Her feet permanently curved from shiny leather high-heeled casing. Size seven and a half, trained to squint themselves into a size six. Toes dipped in two coats of red polish like amputated stop signs. Rachel is thirty-three, advertising an age of twenty-six. Her daily routine of yoga and purging yields a convincing reflection of toned skin and slim physique.
She is long, dark hair like night sky stretched down over desert-skin. She is thick lips, full of fibrous protein and boiled gelatin. Pink pillows without the casing of sharp feather stems sticking out. Rachel spends twenty minutes separating each lash, counting one hundred and four on her left eye and ninety-three on her right. Gap between two front teeth is small, like a preview of her impressive ability to fit large things into very small spaces.
Rachel begins each morning the same. She stretches for several minutes to prepare for the day. Sometimes the stretching takes only six minutes. There are times it is more like thirty. She never likes to rush it. She hops onto her bed, body still wet stains left from showerhead. Naked, except for her feet, forced inside black high-heeled shoes. Hair reaching past shoulders over breasts with pale pink nipples, still half asleep.
Her fingers become long, narrow alarm clocks. Twisting circular dartboards stamped over breasts. They harden like shrunken doorknobs. She opens. Her body morphs from locked door to wide-open loft with hardwood skin and cracked lips like windows unlocked and pulled up. More air in the way. She is fully ventilated.
Rachel is a dedicated stretcher. Knees bend as sharp black heels create permanent holes in blanket, slowly turning from bright white to cream colored. Her back becomes a tunnel, allowing passersby to slide beneath and through. Hair is like a storm. Lightening bolts of conditioned length shocks pastel purple sheets. She is weather forecast of hard fists -- hale storm shower with heat advisory.
Thighs stretch open. She is butterfly wings: symmetrical vision of colorful flaps widening and preparing for fist of ventilation to enter. Air hides inside flesh of knuckles and joints and wrinkled fingerprints. Rachel rotates like a carousel. She rides herself. No tickets required. First time free.
Alarm goes off as smoke emits from deep within her. There is a fire inside which she set from rubbing her thighs together too quickly or fiercely. Carbon covers her, like powdered lubricant. Rachel does not believe in being wasteful as she fills herself with soot and burnt dust-droppings. Her flood puts the fire out, as waterfall of sweat flows out in a highly pressurized stream.
Rachel is relaxation. Ready for workday. Warm and wet and sleepy and achy. Her eyelashes fall against her as room becomes dark.
There is a buzz.
Buzzzzz.
Shoes unfasten themselves from cotton comforter and reach toward ground. Walk is slow, as body still feels entered. Presses button to allow company to come inside. She counts. One. Two. Three. Up the stairs. Four. Five. Six. Hear the footsteps. Seven. Eight. Nine. New set of heels. Ten.
Anna.
Anna of black lace skin. Corset covered ribs ending just above navel where gold hoop piercing offers hook for hanging-onto. Anna of thick breasts like milk shakes impossible to sip through straws. Her tits must be scooped by spoons of polished silver or carved from wood. She does not mind the splinters, often beckons them toward her. Anna of lacquered cunt with sap-like stubble shaped arrow providing incorrect direction to enter. She enjoys the thrill of punishing then correcting. Anna of domination.
They embrace. Rachel's nude body against Anna's leather. She is early, Rachel thinks. Slowly, she turns her head to check time but the workday has already begun.
"On your knees," demands Anna. "Show me how far you can bend, so I can push you down further."
Rachel is still wet from stretching. She feels a drop hit her inner thigh. Just the presence of Anna makes her evolve from small stream to vast ocean. She submits, lowering herself to the floor. Anna attaches spiky collar to Rachel's thin neck. Fastens it one hole too tight. She tries to swallow, but it gets caught within the tension of animal skin squeezing around her. Long, heavy leash attaches to metal hoop on collar. She is pulled toward ground of wood strips. Lips against glossy polish.
Anna stands above Rachel. Removes whip from red velvet bag beside her. Begins to strike against flattened back of Rachel, softly whimpering. The bruises that begin to form are red like drops of plum juice formed into almost-perfect lines. Once, Anna filled each line with dirty words that Rachel did not see until almost a week later, upon a sudden glimpse in her mirror.
Ten minutes of leather thrashing against skin, spine, raw shoulder blades. Each moment of contact with whip against skin smashes cunt into floor. Rachel used to worry she would break open or simply crack like an egg with yoke of cum and blood dripping out. She is now used to this pain and welcomes it. She is hard-boiled pussy. Omelet of beaten woman with filling of herbs and grunts.
Anna grabs Rachel's long, dark hair and pulls her up. Turns her around. Back against wood. Breasts facing Anna's hungry eyes. Face already knows what to do. Lips part as tongue unravels from inside Rachel's mouth. Begins to eat her way toward the center of Anna. Anna with cunt like an apple, as Rachel peels her layers back, and eats toward enlarged and throbbing core.
Rachel consumes one full week's worth of calories from the juice extracted from Anna's pussy. She laps her up as though her living room is a desert with air of dry suction and Anna is a found stream offering the only drink available. She swallows gallons of cum, almost choking. Rachel can barely take any more in.
Anna pushes Rachel's head from between her thighs. "Get up," she says.
Rachel's knees straighten, as Anna pushes against her. Leather against wet skin. The sound of friction. Rachel's bush is tangled and hungry, in need of watering, as Anna removes costume and switches roles.
Originally published July 2007 - "Sexy Success"