Belle leaves puddles on the stairs leading to her apartment, her shoes squeaking and belching out water with each step. She thought she could get home before the rain started, but she'd been wrong. Sheets of water are scourging the streets of Boot Bay, and the waning day has turned swiftly to night.
She gets inside. This is the first place she's lived that wasn't her parent's house or a dormitory. She's a woman with her own apartment. It's a small, shabby place above an abandoned storefront. From the faded sign reading "Fun Time," Next to a smiling clown, she surmises it was once a toy store. But it's been empty for as long as she's been in town. Belle's proud of the accomplishment that having a place of her own represents, but it's scary too. Especially, on a night like this with the thunder cracking like bombs outside.
Her hall mirror shows her water slick face, mascara running, her blonde hair stringy and plastered to her scalp. "A drowned rat," she tells herself in harsh judgement.
She switches the big floor-standing radio on, to hear something, anything, other than pounding rain on her windows and the distant roars of thunder.
"...antha Cross awakes to find herself tied to a chair. 'Someone help me!' Who will save this sweet librarian from almost certain doom at the hands of the Macalester Gang? Who?"
The Masked Marauder radio drama is on and the narrator shrieks out the questions as though demanding an answer from the listener. Belle considers switching it over to some jazz, but getting out of her wet clothes is more important. She heads into the bathroom and starts running a bath, depositing a large dose of bubbling soap under the faucet. It won't help her get dry but it will be a nice way to warm up.
She crosses back through the living room to go to the bedroom. The narrator is saying: "The villainous thug, Knuckles, slaps Samantha Cross. *Smack* 'Eeeeeek! You'll never get away with this. My hero will save me.' 'Ain't no one coming to save you, you dizzy dame.'"
In the bedroom, Belle closes her closet door so as not to see herself in her full-length mirror as she undresses. She peels her drenched clothes from her skin and hangs them on the bed posts to dry off. She tries not to think of the clothes or her body as she disrobes. Phrases she learned as a child ring in her head, "A proper woman is modest, always," and "Nakedness is Satan's doorway." She runs for the bathroom, knowing that she should have gotten a towel or her robe beforehand, and now she has to walk sinfully nude. Even a few feet from the closed privacy of her bedroom is extremely immodest and definitely not the actions of a proper woman. Her head hurts from her internal scolding and the shame of her mistake.
A bolt of lightning blazes across the windows. This is no normal flash. It turns everything white and her vision switches to a negative, where light and dark is reversed. She stumbles into a wall outside the bathroom, disoriented.
"'Take that!' *Pow* *Bam* 'Curses. It's the Masked Marauder. Let's book it, boys.' 'My heroooooooo—'"
The thunder rolls in, shaking the building and reducing the radio to a squall of static.
Belle steadies herself with a hand on her beating heart and blinks the spots from her eyes.
"'Don't worry. I'll have you untied in a jiffy.' 'What's the hurry, big boy. Why don't you show me what you have under that cape first.' Needing no further invitation, our intrepid hero takes of his pants.*Zip* *Swoosh* *Bwang* 'Oh, leave the mask on.'"
Belle closes the door and eases into the claw-foot tub. The water is hot and works miracles on her tight muscles. She sighs in contentment.
Despite the storm, it's been a good day. Cloud Emperor stood up to the attack and got them safety home.
Wait! Belle wonders why that name came to her mind. It's Cloud Empress. It's always been Cloud Empress. She shakes her head and tells herself she's silly.
But it has been a good day. They might not have gotten the full reward, but she has money in her pocket that she can send home to her family. Or maybe this time, she'd get herself a new dress. And some decent lingerie. Hmm, yes, something lacy that will drive a lover crazy.
But of course, she has no lover. Toby has always been eager to claim that role, but he just doesn't do it for her.
Belle wants someone taller, fitter, with healthy, lickable skin, and luscious full lips. Someone like Avery.
She lowers her hand below the surface of the water and rests it between her legs.
Yes, Avery. With her high-heel boots on, those spectacular breasts of hers sit right at Belle's eye-level. How nice it would be to dance with her, burying her head in that intoxicating cleavage and gripping onto that firm butt.
A soft squeak escapes her as she slips a finger in her pussy, imagining it's Avery doing it to her. She even says aloud, "Yes! Fuck me hard, you magnificent bitch!" This playful order sends her finger into a frenzy of thrusts. In her mind, their mouths wrestle against each other, thick with drool. It falls onto their eager tongues and runs down their chins.
Before long, she's kneeling on the bottom of the tub bent over the side with her breasts swinging free. "Do me! Do me!" she screams as she slams down inside of herself from behind. She's never wanted anything so much in her whole life. Avery! Avery! Her tanned skin against Belle's pale flesh. Sucking on her melons until they fill her mouth and make her gag. And her pussy! She wants to engulf her face in her love delta and taste the sweet, sweet nectar.
"Ahhhhhhhh!" She moans giving voice to her warm, rolling orgasm.
Belle drops back into the bath with a splash and sighs again. It has been a good day. But she has a feeling tomorrow might be even better.
In a shack by the beach, rain batters a tin roof with the sound of hammers and nails. Avery sits by the window reading and trying to ignore the storm. She flips idly through the pages of her magazine, a flashy woman's journal with color illustration along side the black and white photos. She picked it up because it had an article on the disappearance of Dr. Carmela Goodram, the renowned female scientist, but it turns out to be a fluff piece celebrating how Yale let a woman become an Adjunct Professor only for her to disappoint them by abandon her post without even asking permission. It even hints that she stole her superior's research and has gone into hiding to conduct dangerous experiments. It's hardly the women getting ahead in the world story Avery had been hoping for.
The rest of the articles consist mostly of beauty and fashion tips. She's glancing over an article on "How to Land Your Ideal Man" when a full page ad for a glamorous new parasol catches her eye. The woman in it is drawn with pinafore dress, holding out the decorative umbrella, all pink and covered in dainty fabric roses. She has her head turned coyly, and the artist has made it seem as though she's caught in mid-bat of her eyelashes. The words beside her say: "Get yourself the New Modest Rose Ultra. For the choosy chaste woman!"
It's a woman that Avery will never be like. So prim and demure. She'd have no problem landing her ideal man, Avery thinks.
When men see Avery they only want one thing. She is too rough and outspoken for marriage or anything long term, in their eyes. She's not even sure is wants to get married. Would she really want to be tied down to a coarse slob like Jim. Making him his dinner and darning his socks. Ugh. No way. She wants adventure and someone who'll love her for everything she is. Everything she can be.
The flash of lighting burns through her room and makes her sit up straight. She begins counting: one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thous—"
An ungodly boom shatters the silence and knocks the electricity out.
Avery finds herself breathing hard from the shock of the noise. Not even three seconds between lightning and thunder. That means the strike is less than a mile away. Almost overhead.
But why is it so hard to take a breath? It's her corset. For some reason it's constricting her to the point where she's gasping for air.
Pulling at the knots and ribbons, she rushes to the bedroom pulling it off as fast as she can manage, but it isn't a garment designed for convenience. She finally rips it off and throws it to the floor sucking in deep breaths of the steamy summer air laden with the storm's rich humidity.
The incandescent bulbs in her house struggle back to life, their filaments turning dark orange like embers before becoming fully aglow.
Avery turns to her dresser mirror and sees herself: face flushed, her breasts heaving with each exhale, a sheen of sweat covering them and showing off their plump roundness. She cups them, and the soft flesh overflow her hands' boundaries. They seem so big, but they've been like this since she was sixteen. Haven't they?
The corset looks normal too. She picks it up to examine it closer. The tag puzzles her. It says it's a 38-C, which doesn't make any sense at all since she's a natural G-cup. What the hell is going on?
She looks at herself again, sees how proudly the large mounds sit on her chest, her perky dark-chocolate nipples pointing skyward. Putting her hands on her hips, she poses. Yes, she looks good. Damn good! Her skin is smooth and unblemished from moles or stretchmarks. Why has she been hiding this?
The image of herself walking down the streets of Boot Bay like this pops into her mind. She imagines everyone watching her with lustful and envious stares. Her nipples harden and butterflies rush around her stomach at the thought. It would be so naughty but so fun. But she could never. Could she?
The corset is flung into a dark corner, and she returns to the living room and her magazine, enjoying the sway and bounce of her unbound breast as she walks. Along the way, she switches on the radio. The old vacuum tubes take a second to warm up and the volume rises along with their brightness.
"*Slap* *Slap* 'Ahhhh-uhh' *Schlup* 'Oh yeah, Baby. Oh yeah. Right there!' *Schlup* *Schlup* 'Don't stop!'"
The Masked Marauder show's on. It must be near the end after the latest damsel in distress has been rescue, and they're going at it like dogs in heat. It's a relaxing sound to have on in the background.
Avery finds the place she left off in the magazine with that article on "How to Lay Your Ideal Mate." She can't help but look at the girl in the ad again. She's impressive, the way she stands there boldly with her wide stance and her hips thrust out, her eyes directly on the viewer. Her black bra and stockings draw attention big pink strap-on in the center of the image which extends like a torpedo from her groin. "Get yourself the New Brazen Rose Ultra. For the choosy dominant woman!" the ad tells her. But somehow she can't see herself wearing one. This woman just isn't a representation of her. The girl in the picture is too sexy. Too in control. A woman who knows what she wants and is willing to take.
Biting her lip, she wonders if she'll ever find someone like that.
sereminar· Oct 22, 2020
