Based on an idea in the forum by Schlank: "She writes stories about every fetish she can think of: public nudity, bondage, forced lesbianism, spanking, sex in front of large audiences, incest, strip searches, body-cavity searches, kinky medical exams, etc., involving succubi, shape-shifters and mythical nations were men and women can be kept as slaves and be led naked down public streets on leashes. After she's written dozens of stories in her book, and filled every page with stories that are just dripping in shameless eroticism, strange things start to happen to her."
*****
I was always the shy girl, gangly and introverted as a child, and much the same as an adult. I lacked any significant beauty, and lacked too the curves that made my friends so attractive to boys. My breasts were barely an A-cup, and seldom bared at all, and although my nipples could be wonderfully sensitive, my clit certainly wasn't.
A string of inadequate boyfriends had failed to satisfy me, and had taken my inability to climax as a personal criticism. I lacked the courage also to suggest more adventurous forms of sex; it takes time to develop the trust you need before you can ask a lover to tie you up, clamp your nipples and fuck your ass without mercy. For example. I had no idea whether I'd enjoy that.
At the age of twenty-four, I certainly wasn't a virgin, but my few experiences were vanilla, and I still hadn't had a proper orgasm.
My fantasy self, on the other hand, was wild. Bisexual. An exhibitionist. A nymphomaniac. A total cumslut and size queen. I shared my erotic fantasies with no one, but I wrote them in my journal. Sometimes just a phrase that I liked, or a paragraph sketching out an idea to explore later. Sometimes detailed stories going on for pages.
Some of it was almost romantic. Some of it outright horror, such as the one where a coven of vampires kept thousands of men tied up helpless and in a constant state of orgasmic bliss (perhaps not such a bad fate), their endlessly streaming cum flowing through long, clear, plastic tubes, to be deposited in glass bottles. (But that one was never more than a fragment of an idea. Once I'd got the image in my head of a vampire pouring milky cum over his cornflakes, I hadn't been able to take the eroticism of it seriously.)
And I even had a special journal for keeping all my secret fantasies. It was beautiful and perhaps ancient, perhaps even from the nineteenth century, leather-bound with tracings of silver, and with thick paper inside. I got it for a bargain in one of those witchcraft shops that sell crystals and candles and such stuff.
The smell of the leather and the texture of the paper made writing my fantasies a much more intimate experience than if I had just typed it at the computer at home. I spent hours every week at the cafe near my apartment, nursing my latte and cheesecake as I scribbled down scenarios that would have shocked anyone reading over my shoulder.
But that was just part of the fun.
So it was with no little regret that I found myself on the last page. I doubted I would find another such journal - at least, not at an affordable price.
"While I sipped champagne, affecting indifference," I wrote, "he parted my legs to give the driver a clear view up my skirt, and his immaculately manicured fingers teased their way ever closer to my impatient clit. 'I want you again,' he growled softly. 'One more time, before I let you escape...'"
I chose to leave it there, a suitable ending. I slipped it into my bag and stood to go, and collided with a young man who quite took my breath away.
Some people, when you first meet them, and fall for them, can seem so perfect they steal the focus of your world. Danny was like that. His blond-haired blue-eyed good looks could have made him a film star, and his easy confidence and Irish charm made his every word and move seductive.
He was out of my league. I knew that immediately. But then he smiled at me and I was lost. I knew right then that I would do anything, absolutely anything, just to keep him smiling at me. I don't remember what we said, or what we talked about, but as we parted, to go our different ways, he asked me to be his date that evening.
Of course I said yes.
But to a magic show? What was I supposed to wear to that?
"As little as possible," he said with a cheeky grin, making me blush. I really hadn't intended to ask it out loud.
He picked me up at seven, arriving in front of my apartment block in a limousine. He wore a cream-coloured suit, clearly bespoke, and I felt completely out of my depth in my store-bought blue summer dress, but we kissed and drank champagne and I yielded to the Cinderella fantasy of the moment.
His fingers caressed my thighs, and I wondered if he would part them to show my knickers to the driver. I wondered how I would react if he did. But this was real life, not fantasy. Improbable as our romance was, the chances of any of my erotic fantasies coming true was practically zero.
How wrong I was.
*
I was woken by Diane jumping on my bed and straddling me. "You fucking slut!" she shouted.
"What the fuck, Diane!" I shouted back, trying to shift her off me, without success.
She tapped her phone and showed me the screen. It was a video of a magic trick, clearly filmed by a member of the audience with a seat near the stage. You know that trick where the magician saws a woman in half?
The twist here was that the woman was an audience member. "I need a couple of volunteers," the magician had announced. "Preferably a couple. Preferably a young, attractive couple." Danny raised my hand for me, ignoring my shriek of protest, and then the whole theatre was waiting for me to come to the stage with him.
If being on the stage in front of such a large audience was terrifying, having the whole audience waiting impatiently for me to stand up was even more so. I yielded, and allowed him to lead me onto the stage. The magician had flashed a warm grin as he guided me to the box.
"What's your name, gorgeous?" he asked.
"Clara," I said, quiet as mouse.
"Clara! Welcome! Don't worry about a thing. Now, squeeze yourself through here."
It was not a big box, and it was quite a tight fit for my shoulders, but I managed to wriggle through until the box was around my waist.
It was at this point that the video started. There I was in the middle of the stage, with my head, arms and chest projecting from one side of the glittery red box, and my bum and legs projecting from the other. "That's you, isn't it!" Diane said.
I said nothing, but I could feel the heat in my cheeks. What I hadn't known at the time is that while I was threading myself through the box, my date was undressing in preparation. The audience's gasp I attributed to the huge square blade that the magician was wielding as he prepared to cut me in half.
Even in the video, the panic in my eyes was clear. "Trust me," the magician said soothingly, "you won't feel a thing."
