It All Started . . .

bytryst©

"Hi, babe," she grinned. "Look what I found under the bathroom sink. What do you think? Like it? One of your femmes fatale must have left it behind. What kind of red would you call it? Fuscia?"

I nodded numbly. She'd even changed into the jeans and checked blouse I'd imaged. She started on her toenails, glanced curiously up at me. "What? Don't you like it?"

"No, I do! It's just that, well, you always said --"

She waved me off. "The first thing mothers teach daughters is that it's a girl's prerogative to change her mind." She smiled lovingly. "Get used to it."

I deleted the pic. The polish stayed for a week. I made another pic, sans nail color. The polish disappeared. I reapplied it. So did she. I admitted to myself that maybe there was the tiniest little bit of sexual rush in playing with her, and lengthened the nails in the picture a bit. I didn't mind the way she clawed my back with them at all.

Over a Sunday brunch a week later, my guilt got the better of me. I confessed. Bri sat, blinking with disbelief for a few moments. She raised her hands, stared oddly at her moderately long nails. Her gaze lost focus. She wet her lips, and shuddered slightly. Her eyes sought mine. Her voice was a soft whimper. "I just came, honey."

I had no time to ponder her reaction to being "changed" until Monday. The rest of Sunday I was busy being raped by an insatiably horny madwoman who couldn't seem to stop orgasming. There was a refrain; "More. God, please, more! Do me more. Anything. Anything you want!"

In the bookcases of my parents' home, the Bagavad Gita and Upanishads were right beside, and equally important to, the Bible. My hippie parents had brought me up with the phrase "Do No Harm" about the only inviolable ethic drilled into my psyche. "Harm" isn't as simple as we wish it were when the reality of everything being connected to everything else is considered. Nobody has the right to dabble with anyone else's karma. That being said, as Bri was so fond of pointing out, one isn't granted a siddhe like the one I possessed without reason.

During the weeks that followed, I pondered much more than acted. I again avoided PSP like a recovering addict avoided his drug of choice. I'm sure that, had I no been so distracted, I'd have noticed that my lady love was increasingly withdrawn -- even morose.

I suppose it was about a month after the nail polish episode that I became aware, via some saved files on the home computer, that Bri had been playing with the devilish program herself. I was appalled, and, shamefully, aroused, by what I found. The attempts were untutored and unskilled, but their intent was obvious. One depicted her in a bar, wearing a barely-there red minidress, sporting overblown breasts and makeup, with a bulked up version of myself openly fondling one of her tits. Another showed us in a parking lot, with a similar looking and ecstatic fantasy Bri bent over the hood of a limo being pounded by a fantasy me, while a small crowd watched. Fetish wear of every sort, collars, tattoos, piercings - and in each, she was sporting a mammoth diamond ring on the appropriate finger of her left hand.

I was dizzied. I was freaked. I was paralyzed. Is that what she really wanted, or were they merely masturbatory fantasies? At least, in the latter case, we were reading from the same page. But why the secrecy? Had she actually been hoping that program would work for her? I thought we'd already demonstrated that it wasn't the software that twisted reality, but rather my bizarre brain. But . . .

I moped. I fretted. I stewed. Then, four and a half days after my discovery, I got a call at work from a nurse from Community Memorial's ER. Did I know a person named Bridgette Falcone? She'd been admitted earlier that day after collapsing and becoming unresponsive in a downtown bar. It seemed she'd accidentally swallowed a dozen or two tranquilizers and numerous shots of bourbon. My name was listed in her wallet as the person to contact if -

I heard no more. I was probably out the office door before the poor lady finished her sentence, and running through the doors of the emergency room mere moments later. It took several very beefy uniformed security people to keep me in the lobby. A very small, very young, and very polite young doctor told me that she had been moved to intensive care, that I should come back when she'd been stabilized.

I made it home somehow. I went straight to the computer and began frantically gathering stock photos, praying they were accurate enough. I took her out of ICU, put her in a private room -- conscious, aware, her normal smiling self, with me holding her hand. I saved the composite, made myself a stiff drink, showered and changed clothes. Then, as sanely as possible, I presented myself again at the hospital and found that she was just being transferred from intensive care to a room.

But she wasn't smiling. The instant she saw me, she broke into nearly hysterical tears, earning me a hostile stare from the burly nurse pushing her wheelchair.

"Go away!" she shrieked. "Leave me alone!"

"Bri, I -"

The nurse stepped between us. "You heard the lady."

"But -"

"Do I need to call security, sir?"

Heartbroken doesn't begin to describe my emotions. For the next three days, she hung up with a sob each time I called her hospital room. After her discharge, she refused to answer her home phone, and her office informed me that she was on a medical leave of absence. I couldn't work, and dear, compassionate Maude ordered me to take a vacation.

I did nothing but sit in my apartment and stare emptily at the tube, trying to keep my mind blank. I tried getting drunk. I tried meditation. I tried everything I could think of to either figure out of get past Bridgette. Nothing worked. Thoughts circled endlessly, like vultures waiting to dine.

What had I done wrong? Why did she hate me? Why did she hate herself enough to attempt suicide? Why hadn't my healing manipulation worked?

That question and its collories dominated me. I refused to so much as turn my computer on, but my Paint Shop Pro generated karma haunted me. My inevitable conclusion was that this payback for what I'd done, both to her and others. The universe did not brook even "helpful" interference with people's lives.

I booted my desktop machine. I highlighted the Paint Shop Pro directory and all its sub folders. My finger hovered over the delete key. What would happen, I wondered? If every trace of the reality I'd altered disappeared, would Maude revert totally to her old self? Would Steph's scars reappear? Would Chloe return to being a dumpy housewife? And, most importantly, would Bridgette die of AIDS after all?

Ultimately, I couldn't take that chance. Whatever happened to me, if there was the slightest possibility, the most remote chance, that I'd kill the woman I loved, then I'd accept the consequences of having saved her in the first place. I walked away from the computer and decided I'd try getting drunk again.

I don't remember much about that afternoon, except becoming morose. In a moment of self pity, I send Bri a four word email: "Please tell me why."

The next afternoon, just as my hangover was releasing me from its horrid grip, the computer I'd not shut down chimed at me. I had email. From Bridgettefalcone. She was even more brief than I'd been: "Starbucks 9am tomorrow."

Why bother telling you that my night was sleepless? My self torture escalated to all new heights before the fateful hour arrived. The drive to Starbucks -- there'd been no need to specify which one -- felt like a trip to the gallows. Still, I put on my best game face and went in.

I barely recognized her. She was sitting in profile in the most removed corner of the place, seemed to be staring blankly, expressionlessly, at a spot on the wall. She'd lost enough weight so that her slender face looked skeletal. Her skin seemed to have a greyish tint. Her brown hair was loose and limp and unkempt. The plaid work shirt she wore was wrinkled and far too big for her shrunken frame. As I approached, she turned towards me. Her eyes seemed glassy and unfocused -- dead. She seemed to shrink within herself as I neared the table.

"Bri, I -"

She spoke to the floor. Her voice was almost a whisper, but its intensity made me stop and listen. "I lied to you. My husband didn't give me AIDS. I gave it to him. I murdered him."

"Are you sure -"

Her mouth worked for a moment before sounds emerged. "I . . . he wanted me to be with -- fuck -- other men. I pretended not to want to, made him talk me into it. We were on vacation in Boston. We bought some sleazy clothes for me to wear. Went to the Combat Zone. I loved it. I'd been a virgin until we were married -- a good girl. I always fantasized about the other side -- being nasty and wanton and slutty. We watched strippers and I wanted to be one. We watched hookers and I wanted to be one. I didn't admit it, but went to the bar of the club we were in, just like he asked me to, and let some guy pick me up. I sucked him off and fucked him in the alley while Paul watched."

She made a horrid face at a table leg. "God, I loved it. I orgasmed four or five times before he filled my cunt with cum. Then Paul fucked me, too. Still bent over the same trash can. I wanted more. I wanted every man in the club to line up and fuck me, too.

"But I didn't. I made Paul take me back to the hotel. I cried for a half hour in the shower with the door locked. Never again, I promised myself. Never again. And I kept that promise. But it cost me. I became frigid, terrified of sex. When we made love, I had to fake any kind of pleasure. I refused to even consider any kind of sex games at all -- even innocent ones we'd played before. I drove him away. He warned me: what he couldn't get at home, he got from real whores."

"So really, you don't know that -"

Her resigned sigh was worse that a scream would have been. "Doesn't matter whether I was infected in that alley or not. I'm still responsible for what happened. A horrible death, just like Paul's, seemed perfect justice."

She finally met my gaze, and I nearly wished she hadn't. Her eyes were bottomless pools of hopelessness. "And then I met you. I fell in love that very first time we spoke. Did you know that? No. How could you? I was still the ice bitch, safely locked away in my own private hell.

"Then you healed me. Nothing was the same after that. I unlocked my cell door and stepped out into the world with you. For a while I hoped and dreamed. I had another chance. I was reborn. I was . . . lying to myself."

"I don't understand, Bridgette. I thought -"

She barked a shrill laugh. "We both did. We thought we had a future together. But I don't deserve you. You're a good person -- I'm still a murderous whore. You've saved my life twice, Paul. I was mostly out of it in the ICU, but I heard the doctors talking, almost like a dream, about brain damage and spending the rest of my life as a vegetable, and then I was miraculously coming out of it. Good as new. There's only one way that could have happened."

"I couldn't let you die."

"But I want to die. I deserve to die."

Something happened inside me then for which there really aren't words. It was some sort of unholy compound made up of equal parts rage and love. I knew exactly what I was going to do. I slid out of my chair, onto one knee. I grasped her hand. She saw what was coming and tried to pull it away, shaking her head violently.

"Bridgette Falcone, marry me."

"No! You're insane!"

"Guilty as charged. Can you deny that you're in love with me?"

"No, but there's -"

"Good. That's all I needed to hear. Now be a good girl and just say yes."

"I will not! You can't just -"

"But I can. I can force you to marry me, you know. I can tamper with your head and you'll happily walk down the aisle with me."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Oh? Are you sure?"

Her eyes went huge. "You haven't already . . . oh, my god, did you? . ."

I shook my head. "Not yet. But, by all the gods, I will, if that's what it takes. I'd much rather not -- and do other things to you instead."

She shuddered. She swallowed. "Like what?"

My grin must have looked evil. "Like give you your cake and make you eat it, too."

And so it came to pass that Bridgette willingly, and happily, became Mrs. Paul Williams. Most of the time, anyway.

*

She stepped into the room, nude, still toweling her wet hair, and caught me closing down PSP.

Her eyes instantly became heavy lidded. Her lovely little nipples hardened. "What are you up to, my wicked husband?"

"Oh, nothing."

She rolled my chair away from the desk and plopped herself into my lap like she owned it -- which she does. She grabbed me by the ears and turned my head to meet her gaze. "Give, buster."

"Just putting the final touches on our second anniversary vacation plans."

"Our plans," she drawled, but her nipples stretched even further and her breathing quickened. She squirmed on my lap. "Tell me."

"Well, we're going to Vegas."

"And . . ."

"Wait and see."

"At least give me a hint."

"I'll do better than that." I handed her a folded sheet of paper. "We're going to do it differently, this time. Here's a list of the first three things you have to do to get ready. You'll start on them this morning while I'm finishing things up at work."

She unfolded the paper and started to read. "Oh, no, honey. I can't do this." She read further. "I can't do any of this. It's crazy."

"Ah, but that's the beauty of it, my love. You won't be able to help yourself. You'll resist every step of the way, but won't be able to overcome the compulsion."

She set her jaw and glared at me, but the intensity of her wiggle increased. "Oh yeah? Well, I resisted you before. I didn't come running back to you like some love stricken teenager after I came out of that coma now, did I?" She was openly humping my thigh now.

I reached down to fondle her dripping slit. She groaned, and shook in orgasm. I was going to have to change slacks before work. As a going away gift, I pinched her clit and whispered in her ear. "Cum again, honey, then get your sweet ass up and make those phone calls."

She screamed and slumped into my shoulder, nibbling my neck. "I hate you, you know. Do we have time to fuck before you go?"

"Nope. Now get up. You've got a lot to do."

"I won't," she said through gritted teeth as she stood and walked mechanically to the phone. She fought her fingers for all she was worth as she punched out the numbers on my list. "Oh, fuck. You can't -- oh, hello? Yes. My name's Mira Greenway, and I need to make an appointment for today." She glared at me over my choice of pseudonyms -- Ms. Greenway had been her very hot seventh grade teacher. "Eleven o'clock! Oh, that's only three hours from now. I -- oh no -- yes, that'll be fine."

As I was headed out the door, she was on her third call, still struggling mightily, but her thighs were wet with her juices. "Motherfucker," she screamed at my back as she slammed down the phone, "at least make me stop cumming!"

I didn't really get anything at all done at the office that day. All I could think about was Bri, and getting home to her that afternoon. But anticipation is a wonderful thing.

The smell of musky perfume and wet woman greeted me when I opened the door. I followed her scent to the bedroom and sneakily peeked through the door. She was scowling into the mirror, turning this way and that, admiring herself. The lips with which she was frowning had been fluffed by collagen injections. Her chin length brown hair was now platinum blonde and swung down nearly to her ass. A thousand dollars worth of hair extensions are a wonderful thing. Her tits were nearly two cups sizes larger, thanks to another small fortune in saline injections, and those gorgeous, swollen nipples now each sported a lovely pair of crossed studs. To ice the cake, just above her delicious ass and just below the end of her tresses, she wore a bandage, hiding what I knew was a lovely tribal tattoo.

When I stepped into the room, she whirled to face me, trying to cover herself with her hands. "Look at me!" she moaned. "Look what you made me do!"

"Oh, trust me, I'm looking!"

"Yes, I, ugnh, I see you are and, oh, shit, it's making me so hot. Fuck me honey. Please? Please fuck me before I go crazy." Her fingers, now ending in inch long red talons with ornate gold stencillings, were digging into her freshly shaven pussy -- and neither of those had been on her compulsory menu. "Come here and fuck your whore, baby. I need it so bad."

She devoured me with her first kiss, grinding herself into me, and cumming hard when she felt my erection against her belly.

"Oh, Mira's not a whore, honey. She a stripper, booked for a week at Club Runaway in Vegas."

*

So here I am, sitting where the view is best, watching my temporary stripper wife ply her trade. She's currently between sets and is working the floor for lap dances. She's wearing the tiniest imaginable sequined silver bikini top and matching thong panties which contrast wonderfully with her bronze, lineless tan. Her platinum mane swings forward as a man at a table lights her cigarette, illuminating her deep red, glistening blow job lips. Her tits swell as she straightens and inhales, thrusting her nipples to within inches of the guy's watering mouth.

I chuckle as she glares daggers at me, blowing smoke in my direction. I thought the cigarettes were a fun touch. She leans down to listen to something her current admirer says, nods, then takes his hand and sways with him toward the private area, her six inch stilettos and bouncing ass making her tattoo dance. Security here is tight. I know she's safe back there, and all the dude is going to get on the couch for his fat fee is a nibble of pierced tits and his slacks full of his own cum.

But after her shift is over and we're back in the hotel, her sodden little pussy will get all the pounding it's aching for as she tells me about her night's work. My stamina is a remarkable thing, especially with the aid of pharmaceuticals. And, trust me, a lot of stamina is utterly essential to keep up with her.

Still, we're both happy this is her last night. She's seen through the romance of the fantasy into the gritty, often ugly world of exotic dancing. Her body is slowly absorbing the injected fluids, and she's sick of taking care of hair that brushes her ass. Home tomorrow, and a return to our real lives, will be more than welcome.

But she's decided to leave the studs in her nipples, and dearly loves the ink on her hips. It'll be a while before the pressure builds to play another game. We'll have lots and lots of innocent, loving fun before she starts wheedling and dreaming and getting moody and depressed. I've got tons of sexy, nasty ideas for more immersion therapy, and, until the next time comes along, I'm sure I can force an occasional sloppy, wet, smoky face fuck from my dear, darling wife.

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