Tuesday, May 9, 2017

The Wererock - Chapter 11 – Part 2 of 2

The Wererock
By Guest Writer:  Mike
Chapter 11 – Part 2 of 2

I turned back to selecting Cynthia’s outfit. I opened her dresser, digging through her lingerie. I found a white garter belt with six hanging tabs. I pulled out a pair of black stockings that had a seam up the back and some embroidery at the thigh. Perfect. “Here,” I said, throwing it all together. “Get dressed.”
                Cynthia donned the garter belt and rolled the stockings up her legs. When she pulled on the skirt, all six streamers of the belt could be seen running from underneath her skirt to the tops of her stockings. The skirt was scandalously short, barely long enough to cover her pussy. It was perfect. She put on the tube top. It clung to her breasts, revealing the fullness of her lovely curves and her diamond-tipped nipples. The outfit screamed for attention. Cynthia looked at me, her hands on her hips, “How do I look?”
                “Sexy as fuck.”
                She waggled her hips, “We could stay in.” She indicated the bed.
                “No chance.”
                Her phone beeped. She picked up the phone and muttered a weak, “damn.”
                “Rita wants to meet for lunch.”
                That could be fun. “Ask her where and tell her we’ll be there.”
Another round of pleading ended with Cynthia accepting Rita’s offer.  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I’m embarrassing you. That’s my goal.” I flashed a smile full of teeth. I turned serious again. Moments later we knew exactly how to make the other person stop, no questions asked. “What time are we meeting Rita?”
“In an hour,” she said, looking at her phone.
“Great. Follow me.” I led Cynthia into her living room. I pulled the recliner to the center of the room and pointed it at the big bay window.  “Have a seat.”
Cynthia sat.
I had her inch forward until only her ass was on the chair. “Now, let’s practice. Today you are not allowed to sit in a lady-like manner. When you’re seated, I want you to spread your legs. Now, we need to be perfectly clear what I expect. Show me what I mean.”
Cynthia parted her legs, putting a small gap between her thighs, with her knees about six inches apart. I shook my head and watched as Cynthia put about a foot between her knees. “Not even close.” Her legs opened even more. I tilted my head. She parted her thighs until there was about three-feet between her knees. Her pussy was wet and gaping and it certainly drew the eye.  “Just like that. Open them as wide as you can, until your thighs feel it, then relax. That should be perfect. No matter what, whenever you’re sitting today, that’s the pose you must take. Got it?”
Cynthia blushed but nodded.
I pulled her left leg out and up, draping it over the arm of the chair. I did the same thing with her other leg. I pushed her backwards until she was leaning in the chair, her legs splayed like a wishbone about to snap. “Now, why don’t you sit there, just like that and masturbate for me.” I grinned. “I’ll sit back and watch the show. Oh,” I said, “you can come all you want.”
She glared at me, “You know that’s not possible.”
I grinned.
Cynthia dropped a hand to her pussy. She started slow, just teasing the meaty, outer folds. Her breathing changed, becoming rapid and shallow. Moist fingers dipped into her body, pumping with a rising fury. One hand rubbed her clit in quick, angry circles. Her toes clenched; her mouth dropped open as she panted. She stroked and rubbed and brought herself to that precipice of completion only to be denied by the power of the Wererock. She kept rubbing, furiously trying to defy the stone. She gasped and panted, whimpered and moaned, but nothing she did helped her trip over that frustrating edge. “No,” she moaned, “I need this. Amy, get me the stone, please, I’m begging you.”
I looked on, enjoying the show. I knew I’d pay for it later. How long would it take me to reach the same point. If I begged Cynthia for the release I craved, would she capitulate or would she smile and tell me it wasn’t going to happen. I watched Cynthia play with her pussy, trying to decide if I should fetch the stone and let he make the change she desired. Would she love the idea or resent the fact that I caved? What would her imaginary mistress do? No, this wasn’t imagined. What should I do? I was her mistress today.
“Please,” she whimpered.
She knew the safe word. We both did; nothing else mattered. “No. Don’t stop; I’m enjoying the show.” And I was. My cock was hard in my panties. I sat on the couch, my hand rubbing my crotch, though I kept my hand off my erection. I knew the frustration was building terribly within Cynthia. I didn’t need to do the same thing to myself.
I kept Cynthia stoking her frustration for another twenty minutes before I had her stop. Her legs were shaking, her breath came in fast bursts and there were tears in her eyes. “God,” she said. “I’ve never been so horny. That was mean.”
I raised my eyebrows but said nothing.
“Just you wait, missy,” she said, sitting up but keeping her legs splayed. So the game was still going. Good.
“Yes. You’re gonna keep setting new records. Massive records.”
I knew what she was thinking and while the idea scared me, it enflamed my imagination too. How long would it take for me to beg to come and when I did finally beg would Cynthia offer me relief or make me suffer. I knew the answer and that thought was both worrisome and exciting. How many things are like that, opposite extremes that added up to more than the individual parts?
I smiled and then stuck my tongue out as I’d seen Cynthia do before. She laughed at me. “We’ve got to go,” I said. “Remember how you’re supposed to sit.”
“Yeah, I’m all pussy when I sit like this. Do you know how embarrassing it is?”
“That is the idea.” I gave her a hug, “I’ll keep you safe.”
“I know.”
Cynthia collected her things and just to be safe she stuck the Wererock in her purse; we had decided that for now it was safer to keep with us. We left the house, taking my car. I had Cynthia sit in the back seat, right in the middle. She parted her thighs, pressing each foot against opposite doors. She inched forward so that her ass was barely on the seat. She used the center seat belt, the strap cutting into her cleavage. She looked sexy and indecent and the flush on her cheeks proved how humiliating the pose was. Perfect.
I adjusted my rear-view mirror, centering the mirror on Cynthia. I didn’t care about the cars behind me; Cynthia was the true show. I drove to the restaurant, enjoying the view Cynthia provided and worried about meeting her best friend. “You sure you want Rita to meet me?”
“Yes,” she replied. “She knows about you.”
Uh oh. “What does she know.”
Cynthia grinned but kept quiet. Fine, “play with yourself.”
Cynthia looked up at me through the mirror, stuck out her tongue, and dropped both hands into her crotch. She was panting before we reached the restaurant. I could see the wetness on her pussy and upper thighs; my whole car smelled of sex.
I parked the car at the restaurant. I got out and opened the car for Cynthia. We both grabbed our purses. Cynthia stood out wearing her tiny, bulging tube top and scandalously short skirt. The garter belt straps coming from underneath the skirt made her appear slutty and the stockings added to the look. I looked demure standing next to her in my black sundress with white piping. I looked like I was ready to go to church; Cynthia looked like she belonged on a street corner peddling her body to whomever would buy it. And the way she looked, she could charge a fortune.
“Oh. My. God.” A short, dark-skinned woman ran up and gave Cynthia a hug. She looked to be from some Latin American country; her hair was jet black, her skin the color of cocoa. She was wearing a lovely floral dress that looked as innocent as mine. She had small, blocky heels on her feet. Her face held just a tinge of color. “What are you wearing.” She glared at me, her voice growing acidic, “is this your doing?”
Cynthia saved me, “No, Rita, this is not her doing. This is my fiancée, Amy.”
It didn’t do any good to correct her and hadn’t we both already admitted we’d be with each other forever anyway? I held out my hand. Rita stared at it then returned her attention to Cynthia. “What’s going on here and what’s with that picture?” She glowered at me, “I’m not sure I like you, Amy.”
It never even crossed my mind that my name wasn’t Amy. It felt so natural. I felt the sting of Rita’s gaze and felt cowed by it. “Okay.” What else could I say? She didn’t like me but I must say I liked Rita immediately. Her real name was Margarite, and while she was born in Arizona, both her parents had immigrated, legally Rita liked to point out, from Columbia. I liked her because she was there to defend Cynthia from me or anyone else. That made me think the world of her. “Fair enough,” I responded.  “Let’s get a table and I’ll let Cynthia tell you what’s going on. Then,” and I meant every word, “if Cynthia say’s, we’ll leave right away.”
We got a table and my estimation of Margarite went up when I saw her positing her body between Cynthia and the gawkers that filled the restaurant. Cynthia was blushing, but her nipples were rock hard and by then, I knew how hard rocks were.
We took a seat, three women at a table, Rita sitting opposite Cynthia and me. Cynthia got in first, grabbing the seat that would keep her out of the public eye as much as possible. If Rita wasn’t there I’d have said something, putting Cynthia in the most revealing seat. I should have, Cynthia told me that later, but at the time I thought it was more important to placate Rita than humiliate the woman I loved. What an odd thought that was.
“What is going on?” Rita asked, glaring at me even while Cynthia spoke.
A waiter took our drink orders. As he walked way I glanced down and gave Cynthia’s thigh a gentle squeeze. Her legs were sitting an ocean apart. Good girl.
Cynthia explained everything as best she could, leaving out any mention of the Wererock tucked safely away in her purse. She told Rita the story of her imaginary mistress and all the things she’s done to satisfy that part of her that got turned on by public humiliation and forced exhibitionism; about meeting me and falling in love; about or plan for the next day when we returned to work; and about how Cynthia wanted Rita to be her maid of honor.
Or drinks came and then our meal. Through it all Cynthia kept her legs widely parted. If anyone but me noticed, there was no indication. I felt a little saddened by that fact but since holding that undignified pose in public was new to Cynthia, I was okay with it, too.
Rita asked questions of her friend, mostly ignoring me now. “Derek,” she said, her nose wrinkling in distaste. “I see why you sent it to me. And that was you, I mean all of you?” Rita picked up her phone and called up the picture. She looked at the photo, back to Cynthia, and then the photo again as if she was making comparisons to prove what she already knew. She glanced under the table and gasped, “God, you look like a slut.” She said it with a playful tone. Well, one person noticed Cynthia’s unladylike pose. “Why are you sitting like that?”
“Amy told me to.”
“I…” The look on Margarite’s face shut me up.
Cynthia explained that, too. Finally, the conversation started to include me. By the end of the meal Rita seemed to accept me, our engagement, and more importantly she believed the kinky side of Cynthia that she had known nothing about. We left the restaurant where Rita finally gave me a hug. “You keep her safe,” she scolded me. “If not, you’ll have to answer to me. I have brothers in the drug trade….” She left the rest unsaid. I didn’t know if she was joking or not and it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to let anyone hurt Cynthia, myself included.
“Good,” she said when I told her that. She gave Cynthia a hug, “Where are you going now?”
Cynthia shrugged and glanced at me.
I smiled, “the mall.”
Almost immediately Rita volunteered to come with us. “What?” She said, feigning shock, “I’ve got to see this.”
Just like that I liked Rita even more. I was glad she was Cynthia’s friend. I had Cynthia ride with Rita just to put a new flush of color on her face. I followed behind them and when we parked Rita was laughing at Cynthia and the display she was putting on.
“I think that’s the idea,” Cynthia admitted.
We skipped the outdoor mall again. We’d been caught there already and there was no reason to push our luck. The three of us made our way into the mall. If Rita thought I was a guy in a dress she gave no indication. We were just three women out for a day of shopping. And we did shop. Cynthia made sure I got another purse and some more accessories. She bought two new suits to wear to the office when she took over as the new boss. Rita purchased nothing but a simple hair ribbon. She wasn’t there to shop; she was there to enjoy the show. Once Rita even carried Cynthia’s purse, laughing as she said, “Just so you can’t use it to cover up.” She was enjoying herself; I took that as a good sign.
In the middle of the mall I spotted a photo kiosk. I sent Cynthia inside with a bunch of quarters.  “Don’t show your face,” I said.
Cynthia entered the booth and shut the dark blue curtain. I watched one leg snake out of the booth, the curtain rubbing against her knee. I saw a flash of light, another and then two more. Cynthia had four pictures taken. She came out of the photo booth with her face crimson. The pictures came out on one strip. I looked at them. They all showed Cynthia in all her glory; she had pulled her top up, revealing her breasts. Her legs were parted, revealing the puffy, pink wetness down below. They were the kind of pictures you’d see in the more risqué men’s magazines. They were perfect.
I showed them to Rita who couldn’t help but laugh. “God, that’s… brazen. I couldn’t imagine doing that.” She wiped her eyes and then dug through Cynthia’s purse for a tissue after Cynthia told her it was okay to do so.
“You don’t have to imagine,” Cynthia volunteered, watching Rita dab her eyes with the tissue, “The photo booth is right here.”
“No thanks.”
I laughed at the play between the two friends. Grinning, I put the strip of pictures back in the same slot that had dispensed the photos. “Leave them; a souvenir for someone.”
Rita laughed at the look on Cynthia’s face.
“Don’t worry. Nobody’s going to recognize you.” Then, with a mile-wide grin I asked, “Are they?”
Cynthia slugged me. Not hard, but enough to know what she was thinking. That made Rita laugh.
We continued shopping, something I’d done more of in the last week than the entire year previously. It just wasn’t something I did that often as a man, but I wasn’t a man anymore. I was a girl. Cynthia’s girl.
Occasionally, when it seemed safe to do, mostly when I didn’t spot any children, I had Cynthia sit on a bench. Rita started snapping a few photos with her phone of her friend sitting so undignified. “This’ll be great blackmail material,” she joked, “when you don’t want to do something I want you to do.”
“You wouldn’t.”
Rita shrugged and smiled. Their banter made me laugh. Still, Cynthia didn’t protest too much. In fact, it was obvious she enjoyed the idea. I wonder if there were any blackmail stories on her computer that I hadn’t had time to read yet. Oh, I had a much-anticipated appointment with Cynthia’s files.
Every time I had Cynthia take a seat she would part her legs as wide as she could. Her whole pussy was gaping wide and on display. The heels on her feet kept her knees elevated, opening her pussy even more. There were gasps and laughter and words of ridicule thrown our way. Each time Cynthia seemed to both wince at the words and savor them even more. It was interesting to watch. She’d hear some mocking words or shaming laughter and I’d watch the wetness between her legs grow. Occasionally, she would sneak a hand between her legs to stroke the engorged flesh. Rita commented on it, “she gets off on this. I didn’t really believe it, but now I do. Maybe I should blackmail her.” That put another few pictures in Rita’s phone, causing Cynthia to moan like a dog in heat.
Security chased us away twenty minutes late. It seems someone complained about the “harlot” peddling her wares. Some people; we weren’t selling anything. We were giving it away. Cynthia blushed when I told her that causing both Rita and I to laugh.
We rushed back to our cars, Rita promising to call Cynthia later. She waved her phone in the air. “Who knows, next time we go shopping I bet I could motivate you to show off.”
Cynthia just bowed her head. Not in defeat, but in arousal. Too bad she wouldn’t be coming anytime soon. Neither of us would. We all hugged goodbye. That felt different, too. Men weren’t really huggers. I can’t recall a single time in my life where I gave a man a hug other than my father. Were all women so open with their affection? I hadn’t really noticed but it was something I’d keep an eye on.
“It was good to meet you,” Rita said, breaking our embrace. “Welcome to the family.”
“Good to meet you, too,” I said, earnestly.
Rita left, turning towards her car. Cynthia climbed in the back seat of my car where she, masturbated all the way to my house, her legs open wide. Back home, after putting our purchases away, we spent the rest of the day in bed playing with each other’s bodies. It was an exercise in frustration. I think it was Cynthia’s way to stoke my furnace the way hers had been kept on a heated boil all day.
Whatever game she was playing, I knew I’d suffer, but seeing the desperate look in Cynthia’s eyes was worth whatever I had to pay.
The day ended the way it had begun. With Cynthia in my arms.

1 comment:

sarah penguin said...