The Addicted Natural Ch. 11byblacknight99©
Chapter 11 -- The White Witch of Walden -- Prelude II
A QUICK DISCLAIMER
Remember back in the first part of this story when I related my conversation with Menlo, and I told you that bad guys always try to justify their actions. Well, in keeping with that tradition, here I go ....
First of all, I NEVER suggested to ANYBODY that Dee should call me "Master." She just seemed to slip right into the habit, and when I didn't immediately reject the moniker, it became a permanent part of her vocabulary. When I voiced my discomfort with the title to Brenda, she told me that there was no harm in it, and since Dee felt so satisfied by saying it, I finally just accepted it. I DID insist on the hard fast rule that she was never to use the term in public, and she complied, just as she complies with all my rules.
And now, on to the question that I'm sure is uppermost in everyone's mind: the money.
Everything I made Dee do in the three weeks following her induction into our family was done in accordance with her last will and testament. Well, sort of. There's a big difference between giving money away when you're dead and giving it away while you're still alive. Fortunately, we happened to have access to a real financial expert -- Dee herself, though I never let her remember any of the extensive transactions she made during that time. The choice of charities was her own. And the terms of sale of the mutual fund were entirely her ideas. The mansion and grounds, which she had originally earmarked for a state park, went to an organization that helps battered women, and that was MY "recommendation." I thought it appropriate, considering Dee's abusive past. The money for the new building on campus that would bear her mother's name was Brenda's idea. (Dee had originally just set it up as a general contribution.)
And yes, Dee was right in her diary, there was exactly ten million left over. I had her put the entire amount into a brokerage account in HER name. That, along with the diamond necklace (which appraised for almost another mil -- it's in the safe in my home office), and the lake house and the Mercedes, was all that Dee had left of her fortune. And I don't know; maybe she was right about financial people only being remembered in terms of "winners and losers." Quite frankly, I don't give a shit. All I care about is that she's alive and happy.
My office is one of the nicest rooms in the lake house. Obviously, it was once the domain of Robert Darlingshire, but I've now turned it into my own. The girls are forbidden to enter without permission. I soon began sitting at the big desk and writing the outline of what I hope will someday be my attempt at the great American novel. But every Thursday afternoon at one o'clock, Dee knocks at the door and I let her in. She enters with eyes downcast. I immediately order her to look into my eyes, and she is quickly put into a deep trance. Then she logs on to all of her mutual fund programs, catches up on the past week's financial developments, and she makes whatever sales and purchases she deems appropriate. The woman is absolutely phenomenal. In the past year, despite a sharp decline in the DOW, she's seen a total profit of over 10%. Ten percent of ten million. Even I can do THAT math.
When Dee leaves the office, she not only has no memory of what she has seen there, she also has absolutely no knowledge and no interest in what she's just done. Brenda's promise to her of "never having to think about the money again" has been kept. In the meantime, I HAVE used just a little of it. The boat, the truck, some nice acquisitions in my book collection. Pretty small potatoes, considering. Still, I guess you could argue that I've taken advantage of her.
Who am I kidding? OF COURSE I've taken advantage of her.
BRENDA AND THE BLUE GYM BAG
Before I get to the evening that changed all our lives (Dee's birthday), I feel obligated to shed some light on the relationship between my two women.
First, about their sexual relationship. It's true that I DID have something to do with that, but quite honestly, it wasn't ALL my doing. The sparks were always there. I realized early on in our lives (as a threesome) that I would probably not be able to keep up with the two of them sexually. And, quite frankly, the idea of two women having a sexual encounter has always been a turn-on for me. So, at various times, while I had each of them in their hypnotic "rooms," I would bring up their most intimate feelings about the other, and I'd gently encourage their curiosity regarding a more physical relationship. Dee had immediately agreed with me (but I know now that by "suggesting" a sexual encounter, I had probably just changed her entire mindset on the topic of lesbian relationships). I couldn't have Dee being the aggressor, though, since Dee is subservient in ALL things. So she simply became subconsciously anxious, waiting for Brenda to make her move.
Brenda, for her part, was much more resistant. Once again, I resolved not to take her into her "lower room" in order to change her sexual orientation, but we had long conversations in her hypnotic "Bedroom Nirvana," and after many sessions talking about Dee's sexual responses, the feel of her skin, the gratification of letting her please the person she loves, etc, etc, Brenda finally began weakening. I could see the "looks" she started giving Dee at certain times when she thought she wasn't being observed, and I knew the time was coming soon.
I couldn't be more pleased with the way things have turned out. Now, they are not only as close as sisters, they're as close as lovers, as well. My frequent hypnotic reinforcement keeps their desire fresh and strong, and ever since that first afternoon in the boathouse (there have been many others -- it became a favorite rendezvous), Brenda has displayed no resistance at all when it comes to her newfound bisexuality.
Brenda has always been the more dominant of the two, but I get the impression that she doesn't come by the role naturally. She has, from the beginning of OUR relationship, been an obvious submissive, and she relishes that. She became the aggressor in her love affair with her friend simply because submissiveness is something Dee needs more than she does. While it may not seem very obvious to you (the outside observer), Brenda is an extremely loving individual that seems to naturally slip into whatever emotional part her fellow actors in life most need her to play.
Now, there is no doubt that Brenda has always been more sexually excited by the existence of the blue gym bag than either Dee or me, though I must admit it has brought us all many hours of pleasant diversion. We've watched the pornographic videos, and I let the girls read the books, which they did together in Dee's room. And they loved to experiment with the nipple clamps and vibrators, though they usually seemed to think it necessary to ask my permission before they delved into the treasures of the gym bag for their own gratification.
Very shortly after we moved to the house by the lake, Brenda surprised both of us at the breakfast table with a strange request:
"Freddy, can I have $1,347?"
I put down my newspaper. "What?"
"I need $1,347. Please? I don't want to let you know what it's for, so please don't ask. Can I? Please?"
"You want to buy something?"
I grinned at her. "Does that include the sales tax?"
She suddenly looked flustered. "Oh. I guess not. I suppose you should include ... uh ...."
"One hundred and eight," Dee said matter-of-factly, and when I turned to stare at her she explained. "Eight percent in Illinois. Well ... $107.76. Just round up to One-Oh-Eight. Plus the $1,347 is $1,455." She got up and started clearing the dishes.
"Do YOU know what she wants?" I asked her.
She blinked at me. "Well ... no. I was just trying to help with the math."
I couldn't suppress a laugh. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet, then flipped Brenda one of my two credit cards. "$1,455," I said, grinning. "Not a penny more." Tomorrow was Thursday. I'd just have Dee transfer another couple grand into my account when I had her in my office for her weekly "financial trance" session. I had to admit, I was certainly intrigued. But I didn't have to wait long.
That very evening, when I got home from school, I was greeted with a sight I will never forget. There, standing in the middle of the kitchen, completely naked, stood Dee; her eyes cast submissively downward, her hands by her sides. The nipple clamps adorned her heavy breasts, and from her posture, I guessed (correctly) that the butt plug was inserted in her pretty ass. Brenda had made a "sexual presentation" of her friend before for my amusement and titillation, but this time there was a distinct difference. Every single strand of Dee's pubic hair was gone.
I walked silently up to the lovely girl and observed her closely. She didn't look up; only blushed furiously. Several feet away, Brenda stood nervously, like a starving artist at her very first gallery opening. She seemed to be holding her breath. I walked around Dee, examining her closely from all sides, then paused in front of her and laid a hand gently on her shoulder. She jumped a little, but did not look up.
"Spread your legs a bit, please Dee." She complied immediately. I put my palm on the flat of her tummy and ran my hand slowly between her legs. She made a mewling noise.
"Is this permanent?" I asked Brenda.
My wife replied in a small, uncertain voice. "Yes."
I'd read about permanent hair removal treatments in the newspaper. This, I assumed, was "the bikini area" the ads had mentioned.
"Brenda, please come over here and stand behind Dee." She did as I told her, quickly but nervously. "Closer," I commanded, and she pressed herself into Dee's back. She slid her hands around her body, holding her just below her chest, as if doing so was very natural. Dee leaned back into her slightly, and Brenda's hands rose to cup and squeeze the full breasts, lightly flicking the clamps with her fingertips.
I was still wearing my suit and tie, but I knelt on the tile floor, gently lifted Dee's right leg and put it over my left shoulder, then leaned forward and began to lick the soft flesh. It was amazingly smooth, and her skin smelled of baby powder. She was wet, and she tasted wonderful. Within seconds, she was coming very hard.
I let her body shake and quiver for awhile, and finally, after her uncontrollable moans died down into heavy panting, I got to my feet and stood once again before her. She seemed unable to control her emotions any longer, and she threw her arms around my neck as Brenda let go and stood back away from her. She was crying softly, and I could feel the harsh metal of the nipple clamps through my shirt. "Please," she begged meekly. "Please, Master. Take me, please! I'll do anything. Anything .... I can suck you! Or you can do it in my ass. You like that! Please ...."
I took her hand and led her into the bedroom.
Later that evening over a dinner of chicken Caesar salad and hot bread, the girls giddily related their day-long adventure at the "hair removal clinic." They had obviously been very nervous, excited, not just a little turned on, and above all else, extremely anxious about my response to the permanent nature of thing. I listened attentively, and then felt it necessary to seize control of the relationship again. I had come to realize some time ago that Brenda often lived submissive fantasies through Dee's subservience.
"Brenda, where's my credit card?"
She displayed her nervousness again, and raced to get it out of her purse. I took it and handed it ceremoniously to Dee. "Dee, tomorrow morning it's Brenda's turn. I want you to order them to leave a small patch of hair just above her slit. They can do that, can't they?"
Brenda suddenly blushed beet red, and Dee answered quickly. "Yes, and they can even shape it, almost like a tattoo. They have a whole book of pictures. They can make a little heart, or an arrow, or ... or just about anything!"
"You pick, Dee. Anything you want. No more than two inches in diameter. Everything else smooth and bare. And Brenda, you are not to say anything to influence her in her choice of design."
Dee looked very excited at the prospect. Brenda lowered her eyes and blushed even more."
"Golly!" she said softly.
The following night, as we lay catching our breath in bed, I rolled onto my side and raked my wife's body with my hungry eyes. Her body glistened with a thin sheen of sweat; her breasts rose and fell rhythmically with her ragged breathing. She looked up at me and gave me a thin smile.
"Gosh, Freddy," she said softly. "You took me so ... so ... hard! You haven't done it to me like that for a long time."
I trailed a finger lazily between her breasts and slid it farther down her moist skin to her newly denuded slit. She exclaimed a sharp "Aaaahhhh!" and arched her hips upward against my invading finger. She grabbed my wrist, and her body was wracked with yet another violent seizure as she pulled my hand away.
"Please, Freddy! Please! I don't think I can take any more!"
My fingers were thick with a mixture of my cum and her own copious fluids. I rested my palm on her flat tummy, and then began tracing the strange patch of hair that had been left a few inches below her naval. This remaining pubic hair was very short, but the jet black patch was in sharp contrast with her pale skin.
"What is this shape?" I asked.
She was still struggling to catch her breath, but managed to answer. "I don't know. The guys at the hair-removal place had never seen anything like it. Dee drew it on a piece of paper, and they just copied it. She didn't have a name for it, but she said that's what she wanted. She said it just suited me."
I wasn't sure I agreed. I'd never seen anything like it, either.
It was a seven-pointed star.
DEE'S BIRTHDAY PRESENT
(I should pause here and explain that officially, outside of a substantial brokerage account and annual income tax filing, Dee Darlingshire no longer exists. Let's face it; she had barely existed before. She had only met a handful of people in her entire life, her father keeping her a physical, as well as emotional, hostage. Brenda and I kept up that sham, which was pitifully easy. Dee's only identification now was a debit card from my bank account which bore the name "Dee Smith." No one in any of the stores she frequented for groceries knew her by any other name. As a child, she'd never met anyone around the lake house, since Old Man Darlingshire had confined her to the house and grounds, and had literally kept her cloistered and at his constant beck and call. At Brenda's suggestion, we had always introduced her to others as an employee, and Dee seemed to appreciate the anonymity more than anything else we could have done. It's a very sad commentary that Dee, who had once been a topic of tremendous mystery and speculation in the business media as the sole heir to the Darlingshire fortune, was literally forgotten now that everyone thought all the money was gone.)
There are little traditions and rituals in every family, and our household was certainly no different. Well, okay, we WERE different; and come to think of it, so were our traditions and rituals.
Somehow, Tuesdays became "Naked Dee day," or at least Tuesday evenings did. Brenda would spend the afternoon preparing her, bathing her, doing her hair, and from the moment I came in from work, Dee would not be allowed to wear anything (except an apron while she was in the kitchen). She really makes a rather fetching nude, and through constant hypnotic suggestion, she was never allowed to become comfortable with her nakedness. Sometimes, she would sport some of the mementoes from the gym bag, and from time to time, she would even be restrained by the handcuffs during dinner, and Brenda would have to feed her. It also became ritual during theses meals for Brenda and I to carry on long talks (often about Dee herself), completely excluding her from the conversation. Brenda often commented that this was the best thing for Dee, who needed frequent emotional reinforcement for the subservient role in life she so desired.
I enjoyed seeing the two girls wearing negligees and nightgowns, and as time went on, this became the standard evening uniform after dinner. At bedtime, however, the slinky garments were also shed, and it was my rule that we would always sleep in the nude. Even when I chose to sleep alone, leaving them to "their own devices," they were forbidden to wear anything from bedtime until morning.
We would all eat out once a week, whether in a five-star establishment or just fast food. And once a month, I would take one of them out for a "night on the town;" just the two of us. A real date. This event was almost always preceded by a day-long build-up, in which one "sister" would excitedly help the other prepare, primping and cleaning and brushing and gossiping. The two of us (my date and I) would not only spend the evening at an entertainment of some sort (a play or movie, usually) and dinner, but we'd get a motel room for a romantic night-long getaway. The next day, the two girls would chat and giggle, while the one left behind pried her female lover for every detail, sexual as well as romantic.
There were many evenings of "threesome sex," as you might imagine, but I would most often pick one of them to share my bed for the night, while the other would sleep alone in Dee's room. And this (as if it wasn't a strange enough practice on its own), often led to yet another bizarre occurrence. For many times, during the height of sexual coupling, I'd become aware of the other one watching. Once in a great while, I'd catch the two of them staring at each other as I manipulated my partner for the evening closer and closer toward her orgasm. It was as if they could share the feeling through their eyes. During the height of our coupling, it was not uncommon for me to hear the other, across the room and peeking around the door, moaning out her passion as the girl I was fucking began to lose control herself. It was actually kind of spooky. But (I argued with myself), not completely unheard of. After all, lots of people like to watch.
The one habit I could never seem to break Dee of was her sneaking into the big bedroom during my nights alone with Brenda, curling up on the floor and going to sleep at the foot of the bed. Several times, I tripped over her as I stumbled to the bathroom in the middle of the night. As autumn progressed, and the nights got cooler, I'd often find her there, shivering with cold. I'd chastise her and quickly hustle her into the big bed with Brenda and me, where we'd warm her with our body heat. Usually, Dee would have no memory of coming into the room. Even when I'd leave her hypnotized in her own bed for the night, she'd show up later in the master bedroom at the foot of the big bed. Brenda never commented on the odd practice, but she bought a thicker oval rug for the bedroom, and she started leaving a blanket on the floor.
I have always been terrible at picking out presents. It's not that I'm an unfeeling sort, it's just that I don't seem to possess the talent for knowing exactly what it is that people most want. Fortunately, Brenda is a master of the art. And so, when Dee's birthday rolled around in early December, Brenda took matters into her own hands and spent a small fortune on reservations for one of my "romantic evenings out" alone with Dee for the following week. It included a showing of "The Barber of Seville" and dinner in a super-posh restaurant in the city. I HATE opera, but I knew in my heart that Dee would absolutely love it.
Dee's birthday happened to fall on a Tuesday, a "Naked Dee Day," and despite my suggestion that we forgo the ritual on her special day, Brenda insisted that it would only make her first birthday in our "family" all the more memorable. I had long since learned to trust my wife in matters of the heart, and so I raised no objections. Brenda went all out for the evening, and spent two hours preparing Dee for her big birthday at home.