The Wishing Stone 1: Obsession

The Wishing Stone Part 1: Obsession

I will never forget the moment the world as I knew it, ended.

Of course, I had everything to do with it.

It all started several years ago…I was a college student working on my capstone…my final project that would make or break me…earn or deny me of my degree.

My major involves art…and so in many ways I had to come up with some great artistic design project.  The problem was, I had no subjects to work with.

Well that’s only partly true…I had plenty of subjects I could cover…but none of them interested me.

Ever since I took a pencil to paper I’ve had this fascination with women.  They are, to me, the epitome of pleasure fulfillment.  Their bodies are engineered in such a way that no matter what situations they get into…bad or good…some good always comes out of it for them.

To me, a woman is like the very definition of a circle.  Women are curvy, round in personality; seldom have friction, and their lives and emotions move about in cycles.  It may sound rather weird, but they are quite possibly the only force of nature that is perfectly in sync with art.

From Venus de Milo to Mona Lisa…all the women shown in art have been ideal…even those women who were intentionally portrayed to be hideous…such as Picasso’s work.

And so, as an artist, I literally obsessed over women.  They took shape in my drawings and paintings, both exact and abstract.  The Valkyrie of Norse mythology, Helen of Troy, Marie Antoinette, even the classically legendary Eve and Lilith of ancient times, I would artistically capture them all.

But of course, as a student, I needed to learn how to draw women.  If the subject I wanted to learn about was women, I would need to learn every single detail of a woman’s body.

At first I started out with art history, and anatomy study books, but seldom do these ever satisfy me.  My artwork seemed to suffer as a result.  I needed more.  I needed…the presence of a woman.

Most people probably thought I was either crazy or lecherous.  And while I cannot deny those claims in some capacity (I am a man after all, not to mention something of an eccentric artist), I hold a certain amount of respect for women as figures of pristine art culture.

The day I put up an ad on the campus bulletin board for a female art model, I didn’t really know what to expect.  Most women I came across either already had boyfriends, were seldom ever artistically inclined, or point blank they just thought I was a pervert.  I certainly got teased by my art colleagues who said I was desperate to find a girlfriend…but really…my desire to create art goes deeper than that.

To me, art is akin to sex…absorbing every color and shape into oneself and capturing the feelings and emotions one experiences in and out of the canvass onto paper.  There has never been a day that goes by when I felt I could not treasure art or even the artistic process.

Three days went by…then a week.  I was starting to have my doubts.  I didn’t think any college students would be interested.  Three weeks went by and I was nearly complete with the first portion of my capstone project.  Of course, the project I was working on was half-hearted and didn’t have the very essence of what I really wanted to work on…it was a paltry substitute to satisfy my art professors.  By this time I had given up hope of finding a model…let alone a decent one.

I had just returned from the Art Building late that night back to my dormitory to find I had a message on my answering machine.

“Hello, John Reese…?  This is Samantha Parson…Uh…if you get this message; I’m calling about the ad I found at the bulletin board for being an Art Model…?  I’m really interested in doing a piece with you.  If you could call me at my house number of 867-5482, if you could call me back when possible, that would be great.  Thanks.”

She sounded to be either a sophomore or junior level college student…but I didn’t hesitate, it was 10 pm and students would still be awake, so I called her.

“Hello, this is Sam…”

“Hi there, it’s John, thanks for contacting me…”

“Oh!  It’s you!  So you want me to model for your art projects?”

Her voice seemed surprisingly excited, as though she were all too eager to work with me.  There was another tone in her voice that hinted at the idea that she was preoccupied with something, although I hadn’t the faintest idea what it could be.

“I definitely would love to have you work with me…how’s tomorrow afternoon at 2 pm sound?”

“You’ve got me for all that afternoon!  Just so you know, I’m a big fan of your artwork…I’ve seen it in the library displays and even in the halls.  I’d recognize your artistic style anywhere.”

“You flatter me…I didn’t think my artwork would be appreciated that much…although I have a few questions for you…since you’re going to be the model…”

“Okay…um…I’ll try and give you straight answers as best I can.  A girl has to have some secrets you know…”

I smirked at this; she even has a sense of humor.

“First and foremost how do you feel about nudity in art?  I mean, some women take offense at it, and I just want to know of your level of comfort.”

“I suppose, and I must confess it’s my first time modeling, that being in the nude for the sake of art kind of takes any shame out of being naked.”

“Not many people actually understand the purpose of nudity in art, and it’s great that you do.  My next question is this:  how flexible are you?  And by that I mean…are you capable of holding different poses for long periods of time?”

“It will surprise you to learn I actually am something of an accomplished gymnast, or at least I was…I mean, that’s not to say I’m not anymore…I just kind of lost interest, but for art, well I suppose I can do a lot if I stretch a bit beforehand.”

“Interesting…okay, just a few more questions…How do you feel about wearing clothes you don’t usually wear, be they costumes or outfits or dresses that aren’t necessarily orthodox when it comes to wearing clothes as a college student?”

“Well I suppose I can answer that in two ways…I am fully capable of wearing a 17th Century Gown or an ancient Grecian Goddess Toga and on the other end of the spectrum, a tight latex cat suit with stilettos and whip.  Basically anything out of Christina Aguilera’s closet.  My sizes are 36C-23-35 FFW…I don’t believe in tattoos or piercing so you’ll just have to improvise there.”

I couldn’t stand it; I had to laugh out loud.

“Did I say something funny?” Her voice sounded somewhat worried.

“No…no…I’m sorry…it’s just that you describe all your attributes in such great detail.  You’re perfect.  I’m laughing because I can’t believe I actually found the perfect model.”

“But…you haven’t even seen me yet?”

“It’s all right, Samantha…was it?  What you just told me…was more than enough information.  I look forward to meeting and working with you tomorrow.”

“Great!  I’m just glad I’ll be able to work with my favorite artist.”

“Have a good night then.  And don’t worry, I’ll have compensation pay ready and waiting just like it was mentioned in the Ad.”

With the click of the phone, I sat there…simply astonished.  The ideal woman would now be working with me…of all people.  With a description like that I was definitely surprised she wasn’t snatched up by some burly boyfriend or modeling agency.  And the fact that she liked my artwork completely blew me out of the water as well.  Not that my ego needed a booster, but she was perfect…at least…from her description.

The next day I worked all morning and afternoon getting things prepared for her arrival, my art supplies were set up neatly and sharpened, I had plenty of paper for work, and just in case, I put a radio nearby for something to keep my inspiration fresh and engaging.

I heard a knock at the door of the studio and went to open the door.  Samantha was there, wearing a rather large trench coat covering her from top to bottom…as though she were hiding an outfit of some sort underneath.  Under her arms she carried an assortment of clothing and costumes.  I really hadn’t expected her to bring all these things with.

“John, I’m glad to meet with you in person.  You have no idea how much I enjoy working with art.”

“I’m impressed, you came prepared and you’re eager to get started.  Even more perfect than I realized.”

Actually I had to tone down my elation a bit…I was actually overcome with awe at her appearance.  I could literally see the outline of her figure as she strode across the carpet towards the center of the room.  Her voice was soft and soothing, as though she were gliding.

“Coming from you, John, I really appreciate the compliment.”  She smiled.

For the first time in many years, I felt a powerful surge shake my very being…that surge was her smile.  My drawing hand began to tremble with excitement, as I was eager to draw her form.  Mona Lisa had nothing on this woman!

I had to grab a pencil and paper at that very moment.

Her back was facing me, and she slowly shed her trench coat exposing her bare back and the nape of her neck and curves of her hips.  She stopped for moment when she realized I had begun drawing her.  The impulse drove my hand to move like lightning.  I had to capture her outline.  It was just so perfect.  Even the angles and crinkles that formed from the draping of the coat contrasted with her curves nicely.

“I’m not used to wearing nothing underneath this coat, but…I figured this would be the first thing you’d want to draw, so…”

“Very traditional,” I commented, “This will make the perfect subject for my Japanese styled Sumi-e oil painting.  A woman’s back is traditionally the first thing an artist draws at it tends to have the most complex shapes of her body.”

“A Japanese oil painting?  I didn’t think you did those?”

“I haven’t…” I continued scribbling, “At least not yet…it’s part of my final project…The Final Woman.”

“The Final Woman…” she lulled over the title of it, “It sounds haunting and mysterious…what’s it about?”

I signaled her that I was finished with the sketch and that she could relieve herself of the pose she held.  She finished taking off the coat and I could see that she was completely nude.  My heart skipped a beat before I could continue talking.

Her body was flawless, well-shaven, and even had some minor muscular tone.  I tried to keep my eyes at eye level, but it was very difficult.  Especially since a gleam of bright light in her cleavage caught my eye.

I winced at how bright it was.

“Oh!  I forgot to take this off…” She had a necklace with a rather large prism-like stone hanging low between her breasts.  Indeed it was bright enough to keep my eyes transfixed on it and not her body.

“This used to be my grandmother’s…she called it a Wishing Stone…she said that if the wearer of the stone made wishes, as long as they wore the stone, those wishes would be granted.  She always had little knick-knacks like this, and gave it to me…she said she got it from some powerful hypnotist or something.”

“Ah, I see…” I smiled, that she would wear such a pretty bauble around her neck even when naked told me that she loved her grandmother quite a bit.

In fact it almost felt like the stone itself was mesmerizing me…at least until she took the stone off and placed it among a pile of clothes on the side.

She sat down on the model bed I had set up for her and created a semi-random, yet relaxed pose for me.  Her breasts seemed to rise and fall slowly as I observed her quiet breathing.  She was surprisingly calm for posing nude for the first time.

As I began my second sketch, I began to explain to her the nature of my project.  The title of my project was called ‘The Final Woman’.  I explained to her my artistic fascination for women…not just on an artistic or sexual level, but a spiritual one.  Art throughout history has portrayed women in numerous ways.  My attempt then was to create a penultimate incarnation of all women.  This would be expressed, at least the best I could explain to her, in various art forms and styles all around the world.  From cave paintings, Sumi-e, Indian tribal carvings, classic oil painting, acrylic, and even computer generated work.  But the one aspect of these works that I wished to keep the same…would be that they all portrayed the same woman.  Namely it would be Samantha who would be my subject.

It was already dark when I finished the first set of sketches.  In fact, almost unconsciously, she and I had a very engaging conversation about our lives and about art.  It almost felt like going out on a date.  I let her take a look at my sketches and she appeared to be very pleased with how they turned out.

“I hardly believe it’s me…it’s like you drew me, but I can feel something more there, like something deep inside the art is trying to express a feeling to me…Something about you.”

“Well I can’t really say I’m very good at interpreting my own art, but I will say that it has been a tremendous pleasure working with you Samantha, you really are a very beautiful woman, both artistically and intellectually, I found myself enjoying the conversation we were having.”

“What ever could you mean…?” She winked while placing the trench coat back on; “About the art…or talking about sex?” she smiled.

“The art of course!” I caught myself however…as she had noticed my eyes were rather distracted by her appearance.

“In any case…” she had a wry smile as she said this, “I look forward to working with you again…should I leave the costumes here in the studio or should I take them with me?”

“You can leave them here, we’ll be working together for the next few weeks, remember…I’ll just lock up the studio when I clean up.”

“Okay…see you tomorrow.” She smiled again.  I could hardly stop enjoying that smile of hers.

It was when she left and I was cleaning up my supplies that I actually got to take a look at the clothes she brought with her.  Normally I was not that interested in what women wear, but some of the pieces of clothing she brought with her were particularly unorthodox for what I had in mind, of course, this only intrigued me all the more.  She literally was not kidding about the gamut of clothing she was capable of wearing.

From a 17th Century Bustle skirt, to a Cat suit with all the latex trimmings, high heel boots that seemed to zip all the way into the crotch, tight rubber corset which seemed to be seamless in appearance, so that it fit right in with the rest of the suit, and even shoulder length gloves.

Of course I don’t have the right to question a woman’s fashion sense.  But she definitely came prepared for something.  At this point I wasn’t quite sure it was art.

My curiosity overcame me and I picked up the latex suit to see what it looked like.  Before I got a good look at it, a brief flash of light tumbled out of one of its folds.

I picked it up off the pile of clothes it landed on and discovered it was the stone she had originally worn around her neck when I first met her.

“The Wishing Stone…” I pondered what that all entailed…the legend of it.

“So this thing can grant wishes?” It seemed like a dream to me, that I could wave away all my problems with but a series of wishes.  It was intriguing and quite fascinating.

My eyes caught on the brilliance of it.  Almost as though at the very core of it, it could grant anything my heart desired.  I was enthralled.

I was about to set it back down with her clothes, but something stopped me, something devious and possibly mischievous.  It was the desire to make a wish…to see if it might come true.

At first my thought was innocent…I thought that because it belonged to her, she might be worried that it might get stolen from the Art Building, even if the door was locked.  I tried to justify myself by saying I would wear it around my own neck for safe keeping.

Before I knew it I had the thing around my neck and was gazing at it almost constantly.  I was never into jewelry before, but this felt different.  This felt almost…

Almost like I had her in the palm of my hand.  It was a strange feeling.  I felt confident like I could do anything.  Like I could say anything or get anything I ever wanted.  It felt so good to me.  I could simply sit and indulge myself on the possibilities the Wishing Stone could grant.

It felt like some kind of psychological masturbation…only I wasn’t touching myself.  I simply felt delight and pure pleasure.  As if the very core of my brain had switched itself on to a sixth sense.  I could feel emotions and sense things I didn’t dare to dream possible.  I felt power in the stone.  Something about it made me desire her.  There was a nearby mirror used for self-portrait paintings and other related pieces nearby.  I couldn’t help but glance at myself in the mirror.  My mouth moved suddenly and almost not of my own accord.  I didn’t even think of it.

“I wish Samantha Parson would be my slave and lust after my body forever.”

Before I knew what was going on, the stone flashed a brilliant light and just as quickly went dim again.  I blinked for a few moments trying to process what had just happened…I even covered my mouth in shock to what had just escaped my lips.

Did I really want her that bad?  Did I want her to love me?  I was most certainly attracted to her…but there was a deep-seated feeling inside me…something dark and primal.  Something fearful…that wanted her for me and no one else.

And the stone…it flashed so bright…blinding my eyes practically like a camera bulb.  The lights overhead in the studio were industrial…so it was impossible for them to have anything brighter than 15 watts.

It was as though the stone itself wanted me to use it…it wanted me to make a wish.  And I was a slave to its power.  I felt trapped to forever wish for my desires from the stone.

“No…I’m just tired…that’s all…just seeing things.”  I had been working on my project for the past three weeks already, sleep be damned.  I had a deadline.

I was very tired, it seemed…I didn’t know exactly what it was I just experienced, but to be on the safe side, so I thought, I put the stone back on the pile of clothes, just like it had been before.

It was a few minutes walk back to my dorm room from the Art Studio, and very dark out as well, I was ready to fall asleep any minute.

When I unlocked the door, I noticed 2 messages on my answering machine.  I hit playback.

It was silent for at least a full minute.  I heard breathing…which for some reason seemed labored.

“John….”

It was Samantha’s voice!  Why was she calling me so late at night?

“John…I…I don’t know what’s wrong with me…but…but I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Her voice sounded winded, like she had just run a marathon, or something had attacked her.  I became acutely aware of the sound of wood creaking rhythmically in the background…as though she were rocking back and forth against something.

“I…I can’t believe I’m saying this…but…I want you John…I want you so bad I’m wet just thinking about your name.  Every time I say your name…every time...I’m…climaxing every time…I can’t help it.  John…Johhhhn…Jooooohhhn….JOOOHN!!”

Her voice seemed to hiss and slurp every time she said my name.  She started sobbing…then laughing into the receiver…laughing hysterically.

“John…your name is a big fucking dildo!  It penetrates me Johhhhn!  Both my ass and my pussy!!  I’m flooded…just by saying your fucking dildo name!!  I’m your slave John!  I’m a fucking pussy water faucet…you left the faucet on, John!  The bathtub’s gonna flood if you don’t turn it off…if you don’t pluuuug the drain!”

To my horror, or perhaps it was excitement…I heard a watery sucking noise on the speakers…it sounded like something wet was wiped across the receiver.

“My pussy…wanted to say hi…huhh….in fact…it wanted to talk to you…but…I suppose you don’t understand pussy-ese.  It just soaks up the phone.  I really am phone-fucking….uhhng….lucky…lucky for me it’s a cell phone!!”

The number tones of the phone were pressed randomly as though number buttons were being dialed…I could hear her laughing and slurping while saying something about her pussy wanting to call up its friend Mr. Penis.

Apparently the receiver went dead after she had accidentally pressed disconnect.

Moments later the second message recording played with a click.

“…Uummm….are you….down there…?”

She sounded drunk on her own wet juices.

“I….umm…had to hook up my cell phone’s…unh…microphone…to the bottom of the cell phone…unh….”

With that she began to giggle wildly and moan.

“….Unnnnmmmh…it’s harrrrd…to talk on the phone…when your cell phone gets eaten…”

Eaten?  I was rather confused…

“…Lucky lucky me…I put your number on Speed-dial…cuz my pussy ate my cell phone…annnnd I can’t get it out very well!!  It’sss…set to vibrate!  Soooo…gimmie a call….”

There was more sobbing, climaxing, and hysterical laughter.

“….I can’t…stop it…it will never stop…never never never never…my pussy wants to eat you whole…the car’s wet…the house is wet…the kitchen is wet…the bathroom is wet…the bedroom is wet…it all smells like pussy in here…and I feel like…I feel like I’m gonna starve to death if you don’t call your pussy slave….you’re my master now…I can’t live without you…your name is my dildo.  Please…please….pllleeeeassse….pretty please with pussy on top?”

Apparently the Answering Machine couldn’t hold any more message space because the voice recorder ended right there.

I was distraught and confused, not to mention very horny.  Did my wish really come true?  It seemed like she had turned from a very intelligent and kind girl to this sex-obsessed woman in mere moments.  I didn’t know what to think.

I wasn’t about to take this lying down…my crotch wouldn’t let me.

I don’t know what possessed me…but I dialed her phone number.

“Yeeeessss…?” I could hear wet juices in the background of the receiver.

“Samantha…what’s the matter?”

“Jooooohhhhnnn…it’s finally youuuu…!” She squealed with delight.

“Samantha…what’s going on here?  Why are you acting like this?”

“Oh…I’m sorry…you’re going to have to speak up…I can’t hear you all the way inside my pussy!”

I just couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“My boobs are hard like missiles and they wanna smother you!  Missile boob attack!”

Was she really and truly off her rocker?

“What the hell is going on?  Listen...stay right there…I’ll come right over…”

“Come…COME…cumcumcumcumcum…!” Her voice was very sing-song at this point.

It was a blessing she gave me her address along with her phone number, as I was almost certain I wouldn’t be able to speak to her in her current incoherent state.

When I arrived at her house…I noted her car wasn’t even pulled all the way into the garage.  It had the stench of masturbation all over it…she really had cum everywhere.

When I walked up to the front porch, I saw the silhouette of a naked huddling form rocking back and forth.  I could only assume it was Samantha.

“You…came for me…at last…”

I lifted her up by the hand and lead her back inside the house.  She was soaked from head to toe in sweat and smelled of all manner of bodily fluid.  I assessed the situation as much as I could…her house looked like a tornado tore through it…papers and books all over the floor.  Pictures of her and her family had been smashed, ripped, cut, or sprayed on with some kind of black spray-paint.

Her gym trophies had all been smashed to the floor or shattered…even appliances were torn out of the walls.  She had literally gone insane in under three hours.

I finally mustered the courage to look directly at this poor emaciated woman of whom I had known less than 48 hours.  She was currently busying herself by sucking on my fingers and quietly pleasuring herself all the while…almost child-like and docile, completely naked, and looked like she had been sobbing for weeks.

I looked down at her vulva, which was red, wide like an O, and pulsing with juices…in fact it appeared as though the juices were literally pouring out on the floor in long slimy white drips.  I had taken a minor course in human biology, and despite the humor and jokes about climaxing…I have never seen a woman’s vulva that wet…not even on porno videos my friends had me watch.  Just watching it flood and drip while she quietly cooed on my finger was unreal.

I lead her to the bathroom…trying to find a towel that wasn’t soaked in her body fluids to try and wash her off a bit.

“Will you be able to take a shower without making a mess?” I asked, almost wondering if I was now talking to a child.

“I’ll try, Master…”

I stared at her blankly…I wasn’t hearing things…she had called me Master.

“Master…I…I can’t shower…I can’t shower unless you’re in here with me.”

This was a rather complex predicament.  This woman was now dripping, whether her finger had stimulated her or not…and she had a massive hunger in her eyes towards me that sent chills down my spine…yet her eyes were sad and sobbing, as though she could not fulfill herself unless I was there to give her actions purpose.

“Please…Master…I can’t do anything except cum anymore…I can’t eat, sleep, or go potty…my pussy keeps running and keeps me always always always awake.”

“I don’t understand…what happened?” Even though I had some inkling of what had happened.

I stared at her deeply…almost pleadingly…for some explanation.  Placing my hand on her shoulder, it felt as though she was slowly regaining some semblance of sanity back.

“It…It was shortly after I left the Art Center…I…my head’s fuzzy but…I saw a white flash…it blinded me for a while…I remember driving back to my house…and all I could think about was you, John.  Just you and nothing else…not life, not my job, not my family…nothing else mattered…and then something inside me…something…changed.”

“Something changed?” I wasn’t quite sure…

“It started with the idea that I couldn’t get the thought of having sex with you out of my head…but then I started feeling hot.  Feeling desperate…like I was some kind of drug addict.  I got hit with a panic attack at first…I didn’t know what to think…except of you.”

“Go on…”

“I was…sitting in the car just outside the garage…and I felt so hot I had to take my coat off…even though I was naked.  Then it felt like something went inside me and wouldn’t come out.  Whatever is in me…it makes me constantly think of you…and like some kind of Pavlov’s Dog…my vagina cums…it’s been like this for 4 hours now…a constant climax.   It’s so powerful I can barely stand sometimes…I feel like I should be passing out any minute…but I never do.  The climax inside me won’t let me pass out…I can’t eat…I can’t sleep…even though I feel as though I can close my eyes and beg for it to go away...sometimes I hope it will be something I get used to and just ignore… It won’t let me stop thinking of you and fucking you.  You you you you you…!”

“I…”

“Please fuck me, John…for the love of god.  End my misery.” she whispered hoarsely...slowly losing herself.

She was about ready to collapse in a sobbing giggling heap in the bathtub…her hands were trembling and fidgeting to get back inside her pulsing wet mass.

“And I…I can’t stop calling you Master…because you’re my Master now and forever…you’re everything to me now…nothing…nothing…nothing else will give me pleasure anymore.”

It was almost as though I had a gun and was prepared to shoot her in the head to put her out of her misery.  I desired her body…so much so I could smell her tears and cum and taste them in my mouth.  The bitterness of it was incredible…and I could no longer hold back.

“I…I’ll do it….”  It was half pity half lust in my voice.

I locked the bathroom door behind me…the stench of cum and sweat had filled the entire house…I looked deeply at her with hunger and her eyes almost melted like so much butter.  Carefully and gently I reached up inside her vulva which was now wide enough to fit a softball through, and slowly pulled the engorged cell phone out of her body.

Just the sensation of my hand touching her trembling mass made her cum to the brim again…my hand was now soaked with her insides…but strange as it may seem…most women might have passed out a long time ago, or dried up from the sensual abuse.

Well ‘sensual abuse’ was the only way I could describe it in appearance.  It looked as though someone rammed a baseball bat up inside her.  She looked wide enough to have at least two children simultaneously.  There was no blood, and from what she informed me…no pain from the stretching either.  She didn’t even do it to herself.  She hardly touched herself during the entire constant state of orgasm.  In fact she was in a constant orgasmic state ever since she came home.  No pain, no dizziness, just pure erotic pleasure, as though someone were fucking her right there and then.

The suffering came more as part of the lust she had for every aspect of my being.  She was forever bombarded with images and thoughts of me…and this only appeared to subside remotely when I was in her presence.

I was actually somewhat frightened as to what might happen if I had sex with her.  And she absolutely refused that I use a condom…as she felt it would get in the way of her Master’s pleasure.  She had said in some mumbled incoherency that she wanted 1,000 children from me, or as many as she could have at any given time that didn’t involve fucking me.

I turned on the shower with both of us naked inside…I tried to wash her off while she occupied herself with my penis…both coitusly and orally.  It was hard for me to concentrate during her obsessive voracity.

I started to feel extremely tired after all that had occurred and leaned back in the shower.  Like some kind of twisted wild animal she sat herself upon my pelvis and gently cooed as if scratching a dreadful itch or putting salve on a fourth degree burn.  Her energy in doing so was almost constant…never once tiring or faltering.  In fact the only time she seemed exhausted or shown signs of fatigue were when I was not having sex with her.

It was as though her body was dedicated to my pleasure and would not stop for all eternity.  Her lust would last forever.

I gulped as I considered what I had said several hours earlier in the mirror with the wishing stone.

Hissing and cooing with some kind of animalistic delight…she began to ask me questions.

“Master…you look tired…do you mind if I fuck you while you sleep on my bed?  Don’t worry, I’ll be nice and quiet and you won’t hear a thing.  We can sleep fuck then…you can sleep on top and inside of me like I’m your pillow of boobs and things.  I’ll be your cute little cock pajamas!”

I think I was drowsy and incoherent because I nodded assent after turning off the shower.

“I’m sorry it smells like your Pussy Slave, Master, I’ll clean up the house first thing tomorrow!” She chirped cheerily.  “And I’ll get rid of allll the things that that goody two-shoes Samantha Parson used to have!  You have two homes now, the Master’s House…and Pussy Slave’s House!”

I mumbled something about why she kept calling herself Pussy Slave…but just having sex with her was having some kind of drowsy effect on me and I couldn’t stay awake.

Ignoring the sent of cum and sweat on her bed…I collapsed.

The last thing I remember feeling was her sex on my pelvis, beating like some kind of heart and gorging itself on me like a suckling baby.

“Master!  Wake-up Master!”

“Huh…what…?”

My face was on a pillow and my chest and body seemed to be on top of something soft and wet.

“How are you today, Master?” she smiled eagerly.

“Uh…what am I doing here?  And why don’t I have a condom on…?”

I was literally sitting face down on top of Samantha…she literally had become my pillow the night before.  I don’t recall how, but I could feel the tensile pulse of her pussy hugging my sex.

“I wish we could stay like this forever…but Master doesn’t like Pussy Slave’s Day-old Pussy Smell does he?”

“Well…no…but…”

Her eyes looked into mine…she didn’t look like she’d slept a wink the night before.  Her eyes appeared to have lost all coloration…or maybe I was seeing things.

“Master, Pussy Slave will give you a hint…”

“Huh?” I said drowsily.

“Master!  Order Pussy Slave to stop cumming and clean up the house!  Otherwise Pussy Slave will never stop having sex with Master!  Forever and ever!”

I had no idea what she was talking about…so I gave it a shot.

“Um…okay…go…clean up the house…and um…stop cumming all over the place…and um…wear something clean and smooth today…?”

I gently rolled off her, as though she really were the bed.

“Thanks, Master!  You should take a shower too!  So you don’t smell like Day-Old Pussy Slave!”

Interestingly enough…the woman formerly known as Samantha had a separate hidden shower that had remained relatively unscathed…but just barely.

I took a shower and muttered a few curse words about how stupid I was.  I just ruined a woman’s life and now she has no choice but to degrade herself and treat me like I was God’s gift to women.  Part of me said I’m a jerk for doing this, and part of me was enjoying every minute of it.

I looked in the mirror at the scraggly wet hair and tired eyes that looked ever so groggily at me.

“You are one sick bastard…”

“Master is not sick, nor is he a bastard!”

“What did you just say?” I turned in surprise to find Samantha had literally cleaned up and dressed in a full-body latex maid uniform.  Just for me and just for cleaning house.

“Forgive Pussy Slave for being so bold…” She then performed a curtsey with her pleated latex dress in apology.  She was so incredibly formal…and yet, stunningly attractive.  

She wore what appeared to be eight inch ballet-boot zipper black heels of the smoothest material which wrapped her feet in tight little focused points that rose up through rubber leggings and underneath the skirt.  The skirt of course, was deliberately short to reveal the shape of latex on her bottom.  The skirt itself was an extension of a black-laced rubber corset that fit snugly over her breasts and seemed to merge with the top of her shoulders and neck like some rubber armor.  This of course was followed up with a black rubber mask with red thin molded latex lips that seemed to be fit around her mouth to move when she spoke.  The mask only reached around past the ears and back of the neck, her locks of hair still hung out in back.

“Master mustn’t feel guilty for changing Pussy Slave’s life.  Pussy Slave was sleeping inside Samantha Parson when she met Master…Master simply woke Pussy Slave up.”

“I just…I don’t know what to do now…I mean…your life it’s…” I stammered.

“Master…Pussy Slave is following your command not to cum all over the house, even though Pussy Slave wishes to eternally have sex with Master, Pussy Slave realizes Master must continue doing his art project called The Final Woman.”

“But your family…your friends…your future…I feel like I stole them from you.”

“Master is Pussy Slave’s family and friends and future now.  Pussy Slave likes it this way.  Even if Master wished for Samantha Parson to become Pussy Slave and stole her life using the Wishing Stone…Pussy Slave and Samantha want it to be like this.”

“I don’t understand…”

“John…” Her voice turned somber and mature…just like it was before her life was changed.

“Samantha?!” At this point I was at the verge of tears.

Her voice trembled weakly…as if she were fighting a demon to avoid being possessed.

“My life…was pathetic…I could’ve gone on to be a professional gymnast…but I gave all that up because that was the only part of me that my parents and friends recognized me for…they didn’t notice me otherwise.  They just saw the gold medals hanging around my neck.  It’s been two years since they stopped calling me to see if I was alright by myself.  I tried living alternate lifestyles…working at night clubs as some kind of bar mistress…I was too much of a wimp for alcohol and drugs, and most prostitution rackets wouldn’t even have a street urchin like me.  The only thing I had left, it seemed, was my Grandmother’s Wishing Stone…I tried using it once…but it never worked for me…I felt so pathetic I tried to kill myself.”

“Oh God…Samantha…” I wanted to hug her to console her, but I feared I might destroy what remaining sanity and mental stability she had left with my presence.  Holding the bathroom doorframe was all she could do to brace herself from cumming involuntarily while looking at me.

“I was sleeping in a bus station when I saw your artwork up in the campus window.  Such elegant images and pictures of women you drew and painted.  Each and every woman was a goddess…you respected and honored all of those works of art…just like you respect and honor women…and myself.  I cleaned myself up a bit, got a job and this house nearby the campus.  I passed myself off as a college student around campus, trying to blend in as much as possible…trying to find the man who made those works of art.”

“I tried to find out where you lived for so long…it was so very difficult.  Nobody wanted to associate with me, thinking I wasn’t worth it.  I was about to try killing myself again, but then I saw the bulletin board.  The ad there had a piece of your artwork on it, your name, and how to contact you.  You said you were looking for a model for your art.”

“I did say that…I was looking for the perfect model…”

“It was the day you called me that you gave me a sense of self, and even when you stared at my naked body while drawing your artwork.  I felt needed, I felt important.  I wasn’t trying to perform in front of people and earn their recognition.  I was important for who I am.  I actually fell in love with you the minute you noticed the Wishing Stone I wore.  You realized that I came from some place and that I was important.”

“I…I used your Wishing Stone…and I made a selfish wish for you to be my slave and lust for me forever.”  I just about broke down at this point.

Her rubbery hands caressed my shoulders.  I could sense her voice was straining and regressing back to a somewhat less sane self.

“Pussy Slave and Samantha will always love you, Master, no matter what.”

“I’m sorry Samantha…if there is some way to make it up to you…I’ll do anything.”

“Then be Pussy Slave’s Master!  Tell Pussy Slave to do something and Pussy Slave will do it!”

It took all of three hours to clean the house…Pussy Slave insisted that she throw away everything that represented Samantha’s life…pictures, family, even certain styles of clothing she used to wear.  At this point she was extremely insistent on wearing nothing but rubber latex.

“As long as Pussy Slave wears encased latex, Pussy Slave won’t cum everywhere…only inside latex skin.”

She was right of course, but that didn’t solve the problem entirely.  She was still hyperactively obsessed with my body.  And every time I came in close proximity it would drive her crazy.

I grabbed a book on female anatomy and the study of female organs and women’s health to try and understand Pussy Slave’s newfound anatomy over the next few days.

As fun as it was for her to get “examined”… it always resulted in at least a quart of cum on the floor or in the bathtub.  It felt worse than milking a cow.  Well at least in terms of cleanup…my libido enjoyed it thoroughly.

I learned a few vital aspects about her that changed her forever.  Several aspects of which would give women elsewhere nightmares.

First in foremost, as mentioned before, she is in a constant state of emotional and physical climax, but at the same time is never actually tired.  This completely baffles and boggles scientific minds both far and wide.  Because she never fatigues in a true sense, she never actually sleeps.  I have attempted several times to get her to fall asleep, either through hypnosis commands, Master/Slave orders, and even sleeping pills…none of which have any affect.  Out of respect for my sense of privacy, she has promised to pretend to sleep at night by closing her eyes and stay quiet for many hours at a time.

Secondly, because of her constant climaxing, she is always dripping masturbatory fluid.  It never stops…even when she pretends to sleep or is directly having sex with me.  The only current solutions I’ve made in an attempt to solve this are sealing up her midsection in rubber with specialized pouches based on catheters.  In a single day I have measured she will drip at least two gallons of cum.  As impossible as this is to believe, this isn’t even what remotely baffles my mind.  She has never stopped cumming since that day.  She never dries up, and the blood-flow that opens up her vulva is constant and red and in a wide O.  Some days it is wider than others, but it is usually open as opposed to being a natural slit.

I have tried to come up with logical explanations for this constant cum flow, but to no avail.  She doesn’t even have to be in proximity of me for it to occur.  Nor is she dehydrated.  She has not needed food or water or sleep since this occurrence began.

There are other minor curiosities of her body that seem to be the result of the Wish I made.  She no longer goes to the bathroom, or has periods.  In fact I recently discovered that she apparently has complete and total motor control of her uterus and related glands.  Aside from the constant cumming, she can physically determine whether or not she wants to have children.  As of this day, she has determined that Master does not wish to have children and therefore Pussy Slave will not have children.  I observed at one point that she somehow evolved a reservation sac of some kind inside her body that specifically gathers up male semen and ejects it out along with her feminine cum.  Apparently the constant cumming has now become her sexual defense mechanism for pregnancy.

Other aspects I have noted in the past week is that even though she does not sleep, eat, drink, or relieve herself…she doesn’t look any worse for the wear.  Aside from the slight discoloration of her irises in her eyes (which somehow turned black in color), she has not physically looked haggard or aged in appearance.  Forever certainly is a long time it seems.

Aside from the biological techno babble I had learned from “studying” her, much to her enjoyment.  I had other problems.  I was a college student, and hiding my “slave” from others was difficult.

Because I was working on my final project and still needed a model, Pussy Slave and I would enter the Art Center late at night and I would have her pose in various ways there.  As much as she desired to wear her rubber costumes, for the purpose of art, she followed Master’s orders to fulfill his desire of the Final Woman.  Strangely enough, when I ordered her to hold still, she no longer dripped cum.  It was as though part of Samantha still existed in her somehow and respected my vision of art.  She would pose in any ways I wished…dressed in any clothes I suggested…and even gave me “suggestions” on various positions she wished to see displayed in my art.

It was strange, but she had indeed become the perfect model for me.  My own personal muse as it were.

As for the daytime and dealing with my friends at the college dormitory.  Pussy Slave was “ordered strictly” to not wear rubber when outside the house for long periods of time, when spoken to, to act and behave just as Samantha Parsons used to…and to refer to her Master as John Reese…if questioned she would state that we are “going steady” as boyfriend and girlfriend.  At some point I think it would make much more sense if we were married, but Pussy Slave insists upon me always being her Master.

It has been three weeks since the transformation took place, and I’ve been exhausted over teaching Pussy Slave how to behave in public, as opposed to being constantly submissive to me.  She is also slowly learning how to control her cum flow, although she does have a long ways to go.  Her climaxing messes with her cognitive faculties, so it is very difficult for her to concentrate on things for very long.  Considering what she has gone through, it is surprising to find how emotionally strong and dedicated she is.  I am currently reading a book on impulse therapy to see if there is a way of adjusting her emotional capacities to her constant climaxing state, so that she is able to ignore the “suffering” she endures.

It was during a time late in the afternoon when I was reading my book that she came up to me.

“Master…? Pussy Slave thought you should get a present for all the hard work you’ve been doing lately.”  Aside from her normal “gifts” that is.

What she presented me with somewhat shocked me as I hadn’t seen it since that night.  But once again it began to haunt me, mesmerize me, and drive me to the brink of what I thought was my own limit of desire.

“The Wishing Stone….” I sighed…it was both the blessing and bane of my existence at this point.  It glittered gently in the sunlight, casting small rainbows on the floor.  At this point, I had taken to living in Pussy Slave’s house so as to keep her out of trouble.

“So what do you suppose I should do with this?” I dangled it in front of her eyes like it was some kind of mouse on a string.  She appeared to be infatuated with it.  If she weren’t a human being she would’ve been a cat who would most likely start batting it around like a catnip toy.

“Samantha told Pussy Slave that this woke Pussy Slave up.  She said that only Master could make wishes from it.”

I grumbled a bit as I still hadn’t gotten used to her calling me ‘Master’ 24 seven.  But the idea that Samantha still had influence over Pussy Slave’s thought process cheered me up some.  She was still a woman in there…somewhere.

No, perhaps it’s more like, she’s a woman everywhere…but that the intelligent aspect of her had actually managed to take hold somewhere in Pussy Slave’s subconscious.  I wasn’t about to dig up old sores when it came to Samantha however.  Libido aside, it just wasn’t something I wanted to bring up.

For a fleeting moment I had considered undoing the wish I had originally made…but three things interfered with this however.  First and foremost I wasn’t even sure if it might be possible, let alone if there might be consequences to taking back a wish…I didn’t even know how the stone worked…all I had to go on was that it came from some old Hypnotist.  Then there was the thought that Samantha, in a brief bout of sanity had consciously told Pussy Slave to throw away every aspect of her previous life.  It felt almost like digging up a dead corpse.

I was her only reason for existing now, it seemed.  I somewhat felt guilty later on, ordering Pussy Slave to refer to herself as Samantha Parson when out in public.  I wasn’t even sure if Pussy Slave and Samantha were a split personality or if they were simply extensions of the same subconscious.  Freud would have a field day.

“Master, Samantha says you’re supposed to make a wish!”

It seemed as though both her and the stone were connected somehow…over the past three weeks, I had only really let myself go once to my inhibitions towards her.  She was my Pussy Slave, now and forever.  It was something I both wanted and didn’t want at the same time.

The duplicity of my conflicted emotions just troubled me even more.  The stone was shining again, it was tempting me…urging me…

I must not have been paying attention, because Pussy Slave snuck up onto my lap, had unzipped my pants and was straddling me as though I were a saddle on a horse’s back.  Before I could react, she wrapped her smoothly shined en point rubber heels around my waist.  She was apparently very strong and well balanced, because she was able to ride on top of me without much effort or support on my part.  A remnant of her gymnast qualities I’d figured.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care for her, I loved her…she kissed the length of my shoulder while her sex gripped and un-gripped mine.  My genitalia felt like it was being sucked up by a vacuum pump.  She leaned back and stretched her black arms free while cupping her breasts, pressing them together against the shiny rubber they were encased in.

“It does not matter if Master is aroused or not, Pussy Slave will always be aroused, and always be Pussy Slave for Master.  That is Pussy Slave’s purpose.  Let Pussy Slave do all the hard hard work for Master.” 

She moaned gently…brushing her breasts across my face, gently hugging my face between her black rubbery cleavage.  It felt as though I could melt into her body and become one with the pleasure she constantly experienced.  Almost like a form of Zen.

Speaking to no one in particular I mumbled into her breasts.

“I need to make a laundry list of wishes….”

 

 

03.11.06