched out on a sun-bed at his patio terrace. He had been away most of the time. For business, he'd called it.
She had cried, but not much. Most of the time she had just fought to keep her head empty. She lined it with furry nothingness. There seemed to be a Kristie and there seemed to be Fate. She decided Kristie was no match for Fate. She closed all the doors that might lead her out of this moment she called Now.
On the bed were a latex tube top of shining gold and a matching skirt. There was no underwear. There were no stockings or pantyhose. But there were golden heels and they had neck breaking platform soles.
She dressed. She saw the top just held her pushed up tits. It never reached the skirt and left her tanned belly bare. The skirt was just as tiny. It covered her pussy as long as she did not move too much, like walk. The heels were a disaster. She had never before walked on platform shoes, leave alone this high. Their size was just one number too small.
Jerome was ecstatic. He made her walk and turn. His eyes were all over her. He told her to brush her blonde hair into extreme fluffiness. She also should use way more make-up. She wobbled back to the bathroom and painted her eyes and her lips. Then she blew and brushed her hair into a golden cloud.
She pouted her lips in the mirror. She winked and said: "Hello again, Kristie. Are you proud of yourself?"
She knew Kristie was.
The corner was close to the bar and discotheque district. There were at least five girls walking the sidewalk. Jerome pushed her out of his car. Two of the girls called him daddy as well. They were both big titted Negro girls in much the same outfits she was wearing. They handed him fists full of dollars from their tiny purses. He scolded them cheats. He told them to put more effort into it. Then he left.
One of the two black girls turned to Kristie. She wore a platinum wig. Her red latex bikini top hardly held her silicone beauties.
"Get over there, white slut", she screamed with a razor sharp voice. "Don't you get in my way, y'hear?"
Kristie obediently moved on a bit. She did not know at all what was expected of her.
Almost half an hour passed. Two men picked up the other Negro girl. They drove an old, battered car. A blonde, very tall woman with wide shoulders seemed to be negotiating with a bald man in a Volvo. She had hard, pointed tits. She ended by cursing him. He sped off laughing.
The girl in the red latex top lit a cigarette. She walked over and introduced herself as Charlene. Kristie refused the offered cigarette. She did tell her name.
"You new?" the girl asked. She looked from under her fat long lashes. Kristie nodded.
"Get to the curb, darling", Charlene said. "They have to see you before they stop."
She let her gaze go up and down Kristie's body.
"And they'll notice you all right, honey!"
She chuckled and walked off. Her pushed up butt was swaying. A waft of blue smoke haloed her wig.
Kristie walked to the curb. She imitated the stance of the other girls. She felt incredibly exposed. She put a hand on her hip and pushed her tits out. There was no shame. One of her mind's doors must have closed on that. But there was a slow trickle of moisture. It slid down the inside of her bare thigh.
A stretched limousine left the mainstream of the avenue's traffic. It drifted towards the corner. The girls flocked together at once. They filled the air with excited chatter.
A tinted back window sunk into the door at the curb's side of the car. Kristie saw a male hand adorned with thick gold rings and chains. It waved the girls aside. Then it pointed past them to her. The hand turned at the wrist. The finger became a hook that bid her closer.
She did two, three steps on her cruel hooves. Then she leant forward to look into the car. Two Arab males sat in deep leather chairs. The one at her side of the car spoke in a flawless, clipped Oxford English. He asked her who she was.
She gave her name. The man just said: "Get in."
She opened the door and slid into the limousine. The man waved her onto the leather bench opposite them. He then told her to slide up her skirt. She should show them her pussy. She never hesitated. They stared at her crotch. The second man was older. He said something in a guttural language. Arab, no doubt.
"He wants you to spread your cunt lips for him", the younger man said.
She felt her fingers tremble when she touched her shaven lips. She opened them. She knew she was supposed to be humiliated. She knew she was. But it did not feel at all like that. She felt honoured and at once knew how ridiculous that was.
The older man grumbled a new line.
"Lift your ass. Show him your ass hole," the younger one translated.
She again did as told. She spread her cheeks to make them see better. By now she trembled with arousal. She felt her juices run down to her hands. And to the tiny hole she spread open.
The older man shook his head. Then the younger Arab called something to the invisible driver. Kristie felt the car slow down and make a U-turn. The two men started talking together. They seemed to have lost interest.
The car stopped. Through the tinted glass she saw they had returned to the corner they had started from. The younger man opened the door and pushed her out. She stumbled on her platforms and fell to the concrete. She hurt her knee.
Behind her the limo sped off.
The girl Charlene helped her up.
"What happened?" she asked.
Kristie shrugged. "They did not want me, I guess", she said.
Later that night traffic got thicker. Business looked up. Kristie stood at the curb. She showed her body and imitated the other girls.
Around twelve she got picked up by two business men. They told her to get in the back. She should give them each a blow job, while the other one drove.
She did and earned her first money. She put it into her tiny purse.
The next customer was a man as old as her father. He wanted her to masturbate while he looked on. He jerked himself off. He had parked his car around the corner. When they both had come, all windows were steamed over. He gave her less than she had told her prize was. She protested. He pushed her out of the car and drove off.
She hobbled back to her site, cursing under her breath.
After two o'clock things got slower again.
She had only one client who wanted a blowjob while driving. He complimented her on her skilled mouth. Then he tipped her nicely. He told her he'd be back soon.
The night got colder. She shivered. She did not know if she was supposed to wait for Jerome. Or when he would arrive, if at all.
She asked Charlene. The girl had just returned from a job. She grinned. "Don't worry, child. Daddy will be here to collect his money. If not for us, he'll be here for that!" She laughed. Then she coughed and lit up another cigarette.
Half an hour later, the white and gold convertible eased to the curb. Jerome was in it with a woman. She was tall and looked rather sophisticated. Not at all someone she'd be expecting him with.
Jerome jumped out. He collected his money with the Negro girls. Then he came over to her. He was all smiles.
"Ah, well, my new cunt dripping whore. Did anyone find it in his heart to fuck you and even pay for that?" He said it loud, so the woman would hear. They both laughed.
Kristie fumbled with her purse. She got out all the money. She handed it over. Jerome started counting. It appeared she had made ninety-five dollars. His eyes flared as he looked up. "Don't you fuck with me, girl. C'mon, give me the rest!"
She stared at him. She had no clue what he meant.
A sudden slap stung her face. She reeled on her ridiculous shoes.
He grabbed her purse and shook out its content. Her lipstick and compact clattered on the street. As did her keys and her cell phone.
"You damn cheating cunt!" he screamed and slapped her twice in the face. She fell to her knees. She started to ward off the blows. But he grabbed her hands and beat her in the face with his huge fists.
She felt her lower lip bust. Her left eye hurt immensely. She wrung her hands free. She tried to crouch off into the dark alley behind them. But he grabbed her by the hair and slapped her face. Now he used his open hand. She went limp and sank to the street.
All lights went out. All sounds got muffled and died.
She hurt. One eye would not open. The concrete was dirty. There was blood on her hand when she touched her lip.
"Here, honey", a razor like voice said. Inside the tunnel of her limited vision a hand offered her a paper tissue. She looked up and saw it was the Negro girl with the red latex top. What was her name again?
The girl also gave her the purse. Then she walked off on her towering red heels. Tap-tap into the buzzing streets. She was alone. The world swam around her.
She dabbed at her swollen lip and felt her closed eye with careful fingertips. It was thick. Too tender to even touch.
Her purse held her keys and a few other objects. She dug up the phone. It was out, probably broken.
She scrambled to her knees and got up. One of the crazy shoes had slipped off. She kicked off the other and started walking.
A barefoot day, she mused. Her lip hurt. She shouldn't grin.
Hair.
To be alone is not the same as being lonely. Brigitte loved to think that. She knew it was seldom true. But it had helped her through massive chunks of her life.
Three days ago she had found Thibault. Ever since she had spent all her free time with him. She had embraced him with her naked body. She had flown with him over the mountain meadow, talked with him about all and nothing. She had pondered the unspeakable. She had moved and stalled. She had inched towards it. And hesitated.
Her heart had raced, her mind boggled. It had been her body that decided. Wasn't it always the body?
Afterwards she had brought him back to his stable. She had groomed his sweat-streaked skin. She had told him he was the sweetest thing in her life. The horse had answered with his velvet face and dancing ears. She knew her affection had been acquitted.
In the afternoon sun she gave him a bucket of oats and a bucket of water. She filled his trough with hay. Then she left the stables to climb the long and winding path up to the Villa. She revelled in his scent. It clung to her naked skin.
The big house seemed empty. She felt hungry and walked into the kitchen. There she found a huge slab of lasagne and some bread. It came straight from the oven. She cut a piece off the slab and sat down at the table. She scooped parts of the juicy food on the bread. She ate with gusto.
Even before looking she felt someone had entered. It was Maria. She laughed at seeing Brigitte eat her lasagne so hungrily. "Tu... aime?" she said. She probably used up half of the French she had.
Brigitte didn't know why, but she stood and took the woman by the shoulders. She kissed her on both cheeks. The moment her lips touched the wrinkly skin, she knew it was a mistake. She felt the woman's body stiffen and pulling back. Wide brown eyes stared at her. Then Maria screamed and ran. She crossed herself frantically.
Brigitte moaned. All appetite had gone. With her head down she walked out of the kitchen. She climbed the stairs to her small, empty room. She fell on the bed. Hot tears pushed against her eyes. Why had the woman acted so weird? Their contacts had been positively friendly up to now. She did not understand. Then again, what was there to understand? Was it because of lesbianism? It was a mortal sin in the Roman Catholic Church. But she had just kissed her cheeks. All Italians kissed, didn't they?Maybe it was because she was Angique's? She thought about Arnold's behaviour in the car from the airport.
Maybe she was untouchable? The word opened a miasma of loneliness in front of her. Then again, the way she crossed herself so frantically brought other things to mind. Things older than religion. Superstition, maybe. Fear of being contaminated.
Or maybe...
The soft pillows and mattress made her dose off. When she awoke, the sun had left the tall slit of her window. Dusk darkened the sky. She rose and took a shower. When she returned to the bedroom, her bed had been done. There was some lasagne and bread on her small table. There also was a pitcher of water and a glass of red wine.
On the bed lay a black object. She dried her hair and wrapped her head in the towel. Then she sat down and picked up the object. She at once knew it was a butt plug. It felt cool and slick to the touch. Maybe it was stone of some kind. A very light stone or maybe bone. It felt organic, warm to the touch. It had a conic form that widened from the tip. Then it narrowed again rather sharply at the bottom. It formed a waist. From there it flared out to a wider stop.
She was familiar with the phenomenon. She had been forced to use it in the past. But those plugs had all been cheap plastic ones. This one seemed well worn and antique. It sucked the warmth out of her hand. After a while it even glowed.
A purple bow attached the thing to a small cream coloured card. Again only one word was on it in the familiar spider writing: "Use."
She turned it over and over. Her petite ass hole wasn't really used to frequent traffic. Most of her contacts had been of lesbian nature. There had been incidental and not very successful strap on penetrations. But she had only once really used a plug. A few years ago a mistress had made her train with it. Her husband loved anal sex. But in the end he'd just used her once. They separated immediately after. Not due to her services, she assumed.
She took the purple bow off and walked into the bathroom. She found a pretty little vial of lubricating oil on her make-up table. She also saw that the rubber container had been taken off the enema contraption. It had been laid on the bidet. A second cream card only held the name "Maria".
She hesitated to call her. The debacle of the kisses still lingered in her mind. But the instruction was clear. She walked back into her room and pulled the one cord. It made a bell ring in the kitchen.
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