Carmen's Fantasies Ch. 4

After locking the door to her office, Carmen slipped out of her dress and admired herself in the full-length mirror mounted on her office wall. Her new bra and panties, both midnight black and get-me-wet sexy, looked terrific on her thirty-something body. Succumbing to vanity, she felt herself up for a few moments before booting up her computer and going on-line. Her own image always got her in the mood to see other naughty women, and she checked a favorite bookmark to see if the site had been recently updated. As the pixels filled in, a blowzy blonde in her forties materialized on the screen, introducing herself as Cumly Carol and promising fulfillment--for a small fee--to all who harbored a taste for the truly nasty stuff.

A longtime member of Carol's club, Carmen used her password to get inside, then clicked on the new pics icon, happy to see that a fresh batch of photos had been added showing the voluptuous older woman battling various vegetables and kitchen implements in her trailer house kitchen, assailing them with her hairy, scary pubes and always claiming victory. Each pic was a doozy in itself, suitable for framing, and Carmen, ever the academic, downloaded the entire file for future reference and study.

After e-mailing her positive comments to the website's talented hostess, Carmen browsed through the banners of sponsors that Carol called her "friends." All were highly recommended, of course, but one caught Carmen's eye since it came with a warning, cautioning all of its extreme hard-core content. Clicking on the banner at once, she was magically transported to a Denmark website that offered a free introductory visit to all of Carol's customers.

Never one to refuse a gift, Carmen entered the site and was immediately greeted by two young animal lovers, for the way the girls petted and kissed and competed for the favors of their big, four-legged friend showed a deep concern for his happiness and well-being, especially when they coaxed the dog to come on their faces. Utterly disgusted by the girls' depraved behavior, Carmen frowned like a censor while copying the movie to her disk. The other movies and photos she viewed were equally raunchy and offensive, forcing her to fill out an application and join up at once. The credit card transaction taking mere seconds, she was now allowed access to the extensive archives, a huge collection of bestiality and other forms of perverse sex available to members in several formats, including wallpaper and screen-savers.

Leaning back in her chair with her heels propped on the desk, Carmen slipped a hand into her panties to stroke her aroused bush. The erotic images on her screen were good, but how much better they'd be if they featured her favorite graduate student instead! Clearly, it was time to call on Sandy to star in another fantasy, and this one promised to be the most sordid of all.

It's midday, sunny and hot, and Sandy has just come from a painful meeting with one of her female professors who has criticized her work to the point of ridicule, accusing her of being lazy and undisciplined and even questioning her right to be in college. Sandy takes the dressing-down hard, her poor self-image suffering another blow and making her feel that she should be scrubbing toilets in some seedy hotel instead of masquerading as a graduate student.

To make matters worse, the meeting has caused her to miss her bus. Though she's wearing a light cotton dress unbuttoned in front as far as good morals allow, she's still very uncomfortable and is sweating profusely, the perspiration soaking her bra and running down her belly. It's a long walk to her apartment, one to be taken on treeless streets and burning sidewalks, but she takes her new heels off anyway, preferring scorched feet to stinging blisters.

An old Plymouth cruises by, then pulls up ahead by the curb. As Sandy plods by, a familiar face pokes out the window and asks if she'd like a lift. It's the young brunette who often drives the bus leaving campus, and she tells Sandy that it's her day off, and that it's way too hot for anyone to walk. But there's something about the girl's toothy smile that makes Sandy squirm. She's seen it many times in the rearview mirror of the bus, often after being involved in highly embarrassing situations. Even now the girl seems to look at her knowingly, as if saying, "I know what you like to do, so don't deny it!"

Sandy wants to refuse the ride, but her conscience overrules her, arguing that she keeps to herself far too much and that she should try to be more sociable. But after getting in, she discovers that the car lacks air conditioning. The front seat is hot enough to fry bacon, and the heat passing through her flimsy dress practically singes her buttocks. Of lesser torment are the flies that go after her as if she were rotting meat. The driver, introducing herself as Vicki, wears a dirty, sleeveless T-shirt, low-cut on the sides, that allows a peek at her breasts when her arms are raised and a view of her hairy armpits as well. Completing her ensemble is a pair of skin-tight, white leggings that haven't seen a washing for weeks.

Unaffected by the heat or the flies, Vicki makes small talk with Sandy, asking about her classes and her teachers and peppering her language with vulgarity as they crawl through an endless series of red lights. "Fucking" is her favorite adjective, and she employs it in practically every sentence. And when Sandy tells her about the horrible meeting that she's just experienced, the young woman simply laughs it off, crudely suggesting that her teacher just wants her to put out--but not in an academic way. Now stalled at an intersection due to an accident involving a motorcycle and a young mother, the heat nearly overwhelms the redhead, and Vicki offers her a warm beer to help her cool off. Though it tastes sour, Sandy drinks it anyway to replenish her lost fluids and drive the flush from her cheeks.

After getting away from the congested campus streets, Sandy sighs with relief, closing her eyes and slumping back in the seat and throwing her feet up on the dash to take full advantage of the air blowing through the windows. Her dress falls down her sloping legs baring her milky thighs, and Vicki gets a glimpse of her red bush after turning the vent fan on high. The heat and the beer and the drone of the engine make Sandy woozy, but something doesn't feel right. Sitting up, she notices that they're nowhere near her apartment but are headed out of town. She points this out to Vicki who slaps herself on the forehead and says, "You dumb-fuck!" Though it's directed at herself, Sandy takes it personally, being primed to apply the lash to her own psyche.

Vicki explains that she had simply headed home out of habit, adding that since they're so close to the trailer park where she lives with her fucking dad, why didn't they continue on where they could cool off for a bit and down a few cold ones?

Though uneasy with her suggestion and language, Sandy can't see how she can refuse, and when Vicki lights up a joint and passes it to her, she again feels forced to accept the girl's offer, rationalizing that the smoke will shoo away the flies. It doesn't. Rather, they seem to ride the fumes straight into her head, for in spite of being careful to take only a small drag, her brain immediately starts buzzing, the blood rushing to her face as if she were riding in the car upside-down.

Grinning at her reaction and seemingly anxious to get her high, Vicki urges her to take a really big hit, and thinking it might stop the buzzing, Sandy fully--and foolishly--inhales. Instantly, bright lights begin popping off before her eyes as if she were a famous runway model being photographed by her ardent fans. Slumping back on the seat with her legs thrown apart like some bad girl coming home from a date with twenty guys, she's assailed by a swirl of disturbing images that makes her pant and sweat like a dog, unaware that her dress has blown up to her waist, and that Vicki is having trouble keeping her eyes on the road.

They keep driving for another twenty minutes, bouncing through the poorer parts of town where rusting cars are considered lawn ornaments and muddy-faced children are allowed to run naked. But this area is Park Avenue compared to the community they enter after pulling off the highway onto a dirt road. The trailer park apparently caters to the downwardly mobile and the perpetually unemployed, for several of the tenants are milling around their metal palaces drinking beer, chain-smoking, and incessantly shouting at their huge, barking dogs. The men, lean and shirtless, have long greasy hair and look like carnival workers recently paroled.

The women, however, are more corpulent, sporting relaxed abdomens and sagging breasts, and they've crammed their fleshy figures into spandex attire that makes them look like two dollar hookers willing to come down on their price. Now partially recovered, Sandy feels dirty just looking at these low-lifes, but Vicki waves at her seedy neighbors as if they were intimate friends, joking to her passenger about the park's racy motto: "You come in a virgin--and go out a whore."

As Sandy muses about the slogan, wondering if the stress should be placed on the prepositions or the verbs, the Plymouth runs out of gas in front of a battered trailer that looks like it had flirted with a tornado and got raped as a result. A sagging clothesline connects it to a dying tree, allowing the laundry pinned on the moldy rope--mainly yellowed bras and men's briefs--to drag on the ground. Not counting the dog shit, the yard itself is bare and colorless except for a single folding chair that has a hole in the seat, and a pair of plastic flamingos lewdly positioned so that one appears to be giving the other head; for no flowers can be seen anywhere, only prickly weeds, and if there ever was any grass around the place, the tenants probably smoked it.

The trailer itself is suitably coordinated with the yard, what with the door hanging on one hinge and the soiled curtain dangling out a window, suggesting that either the trailer's owners are blind or suffer assorted work allergies. But to their credit, they're clearly nature lovers, for though an empty metal trash can sits lonely nearby, a pile of paper sacks, all groaning with garbage, adorns the aluminum steps, the leaking residue from the discarded TV dinners and beer cans drawing a host of grateful insects and rats.

Disoriented as much by the squalor as by the drugs in her system, Sandy gets out of the car like a zombie, dumbly following Vicki like one of the big dogs who comes over to greet her and copulate with her leg. Her only thought is to get out of the heat and recover her senses. But her dazed condition has left her unbalanced, and she stumbles on the steps and falls onto the trash. Instead of helping her up, Vicki just laughs as if she were part of the garbage, thrown onto the pile after her usefulness was spent, for her dress is now torn, having caught on something jagged, and is rapidly developing permanent stains, the cotton material soaking up rank beer and rancid grease like a dish rag. Feeling saturated with filth, she doesn't see how Vicki can laugh, but her conscience thinks it's hilarious, announcing in a mocking voice that she's just been baptized into the elite ranks of the poor white trailer park trash.

Since Sandy is incapable of extricating herself, Vicki mercifully lends her a hand, jerking her to her feet and kindly brushing the crud off her damp rear end, and after performing the task more thoroughly than is necessary, she loops her arm around the redhead's waist and escorts the woozy redhead inside. But Sandy discovers that the interior of the trailer offers scant relief, being cooled by a single, noisy fan whose overworked motor produces more heat than the blades can disperse. Everything in the place looks filthy--especially the adult magazines left in plain sight--and the floor is strewn with a variety of eyesores, including beer cans, cigarette butts, dirty underwear, jumper cables, rat traps, and assorted car parts. Making no comment, Sandy sinks into the tattered sofa where Vicki dumps her, trying to avert her eyes from the mess but finding unsettling sights everywhere she looks.

After going to the kitchen, Vicki returns with a couple of cheap generic beers, then plops herself down beside her guest and lights up another joint. The beer tastes as sour as the one in the car, but it's cold and feels good going down Sandy's throat, though the grass her hostess passes her makes it burn again like acid.

One of the dogs that had welcomed them home now invites himself to their party, nosing his way through the open door and immediately coming over to sniff Vicki's guest. Though intimidated by the huge hound, Sandy extends her hand and offers to "shake" with him, assuming that his owner has taught him that trick. But Duke is no gentleman, having learned a less formal greeting, and he passes up her hand to stick his nose under her dress, growing excited as if something tasty was hiding between her legs.

"He always does that," Vicki says, doing nothing to discourage the hound or protect her struggling guest. "My dad got him for my mom as a fucking wedding present, but she and Duke didn't hit it off, so he kicked her out but kept the fucking dog. And now Duke's picked up all of Dad's fucking habits. But then, men are all fucking dogs, you know."

Since the sofa has several broken springs, Sandy has literally sunk into the cushions, and with her knees now level with her shoulders, it's nearly impossible for her to sit up and apply any resistance. Duke seems to know this and takes full advantage of her predicament, working his muzzle up her legs and taking her dress with it until her pubes are exposed.

"I never wear fucking panties either," Vicki says, grinning at Sandy's red curls while taking a big swig of beer. Duke, thirsty himself, lashes at the salty pussy with his huge tongue, causing it's owner to flinch.

"Let him have a fucking lick or two," Vicki says, "or he'll never leave you alone." Evidently speaking from experience, she acts as if nothing were wrong with the action.

However, Sandy has no intention of surrendering to Duke's desires. But just as she is about to slap his muzzle, her inner voice intrudes.

"He's not hurting you, so why hurt him? And since Vicki sees nothing wrong with it, why should you? Do you think your morals are higher? She was nice enough to give you a lift and make you a guest in her home. Do you now wish to insult her by making a scene? Besides, we both know that Duke's attentions feel good, and don't deny it! Besides, you've fantasized about being licked in such a manner, and now's your chance to experience it. So rather than punish the dog, reward him and enjoy his hot kisses!"

The sudden intrusion of her conscience startles rather than soothes Sandy, and though she's not convinced by the arguments, she stops struggling and cradles the dog's head in her hands, giving Vicki the impression that she's guiding him to her pussy. But Sandy's eyes contradict her apparent eagerness, growing big like Duke's member as she watches him lick, and a prurient expression comes over her face when his fleas jump into her bush.

"It feels good, doesn't it?" Vicki says, echoing Sandy's conscience and leaning in close to watch. "I let him get me off that way if I'm really fucking horny, but then he always wants me to do him in return. But he never does me like that! God, look at him go down on you! He clearly loves your fucking cunt, and it's pretty obvious that you adore him! I'm gonna have to get a fucking picture of this!"

Vicki jumps off the sofa to rummage through a mess in a corner until she finds her instamatic lying amid many boxes of film. Sandy wants to loudly protest against the outrageous idea, but her conscience is quick to silence her with a harsh reprimand and punishes her rebellion with a fierce headache. Forced to give in to lessen the pain, she submissively allows Vicki to pull her dress up around her waist but lacks the spirit to say, "Cheese!", and the photo that results shows an unsmiling redhead getting eaten by a grinning dog.

Pleased with the subject matter but unsatisfied with the execution, Vicki snaps off a few more shots, coaxing a sort of smile out of Sandy by pouring beer on her gash. This pleases Duke immensely, and he redoubles his efforts, causing the redhead to grimace, which at least puts a curl on her lips. Vicki is happier with the new photos but, knowing she can do better, she experiments by changing her angle and repositioning her model's legs, being careful not to cut off Sandy's face since identification made all such pictures more personal and really come to life.

While Duke keeps licking Sandy's pussy like an addict, Vicki rejoins her spellbound guest on the sofa to critique the photos with her. "These first ones are sort of weird because of that fucking look on your face," she begins. "But I really like this one where you can see his fucking tongue open you up wide. I should have spread your fucking legs apart for all of them, but then it's also nice to have variety. What do you think?"

The thoughts going through Sandy's head are beyond the realm of language, though a series of high-pitched wails would come close to conveying them. But her inner voice prevents her from dashing out of the trailer and heading for a cliff, scolding her for her uppity manners and threatening to punish her with harsh cramps if she does anything to insult her kind hostess. So she moves not a muscle to interfere when Vicki, seeing that she's sweating, thoughtfully removes her dress. And she doesn't bat an eye when the girl, noticing that her bra is soaked, squeezes the bulging cups to wring them out. Wearing a non-committal expression like a strip poker veteran--except for wincing when Duke hits a sensitive spot--Sandy appears to be agreeable to her hostess' courtesy, especially when her nipples swell like ripe grapes.

"Let's just take this fucking thing off," Vicki says, unclasping Sandy's bra to free the big breasts cruelly trapped inside. "Your fucking tits must be suffocating in there and--God! You're really fucking stacked, aren't you! And look at your fucking nipples! Mine aren't nearly as big, but I still think they're nice. What do you think?"

Removing her T-shirt, Vicki strikes a teasing titty pose with her hands behind her head, but what stands out are the clumps of hair gracing her armpits. Up to now, she's made no real move on her guest as all her actions could be explained away. But though she's eager to sample the redhead like Duke, she delays her desires, taking Sandy's bra and dress outside to pin on the clothesline--making the trip topless.

Returning to her naked guest, Vicki figures it's now or never. She's confident that her advances won't be spurned, for Sandy has done nothing to repulse her so far and appears to be like-minded. Now strutting over to the sofa as if entering a gay bar, she pats Duke's head and asks him how's it's going. Then wearing the lusty grin of a lez on the make, she straddles Sandy's lap as if plopping down on the nearest barstool.

"Hey babe," she begins, running her fingers through Sandy's red tresses. "What do you say you and me get to know each other better?"

The redhead already knows that the girl drives a bus and apparently grew up on a farm, for Vicki grasps her jugs like a milkmaid and manipulates the nipples. When Sandy replies with small moans--the only objections her conscience will allow--Vicki interprets them as pleasurable and continues her titty play, taking delight in stretching out her pink buds and watching them snap back. But though she sucks them till they grow as hard as walnuts, she receives nothing in return.