Chapter IV: The Princess Rides Out
by Tristmegistis ©
She awoke early - noon. After a great workout that left her tingling, alive all over, she showered and used the last of the hair color. She spent a ritualistic hour before the mirror, painting her living self-portrait. She was pleased by her work, by the malleability of her face, the way it changed so quickly and remarkably into whatever she wanted it to be. She could have spent all day there, playing with different effects, experimenting with herself. But she had other things to do.
She wriggled into a pair of jeans she'd relegated to the bottom drawer because she'd bought them too small, tucked an almost transparent white blouse into them, found her red shoes, and went shopping. She relished the way the denim gripped her ass, the way it outlined her cunt, the way the heels tightened her legs. She felt that she trailed sexuality as well as smoke and perfume.
As Lisa pored over lace panties, she remembered the day she'd bought the jeans. She'd been depressed. Hell, she'd always been either depressed or angry. But, that day, she'd deliberately sought to make some change in herself. She'd been desperate, and the jeans had seemed perfect. But, enfolded in the billowy fog of depression, she'd stupidly picked up the wrong size. She vividly recalled her deep pain and sorrow when she'd tried to squeeze into them at home.
She wondered, lifting several pairs of tiny undies from the display, if it hadn't been foreshadowing, just a hint of what her subconscious was whispering was inevitable. Whatever. She compressed her lips, felt their slight, succulent slickness, and moved on.
Whore's clothes weren't easy to find in the mall she'd chosen. She had to use her imagination to come up with an outfit that approached the slatternly wear of the streets. She hadn't quite fit in last night. Too much class. She wouldn't have that problem again.
That and her other purchases ate up most of her cash. That was okay. They'd pay for themselves, starting tonight. Scoring was as sure as sunset.
She was home by the time the sun hit the horizon, climbing into her fresh uniform. She tucked the lace teddy into the lycra miniskirt, frowned at the fishnet stockings. They weren't her style, but most of the other streetwalkers had been wearing them. She shrugged. Her tits made the silky fabric shift and shimmer.
She redid her face from scratch, applied and wiped away the cosmetics until she got the look she wanted. The mirror said she was closer to fifteen than twenty-two. A very loose and beautiful and available fifteen. Nobody would believe that she'd fucked only a half dozen men in her entire life, and only one prior to the last ten days. Her look said she'd been doing it as long as she could remember, and often.
She looked jaded. Worn. Willing to do anything for the right amount of money, but incapable of feeling anything at all. This poor, sexy, juvenile bitch was pure siren, but callous and cold. She'd fuck like a wild beast, but it wouldn't mean a thing.
Yet, on the inside, she was hollow with excitement. She adored her appearance, the sensuous, casual way she smoked, the way her heavy cherry lips hung open with such insolent invitation. She was going to raise hell tonight, on and off duty. Maybe she should corner Wilson for some quick action before things officially got started.
But, instead of tapping out the precinct's phone number, her curved scarlet nails shaped Barney's.
"Hey, Barnes. Glad you're home. Want to grab a cup of coffee before we night owls hit the bricks?"
He did, but named a restaurant where he could get something a little more potent than caffeine. He beat her there. Her entrance caused a minor stir, evoked a wide grin from her friend.
"Christ, Cole. I heard about the show you put on last night. You've got every straight male you tortured having wet dreams."
She flounced into her chair with a show of leg and a smile that broke the spell of the teenage cunt persona. He lit her cigarette. "Wait till you hear about tonight."
He laughed. "You regressing or what? Trying to relive a miserable adolescence?"
It was meant as a joke. Her smile faltered. "I don't know. Could be."
He turned more serious, too. "Hit a sore spot, didn't I? Sorry."
"That's okay. Maybe I need to think about that. I didn't really try and make myself look like a runaway teenybopper. It just kind of happened on its own. Weird, huh? Figure it's Freudian or something?"
"All I know is that it's convincing. You would've been asked for an ID if you'd ordered booze. Shave off a few more years, and . . ."
"Yeah. I'm back at twelve again."
"I was going to say you'd look like Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver."
She couldn't summon a laugh. "Fuck, Barney. One minute I'm having the time of my life, acting out all the fun shit I missed as a kid, and the next it's like I'm reliving a past that maybe almost happened. Am I going crazy?"
She hadn't intended to let her sudden fear show. She felt at least as young as she looked, and anything but callous. She'd never been so alone and scared and confused. There was a huge black hole where her heart should have been.
He grabbed her trembling hand. "Hey, babe. Take it easy. Maybe you've been crazy and you're getting sane."
She blinked away tears. "Look at me! I'm sitting here like some goddamn . . . Oh, Barney! I'm afraid I'm losing control. This isn't me! Why am I doing this to myself?"
"Hey. No tears, okay? You'll ruin those pretty eyes." He leaned back as she withdrew her hand, grabbed a napkin and blotted and sniffed. "You want to know what I think?"
"You've never done a relationship. You've never even had a crush on a guy, much less been in love. Not since that asshole, whatever his name was -"
"Yeah. It looks to me like this is an ass-backwards way of getting attention. I think you're looking for love, kid."
Her laugh was shaky. "Love? Who could love a slut like me? Some crazed psycho who looks like DeNiro?"
"That's what you look like kid. That's not what you are."
She leaned forward, spoke in an urgent, frightened whisper, her piercing blue eyes large as saucers within their ornate cosmetic frames. "But what if it is, Barney? What if this is the real me, the woman I've been hiding from all this time? What if I kept myself hidden inside my walled city for a good reason? Now that the walls have collapsed . . ."
His gaze didn't waver. His voice held no doubt. "The walls are down, all right. But, Lisa, there's a huge cloud of dust blocking your vision. To really get free, you've got to climb through the rubble." He gestured at her costume. "That's all this is. Keep the faith, hon."
Her eyes held a plea she couldn't control. "Do you think I can do it? Get out alive and in one piece?"
"I'm absolutely positive."
She sank back against the chair, sipped at the coffee gone lukewarm, frowned at the red crescent left by her lips. "God, I hope you're right."
It was a thoughtful, sobered Lisa Cole who pulled into the parking lot across from the station forty minutes later. The makeup caking her face felt like a weight. Her scanty clothing felt like invisible armor, like she was both protected by and imprisoned within her near nudity. The Princess rides out from the fallen city. But to fight monster? Who was the enemy? Tommy? Rape?
She snorted at that. Now, rape was just a bad business deal. It might even be fun to again feel that absolute powerlessness, now that she knew what strength was. The kid last night sure as hell enjoyed it.
She glanced into the back seat, saw the plastic bag there, and cringed inwardly. She'd forgotten about that. Half turned, she stared at the paraphernalia as if it could hurt her. Her first pre-arranged gig. Of course, she couldn't go. It'd be wrong. She needed time off, time away from this shit. Time for the dust to settle so she could see -
The interior light flared, right in her eyes, as the passenger door opened. A dark bulk rocked the car as it sat. Captain Wilson settled himself, closed the door with a solid thunk.
"You ought to turn that damned light off, Cole. Off duty cops are targets, too."
She twisted the appropriate switch to the left until it clicked. "Sorry. Forgot."
He chuckled. "But I can see why a girl who looks like you would want people to see her. Where do those fishnets end, baby?" His hand investigated.
She clamped her thighs together. Her throat was tight. "Hey, Cap. Not here, okay? After shift, maybe."
"Why not both?" he insisted, petting her thighs, slowly sliding the lycra skirt higher.
"Shit, man, half the fucking squad would see us." But all of her wasn't resisting. Just from the hunger in his eyes, she warmed. Her fear began to dissipate like fog heated by sunrise. The hand kneading her leg felt good.
"What? Worried about your reputation? You pretty well fucked that up last night. Quite a little show you put on for the guys. And on the street. Vice was really impressed, too."
"Oh?" A slow thrill crept from the vicinity of his hand up her spine. She'd done well. Her legs relaxed slightly, allowing his hand to delve between them, but not completely to its target.
"Yeah. It seems Sergeant Trotter is a big fan of yours. She wanted to know if I'd be willing to give you up. Let her have you downtown."
There was a moment's silence. It was her move. "What did you tell her?"
"Just told her that it was up to you." But he was saying a hell of a lot more than that.
She heard him. "I see."
Lisa relaxed into the seat, saw the face given back to her by the visor mirror she'd bought at the mall. Who was that kid with all the makeup on? Whose azure eyes were they, half closed, with such thick, black lashes and fluttering peacock-tinted lids? Whose cheeks, flushed by too much rouge and growing yet darker? Whose shimmering lips, hanging openly, painted with shocking, full-grown need. Whose same dark lips shaped the words of her decision? "Do it," she muttered, swinging wide her gate, reaching blindly for him.
"What?" His hand found her as she thrust at it.
"Fuck me. Here. Now. Do whatever you want to me. Don't ever believe me if I say no."
"That's what I thought."
He told her what he wanted, and how. On her knees in the back seat, her face next to the window, her skirt over her hips, her ass high, quivering as he pummeled her. Citizens and fellow soldiers passed by, feet away, without noting the rocking car or hearing her muted cries. She longed to cry out. Here I am. Look at me. Watch me fuck him. I have no shame. I'm proud of what I am, Daddy.
But she didn't. She focused her attention on the fat, long cock spreading her wetness, making sucking noises as it slid out to its head before burying itself until its driver's hips slapped her hard, bare ass. Already, she was coming. Already, her inner muscles twitched and writhed around the hot, hard shaft. Her nipples rubbed against the silky fabric of the teddy, the light contact so electric that it verged on pain.
He was saying something. She tried to listen.
"Answer me, cunt! Do you want the transfer?"
"Yes," she croaked, pushing harder into him, needing more.
"So you can play whore full time?"
"Yes. So I never have to stop," she muttered thickly, reaching down to rub her swollen clit, to feel his slickened cock where it vanished into her soul.
"But you'll come when I call you. You owe me."
"I'll never forget what you've done. What you've helped me do." Her voice shook wildly. The distended button between her nails was making her delirious. It was coming. Bigger, more powerful than ever. She was earning everything she got. Every orgasm. Every promotion. Every dollar. She deserved it all, and more.
She screamed when it became too much. A shrill, ululating wail that began where his cock ended and stretched her unkissed crimson lips into a wide round hole. His cock leapt. His hips bucked. His come shot into her, felt like it was transformed into sound, roiled out her throat.
A hard, huge hand clamped over her mouth, stifled her raw shout, made it impossible for her to breathe for a moment. Like the long-ago hand on her throat, gripping, squeezing. Impossibly, the awesome power of her orgasm redoubled. The scream died in her throat, was transformed from something physical to something psychic, involving her entire being.
As red and black motes swam before her eyes, she felt grass under her squirming ass, felt the sharp pain of her ruptured hymen, felt the orgasm that had silenced her then, too.
Her sight dimmed. Physical sensations became foggy, distant, then ceased altogether. But not for long. Just long enough for Wilson to have pulled out, to have let her collapse onto the seat like a broken doll. She faintly heard his zipper close, felt him disentangle from her limp legs.
"Congratulations, Cole. You've made the grade. Better clean up. You've only got fifteen minutes before roll call."
She tried to move, straighten herself as he climbed from the car. It took too much effort. She relaxed, heard the door slam. She felt so weak. Her eyes closed. The image returned.
Fighting him away. Pushing with her hands. Trying to scratch his eyes out. Scared. So fucking scared there weren't words. But, even through her panic, feeling him inside her. Huge. Too huge. Tearing her in half. Feeling so good.
She'd tried. She really had. With all her heart and soul, she'd tried to make the swelling joy go away. It wasn't supposed to be that way. It was a bad thing. But it was his fault. He was too big and too strong. He'd raped her. He'd made her come.
She made a pitiful sound, half laugh, half sob, and pushed herself upright in the seat. Her cunt still pulsed, still tickled, deep inside. She swept a dank lock of black hair from her face, fought her skirt down. As she clambered from the back door, then into the front, she could feel his come trickling down her leg. A part of her still felt like it was again lost in orgasm.
Lost. That was the key word. Or found, maybe. She'd found her memory of that night, hadn't she? All of it, after all these years. It explained why she'd instantly accepted her Dad's brand, why she'd known, all along, that he was right, that she deserved punishment, that seeking vindication had been unjust.
It made a lie of the last decade. By having that orgasm, she'd made it not-rape. She found a cigarette, sucked soothing smoke as far inside as she could, then let it go in a tight plume.
She just liked to be roughed up a little. That was the bottom line. She was just a twisted little bitch who liked it kinky. The dirtier the deed, the more she got off on it. Wilson, bless his black heart, had consistently done the right thing, quite by accident. He'd seen her heart from the start, treated her like the filth she was. Yeah. She owed him a lot. A free lifetime supply of cunt.
Speaking of Wilson, it was time for the official version of tonight's fun. She'd better get her sleazy ass cleaned up and repainted and get inside. There was work to be done, a transfer to implement. And a trick to turn afterwards. Maybe more than one.
She made her last night at the old precinct one to remember. The guys all greeted and treated her like she was one of the underage hookers they drug in on a regular basis. She was surly and sullen and bored. When they surreptitiously pinched her ass, she callously wiggled it for more. When they peeked under her lacy top, she remained bent forward until they'd gotten a good look. When she stood, she gave them all a nice beaver shot.
They laughed uproariously, tried to hide the erections that tented their trousers, treated the whole thing like it was a game. She really didn't give a fuck what they thought. For Lisa, it wasn't a game. Any one of them could have had her for the asking.
Sergeant Trotter caught her outside the briefing room. She, too, was wearing a different outfit. The other women sported basically what they'd worn the night before.
"So. Wilson says you're interested in joining up."
Lisa gave her a cigarette, lit it and her own. Her cunt was throbbing. Her voice was throaty. "Very interested. Where do I sign?"
"You just did. Paperwork's been in the pipe all day."
"You knew. What made you so sure?"
"Watching you work. Seeing how it turned your crank to lead the johns on - and how you still kept your head. Not one bad pop all night. Tell me something, Cole. How far are you willing to go?"
Lisa eyed her superior through their smoke. "I'm not sure what you mean, Sarge."
"I mean, how convincing can you be?"
"I guess that depends. The more an assignment interests me, the better I'd be at it."
"Ah. Being a whore interests you. We deal with more than hookers, you know. Do drugs and gambling interest you, too?"
"I've never tried either one," she shrugged, wondering where this bizarre interview was headed. "If you sent me after somebody important, would I be willing to do whatever it takes? That what you're wondering?"
"Off the record, of course."
"Of course. Let's just say that I'd do my damnedest to bring the bad guys in. That answer enough?"
"Yeah." Her eyes lingered over her new recruit. "Can you act as young as you can look?"
"Watch me work tonight and decide for yourself."
Trotter gave her a curious nod and started through the door, then looked back over her bare shoulder. "By the way, you spilled something sticky on your hose. Better wipe it off before it stains something."
Lisa didn't blush, didn't even blink. She just grabbed a napkin and cleaned up a spot of Wilson's come she'd missed before. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it. We've got to cover one another's back from now on."
The briefing wasn't brief. They never are. Lisa's mind wandered, replaying Trotter's words, digging for hidden meanings. Had she been saying sometimes Lisa'd have to fuck, not fake it? The by now familiar butterflies filled her gut, crept lower.
The work was just as exciting as it had been her first night. She was more confident, even more brazen, and a tad more reckless, too. As a fifteen year old slut renting her holes on street corners should be.
This was her job now. This, and variations upon it, would become daily fare. It was as if her session with Wilson and acceptance by Trotter had primed her, physically and emotionally, to push the boundaries of legality.
She walked right on the edge of entrapment all night. She couldn't actually touch them, grab their cocks the way her fingers ached to. But twice, she couldn't resist letting them feel her up a little. Once, as she leaned far inside a car, the dude had petted her left tit like it was a kitten. Later, just before her dinner break, on the too-short ride to the dark alley she'd named, the driver had driven his hand between her legs, encountered her damp, naked cunt. It'd taken every bit of her willpower to drag the fingers away instead of urging them deeper. She turned him over to the uniforms, just like the others.
But it'd wrecked her appetite for food. Instead of meeting Trotter and a couple of others at a diner, Lisa made do with coffee and casual banter with a couple of real child whores bragging about their successes.
When the car stopped in front of them and the balding, grey bearded man smiled and waved her over, her throat tightened. None of the other cops were around. She was on her own. They wouldn't be back for at least another fifteen minutes. Before even making a conscious decision to do so, she found herself sliding through the door he'd opened for her.
She didn't have to fake nervousness. The words she'd heard all night - how much for a little blow job - resonated in her skull. She answered by the book. How much did he think she was worth? He peeled a pair of twenties from a fat roll, eyed her questioningly, then added a ten. She nodded. His cock was the most immense thing she'd ever seen. She had it out and hard before they got to their dim corner. A full nine inches long and nearly as fat as a beer can, it filled both her amazed hands as well as her impossibly stretched lips. It hurt. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get much more than its head into her mouth.
He was used to that, seemed to appreciate the way she jacked him, tickled his hairy sack with her nails, bathed what she could handle with fervent kisses and guttural, lavish praise. She meant every word of it. It was magnificent. She wanted it all, was horridly frustrated because she couldn't take it down her throat.
He offered her another ten to swallow his come. Fuck. A major earthquake couldn't have made her not gulp it down. It was oddly bitter. She noted, as she slurped and gasped, that everyone's she'd sampled had tasted different, but his was almost unpleasant. She swallowed and sucked and licked him clean, anyway. A deal is a deal.
He dropped her off a block from her assigned corner. She was dizzy with need, had to resist the impulse to step into a dark doorway and finger herself to the orgasm she desperately craved. Instead, she focused the energy into her makeup, lingering over her lipstick until she was satisfied that her just fucked mouth told the whole story. She was a teenage cock-sucker by trade as well as inclination.
Trotter was already back, watched the bold, insolent strut of her approach. Lisa couldn't summon even an iota of nervousness at the knowing smirk the sergeant wore and the snide comment about eating out. Her new boss didn't seem to care.
Wilson wasn't waiting for her after the shift ended. She dawdled and dallied for a while, cleared up a few details that would have kept, hoping for a farewell fuck in the alley. He didn't show. Mildly pissed, she only then remembered what she was supposed to do after work. She had a customer waiting.
Her low-grade anger served her well. The kid was so fucking anxious, so terrified she wouldn't show, that she laughed in his face. He'd scoured the apartment from wall to wall, just like she was a straight girlfriend come to call. But he had the money.
She watched him, picked up on cues he dropped as to what he really expected from her. Just like before, he wanted humiliation, subjugation. She sat on the sofa, cigarette and drink in hand, and ordered him to strip for her, nice and slow, to the music on the radio. He was inept, awkward. afraid. She had to tell him how to do everything. She made it perfectly clear that he was a total fuckup, an absolute and irredeemable failure as a man. He was wounded, but his cock stood at shameful attention.
"Open the bag," she ordered.
The plastic rustled as he picked it up. His eyes were on hers. "What's inside?"
"Your clothes for the night. Put them on."
He was horrified by what he found. "No! I can't!"
She slid to her feet. "Sure you can, baby. Here. Let me help."
He backed slowly away. "No."
It took all of five seconds to subdue him. The arm lock was painful, not playful. She made sure he knew that she'd dislocate his shoulder if he continued to resist. He stood on his tiptoes, grimacing, as she walked him to the bed, cuffed him as she had before.
She casually retrieved her cigarette and drink. "I didn't want to have to do it this way," she lied. "But I know it's what you want. Since you obviously don't have the balls to do it by yourself, I guess it's up to me. It'll cost you, though. Another hundred."
"No. Please. I -"
The hand squeezing his balls shut him up. "Another hundred. Right?"
She really had no idea how to go about it. She improvised the whole thing. She searched the tidy little bathroom for his razor, found an electric version, and used it. It pulled as much hair as it cut, and left a nasty stubble. She told him to take care of that later. He instantly agreed. Then she dressed him. He cooperated fully, all reservation having been shed with his leg and underarm hair. Still, she kept the handcuffs in place as she finished her work. Finally, blindfolded, hands secured behind his back, she led him into the bathroom and stripped the cloth from his eyes.
"There, cunt. What do you think?"
His shock was absolute. He stood, frozen, only his darting, hungry eyes capable of movement. His sweet little red lips finally smiled. His long lashes batted coyly. "I love it," he simpered, turning to admire his false tits and long, stockinged legs. "Am I as pretty as I feel?"
He was, really. He had decent legs, not too knobby. His ass was skinny, and the lump of his hard-on needed to be tucked away somehow. The dime store wig would pass in bad light. And his face was sexy as hell. His complexion had smoothed under the thick makeup she'd plastered over it, and his big brown cow's eyes glowed inside their liner and mascara and shadow.
He turned to face her, made his voice a parody of femininity. "How can I ever thank you?"
"The money's a start." She grabbed the cuffs, jerked him out of the bathroom and pushed him onto the living room floor.
This'll finish it."
She lifted his cheap minidress and her own more expensive skirt, sank down astride him, impaled her overheated cunt on his stretched rod, rubbed garter belts with him.
"Fuck me good, bitch," she growled ominously. "Make me come or I'll beat the living shit out of you."
He did okay. Well enough to get her off, anyway. But almost anything would have done that, by then. She was an orgasm waiting to happen.
After he filled her, she gave him back his come. He licked her clean with an energy even more desperate than the night before, succeeded in making her come a second time. He was really a better pussy eater than anybody's face she'd ridden. Maybe because he wanted one of his own, and whatever sperm was left by others in her reservoir.
With his wrists re-locked in front, she made him awkwardly repair his makeup, then drug him outside, forced him to tell her where his bank was, and made him withdraw the second hundred from the teller machine. Then, she forced him out of her car, made him walk the ten blocks home in pre-dawn's half-light. He needed the exposure, she mocked out the car window as she sped away.
She circled the block, turned off her headlights as she rounded the last corner. He hadn't stood there wearing that agonized look for long. Nor was he skulking from shadow to shadow. He was tapping his way down the sidewalk, getting the feel of the ill-fitting high heels. As a car approached, he cringed a little, for a moment. Then he added a sway to his ass and walked on.
She threw her cigarette into the street, clicked on the interior light, and looked into her eyes. They were those of a little girl playing a strange, warped game of adult dress-up. Couldn't anybody else see past the makeup? None of her johns, would-be or actual, ever saw her pain. Why was that? The other whores just saw competition. No. Not true. They knew, because they had the same look. Trotter had it, too.
She checked her lipstick. Unsmeared and gleaming. Her hair. Smooth and sleek. Such a sexy little piece. Such a raw bundle of sexuality, primed and ready.
Why did she have to be this way? Of all the ways possible, why this one?
She jerked the car into gear, cranked up the radio. Because this was the one that met all her needs. It got her laid as often as she wanted. It paid well. And it offered justice for all, in one nice, neat bundle.
Everybody should be so lucky.
To Be Continued...
|Click on the name for contact info and more works by Tristmegistis.|
© Copyright 2000 by literotica.com.