The Arts (2/2)

by Marlissa

Dr. Karen Kelly was astonished how much could change in a few days.
Ever since that wonderful Doctor Locke had come to visit regarding the
Hollis case that morning.  Evidently he had been handling the Hollis
case.  He had looked so young at first--not more than twenty if she had
to guess, he looked like a college student actually-- that she was
actually suspicious.  But then she realized she must have been
mistaken, because his knowledge was so much greater than her own.  And
she had been practicing for ten years!

After he had explained that he was already treating Tracey Hollis, she
gladly handed over the case file.  It was something she never did, but
then he was a professional of the highest order.  A brilliant man.
Not that he had said anything in particular about the case, but he
gave the impression of such confidence, she wouldn't dream of
gainsaying him.

He was about to leave then, but she found himself asking him if he'd
like a cup of coffee.  He had stayed for an hour, forcing her to
cancel a scheduled appointment--but it was certainly a good investment
in time.  Because as a therapist, he had been kind enough to talk to
her about her own problems.  Like Glen.

Good old philandering, perverted Glen.  The papers had arrived the end
of the previous day by courier and were actually in her desk drawer
waiting to be signed.  All the misery behind her with the stroke of a
pen.  Divorce after a long three years had seemed so close.  Images of
his indiscretions, his cheap affairs with the young receptionists and
secretaries that he preferred most as conquests, crowded her brain for
a brief moment.  He hadn't denied the affairs--said they were his right
as a man--but was furious at her insistence for a divorce.  He had
fought it up to a point, then wearily walked away.  Still she could
list the disgusting degrading demands that he made of her in bed--all
refused.  So overbearing.  So arrogant.  So male chauvinist.  So Glen.

But that was this morning.  Because after Dr. Locke's visit, she had
torn up the papers without a second thought, informing her lawyer that
she had had second thoughts.  Her lawyer was mystified but had acceded
to her wishes.  How could she know how much the thought of Glen's cock
dominated her mind, how she had thought of nothing else but pleasing
her husband like the dutiful little wifey he had expected her to
be--and she had fought so hard against?  Dr. Locke had kindly corrected
her thinking about Glen--how their marraige meant everything to her
(her new motto- "A woman needs a man like a fish needs water"), how
husbands--not wives--made the rules, how the husband must be honored and
obeyed in ALL things.  She shivered when Dr. Locke had carefully
pointed out these facts, shocked at how far she had strayed.

When he left, she had an idea of how to make it up to Glen.  Her heart
told her it was her last chance, so she must go for broke.  If it was
cheap and sleazy Glen wanted, it was cheap and sleazy Karen Kelly
would be.  Afternoon appointments were cancelled and Karen dashed back
to her apartment--the one she had foolishly taken a lease on after the
separation.  She reminded herself she must get out of that horrible
empty place--the thought of being alone in that apartment without
Glen's cock...  She had prepared quickly for her surprise meeting with
Glen, dressing to surprise him.  Karen thought briefly about not
making her first stop, then forced herself to make it.  If it was what
Glen wanted, she would accept it as the price of being a good little
wifey.  How she had hated that expression, when he had called her that
in front of her friends.  Now she only hoped he might call her that
again!

She parked the car and took the elevator up to Glen's executive suite,
the one from which he ran his real estate business.   She brushed into
his office, gathering her courage up and looked up.  He was outraged
at first, but the pleading expression on her face sent a message he
understood at once.  "Well, well, well.  Miss Snooty Feminist Bitch
Therapist here to ask for a break on the settlement?  Well, forget
it!"

She shook her head.  "No, no!  I'm not here for that.  In fact," she
stopped talking, then placed the torn-up divorce agreement before him,
letting it finish the statement for her.  Then as his jaw dropped, she
slipped out of her raincoat.  Underneath she wore nothing but the
black lace Merry Widow he had bought for her and a pair of black
patent leather high heels.  She had never worn it before now.

"I, uh, was hoping you might consider taking me back.  I, uh, know
that I've had a bad attitude problem, but I promise I'll work hard to
make you happy."

Glen's voice wavered for a second.  "And the affairs?"

Karen blushed.  "What can I do?  You're the man.  I'm just the good
little wifey.  But I'll try harder to make you happy.  To do the
things that I hope will keep you happy with just me."

With that, she placed her last purchase on the desk.  Glen looked up
at her smiling.  "O.k.," he said as he unbuckled his belt, "But this
time I'm going to be a lot tougher on you than I have been.  I let you
get away with too much."  He reached for the KY jelly as Karen bent
herself over the desk.  As he entered her in that way for the first
time, her heart leapt.  She had earned his cock--and she would never
willing walk away from it again.  No matter what she was told to do.

Brandy had spoken to her little sister only six hours earlier, but she
had managed to catch a flight and was now almost at her  door.  What
the hell was going on?  She had wondered frantically on the flight
from Logan to LaGuardia, wishing the 737 to cut through the fog over
Long Island Sound.  The taxi was moving now, finally, through the
Queens traffic.  She had only thirty minutes left to figure out what
the hell was happening.

The scary thing was that she had forced the issue.  She hadn't spoken
to her in a few weeks-- work for her Boston College courseload had
doubled, now that she was a full professor.  The number of her art
history courses had doubled over the Break, keeping her hopping.  So
when she called Browne, Taylor & Garrick, she was astonished to
discover she was no longer with the firm.  And something about the
snickering way she was informed of this by the receptionist told her
the departure was not voluntary.  A call to her home found an odd
sounding Trace on the other end.  The timid tone, not at all the fast
talking, all business Tracey, said she'd like her to come down.  It
was an emergency, she said, nothing more.  Obviously a breakdown had
occurred somehow.

Amazing--Trace was in her own way as driven as she was.  While she had
scored big in the vicious wars of academia, Tracey had taken on the
legal eagles of her own calling.  Both sisters were overachievers,
focused on their respective fields.  Neither had ever allowed a man to
come between themselves and their ambitions.  Though separated by only
two years--Trace was thirty-five and she thirty-seven, they had many of
the same characteristics.  Both were single, professionals, ambitious,
feminists, single-minded.  What had happened then?

Brandy had to remind herself that though this was the case, they had
many differences, many of which kept them from being too close.  She
secretly considered Tracey shallow and materialistic--a bit of a bitch.
While she was herself very aloof, Brandy didn't need to be the boss
all the time the way her sister did.  It was annoying.  If pressed,
she had to admit she wasn't completely sorry about Tracey's reversal
of fortune.  Might teach her a lesson.  Brandy was honest about the
competitive nature of the relationship with her own sister.  A little
voice promised a lot of satisfaction if in fact Brandy needed to fly
down and save the day for Tracey somehow.

The taxi stopped.  She knew the driver had been staring at her through
the rear view window during the trip and she enjoyed it.  Though she
never went out of her way to attract male attention, she knew her
tight frame, well-scrubbed athletic face and inquisitive green eyes
did a lot to draw it.  Not that she was a knock-out--her figure was too
small on top if tight below--but she had had her share of lovers over
the years.  She brushed an medium length chesnut tress behind her ear
and told the driver to stop.  After she had him unload the luggage,
she was delighted to shortchange him--what a creep!  How dare he stare
at her that way!

She totted the small bag to Trace's  and knocked on the door only to
find it open.

"Trace?"

No answer.  Weird.  The place was dark and she wasn't at all familiar,
having never been to the new place her sister had bought a couple
months ago.  It took her a moment to find the lights, but there wasn't
anything particularly unusual about the place.  Except maybe some of
the art on the walls.  It looked familiar but didn't strike her in any
specific way.

"Tracey?"

Still nothing.  She walked into the kitchen, then the bedroom, where
her concern began to flare.  The place looked like something out of a
New Orleans bordello.  Mirrors on the wall over the bed, which itself
was a deep red king-size waterbed sporting a brass frame.  The bed
sheets were leopard skin.  A television VCr unit waited to be turned
on at the foot of the bed and unbelievably a camcorder, mounted for
use!  Really Trace! she chided her sister mentally.  Turned into quite
the vixen did we?  A thrill of superiority flashed through her.  Well,
well, well.  Little sister was kinky!

With a quick look around to ensure she was alone, Brandy opened the
top drawer of the dresser.  Normally reserved for underwear, this
drawer was filled with dildos and vibrators of all descriptions.  Butt
plugs too.  She opened the other drawers.  It was like her sister had
won a shopping spree from Frederick's of Hollywood.  There were all
kinds of brazen little nothings--thong panties, push-up bras,
teddys--and none of it was particularly tasteful.  Cheap, overly
revealing and in all materials.  Lace, silk, cotton, polyester,
leather and latex.  What had her little sister gotten herself into?
Brandy would NEVER let her live this down!

She jumped at the sound of the door shutting.

"Trace?"

She walked out into the kitchen and saw the door she had missed
before.  Evidently a basement of some sort.  She tried the light but
this one refused to go on.  Carefully she made her way down into the
abyss of the light starved underground room.  There were no windows,
but some light from the kitchen faintly followed her and she could
make out the steel cages on the wall.  Her last thought was that
Tracey must have bought a dog to keep in this basement kennel.

Brandy woke with a start, rubbing her eyes furiously.  She felt as if
she had been unconscious for a week.  Feeling a cold hard surface
underneath her, she rolled over on her stomach, instinctively feeling
for the bump on her head, the blow that had knocked her out.  But
there was none.  It was dark and it took her a moment to realize she
was inside one of the dog kennels.

"Tracey!" she yelled.

A "shush!" responded to her from the other cage. In the gloom, she
could make out her sister Tracey--nude but for a dog collar!

"What the hell is going on here?" she demanded.  "What are you doing
in there?"

But Tracey shook her head, unable or unwilling to speak.  She
desperately pressed her fingers  over her mouth indicating she should
be quiet.

"Ah!  Ms. Brandy Hollis!  Welcome!"

The voice.  She had heard it before.  At school.  Her mind leapt
forward. The art upstairs.  It all fit.

"God damn it, it's you Locke!"  She shook the locked cage door.  She
began to stand but the kennel ceilign allowed for no more than
kneeling.  "Justin Locke!"

The figure approached from the murk.  "Yes.  You have a wonderful
memory.  A high quality mind and impressive talents.  But like your
sister, I doubt you'll be taking advantage of them any more.
Other...talents will become far more crucial to your new role than
those."

"Look, I'm sorry I flunked you, but this is insane.  Let me out and
maybe they'll be an arrangement of some sort--get you some help..."
There wouldn't be--he do hard time for this, she'd make sure of it, but
she had to get out of the cage.

"You can leave your kennel anytime.  Go ahead--the door isn't locked
despite what you think.  See?"  He opened the door and shut it again
lightly.  But when she attempted to do the same, it was impossible!

"You can't get out because I haven't given you permission.  You may
now though."

She did so, automatically.  "Look Locke--let my sister out of there.
You're a nut--don't make it worse on yourself.  All over a course
failure--Jesus!  That was last year!"

Locke smiled.  "I'm not doing anything--other than everything I've
always wanted to do to you.  You see, I was pretty bitter when you
failed me--my paintings are, despite your opinion, marvelous.  I could
have used my powers to change my grade.  But when I entered your mind,
I found a spirit begging to be dominated, humiliated and broken.
Brandy Hollis--a willful little cocktease that tormented her male
students, a bitch that needed taming.  And then imagine my surprise to
find you had a sister with just the same kind of temperment as yours!
As you know I'm an artist and a wonderful idea came to me--an idea that
will now come to life.  But you'll know all this soon enough.  Strip
off those clothes for your master now...little bitch."

Tracey thrust her face outside her kennel to watch as the young man
began the process of mastering her older sister.  An unmistakably hot
pang shot through her, a vicious pang, as her sister dumbly unclothed
herself.  Brandy's face was a portrait of shock--at herself, at Locke's
ability to command her, at the hell she now faced.

"Good.  Small like your sister--just as I remember.  Your sister has
all kinds of advice on that subject--making her titties look bigger
than they are is very important to her.  She'll be helping you out
with things like that, teaching you the rules and so forth."

"Rules?" Brandy kicked off her panties now, but her mouth still seemed
to belong to her.

"Oh yes.  The rules.  Very important to follow the rules.  Else..."
Locke switched on a light, revealing the rest
of the basement.

Brandy held herself upright with all her strength.  It looked like the
Marquis De Sade's playroom.

"Let's start, shall we?"  And Brandy felt her will being bent to his,
changing it, refashioning it like an artist.

NOTICE:

The following courses have been cancelled or reassigned.  Please check
with the Registrar's Office to rearrange your schedule as needed:

French Revivalists Intermediate Studies 307
The Russian Naturalists 423
Dutch Humanism and Art of The Reformation 356
Graduate Russian Imperial Studies 501

The Dean signed his name to the memo, not at all pleased with
Professor Hollis'es announcement that she would not be returning to
teach the courses noted.

"You won't make tenure with this on your record," he informed her
grimly--and truthfully.

The click on the other end of the line ended the matter for him and he
dispatched a note for immediate termination of Brandy Hollis'es
contract.

Locke awoke to the soft slurping of his bitches, who were lapping at
his cock.  He had allowed them to sleep on the floor by his bed,
leashed to the bedpost of course, instead of ordering them to their
kennels as was the norm.  He gathered up the leashes in his hand and
watched their tongues darting below him, one over his cock and the
other working diligently on his ball sac.  With their new identical
look--long brassy blonde curly hair--it was hard to know which was which
was servicing his cock.  A pair of scared green eyes looked up--ah, the
older sister.  He lowered the leash, allowing her to return to her
duties.  Her tongue responded with gratitude-- the privilege of
pleasuring him was preferable to a punishment of some kind.  His
bitches never knew whether they would be used or 'corrected' by their
owner.

He closed his eyes, feeling his groin tighten with pleasure as the
sisters continued their task.  It was fine that he had allowed them
the honor of sleeping at the foot of his bed--they were so excited
about the rare privilege that they were working extra hard to make
this wake-up call of theirs one he would remember.  As well they
should--if he were so much as one iota dissatisfied with either of
their efforts, one or both would be spanked, cropped or worse.

Locke had been pleased with their play the previous evening.  He had
bid them to a bout of strap-on wrestling and he had watched as the two
had prepared themselves with anticipation.  Hot oil lathered over
their glistening bodies, then the latex waist cinchers and the thigh
high latex high heeled leggings, topped off with the omnipresent dog
collars and they were ready.  Strap-on wrestling was difficult as
neither was allowed to scratch, choke or punch the other.  It was more
a silly spectacle of hissing, slippery grappling, nipple twisting  and
hairpulling--the epitome of catfighting.

The older bitch had triumphed.  She was a bit taller, a bit hungrier
and at last she had forced her little sister on her back, with hands
pinned and her hot wet crotch in her face.  Randi (she was Randi now
and the younger one Lacey--both sufficiently artificial names that gave
males the satisfaction of knowing these women had changed their names
to too-obvious double entendres for wry masculine amusement) had
looked up with some expectation at her master, but he shook his head.
Randi would be allowed her prize but no more.  With a pout she rolled
off her sister, slapping her rump as she did.

"Get ready--I won this time!"  The command sent the nude now-disbarred
attorney off to her dresser.  Randi needed only one item to continue
the fun and she found in the girl's toybox, eagerly choosing a long,
sleek black strap-on to present to him.  He nodded and she belted the
nasty dildo around her waist, now waiting for her sister.  Lacey
similarly held up some items which Locke likewise approved.  As she
readied herself, Locke flipped on the video camera--he would record
this tryst for commercial release.

At last Lacey offered herself up to her conqueror, a prettily painted
up prize wearing a dainty white lace thong panty, strapless push-up
demi-bra and white 5 inch heels.  Locke was gratified to see how
quickly Lacey had come to know the drill.  She kept her head bowed,
lips pursed and arms behind her back, all the while with her small
chest thrust out.  But Randi, who was increasingly the victor in the
strap-on wrestling matches, displayed little interest in soft cuddly
foreplay.  She wanted to use her defeated sister without the slightest
bit of romance.  With both palms, Randi pressed Lacey's shoulders
downward.  The bested redhead understood what her mistress desired and
complied immediately.  Should she displeased her conqueror, Locke's
rules were hardfast--the winner would be permitted to punish the
untamed loser with the implements of discipline that Locke's dungeon
was so well equipped with.  Lacey had no wish to find herself both
raped and punished and she took the ebony dildo in her wettened mouth
and began to slowly deepthroat the prong.  Randi stroked her sister's
longish red-brown hair, occaisionally directing her subservient
sister's mouth to some under-worshipped region of her proud black
prick.

With the clap of her hands, Randi barked the inevitable command.  "On
your fours!"

Lacey scampered to obey, the thirty-five year old attorney offering up
her ripe boyish ass to her sister's urgent lust.  Locke grinned as the
subjugated vixen's eyes closed shut as the thong was yanked aside and
the cock stuffed inside her.  The pained expression was evidence of
how much the forced entry was to be avoided.  And yet the little bitch
was being defeated more and more, as Randi had begun to assume a
dominance over the pair.  A tear trickled out, then another as the
older chesnut haired filly in latex began to truly ram her cock home,
deep into her slave sister.

Locke wandered into their minds.  He relished Randi's exuberant
mastery, the disdain she felt for her younger sister and the flame of
dominant lesbian lust that was attached to it--attached by her master
three months ago.  He searched for any residual spark of sibling love
and found none.  He had crafted this one well--she was all bitch,
living for the opportunity to first please her master, then use and
dominate her sister or failing these three, pleasuring herself as her
master watched on.  To Randi, there was nothing else in life.

Lacey was enflamed with humiliation and pain at being raped by her
sister this way.  She bucked her hips in an attempt to ease the
thrusting against her tender insides, but to no avail-- Randi would
have no mercy on her.  Despite her loathing of her latex mistress,
Lacey could not help from becoming aroused by her sister's fondling of
her peach-sized breasts.  They were growing hot, her nipples both
saluting hot little buttons of flesh as the exquisite nails of her
sister scraped over them, twisting them cruelly through the guazey
white lace of her brassiere.  She was ashamed at becoming so hot for
her victorious sister, but her puss was wettening rapidly.
Naturally-- Locke had laid in quickly sexual responsiveness to such
lewd lesbian caresses.

Locke kept the camera trained on the two as eventually Randi "came"
into her prize piece.  He would entitled this one "Battle of the B Cup
Bimbos" and sell it on the speciality lesbian market.  Sister lezzie
acts, especially where one wore shiny black latex and the other frilly
white lace, attracted lots of interest.  He had every anticipation
that it would sell well.  Not great-- they weren't pretty-- but well
enough.

As had "Dildo Debutantes."  And "Sizzling Sisters' Slitfest."  And
"The Mistress'es Naughty Maid."  The Hollis girls' videos always
grossed respectably well.  Not that the movies were their only areas
of expertise.  When he had started them on their new porn careers, he
had first insisted they break all remaining ties by demanding they
call their old colleagues and bosses.  He devoured the sight of his
little bitches as they whined on the phone to those in their old
lives.

"Please Danny...I REALLY need the money.  I'll pose anyway you want me
to!  Only a dollar per polaroid-- I have LOTS of sexy things to wear
for you!  You don't have to buy any you don't want to keep.  Please
Danny?  Didn't you like me when you were in my class  Pretty please?"
Randi writhed, furiously fingering herself as her Master watched.  Her
face was red-- from lust or humiliation?-- as she begged to sell her
old student compromising snapshots of herself.

Lacey humped herself hornily as she pleaded to be allowed to speak to
her old boss.  "Please Ma'am!  I just HAVE to speak to Mr. Garrick.  I
have all kinds of pictures of me in my pretty panties that I KNOW he'd
like to see me in!  Please, may I speak to him?  Can't you please just
pass on the message?"

He'd made them call each and every former male friend, associate,
client or even mere acquaintance to make the shameful offer of selling
posed polaroids of themselves.  Many took them up on the offer,
anxious to see the haughty bitches displaying themselves in film on
their specific commands-- all for the price of a few dollars.  Not a
few were interested in more and Locke horrified his bitches by
considering the offers for as long as a day.  But it wasn't
necessary-- he had no fear of using them that way (they were only
playthings), but didn't want to wear them out too soon.  There were so
other many uses to put them to-- and after the photo-calls were made,
their reputations were destroyed and he was free to explore them.

The website, sistersluts.com, kept them busy.  For $3.95 per minute,
you could watch them play together at 28.8k.  The offers from the skin
mags were frequent too.  Not the top-end porno mags, mind you, but the
Hollis sisters did get lots of work from specialty books like "Lesbo
Lickers," "Lil' Titted Twats," "Leather Lezzies" and others.  They
didn't pay terrifically well-- a few hundred bucks a shot-- but these
were the best gigs his bitches could get.

As they lapped obediently, he looked at some of the better shots that
were immortalized in frames around the room.  In one, Lacey was nude
on her fours, a leash tightly clipped to her dog collar and held by
Randi, who knelt behind her, spreading her sister's holes for use by
the reader.  In Randi's other hand she held a riding crop, ready to
chastise her sister should she fail to please.  Lacey for her part
looked back with terrified eyes, a fear so strong it was giving him an
erection as he looked at it.  A tongue lingered, then went back to
work with greater vigor.

In another, the two sisters were locked in a passionate 69, clutching
each other's thighs, but looking up innocently as if caught by
surprise with lips formed in perfect Os of surprise.  Two naughty
maids found fondling without permission, with black crisp skirts
pulled high and black lace panties pulled away from slick tight
pusses.

Now Lacey was on her knees before Randi wearing a petite red lace bra
and panties, her long lank auburn hair held tightly by her sister.
Randi looked down at her clad in a latex bra and thong.  She was less
an older sister, more a stern and selfish lover hot for pleasuring by
her pet.  Lacey's tongue was extended, eyes closed.  It looked as if
she was scared and she had been.  Locke insisted the girls frolic in
fear, always in fear-- of him and each other.

His erection had returned.  He cupped his sluts' faces, patting them
lightly.  They nervously snuggled together, staring down at his crotch
humbly and their faces wet with their lascivious chore.  There was
something about his former professor's countenance that demanded
degrading-- perhaps too much a sense of superiority over her bitch
sister, perhaps having assuming too much self-importance.  She needed
reminding of what she was, what her role was in life now.  Then he
slipped a finger around her collar and pulled her forward.  Holding
her tightly, he shot a load of white creamy goop across her stern,
intense face.  She closed her eyes as the sticky ropes landed with a
plop all over her aristocratic mien, thin lips bent in angry shame.
But she dared not display such arrogannce and the expression melted
into false gratitude.  Lacey understood what he had done and
snickered.

"Clean this bitch off-- and share every drop with her or I'll tan your
hide but good!" he commanded.  The thirty-five year old disbarred
attorney, now a cum-hungry whore, began lapping the come off her
sister's sticky face.  Then, as she accumulated a mouthful of goo, she
shared a deep soul kiss with the thirty-seven year-old former art
professor, not cum-splattered sextoy.  The two continued their oral
lustfest til each other's tummy was filled with his salty jism.

"Sixty-nine."

They obeyed the familiar order without pause.  In perfect
synchronicity-- like mechanical dolls.  He smiled.  His living art was
a masterpiece.  And he had so many great works still within him.

THE END

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