This is chapter 3 of the story and before reading this you should read the previous chapters. The chapters are not self-contained but part of the same developing story. Its just the story was too long for me to put it all together before posting and so I will post each chapter when I've had the time to get it to a satisfactory state.
I must apologise for the long delay in chapter 3 appearing. I want to thank all the people who have commented on the story so far and emailed me. All your comments are read appreciatively. It has clearly raised strong emotions both for and against the story, and I am pleased that my story has made some impact upon its readers. It is not my intention to offend anyone, nor my intention to write stories about role models. They are just stories about people and what drives their sexuality, which is something that is often quite uncomfortable.
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It was dark and there was a chill in the air as Carol wandered the streets. It was not a part of town she was familiar with and she felt distinctly uncomfortable to be here as she realised that girls were roaming the street corners. She had received a mysterious telephone call telling her to look out for her friend Sara here. Who was it that called and why was Sara in this part of town she did not know? It all seemed puzzling and a little frightening. What did all this mean to Sara? She just hoped her friend was all right; walking these streets as the light was fading made her feel even more apprehensive for her friend. She was already in such a fragile state after all.
As Carol turned the corner she found Sara standing on the curb looking nervous, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and dressed like the other whores who were out. Carol ran up to her.
"Whatever are you doing here?"
Sara had her arms wrapped around her body and she was hugging herself tightly. Was it so cold or was it the reassuring comfort of her arms that she needed? Carol looked at her and then at the way she was dressed. After a pause with no response from Sara she said:
"Come on. Lets go get ourselves a drink. Here put my coat on."
Sara latched onto Carols coat as soon as it was over her shoulders. At last she could hide herself behind a cloak of normality. But what was normality for her now? Perhaps just the reassurance of her old life where she was confident and knew what she was after. Not the girl who suddenly found herself on a street corner touting for business. She allowed Carol to drag her away towards the city centre and the lights and buzz of activity where the lives of successful people were interacting and rushing headlong into well-planned futures. Behind her were the streets of the desolate, the people who had no well-planned future but the ones who had fallen through the cracks. Had she Sara fallen through some crack? Was here life about to disintegrate? What had she done to precipitate this downfall? She felt cold, very cold, and beyond shame in front of her friend Carol.
They dived into a bar and Carol got in some drinks, something to warm her from the inside to not only dispel the cold of the night, but also the cold loneliness of waiting on the street - waiting to be used. Sara sipped at her drink and felt herself slowly regaining her life. Once again she felt as if she were coming out of a dream, not a pleasant dream of innocence but a nightmare of frightening reality. Carol sat next to her and was chattering away words of reassurance that Sara allowed to wash over her, snuggling in their comfort.
As her mind cleared she started to piece together what had happened to her that night. She remembered the clothes she had bought after work on her way home. Shops she had never been to before, where the clothes were more provocative than wearable. She remembered wandering around the store trying on outfits just to have the feel of the material on her skin, to see herself in the changing room mirrors dressed as some slut. She felt that with each outfit she inspected herself in her acceptance of the image she was projecting became that much more real to her. Little by little she was wearing down the shock and revulsion of what she saw and started to look at its attractiveness, the smooth skin of her thighs flexing slightly in front of the mirror as if to entice, with the hard tight line of a pair of black latex hot pants stretched across her crotch; the smooth flat lines and the shiny material catching the light and drawing attention to her encased mound that so visibly bulged in the fabric; the gap between her thighs, that long line drawn across between her legs where her inner secret was pressed up tight against the material so very visibly. Her eyes were drawn to it and she imagined hands, strong male hands, unknown hands sliding down over those pants, the fingers probing the contours of her flesh, the material slippery between them.
Next she had tried on a tight PVC corset with very large and very obvious steel buckles. There were four of them that ran down the front of the piece and ample cups for her breasts. She had slipped it round her waist and shuddered slightly as the cold metal brushed against her flesh making it contract. She felt her breasts resting on the support of the cups her nipples hardening - was it from the cold or the slipperiness of the material, so thin and stretched so tightly, entombing them? She had relished the slow grinding pressure that her restricted waist had been put under as she buckled one by one the steel straps locking each one of them into place. She had struggled with each to try and reach the next hole, the next level of tightness, the still further compression. The sturdy batons inside the material were unyielding as they pressed back her soft skin, tightening their grip, forcing her breasts upwards and slightly outwards, her hips flaring as the material reached down between them stopping just short of her pubis. It felt uncomfortable and yet strangely comforting to be displayed in this manner, so openly sexual making a statement about a woman's body, accentuating and exaggerating its shapeliness. How could anyone resist such a view? Her hand travelled down over the material and sank into her moistening crotch; she fingered her clit that was already throbbing from her heightened arousal.
Suddenly into her thoughts she started to recall that as she had waited on the corner, she had been scared. She had somehow realised the vulnerable position she had placed herself in, dressed to attract the attentions of any punter, with nowhere to go but as if waiting in the street for her friend. What would she say if someone stopped and propositioned her? Her heart started to pound at this thought, her throat dry she realised that through the horror of this thought, the feeling of helplessness, the lack of any explanation she could possibly give other than the obvious, the inevitability that she would be forced to accept for lack of any explanation she could otherwise give, she realised that she was excited by it. Something deep, deep inside almost longed for that punter to turn up, for the opportunity, for the point of no return. She found herself hoping that she would be tipped into this lifestyle of wantonness, that her indecision would leave her and she would have to follow it through regardless of whether she should, regardless of Tom or Carol or what her colleagues at work would think if they saw her. She would be made to do it, driven by her acceptance to be standing here dressed so loudly, so enticing.
