Vegas Night

We cruised down Market Street and made our way up to Twin Peaks. As soon as Sandy was out of the car, gazing down at the lights below, the child in her returned.

"Come on slowcoach," echoed through the still light air as I slammed the car door shut. "Wow, look at that! All those lights! All those people! All that traffic! After the peace and quiet of Yosemite, it's like a seething army of ants: humanity en masse. Come here and give me a cuddle, stand behind me and wrap your arms round me!"

I snuggled up behind her and folded my arms around her, enveloping her body, resting my cheek on her hair. She murmured an approving, "Mmm."

"What's that down there? The long road with all those tiny cars, headlights blazing, crawling along it?"

"Oh, I think that's Market Street, sure it is. You know, the road we just drove along. Somewhere, about three-quarters of the way up it and just off to the right is our hotel."

"Mmm," she paused and sighed. "Down there are thousands of people. Some going home from work. Others at home doing mundane things — cooking, cleaning and all that. Some making love. Somewhere down there someone is probably being murdered." She shuddered at the thought. "People doing everything imaginable and, from here, so tiny, so insignificant. It looks huge but the whole city is nothing more than a speck on the globe. Weird!"

"Yep." My tone was indifferent and matter of fact: what she had said was right. "You're going off into what you call your 'soppy bitch' mode again, Sandy. Going all deep and philosophical on me again."

She didn't take offence. "Well, I told you I f-e-e-l, didn't I? That underneath the whore in me there is a heart and mind. I'm not blonde and I'm not dumb."

"You sure ain't blonde," I joked. "Your collar matches your cuffs, seen 'em both!"

Sandy must have been lost in her thoughts because I was sure she knew what I meant but she said, "What?"

"Hair on your head matches the hair in your groin," I quipped summarily. "Supposed to be the test of a true blonde, isn't it? Collar and cuffs match unless like Jean Harlow or Marilyn Monroe the cuff is bleached to match the collar."

Her elbow dug into my ribs. "I knew what you meant, silly! Like I said, I'm not blonde or dumb! I was thinking. You know, using that stuff in my head between my ears! You go back to the car, want to be alone here for a minute. OK?"

I sat in the car gazing at the silhouette before me that was Sandy — the girl who had entrapped me in Las Vegas and to whom I was the fly in her spider's web albeit I was not sure she realised how deeply she had captivated me. I didn't need to see her face and knew it was peaceful, expressionless except for the slight furrow in her brow betraying whatever thoughts raced through her mind. Almost certainly, they were comparing her talk of God creating the grandeur and peace of Yosemite with the manmade vista, blackness pockmarked with splashes of brilliant light, disappearing into the horizon below her. She turned and ambled slowly back to the car. I flicked the door open for her and she sank into the seat, slamming the door shut. She tossed her head, cascading ebony threads, some glinting, in the half-light and sighed.

"Food, James, chauffeur me to the nearest restaurant, please."

We drove off and found an Italian restaurant. Sandy was very subdued during dinner and spoke little. Her appetite was unaffected as minestrone soup, spaghetti bolognaise, chocolate gateaux, cream, wine, cognac and coffee were demolished with evident enjoyment.

She broke the silence. "Know what?"

I uttered the obvious, "No, not until you tell me, Sandy."

She giggled. "I fancy another cognac and," she paused and looked into my eyes, hers half closed, "A cigar. A biggish one! Pity I haven't got on a dinner jacket, sorry tuxedo here isn't it, crisp white shirt and black bow tie."

I looked over to the waiter who stepped over and looked somewhat bemused when I said, "Another cognac and a largish cigar for the lady, please."

The waiter reappeared armed with the cognac and cigar. He offered it to Sandy who said, "It's OK, thanks. Just cut it, please." That done and the cigar firmly gripped between her teeth, the waiter lit it for her and retreated, seemingly expecting from his slightly anxious look that Sandy would promptly start coughing. She didn't. Her cheeks drew in and the cigar glowed bright red before it was slowly withdrawn from her mouth. She pursed her lips slightly and gently wafted the smoke in my direction before taking a gulp of cognac.

"Mmm, that's what I call living," she grinned. "It was a really super dinner, I just want to sit here and chill for a while and booze and baccy seem to fit the bill. See, I am degenerate: alcohol and tobacco. Suppose it could be worse: could be smoking marijuana!" She leant back in her seat. "Hmm, now I can just relax, digest some of my dinner, maybe get a little tipsy on a few more cognacs, have a smoke and enjoy looking at you."

"Think you got the last bit wrong, Sandy," I quipped. "I should look anywhere but at me if I were you. I'm nothing to look at."

She nodded dismissively. "That's your opinion. Sandy beg to differ."

"You're off again! 'Beg' instead of 'begs.' You're impossible!"

She made quick work of four more cognacs before we strolled, Sandy somewhat unsteadily, back to the car. As soon as we got to the hotel, she stripped off, strewing her clothes hither and thither on the floor, as she teetered toward the bed and climbed in. I picked up the hastily and untidily discarded garments, put them neatly onto a chair, undressed and got into bed beside her. She turned toward me and her arm thumped down onto my chest.

"Think I'm a bit pissed, Max, ceiling's going round. Sorry, Sandy can't cope with sex — I'd hate to throw up all over you just as you started really enjoying yourself." Her tone dropped to an almost whimper. "I'm really sorry, been a silly girl drinking all that booze."

I slid my arm under her and pulled her toward me so that her head lay on my chest. "It's OK, honest. Just feeling you next to me, having your head on my chest is enough. Tomorrow's another day!"

"Mmm, I'll make it up to you, promise."

I thought she'd dozed off as the minutes passed but the silence was broken.

"Maxsh," she whispered, turning slightly to press her lips into my chest.

"Mmm, what Sandy? Your speech is slurred, you said 'Maxsh' with a 'sshh' at its end."

"Know I'm drunk, don't need you to tell me," echoed through my rib cage. "Want to say something before I fall asleep. Sandy love Max. She love him a lot. Sandy gotta sleep now."

I kissed her hair. "And Max loves Sandy," I whispered. A contented, "Mmm, that's good," oozed from the lips pushed into my chest before they loosened, her head moved slightly as she made herself comfortable. Short intakes of breath followed by slow, lazy, exhalations told me Sandy was blissfully in the land of nod.

As always, Sandy woke me early. She was her usual bubbly self and didn't seem the worse for wear. Neither of us mentioned our using the word "love" the night before while we showered and dressed or during breakfast. Sandy had decided our day for us: first we'd take the 49-mile drive at whatever pace it dictated, stopping wherever we felt like it for as long as we wanted. A quick, snacky, lunch would be followed by going to Union Square, ditching the car and taking a tram down to Fisherman's Wharf. With luck, she thought that would take us to early evening, so we could wander around the Wharf in the twilight and then find somewhere to eat: a dinner like last night's. I joked about the dinner, saying I hoped she'd limit the booze and remain fit for lovemaking when we got back to the hotel. She took umbrage and said she hadn't forgotten her promise and that she'd make up for her self-imposed inability after her copious intake of cognac.

En route back from the 49-mile drive, we were idly cruising around when Sandy spotted a Western Clothing store.

"Hey, stop," she yelled. "I know I've got the Stetson but I'd like to have a look around in there."

After parking the car, we ambled to the store where Sandy spent a long time browsing. Eventually she selected a wide, black, ornately carved, leather belt. I was then ordered to stay where I was while she disappeared to the far end of the shop and made another purchase. Her, "OK, we can go now," as she strolled back to me was marked by an impish grin. On the way back to the car, we passed a store we hadn't really noticed on our previous journey. It was a combined workshop and shop: all the machinery and paraphernalia visible through one window, the rest of the windows were filled with all sorts of items, mostly chains and black leather: masks, masks with gags, G-strings with and without studs and spikes, etc.

"Some real sexy gear there," she grinned. "But who needs it with a bod like mine? Only joking, know my bod's not that great!"

"'Tis too," I reassured her.

We sauntered on round the corner to the car and were about to get in it when Sandy said she wanted to dash back to the Western Clothing store.

"Something I knew I should have got when I was there. Sorry, I'm a silly cow. You wait in the car, won't be a tick." With that, she scampered off and about five minutes later was back wielding a large bag. "Open the boot, I mean trunk, please," she demanded and once open tossed in the bag, slammed the lid and clambered into the car. "Surprise for later," she grinned.

The rest of the day went as she had planned: tram rides, Fisherman's Wharf and dinner before we were finally alone back in our room. As soon as we got in, Sandy suggested I have a shower but didn't join me to share the water. She did appear, armed with the mystery bag, as I was drying myself.

"Don't put anything on," passed through her smile. "Just go and lie on the bed starkers. Be there in a minute."

As I lay in eager anticipation, Maxy inevitably rose to whatever occasion Sandy had in store for me. He didn't have to wait long. She appeared, and what an appearance! The black Stetson sat, slightly askew, on her head, black tresses shimmered in the light as they cascaded down onto her shoulders. Silver chains dropped down from her shoulders and merged with narrow, oval, black suede strips running down over her breasts, each with silver-ringed cutouts through which her erect nipples stood proud. Another silver chain passed below her breasts, securing the black suede ovals and ensuring it adhered to the mounds they so barely covered. The wide black belt was slung loosely around her waist, drooping down below her navel. A silver chain rested on her hips bones from which two more chains hung at diagonals, following the line of her groin perfectly before disappearing out of sight between her legs and beneath the thin strip of black suede attached to them so that they only covered the thin strip of neatly trimmed black curls I had grown to love. Onward and downward, her long legs disappeared into the high-heeled cowboy boots she'd bought. A cigar was gripped between her teeth, a hand on one hip, the other outstretched wielding an ominous looking length of black leather whip.

"Wanna fuck this li'l ol' nearly nude cowgirl then mister? 'Cos she sure wants to fuck you!"

Much to my relief, she dropped the whip and leapt onto the bed.

"Well, what do you think? Sexy?" She looked down, "See Maxy thinks it is! He's raring to go!"

My lips found hers and burnt into them.

"Hey, not so fast! You ain't seen nuttin' yet, mate." She sat up and reached under the pillow. "These," she chattered excitedly, producing two small circles of black suede with silver rings around their circumferences, "Clip in here, like so, and now it is a perfectly wearable, non-peephole, bra." Her hand darted under the pillow again. "And these, clip in here, like so!" For a moment, I couldn't see what she was doing until she removed her hand with a satisfied, "There, how's that? See, this one clips in like the other except it's a ring with spokes going inward to another ring. I don't understand it but the guy in the shop said the spokes have tiny springs inside them and the inner ring has, well he said like a camera shutter, leaves that the springs close down so they grip my nipples. Great, eh? Fucking genius thought this one up!" She wriggled her torso, tossing her breasts to and fro. "Hey, you know what, the nipple clamp feels ggrreat!"

I moved to pull her down on top of me.

She resisted. "Oh, no, not yet. There's more! See this," she waved the strip covering her pubes. "It detaches, just unclips like so, leaving just the chains going between my legs. They clip to a single one just below my asshole that goes up the crack to the waist-belt. Bloke said the suede hangs loose 'cos having it pressed against my pussy wouldn't be hygienic — you can't wash suede!" Her hand disappeared again and emerged bearing a large dildo. "See, this is quite soft, squishy almost — not bloody rock hard like Maxy! See these clips, they fasten onto the chains," with which the dildo disappeared deep into Sanditoo, "like so. Now I could walk around all day with my cunt full of dildo! And that's not all!" Her hand disappeared again and reappeared with a smaller dildo. "And this, a butt plug, fits" she fidgeted for a second, muttered a half-hearted, "Ouch," and continued, "Up my ass and locks onto the chain. Tighten the chains like so, and there we are! Dildo and butt plug can't come out. Chains are great — the links are flattened so they sit on my skin like a belt or whatever and the edges are rounded, so they can't cut into me. Mmm, could get used to this! Nipples clamped, cunt and ass nicely filled, who needs a man? Reckon if I walked around in this all day I'd never stop coming!" She reached under the pillow again. "Surprise! Sandy bought you a present! It's a matching chain with a black suede pouch, hangs free, ball-bag I suppose you'd call it. It's detachable and," she grinned broadly, "It's also got a matching butt plug! Plus, I persuaded the guy to let me have a chain like my top but instead of the black suede just chains down over your nipples onto which clip, guess what? Nipple clamp rings! Sort of skeleton bra for Max that will grab his nipples!"

She reached to unclip the suede and uncover the delicate curls and removed the dildo from Sanditoo. "Gonna keep the butt plug in and the nipple clamp on," she whispered. "Gonna climb astride you and fuck you stupid."

Maxy slipped into her cunt, mourning the loss of the dildo that had so recently filled it as she lowered herself onto me.

She looked down at me. "You just lay there, relax and enjoy." For a moment she was still before she yelped, "Hey, ride 'im cowgirl!" She bucked up and down, pausing to sit still, just letting me feel her hips gyrate slowly, gently, before gradually working themselves into a frenzy and stopping to let me feel her cunt pump in and out, compressing Maxy. Then the bucking began again and so it went on: buck, gyrate, pump. My hands reached out to grip her hips. "OK," she yelled, "Sandy's coming, blast her Maxy, blast her to hell and back." Maxy obliged as she collapsed in a heap on top of me and kissed me, our lips barely touching.

She broke away and nibbled at my ear lobe, breathing softly, "Did I say 'I love you' when I was pissed last night?"

"Don't you remember?" I asked, not knowing whether she now regretted saying it.

"Yyyesss," whooshed into my ear. "I remember everything about last night. And I'm stone cold sober now. And I still love you — more than I did last night." A sigh gushed into my ear. "Well, made a real fool of myself now, haven't I?"

"No," I murmured. "If you remember last night that well, you know I said 'I love you' to you and you know what? I do love you, Sandy, lots."

She climbed off of me and took off the array of hat, belt, chains and suede and eased out the butt-plug. "Now naked Sandy going to cuddle up to naked Max and get some sleep." She grinned, "But no promises. Might wake up in a couple of hours and play with Maxy." With that, she rolled over, pressed her butt into me as usual and within seconds her breathing told me she was asleep.

When she woke up and what she did then is the next part of the adventure.