Author's note: Usual disclaimers apply, but a little looking online will prove that the bladeplay pics mentioned here do exist. The camera's operator is largely a creature of my imagination, even if there is something of an old acquaintance in her.
*
"Oh, you like having hard things in your mouth, you fucking slut?"
Lindsay Lohan grinned for the camera, shyly looking away as she bit down on a twelve-inch stainless steel carving knife. Her friend, ex-MTV veejay Vanessa Minnillo pulled down the left side of her black tank top and dragged a razor-sharp chef's knife back from the upper curve of her breast toward her shoulder. Lindsay shivered at its touch, her pussy dampening. Of all the little games they'd indulged in lately, bladeplay definitely was a huge-turn on for her. She'd "forgotten" to wear panties tonight at the direction of the camerawoman. Pretty soon her upper thighs would be soaked, and if she was lucky Vanessa would bury her head between her thighs and lick up the mess. She playfully giggled and nodded. Playing hard to get would be a dangerous game tonight, but she loved dangerous pleasures. But first they had to please the camerawoman enough to earn their rewards, and she could be a real bitch.
"Look at me, Lindsay, smile pretty for the camera." The camera clicked again. "Hold your knife to Van's throat, and look sexy. Give me a good pout. No, not the cutting edge, you fucking coke whore, the back side. You're liable to get the shakes and kill her by accident." The camera clicked again. "Now lean in, and pucker up. You know you want to kiss your little friend...." Another click. "Don't kiss her yet, wait for it, now you may." The two starlets kissed long and hard, their tongues sliding into each others' mouths like old friends. It was almost enough to make them forget about their current situation.
The snap of a riding crop across Vanessa's tightly packed jean shorts was enough to break the moment as their hostess snarled her displeasure. "That's enough. Now get in the back and get dressed properly. This isn't Casual Friday, you lazy bitches. You're lucky I don't whip you both bloody right now, and leave the whip marks where the paparazzi can't miss them."
Kristi Annison was one of Hollywood's beautiful also-rans, the sort who may appear anonymously in an issue of a men's magazine and never be seen again. She was a former prom queen, multiple pageant winner, and honor student from the Chicago suburbs, a dreamer gone bad. In a town where hundreds of beautiful teens and early twentysomethings show up every month looking for stardom, not all of them make it, no matter how great their natural 36Ds or how long and perfect their legs were. Even her blonde hair and green eyes were real. After refusing to blow third-assistant producers for walk-on parts as a bikini-clad extra, almost getting date-raped by her agent, and spending a lot of time in the wrong kinds of clubs, she had discovered a lot of rich LA men would pay a lot of money to be abused, and she liked doing it. Some of them were such human trash she would have paid to hurt them, but abusing women was something she did strictly for fun. She'd met Lohan at a fetish-themed house party at the home of a fiftyish male producer who secretly liked women's clothing and taking large toys up his ass. She'd liked the way Lindsay's eyes had lit up, and taken her home that night. Unlike Lindsay and Van, Kristi was already "dressed" for the night's fun. She wore a tightly packed leather bra with a matching garter belt, all in basic black. She'd skipped the G-string from the set, since Vanessa had already eaten her to orgasm once tonight just for the right to be there. Hair pulled back, dark makeup including Bitch Red lipstick, a cute little spiked choker, backseamed stockings, and five inch spike heels completed the look.
Lindsay shivered at the thought. She'd pissed Mistress off before, but she'd been so out of control in her personal and public lives lately she knew she'd have to concentrate on behaving if she was to get any pleasure at all tonight. Times like this were all too rare anyway. Sure the press expected her to show up drunk or high and occasionally crash one of her cars. Letting them find out her test flights of most every cock in Hollywood had left her unsatisfied and had landed her on her knees worshipping another woman's stiletto heels? Forget it. Her career would never survive that, and she didn't have enough money in the bank not to be waiting tables inside five years. Less, the way she and Vanessa had been putting Colombia's finest up their noses.
As they ran to the back bedroom and began unpacking their garb for the evening's games, she figured Vanessa had troubles of her own. Her boy-band vet Nick Lachey was spending more time indulging his own same-sex desires, sneaking in and out of Chinatown and paying big bucks to beat the asses and suck the cocks of Asian teenagers. That's probably why he liked Vanessa for public occasions. She had a tight little brown ass, probably enough to make him ignore her perky tits. What Lindsay liked was that Vanessa was such a D-list celebrity that she'd do anything to be allowed hang around at parties with the more famous. She was so eager to please that she'd taken Paris Hilton's finger up her ass then licked it clean on a dare in a nightclub's back room. Paris, never one for attention span, laughed and walked away in search of other entertainment, so Lindsay wiped her tears and took her home twenty minutes later. Vanessa had ended the night collared and leashed to the foot of Lindsay's bed. Two weeks later she'd been brought over as a birthday present for Lindsay's Mistress.
Lindsay was going for "fetish slut" tonight. She pulled out a red leather corset with garter straps, stockings, matching five-inch fuck-me stilettos, and her restraints. Mistress had given her a full set of stainless steel wrist and ankle cuffs and a heavy collar to be worn on play nights. She loosely buckled the corset, knowing Mistress Kristi would relace it according to her mood.
