© Copyright 2003
This is a story about a sexual FANTASY written for consenting adults. If you're not both of those, don't read it. Characters in a FANTASY don't get sick or die unless I want them to. In real life, people who don't use condoms and other safe-sex techniques do get sick and die. You don't live in a FANTASY so be safe. The fictional characters in my stories are trained and experienced in acts of FANTASY - don't try to do what they do - someone could get hurt.
If you think you know somebody who resembles any of the characters here, congratulations, but you're wrong - any similarity between the characters in this story and any real person is purely coincidental, since all of these characters are figments of my dirty little imagination.
This is my story, not yours. Don't sell it or put it on a pay site. You can keep it and/or give it away with all of this information intact, but if you make money off of it, you're breaking the law and pissing me off.
She would have been pretty - even beautiful - had her face not been frozen in that perpetual pouting sneer affected by so many of today's young girls. Barely five feet tall, the obligatory low cut top, bare midriff with navel jewelry, and hip-slung jeans completed the stereotype. The top was filled out mostly with padding, though even through the screen door I could see a little cleavage.
She stood with arms crossed under her breasts, as if they needed support, one hip outthrust, staring disgustedly off into the woods, and didn't realize at first that I had come to the door.
When she finally turned to rap her knuckles on the doorframe again, she gave a little start to see me there. It wasn't a particularly hot day, but her walk in the sun had plastered honey blonde hair that had escaped from her pony tail to her forehead.
"May I help you?" it was the voice I used on door-to-door salesmen. I hadn't saved my money to get this place in the middle of nowhere so I could socialize with everyone who came to my door.
Impatiently, she said "Yeah. I need to use your phone!" Clearly, she was accustomed to getting whatever she wanted, when she wanted it.
I looked at her impassively for several moments, wiping my hands on a rag, before responding. "No."
I had turned and made several steps back toward my kitchen before she exploded. "NO!? I'm stuck out here in the fucking middle of fucking nowhere, my fucking car fucking died on me, my fucking cell phone doesn't fucking work in this fucking armpit, and you fucking tell me fucking 'no' when I ask to use the fucking phone?..."
She was taking a breath to continue her tirade when my open palm struck the side of her face. It was a gentle slap, by my standards, but the calluses on my hand must have felt like stone on her cheek as her head snapped around and the ponytail wrapped itself briefly around her face.
"That was for the filth coming out of your mouth. Get off my property. You're trespassing!" I stood so close that she had to back up a step to see my still impassive face glaring down at her.
Her eyes were as big as saucers and her face had finally lost its sneer as she held her hand to the growing redness on her cheek. Tears started to well up in her eyes as the gravity of her situation finally started to sink in.
"Buh-but it's got to be miles to the next town!" I had seen the 'pitiful me' routine from my ex - the queen of the guilt trip - far too often to be affected by it now. The fact that she thought it would work just pissed me off more.
"Not my problem." It was, in fact, three miles by road to my nearest neighbor, and a little over six into town.
"Please, mister!" she begged, "I'll do anything if you'll just let me use your phone! I'll pay you - I've got money!"
I slapped her hand as she started to reach into the little knapsack she carried for a purse. "I don't need money."
She stared at me with that deer-in-the-headlights look the young ones get when they finally run into a situation that can't be handled by their usual methods. Her face gradually melted and the tears that flowed this time were genuine. I let her cry, not moving.
Finally, she pulled a small packet of tissues from her backpack and wiped her face. Looking at me hopelessly through reddened eyes, she pled silently for me to rescue her. I just returned her stare, my face expressing no emotion.
Again, she begged "Please, just tell me what I need to do! I just need to use the phone, then I'll be out of your hair and won't ever bother you again! Please, I'll do anything!"
She apparently envisioned a limited scope to 'anything', but I wasn't going to let her off the hook that easily. "Strip. Right here. Every stitch."
She looked as if I had hit her in the stomach. "You want me to take off my clothes?" Her head was shaking, side to side.
"You said you'd do anything. Strip now, or get off my property. I don't care which." Neither my face nor the inflection in my voice had changed.
She stared at me for a long moment as emotions ran across her face. First, disbelief and shock, then, as she felt the full impact of my gaze, understanding and indecision. She made as if to speak, but a finger across my lips silenced the protest before it started. Finally, fear and resignation settled on her elfin features. She looked around the front yard, as if to see who else might be watching, but my home is set in a natural, secluded clearing, more than half a mile up a winding dirt track from the main road. Only the fact that I maintained the fences, gate, and even the mailbox by the gate would give anyone a clue that someone actually lived up that track.
Tentatively, she pulled the top over her head, eyes studying the worn boards of my front porch. As she pulled the meager scrap of cloth off her ponytail, she looked up once again, searching my face for some hint of reprieve. Finding none, her face set now in anger, she kicked off the once white deck shoes, now a yellowish gray from the dust of the track, and unbuttoned her jeans. Glaring defiantly up at me, she wriggled and pushed until they cleared her shapely hips and puddled around her feet. Still finding no mercy in my face, she reached behind and unhooked her bra, trying to cover her breasts with her hands as she worked the harness down and let it drop.
"Are you happy now, you perv!" she practically shouted up at me.
In a dispassionate voice I replied evenly, "I said every stitch."
Shaken, but still defiant, she turned away and worked the little cotton bikini down her legs, unintentionally giving me a first glimpse of the sprinkling of yellow hair that did little to cover her plump little mound. She straightened, covering her breasts with one arm and her crotch with the other hand.
"Lace your fingers behind your neck, spread your feet shoulder width, and be silent!" It was the first time I had allowed any sharpness into my voice and it startled her almost as much as the earlier slap. She moved quickly to comply, some of the anger in her expression replaced by fear.
As I suspected, her tits were small and perfectly formed, with tiny pink nipples topping broad, almost flat, alabaster mounds. I never understood the fascination some men have with large breasts. Hers were as close to my ideal as I'm likely to ever see in my lifetime. Her rib-cage tapered gently to a softly rounded belly surrounding the large, shallow navel that was pierced along its lower curve. Her hips flared a bit more than I would have expected on one so young, and the creases between hip and thigh outlined the perfectly symmetrical lips of her mons. Through the sparse growth of her almost invisible pubic hair I could just see the hood of her clit peeking out. Her legs were softly curved and shapely. This one was no athlete, but her genes had so far kept her from putting on extra fat.
I walked slowly around her once, carefully inspecting her back and the inverted heart-shape of her buttocks. Her skin was flawless - another gift of good genes, no doubt.
While she stood on display, red faced from embarrassment, I retrieved her garments one by one from the porch deck, folded them neatly, and stacked them on the rail, bra on top. I placed her shoes beside them, and picked up the little back-pack purse. I could see her anger returning as I rummaged through the thing until I found her wallet, but she was either smart enough or scared enough not to say anything. She hadn't lied - she did have several hundred dollars in the wallet, but I had told the truth as well - I didn't need it.
"Bethany Camilla Wilson" I read aloud from her driver's license. Flipping through the cards and other contents I found a current student ID.
"This isn't exactly on a direct route between Pullman and Bellevue, Bethany. What brings you to my neck of the woods?"
"I had a fight with my boyfriend and thought I'd take the scenic route home to have time to like, clear my head, you know, think things through."
I studied her a bit as I thought about the wording for my next question. "Surely you told someone you were coming this way, so why not just wait for them to send out a search party? Why are you so desperate that you'd take off your clothes for a stranger?"
"That's the thing! I was like so mad at Brian that I just like took off! I told my roommate I was going home for the weekend, but I didn't know I was going this way until I saw the sign and like the car just sort of turned on its own!" She only realized her mistake as she saw the smile growing across my face, and tried to cover. "But I called my mom from the car and told her I came this way! She'll have the sheriffs and everyone out looking for me by tonight!"
.... There is more of this story ...