Two-Girl Call — The Castration Connection

     Right after Mass...

     A sunny Sunday morning as another warm August rolls along U.S. 1. The old highway is surprisingly smooth yet expectedly scenic. The old Corvette convertible has its rag top down. At 6,000 rounds-per-minute, the 350 highly-compressed cubic inches give the young girl a thrill, and make the old girl proud to be an American, a Chevrolet American.

     But there is a shake.

     And the thrill is more of a chill.

     The air temperature is damn near the same as her body temperature — as her body temperature should be. The eroticism of the last 48 hours has her running at 101 degrees and 101 miles-per-hour.

     The eroticism of the last 48 hours has her body in heat and has given her a never-before-equaled chill, a full-throttle thrill from head to toe. The shake is not the Z-rated Goodyears, not rocks falling at Acadia, not revenge from that sleazy roadside diner where Rita last ate (two days ago!).

     It is her knees. Involuntarily, her left hits her right. Her right hits the overdrive. Her damn sex drive has been in overdrive all weekend.

     Right after Mass...

     Ma will give her chicken soup back on the Island. But neither Ma, nor no one, she is thinking, will ever con the truth of this weekend out of Rita.

     Just stay focused on the main highway.

     Right through Mass. Right through Conn. Right through the City. Then, just hang a left.

     Two days of ultimate arousal eventually was burning itself out, bringing that non-unique weakness, like she had lost a gallon of blood.

     Yes, some blood had been lost, of that we will learn, but it was not from Rita. Sure her BP is about 70 over 40, but not because she is on the rag.

     Ma would fix her, once that classic, classy rag-top gets her home. Right after Mass. Then Conn. Then hang that left.

     Hang, hang, hang — the words roll around in her head as she rolls down the old road in her aged, but reliable, crimson-red 'vette.

     It seems like 24 hours non-stop at LeMans. Then, finally, she is home.

     Home was where I found Rita, my old University of Toronto classmate. I was there to be the only one to whom she had to confess something in confidence, the only one who would ever hear her weekend-of-the-ending-of-the-weak story.

     Except for the others who also survived.

     And, of course, until now. Because now, Rita and I both know that all of you should know too.

     Maine. Steven King Country.

     Rita's story makes The Shining look like a Disney film.

     Funny to think about it now, but it was her friend Mickey who got her the phone sex job. Her Ma, her Sunday savior who made the chicken soup, had worked her way through Columbia at $3.99 per hour.

     Rita makes that in a minute.

     Correction: Her boss makes that in a minute, and Rita's take is about half. But even at two bucks per minute — more than most of the girls because she is the most requested — Rita has tucked away more than 200 grand cash-in-the-bank, profit-after-expenses, after just two years on the job.

     Her company, JPS (Just Phone Sex), bills itself as the only company with girls that do extreme phone sex — no limits no time, no no-no's anytime.

     If you want to fuck a dog, call Rita.

     If you want to suck a horse, call Rita.

     If you want to cut off your cock and feed it to a dog while you are being ridden by a horse, call Rita.

     Yeah, there really was (is) no limit to "extreme." If you have to scream to cream, call Rita ... and her friends.

     Martin was still in his fountain of youth, but he needed the extreme to get off. He needed to think about losing things to lose his load. His extreme fantasies had to be extremely real.

     Gretchen was his favorite girl. She could always push him to his limits. She could always remove all limits to his limits.

     As long as there were no pictures, there were no limits, according to the JPS attorneys in Cambridge. Two people could talk about anything according to the First Amendment legal guys (and le-gals) from Haa-vaad.

     Martin got his fantasies fulfilled by phone. He must have lost his cock and balls about 200 times per year. Even his increasingly-bizarre castration fascinations were wearing thin, so maybe it was good that Gretchen had a strong need for extreme fantasies of her own.

     Gradually, and to Martin's obvious-by-orgasm approval, Gretchen wove her own extreme thoughts into the fabric of Martin's erotic mind. Into that most primitive cerebral centroid where humanoids were primordially programmed to jump the bones of other humanoids on a regular basis, even if the jumping methods have to become more and more irregular.

     Gretchen wanted Martin dead.

     Sure, he could lose his cock first, even his gonads could go. And they could even go into his stomach, since he wanted so badly to ingest his excised genitals. But then Martin, too and in toto, had to go.

     Gretchen had to get off too, and for this, Gretchen wanted Martin dead. Erotic fantasies need to evolve to survive, so naturally and eventually she needed the more un-natural:

     Gretchen needed Martin dead.

     And by this time, Martin actually needed to be cock-less and ball-less. Reality had to become totally fantastic — for both the phone-er and the phone-ee.

     A few days before we met Rita cruising home down the Atlantic Coast Highway, she was working the Thursday wee-morning graveyard shift. The deranged that ring in the wee-morning always need the really extreme to get their pee-pee's to explode.

     Martin was on with Gretchen, trying like always to get off. As usual, Martin was polite as he began his call, wanting to know what kind of real-kink Gretchen had been up to, or down to, lately.

     Gretchen knew what Martin wanted by now. His fantasies were vivid: lose the balls, lose the cock, eat the balls, eat the cock. Just the thought of Gretchen helping him do this got Martin's rocks off. Initially, the scenario often brought Gretchen to climax too.

     Now she needed even more. Delicately, but with productive determination, she had also convinced Martin that he needed more.

     Their jointly-fun scenario had evolved into a nubile naked Gretchen tying Martin to a tree, in the woods in the wee-hours, but with a wicked campfire ablaze. With the flames flickering and shimmering off her razor-sharp blade.

     Of course, Martin had also evolved into a very fashionable, but still closeted, cross-dresser. He was a favorite at Victoria's Secret, where Gretchen ordered him to shop (especially since she happened to know that Martin lived near her and would shop at the V.S. where Gretchen herself shopped, and where her sales-girl friends would keep the gay-in-training gossip flowing her way).

     As time went on, Gretchen forged the opportunity to meet Martin in Victoria's Secret, but the meeting would be unilateral. Gretchen would know Martin, but Gretchen's I.D. in V.S. would remain Victoria's Secret. At least initially.

     Gretchen's friends had already informed her that Martin was an Armani-dressed, Rolex-watched, Ivy League Up-and-Comer, who looked just fantastic not only as the young executive male, but also as the vivacious and voluptuous drag queen who Victoria's Secret had helped bring to light.

     Martin was not the sole special-assignment shopper who Gretchen had commanded to Victoria's Secret. There were many, and it was so kinky for Gretchen to casually bump into her clients, her sensuous slaves, and to even offer them erotic clothing tips.

     As to Gretchen's identity, most were never the wiser. But as to their choices in lingerie and all the rest, they all had Gretchen's anonymous good-taste to thank.

     Jason was the first to know the real Gretchen. Because Gretchen got off on the thought of polishing off Jason, she made her diabolical move.

     "Your erotic feminine voice sounds so familiar," Gretchen mentioned as she pulled the expensive but beautiful bikini panties tight around his tight, tight ass cheeks. She was looking around him as she spoke and they made eye contact in the Victoria's Secret mirror.

     He had already bought all the new sexy outfits he was trying on, but he really appreciated this anonymous woman's advice on cock-tucking, exercises for ass tightening, and all that.

     He especially appreciated that they always seemed to shop at Victoria's Secret about the same time.

     "This swimsuit is lovely, and I especially love how the low-cut bra accentuates your new 38-DD breast implants," she continued. "But things sure would look a lot more feminine and a lot more sexy if this little cock were cut out of the way."

     As she pulled his cock back between his legs to hide it under the panties, his reaction was both to the tactile and to the audible.

     "Gretchen?" "Your voice is so familiar too, you sound like someone I know and love dearly, although we have only met by phone," Jason offered.

     "Jason, is that you?" She faked her surprise. "I can not believe we have finally met, and let me say you look just marvelous, and here I was thinking that all my phone slaves must be hideous-looking to need phone sex to get off."

     They got along great for more than a year. Gretchen took Jason completely under her wing. She also, and as often as possible, took him completely under water, for as long as possible.

     Gretchen needed to get an erotic drowning down on her erotic score card. Jason would be her first goal.

     So, when Martin asked what kind of erotic kink Gretchen had done lately, the subject of Jason came up. He came up for air just in time this time, Gretchen detailed.

     "Well, you know how much I like to pretend to drown my sissy slaves, so I'll tell you that I have come closer and closer to having my most erotic fantasy fulfilled."

     Martin's cock instantly stood rock hard and oozed some pre-cum stain through the satin gown he had chosen for his wee-hour call to Gretchen. He almost always ruined an expensive outfit during a phone chat with Gretchen, but he was happy because Gretchen wanted it that way.

     Sissy slaves were always happiest giving Gretchen what she wanted. They were always hoping and hoping to eventually be able to give Gretchen not only what she wanted, but also what she more-and-more was beginning to need.

     Jason, for example, was dying to die for Gretchen.

     Jason never felt so alive as when he felt this could be the day he would used and abused to death — in heavenly, heavenly death. And that his naked, but nicely reshaped to female, but then lifeless, body would continue to be used and abused by Gretchen and whoever else she could get to join their fun.

     Martin was aroused by Gretchen's drowning fantasy-to-reality update. He had one of the best orgasms of his life that night.

     Then he called back. Just an hour later, he called back.

     "Please, let me join you and Jason this weekend," he begged.

     "But your ultimate fantasy does not just involve me and someone like Jason," Gretchen countered.

     But in that hour of post-orgasmic clarity, Jason had anticipated Gretchen's counter, in fact he counted on it.

     "Let's do a two-girl call then, and find another kinky girl for the weekend," was Martin's counter to the counter.

     Gretchen already had many anonymous meetings with Martin at Victoria's Secret. Martin and Jason had even met Gretchen together anonymously at Victoria's Secret.

     Both Martin and Jason were men who turned Gretchen on. Even as men-men, they would have been fuck-buddy "keepers," but as sissy slaves their eagerness to do all kinky requests made them even more erotic in Gretchen's eyes.

     "OK, we'll call another girl, but first I am going to tell you a Victoria's Secret secret, and only after you absolutely promise that you will do everything I command this weekend," Gretchen said, as she realized all her sissy-grooming was about to pay off. In Spades, but we'll get to that.

     "Done and done." answered Martin in as feminine a tone as such a trite, but accurate, phrase can be uttered.

     "Rita dear, this is Gretchen." Rita recognized the sexy voice of her co-worker who lived nearby, who she had known for years, and with whom she had enjoyed many on-phone and real-life group-lez and group-bi adventures.

     "You don't know exactly how far I have pushed the limits of kink with some of my sissy callers, but it is time for you to join the fun. OK if I patch you into my other line where I have one of my favorite sissies ready to obey all of our commands?"

     "Sure, but the last time we did a two-girl call you led the callers to believe we would be meeting them sometime, to actually live out their fantasies." Rita was anxious yet cautious to join the conversation — and maybe join more.

     "Is Rita ready? Now could not be better, my lady love," was Gretchen's temptation.

     "Done, and let's do it," Rita committed, with a lot of wetness already soaking into her own V.S. silk, see-through panties.

     "Martin, meet my good friend Rita," Gretchen told her sissy-slave as the two-girl connection was made.