Wererock

"She's a whore; you saw her." Rita started laughing, "don't worry. She's not an expensive whore. She has a price list. One dollar blow jobs and three dollar fucks. She'll head home as soon as she earns fifty dollars. You see, it's really up to you if you win or not. So, get out, sashay your little ass into the club, and go get fucked. When you go home is up to you, but you're not coming tonight if you have fewer marks than Cynthia."

I opened the car door. Rita was still laughing. My heels shifted on the gravel parking lot. I'd had a lot of practice in heels but never on an uneven surface. I had to concentrate on walking which took my thoughts off everything else. I grabbed my purse and slung it over my shoulder.

"Oh, and Amy? No condoms." She laughed some more. "Giving a blowjob is definitely something a girl should know how to do. Have fun; get lots of practice." With that, Rita drove away, leaving me behind feeling a burning ache between my legs and an urgent desire to do something about it. I hobbled across the parking lot, feeling the rocks shifting beneath each footfall. The music grew louder as I walked towards the double doors that led into the club. A bouncer at the door gave me an appreciative look; I wonder if he'd fuck me. A sign by the door read no one under twenty-one admitted.

Once inside, the music was deafening. There were two bars, one on either side, packed with people trying to buy some social lubricant. The dancefloor was full of people, most of them college-aged. There were men all around trying to pick up women. Today was their lucky night; I was on the prowl. Overhead, laser lights flittered around, moving from place to place in some dizzying pattern. The lights, green and blue and red, were pretty. I watched them for a few minutes, mesmerized by the colors.

"You're hot."

Some kid, barely old enough to drink, was standing in front of me holding a Budweiser. He was wearing torn blue-jeans and an untucked plaid shirt. His hair was brown and short and spiked. I smiled, glancing at his crotch. I wondered how big his dick was.

"Thanks!"

"What's your name."

That one was easy; I was easy. "Amy."

"That's a pretty name. Can I buy you a drink?"

He didn't have to buy me a drink. I nodded, not thinking of a drink at all. "You could. Or I could blow you." I flashed a come-fuck-me-smile. "Or something a little more filling." I touched his arm. I remember that clearly. It suggested intimacy and young or not he picked up the signals I was smacking him upside the head with.

He grabbed my hand and pulled me through the club, past the throng of people that were grinding on the dance floor, past the bars, past a small flight of stairs that led up to a suite of offices. He pulled me to the men's room and ushered me into a dirty bathroom stall. Urine soaked the floor and the toilet seat was wet and stained with things I didn't want to imagine. I heard the beer bottle slip on the dirty tile and then I heard the young man fumbling for his zipper.

I sat on the wet seat, feeling a flash of arousal at sitting on the disgusting seat. I reached up, sliding my hands along his thighs. I reached into his pants and fumbled for his cock. It wasn't big but it wasn't small either. It was an average cock on an average college kid. I grabbed it, feeling the heat of his skin. It got bigger in my hand and that made me feel powerful. I did that. It was intoxicating.

I bent forward and took it into my mouth. It was hot and sweaty and had an acrid taste that wasn't very good but wasn't bad either. It got even harder. I sucked it into my mouth. I brought my hands up. One stroked the shaft of the cock in my mouth; the other pulled him towards my while clutching his tight ass. I sucked his cock, my head bouncing. I gagged only once which made me feel proud.

The boy was moaning now, thrusting to match the motion of my mouth and hand. He grabbed the side of the stall as one foot slipped backward. He gasped, growing tense. I felt the first spurt of his come hit the back of my throat. I gasped, gagged, and felt my eyes fill up as a wave of repulsion washed over me. The boy held my head even as I struggled to pull my mouth free. I was a man, dammit, and I was straight; I didn't give blowjobs. My face turned crimson as shame descended over me. What had I done? But there was more, much more. I felt my pussy pulse in need. My arousals spiked, reaching levels I never knew were possible. Flush with embarrassment and filled with unending need, I swallowed what the boy offered, more out of instinct than anything else.

"Thanks," he said, grabbing his beer from the floor.

I nodded, not quite sure what to do. I felt disgusted with myself, ashamed for what I'd done. Without thinking I grabbed my purse and made a mark on my arm. One. My fingers found my pussy; it was red and wet and swollen. I groaned at my touch, fueling a fire already out of control.

Red-faced and needy I straightened up just as I heard the bathroom door open. Two more men came in, one carrying a beer and the other holding a glass that held whiskey or bourbon. "What have we here?" A skinny, redhead asked. He pushed his glasses up his nose.

His buddy, short and built like an NFL linebacker looked into the stall. "I know what you've been doing?"

More cocks, that's the only thing that flashed through my vacant mind. "Oh, are you sure? Maybe I should show you?"

Just like that I gave two more blowjobs and made two more marks on my arm. That made three and what kind of slut was I? I'd never learned their names. As before, as soon as one of them came I felt a mountain of humiliation wash over me, threatening to weaken me, sending me spiraling into a pit of shame that had no bottom. I wallowed in that misery and soon enough the aching desire in my cunt brought me out of that debilitating funk, sending me out on the prowl. I rinsed my mouth, walking out into the club, heading for the bar. I needed a drink, something to wash the taste of sperm and piss and sweat out of my mouth.

Before I reached the bar, a tall black man approached me. He wrapped his arm around my waist and sniffed my hair. It was weird but exciting, too. "What's your name?"

"Amy."

"Buy you a drink?"

That's what I wanted, "Sure. Whiskey, neat."

"My kind of girl." The man went to the bar, moving with an easy grace that made me think he was a good dancer, or he'd be good in bed. I watched him return, staring at his crotch. I licked my lips and when he caught my eyes I blushed. He offered me the drink. It burned my throat, making me cough. "I've never seen you here before." He had a confidence about him, and he seemed to command attention with an air of authority. He was damned sexy. He was bald and thin and well dressed in khaki pants and a pink buttoned-down shirt with the top two buttons undone.

"First time," I admitted. "I'm here for," I finished my sentence by putting my hand on his crotch, feeling what he had too offer. I licked my lips again. It was hard to heard over the loud music and dancing crowd but my actions signaled my intentions better than words could have anyway.

It was sweet when he said, "Are you sure? You don't have to."

But I did and I wanted and I was sure. I nodded, "I'm sure." I downed my drink and grabbed him by the hand. "Come on." I needed to be fucked. Hard and fast and strong and he could do it. I wanted him to do it.

I led him to the back of the club. There was a door leading to the back where the staff washed the dishes or cooked the few appetizes Casper's offered. Next to the kitchen was a small hallway with two closed doors. The first opened onto a small room with a plastic sink built into the floor, two mop buckets, one empty and the other full or gross, brown water and one floating cigarette butt. There were two mops, three brooms, and a shelf full of strong-smelling cleaning chemicals. Most importantly, it was secluded. I pulled the man in with me, and he pulled the door shut behind him. He asked me again if I was sure; I responded by unzipping his fly. How many signals does a girl need to give? That thought made me pause. Was I a girl? That didn't seem right but then I felt him harden in my hand and those doubts disappeared.

I dropped to the floor, kneeling in some sticky ooze that I couldn't hope to define. It made me feel dirty which made me feel slutty which made me want to get fucked even more. I too him in my mouth; he was cleaner than the last guy. Bigger, too. I made him match me; I was ready and thanks to my tongue and lips, so was he. I stood, spun around and lifted my dress above my ass. I wiggled in, taunting the man. I felt his hands grab my panties. He yanked them, hard, ripping them from my body. I gasped and felt my pussy gush. I looked as he sniffed my panties. He smiled, sticking them in the pocket of his khaki pants. "You're not getting these back." He was practically growling.

I rubbed my ass against his cock and then with one quick, hard lunge, he was buried in my cunt. He fucked me while I held onto the cheap metal rack holding bleach and some bottles full of generic purple cleaner. The whole rack rocked as he pounded into my wetness. I matched him thrust for thrust, grinding into him, as he shoved his package deep inside my pussy. It felt good, God did it feel good. I needed that; I've needed it all evening. I was moaning and crying out as he grunted. I felt my body respond. My nipples became even harder, my pussy gushed and I felt like I could come at any moment. "Harder," I begged, knowing that he could finally give me what I needed. "Harder, fuck me, dammit." I was close. So close.

He obliged, grabbing my hips for leverage. His speed increased and he fucked me so hard that my head almost hit the steel shelving. He was grunting louder and when he slowed I knew he was coming. I could feel it. I was close but until Rita's game was done I couldn't come. I felt my eyes well with tears. The man still rocked his cock into me and I gave him the one thing I could. I did something else uniquely feminine. I faked my orgasm. I moaned and cried out, arching my back. I made it good. And I felt nothing but shame. I was a man that had seduced another and he'd come inside of me and I'd had to fake an orgasm, getting nothing but a head full of humiliation and shame that caused my skin to blush red and my body to tremble in embarrassment.

"Damn, girl, that was good." He pulled out of me and straightened his fly.

I lowered my dress, feeling the wetness slide down my thigh. It felt gross and sexy and it made me hot. I was still blushing but now I wanted more. I needed more if I wanted to come. I tried to do that math, to come up with a number that would let me come but I couldn't do it. "What's fifty divided by three?"

He gave me a look, "Almost seventeen. Why?"

I smiled and gave him a kiss. "That was fun."

He tilted his head and recognized the brush off for what it was. I think he figured out my question, not that I was trying to hide its meaning. He left the closet, and I made another mark on my arm.

Back in the club the first kid I'd blown, with his short, spikey brown hair came up to me with two of his friends in tow. They reminded me of the geeky freshmen in college that were socially inept, that were in the Chess Club and played Dungeons and Dragons on Saturday afternoons. The trio were average looking, nothing really stood out about them. But they were cocks and they had come, and they knew what I was there for. If my outfit didn't scream slut, my actions with their friend surely did.

"Hi, boys," I said before licking my lips in a very unsubtle way. "What can I do to you?"

They stammered which I thought was kind of sweet. I stopped them and grabbed the two new guys by the hand, the first guy rushing to keep up. I led them to my office which was nothing but a dirty cleaning closet that still had the faint smell of my first frustrating fuck. Two of them fucked me while the fattest of the trio got a blowjob. Three more marks and twice more I had to fake my orgasm. I was getting good at that.

The night kept going. The music kept getting louder. More and more men bought me drinks; they were rewarded for their efforts. Some were rewarded just by propositioning me. The marks on my arm grew in number. Five became ten, which became twenty. I ended the night feeling the humiliation of being nothing but a receptacle for cum. Cynthia and I were both whores that night, only she got paid for it. Was it worse for her or for me; I was free. I was a slut.

I left the club after calling an Uber. I stood in the gravel parking lot counting the black lines on my arm. Twenty-four. I'd fucked or sucked twenty-four men. Some had gone twice, and they each got a fresh mark. Every time I received a load of come, I'd increase the shameful tally written on my skin. I smelled like an alley and felt nothing but burning shame at what I'd done. The worst thing was the numbers on my arm and how I hoped I was a bigger whore than Cynthia. That thought filled me with nothing but a deep, aching humiliation. I wanted to be the world's biggest slut just so I could come.

I was dropped off at the house, thanking my driver. I even offered him a blowjob just to increase my tally. He declined and gave me a look full of disgust. He was professional and didn't say anything. He didn't have to, the look on his face was comment enough. I felt another stab of shame.

The porch light was on. Cynthia was waiting for me in the living room. She'd been crying. There were tears in her eyes and black streaks of mascara staining her cheeks. She showed me her arm, hitching another cry at the number of cross-hatched marks. I'd lost. I had assumed most men would fuck her, but maybe that was just because it's what I'd want to do. I lost; I wouldn't get to come.

We compared arms and by the end of it, I was crying too. It had been too much. Reliving it with Cynthia made it better and my feelings for her escalated. I tried to comfort her, and she tried to comfort me and after a tear-filled hour we were both comforted.

"Make love to me," Cynthia said. "Please. Be gentle; I'm a little sore, but I need to feel something good. Something positive."

I made love to her. I was gentle and it was good and positive. I was tender. We showered together, washing away what we'd done. I cleaned her and she cleaned me. I dropped to my knees and gave her the reward she'd earned. Twice. I was still horny, but I had lost and the stone had more power that I. No matter. I wasn't sure I deserved an orgasm anyway. I couldn't shake the thought that the shame we felt, me being a slut and Cynthia a whore, was caused because I found the stone. It was my fault. The tears Cynthia cried were because of me. I didn't deserve a reward after that. I wasn't sure I'd ever deserve one again.

We went to bed where I held Cynthia as she sobbed. I had wanted to know about her night; her tears told me all I needed to know so I never had to ask. When I got the stone back I'd help her forget the night. I'd keep my memories; I deserved them as penance for the hurt I caused Cynthia.

She fell asleep with my arms wrapped around her. How were we going to face another day knowing what we'd done? I felt diminished and the tears Cynthia cried told me exactly how she felt, too. I needed the Wererock back. I needed to undo what had been done to us. These thoughts were slow to come to me. I still had a hard time concentrating. The stone, of course, was still in charge. I was still that ditzy, nymphomaniac slut.

I finally fell asleep with one final thought in my head. We needed the stone back and Cynthia was going to have to get it.

Chapter 15

Revenge

It's easy to win when you're the only one that knows the rules. Cynthia taught me that with her game and we used that to beat Rita. Rita had been so fascinated by the stone that she didn't ask enough questions when we told her about all about the Wererock. She didn't know that silver blocked it's magic and she didn't know it could make changes in others if you're both touching the rock at the same time.

Monday morning, after Cynthia and I showered together, just to feel some intimacy that wasn't designed to humiliate, Cynthia had me put a pair of silver earrings in my ear while she slipped her Grandmother's silver necklace around her throat. I felt protected. Like a vampire hunter holding a crucifix. Cynthia's phone had beeped ten minutes earlier; Rita was on the way.

We showered and dressed. It still felt weird putting on women's clothes. I looked like a woman with large, natural breasts and a sensitive slit, but inside I was a man. I'd grown up as a boy named Amy, no, Adam, and I had the memories associated with being a boy. I played Varsity baseball; I fished; I hunted and killed my first deer when I was fourteen. I remembered the first time I kissed a girl while playing a game of spin the bottle at a friend's house late one Winter evening. I remembered my first car and the first time I touched a breast, three weeks after I turned eighteen, and how it made me feel powerful and terrified and excited and just a little bit older. I remembered all these things and yet, looking in the mirror as I made up my face, I saw nothing but a mostly pretty girl named Amy who worked as a secretary in the business I started.

Cynthia came out of the master bedroom wearing a sharp black suit with a light green shirt underneath. Her skirt ended just below her knees while mine ended a few inches above my own. She placed a hand on my shoulder. I think she was still suffering from the night before and she needed to feel something other than shame or maybe she needed human contact that didn't fill her with humiliation. Whatever she needed, I would give her. I'd regret that later. Isn't that the way these things always go?

Rita arrived twenty minutes later, smiling in unmasked amusement as I opened the door, "So, who got to come?"

I said nothing which made Rita smile even more. I let her in, knowing she was powerless. We needed the Wererock back. After that, we'd see. Cynthia came into the kitchen where Rita and I were standing. She repeated the question she'd asked me when I answered the door. The blush on Cynthia's face was all the answer Cynthia needed. Cynthia turned to me, "maybe you'll win this weekend. Was it a fun game? Did you give many blowjobs?" She moved her hand in front of her mouth and used her tongue to make her cheeks bulge. It was crass and vulgar and I disliked Rita even more. She had been Cynthia's friend; how could she do this? Cynthia could barely look me in the eye and here Rita was taunting us for things that were out of our control. It was like mocking a cripple.

Rita reached into her purse and pulled out the powerful blue rock. Cynthia and I had had our fun and then Rita had corrupted it. Now, we needed it back. With our silver, it was impotent, but we had to do something to make Rita forget all about it. That would be easy. It had to be. "I promised not to mess with your jobs. Besides," she glared at me, "I find it delicious that you're nothing but a secretary at your own business. Oh, that's too good. Does that fill you with shame? It should." Her face lit up. "It can." She held out the stone. "Here, take this." I took the stone and listened as Rita mocked me. "Make it so that you're ashamed of your job. Make it so you feel trapped there. A dead-end job for a dead-end woman." She cackled at that.

The silver blocked the change. I handed the stone to Cynthia but Rita demanded it back.

Cynthia reached out and grabbed Rita's hand, trapping her hand with Rita's with the Wererock between them. I knew Cynthia was doing something; hadn't we talked about that? I was having a hard time remembering. Something about making Rita forget about something. A moment later Cynthia pulled the stone free and stuck it in her pocket.