"Jessamie"
(First published at Satinslippers.com, 2003)
Copyright 2003, R V Raiment
(rvraiment@yahoo.com)
All rights reserved. Content may not be
copied or used in whole or in part without
written permission from the author.
(First published at Satinslippers.com, 2003)
Copyright 2003, R V Raiment
(rvraiment@yahoo.com)
All rights reserved. Content may not be
copied or used in whole or in part without
written permission from the author.
This story won first prize in the 2003 Satin Slippers Story Writing Contest, "A Toy Story," as well as first Prize
for the Solo category.
Jessamie
By:RVRaiment
Through our lifetime I have tried very hard to love my sister. She’s my twin, though you’d never guess it for we’re not
identical in any way. Staying a slimmish size 12 is a constant effort for me, whilst she’s a ten – an almost perfect,
effortless, ten. And the only bit of her that’s not a perfect ten is her tits, a fluid, floating mantelpiece of toned flesh
thrusting jauntily forward like the bosom on a warship’s figurehead. Her bosom buddies, she calls them.
Jessamie, they christened her. The Afterbirth, I sometimes call her, but only in my mind, when I’m mad. The hospital
made a mistake, you see, and mother came to term expecting just the one. That was me, the bonny bouncing bundle of
fun they’d striven for for ages, only then they found Jess – hidden, as it were, behind me.
She was ever so tiny, by all accounts, and for a while it was touch and go. Touch and go for mum and dad, too – they
touched her and they went - to hospital. Stayed by her cot-side almost all the time, shuttling expressed milk in flasks to
me at home with gran. Jess was very precious, their unexpected bonus, their gift of god.
You wouldn’t think to see her now that it was such a close-run thing. Fit as a butcher’s dog, gorgeous to look at, a wet-
dream of a body blessed with an eye-popping pair of tits, and knows it, always has.
I’ve always tried to love her. How could I not love my own precious, almost lost, little sister?
It isn’t easy. Not her fault, at first, but they coddled and petted her from the instant she arrived, made her feel she was
terribly special. And rightly, but she grew to believe it. And I might have minded less – I received plenty of attention from
friends and family, and my parents didn’t exactly mistreat me. They loved me, don’t doubt it, and always did their best
for me, but somehow I was always made to feel I owed her something – and something special at that.
I wouldn’t necessarily have minded that Jessamie got everything she wanted, the instant she wanted it, except that she
always wanted everything of mine as well.
Birthdays came, Christmases. Rapacious eyes would focus as hungrily on the gifts I opened as those she opened of her
own. And whatever I got she wanted, especially if I was over the moon with it. She’d snatch it out of my hand and play
with it for a while and I would cry, and mum and dad would tell me not to be upset, to be grateful I had my precious little
sister and to be patient because she would soon tire of it.
She always did, or almost always, and most of the things she laid her hands on came back to me pretty quickly. They
were never quite the same, though, somehow second hand, the shine taken off them, and I knew that for some
incomprehensible reason it was that which Jessamie wanted. Our parents would smile indulgently, call her pretty names,
until I became convinced I must be wrong and they, of course, were right.
It never ended. Toddlers to teenagers she laid first claim to anything that I felt mine and special. Dolls and doll-house,
new clothes, gifts of make-up and toiletries in later years, tapes and records. Even my first kitten learned to follow
Jessamie, not me, to bed. And she commandeered our parents, too. When I’d come home with a good report or full of
excitement at some new experience, the moment they began to talk about it she’d say something, pick up an old
photograph perhaps and so easily swing the conversation back around to herself.
She could be unbelievable. Sometimes I’d use my burgeoning skills to craft a special card, write them a story or a poem.
She’d spend money from our piggy bank to buy chocolates or flowers, or she’d forget and begin to sob about how much
they must hate her for not being to them the good daughter I was. Immediately, of course, they would protest, rush to
demonstrate their love for her and their even-handedness, and she would be the centre of it, my labours forgotten, set
aside to appease her.
Sometimes powerless to stop her, sometimes because I loved her, I let her do it. There were times, perhaps, I should
have smacked her, right in those perfect little teeth, but even inward protest nurtured a sense of guilt. Always strong, I
had lacked for little, whilst she had been lucky to live. In the womb itself I had taken the lion’s share and she had almost
died because of it – or so I felt.
Our later teens were hardest. The big shared bedroom was always full of her, of her scent, her discarded underwear
and things. Believing myself chubby then, the sight of her scanty little knickers always seemed some kind of
admonishment.
She’d parade around naked, too. A lissom female body is a lovely sight to me, and I might have enjoyed such free
expression had it been someone else, but hers was a deliberate flaunting of herself, her pretty bouncing breasts, her
perfect little bottom. Manipulative, even aggressive, it bothered me because, really, that is what she intended it to do.
She lounging naked and spread-legged, I’d enter our room or emerge damp-haired from a blind-folding towel to see far
more than the downy little triangle of her pubis than anyone but a yearning lover might have wanted. Without ever
wanting to I came to know her pouting little vaginal endowments long before I’d really begun to get to know my own.
I wasn’t keen. And I didn’t like her attitude to her sex. During those last months of sharing she’d touch herself, from time
to time, and tell me:
“That’s my key to the door, Beth. That will get me everywhere I want to go.” And go she did, even then.
Being sister to the high-school mattress was not the best of distinctions. For some reason boys found it hard to accept
that one sister could be so less ‘easy’ than the other and I found myself the butt of many malicious jokes, the elected
target forced too often to ‘accidentally’ hear the most lurid locker-room gossip about her.
But she kept her view. For about six years we scarcely saw each other, attending different Universities and finding our
own way. I moved to the city, slaved, and brought myself to where I am, happy in my own little apartment and enjoying
my work with a publisher.
I didn’t find it easy to get boyfriends. Through Jess I’d encountered their darker side too young perhaps and I had grown
mistrustful, deeply sceptical. But my work brought me into contact with a lot of liberated and liberating books and
computers had long become the main-stay of all kinds of design so I was quick on the scene of the Internet. Between
the two I read and saw things that were shocking, read and saw things quite delightful. And knowing I’d want and
probably get a man some day, but not feeling in any hurry, erotic books, chat rooms and certain special web sites were
my only lovers until James came on the scene.
James was a lovely man, an artist who came into our office one day and lifted me off my feet with a look. Passionate
about everything he became a regular visitor to my apartment and proved himself no less passionate toward me. Two
years we were together as much as his marriage would allow and, given the state of that marriage, that was quite a lot. I
guess I was able to love a married man from a safe distance, though there was no distance between us whenever we
were together. He was a brilliant and inventive fuck with a lovely tongue and a lovely, modest sized cock, both of which
he could use entirely interchangeably. As often as we cursed, called out the names of deities or cried we were laughing
when we came together. Simple magic.
My toy-box made him laugh, too. You know the kind of thing – painted mostly lurid pink and white, half seat, half
container, decorated with pictures of dolls, teddy bears, skipping ropes and the like. Jess and I had had one each, and
mine – which I’d brought to the city as a keepsake - was one of very few to be fitted early with a padlock. Only now there
were no dolls or make up sets within it, only one or two carefully folded PVC uniforms, my French Maid outfit and my
collection of toys: my Rambunctious Rabbit, my Giddy Goldfinger and a number of others. There’s still a teddy bear in
the box, but he’s a strap on, and poor dog-eared Dudley Bear never ever nestled where this little teddy goes.
So every time became play-time, with James, and it was he who bought my Magnum O'Puss just a little while before he
moved up-state, and still sends me a Kitty Kisser Flava-Pot at least every birthday, with a note to say he wishes he was
there to taste them. So far I’ve kept them for him, hoping he’ll return.
But no sooner had he left than Jess arrived, one storm wet day, skimpy clothes rain-plastered to her body, nipples pink
and erect through her thin white blouse, and she stayed. My lovely little flat wasn’t mine anymore, and her flimsy little
briefs, her perfect naked body, her brittle laugh and grinning vulva greedily took possession.
If I missed a top or blouse, Jess had it, had worn it and, as often as not, had scored in it.
“The way to a man’s heart, dear Beth,” she’d too-often tell me: “is through his cock.” Or: “The fastest route to the
boardroom is the bedroom.”
And in my flat, wearing my clothes, eating my food and treating her guests to it, Jess spent no little time in the bedroom.
That’s how I came to discover that she was a screamer. Barely seconds into a bed-spring bouncing encounter she
would be screaming, laughing, noisily giggling – and sometimes all of these at once - and she’d encourage his
vocalisation till the flat reverberated to a cacophony of sex.
I can’t say I liked it. Were she someone else it might even have been quite funny, but I knew Jess simply hadn’t a
thought for how I felt, unless it was to despise it, and that hurt.
Early home from work one day, before she moved to her new job, I was startled to hear her giggling and shrieking in the
early afternoon. I crept into the flat, scared I’d find them fucking on the kitchen table, and discovered the noise came
from my room.
She was using my Magnum, my favourite, wonderful G spot goal-scorer, and the gift of my lovely James. And she was
using it on my bed, stark naked, back arching, one hand caressing her own left tit, the other between her knees-bent
legs, fingers up inside herself. She saw me and screamed with jagged laughter, coming even as I stood there. And then
she eased the vibrator out, switched it off and flicked it casually, still wet with her own juices, onto my soft pillow.
“Fucking brilliant!” she said: “I didn’t know you even had one!”
“Well I do!” I snarled, absolutely furious. “And that is it. That’s my vibrator. For fuck’s sake, Jess, that thing has been
inside me!”
She looked up, feigning puzzlement, a half-smile on her lips, then her smile broadened and she began to giggle, then
laughed, wrapping her arms around herself:
“Oh Christ, Beth!” she tittered: “It’s only a fucking vibrator, sweetheart, not your lover’s cock. It’s a piece of plastic, love,
and a bit of battery power - hardly infidelity, you know!”
She made me feel stupid – just as she intended. And then she told me about her new job working – guess where? I
couldn’t believe it. She had occupied my living space and now she was about to infiltrate my working space. My
colleagues, my friends, would get to know her. I felt suddenly terribly vulnerable.
It wasn’t nice. From the moment she walked in, impossibly brazen, slim, poised and gorgeous, there was scarcely a man,
and not a few women either, for whom she was not the centre of the universe. People buzzed around her like
mosquitoes round sweating lovers in a netted bed, longing to make contact, to reach and touch, and many thought I
should be proud.
But I knew how she worked. Often I would hear her ‘at work’, in her bedroom, the door barely closed behind her. And I
heard the locker-room chat about her too:
“God but she wants it!” a familiar, disembodied voice, known to and desired by me, exclaimed: “From the instant you
touch her pussy – your cock, finger or tongue – she’s screaming, almost beside herself with ecstasy. I’ve never known a
piece like her before…”
Charming! It worked though. A year into her career, three years into mine, she was in the boardroom. In a supporting
role, yes, but in the boardroom, leaning on Mike and pretending to be whispering marketing advice. Perhaps sometimes
it was. Perhaps marketing gave him hard-ons.
Once she'd arrived the only office romantics who came after me were wankers lusting to score a double, to fuck two
twins. She even told me about one who wanted both of us at once, and egged me on, but I – for once – I defied her.
Then James sent me another toy, though I don’t know where he got it from, invited me to use it and to think about him
while I did so.
It’s small, but very powerful. Fitting snug inside the pussy you can wear it all the day in juicy secret. Sitting down, if you
move the right way in your panties, it pokes about very nicely. Or you can switch it on. The remote has a small intensity
dial, and occasionally, watching her among her leering companions, reflecting how jealous some would be to have seen
what I have seen, I gave myself a little, satisfying, electronic buzz.
First time it was truly amazing, even a little frightening. Almost blasting myself out of my chair, even as I turned it off I
came, liquidly. Flushed and trying not to squirm, dying for a pee break, I didn’t dare move from my chair till I was sure
any little puddle of my juices would have dried. It needed handling with care.
The crunch came for Jess and me only a short while after. It was not unusual for her to come home very late, sometimes
to not come home at all, and sometimes despairing of her uninvited infiltration I would try to tidy up in both our shared
and private spaces. That’s how I found the polaroids, including some she’d brought from home.
Toby had been my only real boyfriend in highschool, almost my fiancé, when suddenly it was over and he, red-faced
and miserable, could not be prevailed on to explain. Now, however reluctantly, however miserably, I could not but
understand. He was red-faced in the picture too, though not as purple-red as his cock, clearly visible between her teeth.
Jess had had to have him too, and but for his own conscience and embarrassment I know full well that she would have
let him come to me like everything else she touched, used and second-hand.
She doesn’t live with me now.
Monday morning conference, Jess and the others mouthing silently like goldfish behind glass walls, sitting round the
vast mahogany conference table, sipping the Director’s coffee. She was whispering in Mike’s ear, his smile clear
evidence that her words had nothing to do with the project. The big glass door slid open as a blonde, mini-skirted drone
named Bunty made a precarious exit balancing coffee cups, and Jessamie screamed.
The squeal carried clearly through the still sliding door, Bunty jumping and collapsing in a cascade of dirty crockery,
several of the men jolting to a sudden, memory-laden halt. Beyond the wonderfully transparent glass we all saw Jess
grabbing for her purse, trying to reach inside it, struggling, body jolting, neck arching, face a grimacing mask.
Collapsing suddenly sideways, purse in hand, its contents scattering on table and floor, she lay kicking and screaming,
giggling and crying.
As she writhed, helpless, her erstwhile colleagues watched in helpless terror, eventually summoning the company
nurse. And it was she who found it, somewhat publicly. She wrestled with the remote just as Jess had done, but it took
her a while to stop it.
I should never have told Jess about my lovely little gizmo. I had to know that if I did she’d ‘borrow’ it just surely as she
borrowed everything I loved. And I could have warned her, I suppose, about the pocket remote’s big brother.
The idea is, you see, that the woman wears it and pleasures herself when she wants to. But the second remote allows
her partner to take over, over-rides the smaller one altogether. No-one had used it that way on me except myself when I’
d wanted the much more powerful effect, but it works though. I proved that. I proved it on that lovely morning when I truly
fucked my cheating sister as she sat in the fish tank boardroom.
RVRaiment
Copyright R V Raiment 2003
for the Solo category.
Jessamie
By:RVRaiment
Through our lifetime I have tried very hard to love my sister. She’s my twin, though you’d never guess it for we’re not
identical in any way. Staying a slimmish size 12 is a constant effort for me, whilst she’s a ten – an almost perfect,
effortless, ten. And the only bit of her that’s not a perfect ten is her tits, a fluid, floating mantelpiece of toned flesh
thrusting jauntily forward like the bosom on a warship’s figurehead. Her bosom buddies, she calls them.
Jessamie, they christened her. The Afterbirth, I sometimes call her, but only in my mind, when I’m mad. The hospital
made a mistake, you see, and mother came to term expecting just the one. That was me, the bonny bouncing bundle of
fun they’d striven for for ages, only then they found Jess – hidden, as it were, behind me.
She was ever so tiny, by all accounts, and for a while it was touch and go. Touch and go for mum and dad, too – they
touched her and they went - to hospital. Stayed by her cot-side almost all the time, shuttling expressed milk in flasks to
me at home with gran. Jess was very precious, their unexpected bonus, their gift of god.
You wouldn’t think to see her now that it was such a close-run thing. Fit as a butcher’s dog, gorgeous to look at, a wet-
dream of a body blessed with an eye-popping pair of tits, and knows it, always has.
I’ve always tried to love her. How could I not love my own precious, almost lost, little sister?
It isn’t easy. Not her fault, at first, but they coddled and petted her from the instant she arrived, made her feel she was
terribly special. And rightly, but she grew to believe it. And I might have minded less – I received plenty of attention from
friends and family, and my parents didn’t exactly mistreat me. They loved me, don’t doubt it, and always did their best
for me, but somehow I was always made to feel I owed her something – and something special at that.
I wouldn’t necessarily have minded that Jessamie got everything she wanted, the instant she wanted it, except that she
always wanted everything of mine as well.
Birthdays came, Christmases. Rapacious eyes would focus as hungrily on the gifts I opened as those she opened of her
own. And whatever I got she wanted, especially if I was over the moon with it. She’d snatch it out of my hand and play
with it for a while and I would cry, and mum and dad would tell me not to be upset, to be grateful I had my precious little
sister and to be patient because she would soon tire of it.
She always did, or almost always, and most of the things she laid her hands on came back to me pretty quickly. They
were never quite the same, though, somehow second hand, the shine taken off them, and I knew that for some
incomprehensible reason it was that which Jessamie wanted. Our parents would smile indulgently, call her pretty names,
until I became convinced I must be wrong and they, of course, were right.
It never ended. Toddlers to teenagers she laid first claim to anything that I felt mine and special. Dolls and doll-house,
new clothes, gifts of make-up and toiletries in later years, tapes and records. Even my first kitten learned to follow
Jessamie, not me, to bed. And she commandeered our parents, too. When I’d come home with a good report or full of
excitement at some new experience, the moment they began to talk about it she’d say something, pick up an old
photograph perhaps and so easily swing the conversation back around to herself.
She could be unbelievable. Sometimes I’d use my burgeoning skills to craft a special card, write them a story or a poem.
She’d spend money from our piggy bank to buy chocolates or flowers, or she’d forget and begin to sob about how much
they must hate her for not being to them the good daughter I was. Immediately, of course, they would protest, rush to
demonstrate their love for her and their even-handedness, and she would be the centre of it, my labours forgotten, set
aside to appease her.
Sometimes powerless to stop her, sometimes because I loved her, I let her do it. There were times, perhaps, I should
have smacked her, right in those perfect little teeth, but even inward protest nurtured a sense of guilt. Always strong, I
had lacked for little, whilst she had been lucky to live. In the womb itself I had taken the lion’s share and she had almost
died because of it – or so I felt.
Our later teens were hardest. The big shared bedroom was always full of her, of her scent, her discarded underwear
and things. Believing myself chubby then, the sight of her scanty little knickers always seemed some kind of
admonishment.
She’d parade around naked, too. A lissom female body is a lovely sight to me, and I might have enjoyed such free
expression had it been someone else, but hers was a deliberate flaunting of herself, her pretty bouncing breasts, her
perfect little bottom. Manipulative, even aggressive, it bothered me because, really, that is what she intended it to do.
She lounging naked and spread-legged, I’d enter our room or emerge damp-haired from a blind-folding towel to see far
more than the downy little triangle of her pubis than anyone but a yearning lover might have wanted. Without ever
wanting to I came to know her pouting little vaginal endowments long before I’d really begun to get to know my own.
I wasn’t keen. And I didn’t like her attitude to her sex. During those last months of sharing she’d touch herself, from time
to time, and tell me:
“That’s my key to the door, Beth. That will get me everywhere I want to go.” And go she did, even then.
Being sister to the high-school mattress was not the best of distinctions. For some reason boys found it hard to accept
that one sister could be so less ‘easy’ than the other and I found myself the butt of many malicious jokes, the elected
target forced too often to ‘accidentally’ hear the most lurid locker-room gossip about her.
But she kept her view. For about six years we scarcely saw each other, attending different Universities and finding our
own way. I moved to the city, slaved, and brought myself to where I am, happy in my own little apartment and enjoying
my work with a publisher.
I didn’t find it easy to get boyfriends. Through Jess I’d encountered their darker side too young perhaps and I had grown
mistrustful, deeply sceptical. But my work brought me into contact with a lot of liberated and liberating books and
computers had long become the main-stay of all kinds of design so I was quick on the scene of the Internet. Between
the two I read and saw things that were shocking, read and saw things quite delightful. And knowing I’d want and
probably get a man some day, but not feeling in any hurry, erotic books, chat rooms and certain special web sites were
my only lovers until James came on the scene.
James was a lovely man, an artist who came into our office one day and lifted me off my feet with a look. Passionate
about everything he became a regular visitor to my apartment and proved himself no less passionate toward me. Two
years we were together as much as his marriage would allow and, given the state of that marriage, that was quite a lot. I
guess I was able to love a married man from a safe distance, though there was no distance between us whenever we
were together. He was a brilliant and inventive fuck with a lovely tongue and a lovely, modest sized cock, both of which
he could use entirely interchangeably. As often as we cursed, called out the names of deities or cried we were laughing
when we came together. Simple magic.
My toy-box made him laugh, too. You know the kind of thing – painted mostly lurid pink and white, half seat, half
container, decorated with pictures of dolls, teddy bears, skipping ropes and the like. Jess and I had had one each, and
mine – which I’d brought to the city as a keepsake - was one of very few to be fitted early with a padlock. Only now there
were no dolls or make up sets within it, only one or two carefully folded PVC uniforms, my French Maid outfit and my
collection of toys: my Rambunctious Rabbit, my Giddy Goldfinger and a number of others. There’s still a teddy bear in
the box, but he’s a strap on, and poor dog-eared Dudley Bear never ever nestled where this little teddy goes.
So every time became play-time, with James, and it was he who bought my Magnum O'Puss just a little while before he
moved up-state, and still sends me a Kitty Kisser Flava-Pot at least every birthday, with a note to say he wishes he was
there to taste them. So far I’ve kept them for him, hoping he’ll return.
But no sooner had he left than Jess arrived, one storm wet day, skimpy clothes rain-plastered to her body, nipples pink
and erect through her thin white blouse, and she stayed. My lovely little flat wasn’t mine anymore, and her flimsy little
briefs, her perfect naked body, her brittle laugh and grinning vulva greedily took possession.
If I missed a top or blouse, Jess had it, had worn it and, as often as not, had scored in it.
“The way to a man’s heart, dear Beth,” she’d too-often tell me: “is through his cock.” Or: “The fastest route to the
boardroom is the bedroom.”
And in my flat, wearing my clothes, eating my food and treating her guests to it, Jess spent no little time in the bedroom.
That’s how I came to discover that she was a screamer. Barely seconds into a bed-spring bouncing encounter she
would be screaming, laughing, noisily giggling – and sometimes all of these at once - and she’d encourage his
vocalisation till the flat reverberated to a cacophony of sex.
I can’t say I liked it. Were she someone else it might even have been quite funny, but I knew Jess simply hadn’t a
thought for how I felt, unless it was to despise it, and that hurt.
Early home from work one day, before she moved to her new job, I was startled to hear her giggling and shrieking in the
early afternoon. I crept into the flat, scared I’d find them fucking on the kitchen table, and discovered the noise came
from my room.
She was using my Magnum, my favourite, wonderful G spot goal-scorer, and the gift of my lovely James. And she was
using it on my bed, stark naked, back arching, one hand caressing her own left tit, the other between her knees-bent
legs, fingers up inside herself. She saw me and screamed with jagged laughter, coming even as I stood there. And then
she eased the vibrator out, switched it off and flicked it casually, still wet with her own juices, onto my soft pillow.
“Fucking brilliant!” she said: “I didn’t know you even had one!”
“Well I do!” I snarled, absolutely furious. “And that is it. That’s my vibrator. For fuck’s sake, Jess, that thing has been
inside me!”
She looked up, feigning puzzlement, a half-smile on her lips, then her smile broadened and she began to giggle, then
laughed, wrapping her arms around herself:
“Oh Christ, Beth!” she tittered: “It’s only a fucking vibrator, sweetheart, not your lover’s cock. It’s a piece of plastic, love,
and a bit of battery power - hardly infidelity, you know!”
She made me feel stupid – just as she intended. And then she told me about her new job working – guess where? I
couldn’t believe it. She had occupied my living space and now she was about to infiltrate my working space. My
colleagues, my friends, would get to know her. I felt suddenly terribly vulnerable.
It wasn’t nice. From the moment she walked in, impossibly brazen, slim, poised and gorgeous, there was scarcely a man,
and not a few women either, for whom she was not the centre of the universe. People buzzed around her like
mosquitoes round sweating lovers in a netted bed, longing to make contact, to reach and touch, and many thought I
should be proud.
But I knew how she worked. Often I would hear her ‘at work’, in her bedroom, the door barely closed behind her. And I
heard the locker-room chat about her too:
“God but she wants it!” a familiar, disembodied voice, known to and desired by me, exclaimed: “From the instant you
touch her pussy – your cock, finger or tongue – she’s screaming, almost beside herself with ecstasy. I’ve never known a
piece like her before…”
Charming! It worked though. A year into her career, three years into mine, she was in the boardroom. In a supporting
role, yes, but in the boardroom, leaning on Mike and pretending to be whispering marketing advice. Perhaps sometimes
it was. Perhaps marketing gave him hard-ons.
Once she'd arrived the only office romantics who came after me were wankers lusting to score a double, to fuck two
twins. She even told me about one who wanted both of us at once, and egged me on, but I – for once – I defied her.
Then James sent me another toy, though I don’t know where he got it from, invited me to use it and to think about him
while I did so.
It’s small, but very powerful. Fitting snug inside the pussy you can wear it all the day in juicy secret. Sitting down, if you
move the right way in your panties, it pokes about very nicely. Or you can switch it on. The remote has a small intensity
dial, and occasionally, watching her among her leering companions, reflecting how jealous some would be to have seen
what I have seen, I gave myself a little, satisfying, electronic buzz.
First time it was truly amazing, even a little frightening. Almost blasting myself out of my chair, even as I turned it off I
came, liquidly. Flushed and trying not to squirm, dying for a pee break, I didn’t dare move from my chair till I was sure
any little puddle of my juices would have dried. It needed handling with care.
The crunch came for Jess and me only a short while after. It was not unusual for her to come home very late, sometimes
to not come home at all, and sometimes despairing of her uninvited infiltration I would try to tidy up in both our shared
and private spaces. That’s how I found the polaroids, including some she’d brought from home.
Toby had been my only real boyfriend in highschool, almost my fiancé, when suddenly it was over and he, red-faced
and miserable, could not be prevailed on to explain. Now, however reluctantly, however miserably, I could not but
understand. He was red-faced in the picture too, though not as purple-red as his cock, clearly visible between her teeth.
Jess had had to have him too, and but for his own conscience and embarrassment I know full well that she would have
let him come to me like everything else she touched, used and second-hand.
She doesn’t live with me now.
Monday morning conference, Jess and the others mouthing silently like goldfish behind glass walls, sitting round the
vast mahogany conference table, sipping the Director’s coffee. She was whispering in Mike’s ear, his smile clear
evidence that her words had nothing to do with the project. The big glass door slid open as a blonde, mini-skirted drone
named Bunty made a precarious exit balancing coffee cups, and Jessamie screamed.
The squeal carried clearly through the still sliding door, Bunty jumping and collapsing in a cascade of dirty crockery,
several of the men jolting to a sudden, memory-laden halt. Beyond the wonderfully transparent glass we all saw Jess
grabbing for her purse, trying to reach inside it, struggling, body jolting, neck arching, face a grimacing mask.
Collapsing suddenly sideways, purse in hand, its contents scattering on table and floor, she lay kicking and screaming,
giggling and crying.
As she writhed, helpless, her erstwhile colleagues watched in helpless terror, eventually summoning the company
nurse. And it was she who found it, somewhat publicly. She wrestled with the remote just as Jess had done, but it took
her a while to stop it.
I should never have told Jess about my lovely little gizmo. I had to know that if I did she’d ‘borrow’ it just surely as she
borrowed everything I loved. And I could have warned her, I suppose, about the pocket remote’s big brother.
The idea is, you see, that the woman wears it and pleasures herself when she wants to. But the second remote allows
her partner to take over, over-rides the smaller one altogether. No-one had used it that way on me except myself when I’
d wanted the much more powerful effect, but it works though. I proved that. I proved it on that lovely morning when I truly
fucked my cheating sister as she sat in the fish tank boardroom.
RVRaiment
Copyright R V Raiment 2003
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