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Message-ID: <54366asstr$1156133404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Night Writer <night_writer99@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} {Night Writer} True Love - III (FF, humil, BDSM)
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Date: Mon, 21 Aug 2006 00:10:04 -0400
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                               True Love

                            by Night Writer


                            III - The Dancer


Erin dresses you an hour before the party - a fiery red sheath that 
clings to you like a second skin. She puts your hair up in a dark swirl 
of elegance, stopping to plant a lingering kiss on your long neck as 
she works. You warm inside, feeling her hands on you, thinking about 
the evening ahead. 

You'll meet her friends tonight, all the flawless creatures she 
surrounds herself with, men and women of wealth and society, brought 
together for you and you alone, on your birthday. 

She leads you from couple to couple as the guests arrive, and you're 
dizzy with pride as they accept you so warmly. You belong to her - they 
must know it, by the way she holds your hand, by the way her eyes light 
up when she tells them about you. They all smile at you, and you see 
the knowing glances they exchange when Erin says your name. "Blair". 
You adore the sound of it as it almost slithers from her lips. 

You drink her champagne from each tall, slim glass she brings you - 
three, four, five, until you lose count. When the volume and rhythm of 
the music increases, you find it easy to accept offers to dance from 
any number of willing men, young and old alike. But once in their arms, 
you feel their hands on your body in places and ways that shock you. 
But you let them. They're rich and refined, and, well, you're just 
Blair.

Soon Erin approaches you and whispers in your ear. "Come on Blair! You 
dance like you have a stick up your ass! Let them see how you can shake 
that body!" 

So you dance faster, shaking your bare shoulders, moving your hips to 
the thumping beat. You can feel your breasts sway lewdly, your nipples 
hardened as they rub roughly against the inside of the tight dress. The 
man you're dancing with smiles appreciatively, then steps back to 
watch. You dance faster, thrusting your hips, holding your arms 
overhead, letting them drink you in as Erin wishes. 

Erin steps from the crowd that has gathered around you, walks up to you 
wearing a dazzling smile, and whispers to you again, briefly. "Strip 
for me, Blair. Get out of that dress. We all want to see you." You 
freeze for a second and look into her eyes. You can see she's serious. 
You have to do it. For her. For your sweet Erin. 

So you do. You unzip the dress, wiggle out of it, let it fall to the 
carpet, and begin to dance again. Now you're not the Birthday Girl, the 
guest of honor - you're entertainment. Only seconds ago you thought 
they liked you. Now you're little more than a cheap stripper to them. A 
piece of meat. But you're Erin's meat. And you'll do anything to stay 
that way. 

So you thrust your hips harder, shaking your shoulders until your 
breasts strain violently at the red bra that barely contains them. 
You'll give them what they want, if it makes Erin happy. You'll give 
them what they want, and more. You can see then smiling, snickering at 
you, the men wanting you, the women envious of your writhing body. And 
in the midst of them, you see Erin and Bridget side-by-side, holding 
hands, smiling at you like hungry cats waiting for their dinner.

After a while, she gives you a sign through the crowd, pointing to your 
bra. You know you have no choice. You'll do anything to try to please 
her. You reach around, open the back and shrug it from your shoulders, 
making sure your movements are as wild as before, your meaty tits 
bouncing and jiggling as you dance. The men cheer and whistle. The 
women laugh hysterically. But you have to keep dancing, faster, faster. 

Erin gives you a second unseen sign, pointing to your thong. It unsnaps 
at the side. All you have to do is give it a small tug and it falls to 
the floor. This time there's a short hush as her guests stare at your 
shaved pussy, now so swollen and wet from Erin's long sexy stare that 
your labia and clit are thrust out in front of you, pouting obscenely 
and dripping your juices onto your inner thighs. You can see that the 
men are erect, cocks hard and throbbing after just 
seconds of watching you. 

A few of the women have put down their drinks. With the tip of a finger 
pressed lightly against their lips, their hands unashamedly caress hard 
nipples that show through their expensive clothes. But only a few. Most 
of the women are snickering and pointing, at your tits, at your naked, 
sopping cunt. But you keep dancing, harder, faster. Erin would have it 
no other way. You're so tired now you start to stumble as you try to 
stay on your feet. You fall, not once, but three times, before the 
laughter become so loud Erin has you stop before the neighbors 
complain.

Just before she joins her guests for dinner, she kneels and whispers to 
you quietly. She takes a thick leather dog collar from her purse and 
fastens it about your neck. The tag says, "Erin's Bitch".

You get on your hands and knees and wait, just as she tells you, the 
collar stiff and heavy around your neck, the little metal tag jingling 
each time you move. You can see them in the next room, all seated 
around the long table. You can smell the delicious food. Erin brings 
cans of cat food to your trailer - smelly, fishy, paste that you took 
so long to get used to. The warm, irresistible odor of sizzling steaks 
and fresh vegetables makes you drool, just a bit, from the left corner 
of your quivering mouth.

Thirty minutes pass, then forty. Finally, she looks over at you, 
smiles, and nods. You do exactly as you were told. Crawling on all 
fours, you approach the table beside her chair, look up with your 
whorish red mouth open wide, and wait for her to drop the remaining 
table scraps from a foot above you. You slurp and drool as you do your 
best to catch every delectable bite. After that, the others offer you 
bits of leftovers, holding them high in the air so you'll beg, up on 
your haunches, naked tits covered with small bits of food and juice 
your mouth failed to catch. Everyone's laughing, but everyone wants a 
turn, and they get their way at Erin's parties.

You know what's next. You hate it even more, but Erin wants her guests 
entertained. And you're her total slut. Her total slave. Her fuck-meat.

You go to her bed and lie on it, spread-eagled and naked, except for 
your collar. You dread this part. A tear rolls down your cheek. Then 
they come to you, one by one, until the bed is surrounded by them, a 
wall of beautiful people in beautiful clothes. Wealthy, successful 
people, so far above you, so much better than you, staring down at you 
as though they were watching a dirty movie, a dirty whore, bought for 
an evening's fun.

Erin slides a finger inside your collar and gives it a slight tug. It's 
your cue. You know what she expects of you. As filthy, hurt, and 
degraded as you feel, you can't let her down. Not tonight. Not ever. So 
you begin, looking every one of them in the eyes. You struggle with the 
words at first, but soon they pour from you as though you want it - all 
of it.

"Please fuck this cunt. Please, everyone, I'm your whore, your filthy, 
wet-cunted whore. Suck me and fuck me, everyone, all night, use me up, 
drain my slut body, dump your cum into me, chew on my clit until it 
bleeds, then use me again. Please, anything, I'll do anything, like an 
animal, a bitch in heat. Fuck my ass until I scream, spit on me, beat 
me, anything to please you, anything, anything..."

You see her smile, and go on, knowing you've pleased her, so far. All 
that remains is that you do what you beg them for, and they will give 
you what you ask. You know they will. Like they have so many times 
before. And after an endless night of torture, abuse, and humiliation, 
she'll dump you back in your trailer, covered with their saliva and 
cum, ready to face a brand new day.




Read more of Night Writer's works at: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Night_Writer/www/

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