Vanessa's Vocation

This is a fantasy, needless to say – you may like it, or not. I never know where these stories are going when I start to write them .I don't know about you, I prefer fairly straight sex, but it's boring to read and write about, so here goes!

*

My name, for many long years, sounded to me like a joke. It sounded so sexy, so sophisticated, the name my parents had chosen, when they had decided to bring me up like a 'Mary' or a 'Joan' – that style of thing, you know what I mean. At school, I was the last to wear short skirts, never allowed make-up, and as for boy-friends, well, they had to wait until I'd finished my studies, didn't they?

But then, after some athletic success in my mid-teens, I discovered that academia wasn't for me, and rebelled. Well, I mean, who doesn't? I left school at sixteen, went to work in a shoe-shop with a fellow high-jumper from the local athletics club, and caused my parents so much grief that they almost disowned me. It all revolved around a boyfriend, of course, who, looking back, was about as much use as a chocolate teapot. My own age, he was sexually naïve, gauche and awkward, and my first amorous encounters were disastrous, fumbling affairs, invariably terminating in premature ejaculation and acute dissatisfaction.

But whilst working at the shoe-shop, I started to look at the sophisticated ladies who came in to try on shoes, and, on Mondays and at other quiet times, I took to people-watching, and wondering if I could somehow aspire to be like one of the beautiful people I saw walking about town.

I can even put a precise time to my transformation. My parents had gone away for their summer holidays to a French campsite, something I had long since stopped wanting to accompany them on, and I was alone in the house. I was just eighteen, and had finished with Tim, had an unsatisfactory flirtation with a slightly older biology student, Kevin, and was generally at a loose end. I arose late on the Saturday morning after my parents' departure, and took a long, hard look at myself in my mother's full length mirror. Looking back at me was a surprisingly nicely-put-together woman, I thought. I had matured into a tall, slim, long-legged young woman, with a small, heart-shaped face and a nice even-toothed smile, long, thick, honey-blonde hair, narrow waist and smallish, firm breasts. I saw no reason not to try and improve my own prospects, and resolved, there and then, to do something about it.

As soon as my parents returned, I announced my intention of taking a few months off, and immediately raised a storm of protest, but I wasn't to be diverted, and two weeks later, I was on a flight to Madrid, armed with my savings in the form of credit cards, for no better reason than that I got a cheap flight, and had a few words of school Spanish.

Once in Madrid, I thought I should take a few days to do some sightseeing, then try to go to one of the wine-growing areas, and see if I could find casual work. From Barajas airport, I took the Metro into the city and found a cheap hotel near the centre, booking in for three nights. It was four in the afternoon and hot, so I changed from my travelling outfit of jeans and tee-shirt into a cotton miniskirt and an off-the-shoulder cotton blouse, slipped on a pair of comfortable shoes and went out into the blazing sunshine.

It was uncomfortable walking, even so scantily clad, so I stopped and ordered a pineapple juice at a café and sat outside, watching the world go by, wondering if I had done the right thing.

'I think you are English,' said a deep, cultured voice, with only a trace of a Spanish accent, half behind me. I turned and was looking into the brown eyes of a man in his late forties, I guessed, even early fifties – yes, early fifties, I revised my opinion. He had wavy grey hair, and chiselled features. He wore a cream linen suit, complete with jacket, despite the intense August heat, and a brown button-down shirt with an open neck.

'May I?' he asked, taking a seat beside me, as if I had concurred already. 'Rafael de la Fuente.'

'Vanessa Carden,' I replied, 'pleased to meet you.' Though I wasn't too sure I wanted to meet anybody at all – not just yet.

Rafael insisted on buying me another juice, and was disappointed that I would take nothing stronger. He spoke excellent English, and when I told him I was interested to know how he had picked me out as being English, he became a little coy, then laughed gently and said, 'Spanish girls look a bit different, and almost always....er, wear bras, you know.'

I looked at him, not sure whether to be annoyed that he had noticed I had not been wearing a bra, then burst out laughing, and the awkwardness between us was gone. I could scarcely believe it when he invited me to dinner that evening, and even less so when I accepted. My God, Vanessa, I thought, what are you doing? A dinner date with a man older than your father?

As Rafael took his leave of me, after arranging to pick me up at the hotel at eight-thirty, (eight-thirty, I thought – now I know I'm in Spain!) he said, 'Wear something beautiful.'

I was in a panic. My rucksack, back at the hotel, contained jeans, shorts, tee-shirts, underwear – nothing else. OK, then, desperate measures. I headed for El Corte Inglés, and raided the sales, currently in full swing. In a couple of hours I had found a dress the like of which my parents would never have approved, a long electric blue, backless halter-neck shift. Rafael had noted my lack of a bra, so he wasn't going to miss one tonight either, and the skirt was so tight and of such thin material that panties were out of the question too. I needed shoes to go with it, and Spain is well supplied with shoe shops. I was surprised at the cheapness, when compared to the ones I had been selling, and bought a pair of outrageously high black stilettos.

When I had bathed and washed and brushed out my long hair to a silky sheen, I slipped into the new dress, and looked at my metamorphosis in the mirror of my tacky room. I didn't recognise this Vanessa. When Rafael rang my room phone at precisely eight-thirty, I slipped on my new shoes, and hoped I shouldn't have to walk too far in them. He was waiting for me in the lobby, dressed in a white tuxedo and black tie – was I glad I had bought the new dress!

'Vanessa. You look quite stunning,' he said, and led me out to a shining black Lexus parked illegally outside, opening the passenger door, and helping me arrange my dress before closing the door.

We drove for a surprising thirty five minutes, running into leafy suburbs, then parkland, before turning off up a narrow track and stopping in a car park full off very expensive cars outside a castellated restaurant, with a uniformed attendant at the door. He seemed to be familiar with my escort, greeting him and nodding formally to me as we entered.

The Maitre d' showed us to a corner table, sumptuously set for four, and I took in the surroundings – and very elegant they were, with well-dressed people conversing quietly, as soft music played. I expressed surprise that our table was for four, and Rafael told me he had taken the liberty of inviting friends to dine with us. 'I think you will enjoy their company, my dear,' he said.

We ordered drinks, and no sooner had our gin and tonics arrived than our fellow diners joined us. Juan was, I supposed, in his thirties, and darkly handsome, wearing a black

dinner jacket and white polo-neck shirt, whilst his partner, Alicia, was petite, with flashing black eyes, and jet black hair piled elaborately on top of her head. She wore a ruinously expensive-looking long white silk gown, open at the front right down to her waist.

When introductions had been made, I said laughingly to Rafael, 'I thought you said Spanish girls wear bras.'

Alicia said, 'We aren't all Victorian, you know. Some of us are quite liberated.'

I must have flushed bright red: 'I'm so sorry – I didn't realise you understood English so perfectly, and I didn't mean to.....well, you know........'

She was smiling, and put a cool hand on mine. 'Don't feel bad. I do understand,' she said, 'and I know why Rafael brought you. You are very pretty.'

This did nothing to lessen my embarrassment, but the waiter came and took our order, and a delicious meal ensued, washed down with ample quantities of good wine.

A little unsteadily, I stood up to go to the toilet, and Alicia volunteered to accompany me, guiding me to the sumptuous bathroom. When I had used the loo, she came and stood with me as we repaired our make-up, and took my hand in hers.

'Vanessa, how long did you plan on staying in Madrid?' she asked.

'Just about three days,' I replied.

'Rafael has asked me to put something to you,' she said.

I turned to her in surprise. I had wondered at the dinner invitation. Things like that just didn't happen to me, and suspicion was now filling my mind. Then again, I had never had a meal like that in my life before, nor been in such a restaurant, in the company of such elegant people. I decided to hear her out.

'Come and live with us,' she said, looking directly into my eyes, 'stay as long as you want, enjoy our lifestyle, and leave if and when you wish.'

I looked hard at her, wondering if alcohol was clouding my judgement, as I was on the verge of agreeing. For the sake of argument, I asked, 'What's the catch?'

'I said, we have our own lifestyle. You will soon know whether you like it or not. If not, you leave. There is no catch. Come, let us join the others, then you can decide.'

In truth, I had already decided. I liked Alicia instinctively, and was, I suppose, a little bit in love with the urbane Rafael already.

'Well?' he asked, simply, 'what do you think?' when we returned.

'Very well,' I said, 'just so long as I can leave whenever I want.'

He leaned over the table and kissed me softly, full on the lips, and I found myself opening my mouth instinctively in response.

Whether it was the effect of the wine or not, my hand crept into his lap as he drove us back into Madrid, and I found myself gently massaging a considerable erection through his trousers by the time we had entered the traffic flow of the city centre.

When we arrived at the hotel, he parked the Lexus in an underground car park, and accompanied me to my Spartan little room, which he viewed with ill-concealed distaste.

'Tomorrow, we'll put you somewhere much nicer,' he said.

As I pushed the door shut, there was barely room to stand between the bed and the dressing table, but I threw my arms around Rafael's neck, and drew his face down to mine. He kissed me, with the same softness he had shown in the restaurant, this time exploring my mouth with his darting tongue, while he felt for the fastening at the back of my neck. It only took a deft flick of his fingers to release this, and the halter-neck of my dress was unfastened, so that he was now able to cup my naked breasts with both hands.

'You don't need a bra, do you?' he said.

'I don't like wearing one,' I replied.

He tweaked my nipples between thumb and forefinger, hurting them a little, and I cried out, but he moved his fingers to my lips, saying, 'A little pain is important, my dear – you will learn.'

Then, he sat on the bed, and told me to take my dress off. I hooked my fingers into the waistband, and gave a pull, and wriggled its tightness down over my hips, down to the floor. I was completely naked in front of him, as I had never stood naked in front of my boyfriends – or anyone. He looked at me critically, and turned me around.

'Very nice,' he said, 'but I think you must be shaved.'

His words shocked me, but I forgot them instantly as, without delay, he unzipped his trousers and, apparently wearing no underpants, easily took out an impressive shaft, which he slowly massaged with his right hand, while I stood and watched.

He reached out with his left hand, and felt my crack in the narrow confines of the room – I couldn't have got away if I had wanted to – I knew I was sopping wet with desire by now, and couldn't wait.

Without further ado, I lowered myself onto his beautiful cock, imprisoning its rampant length within the tight walls of my eager, waiting cunt. I gripped and released him with my vaginal muscles in time with his mighty thrusts, and his hand found my clitoris, and flicked at it as he drove in and out. I orgasmed violently three times, before he came in a hot, urgent gush, deep into my womb.

'I've never really been fucked before,' I told him, when we lay together, and he lit a small cigar, explaining that it was the only time he ever smoked.

'You will be fucked again,' he said, 'don't worry.' How right he was!

Rafael left me, saying, 'Sleep now. You will be collected at eleven tomorrow. Your hotel bill is paid.'

I opened my mouth to speak, but he was out of the door, leaving me relaxed, but wondering what I had let myself in for.

At eleven sharp, I was sitting in the shabby lobby of the hotel, having packed my few belongings in my rucksack, breakfasted lightly on a delicious coffee and croissants, when a young guy in jeans and a real Madrid sweat-shirt appeared, saying, 'Señorita Vanessa?' This appeared to be the limit of his English, and all my efforts at conversation came to nothing.

I let him pick up my rucksack and lead me out to a Chrysler Voyager waiting outside.

It was a relatively short drive – about twenty minutes, to a smart suburb of the capital, and we turned onto a gravel drive and drew up outside an imposing portico, up to which six wide steps led. A uniformed maid opened the door when the young driver rang the bell, then she took over and led me, again in silence, to a room on the first floor, where she stood aside for me to enter. I realised that my rucksack had not been brought with me, and turned around to say so, only to find the maid no longer there. I closed the door behind me and looked around the room. It was an extremely nice one, with a double, four-poster bed, big, mirrored wardrobes, and an en-suite bathroom. I was just about to investigate the contents of the wardrobes and the many drawers and cupboards when there was a sharp knock on the door. I expected someone to come straight in, but nobody did, so, after waiting a moment, I called to them to come in.

'We respect privacy here,' said Alicia, by way of a greeting, when she walked in. She was only just recognisable from the sophisticated lady of last night, now dressed in a cotton print mini-dress, her black hair caught up in a pony-tail – she looked hardly more than a schoolgirl.

'Welcome to Casa Fontana,' she said, 'I hope you'll be happy here, and that we'll be friends. Rafael wants to see you downstairs in ten minutes.'

I asked her when my rucksack was coming, and she said, 'It will have been put in the store, I think. You should find everything you need here in your room. If you need anything personal from your rucksack, just ask one of the girls, and they'll fetch it for you.'

Alicia showed me the contents of the bathroom cabinet, and they were, indeed, comprehensive, with every kind of cosmetic I could think of, soaps and oils of all types, and a make-up kit to die for. A long cupboard contained expensive French perfumes, all unopened, of many brands. I whistled softly, and looked a question at Alicia, 'There's got to be a big catch in this,' I said, and I felt a deep suspicion gnawing within me. Was I being abducted into white slave trade? What was this all about? A part of me wanted to believe in Rafael, with the memory of last night's exquisite sex still warm between my legs, but then...........

Alicia was waiting for me, and I quickly brushed out my hair, looked critically at my image in the mirror, and then followed her down the broad staircase to a comfortable lounge, where Rafael was waiting, sat cross-legged in an overstuffed armchair, wearing cream chinos and a blue polo shirt.

'Sit down, please, Vanessa,' he indicated another armchair opposite, and Alicia left us alone.

'You will be wondering what on earth this is all about.' He smiled briefly. 'Well you may, because my organisation is probably unique. When you hear what I have to tell you, it may be that you will wish to leave immediately. I should like your word that you will not divulge anything of what I am about to tell you, should you do so?'

I nodded my assent.

'OK. I picked you because I recognise something in you, don't ask me what, but something I have come to know, and something I think was partly confirmed last night.' He smiled again, and I felt an involuntary dampness creeping out between the lips of my sex. He was irresistible, and I wanted his thick cock to fill me again - now.

'I will continue. I run a business. It is called 'Reality BDSM.' We give shows to small private BDSM clubs, in many parts of the world, for which I charge a considerable sum of money, of course. I take it you understand the initials 'BDSM?''

I nodded dumbly – girls at school had imported some pretty corny spanking mags – stuff like that, so I wasn't completely naïve, but had never thought of myself as likely to get involved with this sort of scene.

He was continuing, 'The "reality" part is the cornerstone of my business. The only reason I survive, and have done for several years, is that the shows we give are real, in the sense that the protagonists are doing what they most want to do, what gives them most pleasure. That way, our shows have the spice of reality no amount of make-believe can suggest.' He paused to let this sink in.

I think my mouth was hanging open at this stage, because, he reached across and touched my knee, and asked, 'Shocked?'

'Yes, a little.'

'Want to go now?'

I heard myself say, 'Er...no, I don't think so.' Something about the whole thing fascinated me, I had to say, and the wetness between my legs was, if anything, increasing.

'You don't sound very sure, but I'll go on. If you decide to stay, you will take part in our shows, wherever they may be required. The pay is good, and a Swiss bank account will be opened in your name. Everything you need will be provided here free of charge. The first month of your stay will be one of learning our way of life – learning to enjoy what is, in fact, our veryraison d'être. There is no formal training programme, but you will be asked to live by our codes, dress in a certain way, that kind of thing. As you haven't run away as yet, I take it you are interested. Have you any questions for me?'

I thought he was being evasive, at least on one subject, and I had seen this sort of thing in magazines. I had also read, a while ago, 'The Story of O' – and, incidentally, been turned on by it – so I had some idea, and fear.

'Am I to understand I shall be whipped?' I asked, 'like "O"'.

'Yes,' he smiled, 'as you ask, and I note you are well-read, but no real harm will come to you.'

I looked at Rafael, and knew that I was going to agree to his proposal. I had never before thought of myself as a submissive, and still didn't see myself in that role, but thoughts came crowding in, vivid literary memories of 'O' being chained and whipped, all-too-recent memories of Rafael tweaking my rigid nipples, then ramming his cock hard into my belly. I closed my eyes for a second, and said, 'Yes, Rafael, I'll come to you.' He simply nodded, stood, and leaning over, kissed her on both cheeks, then left without another word.

I wondered what would happen next, but only had a couple of minutes to wait, because a tall, slim blonde girl about my own age appeared by my shoulder, and smiled at me.

'Hi,' she said, with an American accent, 'I'm Cindy, I've gotta help you. Come on.'

We went up to my room and she sat down on my bed and started to tell me about the 'dress code' while I inspected the wardrobes and drawers. She told me that trousers were definitely a no-no, that panties were forbidden, and that bras had to leave nipples free, if they were worn at all. She said that Rafael liked elegant clothing, especially at dinner, for the girls, but that he also liked restraint, in the form of very tight long skirts you could hardly walk in for evening dress, and cruel whale-boned corsets, which all the girls were obliged to wear for at least two days a week.