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Subject: Repost: Mercedes 7: Finally! {Morgan Preece} /C*R* 10/10/10/
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This story is intended for the entertainment of adults only. If you
are under 18, please stop reading immediately. If you are offended by
strong adult-oriented themes, explicit sex, erotic fantasy or vulgar
language, what are you doing here? Polite commentary will be
appreciated.

Copyright (c) 1996 by Morgan Preece




Mercedes



by Morgan Preece



Chapter VII
	


	The bar where I began my new career seemed familiar. The red
leather booths, the long dark counter, the big angled mirrors, the
seashore mural. After a moment of reflection, I realized that I had
first met Sylvia here. I smiled, knowing that she had chosen the Conch
for my debut on purpose.

	Across the polished mahogany length of the bar, the woman with
the golden curls smiled back at me. Her blue-green eyes locked on mine
only briefly then she resumed scanning the room. Her perfectly made-up
face, off-the-shoulder white cocktail dress and plunging neckline
attracted a lot of return attention. Women, for the most part, watched
her warily or ignored her hopefully. Men looked at her eagerly,
perhaps hoping that her searching gaze would find what she sought in
them.

	I felt the heat of their intentions and glanced at myself
again. Yes, the blonde in the mirror looked back. I am a beautiful
object of desire, I reminded myself, trying to focus on why I had come
to the Conch that night.



	It hadn't been easy, becoming accomplished in the art of being
beautiful. My months of enforced inactivity combined with drugs and
hormones in the liquid diet had wasted my frame to less than ninety
pounds. I couldn't sit up, let alone stand or walk by myself. I lay
helpless while my captors began the transformation to which I had
eagerly, fearfully, consented.

	I had expected Chastity to return after Sylvia left. I felt
the urgency of my need for her sexual ministrations. But when the door
opened again, Sylvia entered carrying a corset, much like the ones I
had seen her and Chastity wearing. I felt some excitement at seeing
this garment and knowing that I would soon be wearing it.

	First, however, came a bath with a sweet-smelling, astringent
lotion. Sylvia's hands were quicker and more forceful than Chastity's
had been. Less aroused from friction, more from pressure and
anticipation, I felt my nipples and what remained of my manhood
growing hard. She seemed amused by my physical reactions. "You have
been well-trained," she observed.

	I hoped that she would use her talented mouth on me. If anyone
had ever been a better cocksucker than Chastity, Sylvia had owned the
crown. I hadn't enjoyed fellatio in weeks, probably but I wanted those
red lips around me again. Or, alternatively, I wanted her to suck my
new breasts. At least a kiss on my aching lips.... But Sylvia was all
business, sprinkling me with scented powder before wiping off the
excess. I shivered with the torment of unfulfilled fantasy.

	A lamb's wool undercorset went on first, then she helped me
turn so that I lay face down on the bed. Next, she helped me slip the
silky, steely, slinky tube of the corset over my head. The laces in
front were already tight. "You will always wear a corset from now on,
except to bathe and sleep sometimes," she told me as she tightened the
back laces. "You'll have to!" she laughed. "You won't be able to sit,
stand or walk without it." 

	The constriction and support of the rigid garment did make it
possible for me to sit up in my weakened state. I realized that if I
were always to wear a corset, the muscles of my trunk and back would
never recover. They might well atrophy to the point that nothing would
ever bring them back to strength. A shiver of delicious fear went
through me. Sylvia would make a lifelong cripple of me, a prisoner in
eternal sexual bondage.

	"But -- I can't -- breathe!" I protested feebly. The cruel
stays forced my waist in, my new breasts up, my shoulders back and my
ass out. There seemed to be a lot more ass back there than formerly, a
distracting addendum to the inventory of my condition. My diaphragm
had no room to move, forcing me to breathe by inflating my rib cage
and heaving my bosom.

	I sat on the bed where I had been kept captive while Sylvia
tightened and re-tightened the laces. "If you can talk, you can still
breathe," she told me before hooking up a small gadget like a
windlass. While cranking this device, she poked and prodded me,
expelling all of my air. 

	I felt sure she would crack my ribs or I would suffocate
before she stopped tightening. My vision began darkening and a roaring
filled my ears. "Help," I tried to gasp but nothing came out. I don't
know if I fainted or not but Sylvia backed off on the lacings a bit
then tied them off. My breath came in tiny, rapid gasps.

	"We'll have your waist down to fifteen inches eventually, if
we have to remove a few ribs," she commented. I didn't know how
seriously she meant that but I felt that she had expressed her true
intention. I could not get the air to question her about this. She
slipped a tape around my waist and showed me that it now measured
18-3/4". Six months ago my waist had measured what had seemed a very
trim 28".



	A man approached me in my chair at the Conch. Handsome, early
forties, well-dressed, smiling, the sort of man who might be willing
to show a pretty girl a good time. Perhaps a man looking for a
beautiful mistress upon whom he would lavish gifts of luxury and
whimsy. I smiled at him and played the game awhile but he was not my
assigned target for the evening and I managed to put him off without
actually offending him. Who knew, next week I might be sent to seduce
him.

	Idly fingering the cultured pearl choker I wore, I moistened
my lips, enhancing their shine and causing minor tremors in the
onlooking males. I smiled into the mirror over the bar. Hung at a
slight angle, it gave an excellent view of the depths my cleavage.
That cleft seemed to promise riches to any explorer. 

	Curious, I thought, not for the first time, that I am still
aroused sexually by my own appearance of femininity. Did all beautiful
women feel this way about their own images? I did not doubt that it
might be so. It would explain why so many of them treated the mirror
like a lover.

	I re-crossed my silk-stockinged legs to relieve the tension
caused by my own appreciation of my reflection. The five-inch heeled,
white glove-leather, ankle-high lace-up boots flashing by each other
caused another Richter reading in the bar. I squeezed gently with my
thigh muscles, enjoying the sensation, the attention, and the
situation. 

	My thighs were the only muscles I had been allowed to
strengthen much after my long imprisonment. They might even be
stronger than they had been before. My upper body and arms remained so
weak that I often used two hands for such tasks as picking up a glass
of milk. There were also the two-inch nails constantly maintained in
jewel perfect smoothness. The bright red scimitars on the end of every
finger prevented me from developing a grip in my slender, delicate
hands.




	Learning to walk again had presented new difficulties. My leg
bonds during my captivity had been designed to force me to point my
toes, keeping my ankles extended and my arches flexed. The tendons and
muscles of my calves had perforce shrunk to the point that I could not
flex my ankles enough to put my heels to the floor. It caused
excruciating, stabbing pain even to try.

	I whimpered while Sylvia examined my feet and legs, flexing
them cruelly this way and that. "You'll never be able to walk again
without rigid ankle and arch support," she said. I didn't know if she
meant that as observation or prediction. 

	From a bureau drawer she produced a pair of seamed, silken
stockings in a pale shade of nude. My general weakness and loss of
muscle mass extended also to my legs, of course. Sylvia slipped the
stockings over my slender limbs and fastened them with the garters
hanging from the corset. She would do this many more times before she
allowed me to do it myself. "Always be sure you have the seams
straight," she said every time.

	Above-the-knee white boots went on next. Tightly laced from
instep to thigh, their support allowed me to stand on blocky four-inch
heels. Steel arches and heel and ankle shanks kept me from turning my
weakened ankles, open toes showed the brightness of my painted nails
through the gauzy silk of my stockings.

	Delighted to be out of bed after so long, thrilled by my
costuming, I tried to take a step and would have fallen if Sylvia had
not supported me. "Slowly, at first, there's no hurry," she
admonished. "You'd best remember that, never hurry. Slowly, sensually,
sexily, take one step at a time. Shorten your stride, you're wearing
heels. Swing your hips, elbows in, wrists relaxed, head up, lean into
it."

	She really had to teach me to walk again. As the muscles of my
thighs and buttocks strengthened, I needed less help but I learned
only one way of walking. A slow, ass-wriggling saunter, a sexy,
slutty, strut that made me feel oh-so whorish. A walk like that could
only end at a bed.




	I wondered vaguely where my "date" could be. I had no real
idea of the time, other than it had been dark when I arrived. I wore
no watch and had been trained not to look at clocks or inquire about
the time. My long, dark captivity had destroyed my sense of temporal
placement anyway and I had never been much of a judge of interval. The
moment seemed enough for me most of the time.

	Even empty moments could be filled by going over my lessons in
my mind. When to smile and at whom. How to ask for a gift. What
compliments to pay and how to react to them. How to sit, walk, stand.
How to apply makeup, do my hair, take care of my clothes. How to make
a man happy in bed.

	Just then, he entered the bar. More than six feet tall, wavy
brown hair going gray at the temples, boat tan. He wore a short-sleeve
pullover shirt that showed off the muscles in his arms. The faded
denim of his pants looked soft and comfortable. His rugged good looks
matched the photos I had been shown. 

	From his deck shoes to his perfect hair, his understated look
said Gilded Coast money and plenty of it. Not that I would see a penny
of it. I had no cash to pay for the drink in front of me. Sylvia's
rules, I could not buy my own drinks or pay for a cab or even touch
money. Not since my captivity, not tonight, maybe not ever. Poverty is
another form of helplessness.



	So is addiction. I felt cravings for the drugs they had given
me anytime I went more than ten or twelve hours without them. Sylvia,
I realized after a time, had a medical license of some sort. Mood
altering drugs kept me docile and happy, uppers gave me enough energy
to perform and painkillers kept me from objecting to what was done to
my genitals.

	The piercings hurt. Several through the foreskin held my penis
back inside my body cavity. Several more through my scrotum held my
single testicle up inside me also. More piercings, rings, rods and
laces such as I had seen on Sylvia and Chastity, concealed my sex
completely.

	My groin became a mystery, the flesh constrained by steel and
leather into a sexual puzzle. Now I knew what Sylvia had meant about
my wish. It would have been easier to cut everything off and remodel.
Twice weekly cleanings and relacings became necessary, also frequent
flushings with clear water and warm air to dry things out.

	My breasts ached to think about it. They had not been
neglected though. Implants filled with natural oils enhanced my bosom
from B-cup to a very full DD. No scars blemished my skin, the balloons
went in through tubes in my navel and were filled after they were in
place. A ring through each nipple attached to little golden weights
inside the cups of my corset tugged gently when I moved.
	




	He strode across the room to stand staring down at me. His
rough masculinity made me feel small and vulnerable. I smiled up at
him, "You must be looking for me," I said, challenging him.

	I watched his nostrils flare. He settled into the chair beside
me carefully. I knew his arousal put him into my power for all of his
male strength. The hair on his forearms curled and twined around a
Rolex on one arm and a heavy gold chain on the other.

	"You are Mercedes?" he asked.

	"The latest model," I giggled. My new name had been Sylvia's
choice but it fit me and I liked it. I placed my slender, manicured
hand in his sea-roughened one and tickled his palm with the sharp nail
of my longest finger.

	"What are you drinking?" He had paid Sylvia a lot for this
encounter and he meant to enjoy it. He'd been promised something new,
something different. The rich get bored. I had no desire to drag it
out. I wanted action.

	"Stoli, up," I said, smiling. The strong drink would hit me
quickly. He knew it. He would be able to do what he wanted with me.
The liquor I drank went straight to his manhood. The judo seduction,
his money, strength and male power versus my penniless, weak, feminine
helplessness. I licked my lips delicately when the drink arrived.

	I imagined holding his penis in my mouth, feeling his rough
hands tangled in my blonde hair. I pictured him taking me, that
massive strength overpowering whatever protest I might offer. I
thought I could feel his loins between my thighs, his insistent, rigid
cock. Stymied at the lacings of my mystery, he would force himself
into my ass. I knew what it would feel like to have him inside me.

	I gulped the drink like water when it came and smiled up at
him. I knew he could see the fantasy in my eyes. "You want to show me
your boat?" I asked innocently, letting a little drunken giggle
escape. He had no way of knowing that I had had nothing but mineral
water before he arrived.

	He helped me stand and left money on the table for the bill.
His classic '56 Fairlane convertible gleamed turquoise and white in
the streetlights. He opened the door for me and I slid across the rich
leather to the center of the seat.

	Before he got in he stood looking at me for most of a minute.
I giggled a bit, self-consciously this time. 

	"You're perfect," he said as he slid in beside me. I held my
face up then used my tongue when he bent to kiss me. He pulled away
and drove us slowly to the bayside marina where his houseboat lay.

	I teetered down the gangplank on high heels, laughing while he
kept me from tumbling into the water. The rich woods and fabrics of
the boat interior seemed designed for seduction. While he held me for
another kiss, I unzipped his Levi's and his dick filled my hand.

	"You know, I've wanted you so long," he murmured. He caught my
other hand, forcing it behind me and holding me upright at the same
time. I knew I had lost control but the Stoli and my own desire kept
me from caring.

	"Uh-huh," I managed around another kiss. "How long?" I teased.
He moved the hand behind me to catch my right wrist against my upper
arm. With the other hand he cradled my head.

	"Years," he admitted. "Ever since I first saw you trolling the
bars for sugarmamas. Hustling that ass of yours to serve those dried
up old cunts." One hand in my hair, the other holding my arm behind
me, he forced me down to my knees.

	Surprised, I knelt. My fingers found his zipper while I
thought about what he had said. Did he know who I had been? From what
he said, he must. With trembling fingers I pulled his enormous cock
out of its blue denim hiding place. Already hard, a pearly drop
glistened at the tip.

	"You know me," I finally said, not really a question. He still
held my arm behind my back and I had to twist my neck at an extreme
angle in my bent posture to look up at him. Smiling mostly with my
eyes, I touched the tip of my tongue to his erection, tasting the
salt-sour-sweet flavor of his precum.

	"Uhn," he said. His jism came in spurts on my lips, my chin,
my cheeks. He let go of my arm and my hair to enjoy his orgasm.
"Couldn't wait," he half-apologized.

	"That's all right, we've got plenty of time to get you ready
again." I flexed my arm, the weakened muscles there ached from the
twisting he gave them. I scraped cum from my chin and cheeks and
licked it from my fingers and lips. I hadn't experienced the sticky,
bleachy taste since high school.

	"How is it that you know?" I asked.  

	It seemed equal parts brag and apology. He leaned back on the
bulkhead, if that's the word for wall in a boat, and watched me clean
myself. He made no effort to clean his dick or put it back in his
pants and the one-eyed snake watched me, too. "I paid that lez dom,
Sylvia, $200,000 to transform you."

	The thought of his having paid all that money -- for me! --
excited the avarice in my soul. I felt the old excitement of the hunt.
I giggled. The golden carrot seemed within my grasp. "For that kind of
money, you could have had me." I shivered, knowing that I spoke the
truth.

	"Sylvia got $100,000 up front, another hundred grand tomorrow.
If I'm happy." He smiled, "I told her to make a high-class whore out
of you. See, I don't really like women, they're all whores. But I
don't think of myself as a queer, either. I wanted you, but I don't
fuck anyone with a dick they can still use," he explained.

	I knelt there, swaying slightly with the motion of the boat. I
listened, helplessly aware of tears trickling down my face at the same
time that sexual aching began in my breasts, my hidden genitals and my
confused mind.

	"Now if you make me happy, Sylvia gets her money and you
become my slut. Sylvia will keep you happy with drugs as long as you
keep me satisfied." He shrugged. "Otherwise, she puts you out to rent
to make back expenses. Maybe we'll do that anyway." He smiled again,
his penis rising with the thought of my degradation. "As long as you
keep your looks," he added, twisting the knife.

	Sighing, with shame, with desire fueled by my whorish,
self-punishing soul, I knelt to my life's work.

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