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From: "E.Z. Riter" <ezriter@pdq.net>
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Subject: {ASSM} {EZ}VW-Marie Dinsmore (M+F NC D/s)
Date: Thu, 18 Apr 2002 16:10:04 -0400
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This is fiction intended for legal adults readers. If it is not legal, DO
NOT read.  This is a copyrighted work.  Reposting or any other use strictly
prohibited without the express, written permission of the copyright holder,
except may be posted as part of a review or posted to my pre-approved
archives.

Copyright 2002 by E. Z. Riter

E-mail address: ezriter@hotmail.com

Please!        Give me your comments!

The works of E.Z. Riter are archived at www.storiesonline.net and at
www.asstr-mirror.org (http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/E.Z.Riter) And at
www.ruthiesclub.com

The works of E.Z Riter writing as Ezra Zane are archived at
www.ruthiesclub.com which is a fully illustrated pay website.

Hello, All,

This is another story from Vinnie's World, about a lady who was a tramp.

Vinnie's World was originally written under the name Ezra Zane for Ruthie's
Club (www.ruthiesclub.com), where Michael D, DrSpin, Al Steiner, Mat
Twassel, Shon Richards, and other writers also have stories appearing
exclusively in Ruthie's Club. A cadre of professional artists beautifully
illustrates each story.

Story Codes for Vinnie's World are almost everything, including M+F+ Cons
Non-Cons BDSM Rom Viol and Slut Wife, depending on the episode.

The intent was to create stories with sex in them, not sexual (or stroke)
stories.

The works of E.Z. Riter are archived at www.storiesonline.net and at
www.asstr-mirror.org (http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/E.Z.Riter) and at
www.ruthiesclub.com

The works of E.Z Riter writing as Ezra Zane are archived at
www.ruthiesclub.com which is a fully illustrated pay website.

I hope you enjoy these stories. As always, I do appreciate any feedback from
any reader on any subject.

Good reading and best wishes,

E.Z. Riter a/k/a Ezra Zane



VINNIE'S WORLD

MARIE DINSMORE


Many men and women in Vinnie's World are from your world - the world of
white picket fences. Some come into my world seeking protection or
assistance. Some stumble into my world by accident. Some fall into it from
curiosity, like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. Some don't know they're
in it until the truths of my world crush their realities, like the jaws of a
great white shark crush the realities of a swimmer.

So it was with Marie Dinsmore.

I watched from the van as Marie Dinsmore locked her Mercedes and walked
toward the railing along the jogging path's edge.

She wore a nylon top and shorts, both in navy blue, and new white Nike
running shoes over white ankle socks. Her long blonde hair was pulled back
in a pony tail. She sat on the ground to begin her stretching exercises.

She reminded me of a thoroughbred with those perfectly formed, incredibly
long legs leading to a high, hard rump. Her short, narrow waist accented her
smallish breasts. But it was her face - it's always their face - that made
the picture perfect. She was a beautiful animal.

She stood and twisted side to side. Her beauty broke the concentration of a
male jogger running by and he stumbled. She didn't seem to notice. She took
her first step down the path. In a moment, she was running like a deer, free
and easy through the woods.

"She's on her way," I said into the walkie-talkie.

"Roger," came the reply.

Mica started the van. We eased down the road to the next site.

As she cantered into view, I admired her physical conditioning. She'd
covered two miles in less than twelve minutes and she wasn't breathing hard.

"Here she comes," I said into the walkie-talkie.

"We see her."

She disappeared from sight as the jogging trail turned back into the woods.
The seconds crept by.

"Target hit. She's down," the walkie-talkie blared.

The van lurched forward to the pickup site. I slid open the door as Bigun
stepped from the woods with her in his arms. He dumped her in the back of
the van. I retrieved her car keys from her fanny pack and gave them to him.
He'd drive her Mercedes, leaving no trace of her disappearance.

She lay inert on the van floor with her legs parted and her arms benignly by
her side. I turned her head to look at me. I squeezed her Achilles tendon
and saw the pain register in her eyes.

"Hello, Mrs. Dinsmore," I said calmly. "The sharp pain you felt in your hip
was a hypodermic dart fired by a gas-propelled gun, the kind used to capture
animals in the jungle. You were given a paralyzing sedative. As you noticed,
you're unable to move or speak. That'll give us a chance to talk."

I smiled as I leaned over her.

"You can feel pain and you can think, but you can't move or communicate.
Listen carefully to what I have to say. Your life depends on it."

When I stopped for effect, I admired her face. Michelle Pfeiffer was as
beautiful, but there weren't many more in her class. Her face was soft and
relaxed, which was the effect of the drug.

"Your husband's aware of your affair with David Barton."

Her arms trembled. One of the problems with a Curare based sedative is
determining the appropriate dosage for the specific subject. While she
wasn't big, she had a strong constitution.

"I'm a specialist in difficult problems, Mrs. Dinsmore. Your husband hired
me to assist him in dealing with the problems you created for him. We
discussed several options. The first was killing you."

She trembled all over and I thought about giving her another dose, but
decided against it.

"Another option was maiming or disfiguring you so no other man would want
you. A third was arranging your disappearance. In that case, you'd be sold
to a wealthy man who'd keep you hidden away in a far off country where no
one would ever find you."

I opened a long bladed pocket knife. She was struggling to move, but without
result, as I cut away her top and sports bra. Her breasts were perfectly
shaped, as if made by a master sculptor. I lay the blade against her nipple.

"Do you understand how helpless you are, Mrs. Dinsmore? Do you understand
you're completely in my control? This isn't a game. Make sure you listen."

I closed the knife and returned it to my pocket.

"A fourth option, Mrs. Dinsmore, is that you'll leave the marriage as you
came into it, with nothing. The last option's the one your husband wants.
You see, he doesn't want you killed or disfigured or sold. He wants you all
to himself. That option is that you return to him and be faithful."

I pinched a nipple and twisted it hard. Her body surged in pain.

"Let me explain one other thing. My services come with a guarantee. If you,
Mr. Dinsmore, and I reach an agreement and you break it, or if he thinks
you've broken it, I'll dispatch you without further ado. I guaranteed that
to him and my word's gold, Mrs. Dinsmore."

I rolled her face down, pulled her wrists behind her, and handcuffed her. I
handcuffed her ankles, slipped a rope around those cuffs and attached it to
her wrists, drawing her legs up so she couldn't kick. I propped her up
against the pillows in the back of the van.

"I'm going to administer an antidote now. It'll take a few minutes to work.
When you can speak again, I want to talk to you, but no screaming or
fighting. It's counterproductive."

I injected the dose into her thigh and sat back to wait. She watched me as I
watched her.

"I know you're free of the drug's effect," I said, but she showed no signs
she could move or talk. I had to admire her. She was in control of herself
and her emotions. But she needed to understand the situation. I reached for
her tendon again.

"Please don't hurt me," she said softly.

It was the first time I'd heard her voice. Even in the situation it was
incredibly sexy, a one in a million voice that would cause hardons if she
was quoting hog prices.

"How do you feel?"

"Terrified," she replied.

"You should be terrified. I'm deadly serious about what I've said. I'd kill
you, Mrs. Dinsmore."

"I believe you."

We didn't speak for about ten minutes as the van bumped along the roads to
my warehouse. She studied me the whole time.

"You're a cool customer," I said.

"My life's at stake and I didn't think you'd be swayed by hysterical
sobbing." Her face became intent. "Which option did Roger want for me?"

"The first one was his suggestion, but he didn't mean it. Anyway, I would've
talked him out of it. You're too beautiful to kill . . . unless it's
absolutely necessary."

"I thought he loved me," she whispered.

"He thought you loved him."

"I do love him, but . . . who are you?"

"My name's Vincent Costello. Call me Vinnie."

"Vinnie, I'm thirty-three. My husband's sixty-three. There's a great deal of
difference in our ages and our libidos."

"You knew that eleven years ago when you married him. Nothing's changed."

"Yes, it has. My libido has grown and his has shrunk."

"That's no excuse for adultery. Your husband loves you and treats you like a
queen."

"I've had one affair. That doesn't make me a slut. My God, don't you have a
desire for sex sometimes?"

I sighed audibly.

"Mrs. Dinsmore, you're lying to me."

"I didn't lie."

"Yes, you did, and the next time you lie, I'm going to hurt you. Why are you
cheating?"

Her eyes flashed angrily as she leaned toward me and hissed, "The bastard's
got a mistress. He can't get it up enough to keep me happy, but he's fucking
her."

I clapped my hands in sardonic applause.

"Bravo, Mrs. Dinsmore. That was a wonderful performance. You've earned a
reward."

There are pressure points on the human body where the nerves are
particularly sensitive. I wrapped my hand around her mouth to silence the
screams I knew would come and lay against her to impede her anticipated
thrashing. We were eye to eye as my fingers found a pressure point.

She couldn't stop her silenced screams or her vain twisting to end the pain.
I administered her reward until her skin was sickly pale and covered with
sweat, and her eyes held only pain and fear.

When I sat back, she sobbed and gasped for air as tears poured down her
perfect cheeks. Those magnificent blue eyes were full of terror and never
looked away from me.

"On a pain scale from one to ten, that was a five. Next time will be worse.
Why don't you try telling me the truth?"

Her eyes narrowed and resistance flashed. I reached for her again and
resistance fled as she tried to squirm away.

"Tell me about your cheating."

"Roger's rich and powerful, but he's unsatisfying in bed."

"Then you married him strictly for the money."

"I told you I loved . . ." Her voice trailed off. "Yes, I married him for
the money. I'm from a poor family. Money means a lot to me."

"When did your cheating start?"

"About a year ago."

"How many men have there been?"

She hesitated. "Five."

"Anyone in particular?"

She hesitated again before saying, "No."

She'd signed a prenuptial agreement with her husband. It contained
significant restrictions on monies she could receive, and provided that if
she committed adultery, she'd get nothing. But after ten years, the prenup
expired unless adultery during those ten years could be proven.

"I thought we understood each other, Mrs. Dinsmore. I thought you knew that
if you lied, I'd hurt you again, but you've told several lies to me since
then."

"No, I haven't. You've got to believe me."

I slapped her.

"God, please," escaped her before I sealed her mouth with my hand.

This time she hurt until she threw up. I pushed her face into her smelly,
green bile, undid her pony tail, and wiped up her vomit with her hair.

"On the pain scale, that was a six. Open your mouth," I ordered.

I stuffed her vomit soaked hair into her mouth. She was a terrified,
traumatized, meek little mouse, quivering as she stared at the predator
who'd caught her. She'd do anything for me right now. That's the way I
wanted her. I didn't speak in the ten minutes more to the warehouse where my
interview of Marie Dinsmore would continue. She didn't move.

"Are you ready to tell the truth, Mrs. Dinsmore?" I asked when the van came
to a stop.

She nodded. I pulled the hair from her mouth and removed the ankle cuffs.
Bigun opened the van door.

"Let's go talk," I said.

I wrapped her hair around my hand to control her. She limped from the
residual pain I'd caused in her leg, but she made no effort to get away.

The warehouse is at the end of a series of warehouses near the wharves. I
own them and use them as a record storage business, but deep in the bowels
of one is hidden a suite of rooms I use for my purposes. I led Mrs. Dinsmore
to the bathroom in the master suite. Bigun and Mica accompanied us.

"Take a shower and clean up," I said as I unfastened the handcuffs.

Some women would've been humiliated by taking a shower in front of three
strange men, but Mrs. Dinsmore was in her element. She knew she was a
desirable woman and she liked men watching her. She posed and turned behind
the glass walls of the shower until my cock was bursting with desire for
her.

As I tugged at my pants to gain a little room, Bigun laughed.

"Me, too, boss," he said. Mica grinned sheepishly and nodded agreement.

Three hardons ready for her. Her expression told me she knew full well the
impact she had and the power her beauty and sexuality gave her. She didn't
realize that the three of us have all the women we want and that I, in
particular, had the will to turn away any woman. She swayed out of the
shower with a towel around her head.

"Dry your hair," I said, tossing her a hair dryer. "Then put on those
clothes." I pointed to the items hanging neatly nearby.

Anger at being ineffective in seducing me quickly gave way to resignation.
After she dried her hair and dressed, I led her to the conference room.

"Sit there," I said, pointing to a chair. "Here's what's going to happen.
I'll ask questions. You'll answer them truthfully and fully. No lies from
partial truths, Mrs. Dinsmore. Then, you'll wait here while I meet with Mr.
Dinsmore to explain what you've told me."

"If I'm honest, he'll want me killed," she said matter-of-factly.

"I promise you won't be killed or disfigured if you're truthful."

"And option three? I don't want to be a harem slave."

"No promises, Mrs. Dinsmore."

"I don't have any choice, do I? All right." She audibly exhaled and sat in
the chair.

I sat opposite her with Bigun standing quietly behind me. Her face was
tense, her eyes narrow.

"Mrs. Dinsmore, have you ever committed adultery?"

"Yes, I have." Her voice was tight and a bead of sweat trickled down her
neck.

"When was the first time?"

She hesitated as her eyes bored into me again. She reached a decision and I
hoped it was the right one for her.

"Five days after Roger and I returned from our honeymoon."

"Who was your partner?"

"Simon White."

She flushed, then relaxed. With that admission out of the way, she'd tell
the truth. What she didn't know was that I'd interviewed Simon at length and
he'd told me everything.

Simon White was a big, handsome, black man with a sexy, boyish smile when he
wanted to portray it and a hard, sexual coldness when that suited his needs.
He was proud of his equipment, too, and enjoyed telling his conquests that
black men are bigger, spreading another myth.

Simon's a gigolo with a stable of six married, rich, white women he was
fucking. Each of them gave him "gifts" that let him live in comfort. None of
the women knew about the others, and they didn't know about the women of
various colors and sizes he fucked on the weekend when his stable was at
home playing "sweet little wife."

But I knew Simon and Simon knew me. When I asked him about Mrs. Dinsmore, he
told me everything and agreed to follow my instructions relative to her.
Simon's a fucker, not a fighter.

Mrs. Dinsmore's interview took a long time because she held nothing back.
Besides Simon, she catalogued more than a hundred other men, a dozen women,
and several dogs she'd fucked in the eleven years she'd been married to
Roger. Except for the dogs, she couldn't remember all their names, which
wasn't surprising, but she did remember how good they were. She said she'd
enjoyed them all.

She'd been careful, restricting her cheating to Simon, his friends, and
others with an extremely low probability her husband would discover her
hobby. She was protecting that prenup. But when the ten years were over, she
wasn't nearly as careful. More than thirty of her affairs came in the last
year. That's when her husband became suspicious and contacted me to uncover
the truth.

She looked exhausted but exhilarated. They say confession's good for the
soul.

"That's all, Mrs. Dinsmore," I said in conclusion.

"What now?"

"Why don't you take a nap while I finish what I need to do."

"I don't want a nap. I want to fuck," she replied as she unbuttoned her
blouse. "Come on, Vinnie. All that sex talk has me wild with desire. Take me
for a ride."

"Bigun," I said. He stepped forward, ready to do whatever I said. "Strip
Mrs. Dinsmore and put her in the cage."

Bigun got his nickname because of the equipment between his legs, which was
as big as any I'd ever seen, black or white. The rest of him was big, too.
He could easily subdue Mrs. Dinsmore, but he didn't have to. She went
quietly.

When Roger Dinsmore and I met, I gave him an overview of his wife's
adultery. Only the dogs surprised him. He said he'd had a feeling about her
all along. He told me what he wanted. Like all my guests, he was blindfolded
when he accompanied me back to the warehouse. I didn't want people to know
where it was.

"What's happened?" I asked Bigun upon my return.

"She was meek as a lamb, boss. She undressed, crawled in the cage, and let
me lock it without a word. I haven't heard a peep out of her," he replied.

The cage was just that, a metal cage, three by four by three, like the kind
used to transport large dogs. It was in its own room, which was heavily
soundproofed. There was an intercom system and Bigun had it turned on to
listen to her.

When I opened the cage room, she was curled on the floor of the cage asleep,
which was strange behavior for a prisoner, unless the prisoner felt
confident of the outcome.

"Bring her to the middle bedroom in ten minutes," I said to Bigun.

Marie Dinsmore strutted into the bedroom like a prize filly in a
million-dollar race. She was beautiful, sexy, and appealing, despite no
makeup and the marks the cage made in her skin. Her face was alive with
energy, and sexuality radiated from her in waves. She examined the room
before walking over to the large mirror, which she studied with care.

"That's a two-way mirror, isn't it?" she said.

"Yes."

"And Roger's on the other side."

"Yes," I replied.

She turned to the mirror.

"Roger, honey," she said softly. "I'm sorry if I hurt you, but I love to
fuck. It wasn't you, baby. No one man can please me."

She kissed her own image, pirouetted on the balls of her feet, and swayed to
the bed, where she sat on the edge with one leg tucked under her. Her back
was straight, her head high. She acted in control, without a hint of fear in
her eyes.

"What happens now, Vinnie?" she asked.

"Roger wants you to remain his wife and be faithful to him."

She looked at the mirror.

"I'll be your wife, Roger, but I won't be faithful. I like fucking and I
won't give it up. Please don't be mad, honey. Remember. I love fucking you
and you acted like you enjoyed fucking me."

She turned back toward me. "What now?" she asked.

"Either you give a complete release from your interest in Roger's property
or you'll disappear."

Her eyes twinkled. Like the queen's cat, she stalked to the mirror.

"Roger, let me make a counter proposal. I know my interest in your estate
would be about twenty million. I'll go away quietly if you'll give me
fifteen thousand a month in alimony. That's not much to you and it's tax
deductible."

I could see her reflection in the mirror. Her face was alive with sexual
promise. Her hips were subtly moving back and forth. She was acting as hot
as a bitch in heat.

"And, Roger, I'll spend two days a month with you. I'll be the wildest
little sex pot you can imagine."

Roger's disembodied voice came over the intercom.

"Ten thousand and two days," he said.

"Fifteen and three days," she countered.

"Fifteen and five days. That's my final offer," he said.

"Accepted," she said. She squirmed against the mirror and kissed it again.
"Take me home, baby. We'll fuck like crazy."

Six weeks later, I was in my office above the bar when the intercom rang.

"There's a Marie Dinsmore here to see you," the hostess said.

"Have Mica bring her up," I replied.

She was wearing a pale lime blouse that was tailored for impact and a black
skirt that was barely legal. Her hair was up on her head.

"Hi, Vinnie," she said in that sexy, throaty voice.

"Hi, Marie. Have a seat. How are things going?"

"All the papers are signed. We're legally married until the waiting period
is over. Then I'm a free woman."

"Free and reasonably well off."

"True. Roger was a dear with the property. He bought me a new townhouse and
furnished it in style. And I can keep the Mercedes, my jewelry, and the
other things he bought me when we were married."

"How's your love life?"

"Active, but unrewarding. Suddenly, Simon's crass and his friends are
boorish. The others are all right and I do orgasm easily, Vinnie, but, well,
something's missing."

"Such as?"

She leaned forward and said conspiratorially, "Fucking around isn't as much
fun when it isn't cheating. I miss the excitement." She leaned back and
crossed her legs. The skirt rode high on her thighs. Her eyes twinkled. "I
need some excitement. Maybe I need a job."

"What can you do?"

"Almost anything. I have a BA with highest honors, but what I do best is
fuck."

"What are you suggesting?"

"What do you think?"

"That you want to be a whore."

"No. That doesn't sound appealing. Maybe it's not a job I want. Maybe it's
an exciting man."

"Any man in particular?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said coquettishly. "Somebody virile and sinister."

"That somebody owns women and doesn't tolerate them fucking around unless he
tells them to do it. He'd crush you like a ripe tomato if you disobeyed
him."

"I can be obedient if I want to. Anyway, being owned by the right man might
be fun if he shared me with his friends or had some sexual assignments for
me."

"You're playing with fire, Marie."

"So burn me," she replied.

Her expression was sexual heat, but that voice would've made a deaf man
hard. I'd wanted Marie since I first saw her, and that was before I felt her
heat and heard her sexy voice. I didn't see any point in waiting any longer.
She stood as I came around the desk. She expected me to kiss her. I grabbed
her hair and yanked her on her back over my desk. Her legs flew up and open.
The little fox was pantyless.

"Grab the edge and hold on," I said.

She panted as she opened those long legs and wiggled her pussy at me. I
jammed a finger up her.

"Oh, God. Come on."

"What did you say?"

"Fuck me."

I lodged my cockhead in her hole. She tried to suck me into her, but I
pulled away.

"Goddamnit, Vinnie, don't tease me," she growled.

I jammed into the hilt.

I was disappointed in the fuck. Not in her. She was magnificent, hot and
squirming with throaty sounds as punctuation, as good as I've ever had and
I've had a lot. I was disappointed in me. I pride myself on not cumming
until I'm ready, but her sweet pussy made me explode and sucked the cum out
of me. She was that good.

We straightened our clothes before I escorted her down the stairs. I told
Bigun I'd be in my quarters. She held onto my hand with her breast pushed
into my bicep as we walked down the hall. She twitched and strutted as she
examined my quarters like a cat exploring new territory.

"Undress," I said.

"Don't you want to do it for me?" she teased.

"Sure," I replied.

I unbuttoned the top two buttons on her blouse and yanked it over her
shoulders, pinning her arms by her side.

"Be still," I said. I flipped open my knife and cut away her skirt. Some
women would be scared to death by that treatment. She was purring like a
kitten. "You like being manhandled, don't you?"

"If it's the right man."

"I'm not like other men, Marie. I won't be manipulated," I said.

"Manipulate? Me?" she said, batting her lashes. Her face froze as I cut her
skirt with my knife before ripping off a strand. I turned her around and
tied her wrists together with the material. She squirmed with delight.

"Get on the bed on your knees," I said as I swatted her ass playfully.

She spun around to face me and those magnificent eyes screamed of desire.

"Doggy style?" she asked sexily.

"I'm going to spank your ass. Then I'm going to fuck it."

"Don't do that. Just fuck my pussy again," she said, squirming up against
me.

She humped my leg like a demented retriever, leaving a trail of pussy juice
on my pants. I wrapped her hair around my hand and slowly pulled her head
back until she arched and bent under me. I could feel her muscles quiver as
she tried to keep her balance.

I raped her mouth with mine, kissing her hard, biting her tongue, sucking
her lip until it swelled. She kissed me as hard and squirmed against me the
whole time. I pulled back on her hair until her knees buckled and she
slumped to the floor with them spread.

She was an animal as I stuck my hard cock in her mouth and shoved her face
toward my crotch until she choked. I held her there, feeling her struggle,
but she was sucking with everything she had and her tongue flew on the
underside of my shaft. When the struggles changed because she couldn't
breathe, I yanked my cock out. As she gasped for air, I took her over my
lap.

"No, Vinnie," she squealed, but she didn't try to get away.

I swatted her rump. Before her muscles relaxed, I jammed two fingers up her
pussy.

"Oh, God," she groaned as she humped my hand.

I trailed my hand down the inside of her thigh and she quivered. I swatted
again, harder this time, before fingering her again. She had two orgasms
from the slow, rhythmic treatment before she collapsed sweat covered and
gasping.

I enjoyed spanking her, feeling her ass cheeks as they bounced off my hands
and her body squirming across my legs. I don't think I enjoyed it as much as
she did. I undid her wrists, cut off her blouse, and lifted her to the bed.

"Now my ass?" she asked hopefully.

"Of course," I replied.

She spun around on all fours, reached back to open her ass cheeks for me and
murmured, "Come on." I wasn't the first back there.

Some guys pride themselves on taking a woman's ass. We even had a president
who said "I'm not finished with a woman until I've had her three ways." It
does signify her complete submission and I've used it for that, but I prefer
her other ways unless she loves it. Marie loved it. She told me how much she
loved all of it before she fell asleep. She spent that first night in my
arms, curled up with her head on my chest.

I awakened once to find her sucking my cock. When she mounted me, I let her
do all the work. Her face was the most erotic thing I'd ever seen as she
came over me.

Four days later, I gave Marie her first assignment. I gave her other
assignments after that and I shared her with some select friends. All those
I've chronicled elsewhere.

I was beginning to think Marie was someone I could trust, a woman I'd keep
with me indefinitely, but on the sixty-second day after she came to me, I
caught her fucking someone without my permission.

When she walked into my office and saw my face, she knew she'd been caught.
She bolted for the door, but she couldn't escape.

She disappeared as if she'd vanished into thin air. No one filed a missing
persons report, so the police never looked for her. When Roger asked what
happened, I told him he didn't want to know. I arranged new playmates for
him and he quickly forgot about Marie.

Bigun and Mica knew what happened because they know everything that goes on
around here. Some of the ladies in my life at the Sunset Bar knew, but I
wanted them to know. They needed to understand that I really would do those
things.

Being in a harem may sound romantic and exciting, but I have it on good
authority that it's deadly dull. The women have nothing to do except wait
for their master to call for them.

The intermediary assured me the purchaser kept his women locked in chastity
belts when he wasn't using them. Not only would no other man have them, they
couldn't satisfy one another or even masturbate because the contraption
prevented any vaginal stimulation. Since he had more than a hundred women in
his harem, he used each of them only three or four times a year.

For a woman who needed to orgasm twice a day, four times a year would be a
living hell.

And in hell you get burned.

The End

Please!  Give me your comments!

E-mail address: ezriter@hotmail.com

The works of E.Z. Riter are archived at www.storiesonline.net and at
www.asstr-mirror.org (http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/E.Z.Riter) and at
www.ruthiesclub.com

The works of E.Z Riter writing as Ezra Zane are archived at
www.ruthiesclub.com which is a fully illustrated pay website.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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