You'll have to excuse Lyssy - she's had a rough day at the "lie-berry." Being a "lie-berrian" is really tough for her these days, while being a liar is still amazingly easy. She even lied to me about being oblivious - she's hardcore.
Girlfriend? No. Not too long ago, she was my fiancée - her name was "Alyssa" back then - but now she's a lot of things to me, none of which is "girlfriend." Sometimes I make her sleep on the floor.
Back when she was Alyssa, I loved her with everything I had in me. I loved how she came from poverty and ignorance and put herself through school, I respected her near-obsession with reading, and I adored her precise grammar and diction. She'd correct me and I'd eat it up with a spoon. I figured that I'd need to brush up on all that for the good of the kids we'd be having.
Maybe I'll get her spayed.
I remember the day she got the job at the Hazelgrove Library. You would have thought she'd hit the lottery. She was going to make it her personal mission to imbue the children with a love of reading. I was happy for her, too, even though it meant that we'd only see each other on the weekends because of the long drive. I supported her!
One night she called me, sobbing and inconsolable, due to a rumor that the library was closing. I tried calming her, telling her that people never allowed their libraries or schools to close without a fight - civic pride and all that.
"Jeff," she said, her voice thick with tears, "I can't lose my job, I just can't. Why, I imagine I'd do anything to save it! Anything at all!"
My heart ached for her, but it never occurred to me that she was telling me the literal truth - that she would do anything to keep her job. I knew she liked the library and Hazelgrove, but it was not the only place that needed a librarian - not even in this age of virtual reality and virtual illiteracy.
It hit me three days later, about five seconds after walking into her house that she really would do anything for her job. It must have been something about seeing that fat fucker of a mayor fucking her. (How's that for alliteration?) I'd gotten off work early and showed up to surprise her, but she'd surprised me by making her cunt a commodity instead.
That pig was sticking his fat cock in my fiancée and asking her if she liked it as she was bent over the kitchen table (with its daisy print tablecloth) and she's moaning "Yes!" over and over again. Only I could see her reflection in the toaster, and her eyes were dead. This was clearly a business transaction.
I suppose that should have made me feel better - that she was only banging that corpulent pile of garbage to keep her job - but it didn't. It made me think I was a sucker for making love to a woman who'd sell it if the price were right. All the time I'd thought that making love to her was like worshipping at a sacred shrine, it was more like kneeling before an ATM machine ... while an impatient line formed behind me.
The pig looked like he was either going to come or have a stroke (not that he had anything to worry about since his receptacle was trained in CPR) but it turned out to obviously be the former as he grunted his finish. I knew that, having already decided not to confront them, I should leave, then; yet, I wasn't quite ready.
What I'd witnessed was nobody's version of courtly love, yet Mayor McFatty decided to be formal.
"Miss Beauchamp," he phlegmed, "I do believe that we might have money in the budget for the library after all. If you do your part - bake sales, book sales, and meeting me occasionally to discuss the matter - I believe that your job might end up on more secure footing than I'd initially estimated."
I could hear that Alyssa was on the verge of tears again, but whether it was because of what she'd just done or for what she was clearly expected to do again, I had no idea. I didn't really know her; I never had.
"But ... you told me just the once ... just the one ... meeting!"
He chuckled. "That was before I knew what a delightful time we'd be having. You did enjoy yourself, right?" he asked, his voice threatening.
"Yes, yes of course!"
I knew it was time to "get while the getting's good," as my old man used to say. I don't recall the specifics of the ride home - I was too busy plotting my revenge. The second I saw her for who she really was, my love ended. My heart was so empty in those first few moments that the hatred was welcome.
As soon as I entered my apartment, I walked to the phone and dialed. I made sure to keep my voice warm and caring. She asked me where I was, sounding worried and perhaps guilty. It didn't matter.
I told her I'd had to work late and that this was my first chance to call her. I aimed to sound disappointed as I told her I'd missed her all week, and that I would head out to see her first thing in the morning so we'd still have all weekend.
That seemed to satisfy her. I apologized, then, telling her I knew that - with all the worry about her job - she needed me there. She stammered that she might have overreacted a little. Then she asked me something so funny that I almost pissed myself.
"Jeff, baby, when you come out this weekend, do you suppose you could hypnotize me again?"
"You know it!"
"I know you're afraid of taking it too far, but I trust you, so don't hold back!"
"You got it - no holding back." Now, before you go thinking she is a poor judge of character: up until a few hours before, she could have trusted me with her life. I would rather have died than harmed a hair on her special little head. "I love how much this turns you on - I'd never thought I would meet a girl who didn't think it was strange."
"I don't just do it to humor you — it arouses me."
"You mean it makes your pussy wet, sweetie."
A giggle was her only response.
"You don't have to say it - I already know. What are you wearing, Alyssa?"
"A robe," she whispered, her voice husky and filled with a false sense of knowing what was on my mind. She had no idea.
"Yes, I just finished taking a shower." Very good to know, thought I. Her voice became even lower, more intimate - my "beloved" was clearly feeling flirty. "In fact, I'm still standing here in the bathroom. I'd taken the phone with me in case you called."
"How sweet! I don't deserve you."
There was a pause and she giggled again, but this time it sounded forced. The evidence of her guilt did nothing to soothe my loathing. "Hmmm, so here I am near-naked, beads of water still glistening on my skin. What can we do for entertainment until we can be together again?"
"I wonder. Why don't you settle down on the bed and we'll find something to discuss." I could hear the slight creak of the hardwood floor and then the repeated squeak of the mattress springs as she playfully bounced up and down to let me show she'd arrived at her destination. "I'm there, big boy!"
"Alyssa, if you really want 'no holding back', we'll have to deal with the compromise drawer."
"I know," she said in a resigned little-girl voice.
"Don't sound so grim ... that's tomorrow."
We had phone sex, then. While she thought of loving images of tender lovemaking, my mind was on revenge, degradation, and humiliation.
The next day I headed out early, as promised. I only made one stop: to see an acquaintance who was a computer whiz, and who also specialized in surveillance equipment. For such a supposedly "smart" woman, it amazed me that Alyssa had never considered blackmailing Porkchop.
On the drive to see my darling, I did my own form of self-hypnosis in order behave like nothing had changed — when in fact everything had changed. It was surprisingly easy - but then again, I knew how much was riding on my being completely convincing.
Our weekend went well; she made love to me while I fucked her. I found that, as physically attractive as she still was, unless my mind turned to revenge I could no longer get hard for her. I was surprised to discover that, if anything, my stamina rose as I contemplated my plans. She even commented on how amorous I was being, not knowing that "amour" had very little to do with it.
She went to church Sunday morning and, amazingly, was not hit by a lightning bolt. I encouraged her to stay for the coffee and cake which they served afterward. While she was gone, I quickly put the surveillance equipment to good use. When she got home, she found herself the proud owner of a webcam so we could keep in touch - what she didn't know was that it was rigged to allow me to view her from my computer any time I chose.
That afternoon, I finally put her under - she'd been chomping at the bit since I'd gotten there. She really does love the feeling of surrender, and because of her complete trust and focus she was a perfect subject. After a year of exploring hypnosis, I knew the ins and outs of her mind.
She'd been right that I'd always held back, never wanting to take advantage of her. I'd never had the need to do anything outrageous; the mere fact that she had complete faith in me was always arousing enough. Just seeing this beautiful woman in a state of total trust and relaxation was pretty hot.
How could I have known that my history of never talking advantage of her was all I needed to take complete control later on? It seemed like some god or goddess who thrived on betrayal had brought us together - I began to look at my thoughts as sanctioned and sanctified. Why else would I have been entrusted with the ability to destroy everything she cherished most?
She went under easily, and soon she was utterly vulnerable to my commands - whims, really. I thought of all the possibilities and finally chose the one which my utter contempt for her made erotic beyond measure. Her lies took away the woman I loved and now she had to pay the price.
I'd teased her all weekend that I would get rid of her aversion to the compromise drawer for once and all. This was the drawer where she kept her sexiest lingerie. It was a "compromise" because she only wore these things on extra-special occasions. Initially, I'd kept buying her these items in the hope that she would learn to enjoy wearing them more often. Eventually, she confessed to me that she didn't like to wear them because they reminded her of her past - the women in the trailer park she grew up in were all-too-willing to dress up in cheap clothes and cheaper perfume to occasionally pay their rent in "services rendered". It didn't help that the owner of the trailer park was quite possibly her father, and that she was quite possibly the result of rent negotiations.
Once she'd told me that, my trips to Victoria's Secret ended. I never wanted Alyssa to feel that I considered her to be equal to trailer trash tramps and trollops - ironic, yes? She still chose, on her own, to wear the things on special occasions, and I have to admit that my protests that she didn't need to were token only. She was a gorgeous woman who was appealing wearing Hanes Her Way — there were not words to convey how enticing she was in lingerie designed to beguile and seduce. And - truth be told - when she wore those things, she acted just a little more wantonly.
It eventually occurred to me that part of her liked wearing sexy, lacy, silky, and even bordering-on-trashy things. I suggested this to her one night after we'd made passionate love; I believe it was my 31st birthday. She buried her face in my chest and I could hear her say a muffled, "maybe a little" as my heartbeat pulsed against her lips. I could not have loved her more.
When my love for her turned to hate, it seemed only natural that I could find my vengeance in the contents of that drawer - and yet there was something else I wanted to do first. As much pain as I could and would extract from her childhood stories of her mother trading pussy for protection, there was another story that gave me my first inspiration.
Alyssa's most cherished memory was her first trip to the little library a few miles from her home-on-wheels. She'd walked in and been overwhelmed by all the books - more books than anyone could read in a lifetime. As she was about to leave, the spinster librarian asked her if she'd enjoyed the experience.
"Oh, yes! I love the lie-berry and wish I could come every single day," she said.
The librarian smiled and said, "I would love to see you at the 'library' again, dear."
Alyssa had realized that she must have mispronounced the word, and she'd felt her face become flushed, but the old woman had leaned forward and said, "The books here are free - a rich little girl and a poor little girl have an equal chance to learn at the library."
The future Flab Humper had smiled and said, with all the dignity an 8-year-old from the wrong side of the tracks could muster, "Then I will make sure to come to the LIBRARY a lot."
What a shame that she was more a product of her mother than her mentor, after all.
When she emerged from her trance, I gave her a gentle smile. "Feel any different, Lyssy?"
She smiled, gazing at the wall and squinting slightly, as if doing a mental inventory. "Noooo? Not really."
"I bet you want to wear something from the drawer, right? I made sure it would no longer fill you with the same sense of shame."
She hesitated for a moment. "W ... well, maybe I feel a little more relaxed about it. I ... I'm really not sure."
"Why don't you go put something on? Something extra-special." I waited for the hesitation I knew would be coming. "What is it?"
"Jeff, I can't lie ... I don't think it worked. I'll go put on something if you like, but usually when I do that I almost have to prepare. If you just give me a minute, maybe I could ... please don't look at me with disappointment."
I pulled her into my arms, holding her in an embrace that was just short of punishing. "I'm not disappointed in you, but in me. It had always gone so well before that I was sure I could fix you." I breathed the words and their implication directly in her ear.
She pulled away. "I ... can do it. You know what? Maybe I do feel a little more comfortable, after all."
I gave her the smile of a besotted fool. "Baby, no - we can try again some other time. I don't need you to do anything but be yourself."
I have to admit it was hard to not let her know of my contempt in the heat of my passion, when inhibitions are at their lowest, but I managed. As my tongue probed the folds of her womanhood and I tasted the slight tartness of her desire, she thought I was doing it out of love - instead I was reveling in it like a child enjoys gamboling in the mud. We all enjoy getting dirty now and again, don't we?
Afterward, after a suitable period of cuddling with the bitch, I "reluctantly" told her that I'd have to leave if I were to be any good at work the next day. She burrowed closer to me, sighing her regret.
"I know you have to go, but it's so lonely without you," she said.
"I'm sorry, dear."
"It's okay, I have to be at the lie-berry early tomorrow." She immediately gasped, sitting up as sleepiness fell away. "Oh my God! Did you hear what I just said? I haven't said 'lie-berry' since I was eight."
At the exact second she'd gasped, my cock had gotten hard. I have to say she looked beautiful then, with the sheet clutched to her but not obscuring the side of her breast or the two dimples above her perfect ass, but that - as you can well guess - was not the cause of my renewed "interest."
"Baby," I said, gently pulling her back down onto the bed, "you were on the verge of falling asleep. Remember the time when you were about to drift off and you starting asking why polar bears were white instead of purple and pink?"
"I suppose you're right, but what I meant to say was —"
I cut her off because I thought if she said it again I might just come all over myself, but I also wanted to be miles away when she discovered the permanency of her little verbal quirk. Instead, I told her that maybe I did have a few more minutes to spare, and then I played in the mud a little bit longer.
She called me the next day, in tears. "All day - every time I had to answer the phone I said that word. It was so humiliating! I could have just died. I can't say my job title either!"
I wondered what she would say if she knew she was giving me prime masturbation material. In fact, I unzipped my pants and prepared to enjoy myself. "Lyssy, maybe you're doing this to yourself - perhaps you have such a fear of saying it again that you cannot help it. When I was a kid, I had a pen pal in Biloxi, Mississippi — somehow I managed to write it as 'Bixoli' one time. The letter got to him and he made a little joke about it, but I still felt like an ass. After that, every time I wrote him it took me about 5 envelopes to get it right. Somewhere between my brain and my fingers the message got lost."
"Maybe," she said, sounding unconvinced, "but I work at a you-know-where! What am I supposed to do?"
"Just take a deep breath and say it right now - for me."
"I'm not sure I can."
"You know I won't judge you," I said, stroking my cock.
"I'd rather not."
"Lyssy, you were dead-on when you said you can't avoid the word. So why not take a deep breath, concentrate, and know that you are speaking to Him-Who-Loves-You-The-Most."
"Oh, okay," she said in the little girl voice she sometimes got when she was unsure of herself. I heard her take a deep breath and then another. "I am a lie-berrian and I work at the lie-berry."
I had to hit the mute button, then, as I shot my load halfway across the room. Thank Heaven that our little differences - what with her servicing the morbidly obese, and all - didn't wreck my sex life.
The next night, she broached the topic I knew she would. "Jeff, do you think that when I was under you might have, you know, accidentally changed the way I said that word?"
"I really don't see how. All I did was talk about how much I love and adore you and how your wearing sexy things wouldn't change that. I said that wearing lingerie didn't make you your mother."
"Oh. I just thought because it happened right after I was under..."
"I thought that you trusted me more than that."
"I do. In fact I was hoping you'd put me under again and fix it."
"So then you do trust me?"
"Of course - with my very life!"
That following weekend I put her under again, arranging her "furniture" a little more, and this time I really took care of the lingerie drawer issues, making sure that all the Hanes Her Ways would be a thing of the past. I also took away the use of the words "autobiography" and "reference", just for kicks. And I fixed any worry she might have about stating her job or job location.
When she awakened I asked her how she felt. She did her little mental inventory again, scrunching up her little nose, and then she near-whispered. "Lie-berry, lie-berrian, lie-berry, lie-berrian." Her eyes lit up. "Oh Jeff! You fixed it!"
"Yep. I guess I did!" I reached over and straightened her bra strap, which had fallen off of her shoulder. She frowned and excused herself. When she came back she plopped down on my lap. "Where were we?" she purred.
We kissed for a few minutes. I lifted her shirt over her head to discover that, as expected, she'd changed. She was wearing the midnight blue demi-cut bra I'd bought her early on. I presumed the matching bikinis were yet to be uncovered.
"What have we here? What's the special occasion?"
"I suppose I just realized that anytime you're here is a special occasion." She nuzzled my neck.
"It's not too ... sedate, is it?"
"Well, it's a little tame, but you look great. And you know what else? You're positively glowing. You always seem more free and happy when you dress like this. You should consider going a little racier at work, too - who'll know other than you? Oh, and me." ... and possibly Mayor Hasn't-Seen-His-Toes-In-A-Decade.
She thought about it - undoubtedly taking into account how wonderful and natural it suddenly felt to wear something sexier - my clear approval was merely icing on the cake. "I think I'll do that!"
"Good - it will make me feel closer to you that it will be our little secret."
I could only assume her frown had to do with who else would be enjoying the delightful visuals, but then she plastered on a paper-thin smile.
In the following weeks, I took a slow and delightful revenge. A few sly suggestions per week. Just little, seemingly-random things; I couldn't really know if they would come into play. There were some moments which were priceless - like the time she called me, embarrassed, because she'd told her book club that she thought Danielle Steele was the best writer of the 20th century. I had to hit the mute again - but this time it was to hide the laughter.
I also chose to make her hot for Her Meal Ticket. Why not? After a few weeks, I was bored watching her fake it. There was something delightful about the expression on her face as she genuinely came hard at his ham-fisted fucking technique. Even from seventy miles away it was priceless. After he left, she curled up in a little ball and wept. There's no understanding women.
I took away her interest in serious literature, and then I erased her memory of the books. What good would the words of the greatest minds ever be to a whore? It was really my way of correcting a wrong; it was lamentable that her love of reading had blinded me to her true nature, but it would never happen again to another sap.
Instead, I gave her a more useful interest in sex manuals, and a photographic memory when it came to her new favorite topic. In short, she became an expert on dick as long as it was not preceded by the word "Moby."
I made her voice more girlish, and most of her sentences soon ended on a higher note - as if everything was a question. "My name is Alyssa, and I'm the head lie-berrian? You want to check out Great Expectations - who wrote that?" She had to be pretty adamant about a matter to overcome that tendency.
Her slab of meat on the side didn't seem to notice a change in her demeanor, but the even-more-frequent visits showed he noticed - and liked - her taste in unmentionables. Soon, I was as surprised as he by the specific details of her lingerie choices. Lyssy seemed to have a strange new interest in buying sexy little nothings. I knew it had to be hell on her credit cards, but since she was such a sensible girl ... It was a treat to see what she came up with next.
It was a shame that the best parts of her outfits went unseen by most people. Fortunately, Lyssy became careless - and somewhat clumsy - as she went about her job; it must have been because she was lost in contemplation about the wisdom of Masters and Johnson. She seemed to forget the routine lessons which are drummed into girls from a young age concerning sitting with her legs closed, making sure her skirt had not ridden up, and being careful about what she revealed while climbing ladders. Within a few weeks, the whispers began that she was immodest — which was absurd since she didn't become "immodest" until the third month.
I surprised her at the library one day, finding her up a ladder and wearing a perfectly sedate white linen dress. My greeting startled her, causing her to drop books as she spun around, almost losing her footing and slipping down to the next lower step. The only thing which caused her not to fall off the ladder completely was her dress catching on something - perhaps a rung of the ladder. Her startled yip called attention to her, giving the nearby table of teenage boys enough fantasy material for years, as her dress lifted to reveal long, stocking-clad legs.
Soon Lyssy found herself prone to daydreaming, since reading no longer interested her. Even when she tried to read for her book club, her mind wandered. "Jeff," she'd share with a giggle, "you know who I was thinking about today? Cindy Weiss? She's really pretty and smart? And I found myself wondering if she thinks I'm pretty too?"
Yes, my fiancée found herself wondering often if Cindy Weiss - or any number of attractive women — found her attractive. It began to preoccupy her. She had much better taste in women than in politicians - I made sure of that.
Lyssy's interest in women went back to college, if not earlier, but it was clear that without a little help she'd never act on it. Now, my anger for her had yet to completely wane, but it didn't take long to decide that she might be my best chance to design the perfect toy. So the push toward Sapphic Sex was not revenge, but an early Christmas present to myself. And more than she deserved.
One night, I picked her up from work, telling her I had a surprise. She asked if she could go home to change first, but I told her that her look was perfection. And it was - at least for my purposes. Honey-blonde hair in a loose bun which had allowed locks to escape and curl naturally around her face and the nape of her neck, a white blouse with one button too few for decorum, cleavage threatening to escape the top of her scarlet bra (which was clearly discernible beneath her blouse) a black skirt which showed ample leg, and her new obsession: black stockings and red garters. Oh, and her glasses, since she'd had a sudden, mysterious problem with her contacts bothering her eyes.
We drove to a bar fifty miles away, and I asked her if she noticed anything unusual. She gazed around, scrunching up her face in concentration. Finally it hit her.
"Jeff, you're the only guy? Does that mean? You want me to... ? I don't know if I can..." I took her hand across the table. "But do you want to, baby? If you don't, we can leave. It just seems that, lately, you've been hinting at an interest."
She worried her lower lip beneath straight white teeth — thankfully, her lipstick was the new kiss proof/drink proof kind you could only remove with a blowtorch. Finally, she sat up straight, looked me right in the eye and said, "I want to! Thank you for being so understanding?"
Sweet. "I just want you to be happy and, as long as I'm your only guy, I'm fine with letting you play." I pretended not to notice her guilty look. "I'm just here to keep you safe, babe. Consider me your bodyguard - and looking like that, you'll need it."
"Okay, but I think this is just a phase? Maybe I can get this out of my system tonight?"
She was nervous, at first, refusing to let me move to another table even as I explained she'd do much better if I were less conspicuous. She sat there demurely sipping on a drink and looking a little panicked. At last she allowed me to move to the next table, and it wasn't long before the women started swarming her. Who could blame them?
Even though I knew she had excellent taste, I was still concerned that tonight would be a washout. If she picked a bull-dyke, she'd be minus a bodyguard — and could find her own way home.
I believe we both saw her at the same time — a woman with hair about two shades darker than Lyssy's honey-blonde curls. She was thin without being too thin, and tall without being too tall. She wore faded jeans and a leather jacket which she slipped off to reveal a wifebeater. She was easily the second-hottest woman in the place. She was soon offering to buy the first-hottest woman a drink - at least I assumed that to be the case, being only able to hear the husky timbre of her voice, but not the actual words.
The woman walked up to the bar, returning with one beer and one drink the color of glass-cleaner. She could've sat across from Lyssy, but instead chose a seat to the right of her, moving in even closer to the newly-minted airhead. I also moved closer, seemingly unnoticed by the woman (I put it down to not being her type), and could now hear them better. They were cozy in no time, and I was having the time of my life. Soon she would be screwing someone I actually wanted to see nude; it was a nice change.
There was a tense moment when I heard Lyssy's new friend say, "I know what your costume is supposed to be, but what do you really do for a living?" The poor thing just didn't get that perhaps she no longer resembled Marian the Librarian so much as the X-rated stereotype, so she kept trying to convince the other woman. Of course, she couldn't discuss literature, and she couldn't pronounce her job or where she worked, and her tits were hanging out, but she didn't want to give up. It would have been amusing, except that I really wanted to see these two screw, and I could tell her potential playmate was not amused.
"Okay, Lyssy, you can be a librarian if th- "
"I AM a lie-berrian!"