Controlling Chrissy Read online

  The clit, yes, she had to press the clit. She had to finish this. If only the girls would leave so she could do this in private. What were they saying now? She gripped the toilet paper roll, pressing her thighs together in a desperate effort to keep things manageable. It was going to be an explosion.

  A small groan came from the back of her throat … so good.

  Next thing she knew, someone was knocking on the door of the stall. Her friends were concerned about her.

  Again, she told them she was okay. Pushing her pelvis forward, she made contact with the wide part of the bottle. Her fingers gripped the end of it, steadying it as she moved, keeping her from snapping the end off. The shuddering was starting, deep down and familiar. From the tips of her toes, working its way upwards.

  All she could think of was him, out there, calmly sipping his drink as she went through this ordeal entirely on his behalf. How had he managed it? How he had exercised that kind of power without even telling her his name?

  Whatever it was, it was palpable. A charge that passed through this very bottle into her cunt. A charge he had put there the moment he touched it, the moment he put it to his lips, set it down and gave her the order.

  Use the bottle to make yourself come…

  Chrissy rocked. Chrissy rolled her eyes. Chrissy was gone. Exploding, or rather imploding, her senses falling in on themselves, desperately making herself small enough to avoid detection all the while knowing there was no real control here. The orgasm had come in its own fashion, it would run its course, the juices would flow, her tits would throb, her brain would soar until it was done.

  No mercy, no let up, until the thing between her legs had had its way.

  A cold, lifeless thing, wedged, inserted, dancing, consuming. Occupying.

  Finally she went stiff, for a few moments, perhaps, or an hour, and then she was limp.

  "Chrissy? What's wrong with you?" Erica was saying.

  Chrissy's head was against the metal wall, her cheek against the cool, flat surface. She could hear her own heart, thumping itself back to rest. Every muscle had dissipated its energy. Still, her pussy throbbed, the bottle still pressing at her very core.

  "Just … drank too fast," she managed.

  "Do you need any help?" Mandy queried.

  "No … it's all good."

  All good, indeed. A threshold crossed, a sweetly wicked delight enjoyed, snatched from the jaws of propriety.

  "We're going to take off, then, Chrissy. It's getting late."

  She tried to contain her delight. "Okay, Erica, if you need to."

  "Yeah, we'll see you in the morning, then. You can give us all the dirt."

  A few moments later she heard the door swing open and closed, indicating the pair had gone. Waiting a little longer to be sure no one else was coming in, she dared to open her legs again. Her thighs were slick with her own emissions. Holding her breath, she withdrew the bottle. Slowly. It dislodged with a loud popping noise, as if her sex did not want to let go. Amazed, she stared at the thing. It had actually been in her. It had actually … done her. Never would she look at a beer bottle in the same way.

  Or at a handsome stranger in a tavern.

  Feeling as if she hadn't walked in a week, Chrissy rose to her feet. How much time had passed? It had to be long past the five-minute deadline. Would that count as a failure of the test?

  Stuffing the wet panties in her purse, she left the stall and went to the sink. The woman she saw in the mirror was flush, her moist eyes lit with the secret of the act she'd just performed on herself. Did the details show? Would everyone looking at her know what she'd done with the seemingly innocent bottle?

  Carefully she rinsed it off, washing away the evidence of her own complicity, her own submission. She toweled it dry afterwards, wiping the rough brown paper towels over the glass. Her movements were painstaking, almost reverent. This was no mere bottle anymore, it was like a ritual object. A witch doctor's tool to deflower virgins. Except she wasn't anything close to a virgin and hadn't been in quite some time.

  It was as if she were some kind of priestess, lost in a sacred moment. In the back of her mind she was aware of the time, rushing past, and her own helplessness to stop it, but that only added to her own sense of rapture.

  She was caught up in something and she could not control or predict where it would go. Back to him, yes, and from there, on to lovemaking. That s what she both wanted and feared. That's what she both craved and loathed, all at once.

  Full of deliberateness and wonder and lovely wooziness, Chrissy freshened herself a bit, left the bathroom and returned to the bar, placing the bottle precisely where it had been next to the man. "I was delayed," she said without apology. "A couple of my friends came in the bathroom and started talking to me."

  He glanced at the bottle, a mere flick out of the corner of his eyes. "That will be all, Chrissy, you can go now."

  Her mouth hung open in total disbelief. No fucking way. After all this, he was going to give her walking papers. "What is this, some kind of job interview? 'Thanks for the application and all, we'll get back to you?' I just did something for you, dude. Something pretty intense and the way I see it–"

  "The way you see it, you did something of your own free will and now I owe you for it, is that it?" he interrupted.

  Chrissy frowned. He had this way of turning things against her that was getting on her last nerve. "If you're trying to make me out to be some kind of selfish bitch, it won't work. I came over here to meet you because you seemed like you might be a cool guy. I thought we could both have a little fun. You're the one who turned it into some major head trip."

  "Seemed to me you came over here just to impress your girlfriends," he pulled the rug out from under her. "And when that didn't work you had to come back a second time just to make it look as if we were getting along."

  Chrissy reeled from the truth blow. "You know what?" She sought to recover herself. "I don't even care. I'm willing to just cut my losses right now and go home."

  "Tomorrow at eight," he replied, as always on his own wavelength.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I'll pick you up, tomorrow at eight." He put out his hand. "My name is Derek, by the way."

  Chrissy swallowed hard. His fingers gripped hers, firm, enveloping, warm, promising delight – and more. "You'll … pick me up?" She stammered.

  "Yes. For dinner, assuming you're interested."

  "Oh … well, yes, that would be fine … at eight."

  Listen to her, she was sounding like a schoolgirl. Reduced to flushed giggles over the offer of one little date from a man whom she'd despised just a moment ago.

  "Write down your address for me," he slipped her a small pocket pad.

  She scribbled the correct letters and numbers, her brain completely oblivious to what her hand was doing. Should she be telling a stranger where she lived?

  "Good, it's settled, then." He gave her his card, slick and dark blue with white lettering. "If anything comes up to change your plans, give me a call."

  Chrissy nodded, mumbling her thanks. He pulled a billfold from his pocket, peeled off a fifty-dollar bill and left it to cover his drinks.

  "Until tomorrow," he smiled, signaling his goodbye.

  Chrissy melted at the expression. It was a real smile. A man's smile, full of possibilities. On a handsome face like his, it couldn't help but make even the most diehard party girl think of white picket fences and babies to suckle.

  "Yes," she agreed, aroused, curious and terrified all at once. "Tomorrow."

  What if he were the one, she thought, watching him wade through the crowd, a prince among men, a hunter among sheep. What if this was it – fate, knocking at her door? There was no choice but to answer, but how could she know what to expect? It was very possible this man might want something very different than marriage. He might want only to use her. And she was apt to give in – no matter what the cost.

  Either way, no matter what he was after, he was, a
t this moment, holding all the cards. Chrissy did not like being in that position one bit. If she were going to have anything to do with this Derek, she'd have to regain the upper hand.

  To do that, she would have to shake things up, leave him on the short end of the stick so she could start calling the shots. Chrissy looked down at the slick, electric blue business card with the white lettering.

  Derek Trace

  Trace Importing and Exporting

  "All Things Come and Go"

  Several numbers were listed, including a cell phone. Call him, he'd said, if anything comes up to change her plans. Something would come up all right, she smiled, but she wasn't going to be making any calls. Her absence would be entirely unexcused. She'd apologize afterwards, of course, indicating something pressing had come up – a sick friend or whatever – and how she was so sorry she'd lost his business card, but she had so much on her mind, and to be honest, things had all happened so fast between them, but she would definitely be open to a rain check very soon. After this she would turn him down a couple more times till he was chomping at the bit, and finally, like a trainer dangling a little treat over a dumb animal, she would reward him with an actual, bona fide date.

  That would teach him to make her molest herself with bottles. Yes, indeed, Mr. Derek Trace was about to get a lesson in the Battle of the Sexes, Chrissy Newland style.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was half past eleven when Chrissy got home from the movies the next night. She'd let Bobby, the intern from accounting take her after work, thereby providing him a thrill for the year. For the cost of tickets and a burger and fries afterward, he'd been awarded the privilege of touching her thigh during one of the love scenes in the soppy chick flick she'd chosen for them.

  The goodbye in the car out front of her apartment building was a bonus, an advance of sorts, on any possible future dates. She didn't mind. Chrissy liked kissing. And groping and lots more besides. It particularly turned her on to get a man worked up and then send him off, knowing he would have to masturbate to get her off his mind … and dick.

  This in turn would help her to wild, self-guided orgasms, Richter topping explosions brought on, courtesy of her wild imagination and a ten-dollar, battery operated pocket rocket.

  Bobby was a decent looking kid, a college junior with a swimmer's build and a cleft chin. She enjoyed rubbing his bare, muscled stomach under his shirt as he plastered his eager young lips against hers. Not too much, though, just a taste. Oh, he'd get it in time, just so long as it was her time. She loved her sex, but it had to come her way.

  All day long she'd been thinking about Derek, to the point of obsession. She didn't like feeling that way, which was all the more reason to do what she'd done to him tonight. Twice this afternoon she almost called him. She wasn't sure why or what she would have said. In the end she just went to the movies. Turning as much of her attention as she could to this fine young specimen.

  Truth be told, she hadn't slept well last night. Hot dreams had tormented her. Derek, again, coming to her, telling her she had to do things to herself. Shameful things to embarrass her in public. Forced exposure. Forced self-touching. And objects to put inside herself, so many foreign objects. At one point they were sitting at a table in an outdoor café, beside a busy European street. All these people were walking by, beautiful young people who looked like models.

  Chrissy was wearing a sundress, with spaghetti straps. The wind was blowing and the bottom of the dress kept flying up. Every time she tried to put it down with her hands, her breasts would threaten to pop out of the top. Derek was sitting there with his legs crossed. The waiter came with a tray full of bottles and various other cylindrical shaped objects.

  "For your pussy," he explained. "While the rest of us enjoy the scenery."

  The people walking by were holding up cutouts, of trees, mountains and valleys. It was all very peculiar because the waiter had his pants open and instead of a cock poking out from the zipper, there was a long black snake, sticking out its red tongue. Derek was petting the snake, all the while talking about the things he wanted Chrissy to put inside herself.

  "When can I see you again?" Bobby asked breathless as she released him for the final time.

  "Maybe next week." She put him off, allowing time for him to simmer, not to mention sufficient opportunities for her to sleep with one or two of her other men in the mean time.

  "I had a great time, Chrissy."

  "Me, too," she smiled.

  His eyes got all dreamy. Sometimes she wondered what it was like for these men, seeing and wanting her. As a child, they'd all looked at her, watching her little ballet performances, which she'd reenacted at home for weeks afterward. Daddy made them all watch, again and again. She was his little doll. Patty, her older sister hated her for that, and her brother Jimmy, had too, but in the end they'd all had a hell of a lot more freedom to do what they wanted, which more than made up for the lack of attention. Yes, Daddy had his special plans for Chrissy. Plans to make her a princess for life, marrying some doctor or lawyer. All prestige and no fun.

  Phooey on that.

  "Want to IM tomorrow night?" he pressed.

  She put a kiss on her fingertips and transferred it to his lips. "Easy, Tiger. One step at a time, okay?"

  He grinned as she got out of the car. She was wearing a short skirt today and a tank top, along with some high heels. Wiggling her ass, she made sure to leave him with the right final impression.

  All in all, it had been a good night. Now for a nice cup of cocoa and off to bed, she thought, fiddling for the key to the front door of her apartment building.

  "Good evening, Miss Newland."

  Chrissy's heart seized in her chest. It was him. Standing right next to her. His cobalt blue eyes nearly glowing in the dark, the shadows of the nearby trees casting sharp angles on his face, making him look even more dangerously irresistible than he had the night before.

  "D–derek," she gasped.

  His lips were slightly pursed. He had on a black silk shirt and slacks and a pair of leather wingtip shoes. How long had he been out here waiting for her?

  "Perhaps there was some misunderstanding," he offered smoothly.

  "I … um, well…" Her carefully planned alibi about the sick friend was vanishing, like so much mist before his keen, laser-like eyes. "Actually…"

  "Actually I saw the young man in the car," he said, precluding any further attempt at making excuses. "You were on another date."

  "He's a friend, that's all."

  "That's hardly the point, is it? Your arrangement was to meet me here at eight and if not to notify me by phone. You did neither."

  "All right, so you caught me." He was making her feel like a child and she didn't like it. "So now you know what a bitch I am. I'll e-mail you a picture to throw darts at."

  "I don't want a picture."

  "Fine. I'll make it a sketch." She had her keys out. Her hands shook as she found the right one. In a few moments she would be on the other side of a locked door from Derek Trace, free of him forever.

  "What I'd like is to continue this. Upstairs in your apartment."

  The thought terrified her. And made her wet, to boot. "What for?" She laughed as contemptuously as possible. "So you can yell at me for an hour? Or rape me?"

  "You know that won't happen, Miss Newland."

  There he was, doing it again. Calling her by her last name. "Look, Mister Trace," she whirled on him. "I don't know what your problem is, but I don't want you here anymore."

  "We are going upstairs," he repeated. "I think you owe me that much."

  The next thing she knew they were in the elevator, then in her hallway on the fifth floor, walking on the Persian style carpeting and finally standing in the foyer of her white-walled, one bedroom apartment.

  "May I sit?" He asked, indicating the plush, blue sofa in her living room.

  "If you must." Grudgingly she followed him in, making a point of remaining standing, directly in front of him, arm
s folded over her generous bosom. "Well?" she said curtly. "What is it you want to talk about?"

  "I have nothing to say," Derek informed her, settling himself into the couch.

  Chrissy blinked. This was getting more absurd by the moment. "Than why are you here?"

  "To punish you," he said matter-of-factly.

  She waited for the punch line. Hearing none she asked him to repeat himself.

  "You're going to be disciplined," he said. "With a spanking."

  Chrissy felt a tingle in her tailbone. "You're not serious."

  Derek positioned himself, knees apart, his hind quarters pitched forward on the couch. "You'll take it over my knee. It's what you have coming for inconveniencing me tonight, not to mention disrespecting my generosity."

  Chrissy's nipples swelled under her cotton bra. Her pussy was already wide-awake, anticipating what it might be like, her pelvis laid over his. But this was ridiculous. Spankings were for kids. She was twenty-four years old. And he was hardly her Daddy. What he was, was a pervert, of the highest order. "Sorry," she said flatly. "You'll have to get your rocks off somewhere else."

  "I'm not doing this for my pleasure, Miss Newland."

  "Really? A man getting to put his hand all over my ass, making me wriggle all over his lap – and you're telling me that's not a turn on? Could have fooled me."

  He smiled knowingly, a look designed to put her quickly in her place. "Believe it or not, Miss Newland, the sun does not rise and set on your fair form. Men are actually capable of thinking of other things than your sex. Some, perish the thought, are actually entirely indifferent to your charms. Be that as it may, I am here to give you the correction you are so loudly screaming for. And you will take it, one way or the other."

  "So you'll force me, then?"

  "Is that what you would like?"

  "What I'd like is for you to get the fuck out of my apartment," she shot back.