A La Mode

I NEVER THOUGHT she was ugly, not really, but I guess I acted like I did. I mean we all did, it was just, you know, the thing.

Like you would get in the elevator and there’s maybe Wilhelmina, and you’d feel all flushed because she was sooo hot, too hot to even talk to, but she’d smile and say hi and be all personable and you’d be like, oh, ok, how nice, ice bitch character but what a sweet actress.  Whereas with Betty you’d get in the elevator and you’d already feel comfortable, you’d say something stupid like, TGIF, or, Crappy Weather We’re Having Huh? Of course you’d be a little intimidated the first time because she was making more money than anyone else in the building, but she was approachable, nothing to get all precious about.  Like an ugly girl would be.

And she’d play the part, that was the thing.  Even if she was in her street clothes, without the eyebrows and the bad hair and all the other things they had to do to her to make her less than gorgeous … she always played the part.

So, ok, it was a dare. Which is really shitty, when I think about it, but believe me I’ve had plenty of cause to regret my bad behavior. Yes ma’am, yes I have.

BUT I BLAME Franco, too. I guess he was sick of hearing me bullshit about how her breasts had brushed against me as I was putting the mic on her, how I was pretty sure she swung both ways, how I’d like to bag her, how the ugly ones were always so  grateful, especially the virgins, etcetera. You know that kind of trash talk that’s only possible between a bulldagger sound tech and a flaming faggot personal-assistant-to-the-star during a smoke break in frigid friggin February on a Thursday afternoon, with another worse-than-nothing weekend looming.

“Pues what the fuck are you waiting for?”  said Franco, making a dramatic flourish with his cigarette. “I dare you. I double-dare you. You better ask her out or shut your mout’ — hey! I made a rhyme, innit?”  Although he grew up in Long Island, Franco liked to use random ethnicisms to accessorize his mestizo complexion, which he enhanced with regular visits to Son Rise Tanning Salon, where he occasionally busted the cherries of the altar boy types who worked there, since the salon was a revenue source for La Iglesia de JesuCristo Sangre Miel.   Franco’s accent was even more fluid than his attention span, and for this job in particular, he made frequent reference to his “Hispanic heritage,” although the closest connection I’d been able to specifically get out of him was a Filipina great-greatmother who was apparently so very Spanish that her family disowned her for eloping with a Chinese diplomat. The newlyweds had been forced to live in a shabby apartment on the outskirts of Manila until the city was bombed to smithereens by the Americans who were trying to save it from the Japanese, causing the entire family to swallow their limpieza de sangre and beg the detested Chinaman to use his embassy connections to get them out.  He agreed, and the whole clan had fled, gold stuffed in their Spanish lace undergarments, to the much less tropical island of Long.

I was ethnic too — Japanese American, five generations in the Imperial Valley — so when Franco had come upon me four months ago, huddled in the doorjamb on my first day on the job, trying to light up a clove cig despite the pouring rain, he had hugged me effusively and exclaimed about how fucking relieved he was to see another “person of color” in “Betty’s posse.”  So of course I had to grin and say, “How ’bout you help me get into Betty’s pussy?” And a workplace-soulmate-friendship was born.

“I’m not gonna ask her out,” I said. “She’s a tv star, I gotta take it slow. I don’t wanna make her think I’m just a stalker fan or something.”

“To think that about you?” he cried dramatically. “For that she would have to know you exist, di ba?”

SO ON THE SET the next day, with my hands necessarily quite close to her cute little tits but in a strictly professional way, I turned her microphone on as always, and then I turned it off again. She looked up at me, surprised. I put my finger to my lips as if we were going to share a little secret, and I leaned in close and said, “I know you probably get this all the time so it’s kind of insane of me to even try, and plus we work together so I would totally understand, but would you by any chance consider going out with me sometime?”

Then I turned the mic back on because, with her being a nice person and all, I figured that would reduce my chances of utter humiliation and she wouldn’t say, Hell No Who The Fuck Do You Think You Are You Creepy Dyke, for everyone on the set to hear; she’d just smile that little fake-braces smile and shake her head quietly or something.  And for good measure I leaned into her mic again, tapped it, and said, “Testing, testing,” so I could pretend it was all a joke if I needed to.

And she smiled obligingly, and the fake braces glittered under the set lights, and the director was coming toward us with his big bad “I’m gonna direct the shit out of this scene now” stride, and Betty looked at me and said, “OK.”

What?

Then she picked up an Ikea pencil and pad from her fake Mode desk, and raised a Hold On A Sec finger to the director who paused midstride—I could almost see the fume coming out the top of his little gelled head—and she flipped the pages up so that the top of the pad would still look OCD neat for the shoot, and on one of the inside pages she wrote a note and tore it out, and I wasn’t really breathing by the time she tucked the note inside my front jeans pocket. And then she patted my jeans, a little closer to my crotch than the pocket actually was, and I blushed from head to toe, or rather from that spot outward. “OK then,” she said, her eyes laughing, and she stood and turned toward the director, who un-freeze-framed and raised his eyebrows at us but didn’t dare say anything.

When I could breathe and move again, I read the note:

“There’s a thing tomorrow. Get directions from Franco and pick me up at 7. Wear a tux.”

Oh Shit.

That tux—which Franco had had to pull out of his ass for me by calling in a favor, and thank god some short skinny actor had at some point needed formalwear, because since when does a lesbian sound technician own a tux?— was lying in shreds on the expensive wall-to-wall leopard-weave carpet of Betty’s Central Park West penthouse. I was going to be in so much trouble with Wardrobe.

But not more trouble than I was in with her.

“Betty,” I said, “please, I am so sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter what you are,” she said, smiling evilly, showing her smooth even teeth. She didn’t have the braces, of course. But she apparently kept a spare set of  the Betty eyeglasses around, because she’d put them on.  That was shortly after she’d tied me to the four posters of her red silk canopy bed, but shortly before she’d pulled out a cholo switchblade—staying in character, I suppose—to slash my clothes off me.

I could feel the cool steel where she’d set the knife down, resting just between my naked breasts, the sharp tip grazing my collarbone, moving dangerously up and down with every breath I took. Which happened to be a lot of short, very breathy breaths.

She wasn’t letting me use her real name, she was making me call her Betty “since that’s who you wanted to fuck anyway, isn’t it?”  I looked up at her, full breasts encased in expensive pink lace bra, crouched over me like a cat about to pounce.

A SADISTIC, HISPANIC cat. In my drunken, aroused, terrified haze I managed to think, “Gotta remember to tell Franco about that rhyme.”

Because somehow, stupidly, in the limo back to her place after her friend’s niece’s quinceñera – that’s what “the thing” turned out to be, in the banquet room of a mod boutique hotel downtown, where I’d had way too much blue agave tequila and not enough taquitos—when she’d flirtatiously asked me why I’d finally decided to ask her out, I’d drunkenly blurted out, “Um, it was a dare actually.”  And if I hadn’t been looking right at her I would have missed the stunned, hurt expression that flashed across her face at that moment, before the cool, cheerful, ok-with-anything mask came back on and she laughed, throwing her head back the way only beautiful New York women can do, and said, “Oh really? How amusing.”

It was my turn to be “amused” now.

She lowered the glasses, then slid them off her face like she was doing a striptease. Then she trailed them across my naked breasts. My nipples were already hard, and the cold plastic teasing made them jump. First the left, then the right … circle, circle … “Please Betty,” I had to beg, “Please.”

“Say Ugly Betty,” she said.

“You’re not—”

Smack!  She slapped my cheek several more times before I got it together enough to blurt out, “Ugly! Ugly Betty!”

She grinned, but there was no smile behind it. “Yes, my pet, what were you saying?”

“Please Ugly Betty please don’t do this, please let me go…”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Please, I never thought you were ugly, never, please,” I tried again.

What I hadn’t realized was, neither did she. Of course the proof was everything they had to do to make it convincing, all the layers they had to pile on: the braces, and the thick glasses, and the bad haircut with heavy bangs, AND then the clothes that didn’t match or show her body.

HER BODY. It had been all I could think about when I fantasized about her. I had imagined unpeeling those layers of plaids and stripes and polka dots in clashing greens and pinks to show the sweet pinkish-brown of her skin, the glasses set down on the nightstand gently, the shy girl grateful for attention, awkward but eager for love, for the best fucking of her life… but of course it wasn’t like that at all.  I was the one who was fucked.

“Shut up,” she said, and drew a harsh stripe down my belly with the tip of one limb of the eyeglass frame. Then she pushed it right into my cunt, making me groan.  It was too thin to fill me, and it had bypassed my clit way too quickly, but my muscle grabbed onto it like a life preserver. She let go, so the glasses just perched there, part sticking in my cunt, part framing my pubic mound in two semi-ovals.  She started scraping my right thigh with her short but surprisingly sharp fingernails as she contemplated her work.

“Did I tell you,” she said, “that I’m starting a new magazine?”

I started to answer, but she slapped the inside of my left thigh with her left hand, while gouging deeper into my right with her nails. The pain caused me to jerk, which made the eyeglasses move inside me, which made me moan, which earned me another series of short, hard slaps.

“It’s called Mode XXX,” Betty said. “And you’re the first centerfold.”

That’s when I noticed the cameras.

~~

Thanks to Good Vibrations magazine for the inspiration. For other celebrity-inspired smut by GV contributors, click here.

Balancing Act

Adjustable Stocks

IT IS A DEVIOUS device: utterly exposing, utterly inescapable.   No wiggling on my part will get me out of it, let alone give me relief. And anyway, wiggling is risky.

I am on my back, legs in the air, tied to a long rod that keeps them in position.  The position is, as always for a girl like me, wide apart.  Both my cunt and my asshole are exposed, especially since I am at the top of a staircase.   Even if I were not blindfolded, I could not see down;  but anyone walking up has a perfect view of my most private parts.

My wrists are tied to the middle of the same rod, pulling my arms straight, causing my breasts to plump up between them and my back to arch slightly.   I could shift my wrists (and the rod) backward, but then my thighs would stretch and ache beyond toleration.   If I relax my thighs, the rod pulls my arms beyond the comfort zone – not to mention that I might topple down the staircase, for I can feel its edge at my lower back.   The only thing to do is maintain a perfect, obedient balance, until She returns.

Time passes.   Physical equilibrium is a necessity, but mental equilibrium is harder to come by.

Click, click. Heels come up the stairs, quick as knives.

SOMETHING HARD AND FLAT presses my cunt, twists against it too briefly, takes away just a layer of my wetness.   Next the hard flat thing is on my mouth, and I am licking it, cleaning it – the sole of her shoe.   I am privileged to lick it.   I am not allowed to lick it for long.

Now a cold thing touches my right nipple – no, not exactly the nipple, but a close circle around it.   I gasp before I understand what is happening – it is as if my nipple is being pulled and twisted most cruelly, but nothing is actually touching it.   Only air.

“Look at it,” She commands, pulling the blindfold off.   I know better than to look anywhere else, however much I long to see her beauty:  I gaze directly at my nipple, now engorged, double its normal size.   She is using a suction device to swell me into a state of pornographic arousal.   When She is satisfied, She squeezes a small elastic ring around my nipple, to keep it erect and enlarged.

She starts in on the other nipple, and as She concentrates, I sneak a quick look at her:  spiked purple hair, mouth and fingernails painted to match, gold and silver striped eyeshadow, smooth caramel curves poured into a zippered latex bodysuit.   My Goddess, I think, for She looks like a goddess of the new millennium, though part of me knows She is just a woman like me.   By contrast I am naked, unsophisticated, and feeling very mortal.

She catches my eye, and I look down immediately — too late.   Her fingers grab and twist both nipples, and immediately I realize her ministrations have made them not only larger, but infinitely more sensitive.   I groan.

“SHUT UP, you disobedient bitch,”  She says,  “I don’t want to hear your whining.”   As her long purple fingernails continue the torture, I try to pretend my nipples, dark brown and obscenely swollen almost to the size of walnuts, and as hard, belong to someone else; that the pain is a movie I am watching.   I know She wants me to see;  She has not rescinded the order to look.   I feel her gaze on my face, measuring my obedience and submission.  She pinches and scrapes, her nails sharp as teeth.

When she takes off the plastic rings, I think she is finished, but then she puts on smaller rings that confine my nipples even more tightly.  The movie resumes, and goes on and on.   I bite down on my rising panic, biting my lip so hard I taste blood, but I do not make another sound.

I don’t know how long I have been holding my breath, but when She finally stops, I exhale, and gulp in air as if I have been held underwater.   I keep my eyes down, even as She moves behind me and out of view.

It is getting very difficult to keep my balance.

A zipper unzips.

NOW SHE IS KNEELING over my face, pushing her cunt onto my lips.  Her ample ass cheeks cup my nose.  I can hardly breathe as I open my mouth and let my tongue gently find her, lapping her upside down, tasting the pungent liquid and skin of her.  Her fingers caress my nipples, lightly this time, but they are so sensitized that the caress feels like fire.

Then She touches my pussy lips, lightly tracing them, obviously not intending to give me pleasure, only to pleasure herself with my need.   Her breathing becomes rough and jagged, and small sounds escape her.  Overjoyed, I flick my tongue faster and faster on her round hard clit.   Soon She arches backward and lets out a long, guttural moan.  My face is drenched.

If I were allowed, I could climax from the pleasure of her pleasure.

She sits back, letting her pussy rest against my hair.  After a moment, She zips up again and leans forward to touch my nipples.  Her breasts are just above my face, pushing against their tight casing.   “Ready or not,” She says, giving a low laugh, and grabs my breasts with her whole hands, squeezing and twisting them as if She is trying to draw milk.

“YOU CAN MOAN this time,” She says, and I am grateful to give her what she wants, my submission and its audible evidence.   “Thank me,” She says, clawing my breasts in smooth even lines toward the middle, ending each scratch with a cruel flick at my tormented nipples.

“Thank you Ma’am,” I gasp, “Thank you for hurting my tits, Oh, thank you for Ahh letting me service you, thank you for punishing my disobedience, thank you O god Ma’am—”  and so on and on I babble as she scrapes me raw, making welts that I know will last for days.

Inarticulate as I am, she must be pleased, for She says, “You can cum anytime you want.”

But still she doesn’t touch my pussy, only focuses her attention on my nipples, my poor raw nipples which feel as if they might burst into flame at any moment, and just as I think I cannot take the pain anymore, she leans forward and puts one into her mouth.

HER TONGUE is like heaven, her lips soft and warm. As she takes first one nipple, then the other into her mouth, I feel my cunt begin to expand … toward the orgasm, which is building and building from the wetness of waiting for her, spread wide open, nothing but cool air caressing me there, so I pretend my nipple is my clit and I moan, “Oh thank you Mistress,” her tongue is lapping at it, flicking it, sucking … Suddenly she bites down, hard, and I cum like a flood, lifting up, tilting forward and at the same moment remembering I must not tilt forward, the stairs—

so I scream.

She is so good at what She does.

She has hold of my upper arms.  Because of her, I do not fall down the stairs, but only cry from fear and relief.

She grabs the bar and pulls it back toward herself, so I am curled like an upside-down ball, shaking.   She strokes my tears, then my other wetness, puts her fingers in my mouth.  I taste salt, sex, her skin and my cum mingled together.

“Very good,” She says as she begins to unbuckle me from the device.  “You are learning to trust me, don’t you think?”

“Yes Ma’am,” I say softly, awed by her power.  “Thank you Ma’am.”

~  ~  ~

Thanks to J.T.’s Stockroom for the visual inspiration! Readers, please spend your perv dollars at J.T.’s, or if you’re a cheap asshole, just go there to browse; lotsa hot pictures where that one came from.