Actually, she was just wearing a robe and fuzzy slippers. But in the end, for all the violence in his words, it would be as smooth and effortless and inconvenience free as her sex always was. I think we'd all love to get our hands on you Lynsey, Mike wrote. They couldn't know whether she had the lipstick on or not, but it pleased her, excited her, to do it anyway. A moments pause, she returned wearing it loosely tugged around her waist. Up ahead, she stopped and chatted and laughed as a couple of giggling teenagers pointed their camcorder at her. * * * * * * * * Lynsey never suspected that the man sitting on the skytrain as she departed Metrotown was watching her. It disturbed her that she involuntarily became wet thinking about it. Her trips outside the apartment were now furtive expeditions. She was walking down the street when a car pulled up beside her. Terrified, she stepped to the curb, opened the back door, and slid in. Down there, it was a full scale dungeon, with gray concrete walls, wooden pillars, a sloping floor with a drain in the center and a chain link fence section dividing it. Enjoying the surge of fear, the way she struggled to catch a breath. He wondered if he reached below, he'd find her thighs slick. For a while, he busied himself caressing her ass, working her skirt up her thighs until the two pale globes were exposed. Her mind locked up, unable to even begin to cope with what was happening to her, with her waking to bondage, with it happening in the sanctity and safety of her home, with this terrifying unknown stranger, who made her feel sooo good.
When Lynsey got home, she couldn't wait to masturbate, bring herself to a rich satisfying orgasm. But this one got more exciting each time she played. Lynsey crouched down, unwilling to fully prostrate herself. Finger yourself, he whispered, and watched as one of her hands slid under the wasteband of her sweat pants.
The world was greased for her to slide through with a minimum of bother and inconvenience, anything she wanted was hers for the asking. On the Vancouver skytrain, she learned, at certain hours and certain stations, she'd catch the tired worn strippers and whores riding to or from work. Hell, if she thought someone might really nail her, she'd have gotten off the computer right then. Gonna put rings through them nipples, Jack told them. She pulled the dress up to her crotch, fingered her wet cunt. Of all the borderline rapists and woman beaters of the Lynsey project, he was the most skeptical. By the way her nipples pushed at the dress, there was no bra. With a massive effort of will, he restrained himself. He couldn't aim properly, all he could do was point and click while trying to look invisible. She proceeded down the stairs He dared to lift the camera to catch some shots of her backside descending the stairs. He thought of the sound she'd make as he shoved his cock between those luscious cheeks into a dry, unlubricated, squirming anus, the squeals of violation, and he almost came in his pants. Her hands scrabbled for purchase on the slimy dirt strewn concrete. Peter held her ass, and shoved his cock brutally into her cunt, fucking without finesse. Tell you what, you stay with my friend here, and I'll go get you something to wear. Her tongue stained brown, it tasted foul, but she still licked. Got something, he announced cheerfully, dumping the contents of a bag at her feet. The clothes turned out to be a short, tight sequinned dress, half the sequins fallen away, undersized, with a rip in the side. She fantasized him pulling up to a policecar, and her giving out a piercing scream. Privately, he was elated, his cock leaped in his pants. He had fucked her body, and now he was fucking her mind. The thought made him hard, made him want to throw her on the floor and take her brutally. The thought astonished her, she couldn't get her mind around it. She acceded to his request, and so he drove most of the way across the city with the smell of his crotch in her nostrils. A number of passer by's and locals saw their intimate clasp. * * * * * * * * * * Lynsey woke like a car crash, a sudden jarring rush of consciousness where she snapped out of utter blackness to jarring, screaming wakefulness.
Once in a while, she thought of breast implants, but never too seriously. Sex, like the rest of her life, had come easily and well lubricated, easy penetrations by lithe young boys, never wild or out of control. A terrycloth bathrobe and bunny slippers, she typed. Perhaps they would spot her in that article of clothing? The idea that she might be under surveillance, might be stalked, that any minute some rough man might grab her and drag her into an alley, made her stomach flutter and her nipples hard. He typed into a very select chatroom, to a very select group of friends. The Lynsey project united them, it galvanized them, giving them a sense of purpose. And there is an Italian restaurant three blocks away from her bullshit location. Humming, brimming with excitement, almost floating with sexual tension, she left the apartment. I dunno, fucking her mouth I suppose, probably tighter than her pussy. She was shocked into stillness when Ian simply upended the contents of her purse out onto the filthy ashpalt. She lost muscle control, collapsing on the filthy garbage strewn alley. Beaten, without a shred of hope or resistance in her. When she reached him, she looked up a final time, hoping for a shred of compassion. She stuck her tongue out and ran it along the leather toe of his boot... She lapped at the boot, her tongue working away the grit, smoothing the leather. Jack watched her face contort, almost able to read her thoughts as she worked her way through it all. He pulled out, his semen dripping from her lip, her expression dazed, confused and needy. You're going to walk out of here with your pussy throbbing, and all those ideas I put in your head rolling around, and you won't know if you're coming or going, you won't know up or down, you're just going to be so confused you'll swallow every bit of bullshit because I've tied your head all up in knots and your pussy is throbbing. Instead he helped the now helplessly docile Lynsey up, escorted her to his car. She built an island of stability for herself around that point. After a few nights, she had recovered herself enough to return to some of her comforting rituals, her life settling back into her old groove.
Sometimes the dated feeling is due to the blatant extrapolation of trends ascendant when the work was written into the far future. It's possible that the prediction turned out to be technologically or aesthetically accurate (or at least on the right track), but the prediction still fails because of the designer's implicit assumption that social values will be the same in the future as in their own time (as demonstrated in the page image).
Often the datedness behind zeerusty designs lies in the attempt of the designers to get an advantage over the technology of their time, only to find out that more mundane designs are actually far more efficient if advanced engineering and craftsmanship are used on them.
She signed off without explanation, as she usually did, and went to watch TV. Abruptly, he created a new database directory, named it Linsey, and dumped all the clues' in there. He lead her to the hallway, and stopped her there, taking her chin and kissing her.
And reading that, Lynsey's fingers slammed into her cunt, pulling her lips wide, fingering her clit to an explosive, thrilling, delicious orgasm.