Biff is back and you're not going to believe what she's up to now!  In what I believe is the funniest Razor-Wire installment yet, our erstwhile damsel has decided to bring in some extra cash by starting a secondary career in Phone Sex.  Ouch! 

A warm thanks to my generous and brilliant friend, Pervert Savant, who writes so deliciously well and with such humor.

Previously:   Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4 

Lingerie on the Razor Wire

by Pervert Savant

The Chilling Story of a Young Transsexual’s Search for Love Amid the Mindless Brutality, Recidivist Squalor, and Unrelentingly Tasteless Tattoos of the Most Corrupt Prison  in Texas! 

Chapter V:  Premium Phone-Sex from the Princess Mistress 

Prison Guard Mary “Biff” McGurk took a long swallow from her bottle of Tecate and glumly eyed the list of telephone numbers illuminated in a line on her computer’s messaging screen. 

Shit!” Biff muttered morosely.  “Looks like another slow night!” 

Eager to supplement her meager income as a functionary at West Texas Correctional, Biff had recently taken on a second job as a Phone Sex Worker. Her decision had been prompted by a colorful Internet ad promising easy money, the ability to work from home, and a chance to be one’s own boss.  Entranced by the prospects, Biff had signed an e-mail contract that promised an ability to start work immediately. However, despite high initial expectations, Biff’s financial returns from her new telephonic métier had, to date, proven somewhat disappointing. 

Biff’s pudgy fingers poked clumsily at her computer’s keyboard.  After a moment, a screen flashed, instantly revealing the litany of assumed names that constituted her recent phone clientele. 

BibOverallFetish called you at 6:15 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

SonicLunch called you at 8:02 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

SasquatchAss called you at 9:23 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

LemueltheMoonPie called you at 9:47 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

Fartlover called you at 10:36 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

BibOverallFetish called you at 11:07 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

BibOverallFetish called you at 11:10 PM (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER) 

Biff scrutinized her call list dismissively.  “Usual bunch of dipshits wanting refunds,” she mused knowingly while reaching for an unfiltered Camel.  “Well, fuck ‘em!  I don’t give refunds!” 

Biff took a deep drag from her cigarette and moved her cursor to her website’s “Customer Feedback” area.

  DATE        CALLER            RATING          COMMENT

Mildly irritated, Biff punched some more keys and moved to her New Caller List to see: 

PantyFemme called you at 12:07 AM on 11/19/07 (CUSTOMER WANTS A CALL-BACK!) 

“Hey!” Biff chortled.  “I got me a new one!”

Biff took another sip from her beer and flipped open the index page of her “Sweet Texas Honey New Operator’s Manual” searching eagerly for its entry for “Panty Fetishists.” 

“Sweet Texas Honey” was the name of the phone sex service Biff had recently joined.  Its website featured pictures of approximately 15 negligee-clad women, all with names like “The Duchess Lacey,” “Little Empress Puddin- Pie,” and “Queen-Bee Brittany,” each one purporting to have some sort of taboo sexual specialty. 

The site’s owner–a husky-voiced, 57-year old woman named Maisie O’Toole–had determined that her courtesans all had to be Princesses, Duchesses, or Queens–in addition to being “barely legal”, being “an experienced life-style mistress” and being possessed of “no taboos”.  These qualities were a guaranteed way – to Maisie’s way of thinking—of  attracting new callers. 

Of course, Biff had a picture posted at Sweet Texas Honey too.  And of course, it wasn’t really her own photo.  Biff’s ad featured a photograph of a svelte 19-year old brunette in a black leather corset bearing the nom-de-plume: “Her Exalted Highness Princess Mistress Biffie”. The photo had cost Biff $50.00 and had been purchased from a website catering to would-be PSOs. 

Despite her ersatz picture, Biff had chosen her business name herself – a small accommodation that Maisie permitted her girls, so long as the selected name fell within the broad parameters of Maisie’s tested keys to telephonic success. Under her elected sobriquet Biff had opted to insert her designated area of expertise — “Whiplash Cash Vixen and No-Limits Life-Style Mistress!” 

As an added come-on, Biff’s site featured–like those of the other geishas who toiled for Maisie –a brief statement detailing her personal likes and dislikes.  Biff had painstakingly written her statement after carefully reviewing those posted on the web pages of her erstwhile rivals.  After giving the matter some thought, Biff had penned the following come-on to her hoped-for future customers: 

GOT A FAVORITE FANTASY YA’D LIKE TO PLAY OUT?  WELL, HOW’D YOU LIKE SUM FIRE ANTS UP YER BUTT, DOGBOY?  HA! HA! OR HOW’S ABOUT ME JUST LAFFIN AT THAT FUNNY LITTLE BITTY PECKER YA GOT THERE?  HA! HA! WELL, I CAN BE SENSUAL TOO — LIKE I WAS YER SPECIAL GIRL FRIEND OR SOMETHING.  HEY! HOW ABOUT I DRESS YOU UP LIKE YOU WAS LITTLE BO-PEEP AND THEN I DO YA WITH AN OLD CORNCOB?  HA! HA! PRETTY FUNNY!!  I DON’T CARE. THAT’S OK WITH ME TOO. OR HOW BOUT I HOGTIE YOUR ASS AND TREAT YOU LIKE YOU WAS A HEIFER?  MOOOO!  MOOO!  I GOT MY BRANDIN’ IRON ALL REDDY HA! HA!  PRETTY FUNNY, HUH? SO CALL ME UP AND HAVE YOUR TOYS AND GERBILS AND OTHER STUFF ALL REDDY CUZ I LIKE ALL THAT TOO!  NO TABOOS!  I’M A LIFE-STYLE MISTRESS! BARELY LEGAL! YOU’D BE SMART TO CALL ME UP RIGHT NOW, PISSANT!  DON’T KEEP HER EXALTED HIGHNESS PRINCESS MISTRESS BIFFIE WAITING!!!!! AND REMEMBER!  NO REFUNDS!!!!  AND NO WEBCAMS EITHER !! AND I DON’T SELL PANTIES SO DON’T EVEN ASK!!! CALL ME NOW, WORM!!!  AND BEFORE YOU CALL, READ THE RULES!!! 

Thus prepared, Biff then began her work as an odalisque for “Sweet Texas Honey.”  After a spate of initial interest, her calls, inexplicably, had begun tailing off.  Thus, the fact that a “New Caller” was now awaiting her long-delayed call-back served to rekindle some of Biff’s original enthusiasm. 

After cursorily perusing the Manual’s recommendations for the treatment of panty fetishists, Biff opened a bag of barbecued Fritos and a fresh bottle of Tecate and steeled herself for the upcoming task.  Pensively concentrating on Maisie’s suggestions, Biff dialed the number and, after a moment’s pause, was connected to her caller: 

“Hello?” the unknown caller drawled. 

Is this Panty Ass? Er…wait a minute…I mean, Panty Femme?” Biff intoned sweetly. 

“Er…Yeah.  It’s me.  Is this Sweet Texas Honey?” 

“It shore as hell is!”  Biff responded, trying to establish the quick rapport that Maisie had stressed was so important with new callers. 

“Well, howdy-do there, cupcake!  My real name’s, well, it’s Lester.” 

“Well this here’s Her Exalted Highness Princess Mistress Biffie.  Y’all lookin’ fer some fun, huh?”  Biff took a swig from her new Tecate and rummaged in her bag for a Frito. 

"You betcha, sweetcheeks!” the caller responded.  “I got me this little thing fer panties.  Do you specialize in panty-type calls?” 

“Shit yes I do,” Biff lied, languidly chewing her Frito.  “I’ll bet yew’d like to know what kinda panties I’m wearing right now, wouldn’t ya?  Well, sir I’ll tell ya.  They’re these brand new cotton ones I got in my favorite color – lime green.  I also got me a pair with all these leopardy dots on ‘em that I like too.  ‘Course they’re in the wash right now.  I usually wear them panties for my special occasions.  Most of the time though I wear Fruit-of-the-Loom boxer shorts.  Pretty sexy, those Fruit-of-the-Looms—all loose like.  I like ‘em cuz they sorta let the air in and keep everything all cool.  I like the name too. Fruit-of-the-Loom.  Fruit-of-the-Loom’s got a real nice ring to it.  Kinda wholesome.  Y’know, I’m a life-style mistress and I have my stable of subbies hand wash my Fruit-of-the-Looms.  Pretty sexy, huh?" 

“Well, that’s nice.  But what I was thinkin’ about was a pair of them sexy little thongs.  You know, the sorta satiny kind and in a real hot color…you know…like Fire-Engine Red.” 

“Well goddamit, you little dipshit…why didn’t you say so….Hey, now that I’m lookin’ at ‘em, why that’s exactly what I got on now.  Fire-Engine Red thongs.  I usually wear Fire Engine Red thongs under my regular clothes when I’m working on my job.  They’re real slick. Ya sit down wearing those things and ya feel like yer gonna slide right off a chair.  One thing about them though, you gotta be careful with ‘em after you take a shit.  Skid marks.  It’s tough to get skid marks offa satin. But yeah, that’s what I got on now.  Pretty too. Wish you could see ‘em on me.  But you can’t, I guess.  Cuz yore there and I’m here."

Biff paused to take another swallow of beer, listening for “feedback” from the caller.  “Feedback” was important.  Maisie had mentioned that in the Manual. 

“Well, look cupcake.  I was kinda wonderin’ how’d it be if I put on a pair of them thongs with you there…you know…sorta guidin’ me…tellin’ me how hot it makes you and all…y’know?” 

Biff burped and reached for another Frito. 

‘Oh, yeah, that’d make me hot all right – real hot.  Catchin’ you wearing my thong thingies.  Why, if I caught you in ‘em, I’d prolly get my whip and beat yore stupid ass real good.  Shit.  You’d look like such a dumb ass wearin’ my thongs.

What are you anyway?   Some kinda pervert?  Jeez-o-pete, I’d probly have you arrested and haul yore ass down to the police station.  What’s yore name again?  Lester?  Well, Lester, you strike me as one sick perp. I’d haul yore ass down to the station and turn ya over to the proper law enforcement authorities.  That’s my reaction.  I’d be hot all right. I’d press charges!  That answer yore question? 

“No wait.  See, sugar, you don’t understand…What I meant was, you just get me in them panties and…” 

“Hey, Lester…Listen here. Somethin’ tells me we ain’t getting’ off on the right foot.  Look, I know what you like.  I’m an experienced life-style mistress, ain’t I?  Just like my ad says.  And I orter know what’s best fer you, shouldn’t I?  I mean, who’s the goddam expert here? So you just hush-up a minute and let me describe myself ta ya.  See, I’m barely legal.  Eighteen is the legal age and I’m nineteen.  My measurements are 38-24-36.  That get you all hot?  And don’t call me ‘sugar’!  Call me by my name – Her Exalted Highness Princess Mistress Biffie.  Do I make myself clear?

“Er, yes Her Exalted Highness Princess Mistress Biffie.  Um…but what I was trying to say was that I….” 

“Look, toad-brain.  One thing you should keep in mind is that the Princess Mistress doesn’t like to be interrupted.  You been interrruptin’ me right and left.  Do you know who it is yore talkin’ to? 

“Well, I was just tryin’ to say…” 

“I don’t give two shits about what you were tryin’ ta say, you little turdlet.  I know what you like.  You oughta be arrested for it too….Wait a minute.  I’ll deal with you in a minute.  Right now I gotta go take a leak…And you better be here when I come back.” 

“But, Princess Mistress Biffie!  This call is costing me $14.95 a minute!  Couldn’t you just tell me how pretty I’d look in that red thong…you know…and sorta touch ‘em after I got into ‘em and all? Real quick like. And then…” 

“Look, bozo, who’s the Princess Mistress here?  You or me? 

“Well, you are, of course, Princess Mistress, but…" 

“That’s right.  How’d you like it if I put a little horney toad in them panties down there with your little Fredrick?  Them toads got spines.  That could cause you problems…” 

“No…I wouldn’t want that…But I was thinkin’ of somethin’ more….well…My fantasy’s more sensual.” 

“Ha!  You want me ta rub yore dick through yore panties and tell ya yer all pretty, heh?” 

“Well, yes…I mean…something like that…” 

“Fat chance of that happening, dog-boy.  But I will do a fantasy session where I turn you into my little girl.  How’s that sound?  And I’m gonna name you Trollop.  I kinda like that name.  But first I have ta hypnotize you. 

Relax….Relax…Listen to my voice.  Start counting backwards backwards.  Slowly from 500.  Come on now:  499, 498….  You’re getting sleepy.  Did I tell you that I’m also a trained hypnotherapist?   Well I am! 497…count!  I can’t hear you counting.  Are you counting?  I can’t do no fantasy without cooperation!  Get to it!  I can’t hear you! 

“496…..” 

“That’s better.  Now, when you get down ta zero you will be fast asleep and in my power…Keep counting!” 

“495…Er…but Princess Mistress… that’s going to cost me a fortune!” 

“Keep counting!  You are growing more and more feminine as you count.  495…  More and more in Her Exalted Princess Mistress’ power.  Now keep counting, and when I come back here I want to hear you still counting…slowly…backward.  Count!” 

“Please, Princess Mistress…can’t we start at 50?  Princess?  Are you still there?  I can’t hear you.  OK…OK…494…493…getting sleepy…492…” 

“That guy’s voice sure sounds familiar,” Biff mused as she idly washed her hands after relieving herself.  “I could swear I’ve heard it before.  Fuck, I been talkin’ to so many of these perverts lately I can hardly wipe my ass right anymore.” 

Returning to the phone, Biff heard the caller continuing his countdown to erotic nirvana. 

“367…366…365…er….27…26…25…” 

“Goddamit!  Yore cheatin’ you little asswipe,” Biff resumed, immediately taking charge.  Maisie’s Manual stressed the importance of taking charge of submissives. 

“Er no…look…I can’t be countin’ that long.  My credit card’s gonna be maxed out!” 

“Okay…okay!  Look, while I was away I got me this strap-on.  You know what that’s for, right?  Bend over you little sissy.  OK, now hold still ‘cause I’m a-comin’ right in there!” 

“Wait a minute…I mean…can’t you be a little more sensual?” 

“You want sensual?  Hmm.  OK, take yer fingers and start a-pinchin’ yer titties!  Ain’t that sweet?  Ya got ‘em all hard fer me?  OK, now hold still cause I’m a-comin’ right in there!” 

“Look, sweetie, this ain’t workin’ for me; I’m sorry.  Ain’t all yer fault, I guess.  OK, I gotta hang up.  This goddam call’s gonna cost me a fortune.” 

“All right then, hang up.  But remember ta leave me 5 stars, OK?  And a tribute.  Mistress Biffie loves tributes!  Hell, maybe next time I’ll give ya a free minute.  OK?” 

***CLICK*** 

“WE HOPED YOU ENJOYED YOUR CALL WITH SWEET TEXAS HONEY.  TELL A FRIEND ABOUT US.  YOU CAN GET $50.00 OFF YOUR NEXT CALL!”

The Intern

The knock interrupted Angela’s reading, and she looked up from the file folder. Jeannie stood in the doorway.  I’ve put him in number two.  Amanda is making the final preparations.

Angela rolled her eyes.  “Amanda–again?”

Jeannie laughed.  Give her some time, Ms. St. Lawrence. It takes some time.”

“It didn’t take you much time, Jeannie,” Angela smiled, “and knock off that Ms. St. Lawrence crap.”

“Yes ma’am,”  Jeannie teased.

Angela closed the file and moved it to the corner of her desk.  “But you’re good at whatever you do,  Jeannie.  It didn’t take you any time to become the best AA in this building either. But I miss you in the chamber.”

“Thank you, Angie,” Jeannie smiled, accepting the compliment. Her promotion to Angela’s administrative assistant had brought more money, but it was also a job that she enjoyed very much.  Now she assisted with the details of so many different aspects of the correction and punishment of so many prisoners, and it was something she felt she had a great aptitude for.

“Amanda’s just a kid. She has potential. And she wants this job.”

“What she wants is inconsequential, Jeannie,” Angela scowled.  “Tell her to be ready for me in ten minutes.”

Jeannie closed the door and crossed the hallway to her office. One thing that was for sure–what mattered in this department was what Angela St. Lawrence wanted. That’s what made her so good at her job. Something the unfortunate gentleman she had just escorted to holding cell two was about to find out.

She picked up the phone and dialed Amanda’s extension.

****

Ten minutes. A good thing she had noticed that a new prisoner had arrived, and had already stoked the fires. Now all she needed to do was get the prisoner in place.

Amanda walked to the forge that was built into the chamber’s far wall. A brick shelf extended from this wall at a height of about 36 inches.  The center of the shelf formed a basin, in which a mound of coals glowed brightly. She had added a fresh layer of charcoal, and had pumped the bellows of the forge until these new coals were now almost a homogeneous scarlet with the rest.

There were three small tools that Ms. St. Lawrence seemed to favor, so she made sure that these were embedded in the coals. Next, she turned to inspect the brazier. The forge was at the foot of the large wooden table that occupied the center of the room. Instead of a perfect rectangle, a large V notch had been cut out of one end. This was the end where prisoners’ legs were spread, allowing the Facilitator easy access to the genitalia.

Just to the right of the head of the table was a large brazier. To this, Amanda had added several pieces of split-oak firewood. Removing a poker from the flames, she pushed at these burning pieces, breaking them up and forcing them deeper into the existing embers. The poker was then jammed back into the fire, next to other handles of other tools, the business ends buried deep in their fiery container.

“She has to be happy with that,” Amanda thought, watching the newly stirred embers flame. This was only the third time that Amanda had assisted Ms. St. Lawrence. The last two times hadn’t gone well. In fact–the first time–Ms. St. Lawrence had sent her out of the chamber.

***

She had been through one year of Pyro-Correctional vocational study at the community college; and now almost six months of internship here, but this was the next level, and she was perhaps not as prepared as she could have been for what happened in these particular chambers.

But she knew that she could adjust, she could learn. She wanted to, so much. There was something that she could not really describe that had always appealed to her about working here.  And she had been an A student in her classroom training.

In the first three months of her internship she had been assigned to the Misdemeanor department, observing and assisting with light to moderate tortures. The last two months had been spent in Interrogations, but prisoners’ rights limited the seriousness of the torture that could be administered. Supposedly. She learned that there were ways around this. In institutions like this there always were. But in many of those cases she was asked to leave the room or sent on some trumped-up errand, while the interrogators did their work behind closed doors.

Now she was in the Corrections department, where there was no reason for secrecy. These prisoners had been duly tried, found guilty, and sentenced. This was where those sentences were carried out. And the Facilitators–women like Ms. St. Lawrence–carried them out in ways to which Amanda had never been exposed.

The first time she assisted, the time that Ms. St. Lawrence dismissed her, involved a prisoner that had been convicted of attempted rape. Ms. St. Lawrence had explained to her that according to the transcript, the rape had not been successful, but that men disposed to this behavior were likely to attempt it again. It could not be tolerated. She had asked Amanda to go to the forge and pump the bellows to make sure that the implement she intended for the prisoner was heated intensely.

So Amanda did as she was told, even though she could not see anything but the coals themselves, and pumped as she watched Ms. St. Lawrence pull the prisoner’s pants down to his ankle shackles. She smiled as he explained his innocence.  “I know, you’re all innocent,” Ms. St. Lawrence had answered, sounding sympathetic.  She’d then turned and opened a drawer in a small cabinet, and removed a ball gag.  “But I certainly don’t need to hear about it, now do I?”  After gagging the prisoner, Ms. St. Lawrence stood between his legs, and began to massage his penis.

Amanda was not surprised. She knew that an erection was usually a prerequisite to torture. “You like young women,” Ms. St. Lawrence said rhetorically, since he could not respond. “So I’m sure you’ll like Amanda.”

“Why don’t you play with his cock?” Ms. St. Lawrence had a calm determination in her voice, as she motioned for Amanda to join her at the table. “I understand that the young lady you accosted was just about Amanda’s age? The prisoner shook his head violently in protest as Amanda approached.  “So enjoy!”

Ms. St. Lawrence had moved out of the way, and Amanda, knowing from her training exactly what to do, began to caress his penis.

Raised a good Catholic, Amanda, now 19, had managed to remain a virgin. But she was an expert in hand jobs and blow jobs. In high school and college she had actually intimidated a few boyfriends, because she had so aggressively made them orgasm. It was like their cocks — and their semen– were hers to control. And when they came, it wasn’t them giving it; Amanda was taking it.

So manipulating him, like so many others, was easy. And Ms. St. Lawrence actually seemed to be impressed as Amanda quickly made him rock hard. By this time, Ms. St. Lawrence had moved to the forge and had begun stroking the handle of the bellows.

“Dicks get men into a lot of trouble, just like you’re in right now,” Ms. St. Lawrence explained, oblivious to his protest and panic. “Look at you. Wanting to stick that thing where it doesn’t belong.”

“Even though you were sentenced once before for trying to do the same thing to another woman,” Ms. St. Lawrence said as she picked up a pair of tongs and started to dig into the blazing coals, “you just haven’t learned.”

She found what she had been searching for in the coals and removed a gleaming red cylinder, clenched between the tongs.

“If you want to put that thing into some place it doesn’t belong, Mr. Man,” she smiled, “why don’t we put it in here?”

That was when Amanda made her mistake. “Oh my GOD!” She almost thought it had come from someone else. But she had said it. She stopped stroking his cock. She was mesmerized by the red-hot iron sleeve that Ms. St. Lawrence brought towards towards the cock in her hands. “Oh, Jesus.” Had that come from her again?

“If this is too much for you Amanda you can leave now,” Ms. St. Lawrence said, matter-of-factly. The glowing cylinder of iron was just above his erect penis. Amanda could feel his pulse in his cock, hear the protests despite the gag, actually smell the heat of the burning iron. She didn’t know if she was excited, or nauseated, or both.

“Leave the room, Amanda. I don’t think you are ready for this,” Ms. St. Lawrence commanded, “leave now!”

Amanda let go of his cock, and walked towards the door. Embarrassed and humiliated, she didn’t look back. She desperately want to stay for what would be next. Ms. St. Lawrence had made that perfectly clear. But she knew better than to ask. Instead, she went straight to the closest ladies room, locked the stall, and masturbated.

***

This time, Amanda knew she’d get it right. This time, maybe Ms. St. Lawrence would be so impressed with her professional execution of her duties that she would even allow her be the one to put the offender’s penis in that burning hot cylinder. Just as she heard the click click click of Ms. St. Lawrence’s heels coming down the hall, she felt a gush of wetness between her legs.

It was going to be tricky. But she just knew she could do it. She had to, because someday she was determined to be a Facilitator, just like Ms. St. Lawrence. They had all the fun.

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

**** NOTE: This story (STARRING ME!) was written for me (0nly for me, he said.) by a client. Having your penis burned is a rare fetish, so I though you might like a voyeur’s peek. Of course, the client shall remain anonymous.

 

FYI: NO PENISES WERE HARMED DURING THE CREATION OF THIS FETISH FANTASY.

When I read his blog, Prurient Interests, I never know what is real and what is fantasy. If you knew him like I know him, you would understand. Because Porno Person is a good friend and a caller. I know for a fact that he practices kink at least on a semi-regular basis; I’ve seen the pictures! And, no, I will not show them to you. That he trusts me is something I would never dishonor.

Porno Person also happens to be a talented writer, editor and publisher. This I also know first hand, and, again, I will not kiss and tell. Anyway, he’s kinda-sorta given me carte blanche to use his blog entries if I am so inclined. And today I am. So with out further ado, I present the following. Fact or Fiction? You decide. Or maybe Porno Person will stop by and tell us.

Her Little Friend

I was all set to meet my friend Grace for an afternoon romp when I got an unexpected call from her.

“I have something I need to ask you,” she said solemnly. “I have a friend over and I’m wondering if it’s okay if she stays. I’d like her to be there when we play.”

I had been expecting a cancellation or worse. The addition of another woman for our rendezvous didn’t sound too bad at all.

When I arrived, I was introduced to April; a diminutive lass with a voluptuous figure. She seemed slightly shy and very cute. She stayed close to Grace, almost as if she were afraid of me.

Grace always appreciated my tongue. An avowed bi-sexual, Grace swore that I could preform cunnilingus better than any lesbian she knew. She couldn’t wait much more than a few minutes to shuck her clothes and get up onto her knees on the bed. “Come lick me, darling,” she purred, her shaved pussy beckoning to me.

I got an idea and told April, “If you really want to make Grace happy, do what I do…” I got down on my knees at the edge of the bed and she followed my lead. I took Grace’s tender left foot into my hand and she took the right one. I put my mouth over her big toe and began to suckle at it. Grace began moaning and this quickly turned into a squeal of pleasure as April began sucking on the big toe of Grace’s right foot.

We both knelt there, licking and massaging Grace’s feet. Grace quickly slid a finger down the slit of her pussy and began masturbating as April and I worshiped her tender toes. I watched as April’s tongue slithered along Grace’s arch and heard Grace moan, “It’s taking everything I have to not cum right now…”

I knew how much Grace loved having her feet worshiped and could tell that April was enjoying hearing Grace moan and groan as much as I did. Holding her hand flat over her pussy, Grace was pushing herself against her palm when she said, “I can’t take it anymore. Mike, I need your tongue in my ass.”

Grace was one of the only people that ever requested that I rim her. Since then, I was always sure to provide this to her. It was a special bond between us, I felt. She got up onto her knees, turning over and offering her tanned bottom to me. I got up on the bet behind her, kneeling on all fours, and slid my tongue up and down the crack. April still kneeled by the side of the bed, watching us.

As I pushed my tongue into the tight rosebud of Grace’s ass, I felt a wonderful sensation. April had crawled up onto the bed with us and gotten underneath me to take my cock in her mouth. As I pushed my tongue in and out of Grace’s tight ass, April was sliding her mouth up and down on my cock. Her hunger for cock was voracious. I had never felt someone so enthusiastic about fellatio before. It felt like her tongue was another hand, grabbing and stroking me as she slurped noisily between my legs. I felt light headed as I continued tongue fucking Grace’s ass.

It was as if April’s vacuum mouth was sucking the cum right out of me. I moaned into Grace’s ass and began orgasming as April gulped down my cum.

Not wanting to leave anyone out, Grace turned over onto her back and told April, “Bring that sweet pussy over here.” April put her legs around Grace’s head as she began licking April with gusto. I watched this for a few minutes before I sank back between Grace’s legs and began licking her pussy. I could hear her moans muffled under April and this seemed to telegraph up through and out of April who joined in the chorus of pleasure. It was like I was licking both Grace and April at the same time as the intensity of my tongue on Grace’s clit seemed to mirror that which she applied to April’s. Soon they were both writhing and moaning as they orgasmed in tandem, something that I’ll never forget.

We collapsed in a heap of bodies, April to Grace’s right and me to her left as we both lay in her arms and slowly ran our hands over Grace’s glistening body. We chatted a while until April and I looked at each other and then both took Grace’s nipple’s into our mouths, starting the whole thing all over again…

Finally, what everybody’s been asking for: More about the gang of the Razor-wire, courtesy of our esteemed Pervert Savant. Biff takes front and center this time. It’s her day off and we join her as she is preparing to paint the town Diesel Dyke red.

Catch Up: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Lingerie on the Razor-Wire

by Pervert Savant

A Heartrending but Sadly True Account of a Young Transsexual’s Struggles within the Mesquite-Scented Den of Homoerotic Iniquity that Today Passes for the Texas Penal System.

Chapter IV: Cocktails with Lupita

Head Prison Guard Mary "Biff" McGurk smiled broadly at the face in her bathroom mirror. Biff had just finished liberally slathering that face with a double-dollop of her favorite scent — Mennen’s Skin Bracer. The resulting manly aroma on her beefy jowls complimented the bolo tie, plaid cowboy shirt, and rodeo boots that were Biff”s regular "go-into-town" garb. Yes, it was Saturday night — Biff’s night off from the prison.

"Yeah baby!" Biff yelped approvingly to her reflected visage. "Biffy’s gonna have a hot one tonight. Hormiga better look out, "cause this is one babe that’s gonna have some F-U-N!"

Hormiga, Texas — Biff’s intended destination on this particular Saturday evening — was a prairie oasis located approximately five miles from West Texas Correctional. It featured a small gas station, a tiny grocery, a smattering of rundown mobile homes, and "Rosa’s" — an erstwhile feed store that one Dagoberto "Rosa" Gutierrez had converted into an air-conditioned cantina and gay bar — the only one extant within the arid geographic confines of Suggs County, Texas. In addition to the gay bar — which was aptly called "Rosa’s“ — Rosa also owned the gas station, the grocery, and most of the mobile homes that littered Hormiga. Not surprisingly, Rosa was also Hormiga’s mayor and the top drag entertainer in her converted establishment.

Biff adjusted the turquoise-encrusted slide on her bolo tie and made sure that the unfiltered Camel cigarette she had placed over her protruding left ear was at its customary jaunty angle. Then she carefully fingered her Stetson, making sure its crown was perched on her pate just the way she liked it.

"Your lookin’ good, honey," Biff intoned to her image. "them lezzies at Rosa’s are gonna be losin’ their money when you start knockin’ them pool balls around tonight!"

Satisfied that she was ready, Biff seized the snakeskin carrying case that contained her cue stick and sauntered out, in her customary fashion, to her lime-green Volkswagen Beetle loudly singing the lyrics to Tennessee Ernie Fordâ’s "Sixteen Tons" into the warm night air.

"I got one arm o’ iron, the other o’ steel. If the right don’tt get ya, then the left one weeeeel."

Biff grinned happily to herself. And why shouldn’t she be happy? After all, wasn’t she Warden W. Lester McCobb’s Top Prison Guard? His "Numero Uno" as Biff liked to refer to herself. The Real Thing. The Big Kahuna. Wasn’t she the only prison guard at West Texas Correctional possessed of an Associates Degree in Modern Criminology? Wasn’t she the one that W. Lester McCobb relied on to keep the prison’s fiercest cons in line? Yes, Biff had a right to be happy. She was the envy of her peers, an American success story.

Biff slid her meaty haunches onto the driver’s seat of her VW and grunted approvingly when the vehicle’s engine answered to the turn of her key. She then expertly slipped the transmission out of neutral and into reverse, spun the tires raucously, and –“ after punching the radios buttons to her favorite Del Rio C & W station — set out once again on a familiar, tune-filled trek to Hormiga.

On arrival, Biff swung into her customary parking spot at the gas station across the street from Rosa’s. Emerging from the car, Biff could see that the weekend festivities at Rosa’s were already well-underway. Lupita LaLinda, a diminutive midget drag queen, was in the process of leading a conga-line of Rosa’s regulars out from the bar’s well-lighted entrance. The line was snaking around "Old Buck" — a large plaster statute of a Longhorn steer that Rosa had seen fit to festoon with Christmas tree lights. Old Buck was an advertising relic of the cantina’s glory days as a feed store and Rosa — always the opportunist — had artistically placed red and green lights on the noble bovine’s motionless form so as to spell out, in flashing letters, the name of her watering hole.

Biff snorted amiably as Lupita and the coterie of regulars circled the statue of the steer. "Dumb asses," Biff chuckled. "Hell, it’s only eight o’clock and Lupie’s already four sheets to the wind."

Biff’s appraisal of Lupita’s condition was not far off the mark. The tiny queen was attired in her Saturday night best — a minute cobalt blue, off the shoulder, sequined ensemble that Lupita had daringly accessorized with a peewee-sized feather boa and a matching set of platform heels — on which she was now pivoting none too steadily. The little Mexicanâ’s tiny mitts additionally clutched her customary beverage–a Mason-jar sized martini. Lupita was taking impressive swigs from the jar as she simultaneously steered her festive conga around Old Buck’s impassive backside. Inebriation was in the air. It was Saturday night in Hormiga.

Ignoring the tail of Lupita’s conga, and pool cue firmly in hand, Biff confidently strode into Rosa’s. And it was Rosa herself, from her customary position behind the bar, that was the first to greet Biff on her arrival.

"Hey! Lookie hoose heer! Eets Chon Wayne!" Rosa chortled loudly to no one in particular. "Yoo lookin’ reel good tonight keed-o! I kood smell that after-shave loshun yoo wear from feefty yards!"

Ignoring Rosa’s good-natured taunt, Biff swiveled her 230-pound frame onto a stool in front of the bar and growled: "Gimme a Tecate, you old pervert!"

"Hey, Chon Wayne he always dreenk weeksie. Wassa matta Sheriff, yoo seek or sometheeng?" Rosa responded.

Not waiting for a rejoinder from Biff, Rosa plunged her hand into a cooler and emerged with Biff’s requested quaff. Rosa was in her customary attire — a wide-skirted Mexican wedding dress, a jet-black wig that featured a large silver comb, and her ersatz coiffure crowned with a sweeping black-lace mantilla. Rosa was proud of her Mexican heritage and her get-up befitted her matronly station as the bar’s proprietor and Hormiga’s pre-eminent senior citizen.

Rosa handed Biff her beer and tried to maintain her banter over the noise of the drag-show that was underway on a small spotlighted stage to Biff’s rear. Biff decisively declined Rosa’s offer of a glass and took a pretentious swig of the beer from the tendered bottle. Rosa clucked disapprovingly:

"You donâ know who mighta be peesing on that beer fore yoo dreenk it, Sheriff. Yoo shood use a glass."

Rosa eyed the snake skin carrying case that Biff had placed on the bar and quickly put two and two together.

"Looks like yoo gonna play some pool tonight, eh honey?"

"You betcha, Rosa," Biff grinned, taking another defiant slurp from the beer. "An’ after I get through taking all those lezzies in your pool room for their paychecks, I’m gonna take some o’™ their tail too!"

"Well, buena suerte weeth that, Sheriff," Rosa sniffed skeptically.  "Yoo been comin’ een heer for tree years now an’ yoo ain’t peek up nada that I see."

Biff let Rosa’s rebuke to her social skills pass, opting instead to swivel around on her barstool to watch the show. The cantina’s featured entertainers, a motley group of Mexican queens known as "The Fabulous Cucarachas," had been attempting to lip-sync their way through an old Supremes’ number. The Cucarachas’ choreography, however, was being thrown into disarray by some of their admirers in the audience, who were tempting them with outstretched hands holding dollar bills. Seizing the moment, the prancing Cucarachas — one by one — had abandoned the stage and were now churning through the audience hell-bent on grabbing the proffered money. All the while, a grainy recording of "My Baby Love" continued to play –“ now somewhat pointlessly — in the background.

"Damn!" Biff muttered, eyeing the entertainers. "They look like a buncha zoo lizards in a feeding frenzy."

Bothered by Rosa’s observations about possible urination, Biff took a more-tentative swig of her Tecate. Detecting no untoward flavors, she then reached for her pool cue, and warily eyed the side alcove where Rosa kept her pool tables. Biff’s decision to adjourn to Rosa’s pool room, however, was abruptly interrupted, when Curtis McLurvey, a local gay rancher and an erstwhile member of Lupita’s conga-line, re-entered the bar suddenly and in an obviously agitated state.

"Rosa, you’d best come outside real quick-like. There’s sumpthin’ wrong with Lupita!"

Rosa immediately left her station behind the bar, adjusted her mantilla, and then followed McLurvey out into the street. Biff ambled along as well, together with the trio of Cucarachas and most of the bar’s other patrons. There, prone on the pavement outside and silhouetted in the blinking lights cast by the electrified statue of Old Buck, lay Lupita — rolling to and fro amid the shards of her broken Mason jar and moult from the tattered remains of her feather boa.

"What the hell’s wrong with her?" Biff queried, as the denizens of the cantina surrounded the midget queen on the pavement.

"I dunno, Biff," Curtis McLurvey responded. "She was havin’ a good ole time an’ all of a sudden-like she just started rollin’ aroun’ on the ground. Ya think she’s one o’ them eperleptics? Maybe she’s chokin’ on her tongue!"

"Could be," Biff propounded sagely. "That’d explain all that rollin’ around. It’s a damned sight sure she ain’t doin’ it cause she’s religious."  Biff took the opportunity to take a thoughtful swig from her beer, which she had presciently brought with her from the bar.

"I know one thing," Biff added. "If she’s havin’ herself an eperleptic fit, I wouldn’t go stickin’ none of my fingers in her mouth rootin’ aroun’ for her tongue. You do that an’ she’ll bite one o’ yer fingers off, sure as shit."

The concerned crowd continued to watch Lupita writhe about in the mammoth shadow of Old Buck. Her painted face now resembled the color of her dress and her spiked heels were kicking about in potentially lethal arcs, causing the onlookers to step away in the interest of safety.

"Shit, she’s kicking around like a dyin’ click-beetle," Biff observed to Curtis. "But I wouldn’t worry none. If she’s just havin’ herself an eperleptic fit, it orter die down soon. Them things don’t last long. She’ll prolly be all right in a little bit."  To reinforce her prognosis, Biff took the opportunity to light up a Camel.

"Well, she don”t look so good right now to me, Biff," Curtis noted.  "She’s turnin’ kinda blue-like. Mebbe it’s somethin’ else."

Biff took another swig of Tecate. "Hell, what do you know, Curtis. You deliver a couple of heifers on your farm and now you think you’re a doctor. I say it’s eperlepsy, just like you first thought."

While Biff and Curtis continued their medical speculations, Lupita’s frenetic spasms continued apace. The pint-sized drag queen’s convulsions had caused her to roll under the immobile torso of Old Buck, leaving a train of detached aquamarine sequins in her wake. The sequins shimmered eerily in the winkling red and green lights adorning the steer that intermittently flashed out "ROSA’S.".

“You blockheads! Can’t you see that she’s choking to death!" someone in the crowd shouted authoritatively.

Biff, disconcerted and wondering who the blockheads were that the voice mentioned, spun her head around in the night, looking for a glimpse of them.

Biff quickly discovered that the observation had come from none other than Cherie D’Amour, West Texas Correctional’s Prison Nurse, who had pushed her way through a gaggle of concerned Cucarachas and was now attempting to find a way to approach Lupita without being impaled on the midget’s slashing stilettos. The crowd parted accommodatingly as Cherie — in stilettos herself — eyed Lupita’s frenzied spasms, trying to time them in order to optimize her approach. Unfortunately, Lupita was in no mood to cooperate.

"This is all I need," Cherie groaned. "My one night off from the infirmary and I wind up having to give first aid to a dwarf version of Gloria Estefan."

"Yoo go goorl!" one of the Cucarachas agreed sympathetically.

Exasperated, Cherie took a last drag from her Virginia Slim and then threw the cigarette aside on the pavement.

"Desperate problems require desperate measures!" Cherie muttered.  If I wind up breaking a nail on this, Lupita’s going to be paying my technician for a whole new set!"

Grabbing Lupita’s feather boa — which was providentially still wrapped around the midget’s tiny neck — Cherie managed to pull the impersonator out from under Old Buck’s stationary underbelly. Then, ducking another kicking spasm from Lupita, Cherie extended a nyloned leg of her own and, with the tip of her shoe, carefully toed Lupita over onto her stomach. As Lupita’s kicks subsided, Cherie seized the gasping midget around her cinched in waist, pulled her to her feet, and began pushing her ample breasts against Lupita’s back — something that brought Biff to a state of rapt attention.

Unfortunately Cheri’s midget-appropriate Heimlich maneuver had no immediate effect on the choking Lupita. Seeing this, Cherie abandoned it in favor of an alternate methodology — pounding on Lupita’s back with the open palm of her splayed hand. Cherie then reverted to another Heimlich — this time with more telling results. Lupita, eyes bulging, and still gagging, suddenly ejected a large green cocktail olive from the inner depths of her lipsticked gullet.

The Cucarachas, watching the arc of the olive’s trajectory, gasped in unison. It looked to all like a sinister and ominous green eyeball as it eerily landed and rolled for a time along the concrete pavement.

The source of her malady thus exorcized, Lupita responded with a brief spasm of markedly unfashionable vomiting. This too seemed to aid the healing process. While Lupita still looked none to well, the previously bluish tint to her complexion visibly returned to its normal matte finish. Relieved and cooing words of encouragement, Rosa and one of the Cucarachas obligingly assisted the petite entertainer back into the cantina. Most of bar’s other s patrons followed suit.

For his part, Curtis McLurvey retrieved Cherie’s purse — an expensive Gucci clutch that Warden McCobb had bought her after a seminar in Waco — and dutifully handed it to the young nurse. McLurvey too returned to the bar, pausing only to taunt Biff with a final "I tole ya it might not be eperlepsy" before doing so.

Cherie, now alone with Biff, swiftly removed her compact from her purse and began inspecting the damage that her exertions with Lupita had wrought to her makeup.

"That was nice work that ya did there with that midget, sweetcheeks,"  Biff observed.   "You got in there just before I was gonna take action. Y’know, I had a semester of First Aid at Amarillo State Junior College an’ I could see the situation was gettin’ serious."

Cherie, engrossed in refreshing her lipstick, tried her best to ignore the beefy lesbian. She managed this quite nicely until, suddenly and surprisingly she felt a distinctive tingling on the upper part of her chest. Looking down quizzically from her compact, she noted that two of Biff’s outstretched and unmanicured fingers had tightly locked around the tip of her left nipple.

"C’mon, baby," Biff intoned. "Let’s you an’ me have us a drink"

***

GET TO KNOW PERVERT SAVANT

 

…with a little help from my friends. And they are simply marvelous.

Lawyer Guy: Well, he’s a caller, a buddy, a lawyer (of course)…and he sent me this very funny joke:

One afternoon a lawyer was riding in his limousine when he saw two men along the roadside eating grass. Disturbed, he ordered his driver to stop and he got out to investigate.

He asked one man, “Why are you eating grass?”

“We don’t have any money for food,” the poor man replied. “We have to eat grass.”

“Well, then, you can come with me to my house and I’ll feed you,” the lawyer said.

“But sir, I have a wife and two children with me. They are over there, under that tree.”

“Bring them along,” the lawyer replied. Turning to the other poor man he stated, “You come with us, also.”

The second man, in a pitiful voice then said, “But sir, I also have a wife and SIX children with me!”

“Bring them all, as well, ” the lawyer answered.

They all entered the car, which was no easy task, even for a car as large as the limousine was. Once underway, one of the poor fellows turned to the lawyer and said, “Sir, you are too kind. Thank you for taking all of us with you.”

The lawyer replied, “Glad to do it. You’ll really love my place. The grass is almost a foot high.”

Gracie Passette & Entourage: Yeah, I had a birthday (8/15). And no wish list! Doesn’t every red-blooded PSO have a wish list? Not this one. I let this quietly slip by because I really didn’t want a big fuss, but Gracie begged, so I let her quietly announce it…thanks, Kittens! I actually spent the day at the hospital with my mother … she needed me more than my birthday cake did. And I received some very nice unexpected gifts and tips … thanks guys (you know who you are!)

Jeremy Edwards: You must remember Jeremy, AKA Jerotic? The fab writer who is oh so very naughty in all the right ways? I’ve written about him and featured his stories on more than one occasion….because, well, I like him a lot. He is a kind and generous friend to Zen Fetish, and I simply love having him stop by: To tell us the latest news, or share a randy little story, or even just for tea and crumpets. Not that I know what a crumpet is. But for Jeremy I would certainly comb the town and search every bakery until I found a crumpet or two or three.

As I’ve previously noted, Jeremy certainly gets around. And we all know the man has magic in each and every one of his dirty little fingertips. Oh, how I love those fingertips! It seems that Jeremy is making new friends over at a divinely inspired blog, Lust Bites (more about this later), where in a piece titled, Spouse-Sharing, Knicker-wetting, Flying Fucks, and Other Scenes of Amorous Tenderness, he asks and answers with elegant locution what turns out to be a not-so-rhetorical question of himself: Am I a “romantic?” Which, in turn, answers the question for all of us, Can kink and romance inhabit the same bed?

What do you think? Is he? Can they? If you’ve followed his work (and I have), you already know the answer. But it sure is fun having Jeremy spell it out with that same whimsical, sexy sweetness that permeates and percolates his erotic fiction. Hubba Hubba!

Sweat Shop Sissy: SSS is another Zen Fetish buddy, whose sweeter than sweet blog actually proves Jeremy’s contention that Kink and Romance can most definitely inhabit the same bed…and even thrive. Because Mr. Sissy Man is living it: An everyday working Joe who loves his wife and family deeply and just happen to wear panties…and it turns the Missus on! Ever so kind, he recently sent me this very funny link (be my guest, do click!) which proves that even men in lingerie LOVE BLOW JOBS!

Libby the Libertine: Speaking of Blow Jobs, Libby (of SexPros), who is a fellow columnist (I’m officially on hiatus, but not for long) at Sex Kitten, recently sucked the most famous cock in the world and possibly of all times? Surely I don’t need to tell you who this cock belonged to? Well…none other than Ron Jeremy, himself! Want all the juicy, naughty details? READ ALL ABOUT IT! I really love what Gracie had to say about this particular (mighty giddy…can you blame her?) confessional: Gawd, I luv you, Libby. Who else is gonna call me at 2 a.m. and say, “Guess whose dick I had in my mouth?” ROFL

Mistress V: Just a quick note here (I tend to go on when it comes to this lady. Aren’t you proud of the restraint I’m showing today?) Have you seen her Fetish Heat Video in which she publicly humiliates a sissy? Well, then, go there now. She is so damn hot! No “pretender to the throne,” this Fetish Mistress.

Lust Bites: I’m smitten. Accordingly, I’ve added this awesome blog to my links under Ethical Smut. A lot is happening over at Lust Bites (The blog on everyone’s lips.) It’s an upbeat hub of activity with a a gaggle (that’s a horde with attitude) of excellent regular writers discussing and opining on all things smut-O-licious…and tossing in a healthy dose of Brain Porn (that means you have to read with one hand and, well…do whatever with the other) for good measure. Plus Guest Bloggers! What a deal! And every inch of it is smart writing. Oh, and did I mention all the Freebies and Give-Aways?

Like I said…I get by with a little help from my friends.xo, Angela