Collected Shorts

On the Interstate: Driving Dangerously

By Joy Saint James

It is a dark and stormy night, just beginning to drizzle. The wipers smudge the dirt on my windshield, and the defroster isn't working. My field of vision is so blurred it's scary. Huge headlights suddenly appear in the rear-view mirror, right on my tail. Instinctively - though it is exactly the wrong thing to do - my foot touches the brakes. The tractor-trailer swerves to the right, and begins to pass me. I'm so scared I'm mad: I switch my tiny Toyota's overhead light so the trucker can see me flipping him an unladylike bird.

But now that I'm on my well-lighted stage, I don't do that. Instead - I can't tell you why - my hand that's not on the steering wheel hikes up my skirt and runs its freshly manicured nails suggestively up the inside of my pantyhosed thighs. The trucker goes crazy, flashing his lights, honking his horn. I respond, rubbing the hem of my silk-lined skirt sensuously against my hose. The skirt is pleated, beige, highlighting my smooth, black, luxurious legs. His lights blink faster; his horn, now in a seductive staccato. The rain's dribble on the windshield turns to pre-cum, as my hand becomes his, lasciviously stroking the tightly woven fabric, black as the enveloping storm.

This flirtatious game goes on for miles. High up in his perch, he can see me, I can't see him. The spotlight is on my legs, alone in the darkness, my hosiery and me. I slow down; he slows down; I speed up; he speeds up - always staying abreast of my window. He's big, I'm small; he could squash me. He may have the horsepower, but I'm in charge. The power of pantyhose, sheer and silky. Yes, I think I'll show him some more of my Wolford's.

***

THE "P" WORD

By Joy Saint James

"Phenomenology?" Jennifer's hot pink lips pucker. Her seductively madeup eyes widen. "Is that the word?"

I have to giggle. Not at her word choice but at the incongruity. Here we are, Jennifer and I, two apparent bimbos sipping our Chardonnay and conversing like philosophers.

"Better not let any of the guys hear us," I say. "We'll scare them away."

"I doubt it," mouths Jennifer as she returns the stare of a tall, dark stranger across the room. I must confess -- but I don't mean to brag or anything -- we certainly have attracted a lot of male attention ever since we arrived at this after-hours business function. It's a launch party for some new product from one of our ad agency's major clients. Though lowly media buyers, Jennifer and I were told by our media director that it was a command performance.

"Just stand around and be eye candy," he joked. We dressed accordingly. Our tailored business suit skirts are as snug and short as they can get and still be considered professional unless you're talking about the world's oldest profession. Under our jackets are proper-white but low-cut camis that provide more than a hint of cleavage.

"Why does everything start with 'P'?" I suddenly ask.

"What do you mean?"

"Phenomenology. Physiognomy. Phrenology. Penis."

We are trying to figure out whether the size and look of a guy's penis can be inferred from his overall appearance, character, and mind. And vice versa. Pretty heavy stuff, huh?

"Don't look, but that guy by the bar is walking over here right now," says Jennifer.

"He's good-looking, too, but I bet his cock is kinda average. Maybe six inches or so. That's always been my experience with the really good-looking guys."

"Or it's long and skinny, with a funny crook in it."

"There's an actual name for that condition, I think. President Clinton had it, didn't he?"

Jennifer has a hard time not laughing, right in the face of the unsuspecting guy now just steps away. "Okay, sweetie, let's get serious," she says. "While he's hitting up on me, you check out his crotch, okay?"

"Experiment number one. Specimen A." I giggle. "Remember, he's the variable, you're the control. Your job is to make him hard."

"Hi, ladies." Though Specimen A addresses us collectively, his eyes remained fixed on Jennifer. Just according to plan, her eyes lock into his, and her smile is come-hither. Then I bump into her so that her body brushes against his.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so clumsy," I volunteer. Then, Jennifer, running her fingers along Specimen A's arm, coos:

"Oh, I don't mind." She flutters her freshly layered lashes, then winks at him. I look down at Specimen A's crotch, and I can detect, yes, a bulge emerging from the pinstripes. Jennifer continues her flirtatious game; the bulge gets ever bigger. I can actually make out what must be the very head of the penis poking against his zipper.

QED. But what exactly has our little experiment proved? That this particular Specimen apparently wears boxer shorts -- that's all.

"Cock is hard," I whisper in Jennifer's ear, "but no way to tell how big it really is."

"Unless...."

***

Zip Me Up, Fill Me Up, Infuse My Life With Meaning

By Joy Saint James

You know the feeling. Or is it just me? Don't all women long to be zipped up? Preferably by the hands of another. (A LOVER)

"Oh, honey, would you terribly mind zipping me up," you say, though you're perfectly capable of doing it yourself. After all, you will have, in the course of a lifetime, done it thousands of times: Reaching both hands behind your waist till they find the small of your back, pressing one hand on the fabric tight against the skin where the curve of your butt begins, while the thumb and forefinger of your other hand grasps the zipper. Up you go until you can't reach any further, usually where the back of your bra is hooked. Then from the front you stretch both arms, bending at the elbows, over your shoulders for the final tug.

It sounds so funny, sort of exotic, erotic even, when you put it into words. Like watching yourself in the mirror. I've never really thought about zipping up quite that way before. Like all women, I just do it. Second-nature. Still, it's not natural -- these contortions. But neither is the best sex, come to think of it. So when my boyfriend of the moment, Victor -- sweet Victor -- buys me a skin-tight catsuit and wants to zip me up in it, I don't demur. Besides the zipper up the back, it has one in the crotch. Victor insists on letting him zip shut both.

Sweet, sexy -- and insecure -- Victor. He's a writer (isn't everyone nowadays?), but unlike most (the bloggers and such), he's trying to making a living at it. He says it doesn't bother him that I make lots more money than he. But he always asks if it bothers me. Quite frankly, it only bothers me when he keeps bringing it up, seeking reassurance. I've got enough problems at work -- where I've carefully built a reputation as a hotshot corporate litigator in the city's most prestigious law firm -- without having to worry about Victor's fragile male ego. I simply try to avoid his seeing me in one of my countless professionally tailored -- but still short-skirted -- business suits.

Now naked but not. That's how I feel walking -- or is it more like gliding, dancing? -- around the cozy apartment this lazy Saturday morning. When I go outside, I dress the unitard up with a Hermes scarf around the waist. Wherever I go, whatever I do -- even the most mundane chores -- Victor's eyes follow me. Sweet Victor, he can't get enough.

When he finally pulls me to him for a long, deep kiss, I don't feel his tongue or lips so much as his suddenly strong yet always sensitive hands. They slide along my second-skinned, spandex-encased body. They stroke and caress all the curves that make me, shape me into, a woman. They -- my curves -- somehow seem more contoured, more enhanced, more femininely alluring, while the things I hate about my body seem hidden, or at least subdued. Cellulite, flabby upper arms, a not taunt tummy, you name it, they're now magically gone. It's as if the catsuit is my plastic surgeon, and I've never felt so sexy. Certainly, Victor has never found me so desirable. A woman knows.

I know that in just a moment his hands will slip behind me to pull the zipper down, slide me out of the spandex, lay me down on the sofa, and fuck me then. Instead, he lifts me into his arms and carries me to the kitchen table. I hear the clanging and crashing of our breakfast pans and dishes, as Victor sweeps his hands across the table to make room for my new body. He spreads my legs, dangling over the table's edge, and yanks down the zipper of the catsuit crotch. My cunt must be wet and welcoming, for it takes just one powerful thrust and he's in, all the way in, as deep as he has ever been inside me.

And just as quickly, it seems, he is out. It happens so fast I can't believe it. He comes, comes so hard it feels as though it shoots so far up inside me I can taste it with my tongue. I come too, instantaneously, simultaneously.

Tightness: that's the sensation, I want it to linger. His swollen cock inside, the spandex enclosing me outside. His cock may become limp, but I can be tight in the spandex forever. Clearly, Victor doesn't want me to take it off either. Ever

He zips me up, as if to hold the cum from dripping. Some gets on his fingers, which he then brushes against my lips. I lick. Yes, now I can really taste it. It's so white and pure, in contrast to the catsuit's midnight blackness.

"You're my little cumslut," he whispers. He's never called me that before. Curiously, I like it. So I nod and say, "Yes, I'm your cumslut." I smile. Then, laughing, I say, "I want more cum, please."

"Your wish is my command." He pauses. "But first I have a little surprise for you."

"Victor, you're full of surprises today, aren't you?"

He says nothing, only smiles mysteriously, then disappears out of the room. I feel wonderfully limp, can hardly move, but manage somehow to climb down from the kitchen table. I wander into the living room, catch sight of myself in the mirror, and like what I see. I rub my hands up and down the tight spandex, and like what I feel. Only my hands, I realize -- plus my face and blonde, shoulder-length hair -- are not part of the rest of my body, the blackness, the tightness. In such stark contrast, just like Victor's cum.

It is times like this that I can't help but ponder the meaning of life. Seriously. I'm not kidding. The sensations turn into abstractions. Victor is an exploding star, and I, insatiable, a collapsing black hole. Energy. It's all about energy, masculine and feminine energy, and sex is the way we humans express it. The tighter the blackness enveloping me, the more I need, crave, to be filled.

Victor will never feel what I feel, of course. But he must understand -- with that ever so masculine, endlessly calculating, creative mind of his -- for he suddenly reappears with a pile of what I can only surmise is bondage gear stacked in his arms. Clearly, the catsuit was just some kind of test, and I passed.

He spreads the gear on the living room floor. I plop myself down in the midst of it, as does Victor. We're like two children playing, sitting cross-legged, our knees touching, giggling and laughing as we discover a treasure chest of brand-new toys.

"And what's this little thingie?" I dangle a latex strap with a little rubber ball.

"It's called a ball gag, I think," Victor enlightens me. "I tighten it around your head, and the ball fits in your mouth."

"Like stretching my lips around your cock." I giggle.

"Exactly." Victor laughs. "But this hard rubber ball will never get soft."

"And this?... And this?" I keep asking, as my fingers play with each item. For some of the things even Victor doesn't know their precise name, or at least he feigns ignorance. Or perhaps ultimately unknowable, like the cosmos itself. I want to know.

Soon I find myself stripping off the spandex catsuit and pouring my body into its black latex replacement. Victor helps tug in all the strategic places. For the final touch, of course, he zips it up. But there are not just the one zipper up the back and the one in the crotch. A separate zipper runs up my ass, and the metal teeth around my neck apparently zip to the matching hood that Victor now holds in his hands.

I take one final look at myself before Victor slides the hood over my head. I like what I see. If I were a guy, yes, I couldn't wait to fuck me. So fuckable: I wonder why exactly? I ask Victor.

"Can't put it into words," he says.

"Have you ever done this before? I mean, with another woman?"

"You're the first." I don't know whether to believe him.

"Well, it must be a fantasy you've always had, right?" I say. "You didn't just now suddenly come up with the idea? Or is it something about me that needs to be suited up, constricted like this?" I giggle, a tad bit nervously as he slips the hood over my head. I keep talking -- chattering or babbling, Victor would call it. Clearly he has not the slightest interest in dialog at this point, intent as he is on zipping the hood properly in place.

"It's an interesting fetish, I've got to admit." My words are a bit garbled now, with the press of the latex around my mouth. "I've seen pictures and stuff, but never really imagined myself actually doing it, you know?" I giggle again. "Victor, say something, talk to me."

"You're not supposed to talk," he says in a stern voice I've never heard before. "Your mouth is not for talking. It's for taking cock. A cumhole."

"But...." Whatever it is I'm about to say is cut off by the ball gag Victors sticks in my mouth. I can see him now tightening the strap behind my head.

It's the last thing I see. For suddenly Victor snaps two little flaps attached to the hood over my eyes. Reflexively my hands move to my face, but Victor grabs them and pulls them behind m back. There I can feel him tying them together. Tightly. Ever so tightly, with what must be one of those long rubber cords I glimpsed just moments ago amongst all the bondage gear.

"How's that, my little cumslut?" Victor whispers so softly -- or maybe it's just the hood over my ears? -- I can hardly hear him. It's a rhetorical question, I know. Still, I try to answer, to say something. But all that comes out of my mouth is a whimpering squeal.

"Remember, no sounds, cumslut! Your mouth is a just a cumhole to receive my cock, anytime at my will." And he tightens the ball gag even more. I can't help but emit some sound, any sound, some kind of noise. It is no more than a gurgle. If my colleagues at my law office could hear -- and see! -- me now. Never afraid to aggressively voice my opinion, I was even once called an "uppity bitch" by an angry male partner. Now I finally "know my place," he would do doubt say. I have to laugh. But it's not laughter I hear, just some kind of noise. So Victor tightens the gag still more.

Then I feel a tightening sensation around my waist. It must be the rubber corset, one of the first pieces of bondage gear I noticed and fingered when Victor presented his collection. The waist was so tiny I wondered how in the world I would ever fit in that part of Victor's fantasy. His vigorous tugging on the cords in the eyelets now tell me how. My body twists and quivers as he shapes me to his desire.

The wiggling, waggling embodiment of male fantasy, all boobs and bottom and wet-lipped receptivity, that's what I've become. I am woman: life support system for a cumhole.

For the first time in my life, I begin to feel, really feel, what a man must feel. My body bound, my identity reduced to a wasp-waisted shape, I exist only in Victor's perceptions. All that I, blindfolded, can see is what my mind's eye visualizes, that is, what I imagine Victor must see. As if in a sensory deprivation chamber, I have no interaction with the outside world: no mouth to talk, no free hands to gesture. Without the distractions of outside stimuli, I can luxuriate in just being a hole, empty space to be filled with desire. Any perception is limited to hood-muffled hearing, the smell and taste of a rubber gag, and touch, of course -- the exquisite sense of being tightly, ever so tightly, hugged all over.

Yes, hug me, please. Tighter. That's what want. That's what Victor wants. I have become he. He who perceives me, with all his sensitive senses. Me, an object, a sex object, no more, no less. I desire what he desires. His desire creates me.

Fill me up. Make me full. Fullness, tightness, that's what I need. The tighter the second-skin latex, the more constricted my body, the more I need to be filled. All my energy is bound into the hole -- yes, the cumhole -- that I now am, a collapsing sun, a cosmic black hole, wanting to suck everything in. Nature abhors a vacuum.

Victor sticks what must be a dildo, so thick and so long, in my cunt. Then he zips up the latex crotch to hold it in place. Next he forces a butt plug into my bottom, and zips that up, too. But he knows that I am not yet completely full, so he pushes me to the floor, kneeling. He removes the ball gag from my mouth and simultaneously inserts his cock, as firm as I've ever felt it, deep down my throat.

Full, so full, full at last. I never knew how full I could feel. Full of meaning, even. My seemingly successful workaday life seems nothing but emptiness now. I'm no longer a lawyer but a cumhole, therefore I am.

"You slutty cumhole!" Victor groans. I can feel, but can not taste, the cum shoot straight down my throat.

Now soft and slippery, his cock slides out of my mouth. I can speak again. And this is what I say: "Honey, will you zip me up please?"

###

Lying in Bed in the Morning

By Joy Saint James

I don't want to go to work. I like it right here and now, the passive center of the universe, a black sun.

Incomplete. A Black Hole.  Such nothingness is not a bad feeling.

But a better feeling is this: I want to feel filled up by tightness, tightness everywhere, like Victor's cock in my cunt. Cum hole, he calls it. He keeps me plugged. It's even better blindfolded. I am my cunt.

Nature abhors a vacuum. The void, like outer space. In bondage, I never felt so free.

Free to be me, a life support system for a cunt. That's what Victor calls me.

###

NOW IT CAN BE TOLD: PATRIOTIC (Top Secret!) COCKSUCKING

By Joy Saint James

Just because I gave Osama bin Laden a blowjob doesn't make me a terrorist sympathizer, does it? I was just doing my patriotic duty. At least, that's what Karl Rove told me. It was important to President Bush's reelection campaign, Karl said, when he recruited me for this top-secret mission. He found me through my escort agency, and he was -- I have to say -- the weirdest client I've ever had (and I've had some weird ones!).

Karl will claim, of course, that he actually met me through the Young Republicans. Plausible denial, you know. It's true, a lot of us working girls -- I'd say an overwhelming majority -- are rock-solid Bush supporters, though you'll never see it in the polling data. We make a lot of money and pay little, if any, taxes. And, if we're honest and not simply telling our politically correct sisters what they want to hear, we totally love the neo-conservative take on women: that we're nothing but "a life support system for a cunt." It turns me on when guys are not afraid to confront the truth and tell it like it is.

Guys like George W. Bush. So incredibly sexy! Blunt and boyish, just like I imagine his cock. Totally different from Osama bin Laden. His cock...well...I'll get to that in a minute.

Anyway, my mission was to go deep undercover as a virgin. Like one of those 100 virgins that Osama promises all martyrs to the cause. Believe me, it was hard, to leave my carnal and knowing persona behind. But the hardest part was leaving my makeup case behind. Then, yuck!, covering my collagen-plumped lips and other facial accessories with a veil. Plus, that stupid Burqa I had to wear, making my trim, aerobicized body look like any old dumpy matron's. At least underneath I was wearing a fuchsia thong and matching push-up bra.

And so it was, that's how I was, when I landed. The Special Forces guys just pushed me off the helicopter as it touched down in the absolute middle of nowheresville, the God-forsaken backcountry along the Afghan-Pakistan border. Good thing I didn't have on my Manolo Blahnik heels, I remember thinking. But before I could think of anything else, I heard Dick Cheney growling in my ear.

The Vice President was my team leader; that's how high up the chain of command this secret mission went. Of course, he was back at an undisclosed, secure location, just as he apparently was during the Vietnam war, while I, half-naked under my bullet-proof (not!) Burqa, was the one, as armchair patriots are wont to say, "in harm's way."

"Remember, you're an American slut." The Vice President never called me soldier, and I never called him Dick. "Do us proud." His distinct gruff voice came through a little thingie that had been implanted in my ear.

"I'll do my best, sir," I spoke into my breasts. Two tiny microphones had been inserted into my titties by Army surgeons at Walter Reed Hospital in D.C.. when they did by my breast augmentation. That -- the boob job I'd always craved -- is buried somewhere in the $40 billion intelligence budget. "No different from having Bill Clinton's Monica on the public payroll," Karl had assured me.

As with any first-time visitor to a foreign land, what happened next remains pretty much of a blur. What I remember with the utmost clarity, however, is Osama bin Laden's cock in my mouth. I knew it was his because of the CIA briefing before my departure. From digitally-enhanced satellite images of a tall, bearded man caught peeing in the mountains, the intelligence officers had created an exact replica of the chief terrorist's cock. This long, lanky silicone dildo would become my constant companion, to play with however I wished, as I prepared for the penultimate test. Blindfolded, I was given 10 dildos, from which I would have to pick the Sheikh's. That's what the spooks called Osama bin Laden -- the Sheikh.

Now, the ultimate, real-time test: I knew that I had, really had, the Sheikh in my mouth. I could tell by the tip of the cock, the way my lips uniquely curved around it, and then, of course, by the depth soundings when I took it all the way in. Yes, it could only be the Sheikh's. As I gurgled and gagged, I heard the Vice President in my ear:

"Make the bastard come! Faster, deeper! The whole country is counting on you. Go, American slut!" According to all the actionable intelligence, Osama bin Laden had not had sex in a long, long time. The plan -- as well thought out as the Iraq invasion -- was to make him come so quickly and violently that he would have a heart attack. In the mountainous wilds, there would be no adequate medical treatment, much less bypass operations, as the Vice President had had.

"Everything's going according to plan," said the Sheikh, as I did my well-rehearsed bob-and-slide on his shaft. He was war-gaming with his lieutenants around a table in a cave. I, of course, was on my knees under the table. Every word he said was being picked up by the listening devices in my titties, then beamed to the Arabic-conversant spooks half a world away at CIA headquarters in Langley. Almost simultaneously, they whispered the English translations in my ear.

"Boy Bush has done exactly what we had hoped. To prove his manhood, he invaded Iraq. But as with a premature ejaculation, he leaves his Western partners unsatisfied and the Islamic world feeling raped." The Sheikh laughed.

"Make him come, bitch!" The Vice President sounded angry.

"As with a discarded lover, Boy Bush has lost interest in Afghanistan. We let him think he won here, so he would be tempted to over-extend his macho seed elsewhere. Now well-intentioned people trying to help, like Doctors Without Borders, flee in fear. Only Boy Bush's limp penis remain, trapped in the vise of God's unconquerable mountains."

The Sheikh let out a grunt of pleasure. Was it my cock-sucking skills or simple satisfaction in his strategic doctrine?

"You sorry bitch! I thought you knew how to give head." The Vice President was clearly not pleased.

"Yes," the Sheikh continued, "we have seduced the Boy Bush. He assumes the capture of some of our fellow terrorists represents our defeats. But they are opportunities to feed the Boy Bush the disinformation he craves. We make him fear terror attacks that will never come. Just as we made him think that Iraq trained us in the use of chemical and biological weapons. So he did just what we wanted: eliminating Saddam Hussein, whose secular regime we abhorred. Boy Bush is a fool!"

I felt the Sheikh's cock quiver in my mouth. Was he about to come? Finally!

"Boy Bush is now unable to control the chaos he has unleashed. Such chaos is our fertility, creating in Iraq the order, organization, and recruitment magnet we had in Afghanistan. For ever martyr lost, there will be thousands willing and wanting to take his place. Victory will inevitably be ours!"

Yes, I was definitely tasting pre-cum. My tongue started licking it off the head of the Sheikh's penis, a well-honed technique that works guys up to a quick climax every time. But then my head involuntarily jerked back. It wasn't the taste (kind of yummy, actually), but the Vice President painfully yelling in my ear:

"I thought you were a Republican cunt! You stupid bitch, make the bastard come!" He paused. "Here, Karl, you talk to the bitch. You're the one who recommended her as a slut we could count on."

By now the Sheikh had lost some of his firmness. I had to start all over again. Karl Rove's soothing voice helped: "Remember your Republican virtues. And the President's steely resolve. Be steadfast in your sucking. We -- you! -- will win the War on Terror. You are our American slut."

I quickly slid my lips all the way to the base of the cock. And the Sheikh was just as quickly hard again. As my nose nuzzled his public hairs, I began repelled by the stench. No doubt the Sheikh hadn't bathed in months, maybe even years. Still, I was steadfast, sucking and sucking.

"Boy Bush is so stubborn, he's stupid," the Sheikh continued the monolog addressed to his lieutenants. "While he is mired in the sand trap of Iraq, he will watch helplessly as the nuclear monopoly once held by the infidels is shattered. What's he going to do now, invade North Korea and Iran?" The Sheikh groaned with pleasure, as my head moved in ever tighter concentric circles, pulling his cock with me. Still, he didn't come.

"I am patient and understand foreplay. Boy Bush thinks only of instant gratification. He thinks sex is like tax cuts. He runs up huge deficits, afraid to contemplate the future. For the future means inevitable death for him, for all of us. Instead, he tries to de-couple the strategic linkage between Eros and Thantos. Our martyrs and their 100 virgins know otherwise."

The Vice President and Karl fell silent. There was no squawking in my ear. So I could finally focus on the job at hand, really get down to business, enjoying myself giving head. In these drought-stricken mountains, I could feel wetness between my legs.

"We must pray that Boy Bush's Higher Father continues to sow disinformation, so that Boy Bush will stay the course." The Sheikh paused and gasped, as I softly brought my tongue along the underside length of his shaft. "And most important of all in our strategic plan, we must pray that he be re-elected."

I couldn't believe my ears. We both, the slut and the Sheikh, wanted the exact same thing. My pouty American mouth and Osama's dirty cock, together forever. Mission accomplished.

And pray that he be re-elected." Like anything big, the monster is subject to God's laws of inertia. Only a spectacular attack will get the monster to rouse itself. But once roused and set on a course of action, even if self-defeating, the monster will stubbornly and self-righteously stay that course. Even when the monster prays to its Higher Father, the American monster will be encouraged to remain resolute and steadfast. For God is on our side and thus will sow disinformation.

loved sex more than death. Only soft Americans think that

In order to make the American monster react sufficiently, so that it destroys itself, our pricks most become more spectacular. Their poison must invade the bloodstream of the television screens that pulse with the American monster's life. Only then will the monster unleash its pesticides to kill us. But it will only kill itself. This is our strategy; it will unfold:

Bush's re-election. That's what we both want: Mission accomplished. So now back in the good ole, decadent USA, I can't understand why Karl never invited me to a night in the Lincoln bedroom.

Ungrateful bastard!