He continued to stroke the outside of her Mons. Her crease was neatly trimmed, not shaved smooth like the one upstairs. Oh he liked a smooth clean pussy, but he also liked one with a woman's hair too. This one had the makings of a true woman, a woman he could use, show off, and be proud of, like a good dog or a good hunting piece. With the right training, the right discipline this one would be everything and more than the one upstairs could ever be. He thought about it; it could be fun to watch this one spread her legs for another man while he watched. Then afterward he could beat her for infidelity.
He kissed her lips. He pressed his body against hers. He slowly, deliberately pressed his manhood inside her. She was tight, small, not used to a man's treatment. He was careful, but careful only up to a point. A man's machine had the ability to make a woman happy, but used in the proper way it was a constant reminder of her own woman's inferiority, her own vulnerability. A big hard erect rod pressing deep inside a woman's womb should cause some pain, some discomfort. It would remind the woman who the master and who the object was. He was the source of the power. She was the vessel.
He started slamming in against her, in and out. He felt her react with passion, but with pain as well. Yes he had her. She was his. This one, like so many others, was beginning to learn, to appreciate, the power of a man.
Mary lay beneath Brandon. She received his masculine power with a mixture of joy and suffering. This was what she wanted, what she'd dreamed about, what she craved. She felt fulfilled, loved, cared for, and complete. He was inside her. Yes, it hurt, but it felt good too. God she loved this man.
They thrashed back and forth, up and down, for what seemed like hours; actually it was only a few minutes. Finally he could control himself no longer. He plunged in as deep as he could. He felt that he'd reached the extreme of her vaginal cavity. He released his semen. He spewed his juices upward, inward, and deep inside her. He felt her react. She thrust her hips up against him. She shivered and shook. She whimpered. Yes, he'd climaxed, and he'd reached her too. She'd done it, done it all.
Brandon rolled off the girl, his girl, his acquisition, his newest piece of property, "I have to leave. I want you to get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow." He turned around and kissed her again, "Till morrow."
She kissed back, "I love you. I love you Brandon."
He tweaked her nose, "Till tomorrow."
She lay back on the bed, sheets in disarray, damp from sweat, her womanly fluids, and his semen all over her. She knew she should get up and shower. The stuff was sticky, but she decided to lay still; she'd go to sleep with his masculine smells and manly residue all over her. She loved the way she felt. It was too good to just wash away, to wash away the feeling, the sensation, the comfort of being held, caressed, loved, and cherished. His gooey semen felt sticky, but good on her soft skin. She fell asleep, happy, comforted, complete.
Brandon walked down the hall. He felt sore. He needed a drink, a shower, then maybe watch some television. The football season had begun. He liked to bet on the teams. He had no favorites, but he liked the risks of playing the odds. Next to closing a big deal and making a lot of money, a good bet was the greatest, and oh yes, sex was good too in its place. Yes, he liked sex; it reaffirmed his power, his ability to control, to dominate.
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Upstairs, alone in her tiny room Angela thought about her husband. She'd let him down. He'd come back in and found her abusing herself. If he only knew, only understood; she was all alone. All she had was Mary, her only friend, a couple of indifferent maids and then her body, her only release. She'd change, she'd get control of herself, she'd fight what was happening to her, she'd regain her poise, her sense of self. She'd show him she was still the woman he'd married, the woman he loved and respected. She'd get it together.
But oh she thought she was so desperate. She continued to rub her cleft, her hot wet engorged labial lips, she reached inside her vagina and squeezed the top of her clitoral walls. Oh she was always so hot, so horny, so ready. What was wrong with her? All she could think about was sex, the warm feeling she got when she rubbed herself, touched herself. All she could think about, every waking moment was how much she wanted, wanted, wanted the feel of her fingers, her hands, her fingers inside her pussy, inside her ass. She wanted, needed the feel of a man's body against her, inside her. She kept rubbing, kept groping, kept fiddling, fondling, squeezing, pinching teasing. The more she touched herself the more she wanted it. She'd reach a peak, have an orgasm, and no sooner than she'd climaxed than she'd begin to think about it again. She'd hold off. She could off for a while, but soon the cravings would return, the moisture, the heat, the hunger, the sensitivity would come back, and she'd have to do something.
Often she was so sore it was hard to even contemplate touching herself, but the urge was always so strong, so intense. What was wrong with her? Were they giving her something? No, she doubted that. Vonda probably would, but she had Mary. Mary was her friend, her last resort, last resort until now, now that Brandon was back. Oh why did he have to come back in and catch her that way? She cupped her labia in her left hand while she used her right hand to push in and out of her ass. What was wrong with her? Where as Mary? She needed someone.
When Mary came she would cradle her head in her lap, sing softly in her ear. She'd rub her back and the nape of her neck. It was a different kind of arousal. It was the same, the same sexual feeling, but coming from someone else's hands it always felt better, and Mary always knew how to touch, how to speak so softly, and she always had that candy.
She wished she'd had another piece of that candy. It made her feel so good. She started to weep. Oh help me. Brandon where are you. She started to climax, again. Oh if she could only get to sleep. Why wouldn't someone take these damn bells off? Every time she moved they jingled and jangled, and it was like every soft tintabulation was a reminder of what she wanted, she needed. She started to cry. She'd just reached orgasm, and already she was thinking about it again. She rolled over and pressed her puss against the soft blanket. Maybe that would make it go away. It didn't. She reached down again.
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Mary lay on her side. She thought about what had just happened, where she was, who she was, and she thought about the other woman upstairs. Sure she cared about Angela, but Angela was yesterday, she, Mary, was today, tomorrow.
The bed sheets felt cold, dry, sticky, but they still felt good. This was where she'd fulfilled her greatest fantasy. She'd do what needed to be done. She'd take care of Angela, be good to her, but it was about her now, about Mary, Mary and Brandon. She pressed her head against the pillow where he'd had his head. She sniffed his manly aroma again. She saw a spot where his saliva had dribbled on the pillow case. She sniffed at it with her nose. She took her tongue and licked it. It was his saliva, his spit, and it was hers too.
She curled up. She pressed against the pillow where his head had been. She took her two hands and started to rub them against her cleft. She touched herself. It felt good. She half hoped he'd come back. She was ready to do it again. No he was probably downstairs working. He was such a workaholic. She started to rub herself. She felt warm all over again. She stopped. She pulled her hands up to her face. She tasted her juices. She took her right hand and found a place where some of his semen had leaked out around her nether lips. She wiped them, and put her fingers to her mouth. She tasted his salty remains. It tasted good, a little strong. She wondered what it would be like to have him in her mouth. She slowly drifted off to sleep. This was love.
Part Two:
The next morning Brandon was up early. He had several important things he needed to do. First he called the woman who'd been referred to him, a Mrs. Vermillion. Mrs. Ruth Vermillion was a semi-retired health worker; a woman in her early fifties who'd worked around people with varying kinds of emotional and physiological disorders all her life. At one time she'd been brought up on charges for one thing or another.
The records his friend at the hospital had e-mailed indicated the woman had something of a criminal history; issues related to an overarching fondness for particular types of treatment procedures that could at the least be called fetishistic and at the worst downright sadistic, especially on the more cerebral level. Mrs. Vermillion seemed to be just the kind of health care giver Brandon was looking for; someone who would give Angela just the kind of attention that would best satisfy the needs of the family.
She was reputed to be a brilliant woman, but given to an obsessive nature that occasionally betrayed her inner nature. In other words, she got carried away. Brandon thought, with Mary on hand she would provide just the minimalist type of restraint on the older woman that would enable her to work her special magic on Angela without going too far.
