Devil's Bargain
Author's Note: All characters engaging in any sexual activities are 18 years or older. This story is a work of fiction, and any similarity between any characters and any person, living or dead, is only in your dirty little mind!
The day after Dawn Doormouse began working for our company, I could not wait to get to my office weekday mornings.
Her mother Sylvia worked there, too, and when I went to her desk to help her with a computer issue, always saw framed photos of her displayed there, so I felt like I knew Dawn for years before we actually met. She was only a girl in most of those photos, but had one of those faces that capture your imagination. The day her daughter turned 18, just after graduating from high school, her mom landed her a job here.
I'll never forget the first time I saw her. She looked magical, like a Pixie or an angel. Very blonde and very tiny with eyes of very blue, I wondered if she weighed 85 pounds. Usually, I prefer more voluptuous women, with a lot of cleavage and booty, but every single one of Dawn's pounds was perfectly formed and in exactly the right place in the right proportion.
It wasn't a movie-star beauty she had—although she could have been one—but more an otherworldly cuteness, the kind you might see once or twice in a lifetime.
Of course, Dawn barely noticed me. Why should she? I was twice her age and not the type of guy women like her notice. She was nice, though—nicer than most of the other hot women in the office. When she had a computer problem, she was always friendly while I fixed it, and thanked me afterward. Sometimes when I got back to my cubicle downstairs, she sent a thank-you e-mail with smiley faces.
I felt bad when her computer went down. But I knew how to make sure to schedule a problem every couple of weeks, and when I fixed one glitch, I slipped in a little booby trap scheduled to blow up before too long. I'd been doing that for years for the hottest girls in the office, but the only one I felt a twinge of guilt about was Dawn's.
"Hi, Miss Doormouse. What's wrong with your PC?"
"Oh, thanks for coming, Carl. It's frozen up, same as last time."
"Hopefully the same problem. Let me take a look." I was already taking a good look. Sky blue eyes that seemed to glow with an internal light, and she had a tight top on that showed off her tits. Barely a mouthful, but they looked carved from marble.
Dawn only wore jeans on casual Fridays, and sometimes I timed her next crash for Fridays, but not this week. Don't want it to be too predictable. The way her butt filled out her tight, white pants was nice, and you could make out the outline of white panties underneath. Not a thong—hot as a thong would look on her, it would destroy the illusion of innocence.
Sure enough—same problem. I rescheduled the next crash for the 16
th
and told her she was good to go.
"What would I do without you, Carl?"
What would I do without you, Dawn
, I didn't say, but she read it on my face and smiled sweetly.
That night, in my apartment, I missed her already. Following a pre-dinner wank remembering Dawn's panty line, I drove for a burger and fries at the drive-thru then played Grand Theft Auto. I fucking rock at Grant Theft Auto! I have a couple of photos of Dawn, taken when she was not watching—in the hallway, in the lunchroom, the parking lot.
I pulled them up on my computer.
"Dawn will never let me touch her. I'd give anything to be with a girl like her!" When you live alone, sometimes talking to yourself helps. "Guys like me never get girls like her. I'd pay every penny I own if I could screw any woman I want. All some guys have to do is ask and they jump into bed with them! Hell, I'd sell my soul for the power to fuck every hot woman just by asking."
In one photo from the lunchroom, Dawn was eating a banana. I like that picture. I blew it up to nearly life-size and was about to undo my pants when a sound behind me caught my attention.
When you live alone, the only sounds in your apartment are the ones you make.
Since I did not make that sound, I turned to see what did. There in the corner just past the window stood the hottest woman I have ever seen.
She was red: red hair, a blood red dress, red high-heels. The upper part of the dress bulged from two round breasts, D-cups at the least. Pokies strained the fabric, perfectly centered and aimed straight at me, and between them the center plunged down to reveal the center third of each tit. Her long dress was slit on one side all the way to her hip.
"Who are you? How did you get here?"
"I am someone who might be able to help with your problem, and I got here because you invited me."
I had no fucking clue what was going on, but she wasn't just the hottest woman to ever set foot in my apartment, she was the hottest woman I have ever seen. Hotter than Scarlett Johanson or Gal Gadot. Her dress looked hot as one of those thermal camera views.
"How long have you been standing there listening to me?"
"Carl, you are asking the wrong questions. Now, do you want my help or not?"
"You mean, my problem with girls?"
"Women, Carl. They are women. That hint is free. And, yes, your inability to get a woman is the problem I can solve for you."
"Oh, cool." I unbuckled my belt.
"Keep your pants on, Carl. The solution I have to offer is much better than one night with a woman. Much, much better."
Remembering my wish a few seconds before, I asked, "You can give me the power to have sex..." I choked a little saying it in front of a hottie like her, "with any woman I wish to?"
"Any woman you desire can be yours, just by the asking."
"What do you want for this power?"
"Well, Carl, you offered the terms yourself; have you forgotten already?"
"So, if I pay you every penny I own, you will give me this power? Sounds like a scam to me."
"We are not interested in your money, Carl. We find your other offer much more enticing."
"We? Who is we?"
"Carl, try to follow along. You offered your soul in exchange for the powers usually associated with the likes of Cassanova and Don Juan. We find your terms acceptable."
"You want my soul?"
"We already have your soul. We took it the moment you made your offer."
"What if I want them to like it? For them to enjoy screwing me?"
"Greedy, aren't you?"
"It's for my soul. That's almost as bad as a title loan."
