Banker's Slut Ch. 03

"So, here I am. That's what happened to us and to me. I did what I did and there's no going back for a re-write. You've gotta let me sleep, because tonight, you've got a couple of really important choices to make."

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It was early evening. I'd fed my sexy wench. We were sitting on my porch, alongside the RV that had been my dwelling for 3 years.

Anitra was dressed in ... nothing, except for slippers. I was to be seduced, again, I thought.

Wrong!

She was completely serious, as she said. "OK, I can't put this off any longer. There are two things on my mind. Really serious. First, I've gotta give you a choice. Either I pack up my stuff and walk back down the trail, find a cell-phone to borrow or hitch a ride, and walk out of your life forever. OR, I get to stay with you. Ride in your RV. Take long walks, topless if I can do it without too many looks from horny men and women. Sleep in your bed. Screw you every chance I get."

"So," she said, "what's your choice?"

Exasperated, I looked at the lovely bundle of fuck-toyness and answered, "For a smart woman, you sure say some dumb stuff, every now and then. What the hell do you think I want to let you out of my sight, now that I've proven to you that I don't—CAN'T—force-fuck you, despite what you did to me years ago. You've told me that you were hypnotized and drugged to be a nympho sex-slave slut, and I believe you. Actually, for the first 3 years of our marriage, you were something of a sex-slut anyway, just for me alone."

"So my first choice is that you get to ride, live, sleep, walk, snuggle and sex with me for a long time, and we'll just have to live with our memories and work out our trust issues like any other couple. So there! Done! Finished! Kaput!"

Somehow, the 35-year old naked wench TELEPORTED across the porch to sit open-legged in my lap, tits and belly mashed into my chest and gut, as she dribbled tears, kissed and attempted to suffocate me while piston-driving her tongue down into my esophagus, as she cried, "yes. Yes. Yes, yesyesyesyesyesyesyes, YES!"

A few moments later, I had to pry her mouth and tongue away from my face, so I could breathe again.

She slowly got sober again, when she presented her next-and-final choice point to me.

Anitra said, "Casimir, my lover, here is your second choice." She reached into her backpack and pulled out a manila envelope, sealed with a brass clasp, as well as a 'sexy juice' patch.

She said, "Inside there are two sheets of paper. One sheet has a set of new command words that I insisted Helen create within me. If you say them, then I will become your fucking sex-slave forever. I'll do anything for sex with you and wear a 'sexy juice' patch, each time. I'll sex you every day and night. I'll be airtight for cunt, mouth and ass-fucking, whenever and however you want. I'll whore myself out for you to groups of guys and gals. I'll get a side job as an exotic nude dancer at a sleazy strip club and display myself for everyone, give out full-penetration lap dances. You can have me sexually all the time, 'cause I'll be naked and crawl on the floor for some of your cock. The best part will be that, with the 'sexy juice' patch on my skin, I WON'T REMEMBER anything about what I did, so every time will be the first time, as it'll always be fresh and new. That'll be your revenge on me, too."

"OR," she said, "you can speak the other set of words on the second sheet of paper. That will set me free from any more hypnotic commands. I'll never want to wear another 'sexy juice' patch again. But then you get to take your chances on me, because a FREE WOMAN can make her own choices, moment by moment and you might not be included in any of them. You'll never get revenge on me for what I did to you and to us."

Anitra looked down at her nude body and waited for my decision, tears starting to leak again.

It was tempting, especially for my so-long-thought-about revenge fantasies, over the last 3 years. I could have my very own sex-slave, who'd never remember anything she'd done, no matter how kinky and degrading. I could have all the submissive sex I wanted ..."

But, NO, I couldn't, because I couldn't take revenge on Anitra. I DIDN'T WANT A SUBMISSIVE SLAVE! I just wasn't cut out to be an owner of a person. I wanted some kind of life, however marred by old memories, with the flirty little girl I met, crawling out from under her desk, years ago.

It was time, really past time, to make my choice.

So I did.

I said carefully, to get things right the first time, "I want you as a FREE WOMAN I want your sexy free mind in your sexy little free body. OK, I want you as my free slut: my own personal, private slut. I can't have you as my own personal, private whore, because you've never, not even once over the years, taken any money from me for sex. But I want you as MY GIRL again, free to do what YOU want. I think maybe even as MY WIFE again. I want you, complete with 28,000 fucks into your body before this, and several cured STDs too. You get to be free. No strings. No conditions. No hold-outs. Even if you eventually decide to walk out again, because you just can't confine yourself to my one cock, you're still FREE."

I went to her backpack and pulled out the box containing her supply of 'sexy juice' patches, then threw them in the fire. I opened the manila envelope and, in front of Anitra, crumpled up the sheet of paper containing her proposed slave life, and threw it in the fire, too. I opened the other sheet, which had the words of freedom for her printed on it, and, in a loud, commanding voice, I said, "WHISKEY TANGO FUBAR DUNWICH LEVEL DESK."

I watched the change flow over my lap-sitting naked lover, who started to smile in wonder, then do her 100-watt grin. She pushed the chair over on the floor and landed on top of me, ripping at my clothes, until my hard cock was free, then literally impaled her super-slippery pussy on my rigid cock-head and shaft, as she screamed and chanted, "Use me. Fuck me. Whore me. Slut me. I belong to you. I LOVE YOU! I'll never be commanded again. I won't ever change. I'm your slutty naked girlfriend personal, private 35 year-old SLUT. I'm gonna travel with you and keep your life fulfilled, not just for sex, but every damned thing. I'M FREE, so it's YES, damnit, YES, YES, YES!!"

Then I WAS FORCE-FUCKED (without 'sexy juice') by a squirming, woman-shaped goddess of erotic fury, who sucked and fucked me out of every possible drop of manhood that I could generate.

I fell into an exhausted sleep, there in my RV, because I couldn't move. I'm not even sure how I got there in the first place.

The rest of the day, I just spent either dozing or getting re-acquainted with Anitra. We walked on the property (dressed, because of insects ... damnit). We did small-talk. We kissed a lot. No sex because she said, 'no,' not right then.

By evening, things were getting kinda charged up, as Anitra put out my last four torches. She gestured me to a plain chair, and told me to undress. She disappeared into the RV for a short time. When she came back, though, she was wearing scarves. Just filmy, gauzy, sheer scarves. Two around her boobs, tied in front. Six more around her waist, the long way down her legs. No panties of bra that I could see (and I could see a lot). Something dark in her clasped hands, I couldn't see what. Oddly, some sensible hard-soled shoes with low heels on her feet. Hair done up with two skewers holding it away rom her face and neck. Using my RV's sound system, she put on a recording, of what sounded like a combination of Flamenco and stripper dance music, with as strong driving beat. While the introduction played in a restrained manner, she stood across from me on the wooden porch.

First, though, she demanded that I give her $1000 in cash. I gave her five $100 bills, completely mystified. With a smirk on her face and a flash of her pussy, she dropped the money on the floor and kicked it away, saying, "OK, I took your money, so now I'm your personal, private WHORE, too.

Anitra stood, feet apart and hands on her hips, as she clearly said, "Because of you, lover, I am NOT commanded by anyone else. I am a FREE woman. I make my own choices and I now do what I want. What I do now and in the future is what I want to do ... what I feel I need to do ... to display my physical and spiritual LOVE for you. I took physical therapy for the last two years, and dance therapy. Now, because I am your own private, personal SLUT and your own personal, private WHORE, here is one of my dances for you and you alone. There are other dances, for later. Sit there and get hard, to show me what I'm gonna earn."

The music got louder, with a pronounced beat, and she raised her hands and arms, and ran them sensuously across her body. Her hands were revealed to be holding castanets, which she clicked slowly. Then she started to dance.

For those who might be curious, look up the 2002 production of Riverdance. Move to 29 minutes from the start of the performance. You'll see a Spanish Flamenco dancer performing, first slowly and then in a fast driving swirl of red sheath dress and flowing skirt, heels sounding on the floor in La Estampa form.

But now think of a petite brunette beauty, 4'' 10" tall, about 105 lbs., and dressed (sort of) in sheer scarves, female parts barely covered and somewhat still visible under the gauze. Swirling and posturing as she moved around in front of me, never getting quite within reach. Click-click, click, click of the castanets and bang, bang, bang of her heels on the floor. I was hard.

She grasped at her halter tops, and pulled each away from her slightly bouncing and swinging breasts. Her nipples were distended, pointed and rigid. There was a light sheen of sweat on her body, as she swayed and thrust her hips, in imitation of having sex on the dance floor, but still out of my reach. I was harder.

She grasped one scarf on her right hip and flung it away. Then on her left hip. Two more on her back. One more on her right front. The last scarf on her left front. Her castanets were a blur: click,click, clickclickclick. Her feet were a machine-gun of staccato stamping: bang, bang, bangbangbang. Her naked body was sweat covered, as she loosened her hair, which swirled around her head, neck and shoulders. Still out of my reach, but barely.

Her hands raised one boob up to bounce at me. Then she held up the other boob. She tugged and twisted her nipples, as she moaned aloud. Then, with each arm and hand separately, using two strong fingers, she splayed open her vaginal lips, to proudly display her scarlet-inflamed pussy, engorged and rigid expanded clitoris and her pussy opening, sopping/drooling wet. She danced close enough for me to touch. I did, with fingertips bathed in female liquid lust. She groaned and moaned aloud. I was so damned hard and dribbling pre-cum.

At last, she deliberately lifted one leg and then the other, impaling herself on my questing erection, but never ceasing her castanet rhythm, as she continued to dance to the driving beat, which had increased to a frenzy of sound.

She yelled in my ear, "Who am I? I had to yell, "MY WOMAN."

"What am I?" she yelled, continuing to dance as we both thrust, me buried deeply into her sweat-slick body. I yelled back the truth, "MY SLUT". "What else, damnit it?" I near screamed, "my WHORE."

She yelled in reply, as the music reached a climax, "NEVER FORGET IT. I'm your LOVING SLUT-WHORE WOMAN You're MY LOVING FUCKING MAN. I want you to force your jizz so deep into me that it will take hours to drool out of me. DO IT. CUM INTO ME. FILL ME UP. FUCK ME, RIGHT NOW."

I did. I came so hard that I lifted her body off my lap. She orgasmed continuously, as I pumped and shot, screaming incoherently.

Then we both collapsed, as the music turned to a soft, slow beat, to allow us to recover and breathe.

The next day, I closed up the porch, loaded the RV and motored off into the countryside. Anitra didn't wake until I was miles from my temporary parking place on my few acres of land. She stretched, got (barely) dressed, fed me some nipple-distended breast and we started looking for breakfast.

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Epilog:

Anitra traveled lightly, usually wearing just a cut-off crop-top, with under-boob showing and almost never a bra. A mid-thigh mini skirt, covering her no-panties, bald pussy. Mid-thigh net stockings. Slippers. That she even wore that much was simply because I had to drive safely, with my top head free from our usual sexual fog. [Yeah, she had pretty or practical clothes too, but ...] She often wore her gun, openly or as a CCW manner. The rest of the time, in private, she had on skin-tight short-shorts or no shorts at all, and acting like a man's personal, private slut-whore. Just the way a free woman might choose to wear stuff and act for her one and only man!

The $1,000 bills that I kept giving to her, for each dance, to confirm that she was my SLUT and WHORE, quickly started to get worn and tattered. So we had all 10 of them placed in a plastic sleeve. Every dance or other display that required her to be a paid sex-worker got the envelope, which kept ending on the floor, to be taken up and returned later, when she and I could move.

Anitra, with Helen's assistance, used much of her money to find many women's shelters across the nation, providing safety for battered, as well as hypnotically or drug-assisted, women. Hypnotic counseling was provided through Helen, who turned out to be a first-class manager of such services.

About 1 year after Anitra started traveling with me, I pulled up in front of a Justice of The Peace office in a small Texas town. Kicking and yelling (kinda quietly, with a stupid grin on her face), naked butt-and-pussy showing, I carried Anitra over my shoulder into the office, where I presented them with all the fees and documents, pre-filled out. Ten minutes later, Anitra and I were re-wed, with a secretary and a deputy as witnesses.

I carried my new Mrs. Casimir Ellis bride into a store-room in the back of the office, found an old couch, and, after literally ripping all of Anitra's clothes off (no panties or bra) I tried my best to screw my new wife into the store-room floor, while she screamed, "nooooo. Don't. We're in public. Don't! (Rip. Slurp. Lick. Suck. Penetrate. Scream. Pound. Rail.) Don't stop! Don't you ever stop! Fuck Me! FUCK ME! I've got 3 holes! FILL ME! FUCK ME!".

I emerged, just before the offices closed, wearing pants, socks, shoes and an undershirt. I left the ripped-up rags of her dress behind. Anitra followed me, wearing only slippers plus my half-buttoned man's shirt, coming down to mid-thigh, plus a sleepy, 'just-fucked' look ... and nothing else.

Sort of like the shirt she was wearing when she bolted out of the bed, house and my life, screaming bout The Bank, when we started this tale.

— THE END —