Alison's Wonderland (25 page)

Emboldened by my fresh anger, I walked straight up to the edge of the pool and waited for Ted to surface. He came up, shaking his wet head, splashing water all over my silk pajamas.

“Hey, Cindy. How are you?”

“Ted, I thought you were done breaking in.” We’d had words about this before.

“It’s not breaking in when you know the code. Besides, I didn’t want to bother you. It’s not like anyone uses this thing anyway. How did you even know I was here?”

“I had the doors open.”

“Oh, well, sorry. God forbid you’re not in bed by ten.”

He snickered as he swam to the steps, sitting on the concrete edge. My frustration had come to a simmering boil, but all I could think to do was pace. Ted watched me for a few minutes, not saying anything.

“Trouble in paradise? Don’t tell me, it turns out your glass slippers are a little too tight? I could have told you that.”

“Not that it is any of your business, but no. Things aren’t perfect right now.”

“Charles is a good guy. But he looks at everything like it’s a business. Hell, he treated your wedding like some kind of corporate takeover.”

“Things will calm down once work calms down.”

“I hate to break this to you, sweetie, but work never calms down. This is it. And something tells me you already know that.”

I sat near the edge of the pool, tired of walking, tired of everything. Ted was right. Damn him. Charles wasn’t going to change. This was my trade-off. The perfect life that wasn’t nearly as perfect as it seemed. But how could I walk away now?

As if reading my mind, Ted said, “Divorce wouldn’t be the end of the world, you know.”

“I’m not sure your brother would see it that way,” I responded sarcastically.

“Well, then, you’ll just have to do what rich people have always done. Discreet cheating.”

Ted was staring straight at me, but I couldn’t look at him. There was a part of me that didn’t really believe Charles was working late all the time. I had my suspicions about his real motives for staying away so much. But I had never really thought he was with anyone else. Until that moment.

“Is that your subtle way of letting me know what Charles is really up to?”

“No. It is my way of telling you this.”

I waited for some sagelike words of wisdom, but instead Ted splashed water from the pool all over me. My eyes stung and my mouth opened in shock at the cool water soaking straight to my skin. When I opened my eyes, Ted was smiling, floating back into the middle of the water.

“Come on, Cindy. Get in. Take a break from perfection for a minute and just have a swim.”

“I don’t feel like putting on my bathing suit.”

“So, don’t. I don’t mind. When was the last time you did anything you shouldn’t? How long has it been since you were bad?”

His provocation should have bothered me, but instead
something inside me shifted. Why shouldn’t I have some fun? Charles would never have to know, and nothing would happen.

“Fine, I’ll come in. Turn around.”

Ted spun around while I stripped out of my silk pajamas, leaving my bra and panties on. Not that the white fabric would provide much coverage when wet. I gingerly stepped into the water, letting the cool fluid dissipate the heat that was bubbling under my skin. I eased my head under the surface, opening my eyes to the blurry world underneath. It was so quiet, the only sound the hum of the filter. I saw Ted’s legs coming closer to me, and I popped back out of the water. I watched him moving toward me until he was so close I could feel the heat from his body in the water.

“Was that so hard, Cindy?”

“I guess not.”

“You still seem really tense. Don’t trust me?”

I was nervous, I didn’t trust him. But, more important, I was beginning to wonder if I could trust myself.

“Maybe you shouldn’t trust me. After all, you have to know what I want to do to you right now.”

I shook my head, not wanting to admit that I did know. At least I hoped I knew what he wanted. I hoped it was the same thing I wanted. I looked into his eyes, and stopped thinking. I took his hand with both of mine, and slid it up to my neck. He ran his big hand down my neck, following my lead, until he was right above my breast. I could feel my heart pounding under my ribs. He hesitated, not letting me move him any farther.

“You sure about this, Cindy?”

“No, but don’t stop.”

His hand relaxed and I slid it down on to my breast. His palm slid over my bra-covered flesh. He stopped moving, his breath fast and hard, his eyes locked on mine. I moved his hand
until his thumb slid over my nipple, now hard as a rock. I motioned him to gently squeeze my flesh, and soon I let go, letting him move all on his own. He brought up his other hand, moving them over me in unison. His thumbs and fingers toyed with my nipples until I was stifling a moan in my throat.

“You don’t have to be perfect all the time, Cindy. Nobody is. Not even Charles.”

I couldn’t speak, couldn’t form coherent thoughts. There was no guilt, no shame. Just the pressure of his fingers running over the wet fabric that shielded my nipples. I took one of his hands and slipped it below the water. He ran his fingers over my stomach, and this time, I could feel him tremble. He dipped his fingers inside the waistband of my panties, until he was touching my curls. Again he stopped. I moved a little closer to him, and pressed his fingers onward. He parted my lips with two fingers, and I guided his middle finger to my clit. He let out a small gasp when he felt my hard, hot clit under his finger.

I moved his finger over me in a circle, and then lightly up and down. I was just about to let go of his hand, to let him move on his own. But I pushed his hand one last time and eased his finger inside my cunt. He shuddered, and I could feel his hard cock against my leg. Letting go of him, I reached into his shorts and felt his cock throbbing against my hand. I jerked him gently under the water, his fingers and mine moving in time with each other.

“How long has it been since you’ve come, Cindy?”

“Too long.”

He leaned his forehead against me, a second finger sliding into my wet pussy. I grabbed his wrist as he finger fucked me right there in my husband’s pool. I should have been ashamed of myself, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t think about anything but coming all over Ted’s hand. One thumb toyed with my clit,
and his other thumb was back torturing my puckered nipple. I could feel his dick pulsing and twitching as I slid my fingers up the underside of his shaft. I gave him one last twist of my wrist and I heard him cry out into the empty night. His hot come hit my hand and mixed with the cool water all around us. My body shook and I moaned deep in my throat as I tightened around his fingers, coming all over him.

Ted gasped one last breath and pulled me to him, the water cloudy from our come. He pulled his hand from between my legs, and I worried that he would run away from me screaming. Instead, he smiled at me, breathing heavy, sweat on his forehead. He kissed me on the cheek before heading out of the water. I watched as he grabbed his towel and headed toward the dark house. I thought he was going to leave without saying a word, but at the last second he turned to me. I was still floating in the pool, unable to move.

“I have to go. It’s almost midnight. Good night, Princess.”

It all started so innocently, really. Just a little anonymous online sex on a Saturday night, in a chat room called
Filthy Submission for Sluts in Training.

Sarah had been there so many times, ever since she’d decided to indulge her kinky fantasies in a way that wouldn’t require her to actually, you know, meet up with anyone. What could be safer than cybersex under an assumed name, Psyche, with photos that showed pink but no peach?

Most Fridays and Saturdays, Sarah had her dorm room to herself while her roommate, Annie, partied over in B dorm, as she was so fond of doing—“where the men are men and the women carry condoms and lube,” as Annie was fond of putting it, which made Sarah want to hide over here in the all-female A dorm. Friday and Saturday nights were when Sarah would take her only real breaks from studying with a few hours of living her weird fantasies in back-and-forth storytelling with some random stranger twice her age and half her IQ.

Despite her proclivity for online sex, Sarah was far from a player in real life (IRL). When guys tried to flirt with her,
Sarah usually pretended to be a foreign-exchange student and not to speak a word of English, though only one guy so far had clued in to the fact that she was in fact speaking medieval Latin and therefore, barring foreign-exchange time travel, was almost certainly fucking with him.

Making it even more unlikely that she would fuck around was the fact that Sarah lived in the dorms despite being a junior; her scholarship included on-campus housing through all four years but no allowance for off-campus housing.

Sarah’s sex life settled into a thrilling routine of twice-weekly Friday-and-Saturday-night cybersex in online chat rooms and the application of her favorite vibrator to her nether regions only on those nights. She gravitated toward AltFet because while it was quite possibly the crappiest social-networking engine known, the chat rooms were usually pretty lively.

That Saturday night, Sarah had been sorely bored by the boneheaded conversation in the chat room. She actually had her cursor over the Logout button when an Instant Message popped up.

CUPID: Psyche, eh? Cute. Bet you like blindfolds.

Sarah stared at the screen in disbelief. Before responding, she quickly hit the View Profile and looked at the guy’s stats. No age. No real photo—just shadowy outlines of a guy in poor lighting. Role: Top. Kinky: Very. Experience: Very. Looking for: LTR. Location: Sonoma, California.

Sarah had an absolute rule against dirty-chatting with guys from her own area because sooner or later—usually within ten minutes, often within five—they were begging her to hop in a cab and come over and service them “IRL.”

Despite this rule, she found herself typing.

PSYCHE: I LURVE blindfolds. Preferably ones with padlocks.

CUPID: And gags? Cuffs? Ropes? Whips? Chains? Paddles? Canes, little whore?

PSYCHE: :-)

Lord have mercy, responding with a smiley face? She hated that, but there it was, and she’d typed it.

CUPID: I’d like to send you a dirty picture, Psyche.

Sarah had recovered enough to type:

PSYCHE: Hopefully not of your dick. LOL LOL LOL LOL ROFL

Spewing LOLs was at least as stupid, in fact far stupider, than typing another happy face. But that’s what spilled out of her. At times, typing a hundred words a minute was a huge disadvantage in online chatting. Sara tended to be a little trigger-happy on the Enter key.

CUPID: No, Psyche. It’s not a picture of my dick.

Cupid has sent you a picture. Do you want to accept?

What could it hurt, right? Some picture of a pretty girl on her knees in chains wearing a dog collar… Sarah had seen a million of them, but oh, how she liked them.

She clicked Accept and watched with widening eyes as the photo came into view line by line. A hot wave went through her. Her nipples went instantly hard with an ache that made her grit her teeth. She could feel the swell of her clit. She stared at the picture for a long hot minute.

CUPID: Hot?

PSYCHE: Way to use Wikipedia, dude.

The picture on Sarah’s screen was
The Abduction of Psyche
by William-Adolphe Bouguereau, an 1895 painting in which Cupid himself is caught in the act of carrying off his true love Psyche after jabbing himself with his own arrows of love. The painting and the story were, in fact, the reason Sarah had chosen Psyche as her nom-de-chat. She couldn’t say why the arrival of the image on her screen made her so wet—she had a JPEG of it elsewhere on her laptop, but this one did something filthy to her. Her hand dipped down past the loose waistband of her sweatpants and she felt herself—wow.

Her hand came out and left a smear of wet across her keyboard as she typed.

Almost without knowing what she was doing, Sarah went to her Photos folder and grabbed the one photo she had of herself in black leather wrist-and-ankle restraints with her skirt and shirt both pulled up, nothing underneath. The filename was “The Abduction of Psyche.”

PSYCHE: Tit for tat.

This was utterly unheard of for Sarah; normally if she deigned to send guys online pictures, they were photos of porn stars downloaded from the Net; if she actually sent pictures of herself, it was always “pink but no peach.” Her body, maybe bikini-clad, from the neck down, maybe semi-nude in underwear, from behind. But her photos never showed her face. This one did.

CUPID: Natural blonde?

PSYCHE: Sure. LOL.

For fuck’s sake, what was going on? She was reverting to pathetic online speak… Normally she avoided LOLs and happy faces like the plague, but here they were spilling unbidden from her fingers while she squirmed around, wondering why she’d sent a stranger a photo of herself after chatting with him for three minutes. What the fuck was wrong with her?

CUPID: Nice restraints. Are they yours?

PSYCHE: No, I’m poor. I took it in a changing room at a leather store in the city so I could have something to send perverted guys like you.

CUPID: What are you wearing now?

PSYCHE: Sweats, tank top. Nope, no panties, no bra.

CUPID: Take off your clothes, Psyche.

Sarah’s hands trembled, as if they were fighting not to reach for her tank top of their own accord.

PSYCHE: Don’t I get to see a pic of you first?

CUPID: No. Take off your clothes.

She did. She sat naked in her desk chair. She’d done it a hundred times, and she did it like a dance she knew well. The chat went from naughty to dirty, edging toward filthy. Cupid told her to spread her legs. She did. He told her to feel if she was wet. She did; she was. She rubbed her clit and slipped her fingers inside and pinched her nipples. He told her she was a filthy little slut, in stunningly creative terms.

She liked that. She liked that a lot.

When her excitement mounted, she begged him, as was her habit.

PSYCHE: Please, Sir, my vibrator. I need to cum. Please, Sir, may this little slut cum?

CUPID: Spell it “come,” please, for the love of Venus. Not yet, Psyche. First, tell me what you want to happen to you when you do things like put on restraints in a changing room in public.

PSYCHE: You mean, tell you a fantasy, Sir?

CUPID: That’ll do.

Sarah took a deep breath; she was well past ready to come, but she would happily put that off for a few minutes in order to tell Cupid something filthy, something terribly filthy and impossibly titillating, the sort of thing that turned men (and Sarah) into ravening, drooling, fuck-hungry beasts. This part, she was very, very good at.

She told him what she wanted to happen when she stripped down and restrained herself and snapped pictures in a changing room in the city. The details spilled savagely from her fingers, exploding in long columns down the chat window. She wanted four big rough cops to discover her taking dirty pictures of herself in a changing room in a leather store in the city, and to tell her that such a thing constituted shoplifting.

“Do you know what we do to shoplifters here in the big city, little girl?”

Sarah knew, all right. It involved bondage, spanking and a padlocking blindfold. She described it in excruciating detail in about five minutes’ worth of frenzied typing, with Cupid asking questions when it steered her toward still filthier territory.

CUPID: You are a very dirty girl. Do you have a dildo?

PSYCHE: Yes, Sir.

CUPID: Fuck yourself.

PSYCHE: I’d like to go to bed first, Sir. I am on a laptop.

CUPID: Then do it.

She went to the bed, propped herself up on one arm, lifted her ass in the air and fucked herself.

PSYCHE: What position, Sir?

CUPID: Doggy style. Always doggy style. Fuck yourself from behind.

Far be it from Sarah to refuse an order. Actually, she refused orders every time she chatted, but this time—oh, Lord, have mercy, that was good!

PSYCHE: It’s in, Sir. I’m fucking myself. Fuck, it feels good. Sir, may I cum?

CUPID: Not if you spell it that way.

PSYCHE: Sorry, Sir. May I come?

CUPID: Yes, without your vibrator.

PSYCHE: Sir, I can’t. I never do.

Sarah reached for her vibe, but her hand hovered over it, uncommitted.

CUPID: You can come without it. You’re about to.

Sarah took her hand away.

PSYCHE: Yes, Sir. I’ll try. Close. Very close.

CUPID: Ask first. Ask permission.

PSYCHE: Yes, Sir.

Several long minutes passed as Sarah had worked the dildo into her pussy, repeatedly, in increasing thrusts, feeling herself relax, feeling the tautness turn to shuddering pleasure, wishing all of a sudden she’d selected the longer dildo, the fatter dildo, the one with the thicker head—maybe then she could come…
Whoa, wait a minute. Oh, wow, holy shit, that was, wow, she was actually going to—

PSYCHE: Adfsjjdfk;lasdfkj;ladfskj;lfsdj;lfadskjl;dfs

PSYCHE: adfskj;ladfskj;ladsfkj;ldafskj;ladfskj;lfadskj;lkjadfs;l

PSYCHE: fkj

CUPID: Well put.

Another long minute passed as Sarah panted and bit her lip and contracted rhythmically around the dildo, trying hard not to moan too loud—the anarchists next door always pounded on the walls and cheered with shameless obscenity when they could hear her making sex noises.

PSYCHE: OMG I came so hard, Sir. I’m still kinda cumming!!!!

CUPID: Say “OMG” again and you’ll be sorry. And don’t call it “cumming.”

PSYCHE: Sorry, Sir.

CUPID: You did not ask permission first.

PSYCHE: OMG, Sir, I forgot.

CUPID: Spanking.

PSYCHE: Sir?

CUPID: Time for your spanking, disobedient girl.

Sarah went all gooey inside, her clit still sensitive from her orgasm but her pleasure mounting at the order for a spanking.

PSYCHE: Sir?

CUPID: Spank yourself. A dozen times. Hard.

PSYCHE: Yes, Sir.

She obeyed, lifting her ass and smacking herself hard enough to make the shuddering go through her body and
deep into her clit. How many guys had told her to do this? Had she ever wanted even one of them to actually do it in person?

PSYCHE: Um…

CUPID: Yes?

PSYCHE: Do I get to see a picture of you, Sir?

CUPID: No. Be here tomorrow night, same time.

Sarah felt a twinge of guilt: She wanted to, badly; she wanted more of this,
lots
more of this. But her boundaries—

PSYCHE: I can’t, Sir. I have to study.

CUPID: Tsk, tsk. When, then?

PSYCHE: Next Friday, Sir. Same time.

CUPID: See you then. Good night, Psyche.

Sarah couldn’t believe she typed it, then, hastily, hands wet with lube and her juices. She got the question in before Cupid signed off.

PSYCHE: Do u play IRL, Sir?

There was a long pause, and Sarah feared she had lost him.

CUPID: What an interesting question, Psyche. Do something for me.

PSYCHE: Anything, Sir.

CUPID: Do you have a blindfold?

PSYCHE: Two, Sir. One that padlocks. It attaches to my slave collar and my ball gag. I stole them. I also have a regular sleep mask.

CUPID: You have a roommate?

PSYCHE: Yes, Sir. :-(

CUPID: Wear the sleep mask.

PSYCHE: I won’t be able to read what u write, Sir.

CUPID: After I’m gone. Wear it while you sleep. From now on, wear it whenever you can.

PSYCHE: Sir?

Cupid Has Signed Off.

Sarah wore the sleep mask that night, and woke up a dozen times hot and hungry in the darkness, the blindfold a tight caress across her unseeing eyes. If Annie had an opinion on the sudden appearance of the sleep mask when she stumbled home drunk at 4:00 a.m., she didn’t say a thing. Sarah had never worn it to sleep in before, but the affectation apparently flew under the roommate radar.

It should not have seemed such a strange start to a kinky love affair, but since before meeting Cupid Sarah had no real interest in having a kinky love affair, that made it strange from the get-go.

She took naked pictures of herself for Cupid that week, including many with the blindfold padlocked on her pretty face. Sarah logged in on Friday for a long filthy chat in which she confessed a fantasy, and he gave her sweet soft rough nasty orders corresponding to it—
Spank yourself, fuck yourself, put the dildo in your ass, put the clothes on your nipples—
that would lead her to come, never “cum,” like crazy.

Saturday was the same, and after that she no longer pled study time when Cupid told her to be there the next night. She chatted with Annie in the room, the intensity of possible exposure making it that much hotter for her. Whenever Annie was gone, Sarah was on the computer, looking for Cupid. Often she’d sit there idle for hours, invisible to everyone but him. They’d chat, she’d spin filth for him, and he’d direct her in a tightly scripted fandango of sensation and submission. She became quite acquainted with the feel of her several dildos
inside her, with the smack of her hand, of a textbook, of a Ping-Pong paddle from the rec room, and finally of a wire coat hanger on her bare ass and splayed thighs. And one thing he kept coming back to, at the end of each session:
Blindfold yourself while you sleep.