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From: "London Crockett" <themrlee@hotmail.com>
Subject: Bolivia (FF/MF Seduction)
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This is The Mr. Lee's first ASSM submission. If you enjoy it (or if you 
hate it), email The Mr. Lee at <themrlee@hotmail.com>.

This story shouldn't be taken as representing anything about Bolivians. 
It is completely fictional. Bolivian's just might be swell people. The 
Mr. Lee does not know, having never met any.

If you want to post this story on your site, do it as long as you aren't 
charging buckage for it--just email <themrlee@hotmail.com> and inform 
The Mr. Lee.

If you aren't old enough or legally privilledged enough to read this, 
don't.

The story:

BOLIVIA--a story by The Mysterious Mr. Lee

*****

When Steve first told me about his new job in Bolivia, I was excited, 
but I didn't expect it to change me as much as it has. I thought I'd be 
a faculty wife for a few years, get my Spanish to the point where I 
could actually communicate, and perhaps get a notion of what I wanted to 
do with myself other than being Steve's companion. Now, a year later, 
I'm a person who is almost nothing like the Rebecca Stevenson I was 
before I left the U.S.

The Rebecca Stevenson who boarded her first international flight last 
year was a sheltered child who knew nothing about the world beyond the 
myopic confines of a small Nebraskan farm town and the university campus 
where she met her husband. She didn't drink or smoke, and blushed when 
her husband saw her naked. This Rebecca Stevenson is a drinking, 
smoking, ass-fucking, cock-sucking, clit-licking whore.

When Steve and I met, I was a freshman at a small university campus in 
Iowa. I had dated one boy in high school and let him feel me up twice. I 
drank half a glass of champagne at my older sister's wedding. I got good 
grades and came home early on weekends if I went out with my friends. I 
said "Gosh," and "Oh My!" without irony.

I got to campus and was immediately lost. My high school class was the 
largest in seventeen years with its 47 students. My university class had 
over five hundred students--more people than lived in my home town. I 
didn't know anyone and didn't know what I wanted to do with my life. I 
was at college not because I wanted to study and become an educated 
woman but because I didn't want to be a farmer's wife. I'd seen too many 
farmers lose their land and take to drinking and despair to want to live 
that way. I thought going to school would give me an opportunity to make 
my own way in the world. The only problem was that I didn't have any 
idea what that way might be.

Steve was the opposite. From the first day I sat in his ecology class, I 
knew that he was a man who knew exactly what he wanted in life. He was a 
brilliant teacher whose passion for his subject radiated into every 
aspect of his class, from the lectures to his commitment to long office 
hours and calls at home. A few of my new friends thought he was 
handsome, but I thought he was stunning.

That quarter, I went to his office after every class, caught up by his 
passion in the subject. He never once looked at me sexually, never once 
indicated that he was thinking about anything other than plant biology 
and species growth ratios. I read all of the extra readings and spent 
hours on each paper. I was the star student in a way I had never been.

I was somewhat aware of wanting Steve, but I was too prudish to consider 
making a pass at him. So often, we were alone in his office for a long 
time--a predictably long time. I could have worn a short skirt, a 
push-up bra and a plunging neckline. I could have arranged my sweater to 
fall just so, and give him a peak at my erect nipples. I could have 
hopped in his lap and kissed his neck, unbuttoned his shirt--he always 
wore a button-up shirt to class--and worked my way down to his waiting 
cock. I could have done any of those things if I were the Rebecca 
Stevenson of today, but that Rebecca (not even a Stevenson yet) didn't 
think like that. I didn't think of him except as a brilliant mind and a 
charming smile. 

So the quarter passed and I had a new professor for my next biology 
class and didn't see Steve at all. The next year, I had just turned 18 
and went out for ice cream with my friends to celebrate--how innocent I 
was--and ran into Steve. He asked me if I was still a biology major. I 
blushed, realizing how much my interest in biology had been an interest 
in him, and admitted that I was studying general liberal arts. He looked 
disappointed, but I told him that I still read Nature once and a while. 
He looked me in the eye and asked me, with no shortage of excitement, if 
I'd read a recent article on mangrove trees. I had and we started 
talking, right in the hallway by the bathrooms, for so long my friends 
came looking for me. I gave Steve my phone number and went back to my 
giggling girlfriends.

Steve and I dated the entire time I was in school, but we never had sex. 
I wouldn't let him go all the way--good girls saved it for marriage, and 
I wasn't about to become a slutty bad girl. Steve was patient and 
understanding. After a year, my shirt came off and he played with my 
nipples. I would blush when he did this so much I had to have the light 
off. I couldn't get myself to go down on him until a few months before 
we were married. I knew he was probably going to ask me to marry him now 
that I'd graduated. I unzipped his pants, like I was about to give him 
the usual hand job, and started to stroke his penis--I couldn't say cock 
without getting too embarrassed and having to stop. I thought "this is 
it" and plunged my head down onto his penis. He yelled as I jammed my 
teeth into the flesh of his penis. I almost quit right then, but I had 
been planning to do it for over a week, so I tried again and slipped my 
lips around the tip of his penis. I licked it and tasted some of his 
pre-ejaculate. It was different than I thought it would be. I thought it 
would be like salt water or something, but it was slick and slightly 
sweet. My head bobbed up and down on his hard shaft, and Steve rubbed my 
nipples and fingered my clitoris. I was close to coming when Steve 
started coming. My mouth was off the tip and the first spurt flew onto 
the tip of my nose. I sunk my mouth on his cock and took the stream in.

After we married, we stuck to the missionary position. I had a job as an 
administrative assistant on campus and Steve worked long hours trying to 
get his post-doc finished so he could look for a faculty position. We 
didn't have too much time for sex and neither of us wanted it too much. 
I think Steve was too concerned about his job and research to get worked 
up, and I was such a prude I didn't think it was right for me to have 
sex with him more than once a week.

******

I had long ago come to despise my job when Steve's job offer came in. It 
was a three year long junior faculty position in a Bolivian university. 
Steve's research was focused on trees in mountainous South America, so 
it was a perfect opportunity for him. For me, it was a great opportunity 
to get away from the mundaneness of my life and the chance to figure out 
what I wanted to do. I still envied Steve in his sureness and direction. 
I was swimming without knowing where the shore was and didn't know how 
long I could stay afloat.

Steve became increasingly nervous as our departure date neared. He 
wasn't sure about how well I would do in Bolivia. "It's a very 
traditional country," he explained. "Women don't have the freedoms they 
have here. People don't speak very much English. The food will be very 
different." Mostly, though, he was worried about his job. This was a 
succeed or fail situation. If he did well, he could come back to the 
U.S. and get a tenure-track position at a good university. If he did 
poorly, he would have to leave academia. I didn't think Steve could deal 
with the loss of his dream and direction. It was everything to him: his 
first thought in the morning and his final muse in the evening.

As for me, I was worried about my lack of Spanish, but figured if I 
could go from small farm town to the big campus life, I could make the 
change to Bolivia. I had no idea.

*******

When we got to Bolivia, I was taken aback by the beautiful countryside. 
Bolivia, with its verdant mountains, is so far removed from the 
Midwestern plains that I could hardly believe such a world actually 
existed outside of paintings. I'd seen photographs, but I couldn't quite 
believe them.

The University was in a small city, about forty thousand people. Most of 
the houses were small hovels, which would hardly be worth calling homes 
in America. I was afraid this is what our home would be like, but as the 
University driver pulled up to our house, I was stunned at its size--it 
was a mansion! Not only was the University supplying us with a huge 
home, but we also had a live-in housekeeper and a chauffeur twice a 
week. I could hardly believe our good fortune. In the U.S., a professor 
at Steve's level could hardly afford a decent apartment, let alone 
servants.

The furniture in the house was sparse, and it lacked a lot of the 
comforts I was used to. The refrigerator was small and there was only 
one outlet in each room--and many of those didn't work. Air conditioning 
and television weren't options.

Steve and I retrieved our few possessions from the University and moved 
in. Steve started the next day, always busy.

My first doubt came that next day, when I met Rosita, our housekeeper. 
Rosita could have been a model in the U.S., and wore tight, revealing 
clothes. If I had gone to high school with her, I would have called her 
a slut and not talked to her. And now she was going to be living in the 
same house as me--and my husband.

It turned out, however, that Rosita spoke English and was quite nice to 
me. She explained some of the local customs and how to get around. She 
told me that it was expected that Steve and I entertain on a monthly 
basis, and what that entailed. I started to trust her, despite her 
incredible figure and beautiful face.

After I got settled in, I noticed that Rosita watched me a lot. I would 
be out sunbathing and see her looking at me from the corner of my eye. I 
would be wearing almost more than she would, as I couldn't bring myself 
to sunbathe in anything less than my t-shirt and shorts with the legs 
pulled up, while she wore tight pants or short skirt and blouses with 
the top three buttons undone. She had magnificent cleavage that I would 
look at in awe at times, hoping she didn't notice.

I would be getting dressed, the door opened a crack, and I would see her 
slow down as she passed by: was she looking at me?

It started to unnerve me. She always was sizing me up, as if she were 
taking measure of this new foreign woman. Was I up to snuff for the 
locals or was I just another crazy American? After two weeks or so of 
her scrutiny, she finally approached me in the hall as I left my 
bedroom.

"Senora Rebecca, if I may be honest?"

I was puzzled and said yes.

"You are new to this country and don't know the ways. I've watched you 
and think you should know about how we are here." Her hand was on the 
fourth button of her blouse, the first one to be buttoned. She was 
fidgeting with the button, undoing it and redoing it.

"OK?" My voice must have betrayed my suspiciousness, as Rosita shied 
away, looking at her shoes and pulling her hands down to straighten her 
skirt. The fourth button of her blouse was now undone, so I could see 
the closure of her bra and the warm brown flesh that swelled at her 
cleavage. I felt uncomfortable at seeing so much of her exposed. It was 
only a button more than I was used to seeing, but it seemed like she was 
now partially naked and my eyes were still so virgin.

"Well, maybe not, Senora." She smoothed her skirt again, and then 
started fidgeting with the fifth button.

I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, aware that fifth 
button--which if left undone would expose her bra almost completely--was 
being unfastened and refastened without Rosita's attention.

"No, you can tell me. This must be important." Indeed, I feared that I 
had committed some horrible sin and the locals wished me to leave. Did I 
walk on a grave or some other horrible crimes? I needed to learn the 
customs.

"It is the way you dress, Senora."

I looked at my t-shirt and jeans. Very typical for the Midwest. Should I 
dress in the long native dresses of the Bolivian women? Or in more 
formal, American-style dresses?

"Yes, Rosita?"

"It is not bad, but, women here...." She looked down again, dropping her 
hands to smooth her skirt again. She had left the fifth button undone 
again, so her blouse was undone to her navel. Her bra was cut very low 
and I could see the edges of her areolae. I was embarrassed and must 
have blushed. Then it was me looking down.

"Oh, you shouldn't be embarrassed, Senora, it is not that people think 
funny about you, it is just...."

I looked up at her face, trying to avoid staring at her nearly exposed 
breasts. My eyes kept glancing at them, however, as Rosita had pulled 
one side of her shirt closed and was fingering the clasp on her bra. I 
couldn't help but stare at her breasts. They were beautiful, full and 
smooth, the color of dark oak, with walnut areolas. I was also 
fascinated by the prospect that she might undo her bra at any moment if 
I made her uncomfortable. I was already painfully embarrassed and knew I 
would probably start crying with shame were she to reveal her breasts 
completely.

I tried to be encouraging, "Yes? You can tell me."

"Women here, they dress more sexy than you. You are a married woman, and 
you should be aware and try to be sexy."

I almost started to cry, I was so embarrassed. Here this incredibly 
sexy, half-naked woman was telling me I had to be more sexy, while I 
wore the least sexy outfit on the planet. But Steve had never cared that 
I dressed like a farm girl. Would he change here?

I looked down until I felt my flush cool. I looked back at her and ran 
my hands over my shirt and jeans. "But Steve likes these clothes, 
Rosita."

Rosita stepped closer to me, so I could smell the exotic floral scents 
of her perfume. She reached out and touched the edge of my shirt. Her 
blouse swung out with her hand, revealing her nipple. I had never seen a 
bra like hers, one that didn't cover the breast, only the bottom curve. 
I blushed again, and forced my eyes towards her fingers.

"This, this is American. It is OK." She rubbed the cotton fabric between 
her fingers, looking as if she were assessing its quality for a 
purchase. "But, your lingerie...." She looked away, her fingers resting 
lightly against my arm.

I was horrified. She'd looked at my underwear? How humiliating, how 
shameful. I would have to fire her, get someone who could be trusted. I 
started crying.

"Rosita, how could you look at my underwear? That's personal, private."

She took her hand from my arm and crossed herself rapidly. The blouse 
fell off her breast completely, leaving one side of her chest completely 
naked except for the silky fabric that pushed the breast up.

"Oh, Senora, I was only straightening out. This is what housekeepers do. 
I meant no harm." She looked so sad, so pathetic, I forgot how 
embarrassed I was.

"It is OK, for this time. Please don't do it again, though." I paused, 
once again staring at her exposed breast and the tiny piece of fabric 
that stood for a bra. What was this bra? Is that what she meant when she 
talked about my lingerie?

"Rosita, is this, this..." I pointed, blushing, at her bra, and looked 
away. "It that what you think married women should wear? I don't even 
know what its called."

She pulled her blouse off her shoulders, revealing the bra and her erect 
nipples. Her breasts pressed together at the center, forming a stunning 
line of cleavage down the middle. Her belly was tight and muscular. I 
had known that she had a magnificent figure before, but this made it 
clear that she was nearly perfect.

She traced the edge of the bra with a finger, slowly from the side of 
the left breast to the side of the right. Her nipples stiffened as her 
fingers glanced her areolas.

"This is a push-up bra. See how my breasts come together? Isn't it nice, 
they way they look large, like men want them?"

I looked down at my t-shirt. I never thought about myself as being flat, 
but compared to Rosita's generous portions, I felt small and inadequate.

"It isn't you, Senora Rebecca, it is your lingerie. I am from Argentina, 
where women know how to dress for their men. It is not like in America. 
Let me show you."

She took a step towards my bedroom door. I followed her, not able to 
think.

"Here, sit." She pointed at the bed and I sat.

"Please take off your shirt, Senora."

I blushed and looked down. "I don't think I can."

"Don't be shy, Senora Rebecca. I've helped many women dress for their 
husbands. Some women I've been housekeeper for couldn't dress themselves 
without me."

In a trance, too embarrassed to stop, I pulled my t-shirt over my head 
and placed it on the bed beside myself. Rosita towered over me. She was 
a tall woman, 5'9" or 10", and I am very petite, barely 5'1". She 
reached down and touched the strap of my bra at the shoulder.

"See, this isn't very sexy. It's cotton like your shirt. Cotton, men 
don't like."

My bra was off-white from washing in hard water. I saw us in the mirror. 
Rosita's breast thrust forward, a treat any man would reach for. I was 
slumped forward, my breasts encased in heavy cotton, retreating behind 
my shoulders. I shook my head.

She traced her finger down the strap across the edge of my bra. "See, 
this doesn't show that you have breasts. It covers them up. Men like 
breasts revealed when you undress."

I tried to sit up straight, with my shoulders back to show off my 
breasts. They thrust out, but there wasn't much cleavage. They weren't 
sexy.

"Here, push them together like this." Rosita pushed her breasts 
together, making them bulge forward. Her nipples moved towards my lips. 
I found them hypnotic.

I reluctantly brought my hands to the sides of my bra and pushed inward. 
My breasts formed cleavage and looked good. Not as obscenely present as 
Rosita's, but appealing. I could imagine how turned on Steve would be. 
We hadn't had sex in almost two weeks. Maybe it was time.

Rosita reached a hand slowly into her bra, cupping her breast and 
pulling out a pad. It was similar to the shoulder pads I had in some of 
my suits.

"We'll put this in your bra, to see how it looks."

Rosita sat on my t-shirt and leaned in front of me. She placed a finger 
under the edge of my bra and pulled it outward. Her finger slid around 
from the side to the front, raising pebbles on my flesh. I swallowed. 
She took the pad and started putting it in, guiding it with both hands. 
She adjusted it carefully into place. It was too large, but she said it 
would do for now.

My heart had started beating faster, and I felt sweat on my forehead. I 
bit my lip as she started working the other pad in place. I knew it was 
taking longer than it had to, but it felt so good, I didn't want her to 
stop. Her fingers were accidentally touching my nipples, which were very 
hard, very erect. She squeezed my breasts to place the pads. I knew that 
I was breathing hard.

She rubbed my nipples with her thumb. "We need to smooth the fabric so 
it will look sexy." I blushed, realizing that she knew I was becoming 
excited. I turned my head to the side while she squeezed my nipple 
between her fingers. Her touch revealed how aroused I had become. I 
squeezed my thighs together, feeling them getting wet. I imagined her 
lips, her deliciously full lips touching my nipples, sucking them in, 
running her tongue across them. I realized I was clenching my t-shirt in 
my fist, while my other hand pressed into my thigh, creeping towards my 
womanly parts.

"Yes, this looks very sexy. Look at yourself." I felt her words on the 
side of my neck, soft and moist. I relaxed my fist with conscious 
effort, and smoothed the sheet next to me. My other hand floated over my 
womanly parts, almost touching them. My mind was not longer a creature 
of my control. It stripped Rosita of her clothes and kissed her lush 
breasts. It was a shameful hedonist, kissing her neck and begging to be 
consumed by her hands and lips and tongue. It took control of my body 
from me and pressed my hand into my venus. The fabric was wet and hot as 
my finger pushed between my labia.

Rosita stood up and took my other hand, lifting me from the bed. I 
looked in the mirror. My breasts were together with a line of cleavage 
between them. My nipples were poking out from my bra, visible despite 
the fabric. My forehead and lip were speckled with drops of sweat.

Beside me, Rosita was removing her skirt. My mind was fighting with me 
to send me to my knees, trying to force my hands to her hips, to guide 
the skirt off. I stumbled back towards the bed, urgent in my need to 
take back control, to stop this wicked side of me from emerging before I 
went too far.

"No, Rosita, that should be enough. Steve will be home soon and I want 
to surprise him with this." I said this not because I had any intention 
of wearing a push up bra around him, but because I knew I had almost 
come. I only come rarely with Steve, and I was ashamed that I had become 
aroused with Rosita. I wanted to lock myself in the room and hope that 
nobody saw what a harlot I'd become.

*****

After that, I started avoiding Rosita. I couldn't look at her without 
feeling embarrassed and shamed. I wondered around town as much as I 
could. This was mainly to avoid being around Rosita all day. I stopped 
sunbathing, fearing that she was looking at me and my subpar underwear. 
I hid my bras and panties.

To make things worse, I was having trouble meeting people. My Spanish 
was limited to ordering Mexican food, which is hard to find in Bolivia, 
and going to the bathroom. There were some other faculty wives who spoke 
English, but they were cliquish and hard to get to know. Oddly, there 
were not faculty "husbands": the University seemed to only have male 
faculty. Very unlike America, where at least the appearance of sexual 
equality was important.

Steve left two weeks later to go on an expedition in the mountains. I 
could have gone with him, and probably should have, but I was too 
depressed to deal with the hardships of an expedition. From previous 
experience during Steve's last expedition, in Colombia, I knew field 
work in South America was hard and messy. It wasn't at all like camping 
in the U.S., where you are never far from a shower and running water. 
During field expeditions, you spent months away from the comforts of 
home and had to worry about poisonous snakes, spiders, and frogs. You 
had to filter your water or run the risk of life-threatening illness. It 
was unpleasant when I was in a good mood, and I was in a horrible mood.

I started giving Rosita extra days off. She normally had Sunday and 
Tuesdays off, but frequently, I let her take two days in a row off, 
provided she made enough for me to eat. I hadn't mastered cooking with 
the strange ingredients and names of Bolivia. I couldn't find stores 
that offered packaged chickens and pre-mixed spices. It was all 
pick-you-chick-we'll-kill-it-for-you and spices with indecipherable 
names and unknown qualities. I couldn't even get the basics for bread. 
Milk and coffee (leche y cafe) were about the only things I could get. I 
often ate at a cafe near the mansion, but after a week of Steve's 
absence, even that felt too lonely to endure.

One day, while Rosita was off, I was overcome by curiosity about her 
lingerie. I went into her room, which I had never done before, and 
opened up her closet and armoir. She hadn't lied about her interest in 
lingerie. She had more underwear than anyone I had ever known. At least 
as far as I knew--I was far too shy to inquire about such things in 
college, where some of the city girls might have had such luxurious 
items. Rosita had panties which had only thin strips for backs, she had 
bras made of silk and velvet, she had other items which I had no name 
for, and she even had items which I couldn't figure out exactly how one 
would wear. I was tempted to try some of them on, but I knew they 
wouldn't fit me. I am a pretty woman, that much I am sure of, but I am 
not a voluptuous woman, a sexy woman, like Rosita. I am petite, with a 
slender waist and narrow hips. My bust, while completely adequate for 
someone my size, is a fraction of Rosita's size. I am a farmer's 
daughter, with straight blond hair cut into a practical bob. My nails 
are clipped short like a man's and rarely see nail polish. I've polished 
my toenails all of twice in my life. I shave my legs with indifferent 
regularity. I wear glasses to movies, lost my contacts two years ago, 
and never replaced them. I am, in other words, the complete opposite of 
Rosita's exotic beauty.

I left Rosita's room awed and shamed. I was angry at myself for 
snooping, but at the same time, I couldn't help but wonder what inspired 
such devotion to lingerie. Was it because she's Argentinian, as she 
claimed? Even then, how could she afford it all? The fabric was mostly 
silk and lace, not the cheaper nylon and polyester most women have. 
Unless Argentina has a special dispensation for women to purchase 
lingerie, she must have had wealthy lovers. But then why work as a 
housekeeper? I wasn't sure I could understand my housekeeper at all.

*****

I started getting comfortable with Rosita again. It started with small 
things, little conversations about dinner or what she did on her day 
off. She would offer me suggestions on things to do during the day. She 
told me about music performances at night, and sometimes accompanied me 
to them. Bolivian music is haunting, spiritual. It soothed my 
embarrassment, made me forget about my shame. Soon, Rosita and I were 
friends again.

We were drinking a "cafecito" when Rosita said something that alarmed 
me.

"Flores tried to leave the University. Can you believe that?"

I was baffled. Academics change positions frequently, particularly 
junior faculty such as Flores.

"Sure. Why wouldn't he?"

Rosita looked at me like I was completely ignorant of the most basic 
facts of life. "He's here on special money."

I had never heard of special money before. Universities work through 
grants, yes, but there is little about a grant that ties people to a 
particular university.

"Special money?" I put my cafecito down. The cup clattered on the 
saucer.

"Special money." Rosita looked at me, raising her eyebrows, as if she 
were waiting for me to make the connection.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Rosita. What is 'special 
money'?"

Rosita laughed and touched my hand. "Senora Rebecca, you are so funny. 
Of course, you are making a joke at me."

"No, I don't know what 'special money' is."

She pulled her head back and bit her lip. "Special money, you know, the 
money from the lords. People like Flores, they come here to do work for 
the lords. You don't quit working for the lords until they tell you 
too."

The dark suspicion that the lords were cocaine kingpins sunk in. 
"Cocaine?"

She nodded and took my hand again. "You didn't know?"

I shook my head. Did Steve know? He couldn't have. He is so interested 
in science, he wouldn't sully it with drug money. Or would he? For the 
first time in my life, I doubted him. I realized his zeal for science 
could blind him to the political realities of the world.

"Does Steve get 'special money'?" I had to know.

She shrugged. "I don't think so. He is a tree specialist, yes?"

I nodded. I was too numb to speak. I felt the heat drain away from my 
body. My limbs were stiff. My friends had questioned how safe Bolivia 
was, but Steve and I had been on expeditions to Colombia and Peru and I 
had never felt in danger. I was so naive.

"How do they recruit people? Is this house a payment? Are you?"

Rosita squeezed my hand. "No, Senora, I don't think so. They give people 
money. They send him girls. That is why you shouldn't wear that 
lingerie. You must be on guard and wear sexy underwear."

*****

Two days later, I gave in to the fear that was growing inside me that 
Steve would be seduced by cocaine prostitutes if I didn't act more sexy 
when he returned. I asked Rosita to show me her lingerie.

Rosita asked me to wait in the main living room--the mansion has three 
areas which I think of as living rooms--while she prepared her fashion 
show. I was nervous, remembering the previous time we had gotten into 
lingerie, and felt foolish for mistrusting Steve, who had never shown 
even a hint of interest in anyone but me.

Rosita, dressed in a black and purple silk robe, summoned me. Her room 
was alight with candles and incense. She explained about evil spirits 
and the need to ward off prying eyes. I rolled my eyes and suppressed a 
laugh, but she didn't notice.

She offered me a beer. I only drank rarely, and then, only wine, but I 
accepted. It was dark and yeasty. I sipped it very slowly.

Rosita opened her closet and pulled out several bra and panty 
combinations. I had spied a few of these while I was sneaking in her 
room before. She spread these out on the bed in front of me. I blushed 
automatically, knowing that I was going to see her nearly nude. I had 
always avoided being nude and seeing nude women. When I took showers in 
the dorm, I tried to get there before everyone else to avoid being seen 
or seeing. I insisted on the lights being out when Steve and I made 
love. I wasn't sure I could sit and watch Rosita model lingerie, but I 
guessed she wouldn't let me just look at the lingerie in the drawers and 
ask questions.

I sat on the chair next to her bed. I asked her about the panties with 
such thin backs. They wouldn't cover anything and looked uncomfortable.

"Oh, Senora Rebecca, it is the purpose that they don't cover anything. 
They are very sexy. They are called thongs." She picked one up and 
fingered the cloth. It looked silky. "I wear these every day. They are 
very comfortable."

I reached over and picked up a blue silk combination. The bra was cut 
very low, probably coming below the nipple, and had the same pads that 
Rosita showed me before. I held it up to my t-shirt. I looked for a 
mirror, but couldn't locate one.

"Is this good?" I hoped she'd say no so I could leave. I started to feel 
very uncomfortable. I shouldn't have been there, I was too embarrassed 
already.

"It is nice. I don't know if it is right. Have you worn a teddy?"

I had a vague memory of a teddy, but I was distracted by her leg, which 
she put up on the bed. Her robe fell to reveal her long, toned muscles 
up to her hip. Her bottom was barely covered. It was a very nice leg. 
What I had always wanted mine to be.

"I think you would look good in one."

She pulled the robe from her shoulder slowly, revealing the profile of 
her breast. Thankfully, the teddy she was wearing covered her nipples. 
As she pulled the robe down farther, the teddy turned out to be an 
almost modest covering. Relieved, I smiled.

She turned to me, showing me how high cut the legs were. It was cut much 
higher than my swimsuit, which it somewhat resembled. Where my swimsuit 
was cut almost straight across at the crotch, this cut up past Rosita's 
hip bones. It was very narrow around her crotch. I couldn't help but 
stare, as my pubic hair would have been evident, but she didn't have 
any. She must shave it almost entirely off.

I looked away suddenly, aware that I had been looking at her privates.

She let the robe drop and turned around. The teddy was cut like a thong, 
and her bottom was completely exposed. It was firm, like two half 
melons. She turned around again to face me. I looked away.

"It's very nice, isn't it?"

I imagined Steve looking at me in it, how hard his penis would become. 
Then I thought about him looking at Rosita in it. How much he would 
prefer her to me. Her skin was flawless, her muscles toned. I couldn't 
look at her.

"What's the matter, Senora Rebecca?"

I blushed again. I couldn't believe I was there, trying on lingerie with 
my housekeeper.

She touched my shoulder, softly brushing the hair away. I looked at her 
with tears forming at the edges of my eyes. She knew what a tramp I was, 
but she still looked at me with compassion.

"I'll try on something else." She looked at the lingerie on the bed and 
picked up a two-toned green and black set. She went into the closet to 
change.

I thought about leaving, running out of the room, but I knew I would 
still be embarrassed afterwards. I might as well find out about these 
things. Maybe someday I would be comfortable enough with them to wear 
them for Steve.

Rosita emerged from the closet in the new outfit. It was splendid on 
her, accenting her curves perfectly.

"You look beautiful, Rosita."

She smiled and turned slowly around. It was a thong, but the bra covered 
her nipples. It was fascinating, because it was like a combination of 
the scanty push-up bra she was wearing before and a normal bra, except 
the push-up part was velour or velvet and the normal part was silk.

Rosita sat next to me. "Touch it, it feels very nice, Senora Rebecca."

I hesitantly reach over and brushed a finger against the green velvet. 
It was soft and warm, like stroking a short haired cat. I let my finger 
run over the silk, feeling the contrast between the two.

My finger drifted slowly between the velvet and silk areas of her bra. I 
absently minded stroked her breasts like that, feeling her nipple harden 
under my touch. I liked feeling it harden, feeling that power. I circled 
the nipple and let myself briefly take it between my thumb and 
forefinger. I pressed my fingers into her breast and felt it give. I let 
my hand cup it from underneath and felt its weight.

I couldn't look at her face while doing this. I looked at her navel. I 
thought about how taut her stomach was. I thought about drinking a sip 
of cafe from it, how the coffee would compliment her skin. I rolled her 
nipple between my fingers, feeling my own nipples stiffen.

I heard her breath become shallower, quicker. I looked at her bra, the 
nipple protruding between my finger and thumb. I lifted and squeezed the 
breast absently, feeling its delicious texture.

"Senorita, la otra" Rosita's voice was breathy and shallow.

I jumped, realizing what I was doing. It was wrong. I was touching a 
woman like a man. And worse, she was my housekeeper. No, worse was that 
I was getting aroused again. That I wanted her to adjust my bra again.

I started crying, burying my face in my hands.

"Senorita?" Rosita's voice was soft, but I couldn't look at her. I kept 
my face in my hands.

She touched my shoulder. I didn't move. She rubbed my back while I 
cried. I let her rub my shoulders, my back. I didn't move.

I continued to cry.

Rosita leaned her head towards my ear. "Senora, it is all right." Her 
breath was warm and moist on my skin. I couldn't move.

She kissed the back of my neck. I remained still. She kissed my earlobe. 
It felt wonderful. I cried more. She kissed my neck and my ears, and 
wrapped her arm around my waist, stroking my hair while I cried.

I wanted to leave, to pretend this had never happened, but I didn't know 
that I could stop. I was too embarrassed to explain why I wanted to 
leave. I was too ashamed to do anything but cry. So I sat still as 
Rosita kissed my face. I let her pull my shirt off and kiss my navel.

I moaned as she kissed my breasts in my plain bra. I let her unfasten 
the bra and suckle on my nipples. I came when her hand slid up the leg 
of my shorts.

I let her lay me back on the bed and kiss my mouth. When her tongue 
entered my mouth, I surrendered to my lust and let my tongue enter hers. 
My hands found the clasp to her bra and I unfastened it. I kissed her 
neck, her breastbone, her cleavage, her nipples. I let my mouth drift 
toward her navel, her intoxicating navel. I realized I couldn't wait to 
stick my tongue into her navel. Then I realized I wanted to taste her 
womanly parts. I had never even tasted my own juices and now I wanted to 
taste hers.

I licked her navel as long as I could bear to. I was afraid of what I 
would find in her thong, afraid of surrendering so completely. Rosita 
wasn't inactive in all of this. She was teasing me with kisses to my 
arms and legs, to every part of me she could place her lips on.

Rosita pulled my lips from her belly and to her face. She held me and we 
kissed deeply. As we kissed she writhed under me, rubbing her womanly 
parts against my thigh, digging her fingers into my bottom.

She shook and screamed, and then was still.

I wanted to taste her even more, so I slid down her bottom and tasted 
her cleft. It was slick with her juice. I let my tongue run the length 
of it and then probed the lips. I stuck my tongue into her as far as I 
could and licked and licked. I sucked on the lips. She put her hands on 
my head and guided it up, until my tongue found her little nib. I sucked 
on it until she shook again.

I slept in her room that night, afraid to enter the rest of the house, 
wanting to discover more of her body.

******

Rosita and I didn't become lovers. I was too embarrassed, too ashamed to 
repeat the night again. Sometimes, I let her hold my hand or even cuddle 
against me, but whenever I desired to take her nipple into my mouth, to 
kiss her, to taste her, I fled.

I slept poorly while Steve was on his expedition. I felt guilty--I had 
cheated on him and wanted to do it again. Sometimes Rosita would sun 
bathe, her magnificent body revealed in her skimpy bikinis, and I would 
have to leave the yard, knowing that if I stayed I would end up cheating 
on Steve with her.

Twice, I came close to cheating again.

One night, I was feeling tired and lonely and agreed to let her brush my 
hair. We ended up in the shower together, soaping each other. I had to 
leave the shower with only a quick rinse when her sponge found its way 
between my legs.

Another day, we had gone shopping, anticipating Steve's return. I wanted 
to get some sexy lingerie to protect myself against the cocaine whores I 
feared. Rosita knew the few shops in the city that sold good lingerie. 
She was in the booth, helping me decide. She adjusted the bra I was in 
and began rubbing my nipples. I went as far as sucking on her navel 
again before I could stop myself.

I was afraid of what would happen if Rosita turned her charms on Steve. 
Would they make love also? Would the three of us end up in bed? I 
started dreaming about this, but in the end, Steve would always leave in 
disgust as I kissed Rosita's womanly parts and she fingered mine.

*****

A messenger from the university arrived on Rosita's day off. He said 
that Steve was in trouble with the university and that I should come the 
next day to try to straighten things out.

I was a nervous wreck while I waited. The messenger had no information 
to give me, so I had no idea what the problem was. I knew how important 
this job was to Steve's future, and feared if they were talking to me, 
he must be in horrible trouble.

I was drunk--for the first time in my life--when Rosita arrived home.

"Rebecca, what's the matter?" She had stopped calling me Senora except 
when other people were around.

I explained about the messenger. She turned pale. "Mi dios. This is 
bad."

She put the glass of beer I was drinking aside and pulled me from the 
chair in the kitchen. She guided me to her bedroom and laid me on her 
bed. She stripped and laid beside me, stroking my hair. "Rebecca, mi 
amiga, these people, they are the special money people."

I started crying. I couldn't think, except that the special money people 
where going to take my Steve away from me. I offered no resistance when 
Rosita started kissing my face and neck.

"Be very careful when you talk to them. They might just want Steve to 
stay a long time. They might want something else."

She pulled my t-shirt off and kissed my breasts. I held on to her and 
cried as she kissed my nipples. I let her mouth explore me, shuddering 
when she licked my button. I slept in her arms.

*****

The next morning, I had hardly disentangled myself from Rosita's long 
limbs before heavy knocks warned us of the "special money people's" 
arrival.  Neither Rosita nor myself had to inquire who was knocking, nor 
what to do.  I, still smelling of Rosita's bloom, I'm quite sure, threw 
on a tee shirt and jeans, and stepped out to join the men in dark suits.  
There was no need for roughness, as I was compliant with my fate, but 
these foreboding men keep sliding their eyes towards me as if to say, 
"we won't hesitate to kill you--*and* we will enjoy it."  Or perhaps I 
was paranoid.  But would you have not been, faced with grim guards and a 
Soviet-style black limo?

One of the guards forced my head down as I stepped into the limo, and 
made an obvious smelling gesture before winking at his compatriots. He 
slid in next to me, forcing me between his companion in the back seat.  
He placed a black leather glove on my thigh and said, in grimacing sotto 
voce, "It will be all right." He sniffed loudly again as his companion 
placed his gloved hand on my other thigh and squeezed.

I saw, or imagined I saw, their large erections straining against their 
uniforms.

As we drove, their hands crept up my legs.  Oddly, I accepted I was 
going to be raped and felt calm and distanced, as if I were watching a 
movie of someone else's life. It would be a horrible thing for her, to 
be raped by two men--or possibly all four.  Surely she would live to 
hate men after that, although I couldn't imagine she would struggle.  
After all, she was I, and I was watching as if it were a dream, too far 
removed to fight.

We were on a long, twisting road which was taking us far from the places 
I had been. The University lay in the opposite direction, and we had 
long passed out of the village.  The guard's hands had reached the apex 
of her thighs, but instead of fingering her, or stripping her, their 
hands stopped there. I said nothing.  They said nothing.  Some impasse 
had been reached, although I did not know if it was she (who was 
actually I) has forcing their hands from probing, or whether it was some 
other force--the "lords," faithfulness to loved ones or morality, as 
unlikely as any of those motivations seem now.

We drove higher into the mountain, still at our impasse. Whatever drove 
them to stop did not compel them to remove their hands, nor occasionally 
squeezing her flesh.  I began to feel that they expected that she would 
respond to their touch and invite the next move.  She sat stony-faced, 
flushed from shame, without a hint of desire. I do not think she moved 
at all.  Somehow, she defied the jarring road and sat absolutely still, 
wedged between the unmovable masses at either side of her.

As we travelled into a jungle strand, it began to rain a cold, hard 
rain, the kind which is peculiar to the Andes.  Our limousine was 
shrouded in mist and the blinding light which had been with us all 
morning disappeared, replaced by shadows and the glimmer of door lights.  
The guard to her right unzipped his uniform with his free hand--his left 
hand gently squeezing her thigh, but otherwise unmoving.  He extracted 
his penis, its red head surrounded by his black leather fist. It was 
enormous, far larger than Steve's, the only other penis I'd seen, and 
ripped through with projecting veins, glistening at the tip.  I knew she 
was expected to place it into her mouth, to wrap her shamed lips around 
it until he filled her throat with his poison. I also knew she would not 
move to assist him.  Stony and red with shame, she was still.

The black fist began to travel up and down the vein monstrosity, slowly 
at first, but then more rapidly.  His squeezes on her thigh became more 
firm and rapid as his lips curled away from his canine mouth and his 
pumping became faster.  My mind imagined the semen dripping from her 
face when he was through from her, it's overflow running down her chin 
to drop on the breasts they had exposed by cutting away her tee shirt.  
As the fist pumped faster, and the leather glove gripped her thigh 
tighter, I saw the other guard rubbing the semen onto her nipples, 
methodically but gently, until they became engorged and her shame became 
overwhelming.

The guard's penis dribbled onto his glove.  Not the copious quantity I 
had expected, but a teaspoon's worth.  He rolled down the window and 
shook his glove. I watched the semen ripped from the black leather by 
gravity and wind.  It hung on for longer than I would have thought 
before finally merging with the jungle.

Then I knew the impasse had been broken, but I was the victor.  Whatever 
compelled these monsters to stop their groping finally broke their will.  
Both guards removed their hands and we drove out of the Andean rain into 
sunlight again. She became me once again.

*****

Surely I slept after that, because it was dark when we arrived at our 
destination.  I was acutely aware of both my bowels and my stomach. When 
I stepped out of the limo, I realized I could not stand.  My long spell 
of absolute stillness had put my limbs to sleep, or exhausted the small 
muscles which give us balance so completely that I no longer had control 
over them. I fell towards the ground, saved only by the ejaculating 
guard.  He caught me with the hand which had groped me just above the 
elbow and pulled me up. Something told me I should hate him, and that 
relying on his help was only the final insult, but I regarded him no 
differently than I would have a fencepost in Iowa--there and not worth 
any other thought.

A man came from the house and took my other arm, and together they 
carried me inside, where they sat me on a divan near the entry.  The 
four guards, silent still, left.

"Are you hungry?  Would you like to refresh yourself before your 
meeting?"

I had slumped down on the divan, nearly passed out.  The house 
servant--I guessed because of his white jacket and black pants, just 
like some "Thin Man" extra--was the first person to have spoken to me 
since I left Rosita. I looked up at him and shrugged.  I did not feel 
communicative.

"Very well then, follow me." I wasn't very sure of anything at that 
point, but I would swear he had an English accent, and not a cockney 
one, either. I shambled behind him down the long hall.  The hall was 
like a parody of grandeur, with heavy oaken doors every ten feet and 
large, cheap paintings of men in camouflage on the wall between.

The house servant left me in a small suite with a bath, toilet, divan, 
and a table of tropical fruit.  I took a mango with me to the toilet, 
and dribbled juice on my thighs, satisfying every desire I could have 
had at that moment more fully than you might ever imagine.

I emerged from the toilet stall and noticed a note, written on fine 
paper with a floured script next to the fruit bowl. It said,

     Bathe if you wish.  You will not be disturbed.  There is a roast,
     prepared as you like, in the bedroom, which is located through
     the red door.  The bookshelf is available for your use, and your 
     favorite movies have been stocked by the VCR.  Please feel to
     indulge yourself as you see fit while you are in your room. You
     will not be expected until your appointment, tomorrow morning
     at 9:30.

I was incredulous.  Nobody had spoken to me since I left my house this 
morning.  I had never met any special money people,  . . . Unless . . . 
.  No, Rosita wouldn't possibly betray me that way.  I walked through 
the red door, not amused at all by the tackiness of the symbolism.

It was as promised.  I was too hungry to avoid the roast, and found it 
exactly to my preferences--but I'm not a finicky city girl, so that may 
not have been too difficult to achieve with little more knowledge of me 
than provided by Steve in his initial University interviews.  Which 
meant that, . . . .  Oh, no, if Steve is on his long trip in the hands 
of these cocaine lords, he might have refused them and is being 
tortured.  Or I might be being used as pawn to force him to cooperate.  
The fear raced red hot through my veins.  I put down my fork, my hand 
shaking too much to be trusted.  I raced to the bookshelves and looked 
at the authors: Dickenson, Austin, James, Shakespear.  I was dazed, 
falling outside of myself.  I looked on: Dante, Melville, Tolstoy, Mann.  
And then I fell to my knees: Kundera.  The rest could have been faked, 
but Kundera?  Who could have known?  Only Steve would have known that.

I fled to the bed and cried.  This was too much.  These cocaine lords 
shouldn't have, couldn't have known so much about me.

*****

I awoke. I had no notion of the time.  It was dark when I arrived. I 
fell asleep after that.  The room had no windows, no clock.  I went into 
the bathroom.  The fruit was still there, but grapefruit had been added, 
and a bowl of yogurt, with Grape-Nuts sprinkled on top--my favorite 
breakfast--was cozied up to the fruit.  The spoon was silver, with a 
gilded handle.

I wasn't hungry.  I needed to know what time it was.  Finally, I thought 
the TV might tell me.  I turned it on and flipped through the channels.  
They were all static, except one.  It had a blue screen with Spanish 
words flying across the bottom and a 5:17 flashing in the middle.

I couldn't sleep, but I couldn't stand being awake.  I took a bath, but 
it felt wrong, too luxurious for my present condition.  There was 
something far too spooky about this place in the middle of nowhere. This 
is my hell, I thought endlessly.

I finally decided to put in a video.  The note hadn't lied about the 
selection.  Every one of my favorite films lay before me. I think some 
of them may be been out of print. The decision came to me immediately.  
Buster Keaton.  I picked "The General" from the self and put it into the 
VCR.

Buster was on the train, fighting off the Union soldiers when the tape 
cut out.  The static was quickly followed by a black screen, maybe 30 
seconds worth, and then I was on the TV, kissing Rosita.  Her hand was 
on my breast, my finger was in her venus.  We were both naked, our skin 
red with kisses and bites.  Rosita's lips left mine as she climaxed.  I 
remembered our lovemaking well. I knew her lips would find my womanhood 
immediately after this and she would give me the most powerful orgasm I 
ever had.

I watched, knowing I had been betrayed and longing to have Rosita again. 
I watched as her lips crept across my breasts, her fingers digging into 
my bottom, as she descended to my ultimate pleasure.  Just the 
suggestion of that experience aroused me to incredible heights.  I 
didn't think about my fingers caressing my nipples--I didn't need to.  I 
mouthed the words as my video-self cried out Rosita's name as her tongue 
teased my clitoris.

My hand made its way under my shirt as Rosita sucked on my video-self's 
labia.  I felt her tongue penetrate me as I watched the camera focus in 
on her tangle of hair pressed between my thighs, obscuring my scraggly 
blonde bush.

"Oh god, Rosita, you are my salvation." I did not need to hear the words 
from the television.  I said them again as the orgasm took me.  My 
videoself's orgasm lasted longer, much longer, and I watched in awe as 
she swore her passion for Rosita over and over again, in continuous 
ecstasy. As my own orgasm subsided, I shimmied out of my clothes, unable 
to stop touching myself. My shame had abandoned me, and I took my own 
panties to my face, hoping to capture the smell of Rosita's nectar.

My videoself was now loving Rosita, giving her gentle bites along her 
stomach, then turning her over to lick her bottom. I plunged my fingers 
into myself as my video mirror placed her face into Rosita's crack. The 
robust flavor of her anus was immediately in my mind.  I timed my 
finger's movement in and out of myself to my videoself's ministrations 
on Rosita.

My eyes were closed as I rubbed and caressed myself to the cries of 
"Rosita, my god," and "Senorita."  I was in a plateau of orgasm, my body 
buzzing with the memory-feel of Rosita's lips and fingers when the 
sounds stopped. I slowly regained my self-possession and looked at the 
TV.  It was black.  Then there was a picture of Steve, his pants around 
his waist, his hand rapidly stroking his penis, while he watched a 
television.  The camera closed first on his penis, wet with 
pre-ejaculate, and then on the screen, where Rosita was placing the pads 
into my bra, the very first time she had seduced me.

I cried again, knowing my life was over.

*****

THE MEETING

I cried for an hour, maybe longer.  I kept seeing Steve watching me and 
Rosita, stroking his penis until fluid flew from it to cover my video 
image. He knew I betrayed him. Yet, somehow it excited him. That idea 
hurt more than knowing I had been caught. He should have been raging 
with jealousy. I certainly would have had I watched a tape of he and 
Rosita. My own adultery sickened me, and it sickened me even worse to 
know that Steve was not outraged. But those thoughts didn't make sense 
to me. I should have been relieved that Steve could accept this. If 
anything, it would mean Rosita could take me to those heights again. But 
I wanted out. I hated myself for my weak will, for my complete lack of 
any moral fiber. If Steve didn't share my outrage, what did we share? It 
made no sense. I hurt all over from shame, doubt, rage, and the remnants 
of my lust.

I pulled my body from the bed and went to the bath.  I ran scalding hot 
water into the tub, poured half the box of bath salts they had so 
"kindly" provided me, and began my tortured decent into the heat. The 
pain was nearly intolerable as first my feet, always very sensitive, and 
then my legs pushed into the water. I forced myself to endure the pain, 
the punishment, hoping to sear the shame and confusion from my body and 
mind. My flesh roared with agony as the water surrounded me up to my 
neck. The steam flushed the tears from my eyes. I lay in the water until 
it was no longer hot.  I drained the water and turned on the cold tap, 
getting a glass to pour the ice-cold water over my reddened skin.

Thoroughly punished and numb, I emerged from the bath.  There was a 
white terrycloth rob waiting for me.  I didn't even wonder how they knew 
I was bathing. The rob was luxuriously soft and thick, and had another 
note tucked into the pocked.

     Your meeting is in 45 minutes.  Your wardrobe is on the bed.  
Please
     eat your breakfast and drink the juice, as your meeting may 
continue
     for a long time.

I ate my breakfast and drank the juice--fresh squeezed grapefruit, with 
a delicate, sweet flavor.  This was to be my hell then: luxury and 
betrayal. It was as if in some corn field, many years ago, my ambition 
to become something "better" than a farmer had lead me to make a deal 
with the devil and he had come to collect his price.  My soul would not 
be bought so easily.

*****

The clothing was what I had half expected. A duplicate of the silk and 
velvet lingerie I so adored on Rosita, a slinky black evening gown with 
a plunging neckline, black suede heels, and a diamond choker/earring 
set. While I was dressing, I heard a soft rustle in the bath suite.  I 
looked in and found a make-up kit waiting for me. I was a pawn in this 
game, and had obediently played that role so far, but I would not go as 
far as to wear their French mascara. Besides, I had no idea of what they 
wanted--an over made-up whore, or a tastefully done call girl.  There 
was no question any longer that I was a prostitute in this game, but 
what kind, I had yet to discover.

After dressing, I looked at myself in the mirror.  My spirits were 
beaten down by my vain response.  *I* looked good.  Not just good: 
"hot," "sexy." Rosita had been right.  With the proper clothes, I was no 
longer a simple farm girl, but a sexy model.  Too short, to be sure, for 
the cover of "Vogue," but a woman who could turn heads, nonetheless.  
The dress clung to my figure, accentuating the narrowness of my waist 
and the flair of my hips, always to of my most striking features.  The 
push-up bra lifted my breasts and created cleavage so I looked very well 
endowed (as if a bustline is an "endowment"--but I wasn't thinking of 
such ironies then). The heels and slit in the dress showed off my legs, 
which were well-toned from the walking I have always done.  And the 
black velvet contrasted with my skin to emphasize the relatively few 
blemishes I have. Steve would love to fuck me, I thought, shocked at my 
own vulgarity. Then I thought, I am going to be raped tonight. The 
thought felt distant, much like thinking, I am going to pay taxes this 
year.  Unpleasant, but abstract and bearable.

The red door, which was the only door to my room, opened silently.  The 
house servant who had guided me here entered, attired in an identical 
uniform, spotlessly clean, perfectly stiff but graceful in his walk and 
stature.  He said not a word, approaching me with his arm out, bent 
slightly.  I understood and took his arm and allowed him to walk me to 
my meeting.

We walked through many corridors, passing more doors than I would ever 
hope to count. The entire place was light with side lamps, which created 
a soft, yellow tone, almost dim enough to be called candlelight. The 
only sound was my footsteps and the beating of my heart in my ear. I am 
going to suck a stranger's penis tonight, I thought. The thought should 
have disgusted me, but it only existed. A statement of fact, like the 
weather. I wondered if Steve would watch my humiliation on video. Or if 
he would be there. Would I have to make love to the house servant? He 
wasn't unhandsome. It might be better than some of the guards. Would 
Rosita be there? Would she apologize? Would we be allowed to make love? 
The entire length of one of the corridors, I thought of nothing else but 
Rosita dropping her skirt, her long legs blooming in front of me. Then 
my pulling her thong aside to see her venus blossom in front of me, a 
red flower overflowing with a heavenly nectar. I anticipated the taste 
alone would send me into orgasm.

*****

The door to the meeting room was no different than the hundred of others 
I had walked by.  It was in the middle of the room and, like the rest, 
had no markings to identify it.  Yet the house servant recognized it 
without pause and lead me in.

The room was long, carpeted with a thick, soft wool.  It had a line of 
chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, lighting the center path, but 
leaving the side walls dark.  I couldn't tell where the walls were, or 
how wide the room might be. At the end of the room was a large table, at 
which a person sat.  The table had a light above it, which lit only the 
dark hair of the person, and the black marble tabletop. I could not tell 
if the person was a man or a women, much less anything else. Lining the 
carpet on the path to the table were earth-tone divans, daybeds, and 
sofas.  There was no sound.

The escort brought me slowly along. I strained my eyes to see who else 
was in this room, and what lay in the shadowy depths beyond the 
furniture. There were hanging carpets and gilded carts, exotic art from 
Asia, Africa, and the Americas. I saw the glistening of gemstones struck 
by candlelight. I was in the storehouse of the world's greatest wealth. 
Great paintings, long-ago stolen were resting in the arms of Louis-XIV 
sedans. I knew then that the person at the table was indeed Satan. I did 
not know I was a believer until that moment. But I had not seen proof 
until that moment, either.

We halted five feet in front of the table.  I still could not tell who 
was under the light.  It defied physics. My escort was gone.

I saw a blue light to my left. It was a video of me watching the tape, 
masturbating furiously. I felt no shame. I was numb.

Another light lit to the right of me. It was Steve flailing away at his 
penis watching me and Rosita make love. It was a different image from 
the evening before. It was the time we took a shower.

A television on the table, which I hadn't seen before, turned on. It was 
Steve watching Rosita penetrating me with some kind of large artificial 
phallus. I begged her to do it harder and faster.  The video zoomed to 
show the phallus--a dark, iron replica with rusted veins--hammer into my 
wet vagina. My entire genital area was flushed with red.  There were 
bite marks along my thighs and scratches on my abdomen. As the phallus 
pulled out, I could see it was of improbably length, perhaps ten or 
twelve inches, yet Rosita was ramming it all the way into me and I was 
shouting for her to take me deeper. I could see my own juices cascade 
down my thighs.

The video moved to Steve, pulling on his penis. "Oh, fuck her, yeah. 
Fuck her, fuck her hard." I was stunned at his vulgarity. He never 
talked like this. But he never watched me make love, no fuck, another. 

The person at the table rose from his chair. His face moved into the 
light. It was beautiful in a way I never believed was possible. I turned 
away immediately, knowing that if I looked for too long, even just 
seconds, I would never be able to look away and that all else would be 
ugly and horrible to me from that point on. I'm sure you think this is 
an exaggeration, but you did not see the face.

He moved behind me, the gentle breeze created by his passing sent me to 
my knees as an orgasm--no, that is a term far to weak to describe the 
sensation--coursed through every cell in my body. I think I writhed on 
the floor for hours until the experience finally passed.

I heard his voice, but knew that he hadn't spoken. "You may disrobe if 
you like. You won't be interrupted."

Despite knowing that it was damnation to look, I turned to see him, but 
he was gone. He had placed a black velvet couch behind me.  A tray of 
fruits and a pitcher of water, sparkling with condensation, lay on a 
gilded tray next to the sofa.

The video screen had grown larger during my orgasmic event. Perhaps it 
is more accurate to say the screen had grown smaller, because it now was 
as large as my eyes, and occupied my entire vision.  If I focussed, I 
could see the room, but when I did not, the tape, the apparition, the 
portal into the future, remained open, and I smelled as well as saw and 
heard the events depicted.

Again I was watching Steve masturbate while watching Rosita and I make 
love.  Rosita pulled the phallus out of me. It was even larger than 
before and throbbed slightly.  The iron had begun to corrode, so its 
surface was roughened and the rust of its veins ran with my ejaculate, 
flowing like blood down Rosita's thighs.

Rosita laughed, and I knew at once I was doomed for eternity, because in 
that laugh I knew her for who she was, Satan, and I knew I could never 
be satisfied by another, but that I would always search for it.

She pushed me down onto the mattress, where I lied pulling my nipples 
for stimulation, and approached Steve. Steve's hands, penis, and thighs 
were covered with his semen, much more than he should have been able to 
produce.

She put a hand on his shoulder and I watched in frightened awe as his 
entire body fibrillated before his penis exploded with a lengthy steam 
of ejaculate. I saw his testicles contract more and more, until they 
were shrunken to nearly nothing, their contents spayed over Rosita, the 
bed, and me.

She stoked his cheek with the phallus, the red fluid dripping off to 
cover his shoulders.  She coated his lips with them, dying them the 
shade of a street walker's come-on grin. The phallus thrust forward, his 
lips splitting at the edge as it penetrated. 

"I'm fucking you now, Steve. Do you want your wife to come while she 
watches?"

His head bobbed up and down, but it was from the phallus rushing in and 
out. I was horrified as I realized Steve would not emerge from this a 
man, but the orgasm built up inside of me, and soon I was chanting "Oh, 
yeah, fuck him, fuck him deep, yeah fuck him," and orgasming on my 
fingers.

Rosita pulled out the saliva-coated phallus and kissed the sides of his 
torn lips. They healed the instant her lips touched them.

She turned towards the door. I begged "No, Rosita, I need you." She 
turned and smiled her perfect grin again. "I was going to leave you two 
equal.  If I continue to fuck you, it will be unfair to him. Should I 
fuck him first to make it fair?"

"Anything," I pleaded, "anything. Yes, fuck Steve. Fuck him in the ass 
if you have to, just fuck him fast."

Steve was no longer coherent.  I suspect his mind had been destroyed 
sometime earlier, although I was so far gone that it is hard for me to 
tell now. He looked something like an animated corpse.  His testicles 
had shrunken to oblivion, yet his penis was large and erect, dripping 
seminal fluid. His cheeks were hollow and his pupils dilated to 
different degrees. She lifted him and bent his over the side of the bed.  
The phallus eased into him at first, and he began to groan.  As Rosita 
began to go deeper into him, the blood began to return to his face and 
his eyes looked lively--the pupils were both the same wide-open size. 
She pumped into his anus not quickly like I so desperately desired, but 
slowly, insidiously.  In could feel the heat of the iron phallus grow, 
see it begin to give off orange-red light and heat. I knew she was 
taking him, taking complete control over him, and that he would never be 
back again. He began to fibrillate, his whole body quivering so rapidly 
I could see the hairs begin to smoke.

*****

I looked into Steve's eyes.  He was no longer a man. He was a woman in a 
whorehouse, getting anally taken night after night. His breasts were 
outrageously large, his waist impossibly small.  His pubic hair was 
gone, and his labia permanently engorged and running with lubricant. The 
madame came after the last customer left and bathed him before putting 
him into a pine casket. He would be taken out the next night.

The lid closed over his body.  The madame nailed it shut.  I looked into 
the corroded iron nails and saw myself walking on a placid lake, bathed 
in light. The hammer had just fallen from my hand and now splashed into 
the water, creating rings of ripples that my feet were not making. I 
chanted softly, "Jesu Cristo y Maria" over and over again.

I walked over the lake until night fell and then I looked up into the 
sky.  I saw in the stars a face even more beautiful that Satan's, who 
was really Rosita, who I love. I dove under the water and found the 
hammer, tangled up in algae. I swum deeper underwater until the water 
boiled with heat and the pressure crushed my bones. The pain destroyed 
me so I could live again.

I, as only an idea, an energy, swam deeper into the black depths. I was 
fire, and was the unbearable gravity of humanity on earth and I plunged 
deeper until I found, at the nexus of this world and the underworld, 
floating in the flow of lava, Steve's coffin.

My hammer, long ago burned and crushed, pried open the casket. Steve was 
immediately consumed by the flames. His melted form slithered amongst 
the giant squids and luminescent creatures of the sea. As the chemical 
lights illuminated his nonexistence, he turned inside out and outside 
in, from Steve to Rosita, and then from Rosita to Steve.

I chanted, "Jesu Christo y Maria," and the world woke and saw the face 
in the stars. An astronaut makes the journey from this life to the next 
and I was Budda come again.

Steve and I walked out of the depths and lay on silken grasses by the 
shore and watch the face of God in the sky. He took my face in his hands 
and kissed me gently.  I kissed him back, gingerly at first, and then 
with a growing passion. I pulled off my tee shirt and kissed his 
breasts, and made love to his venus, and took his penis into me and had 
an orgasm which lasted my lifetime and before that and beyond. His seed 
became lodged into my womb and we had created God, because I was Budda 
come again, and he was Nirvana, and together we were Rosita, who was 
better than both of us together, because she is the Holy Child I will 
bear.

That is why, Dr. Stolnick, I need to leave this place. The Holy Child 
should not be born amongst the filth and the downtrodden, for she will 
make us all in her own image and the poor shall be dressed in velvet and 
silk, and the inorgasmic shall be come transcendentally orgasmic, and 
you will finally get laid.



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