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Message-ID: <36786asstr$1023999008@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
Reply-To: "Archaic69" <archaic69@hotmail.com>
From: "Archaic69" <archaic69@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} rp: Perfect Applicant (Ff, nc, pantyhose)
Date: Thu, 13 Jun 2002 16:10:08 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

This story is not intended to be viewed by persons under the age of 18, or
under whatever age is considered adulthood in your neck of the world. It has
no basis in reality, and is intended as a fantasy only.  If over the age in
question, please use your own good judgment.

This is my first story of this nature, so feedback (archaic69@hotmail.com)
is appreciated.
Now enjoy!

The Perfect Applicant (Ff, mc, hosiery fetish)


    "She is beautiful, is she not?"  Allison Taxton crossed her stockinged
legs, and turned to address her subordinate.  "An absolute spectacle.  Look
at her, Caroline, look at this footage from today's interview: auburn
tresses, slender build, buxom figure, uhhh."  The mistress encircled one of
her own plump assets with gloved fingers, and began to pet herself.  "I
would suggest that you attend me now, lest I have to come for you."
    Caroline rose from tired knees to tired feet, and did not speak her
acquiescence; the end of penis shaped gag parted her red lips, had parted
them for the better part of an hour, it's shaft and tip forbidding coherent
language.  What were not forbidden by either gag or mistress were the
animal-like grunts with which her lips had been likewise associated this
busy eve.  Beneath the semi-sheer nylon of her black pantyhose, her buttocks
burned with pain.  It was the price Allison's displeasure, and its memory
moved Caroline quickly to her mistress now.
    Allison watched her girl approach, moving only her eyes in anticipation.
She continued to lightly pinch and massage her breasts through the rustling
nylon of her evening gown, but after speaking to Caroline, the mounting
passion had melted from her face.  Now she stroked and caressed her own
mounds almost off-handedly; cold intensity had supplanted erotic merriment
in those beautiful, corn-flower blue orbs, and while she assessed, Caroline
knelt silently before her chair.
    Then, on the dark, silhouette-streaked floor of their office. . .she
waited.
    A business suit: black jacket and skirt, pinstriped, the former hung
loosely over a bosom like a pair of grapefruit; between jacket and bosom was
a creamy-colored blouse, soft, with discreet, pliant buttons lining the
front.  Between the pinstriped skirt and it's obvious holding were
pantyhose, a gentle black that cradled both legs and womanhood in their
silky confines.  Sensible black heels and less sensible black choker served
as the only other unextraordinary adornments, though the latter was mostly
concealed during the business day by long, dark hair.  The hair was up now,
the choker prominent against tanned, Hispanic skin.  Allison liked the
visibility of her control.
    Caroline's breathing was rhythmic and heavy, the rubber phallus
depressing her tongue moved in and out slightly with each momentary sag and
lift of her shoulders.  Beyond that, the silence was deafening.  Caroline
knew that her mistress was interested in extending the moment.  Only now and
then would she spare the girl her fixed stare: when her fingers gently
coaxed the more extreme pleasures from her breasts, her eyes would flutter
open and shut quickly, yet no further sound was uttered.  Finally, Allison
smiled and sat straight in her office chair, returning her elegantly gloved
arms to the rests, and above all signaling an end to the ministrations.
    She stood quickly then, and her navy heels clicked as she circled behind
her girl.  With a business-like twist of the buckle behind head, the straps
retaining her gag suddenly fell to the side, and the penis slid blessedly
from her mouth, hitting the floor with a clatter.
    Caroline knew better than to move until instructed.  Within a moment,
she heard stocking feet being slid from shoes, and then a clatter as they
were tossed dismissively aside.  Then, the voice of her mistress: "Pick it
up."  Caroline did, holding the saliva-soaked gag carefully aloft with
manicured fingers.  "Now turn and face me."
    Still on her stockinged knees, Caroline complied.  Her suit skirt rode a
bit in the effort.  Allison raised an eyebrow.  "Sweet Ms. Holcomb," she
said softly, reaching forward to brush the kneeling woman's brow, "tell me a
little about the girl you were."
    Caroline's eyes closed, and she breathed in, gathering her strength,
attempting reassuring thoughts.  It's going to be this again.  Please no. .
.why
must you make me remember? No. . .I'll be strong; there may. . .even be some
pleasure. . .if I am good.  This last choked her more than the phallus ever
had.
What have I become?
"I. . ." she started tentatively, eyes downcast. "I used to. . ."
    "No, bitch."  Allison caught her in the chin with her stockinged toes,
and raised her face until their eyes met.   "You will tell me as you lick
the penis."
    Caroline swallowed, could feel her mistress's silken foot move away from
her cheek with a graceful ease.  So sexy. . .God, no, stop it.   She began
again, this time lowering her eyes and raising the slimy rubber cock at to
her lips.  "I. . .I'm from a well-to do family in.California. . .and I. . ."
she
stuttered as she tongued the phallus's base, "and I. . .I've always had
everything -ummm- that I've ever wanted."
    "A rich girl?"  Allison asked, playing an intrigued role.  "A rich
bitch?"
    "Ungh, um, yes, Mrs.Taxton," she closed her eyes and lathered the cock
with her tongue. "I was so, so rich.  Daddy. . .mmm. . .he would buy his
little
girl . ..mmm . ..he would get her anything."
    "You were Daddy's girl.  Daddy's good girl."  Allison chuckled, and
slowly seated herself, moving to grasp the hem of her dark blue gown.  "I
like that.  But you got bad didn't you?"
    "Daddy, he didn't want me to go," she started, following the prompt, "I
was. . ." her red fingernails played lightly over the cock, ". . .I was. .
.I
needed.things."
    "Yes, sweetheart. . .yes. . .we all need things." Allison's gown crawled
slowly
up her calves, her thighs, revealing more and more stocking as it rose.
    Caroline began to lose herself, as had happened so many times before  "I
started. . .ungh. . .to be bad.  I. . .wanted things. . ." her lips
encircled the phallus's
tip in a kiss, "things. ..mmm. . .Daddy. . .couldn't give me."
    The gown was crumpled about Allison's waist now.  She too had her eyes
closed, her lace stocking tops exposed, her legs lean and outstretched in a
'V', toes pointed.  "Why Caroline, you were becoming a woman, a sexy,
beautiful woman."
    "Yes. . .I. . .a woman." She tipped her head back in ecstasy, bending
the penis
slightly.  "I. . .mmm. . .left. . .left Daddy."
    "Yes, you left for the east.  You started school, you naughty young
lady."
Allison began to stroke her panties, continuing in a carefully paced
whisper, "You should be spanked for your urges."
    "H. . .Harvard," she began to pant, and this time, as she continued to
manipulate the fake cock between tongue and left hand, her right drifted
slowly to the hemline of her own skirt.
    "Such a fine school for young ladies.  Taught you how to dress, how to.
. ."
a small gasp as her finger traced the outline of her panties, ". . .to act.
You
were to be a lady, my pretty pet."
    Caroline's initial rigidity had abandoned her: she was half-bent now,
with only one stocking knee still affixed to the ground, while the other leg
stuck straight out awkwardly behind her.  The hem of her pinstriped skirt
now barely concealed the darker panty of her hosiery, while the majority of
it was crumpled across the cheeks of her ass.  Her eyes were closed, and she
bathed the rubber phallus in long runs, from bottom to top and then back.  A
small whimper escaped her lips as she tipped off the penis a third time, for
it was then that her right fingertips brushed her nylon-covered pussy.
    "But then," Allison leaned forward in her chair until her face was
inches away from her unknowing slut's, "you came to work for me."  And she
snapped her fingers.
    A light came on in Caroline's mind, and the floor met her body in a
rush.  She laid there, crumpled, face in the floor with her long dark hair,
still wrapped in its ponytail, cascading alongside.  Then, without looking
up, she gasped, in the quiet, shy little girl voice that belied everything
she had been."Mistress, may I?"
    "Why, my little bitch?  Are you in heat?"
    The trance of the last episode had dissipated.  Caroline lifted her head
to
the height of Allison's knees.  Her face flushed with humiliation.  But
under her hose, her pussy flushed with need. "Yes, mistress," she panted,
every muscle tensed. "Your bitch is in heat."
    "Then," Allison, still leaning forward, extended a hand, and cupped one
of Caroline's breasts through her now disheveled blouse, "by all means."
    With a moan of lust, Caroline fell backwards onto the soft, thick carpet
and shucked her skirt around her waist.  Her hands shot to her swelling
crotch, and she split the now sopping wet pantyhose that had concealed it.
She grabbed the cock from where it had fallen, and, legs aloft and apart,
plunged it into herself with desperation of someone who may never cum again.
Her grunting was no less erotic for being self-inflicted.
    "Uunhhhh!!"
    Allison leaned back once more to watch the lewd show.  The expanse of
muscular thigh that now shot straight into the air shook and convulsed with
each of her bitch's thrusts.
    "Uhnnh. . .uhnh."
    "You make noises like an animal, Caroline.  I knew you would, the first
day you walked into my office."
    Caroline didn't -couldn't-hear.  She continued her thrusts, meeting
hand-held cock with eager pelvis, both working without rhythm, but with
mutual desperation.  One of her high-heels clattered to the floor, and she
distractedly moved her black stocking foot to kick off the other.
    "It puzzled me: your confidence, your intelligence, tempered with your
utter inability to discern my fa ade."
    "Oh, ugn, oh God. . .please." Caroline seemed ready to peak; her toes
were
pointed, her eyes clenched shut, her words were whimpered.
    "You were a perfect applicant.  But sadly. . ."
    "UUUGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!"
    ". . .hardly a challenge."
    Caroline's legs fell to the floor like trees before an axeman.  She laid
there, phallus half-hanging from her delicate womanhood, sweat soaking both
hair and face, expensive suit and hose overwrought in her desire to cum.
    Allison stood, and slowly walked a circle around her girl, keeping a
motion not unlike a detective does a chalk outline.  She smiled.  "That is
why our new applicant will be so good for the company, pet.  You see, she,"
she indicated the glowing monitor which had been so utterly ignored for the
extent of their encounter, "she will not be an easy candidate.  She is
neither dense, nor extravagant: I judged as much during our session."
    Darkness began to creep across Caroline's senses, a sleep born of her
harshly-bought cum.  But she strained to hear the last of Allison's words.
    "And what is best. . .her entire purpose here is one of perception.
What better
challenge than the game which knows it is in a huntsman's range?"
    Caroline's shifted her body, and betrayed her inquiry by reopening her
eyes
to catch her mistress's.
     "You see, my sweet, that beautiful creature asked one too many
questions.
And what is more. . .when she stood to go, I saw the hint of the wire tucked
behind her jacket."
    The darkness fled, and was replaced for the first time with a new kind
of
light.
    "She starts tomorrow."

END

Part2

    The morning crept up on Jennifer Grey, first articulating itself only as
a sliver of light probing lightly between her curtains. As the hour crept
closer and closer towards 8 a.m. however, the fabric between her sleeping
form and the insisting day may as well have been tissue. Jennifer turned
once, turned twice, and turned again, still not comprehending the sun's
purpose in intruding on her coveted slumber. Not comprehending, that is,
until the phone rang.

    "Oh! Oh God." This wouldn't do. She snatched the receiver from its
mount, and in an instant composed herself utterly; when she spoke her
obligatory greetings, her voice had eschewed all suggestions of slumber.
Still...

    "Ms. Grey. We didn't wake you, did we? I do hope not. Occasionally our
hours of operation throw even our more seasoned employees off the clock, and
I haven't even a watch on today." The voice was unfamiliar, and a quick
glance at the caller ID panel disclosed nothing: 'OUT OF AREA.' But Jennifer
had seen to it that nobody else knew this number.

    "No ma'am. It's a perfectly regular hour. Ah...I was just under the
impression that I was expected at six-thirty?"

    There was a cheerful giggle. Definitely not Ms. Taxton. "Mrs. Grey, I'm
calling on behalf of the HSA to confirm your appointment with us today. Ms.
Taxton did mention the schedule; I just wanted to give you plenty of time to
prepare. The dress code was covered with you yesterday?"

    It hadn't been. Jennifer's mind raced, quickly attempting to
re-establish her character, her mannerisms so as to be consistent with her
performance at the interview. Acquiescence, not assertion, was the key. "No
ma'am. I presumed. . .business casual?"

    "Slightly more. We here at HSA pursue a lofty clientele, Mrs. Grey. If I
may suggest...?"

    Jennifer smirked to herself. My agency has a few codes of it's own,
girl. You might as well be filling evidence bags for me. "Please. I'm at a
loss."

    "Our attire is designed to compel, to sell, and to intimidate, Ms. Grey.
Stick with neutral colors at first. I suggest a charcoal suit, skirt of an
attractive but daring cut, a blazer that can be discarded without ruining
the outfit, pantyhose of course (gray would be preferable to beige with that
color) and sensible, patent leather heels." She closed at the end with a
tone was better left to the reading of a shopping list. "I have much to do
now. I must be going. Good day, Ms. Grey."

    Jennifer still held the receiver. Her mouth was open. I've just been
told what shade of hosiery to wear. Still, the woman had qualified the
comment as a suggestion. If there was anything to this HSA assignment, they
were no strangers to covering their backs. She hung the phone up, and,
smirking, picked up the other, a black cell that was no bigger than her
palm, before dialing. "Hunts, Jennifer M." A pause, and then, "6-R-7-Y-B.
Good. Thank you. Hello, sir. Yes. Tell me, what sort of cash flow was I
allotted for this assignment?"

**********

    The large hand of her watch inched ever nearer the twelve, while the
short one rested uncomfortably atop the seven. Shit. Jennifer's heels
clicked quickly as she trotted up the stairs, occasionally dropping an
anxious hand to tug at her too-short skirt. Shit, I'm late.

    The day had been spent enjoyably, after business with the Agency was out
of the way. She had, she'd discovered, a federally sanctioned budget of
$10,000 with which to pursue the operation. As she'd never had staff, and as
most of her missions involved less. . .subtle investigation, the sum had
been entirely a mystery to her.

    No longer. The exceptional suit which she wore so closely matched the
one described that morning that it might as well have been tailored by her
caller. The skirt was the best: colored nearly black, it was cut just above
her gray stockinged knees. It made her feel sexy and confident, but as she
rushed up the stairs towards HSA's sterile glass-laden entry way,
self-consciousness tempered her good feelings. I mustn't forget why I'm
here.

    The building was huge, pristine, and would have appeared vacant, if
Jennifer did not know better. HSA ran around the clock, she had been told,
stacking shifts differently as the need arose. Hence, it was explained,
their inclination towards unmarried employees.

    The glass doors parted with a whisper, and Jennifer slowed to compose
herself. With a deep intake of breath, she stepped across the threshold,
last week's instructions cradled carefully in her memory: "Mrs. Hunt, your
purpose there will be neither presume guilt nor innocence. HSA is either
squeaky clean. . .or it's the most meticulously shrouded illegality in New
York. Either way, we don't expect your stay there to be a short one." With
another whisper, the doors sealed themselves behind her.

    The entry was large and forbidding, consisting mostly of marble. Columns
paralleled the walls, and, at this late hour, succeeded at casting
sufficient shadow across the room that Jennifer did not see the other woman
until she spoke.

    "Ms. Grey." It was not a question.

    "Um. Yes. It's me." Jennifer approached and held out her hand in
introduction.

    "My name is Caroline Holcomb." She seemed to appraise Jennifer, and did
not take her hand until her eyes had had their fill. When they shook,
Jennifer wondered if she'd ever felt anything so soft as the other woman's
hand. It was as though it had just been doused in powder. "I will show you
the way to the main office, where we can get started."

    She turned on her heel (a very high heel, she noted: nearly four inches)
and Jennifer followed her to the elevator at the hall's end. But when the
door opened with a soft ring, she merely stepped to the side, and gestured.

    "Aren't you coming?" Jennifer asked, puzzled.

    There was a pause, and again Caroline roamed the new arrival with her
eyes. "I like your suit, Ms. Grey. And no, I cannot accompany you. I've been
assigned to other duties."

    "Then someone will meet me up top?" Jennifer was feeling a little odd,
suddenly, and didn't want to go upstairs alone.

    A strange light ran across Caroline's features. . .of interest. . .or. .
.anticipation? "No." She smiled. "Things run pretty smoothly here, Ms. Grey.
You'll find that your office has been duly prepared."

    Jennifer nodded, and with a slight shake of her head to clear her
nerves, stepped aboard.

    Caroline watched the doors close, and then carefully withdrew a
cleansing rag from her own blazer before proceeding to scrub her hands.
Where she wiped, there came away a beige powder. I've gotten you for her,
pretty girl, she thought as she examined the rag's new tint against the
light. I had no choice, but I've gotten you. She dropped the rag in the
waste basket as she walked away. Out damned spot.

Part 3

Perfect Applicant part 3 (Ff, mc, hosiery)

    When the elevator began its ascent from the first floor, Jennifer Grey
was feeling a little unsteady on her feet. By the time its seemingly rapid
climb had put ten floors behind her, she had sunk to her stockinged knees,
black spots speckling her vision. And when the doors opened at the 42nd
floor, her prescribed destination, she was no longer possessed of the
consciousness to appreciate the end of her ride.

    Allison Taxton peered appreciatively at the crumpled young woman from
her newly-taken position between the doors. She pursed her wet, red lips in
a soft whistle. Lucky for you that I am not one who favors the feast to the
hunt. Soon there would be time to gorge herself on the full-breasted,
tightly-muscled girl before her. But for now. . .the preparations.

    She stepped quickly, purposefully from the elevator, into the
cubicle-laden office space behind her. Gesturing to two young ladies,
short-skirted blondes, gartered stockings evident, she chose her words
carefully: "Girls, you must show Ms. Grey to my office via the scenic route.
Consider during the trip that she has not yet seen the breadth of this
place." One of them smiling, the other looking lustful, they nonetheless
nodded their compliance, and, with practiced ease, hefted Jennifer by hands
and ankles and maneuvered her deftly towards the other end of the level.

    Allison waited until they had rounded a darkened corner, counted to ten,
and then pursued, her four-inch heels clicking a steady pace across the
floor. In her mind ticked an insistent clock. They had six minutes: six were
all that the mind could conceivably discount, in disorienting circumstances,
all that would not be missed when consciousness was renewed. They would be
done in four.

    When she opened the doors to her office, the blondes were moving with
surgical precision. Jennifer's blazer had been doffed, was hanging neatly
from a nearby peg, and her creamy blouse was coming along just as quickly.
Allison smiled as Jennifer's breasts, pear-shaped, large, and firm, swung
heavily from the confines of her just-removed bra. When Ms. Grey's entire
torso was stripped, one of the two girls looked at Allison and smiled. "Not
bugged today, Mistress."

    "Excellent." This just kept getting better. "Quickly now, strip her
fully and proceed."

    Giggling, one girl moved slightly aside, and, withdrawing a transparent
packet and metallic instruments from her purse, began to fiddle with the
various lacy articles that were being handed her as Jennifer's violation
progressed. Allison, hands folded behind her back, began to circle the
scene, taking it all in. At this point, Ms. Grey's thinly cut skirt was
being worked down her long, grey-hosed legs, and Allison relished the lack
of panties under the hose. Allison knew that said something about a woman.
"You, my pretty pet, will be such a willful slut when I am done with you."
The stripee said nothing, of course, and the stripper, eager to please,
quickly began to roll the hosiery from her legs.

    Allison stopped, fixing her with a frigid glance: "Be careful not to run
them, bitch. Ms. Grey must never be compelled to consider the circumstances
of these senseless moments. She will wake, and all will be well with her
world." Allison renewed her pace, noting the dampening condition of her own
hose, white today, with a sheer, high-cut panty. "She will not know, for
instance, that three of her own co-workers here at HSA," Allison ran her
hands across the kneeling girls' hair as she passed,  "have seen her tits
and pussy. She will not know that one of those three," she hovered a bit
about the girl with the instruments, slipping a stocking foot in and out of
her black shoe, "has meticulously placed tiny, remote, sensory inducers,
within specific articles of her clothing. She will not know that, despite
their size, each is capable of soliciting a bodily reaction equal to a
vibrator in the cunt." A cruel chuckle. "She will not know that these little
wonders are, in fact, nearly transparent, especially against darker
clothing. . ." She placed index and middle fingers together, and began to
lightly massage circles across her own crotch, over her skirt and hose.
"Which, she will know, is what we require in our dress code."

    She practically purred then, and continued to stroke, ceasing her pace
about the room.  Allison knew that she was distracting herself, that she
should be focusing, but every time her eyes wandered across the nude woman
below, she became more and more aware of the ache between her legs, the
pulsing, moistening need.

    Her servants though, worked on regardless. 3 minutes had passed, and
more than anything in the world, they feared their mistress' wrath should 3
more transpire before the job's consummation. The tiny plastic slivers were
placed quickly but accurately, wherever in Jennifer's clothing an erogenous
zone might find itself. Three were in each cup of the black, lacy bra: one
on each underside, where the breasts' weight would be borne, one along the
top of the cup, where a lover's gentle kiss might be planted, and the last
along the centers, where Jennifer's soft brown nipples would likely rest.
Additionally, several were placed with rapid precision in Jennifer's silken
gray hosiery: one in each reinforced toe and in each sole, one along the
back of where each calf would be delicately encased, and two in the darker
gray panty itself, one in front panel, along the seam, and one opposite it,
in the back. "We're ready, Mistress," said the girl making the placements.

    "Hold for just a moment." Allison was a creature of control, but even
she could be beguiled under the right conditions. Still applying pressure to
her womanhood, she knelt over her naked, dozing prey, and with all the
restraint she could summon, limited herself to a brief kiss on each of
Jennifer's erect nipples.

    The moan took them all aback. Allison shot up, her eyes wide. The
powder. . .the powder was supposed to keep the victim utterly unconscious of
all stimuli. All stimuli for the allotted time. It had never failed. Unless.
. .it had not all been transferred. Caroline Holcomb. Allison smiled
appreciatively. Did YOU disobey me? The prospect of it delighted her; she'd
imagined that Caroline had lost all use as an entertainment piece months
ago.

    Two minutes left now, if we are lucky. She snapped her fingers quickly,
and the girls rushed to dress the unconscious Jennifer, pulling on
pantyhose, shoes, bra, etc. Everything must be perfect, every fold and tuck
needed to match the condition of the apparel before it was removed. The
girls knew this, and satisfied the requirement as quickly as possible.
Still, the seconds ticked on.

    Finally it was done. Again hoisting Jennifer by ankles and wrists, they
rushed her to the elevator doors, which had been held ajar. Jennifer gave
little whimpers and stirrings during this time, but remained blessedly
asleep. Allison followed, her nerve unchallenged.

    Jennifer was propped up in a lean against the elevator rail, and one of
her shoes, which had fallen off during the transit, was replaced upon her
stocking foot by Allison, as the two little whores who had aided scampered
away to less public corners. Allison then made one final evaluation of her
victim, and, noting that everything was in place, stepped back behind the
closing doors.

*****

    Jennifer shook her head from side to side. Elevator rides up that many
floors always made her disoriented. Nervously, she checked her watch. God, I
didn't think I was THAT late. As the elevator bounced to a stop, a small
chime rang, and the doors slid open to reveal Ms. Allison Taxton, dressed
immaculately, and tapping a foot with impatience.

    "Ms. Taxton, I'm sorry. I just got caught up in things and lost track of
time."

    Ms. Taxton seemed to consider her excuse, a pretty weak on admittedly.
Then she smiled pleasantly and approached the new hire with an extended
hand. "Things happen, Ms. Grey. Welcome to HSA."

Part 4 (Ff, hosiery, mc)

    Caroline Holcomb's situation was unenviable, to say the least.

    She stood silently in the hidden sanctum of the HSA, hands at her sides,
feet slightly apart, blinking rapidly, and sweating profusely. The blinking
could be attributed to the brilliantly white light that was highlighting her
form, setting it off against the haze of the office. The sweating, however,
was due to something else entirely.

    From her position atop the dais, Allison Taxton scrutinized her pretty
pet. Caroline wore one of her trademark skirt-suits, a navy ensemble that
fit her beautifully, and cut well against her roundish breasts. Where it
ended, about two inches above the knee, shimmered a pair of almost glittery
beige stockings, semi-sheer and elegantly caressing the muscles of her legs.
The outfit was completed at top and bottom by a black choker (partly covered
by her long, black hair) and a pair of three inch pumps, respectively.
Allison knew her bitch to look delicious on any occasion, but it was moments
like these, when she stood nervously at attention, that she was most
vulnerable, and thus, most appealing.

    The silence was worsening (it was a favorite tactic) and Caroline could
feel her peril, almost as though it was a tangible thing. Beyond the light's
touch moved the servants: all female, Caroline knew, as was their mistress'
wont. Once in a while, their heels would click across the cold concrete
floor, and the echo, sometime near in origin, sometimes far, rattled her
nerves. Finally, she could take it no longer.

    "Mistress," Caroline began hesitantly, her soft Hispanic lips barely
parting for the word, "do you have need of me?"

    Allison bolted from her seat, and took the stairs between them two at a
time. Caroline stepped back in fright from the assault, but her cheek was
grabbed, pinched, and held. The pain was fierce, the nails sharp, and she
heard herself cry out girlishly. Shame overcame her. The woman she had been
was gone. But she had little time to contemplate that, as Allison pulled
their faces very close together, and then said something, not to Caroline,
but to the room: "This cow has spoken too much already. Bind her." With
that, she gave Caroline a hardy shove, sending her teetering on her high
heels before collapsing to the floor in a heap. She lay there for a moment,
dignity abandoned, skirt climbing to her panties and stocking legs awkwardly
spread.

    But the moment was all she had. Responding to their mistress, four
servant girls converged on her from the shadows, and, each grabbing a limb,
hefted her aloft. Caroline had learned long ago that struggling was useless,
but she couldn't help herself. She tried to hit and wiggle and kick her way
free, a sight that Allison took in with delight, but the girls' hold was
firm. Quickly, they carted her to a darkened room behind the dais, where she
knew she would be first drugged and then "prepared" to her mistress' tastes.
Silently, she ceased her wriggling, bit her lower lip, and prayed that
Jennifer Grey was worth what was coming next.

*******

    Agent Grey stifled a yawn behind her perfectly manicured fingers. All
around her sounded the typical beeps, keystrokes, and rings of an office on
the go, but the noise was doing little to rouse her.

    After a year with the Agency, a year filled with kicked-down doors, drug
dealers, and the mafia, this undercover bit seemed kind of tame. Especially
if the days ahead held up to this one, then she would be sure that nothing
was going on. She sighed, and sipped from her coffee mug. Perhaps she was
just too impatient. After all, this was, what?, her second time in the
building? Nevertheless, she'd expected more action than arguments at the
water cooler could satisfy.

    A lovely red-haired head popped over the wall of her cubicle. "Hey, Jen.
I heard you yawn from over here. I told you this place was dull."

    Jennifer smiled. Tristen had been so friendly that night, taking
Jennifer by the hand, showing her the in's and out's of the office, the
computer network, basically everything Ms. Taxton hadn't covered before
rushing off to take care of some business. "No," she replied politely, "of
course it's not dull. I just have to adjust to these hours." She held her
cup aloft. "This helps."

    "It'll be your best friend. Speaking of which, I have to go place a
requisition for various supplies. Anything you need, speak up now. It'll be
a while before I'm back."

    Jennifer shook her head 'no' and thanked her, returning her focus to the
task at hand as the girl walked off. Such nice people, Jennifer thought to
herself. If there is anything going on here, there's no way that it has
suffused the whole staff.

    Stretching her long legs underneath her desk, she slid her stocking feet
from her shoes. It felt so good to wiggle her toes for a bit, and hopefully
no one would notice her lack of professionalism. Pantyhose certainly made
her legs feel indulged, but there was something to be said for lower heels,
particularly until she got accustomed to the office grind. She distractedly
crossed her legs, bringing one foot up on her knee so she could rub the
tension out of it.

    God, that feels good, she thought, as she ran her fingers over and over
the soft, gray nylon. Soon the other foot was asking for attention, and so
she switched. It DID feel good. Better than her foot massages usually felt.
Maybe her clumsy boyfriends-of-the-week just hadn't been doing it right.
Slowly and then quickly she glided her hands over her sheer hosiery, even
taking a moment to rub her well-muscled calves. She closed her eyes. It was
so quiet in the office all of a sudden. Perhaps there was a break. That
would be nice. She kept working her hands, assured now that she could relax
briefly. God, had her hosiery been this silky before? It was so soft under
her fingers, so tight around her calves, her toes, her pussy. . .it caressed
her womanhood, her sweet pussy, oh her pussy. . . "Ohhnhh. . ."

    Jennifer's eyes shot open, and she self-consciously ran them around her
immediate space. Had she said that out loud? Her face flushed a horrific
red. All of the noises so prevalent in the office had resumed their typical
volume. Had she just imagined that? God, please let it be so! It would be so
humiliating! No, calm down, no one heard. Hurriedly, she slipped her
stocking feet back into her shoes, and replaced her fingers at the keyboard.
Slowly her heartbeat became more regular. Good, she thought. Relax. But as
Jennifer Grey recrossed her stocking legs at the knee, her calmness was
again overcome with mortification. Between her thighs, her hosed crotch was
warm and soft as always . . . but it was also wet. And that it hadn't been
in a long, long time.


Part 5

    Caroline could remember -barely- that she was still kicking and fighting
the lingerie-clad girls as they brought her into the preparation chamber.
She could remember also that she was not their match, and how easily they
deposited her, like a sack of grain, face-down over the table.  She vividly
recalled the more extreme sensations of the ordeal, wrists pinned by two of
the more toned girls as her skirt was unzipped by another and dropped around
her ankles.  The cold concrete beneath her stocking feet as her shoes were
removed.  And after her lace panties were moved adequately to one side. .
.the syringe in her bottom was particularly memorable.
    The rest, naturally, was a haze, though she could surmise much from her
present situation.  The girls had stripped her of suit and stockings,
obviously, and replaced it with this. . .costume that she wore now.  Then
they had toyed with her some -a bit of play that she most certainly hadn't
objected to, given the nature of the HSA's narcotics.  And then, likely that
when they were required to present her to Mistress Allison Taxton, they did
so with slavish devotion and girlish giggles.  Afterwards, her drug-wrought
malleability fading, the girls bound her into her current position, and
scampered pixie-like back into the shadows to watch.
    And what a show it would be.  Caroline could tell just from the setup.
    Atop the dais, observing her plaything, sat Mistress Allison.  Her legs,
as always, shone prettily in their silken stockings -white this time.  She
had stripped off her business suit of earlier in the eve, and was wearing
only a beige, satin camisole.  Her blond hair fell down her shoulders, and
with every cock of her head seemed to glide about them as though dancing.
Caroline could only survey her mistress for a moment at a time, and had
learned the inherent defeat of looking her in the eyes; but God, she was so
beautiful.
    In sharp contrast to Allison's majesty was Caroline's own position.  The
chamber was oriented like some sort of modern throneroom, replete with cold
stone columns lining the path to the dais.  The first time Caroline stirred,
she realized that her movements were restricted.  It took only a moment
after that to discover why: a tiny but invariably sturdy chain ran from one
of those columns, the one nearest her Mistress' platform, to the choker that
always adorned her lovely neck.  With her mistress watching, Caroline would
not try her slack, but past experience suggested that she had exactly enough
to reach the top of the dais, and her mistress' touch.  'Oh lord,' she
thought pleadingly, 'please don't let it be bad.'
    As she grew more nervous, she began to stir, and the rustle of her
costume brought it's details to her attention.  It was quite unlike anything
that she'd ever been forced to wear, outraegous and gaudy beyond all of her
former standards. The first thing to strike her was the glaring pinkness of
it all: not a hot pink, but a soft, girlish pink, the sort that might
speckle a nursery room.  She wore pink tights, though they were more sheer
than most tights, almost like the variety worn by ballerinas.  There were no
shoes, but around her ankles were tiny pink bands, upon which were tied
little bells that rang softly when she moved.  Her waist, she found, was
similarly ringed, but instead of bells there were harnesses on the belt,
shiny clasps that stood out as the only non-rosy shade of her garment.  It
seemed to restrictive and harsh, especially relative to the soft, sheer
teddy that cradled her beautiful breasts, midriff, and shoulders.  The teddy
seemed almost like a body-stocking in it's texture and hugging confines, and
about it were sprinkled sequins: a few here and there to give the bodice an
even more eye-catching quality, if that was possible.  Lastly, her long,
dark hair, normally flowing over her shoulders, was bound in a thick braid,
tied up at the end (or course) with pink ribbon.
    'What is she doing?' Caroline thought. 'This can't be my punishment. .
.It's too. . .soft, too feminine.  Where are the whips, the paddles, the
dildos?'  Caroline grimaced as she envisioned the instruments.  But a tiny
voice in the back of her head whispered, 'But the paddles taught you
disciplince, girl.  And the dildos made you scream, made you look at her and
whimper for more.'
    It was at this moment that the mistress stood, and descended the stairs,
high heels clicking menacingly, and she whipped her hand behind her and then
before her in an arc.  When Caroline beheld it, she saw the device.
    "Get on all fours, my bitch."  And she pressed a button.
    A surge of pleasure assailed her pussy.  A virtual wave, that eclipsed
her crotch and ripped all coherence from her mind.  Never had she felt such
pleasure there.  It rolled over her in a surge, and then ebbed, the
aftershocks hitting her cunt like a car hits speedbumps.  Caroline fell down
flat where she stood, struggled to obey her mistress, to pull herself onto
hands and knees, but the cum was too powerful.  It put her back down onto
the floor like no blow could have.
    Ms. Allison continued to advance, placing one beautiful foot daintily in
front of the other in her approach.  "Bitch?  Did I not call you to heel?"
Another push of the button.
    "Yeeeeeeeeeeuuughhhhhhhhhh. . . unh. . .unh. . .mis. . .mistress. . .oh.
. ." She tried again, pushed her pink stockinged knees underneath her. .
.but again the button was pushed.  It almost hurt this time, so tender was
she under her tights.  "UNNGHHH!!"  And again she sank, groaning, panting
prettily, perfect shoulders rising and falling.  All the while the bells and
harness adorning her uniform tingled quietly.  "Mist. . .mistress, please. .
."  A moment, a moment to obey was all she needed.  Just had to catch her
breath.
    But now Allison stood over her, the opulent lighting casting an
oppressive shadow.  "Bitches do not speak.  They howl."  She held her finger
menacingly over the button, and Caroline hefted her weary head in time only
to see her smile.  The next orgasm brought blackness.

*************

    When she awoke, perhaps moments later, perhaps hours, her position had
not changed.  She was still costumed, still chained.  And Allison still
stood near, still in stockings and camisole, though this time with another
woman, fully attired, a young-ish brunette with more rounded breasts and
hips.  They were not looking at her; instead they had their heads together,
speaking quickly and frankly.
    "So," Allison said, with an air of finality, "she suspects nothing?"
    "Nothing, Ms. Taxton.  In fact, she's more conscious of herself than of
the happenings here.  When you first wet her, she ran to the restroom so
quickly I feared she might trip."  There was a pause.  "Mistress, I wonder
at that hidden potential you perceived.  Was the really the most perfect
applicant?"
    There was warning in Allison's tone.  "Do not presume too far.  We
mustn't underestimate the Agency's presence here.  It's the nature of the
game, Tristen, that you must keep up appearances."  Caroline's heart seized.
She knew that name.  Her body shifted a bit involuntarily, and the bells at
her ankles betrayed her movement.
    Allison and Tristen both turned to regard her with raised eyebrows, but
the latter spoke first: "And as for her, Mistress?"
    Allison stepped forward, withdrew a stocking foot from her shoe, and
dragged her toes sensuosly along the outside of Caroline's thigh, the nylons
rasping together appealingly.  "Her access to Jennifer will be limited,
starting tomorrow.  But that is tomorrow.  For tonight. . .she is yours to
play with.  Just remember the rules."
    Tristen clapped her hands and laughed heartlily, quickly beginning to
disrobe.  Caroline cringed.  Tristen had been with the HSA longer than most
of the others, she had heard, and totally gave herself to Allison years ago.
Since, she had be become as cruel and demanding, if not as surgical, as her
mistress, adopting both Ms. Taxton's penchant for humiliation and fetish for
hosiery.  Caroline had never seen her up close, but the serving girls gave
her as wide a berth as they did Allison.
    "Caroline, tonight you are to be a bitch in deed as well as name,"
Allison said, moving back to the dais.  "Get up on all fours, and let
Tristen examine you."
    Caroline obeyed quickly, expecting another burst to her pussy.  She was
surprised and mortified at her disapointment when there was none.
    Tristen approached, and Caroline arched her back carefully, tension
running through her body.  "Oh," Tristen said, "oh, mistress, this is a fine
bitch."  She ran her finger tips through Caroline's dark hair, tracing the
braid to where it fell along her back.  "Well bred."  She knelt and looked
beneath Caroline as a farmer might a cow, and grabbed one of her
pink-wrapped nipples.  Caroline made a small, girlish noise, despite
herself.  Tristen smiled at Allison from over her back.  "And in heat."  She
continued to touch Caroline provocatively, cupping her at the base of her
breasts, and then moving her hands downward to pinch her nipples.  She
repeated this over and over, petting Caroline's tits, pinching harder and
harder each time.  The texture of the teddy was no protection, and it's
stocking-like feel probably only encouraged her torment.  Tristen persisted
until Caroline squealed cutely every time, then she stood, and renewed her
surface examination.
    Her hands stopped when they reached Caroline's bottom, heart-shaped and
plump, and pressed into the air by her position.  "Now this," she said with
admiration and glee, "is the crowning touch."  With that, Caroline felt
something tugging at the back of her tights, pulling the already-stretched
material to it's limit.  It was weird how she pulled, Caroline thought, as
though a handle had been affixed to the seat of her hose.  Despite herself,
she turned to view her tormentor.  She wished she hadn't.  Her face went
crimson with humiliation.  In Tristen's hands and stitched onto Caroline's
panty was a fluffy pink tail, the sort that adorned Playboy bunny costumes,
only bigger.  "It's like she's a puppy!"  Tristen let the waistband of her
tights snap back, and Caroline grunted at the sting.  "Well, Caroline," she
said as she completed her circuit, "would you like to go for a walk?"
    Caroline shook her head with embarassment, not meeting her eyes.
"Please, mistress...I just-"  Then she felt a jolt in her vagina, not the
pleasurable sort, but a sharp, quick burst that widened her brown eyes and
made her look to the dais.
    Allison held the control menacingly. "My bitch, you do not learn well.
You may not speak, or I will become angry."  She crossed her stocking legs
slowly at the knee.  "You will go on a walk.  Show Tristen that you want
to."  She turned to the darker recesses of the throne room, and snapped her
fingers twice: "And you, servant girls.  Lay down some carpet.  I do not
want her running her tights on these cold, hard floors."  There was the
clicking of high heels as they rushed off and returned with a massive,
rolled up rug, which they unfurled along the length of the room.
    Then there was a tug at her collar.  Tristen had unhooked the chain from
it's clasp, and held it before her like a leash.  She looked menacing in her
pitch black skirt-suit, high, strappy heels and equally dark stockings.  But
she sounded bright and chipper as she gave the leash another tug.  "Come
puppy."  Then she began to walk.
    Caroline knew innately that she couldn't stand and follow, and the slack
was already beginning to run out.  It was either follow or choke, she knew.
Flushing to the hairline, she moved as quickly as she could on her hands and
knees, pursuing Tristen's quick, dignified pace with one of mortification.
    The reward was a different sensation in her pussy.  A warm, glowing
sensation.
    Caroline continued to follow.  By the second circuit, she was growing
tired and her knees were becoming sore.  She began to slow, falling farther
and farther behind Tristen.  The jolt in her pussy this time was not
pleasant.  It spurred her on.
    She knew what was being done to her.  She'd studied Pavlovian responses
at Harvard.  She knew about HSA's technical marvels, tiny slivers that could
manipulate a body's pleasure zones, and knew that she wore them in her
tights and teddy now.  Still, the knowing made little difference; she could
not resist the sensations.  As she matched Tristen's pace, her cunt grew
warm again, as did her breasts and calves.  Soon the ache was sponged away
completely, and Caroline began to breath heavily without influence of the
walk at all.
    When they stopped before the dais, Tristen walked in front of her, and
slipped off her shoes.  Caroline's head came only to her knees, but she
could see the length of her legs was luscious.  There was an electronic wave
that rolled alongside her breasts, then, and Caroline's nipples stood out
tautly against her teddy.  Still on hands and knees, she began to make soft
little noises of pleasure.  'Please,' Caroline thought, even through her
whimpers, 'please leave me some dignity.  Please, I was a strong
woman. . .' She closed her eyes. 'A beautiful woman.'  The humming in her
breasts was joined by a renewed warmth in her pussy.  God, she couldn't let
herself enjoy this!  Where was the agent?  The one she'd tried to help?  But
these thoughts faded into the background as she felt hands in her hair,
loosening the ribbon, then untwining the tightly-knit braid.
    "Shhh. . .you're a good girl, Caroline."  The voice sang, perfectly
harmonized with the humming of her body.  Slowly, the hands moved through
her hair, smoothing, petting.
    Caroline couldn't help herself.  She arched her neck to receive the
attention.  "Mmmmm. . .please, mistress, please. . .don't stop. . ."
    "Shhh."  The hands moved down back now, stopped her waist.  There was a
jinkle as they grasped her harness.  Slowly, willingly, Caroline allowed her
body to be manipulated by Tristen, until she was upright, sitting lady-like
on a hip with her legs crossed at the ankle beside her.  Her pussy continued
to glow.  Slowly, she felt the hands move away, and heard the rustle of
clothing behind her.  Her eyes stayed shut, she began to rock her hips back
and forth gently to the rhythm of the pulses in her body, her ankle bells
ringing softly.  She was close, so close.
    The hands again returned, this time from behind her back.  The fingers
danced like a light rain atop her breasts, pausing once in a while to tug
the silky material of her teddy softly back and forth along her nipples. .
.oh, God, her nipples. . .'Please,' she thought, 'please pinch them. . .'
The hands obliged.  God, had she spoken alou. . ."Ohh!"  Another pinch,
harder: "Oh!"
    One hand slid down her stomach while the other cupped and squeezed.
"Caroline, my goodness.  You're such a naughty girl."  The hand had reached
the sodden pink crotch of her tights.  "Bad," she whispered in Caroline's
ear, "bad, Harvard girl.  Such a mess."
    "Ohh...yesss. . ."
    The hand gently rubber her crotch, so gently.  "I think that you want to
cum, Caroline, that's what I think."
    "Y-yess. . ."
    The gentleness stopped.  The hands gripped the harnesses on her belt,
and then wrenched her around.  Tristen grabbed her at her shoulders, and
shook her: "Do you want to cum, bitch!?"  Caroline's head drifted backward
from her ordeal, her eyes still closed.  But the warmth in her pussy had not
abated.
    "Mistressss. . .yesss..."
    "Then open your eyes."
    Caroline's beautiful brown lashes fluttered open, and she saw that
Tristen had indeed stripped herself down to nearly nothing.  Only her sheer
black pantyhose remained, at the crotch of which Caroline could see a stain
which rivaled her own.  Her breasts were full and round, C's to be sure; her
hair was darker than Caroline's, but still brunette, and it fell nearly to
tops of her bosom, teasing and tantalizing as it swept them with her
gestures.  This, she could barely see, because the room's lighting had been
diminished.
    Retrieving the end of her leash, Tristen stood, moved with Caroline to
the foot of the dais' stairs, and softly descended until her hosed bottom
rested atop the third.  Caroline was entranced by her legs as she spread
them slowly, until there was but a foot between her knees, and straightened
them, pushing one between Caroline's own.  She then looked pointedly at
Caroline, and moved her silky foot up Caroline's calf.  "You have proven an
obedient bitch.  Now to your reward."  With that, she jerked downward on the
chain, and Caroline fell into place, her pink legs astride Trister's black.
    Her eyes gained some clarity then, and she began to understand.
"Mistress. . .I. . .you want me to. . ."  It was obvious what she wanted her
to do.  Moreso when the pulse in her vagina renewed.
    "Ohnnhh!  Yes!  Y-yes!"  She would, she would, and she moved her wet
crotch up and down Tristen's thigh, slowly at first, but then, as she began
to warm to the rhythm, faster.  Faster.  Hands grabbed her tits, squeezed it
through the teddy, the ridiculous pink teddy, pinched her nipples, she
humped and humped, hoping for pleasure, caught in the moment. . .
    "Yes, bitch. . ugh!. . .yes, that's it, hump my leg like the bitch you
are. . ."  And Tristen began to hump back, pulled Caroline's hands onto her
shoulders to brace them, started sliding her crotch up and down those
girlish pink tights.  "Oh, God! OH YES!"
    "Ungh. . ." No, don't stop, so close, so close, she stopped sliding her
crotch about Tristen's thigh and just began hoisting herself up and down,
pounding her crotch against her thigh again and again. . ."Unh. . .unhhh. .
."  and again. . .until. . .
    "UHNHGHHHH!!!!"
    She felt unhinged, felt herself spilling, toppled off of Tristen, caught
herself, and rolled to the carpet below.  Blackness began to overcome her,
she felt so wet, so warm; a moment of unconsciousness. . .it would be a boon
now. . .
    A moment. . .
    A moment of quiet as she laid there, soaked with sweat and girl-cum, the
carpet soft upon her features.
    Until there came a new tug upon her leash.
    Allison Taxton, looking creamy and magificent as usual, smiled and
jerked insistently.  Her turn, after all, had not yet begun.


Part 6

    Sunday morning.  St. Peter's Cathedral.  Five hundred and seventy
sinners.
    The light which burst through that stained glass each such morning had a
special charge: cast every soul within, regardless of tarnish, in such a way
as to devalue every mistake, accentuate every philanthropy, undermine all
misfortunes, and ratify the beauty (internal and otherwise) inherently
possessed.
    Jennifer Grey was one of those who hardly needed such a treatment.  She
sat about thirty pews back (twenty-eight behind the President) daintily
attired
in the same church-type clothes she'd worn since she was a little girl:
flowery dress, soft, white hose, and sensible black shoes.  Her brown hair
hung loose across her shoulders, which were otherwise bare, and legs were
crossed lady-like at the ankle.  Her hands, naturally enough, were pressed
together before her slightly bowed head.
    "Our father, who art in heaven..."
    But her heart was not really in it.  Instead, she pondered the case, the
Agency, and the HSA, sometimes coherently, sometimes just the random flashes
borne of the instinct that had bought her her position in the first place.
There just were too
many questions.  Why did the building, the entire building, keep such
strange hours?  Why had
the Agency isolated this particular cell for investigation?  And why by
her, an agent whose entire case history connotated assignments to homicide
cases and blue collar smuggling?  And, most importantly, what was it about
her time in that office that had affected her so?  The last three nights at
the office had her taking a quick breather from work, only to find herself
heavily daydreaming.  The next thing she knew, she was hurrying to the
lady's restroom to dry her excretions from her pantyhose.  God, even now she
shook her head in humiliation.  Maybe, she thought, it just really has been
that long since I had a decent orgasm.
    "SEX," the priest boomed, "is a HOLY and NATURAL act!  It is NEEDLESSLY
misconstrued by the DEVIL'S hand in order to..."  Jennifer shook her head,
embarrassed, yanked from her thoughts.  The priest was going on and on about
the dangers of homosexuality, how it had been mainstreamed by the media.
Well, by them and by Satan.  'Same old, same old,' Jennifer thought.  She
wondered if anyone else was listening.
    As she cast her eyes about, however, she saw that everyone actually was
unusually attentive.  Rapt, even.  That was odd.  Usually, by about this
point in the sermon, she could catch the wandering eyes of some gorgeous
(but
inevitably, she'd later find, conceited) guy and...
    "Psst.  Jennifer."
    Jennifer turned to see a girl from the office, the pretty Hispanic girl
who had greeted her on her first day, sitting beside her.  Caroline, that
was her name.  Crisp business suit and black stockings.  A little fancy, but
whatever.  Funny, had she been sitting there before?  No matter.
    "Hi," Jennifer whispered, smiling.  "Good to see another unrepentant
soul."
    Caroline stood then, and moved sideways as if to cross in front of
Jennifer to the other side, but instead knelt facing her when she was
uncomfortably close.
    "THESE GAYS, THEY'RE NOT OUR ENEMIES!" the preacher exhorted.  "WE ARE
TO LEAD THEM BACK TO GOD! BACK TO..."
    Jennifer tried to scoot over a bit, to make room for Caroline to pray,
although this wasn't exactly her conception of inspiring stuff.  "Uh,
Caroline, you're facing the wrong way."
    Caroline smiled up at her from the floor:  "Am I?"  And instead of
clasping her hands before her, she reached down and took hold of Jennifer's
ankles, uncrossing them with ease.
    Jennifer started with surprise, and she jerked her eyes
around to see if anyone was watching.  No one.  Not a soul.  All eyes were
on the priest, now quite red faced, and shaking his Bible in the
air.
    "Caroline!" she whispered harshly.  "Caroline, what are you doing?"  She
tried to recross her smooth, stocking legs, this time at the knee, but
Caroline still held them firmly apart.  Her grip was like a vice!
    Caroline shifted her position, put her bottom more solidly on the floor,
all the while holding Jennifer's legs apart.  "Jennifer," she said amidst
her shifting, "do you like me?"  Then, quick as a cat, she slung Jennifer's
left leg up onto her right shoulder, mindless of the pointy black shoe, and
held it there.
    Jennifer began to struggle then, tried to tug her pretty white leg from
Caroline's grip, her eyes repeatedly racing across her fellow church-goers,
terrified of what might
be perceived.  Still, no one saw.  God, were they blind!?
    She made no progress, and soon her other leg was atop Caroline's right
shoulder, sliding back and forth silkily as she struggled.
    "I BESEECH YOU, IF YOU'VE BEEN HOLDING BACK HELP BECAUSE OF THIS
'POLITICAL CORRECTNESS,' IF YOU KNOW SOMEONE BUT HAVE SAID NOTHING..."
    Jennifer's face grew even warmer as her panic increased.  Her stocking
feet were now not only astride this girl's shoulders, but shoeless, as
Caroline had quickly tugged them off and tossed them to the floor.  The
clatter as they landed was deafening in the hollow old building, but still
her plight was unnoticed.
"Jennifer," Caroline whispered in a voice so low she could barely hear,
"Jennifer, I've wanted to do this for a long time."  She released Caroline's
right leg, but her next move made Jennifer forget to continue struggling.
Quickly, and with precision, her fingers pushed button after button through
the holes of her own blouse, tugged its shirttails from the waistband of her
skirt, and pulled it open until her perfect brown tits, bra-less and round,
portruded from within.  In fact, the only thing holding the garment on at
all, Jennifer took in with shock, were her legs atop Caroline's shoulders!
That didn't last long; she quickly lifted them and tried to place her feet
on the floor, knees together.
    Caroline giggled softly and shrugged the rest of the way out of her
blouse, now sleek and naked from the waist up.  She did this quickly, and so
still had time to retrieve Jennifer's fleeing legs.  Jennifer grunted in
discomfort as Caroline tugged them open again, and ducked her head to move
between her knees, her pretty tits swinging in the motion.  Caroline pursed
her lips in a low whistle as she gazed fixedly up Jennifer's dress.  "You
want me to pleasure you, Jennifer.  I just know it."
    "Caroline...no!  God, this can't be happening..."  She had to stop this,
before....
    "MY GOD!  MY GOD, WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!?"  The priest's scream was too
aghast for anger.
    Jennifer covered her face with her hands.
    Caroline didn't turn, but stiffened, like an athlete preparing for some
burst of physical energy.
    From between her fingers, Jennifer watched the priest approach, legs and
arms swinging forward with equal momemtum, his stride propelling him down
the aisle while he shouted his indignity: "GOD ALMIGHTY, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE
IN HIS HOUSE?!  WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"  There was a noisy shuffling as the
congregation turned as well, to observe the source of his outrage.
    Caroline still stared at Jennifer's exposed crotch, seemingly unhearing.
Her fingers danced softly over Jennifer's imprisoned legs, pulling at and
petting the hosiery that enwrapped them.  Then, she too began to approach.
And before the priest was halfway across the distance between them, her
assailant had her face in Jennifer's crotch.
    There was a collective gasp from the congregation, followed by one of
Jennifer's own.  She pulled her hips back impulsively, found she couldn't
retreat any further, and Caroline pursued, first nuzzling insistently, and
then opening her lips over Jennifer's own.  The priest was nearly there,
shouting and waving the good book as though to ward off demons.  She didn't
know what to do.  Atop the bench, she writhed and struggled, watched by
hundreds, the bodice of her soft, flowery dress pushed and pulled across her
midriff, across her bosom, the skirt shucked mostly above her waist,
Caroline's black hair playing across her thighs, a sharp contrast to the
white silk which sheathed them.
    And then there was the warmth, the wetness of her tongue, able to bathe
her womanhood despite the pantyhose, to make pointed incursions between the
lips of her vagina, to stiffen her clit to the point where it stood so
firmly against its silky confines that Caroline could rub it with her nose.
    The priest had reached them then, and stood, fists on his hips like a
disapproving parent.  They made quite the scene; Jennifer could see it, as
though through the priest's eyes:  Caroline, oblivious, nuzzling, arms
wrapped around the muscular thighs, holding them, which in turn held her, as
they pressed tightly in on her ears now, so that likely the only thing she
could hear were the legs working within the stockings themselves.
    And working they were, pulling and pushing against the arms and
shoulders that held them prisoner, Caroline's nails pulling deep runs in her
hose.  But to no avail.  Every other second the struggle would subside, and
one might notice that Jennifer's toes curled sexily, that her thighs flexed
around Caroline's ears, but then the moment would renew itself to Jennifer,
and her legs jutted and kicked again.
    She could feel her breath on her pussy: deep, hot exhalations that
seemed to speak louder than the priest above them, who now had taken to
whispering furiously about her sin.  But it seemed far away, and soon her
own breasts began to rise and fall heavily, and the noise of the
congregation and preacher both began to fade before the rhythmic sound of
her gasps.  Caroline began to bite, to nibble gently on her clitoris, and
her hose were so soaked and strained now that they began to tear along the
seam, permitting further access.
    It was becoming too much.  So many eyes on her, on this girl beween her
legs, on her thrusts and moans.  She had lost control, felt them all
watching her, mouths open and eyes barely registering.  The priest too had
stopped, arms resting at his sides for the first time that morning, mouth
open with nothing to say.  The heat built, and there was no question now as
to who was holding whom; her legs, now wrapped at the ankle behind
Caroline's back, now pulled her closer, wetter, warmer, to finish the job.
Jennifer saw those wagging brown tits, saw them wiggle as she pulled and
forced her would-be assailant, compelled her with her stockinged legs, ran
them sexily along Caroline's muscular form, until finally...she bucked, and
bucked, and..."OOOHHHNNNNGHHHHHHHHHH GGGGGGGGGGOOOOOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDD!!!!"
    They watched.  All of them.  The men among them pointedly avoided the
eyes of the women.
    At last it was over.  Jennifer teetered over in her seat, dress twisted
to point of irrelevance, and slumped against the pew.
    Caroline stood slowly, the sides of her face red, teetered, and placed a
hand on the priest's shoulder to regain her balance.  Beyond that, she
acknowledged the existence of no one besides Jennifer.  And to her, she
offered the other hand.  "You know," she said, "that you need this..."
    But Jennifer was beyond it all now, tired and glowing in a manner that
she'd never known.  She did not refuse the hand, yet nor did she seize it.
Instead, she closed her eyes, and let her head slump to the cold wood below.
    Even with them shut, she could still feel their stares.  And this time,
the light of St. Peters did nothing but intrude.
    It just shone and shone, through her lids, persisted, would not go
away...until...

******************
    At home, in her bed, Jennifer Grey started awake.  Her hand went to her
forehead in a gesture that was glaringly Victorian, as belying of her old
self as was the nightgown and stockings which had become her sleepwear of
late.  Both were soaked with sweat.
    She sighed heavily, as though trying to expel the dreams through her
breath alone.  It had been the fourth in as many days.  Since she had
started work at the HSA, as a matter of fact.  And that woman...the one
who....Jennifer put her face in her hands, and began to cry.  But only for a
moment.  The clock marked 4:00.
    She slid from her bed, and moved to the nightstand.  The old wood
creaked in protest as she opened her favorite drawer...and withdrew her
handgun.  Then she slid from her lingerie, and began to dress.  It was
almost time for work, after all.

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