a series of short tales from the much missed …Timothy Reisling Betticut

a series of short tales from the master …


Bangles
By Timothy Reisling Betticut

They dangled from my mouth. I sucked on the rod, and the balls wiggled
and bounced as I danced. Each girl had a set and we all had to mouth
them hard so, no matter how we jerked around, they didn’t fall out. Of
course we slid them free back at the tables or, in my case, at a
barstool. But the rules were clear; you took a set from the guy who
asked you to dance. Well, you smiled, opened your mouth, he slipped the
dick end in, and then you led him out to the floor.

The things were big money for the club. Guys paid eighty-five bucks, got
hand jobs, then had their dicks holographed and duplicated into fleshy
replicas of their most aroused moments. Ten minutes later, each man had
a ‘key’. And one of those ‘keys’ now dangled and wobbled against my chin
while I bucked and shimmied in front of its owner on the dance floor to
that classic take-me song, “Addicted To Love”. Thank god this character
had a well-cut helmet on his prick; it allowed me to use my tongue
instead of just sucking the bulky package in. Do you know how painful it
is to suckle a cock and balls into your mouth for all that time?
Especially when you’re bumping and grinding in a hot smoky disco?
Speaking of pain, you don’t want to know what happened to the girls who
left teeth marks on a key. Ohhhh.

And the four-inch spikes, crushing corset and gyrating C+ boobs helped
not at all. Neither did my ton of blonde curls, jouncing earrings and
hobble skirt. In fact, the leather dress was impossibly hot… no, not
just torrid looking, HOT inside! And it covered me from neck to
ankle-strapped shoes and way down to my wrists. It was searing pink
leather that matched my lips, blusher, eye shadow and laser sharp nails.
The tiny locks sealing that portable prison were hardly visible. They
had me stacked better than Pringles and I looked like some sort of
wriggling cocoon-thing in tawdry girlie-pink.

You understand now, huh? I enticed a raping sitting perfectly placid,
but gyrating my curves atop those needle points under a quavering cloud
of blonde – with a pair of lifelike nuts swinging from my glossy fat
lips – hell, I was a Viagra rush!

Except for two guys, the place was crammed with heteros-in-heat. Few of
the girls were pros, most just lewd teasers delirious to get their
brains fucked loose (to the degree that you could use the word brain in
any sentence that described these bimbos). And the men were generally
big, primitive bastards. This was the kind of a place that described
girls in one word … ‘suckers’.

Oh yea – I’m a man! And I’m no queer. Shit, I didn’t look like a man. I
sizzled hotter than most of those real babes, and in those victims
clothes; I brought nothing more to mind than the word, “bait”. Like the
thing on a hook, I was a lure wriggling to taunt men into the moist
darkness of a testosterone rage. We all have a firewall separating
fantasy life from reality. I was a thing that pricked a hot hole through
it. But I was a man who sickened at the thought of anything homosexual.
Unfortunately, I was neither tall, nor bulky. Too often I’d mistaken gay
guys to hit on me. How’d I handle those advances? Well, sooner or later
I got pissed, and I picked the wrong guys to get pissed at.

They decided to teach the ‘Holier-than-thou’ straight guy a lesson. It
came in an electrode jock-strap/gaff. The thing produced a hell of a
wallop. It was remote controlled. It was locked around my equipment
rounding my package back and up and in under my pudenda panties. Put
your hand on a crotch in those things, you’d swear you had a cunt in
your grip. Instead, you had me, under my electrical webbing. What would
I do to avoid another blast from that thing? Well at least, I’d let
them: corset, hose, blonde, paint, heel, hobble, leather, decorate, boob
and stuff my mouth in a single’s bar that was designed to make men make
girls who needed badly to get made. I even smiled as guys slid their
‘keys’ within my fattened lips, and smirked around the things as I
minced on out to the dance floor for a carnal dance of the blonde
cum-slut.

What I didn’t want to do, was leave the place on the arms of any of
these cretinous louts. Sometimes we get what we don’t want… and more.
Believe me, and I choose my word carefully, it was distasteful.


Barbarella
Timothy Reisling Betticut

Heather understood the power a woman has. Timmy did too, but
differently. Until the session. It happened at night, the way nightmares
do. The sun went down, and when it came up again – everything was
different for Tim.

“Comeon Timmy Honey, just do it for me.” Heather was so sexy, Timmy was
so – well scrawny. Too short for a man, and he never could put on
weight. Even at thirty, he still got carded in bars like The Stag.
That’s where Timmy met Heather.

“The business can get a lot better, but I need a makeover that will turn
heads. Hey, if I can turn you into a bimbo boy toy – girls will push to
get in front of my lens.”

Well that seemed true to Timmy. Heather looked like she ran a glamour
photo studio. Her makeup, hair and outfits sizzled. The first evening
they teased, then she snared him the second night at the bar. Now
Heather was offering Timmy a date, but first this little favor.

“Please Sugar,” without her heels Heather looked him right in the eye on
the dance floor. Sure that big blond hair gave her a little edge, but it
was nice of her to kick out of those spikes so he’d look about her
hiegth. He wanted her, and she wanted this weird favor. So he agreed….
Thursday night he’d be her glamour model.

It was eight when he got there. By ten she’d finished three shoots.
First she made him into an uncanny Marilyn. Next he really seemed to
become Kim Bassinger in those weird little tie up scenes from her Micky
Rourke flick. Then this last had Timmy as Barbarella! Spread eagled and
standing in a bizarre device, his shiny black heavily corseted one-piece
with the jutting boobs matched the high shiny spiked boots and the odd
leather helmet. In the mirrors behind the camera, Timmy watched a babe
struggle fruitlessly as her big blond hair flicked about in panic. The
damned thing was so uncomfortable, but the hollow rubber tube actually
screwed into his mouth kept his teeth wide enough to make him
unintelligible.

“Wow!” Heather muttered as she finished the shoot. “You’re really
getting into this Dearie. What’s that? All of this makes you a horny
creature?”

“Wuh? Nuh-huh?” How was Heather misunderstanding him? But when he looked
at the mirror it did look as if Barbarella was growing very warm.

“Men? You want me to call in a villian?”

Men? What was she yammering about? Wait, who was she phoning?

He dangled there in the eye of the storm. A thirty minute or so
intermission between bookending lunatic humiliations. Half an hour
passed and then two things were different. The knock on the loft door
and the thing up his ass. It was long and thick and it vibrated softly.
She’d screwed it up from the tube snapped down to the floor, the cord
running down through it’s center.

“Doncha love that?” Heather wondered when she pushed its lubricated
snout into his resisting sphincter. Damned thing was way deep now and
starting to feel good… too good. And the blond in the mirror looked
drunken with passion as she hung impaled on that tubing.

“Probably Spike, huh? Aren’t you excited?” Her smile was dazzling as she
pranced toward the door like some demented angel.

“Spuhhhk? Owhn wanna beh seeh luhk izzz…. Nuhhh!!!” Barbarella tugged
and pulled and tossed in her bindings as she shook her curled head yet
stared at that door. It¹s in the eyes – a certain madness, a terror.
Tim¹s body shrieked the question, ³Who was Spike?² And why was there a
small ladder in front of him? A man standing on that thing would ….
His apparatus would rise to…. “NUHHHHHHH!!”

“Oh shush Barbi….. You’ll just looooove Spike…. He’s so….” Her
hand reached for the doorknob….. “Tasty…”


Blonde Bombshell
Timothy Reisling Betticut

His hand slid down my arm, cuffing my wrist and pulling my fingers tight
against his bulging crotch, “Maybe a lil’ hand action on the way Babe?
Lez see you charm my snake some, huh? Wha’s you name girl?”

“My name?” The thing grew in my fingers, hard and round as a pipe.
“I’m… uh… Candi. Please don’t do this.” He held my hand tight
against him, moving it in small circles while the others smirked.

Off into the night. Away from my car. The cops maybe after the bus. The
captive of ten tough people. I was done up as the cheapest slut,
corseted and heeled to slow me down under the best of circumstances and
driving into the sleaziest part of the city. There had to be a way out.

I swerved. Hard. The bastard cut right across and swept past with a
swish and a rumble of muscle motor. Would have hit me. Shit! He gave me
the finger! I’ll get that prick. “You asshole!” Smashed the pedal down,
rubber scraping the pavement like nails on slate, a shot of smoke
exploding like a rocket.

On his tail. The license, ‘UP YRS’. A green Mustang, scampering like
squirrel from a dog. Seventy, eighty miles an hour. Ninety! He hinged in
and out of the interstate traffic, his rear end snapping behind each
turn. I blurred behind him feeling the car bend almost in half as it
darted into each hole in the flow. Hell! He snuck behind a slowpoke on
the right and slipped back in front between a truck. Couldn’t get
around. He’s off. He did that on purpose. Premeditated. An auto attack.,
like a slap then run. That license, I can look it up. I’ll get him.

No sense in wasting a great hate. Two days later I was up there. Turned
out the guy’s name was Klaus Simza! What kind of name is that? Who
knows? A small row house, over a closed garage, off a quiet street
between two avenues. These were expensive single’s condos. Ugly things
from the street, all garage door with windows above. Three stories. The
doors open by remote, there’s a doorway off to the side. Fine. Looked up
the number in the phone book and called from my car. He’s home alright.
No problem.

A molotov cocktail’s easy to build. What’s hard is finding a glass
bottle. You can’t pour gas into some unbreakable plastic soda container,
jam in the soap and light the wick. Oh you can, but since the thing
won’t break, there’s no WOOSH! No fire. Nothing. Had to hunt for glass
jars with small mouths. The two I got held about a quart each and filled
my hands pretty well.

The street was well lit. I expected that. So what if someone saw me? My
disguise was perfect. No one’d see a short, balding, skinny man walking
up the street with two bottles. They’d spot a flashy blonde bimbo in a
red dress, white legs and strap on heels. I looked fine. Read a book
once that said witnesses remembered the garish. The successful robber
should wear a clown wig and some bright carnation and that’s all anyone
would ever see. Hell, so why not go lots farther? My disguise was
foolproof. All witnesses would see was a sexy street walker.

Left my car around the corner and clacked up to Klaus’s house,
petticoats swishing against the white nylons and my long red nails
wrapped around the jars. No one in the street this late. Put the jars
down, pulled a lighter out of my purse and touched the wicks. Still no
one around and no traffic.

Hadn’t planned on the tit problem. I’d corseted myself tighter than a
Saturday night drunk and filled the cups with a couple of water balloons
pulling the straps snug. The dress was a synthetic and firm over my twin
cannons. So when I picked up a lit bottle I realized an overhand toss
wouldn’t work. Damn, no wonder girls throw so stupidly.

I had to walk back to the pavement and try and underhand heave up to the
second story window. A problem. Not enough force on the first bottle and
it splattered back onto the sidewalk splashing liquid fire everywhere.

Lots of noise. Neighbors peered out. And then that face came to the
upstairs window. Bastard! I saw him whizzing past me again, throwing his
finger and laughing at the rear view. He was a hard looking number with
Latin hair; black eyebrows and a neck like a pork butt. I hurled the
second jar with everything.

‘SMASH!’ it burst through a window and I watched that face flood with
terror in the exploding light.

But the street was filling with people; most of them coming out down by
the corner where I’d parked my car. Hadn’t expected that. Why not?
Quickly I started off in the other direction. Up to the intersection. A
busy corner. Lots of traffic even at this time of night. Got there and
heard some screams behind me. Klaus was outside. I looked back to see
him trying to decided whether to come after me or to save his stuff…
get his Mustang free. I turned the corner, now far from my car and
headed the wrong way.

Those damned shoes hurt my toes. The corset made my sides ache. A bus
came and I scrambled aboard. As it took off, I saw Klaus running to the
corner in his underwear, looking both ways. A sheen of sweat, like oil,
glimmered off his muscles and the rage on his face. I watched his hurt
as he receded, through the smile of the pretty blonde reflected in the
window of that well lit bus.

I must have laughed for five minutes without noticing the faces staring
at me. They were all black, mid twenties. Seven men and three girls.
Cloth jackets, baggy pants worn low over high-tops. Dirty people who
made the Wrestlemania cast seem like well kept nuns. The bus headed to
the South Side of town. Bad-ass hood, where the alleys stink and the
muggers are well above average. Worse yet, it wouldn’t take long for the
police to figure where I’d gone and be after this thing. I swung out of
the seat and moved to the door when a leg the size of Newark clunked
across the aisle like a gate.

“Pardon me, it’s my stop.” I kept my voice whispering, like a woman with
a cold.

“Hold on Momma. A downtown girl shouldn’t get off no ride early.”

Cocky bastard, six feet and two hundred fifty pounds, some of it fat,
but not enough – like some swamp monster. Even sitting and slouching
like that, the hulk was still taller than me.

“Look, I gotta go. This is my stop. Please…” I worried about the cops
and the South-End is no place for red dressed blonde at that time of
night. Or any time for that matter.

And she shoved me. One of the girls came from the side and pushed me
down against the sneering ape that grabbed my arm hard and put his other
big hand around my throat. If he closed it, I’d choke.

“Oh, now come on. I… Uh… Let me go. Please…”

“Quiet Ho! You get the driver upset and you need a new face. Now juz sit
nice net Stomper and enjoy the ride. We goin’na party. An if you good
nuff, you goin’na make some fiiiiine money. Unnerstan?”

“Money? Uhhhh!” A whispered squeal. This gang thought I was a whore. My
disguise. What to tell them?

“I axed if y ou unnerstan Momma? If you dohn party good, you ain’t gonna
party no more. You know what I’m saying?” His hand slid down my arm,
cuffing my wrist and pulling my fingers against his bulging crotch.

“Maybe a lil’ hand action on the way Babe? Lez see you charm my snake
some, huh? Whs’s you name girl?”

“My name” the thing grew in my fingers, hard and round as a pipe.
“I’m… uh… Candi. Please don’t do this.” He held my hand hard against
him, moving it in small circles while the others smirked.

Off into the night. Away from my car. The cops maybe after the bus. The
captive of ten tough people. I was done up as the cheapest slut,
corseted and heeled to slow me down under the best of circumstances and
driving into the sleaziest part of the city. There had to be a way out.

One thing was certain… I couldn’t call a cop.


Chaired Man Of The Board
by Timothy Reisling Betticut

Heather sat primly still tasting Colin’s thick cum. Shiny white
stockinged ankles and thighs together, back arched, boobs up and out,
nipples poking at their lacy covering, Heather was a gorgeous, blond
offering, a sacrifice to the god Testosterone. Fat red lips, still slick
from Colin, brows arched into a perpetual question, bambi eyes, and
cheekbones sharp enough to open envelopes, Heather was a wet dream with
a virginal face and an innocent smile. A blond with the mystical ability
to make little men – big. And to make big men… well, to MAKE, big men,
and to make them any time she wanted.

Heather sat firmly against the high straight back of her chair. “Her?”
Well what else? This kitten’s 5’5″ frame held a softly packed 38/23/32
set of jiggley curves. Her hair tousled down to mid back in an explosion
of shiny blond curls. Her C cups jounced at the slightest move. And her
dress was cut way down to there and up as far at the bottom.

Heather wore a little summer thing in yellow with big white polka dots
and little straps and lots of cleavage and leg that teetered atop four
inch heels even as she sat. There were white plates shining from her
ears to match the white pumps that were strapped around her ankles and
snug white and yellow choker snicked about her throat. Heather was
elegant pornography with a body that made Jessica Rabbit seem like…
Tipper Gore.

And of course she clenched a sign, just like the other four girls
sitting in the semi circle on the dais. Like the others, Heather’s
dangled from the white dowel she clutched between her teeth. Strings
from either end dropped to the upper edges of the white card with the
big pink letters. Her’s read, “I just blew Colin!” It rested just below
her chin draping halfway down her bare chest. The round dowel was some
six inches long and kept her lips curled into the same smile that each
of the others wore as they worked not to drool too much.

The four girls all oozed an elegant sort of sexuality that said “No
facial tattoos and only the most modest body parts pierced.” Heather’s
long red nails gleamed as she clutched the rounded ends of the chair
arms. And the sign waved as Heather peered out into the darkened room
where clients lurked. She could make out shapes, but under the golden
stage lights, there was little more the leggy sign holders could see.

Yet they knew that these were the sort of shoppers who understood that
girlfriends were the women you pay to stay with you, and that sluts were
the girls you pay because they’ll leave. From this crowd, the lucky girl
would get a Colin who merely stared at the world with an expression of
snaggle toothed dementia.

A fifth chair was vacant. Tiffany was in back, working. In fifteen
minutes, Heather realized, her sign would get changed. Feather held that
one now, “I haven’t blown for fifteen minutes!”

The brunette in brilliant red was beginning to look anxious. To
Feather’s left, Brie sucked on another ‘Fifteen Minute’ sign and she
seemed to be consciously jiggling her breasts beneath their satiny jade
coverings so they flashed in the lights. Trina was terrified.

Her sign read, “I’d better get a blow job soon!” All the girls knew that
Trina had only minutes left. She was pushing forward a little so the
crowd might look down her black dress. Her face darted from form to form
in the room, fluttering her card. There were no signs after hers’, just
a replacement to take her chair and a reassignment to the ….

Heather couldn’t think of that. Right now Heather was very happy to have
Colin’s jism still coating her teeth. She was at least twenty minutes
away from that awful sign that Trina waved.

And Heather just knew that some other guy would loosen her from her
chair. Would let the magnets release the bracelets, belting, choker and
anklets that welded her wrists, waist and ankles to this diabolical
throne. With all her will, Heather looked sexy and confident and
alluring.

And Tim Mitty made her do it. How often do we read of women trapped
inside the bodies of women? Of men, anxious for sexual reassignment. How
rarely are their stories of women trapped inside the bodies of men?
Well, Tim was trapped inside Heather’s beauty. Teather did it.

Little by little she’d blackmailed him into becoming
Heather-the-Bimbo-Next-Door. It wasn’t enough that he was now her bubble
headed secretary. Not enough that she’d turned him into a submissive
regular at bondage clubs. Not enough that she’d turned him out to run
tricks on The Strip.

Now he was Heather-the-Sucking-show-Girl. Demure and damned in this
chair. Gagging himself either with these awful signs or with the hot boy
sausages he had to eat to avoid far worse. The other three on stage at
least were women. Eating cock was fine for them. Even strange and weird
cock. But, Tim Mitty was a heterosexual man.

Or at least that’s what his mind said. In spite of the sissy fag Teather
made him do. Ever since the puberty express left his station the slogan
was, “So many girls, so little ammunition.” And he’d kept his pecker
loaded and firing blindly.

But now the this was the only choice. Teather, was Howard Stern with an
attitude. This amazon had the evidence that meant jail for Tim. She knew
about all of his tax schemes, all of the embezzlement. No matter that it
was a family business. No matter that his relatives deserved to lose the
money. After all, Tim made them rich. Made the company a success.

But they paid him so little while he did it all, took all the risks. And
Teather found out. He knew his relatives would prosecute. Knew that
years in jail awaited. Unless.

So Tim Mitty was Teather’s Sissy Slut professional. And since all
professionals are conspiracies against the laity, she got her revenge on
men. Tim was her vengeance.

From his first appearance as a Harem Girl at the party, to this… Each
step was more humiliating. He never forgot his hatred for anything. He’d
have gladly killed Teather. But that evidence was triggered to show up
if anything happened to her.

So he sat in his yellow polka dotted splendor….

“Uh-oh,” lost in his thoughts time had slipped away. A hand took his
sign. Heather bit onto the new one, “I haven’t blown in fifteen
minutes!” For the zillionth time he pulled at his bondings, sighed and
realized, it was time to start jiggling some tits.

Tim knew what happened in this place to guys bound to his seat if they
lost their last sign and bored the crowd. Tim set Teather’s boobies
aflutter, bait to keep from becoming the chair-man of the bored.


Cheerleadered
By Timothy Reisling Betticut

It was an automatic corseting machine. I stood in it…. both hands and
feet splayed wide and snapped off to the far hooks while it pulled my
waist down to twenty three inches… then sealed it off beneath the
terribly boned pink satined thing that hugged me now from boobs to hips.
In moments it’d slid the brilliant pink thigh highs up and then the
savagely heeled sandals were locked onto my ankles. My arms clicked free
just after the metal belting locked at my tinyed waist. And the lighted
signs ordered me to slide each hand into one of the holes where I felt
the fingers spread, sniggered down and new wrist cuffs holding them into
place.

Meantime the hood descended. An apparatus the size of a wide lampshade,
dropping about my head and down to my shoulders…. wrapping me in
darkness. Inside it pumped full, engulfing my head and face in porous
something….. I couldn’t twitch as it seemed to vibrate against me
skin… my eyebrows… my closed eyelids… something warm… slick
poured against my lips…. cheeks… face. Shooting some sort of
brackish liquid down my throat. Yuch!

Why did I step into this shower stall? I knew it was for the women…
but somehow… well… it was inviting and after I washed… and it
dried me….. those little lights inviting me to spread my arms and legs
wide until…. “SNAP!” They were caught and the corseting began.

Then all of my body was wiped by those odd sponges… some sort of moist
cream… then wiped free…. ALL MY BODY HAIR… dropping…. falling
away!!!

And in the darkness…. things pressed at my chest…. What? Somethings
affixed there? If only I could see… what happened to me in that hood?
Now…. things dangled heavily at my bust… above that ghastly
corset….. Dangled and jiggled?

“Pouf……fffff……” The helmet esploded away in a gust of warm
air… drying my face and … “WHAAAA!….. Honey blond curls cascaded
all about my face. Curls? And my hands free…. “OMAGAWD!” My fingers
have long nails…. painted the fieriest red… with silver and sparkles
and they are pointed and …… I’m free of this thing and

Out… out into the bathroom… How to escape this corset? How to get
free of these heels and…… “Jesus Christ! BREASTS!” Two…. double
D’s perked from my chest… No seams? And they’ve been somehow attached
to my nipples! Yikes… when I touch their fat, extended nips… mine
vibrate beneath! How?

Who the fuck is that? In the mirror… She’s… she’s… That gorgeous
sexy semi naked corseted, high heeled slut with tons of curls fat red
lips… flashing red nails and a….. holy shit…. That’s my prick!
That machine’s made me into a Vixen! One of the cheerleaders! I’m….
I’m…. a super sexy…. whore!

Gotta wash off this makeup… Get outta this rig. Tear off these tits.
“Ohhh!” Who said that? That was a girl’s voice! Where?

“Who’s there?” THAT’S ME! That stuff I swallowed…. it’s tightened my
vocal cords. My voice is higher, yet reedy and….. “Testing…. One …
Two? Three?” I’ve got a girl’s voice….. No… It’s…. it’s…..
“Testing?” It’s a bimbo’s voice! I sound like…… “Hello?” I sound
like an… an…. airhead.

And in the mirror…. except for that prick….. I look like a wet dream
airhead…. and….. I HAD NO IDEA! What the hell is that machine? I
thought it was some kinda shower stall! I snuck in here to see if there
was anything to steal. Nobody here in the middle of the night. So why
not a shower? And now….. LOOKIT ME! I’m a fucking carnal… walking
invite to a raping. MY RAPING!

My clothes won’t fit…. what… what’s in these closets? Costumes?
Can’t wear a costume….. In the drawers? What’s this? Looks like some
kinda panty girdle…. Shit. Can’t go anywhere in those clothes with
this thing springing up between my legs. Gotta pull that panty thing on.
Push my cock… uhhhhh. between my legs… like…. ohhhhh….. SHIT!
This’s got a phony vulva outlined into the crotch. A bloated, fattened
set of girl lips.

Who cares. There’s gotta be some kinda pants here. Just these shorts.
Goddam hot pants…. Leather like… hot pink…. stretch… HOT PANTS!
Well, no way I’m gonna wear one of them dresses or skirts. Shit. Lookit
the tops. All glitzy and sparkley. What the hell. Leg me pull this one
on…. Shit…. The thing plunges lower than a Texas oil rig in front.
and it seems to pull my fat boobs up and out! Still it covers the
corset. Okay… I’ll go home. And cut myself outta this stuff and wash
my face and figure out how to get this damned wig off. Wuff…. it seems
to be … what? Woven into my own hair? And if falls to my tush in back!
And I’m swaying like a New York hooker in these heels and these pants
and this top are so shiny. Oh hell…. the pants… so tight lift up my
ass cheeks and ….. CHRIST! They outline my fake vulva! I ntis outfit,
I’m all tits, ass and cunt!

Still… Gotta get outta here. Gotta get back to my car… Grab my
wallet and keys from my slacks and put them…. WHERE? Shit… Okay.
Here’s a tiny purse with a shoulder strap. Damn thing bounces against my
hips….. I’m WEARING EARRINGS! I’ve got hoops in my ears! Big pink
fucking rings that fly around with my hair! And what’s that? Oh
shiiiiiit! Over these pink knee highs… around my left ankle….. A
pink… plastic… anklet? With some sorta tag! Can’t reach it…. can’t
bend in this corset…. It says something…. OH NO! The machine put a
necklace on me too! Or is this a collar. Look in the mirror. Stay
calm…. There… and it’s tagged too. What’s it say? Backwards in the
mirror….. Ohhh… lookit my eyelashes and the pink eyeshadow and the
what? Eyeliner? I’ve got a ton of makeup. HEY! It doesn’t wipe off! My
hands won’t smear it? What is this crap?

And the tag at my neck. It’s backward…. the letters….. White on
pink…… Two words….. On top….. “k…c…o….c?” Fucks that mean?
The lower word…. “r…e… k… c…u… S”. What is this…. Serbian?
Damned mirror… got the things reversed. Okay… I’m outta here. Back
through the door I broke into….. Out to my…. Yikes… can’t even
walk fast in these heels… What are they.. four inches? Pencil thin?
I’ve always been too skinny. Too short… On these things… with these
monster boobs…. Hell.. I must be 5’7″ at least with another ten pounds
of tit!

In the parking lot now. Stay calm. Damn… with these nails… can’t
work the key into….. A car’s coming. Two guys! “Um… hiya fellas.”

“Uh-huh, I’m on the pep team for the pro game this weekend.”

“Uh… no… really… don’t want to go anywhere just now.. No…. don’t
need help with…. NO! I DON’T NEED YOUR FUCKING HELP! LET ME…. NO! I
DON’T WANT A RIDE. DON’T… Don’t push me into your car…..”

“Where…. where are you taking me…. Hey… don’t touch me like
that… Don’t feel my….. PUT THAT THING AWAY! OHHHHH….. PUT BOTH OF
THOSE THINGS AWAY…. ZIP YOURSELVES BACK UP DAMNIT!!!! This park is too
dark…. where…. ROPE? Handcuffs? I don’t want to get out here…..”

“Don’t make me kneel by this light. You’re tying my ankles behind the
pole…. My cuffed wrists to my ankles!!!!! My waist to the pole? My
neck to the fucking pole? That makes my tits stand out a mile.”

Christ I’m helpless now. This corset… these heels…. these jugs…. I
can hardly twist or pull and when I do… I’m a jiggling menu for their
sex appetitites. They’re giggling at my necklace. What’s the damned
thing say? Did those girls know I was breaking into their dressing room?
I thought they saw me casing the place. Setup! I’ve been setup!!!! Or
set down…. on my knees… All in pink and flashy blond curls and big
earrings and fat red lips and irremovable makeup and fifty foot heels
and ….. SHIT!

“OMIGAWAIT! ZIP YOURSELVES UP YOU PERVERTS AND…. AND…… ”

“Um….. now hold a minute guys…. you’re making a gordo mistake…
I’m… I’m… don’t make me take that into my mouth. I’M A
MAUGHHHHHHHHHHH!”


Cinder on Ice
By Timothy Reisling Betticut

Gay or straight, men are fuses. So I made Cinder. She was my boytoy. Me,
but different. Me as an airhead slut babe. She was fun but, degrading. I
hated me after I took off my Cinder outfit. I hated men after I put
Cinder away. So I needed something to make me get back at Cinder and men
for what Cinder and men made me feel like. You know what I’m saying? So
I made Tim Mitty into Cinder and set him to lighting fuses. And left him
there to deal with the explosive mess.

Tim Mitty is my boss. A candid video of us in bed was all I needed in
this age of sexual harassment. We played dominant and reluctant slave. I
was the reluctant girl on bottom… for that one night… for that one
tape. For that one lever that now makes him be Cinder- no matter how
much he hates it.. He despises Cinder, and male animals even more than I
do. Poor Timmy. Poor little fluff headed Cinder. Lucky me.

Want to see some tapes? I can show you the first night. We double dated
with a couple of studhunks I picked up at the mall. Cinder looks just
like Kim Bassinger with honey blond hair and much bigger tits. In that
vicious boned corset, her double D’s poked up and out against her pink
halter top. I chose Timmie carefully. He’s a slight guy, maybe five four
and balding. But in Cinder-drag… up on four inch heels…. In a
jiggling Wonder hip/butt panty…. WOW! Cinder ignites.

That night Peal Trescott exploded two, maybe three times… Here, it’s
on the tape. See Cindy suck? Suck Cindy Suck. See Peal plead? See Peal
cum into Cindy’s mouth. See Peal come again into Cindy’s mouth?
Ahah….. see.. a tearful Cindy suck him up again and….

“DO IT CINDY!”

Tonight we’re playing tie up. Cindy’s up on that towel covered block…
wrapped so… so snugly. See how she squirms against her shiny red
straight jacket? The thing’s industrial strength taffeta-Spandex. See
how the lights flash off of her gleamy opera stockings that run all the
way up under her teeny cheerleader skirt? See how she teeters atop those
white ankle high spike boots? Hear how she ‘mumphs’ and ‘nuhs’ around
that ‘O’ ring jacking her slick red lips so wide? Don’t you love the
tendrils I left when I pulled her hair into that pony tail and tied it
taught to the ceiling? Isn’t it neat how straight it makes her stand? I
love the bells that dangle from her earrings. Listen to them jingle as
she shakes her head at me. And here’s the cool part….

The way cool part. Under the towel that’s under her stilt heels… Well
that block is ICE! Uh-huh…. slowly it’ll melt to leave her dangling by
her honey golden hair. I’m so glad I made Timmy grow it so long in back.
On top of course it’s a glue-on wig, but poking through behind is Tim’s
own lovely long hair. And of course there’s the capsule.

And Tim knows all about it. Can’t help it. I rammed it up him with the
vibrating penis that’s humming in his back hole. A timed release triple
dose of Extasy! When that thing melts in an hour… Cinder will wanna
suck start Harleys till oh, about five tomorrow morning. Of course, if
Cinder’s real good, and wears her dates out before that pill melts.
Well, maybe we can tug it out in time. I like incentives, don’t you?
Ohhhh… it’s neat to see her struggle, and lookit the way she’s
pleading as I move this ladder in front of her.

“Well we want the boys to be able to get to you right, Hon?”

Ohhh.. I can’t wait to see how she’ll ignite them tonight. These hetero
boys are in their late teens. Each could be good for say… three, maybe
four ejaks each? Well Cinder ought to be hungry, she’s been on a savage
diet to get that corseted waist down to 24 inches. She sure looks hot
huh? She sure will lignite fuses huh? And when those guys pump away into
those pretty red lips…. When Timmie sucks and swallows for dear life.
I’ll feel like Cindi and men are getting everything they deserve for
everything they did to me. Well, at least I’ll feel that way for
tonight… and maybe when I show you the video… Was that the door
knocker?

“Yoa Cindy Slut…. It’s party time!”

“Jingle… jingle….. JINNNNNNGLE!”


One thought on “a series of short tales from the much missed …Timothy Reisling Betticut

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