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Jenny Ariados
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Jenny Ariadnos (I)
I don't know why I left it until I was thirty-five to seduce a
man for the first time. Always before I waited for them to come to me
(which they do like flies to flesh) but I find that it's much more
entertaining to go after them - not all of them but rather just the
reluctant ones. Virgins and the unduly monogamous have become my
natural prey. The devoutly religious are a specialty.
It all began when my husband Jack hired a new employee. Jack
runs a small consulting company. He isn't very successful - at his
best he had seven employees but since the recession has taken it's toll
he's down to one real employee plus several new graduates. I do the
secretarial work. At that time we had just gotten a contract for a
small study and Jack took on another graduate to help with the research
work. He has taken to employing liberal arts students: they tend not
to have much luck finding decent work, they know they have few job
skills, they've been looking for a while and they're insecure - in
short, he can get away with paying them a lot less than technical folk.
They're not much use to begin with, but if they're smart they pick it
up after a few months.
Jacqueline was certainly smart and quickly became very useful
to the company. Before long Jack had her successfully doing work that
we really should have sub-contracted out to much more qualified (and
expensive) people. She was also pleasant and related well to clients,
which is obviously a great asset. They all liked her.
To begin with, I got on well with her too. However, before
long she began to irritate me. It has been a problem with graduates
before - they think that because I don't have a college degree that
they can look down on me. I have learnt a lot more about how the world
really works than some of these people will ever know, but I don't have
that piece of paper, or the way of talking and dressing and thinking
that goes along with it. Some of them feel they are above my level,
and a few don't hide it too well.
Jacqueline was such a one. She had, I believe, a Master's
degree in English. A more useless qualification it's hard for me to
imagine, but she felt that it gave her license to know more about any
given subject than I did. By contrast I felt that she was a naif, one
of those hopeless liberals that thinks all the world's problems can be
put right just by wishing for it and has no idea how complicated those
problems can be. I felt that I had seen life in its nastier moods and
knew it in ways Jacqueline had no idea of.
So it was perhaps inevitable that friction would arise between
us. To begin with we would sit and talk about our lives through our
lunch-hour, but after a few months our only conversation was barbed,
our comments mortar shells fired across the lines into enemy territory.
When a similar situation had arisen several years before, I had
simply arranged for the girl to be fired. Sharing a bed with the
boss has its advantages. This time however, a hint to Jack did not
bring about the desired result. He stated strongly that Jacqueline's
work was too valuable for her to be got rid of, and that I should try
and learn to like her. I put up with the situation a while longer,
though the proposed lesson was not one I studied hard.
The climax to the situation began with her speeding ticket. A
cop had pulled her over doing eighty-five on the freeway. She had been
a little short with him and he had ticketed her at the full speed. I
suggested to her that she could have got on better with a little
feminine charm. I grew up in the South, and a very hard time of it I
was given too. I learnt early that men have the power and the way for
women to get what they want out of the bastards is smiles and flattery,
low cut blouses and high cut skirts. To this day, I still spend a lot
of time on my appearance and my manner. I am never seen without most
of my thighs clearly visible below my skirt, except on those occasions
when they are clad in leather boots. My breasts are large and I work
on displaying them to the best advantage. My nails are long and
shapely, my make-up is thoroughly applied for an hour every morning,
and my hair is as well coiffured as Jack's money can make it. Cops
stop me doing ninety-five and I have them eating out of my hand within
thirty seconds. I do not get tickets. Men are not terribly smart in
some ways, and I can twist most of them around my finger several times
and then walk away with whatever I want while they disentangle their
toes from their teeth. A few smiles, a few compliments, a little
helplessness, and a decent dose of thigh or cleavage is what it takes.
My approach clearly works a great deal better for me than Jacqueline's
Guatemalan dresses and feminist manners worked for her.
I tried to convey a little of this. I wanted to be tactful,
but it seems I was not successful as Jacqueline became visibly annoyed.
I said a little more; she contradicted me; I grew annoyed too.
Finally, she finished the conversation saying, "Jenny, I don't admire
your sordid tricks and I have no interest in becoming a brazen whore."
At that I was truly angry. The miserable little bitch. The
blood still rises to my face when I think of it. I told Jack what she
had said. I took a firm stand and told him he could not let his wife
be called a whore by his paid assistants. The toad was all guile and
glib words. He pretended to be angry and said he'd talk to her the
very next day but I could see through him. He wasn't going to fire
her. He was hoping to huff and puff but do nothing and wait for me to
get less angry.
The atmosphere in the office went from bad to hellish, but he
would not intervene on my side. He wanted her work, and I bet he
wanted her body too. I am worth ten of her sort, but he had had me for
several years and she was a new prospect. Men are always after women
they haven't had before and even hairy legs don't put them off it
seems. Jack was wasting his time I'm sure - she was up-tight, newly
married and pru-pru monogamous. Casanova would have had to work at it,
and Jack was hardly that.
As I thought all this over though, I did realize how I might be
revenged. I couldn't get at Jacqueline through my husband, but perhaps
I could strike a blow through *her* husband. I had met Charles at the
company's Christmas party the previous year. He was reasonably cute -
enough so that a seduction would be pleasant aside from the joy of
revenge. That was the main point though. I knew what the knowledge of
my having an affair with her husband would do to Jacqueline. Every
time I thought of it my anger coursed through me again; it gave an
extra jerk to the weight machine as I toned my legs into particularly
good shape at the gym.
Of course, there were difficulties in the way. No doubt
Charles was devoted to Jacqueline. That was clear at the Christmas
party. The little liberal cockles of his heart were doubtless warmed
by her political correctness. And new couples always believe in their
vows for a while. Back before we quarreled, Jacqueline had told me of
their love for each other, and how they had promised not to have
affairs. He would definitely be prejudiced against getting into bed
with another women - particularly one his wife would doubtless have
badmouthed regularly.
But still, Charles was male and men I know how to handle. The
`new man' can be a very thin veneer over the `old man' who responds in
the old ways. It would be tricky though. I would have to keep his
conscience and his mind confused or reassured long enough for him to
get aroused and fall prey to his worse judgement. As I thought it
over, I decided that if I ever got to the point of seeing that he had
an erection and then got my hand on that erect penis, it was very
unlikely that he would get away from me after that. Getting to that
point would be the difficulty.
The first hurdle, meeting him, proved easy. I am only at the
office part time and he is a graduate student, so when I called him on
a Wednesday afternoon we were both at home. He was surprised when I
told him who I was, but I explained why I was calling. Jacqueline and
I had fallen out, I said. I was bothered that it was making a bad
atmosphere at work, I said. She and I didn't seem able to talk about
it constructively, I said. I thought perhaps if he, Charles, and I
talked about it, it might facilitate a dialogue with Jacqueline. He
sounded dubious, but after a little display of indecision he did agree
to my suggestion to come over to my house immediately for a talk.
First advantage: the battle was to be on my field.
When he drove up in his battered Datsun station wagon, I
greeted him at the door with my customary attire. My skirt was
mid-thigh, my cleavage leered genially at him from my partially
unbuttoned blouse, my heels were nearly three inches high. With the
shoes I stood two inches taller than him. Here is the advantage of
always dressing this way and being well-known for it: it doesn't look
like I'm making a special effort. If I am famous for carrying my
weapons on my person at all times, then my foe is not unduly alarmed if
I come to the parley with my sword buckled on and my spear in hand.
He looked good. His curly hair was cute, and his mouth looked
kissable. He wasn't big but he was well proportioned and shapely.
Nice hands too. He looked worried and unsure of himself.
I invited him inside, offered him a glass of wine. He refused
but I pressed it on him with my best Southern Belle manner. I took one
myself - courage for the battle, soldier. We moved into the lounge and
I told him to take a seat, gesturing toward the sofa. He made the
tactical error of following my waved hand and sitting there. I decided
not to follow up my advantage too quickly and thus alarm him, so I sat
in a chair on the other side of the room.
I let an awkward silence develop. Then I began to awkwardly
explain my confused feelings toward Jacqueline - how I liked her, but
how these ... difficulties ... had arisen between us. I talked about
how it seemed like we were from different cultures. I told a couple of
anecdotes from my childhood to illustrate. I wandered off the point a
little. I wanted to seem genuine but a little dumb, so that he would
feel in control of the situation and therefore get comfortable. I
ended by telling him I was sure if we talked about it we could sort it
out.
Of course, your average `new man' believes that everything can
be fixed if only we talk about it, and Charles was no exception. He
enthused for a minute or two about the benefits of communication. Then
we got into the specifics of what had gone wrong. I admitted to being
a little tactless; he owned that Jacqueline was somewhat hot-headed.
Then I made my next move - I got up and went over and sat next to him
on the sofa. I wiggled in the seat so that my skirt rode up and I
leaned forward slightly to give him a view of my black lacy bra.
I became terribly sincere about how I wanted to like Jacqueline if only
he would help me. At this point I was really running out of good
things to say about the bitch and I started to blabber slightly. I was
also being impossibly intense for the situation. He looked rather
dubiously at me, and his body language radiated acute discomfort at how
close I was to him. But he did also glance down furtively at my
breasts twice. I moved back slightly to give him a little more air. I
kept talking some nonsense and I leant back away from him on the sofa
and ran my hand dramatically through my long hair. He relaxed a
little, until he noticed that because I had leaned back he could now
see my underwear: skimpy, lacy, and black of course. I saw him glance
down at it, look away quickly, and then look again longer, as though to
convince himself that he was really seeing it. I noticed a
satisfactory bulge developing in his trousers.
I stopped speaking and he began trying to reply sensibly to my
histrionic talk. People are very swayed by their immediate company.
Had he been watching the situation from outside the room, I am sure he
would have known that I was talking garbage and couldn't possibly be
sincere. But at the time, I was right there; I was all the human
context there was for him and it was doubtless hard to keep a sense of
proportion. So he tried to make sense of me and answer as though I
were genuine. As he talked he glanced at my breasts and legs several
times more; he became a little flushed, and he lost his train of
thought once. I gazed at him soulfully as though I was taking into my
innermost heart all the precious wisdom he was uttering. The bulge in
his trousers was growing most satisfactorily and I prepared to pounce.
Then I almost blew it all. His penis, tucked sideways I
imagine, must have become uncomfortable and he adjusted its position
with his hand. Unfortunately, I looked right at his hands making the
adjustment and I was careless enough that he saw me watch. I plead
inexperience. He immediately turned away and drank his remaining wine.
"This has been very valuable Jenny," he said, "but I must be going
immediately."
He started to rise from the sofa. I stared defeat in the face
momentarily, but I would not be routed without a last stand. I bounced
to my feet like a jack-in-the-box, placed a hand on his chest and
literally pushed him back down on the sofa, saying brightly, "Oh you
must have another glass of wine and finish what you were telling me. I
was so interested."
Without waiting for an answer I dashed to the kitchen for the
bottle and brought it back. He was still sitting there holding his
glass. Why he had not left I don't know. I think that he couldn't do
so without being rude - the rules of the social game were that he had
tacitly accepted more wine by failing to say no, even though I had
given him no chance to, and it would be weird to walk out while waiting
for something he had accepted. Never mind that I was being a lot more
peculiar still - he wasn't a weird person and couldn't suddenly adopt a
weird behavior pattern. Social conditioning can make for stronger
restraints than ropes at times.
I filled his glass - good and full as I wanted him to stay put
for a while. I was momentarily at a loss for how to play it next. My
inspiration was to flop back on the couch in exactly the same position
I had been in, leaning back, visible underwear and all, and say, "Do
carry on Charles; I think this exchange is so valuable."
He managed to find something to say; I forget what. We talked
a little more. Part of him must have known what was going on and
wanted to flee. Part of him - the part now adjusted correctly and
visibly growing in his trousers - knew what I was up to and wanted to
stay. And part of him found my increasingly thin act of normality
believable and didn't want to be rude. A more experienced man would
have thoroughly seen through me at once, but my act was enough to keep
Charles paralyzed while the lacy underwear and the long shapely legs
did their deadly work on his will.
I now realized a new aspect to the situation. I had not
anticipated it but I was finding the thrill of the chase very arousing.
I felt I was almost at the kill and soon I would run young Charles down
and gore him unmercifully. I had forgotten all about Jacqueline; I was
entranced by the spectacle of the reluctant Charles, my prey, as his
voice still earnestly belied the growing reality in his trousers. I
felt slightly flushed, my heart was beating faster. I could feel the
opening to my vagina slackening, and that uncanny prickling sensation
of sexual excitement in the pit of my stomach. I wanted sex now.
But I decided I needed to act to the last. I didn't want him,
now clearly erect, making another run for it and denying me at the last
minute. At that point in my thinking Charles petered out in whatever
he was currently saying and stopped awkwardly mid-sentence. I pretended
to see something on the other side of him, pointed, and said, "Is that
a black-widow?" He turned to look and I knelt up and then knelt across
him, my breasts hanging above his legs, my hands taking my weight on
the sofa arm across him from my knees.
"I can't tell," I said. I shifted my weight and put one hand
on his penis and one on his thigh. I said, "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't
mean to put my hand there," and knelt up and stared at him innocently
but kept my hand where it was, kneading his genitals. My heart raged
out of control. I had achieved what I had thought would be the hardest
part. Would he escape at the last minute? He started to say
something, stopped, looked briefly miserable. I moved my other hand
over and undid his trouser button and unzipped his fly. That hand slid
inside his underwear.
He said, "Why are you doing this?".
My hands caressed his penis and balls as I replied, "Don't you
like it?"
"I...", was all the answer he could manage. His breathing was
becoming ragged. He leant his head on the sofa back, looking up at the
ceiling. I took advantage of his inattention to take both hands off
his genitals and push his trousers down out of the way a little more.
He snapped his head back up and I snapped my hands back on.
"Well, ok, I do like this - you know I do," he said. "But I am
*not* going all the way. I couldn't face Jacqueline again."
"That's fine," I lied. "I'm happy just to do this for you.
But let me just get a little more comfortable." I put one knee across
his legs so that I straddled them, facing him.
"I've got you now Charles", I thought to myself. "You won't
get away till I'm done with you."
No doubt he felt reassured by knowing that I still had my skirt
and underwear on. I was not worried. Normally it takes a fair amount
of manual stimulation of my breasts, clitoris, etc before I am
comfortably ready for sex. But my aggressive pursuit of Charles had
excited me enormously. I could feel that my vagina was almost
dripping, and I was experiencing an extreme adrenaline rush. My skirt,
of course, was so short as to present no obstacle at all, and my
panties were very skimpy. I knew that one narrow strip of wet lace was
not going to come between me and his penis.
Charles flopped his head backwards again, panting. While
enshrouding his penis in one hand, I undid my blouse with the other and
then shrugged it off. He didn't notice. I knelt up as high as I
could, and his surprised face popped back up and between my breasts.
My panties were almost pressed against his stomach.
"Do you like my breasts?" I asked, as huskily as I could
manage. Again he started to say something, had trouble choosing words,
but this time was cut off as with one hand I guided his penis while I
plunged down onto it with my amazingly open and wet vagina, moving my
panties aside with the other hand.
"Hey!" he shouted. "I said I wouldn't do that!" He began to
struggle. But I weighed at least as much as him, and was in extremely
good shape - I work out at the gym regularly. He began on the bottom
and I was strong enough to keep him there, though he wrestled
vigorously for a short time. Of course our struggles only served to
move his penis about in me and stimulate him, thereby weakening his
resistance. Before long, the fight had settled into a steady rhythm of
my moving up and down on him.
He began to groan slightly and made his first move of
acceptance of me. He put his arms around me and burrowed his head into
my chest. I continued to slide up and down him, and very shortly he
cried out and I felt my vaginal muscles slipping past his penis with
much more lubrication: he had come.
He fell to the rear again - against the sofa back. I sat back
on my haunches, with him still in me, and began to masturbate.
"Oh, God," he said, "I should go."
"You're staying right where you are," I said, "until I've come.
It would be most ungentlemanly of you to take your pleasure of a lady
and then leave without waiting for her."
I gave him my best Southern Belle smile.
"It was an incredible coming," he said.
But he made no offer to help me, and indeed looked the other
way. His unwillingness only excited me though - it emphasized the
whole chase and kill aspect that had been so unexpectedly titillating
to me. In record time I was bouncing up and down on his penis again as
I experienced an incredible orgasm. Orgasms are hard to rate or
compare objectively of course, but I feel it was one of the strongest I
have ever had. Immediately afterwards I experienced a peculiar
tingling in my head, and I almost blacked out briefly.
I climbed off him. He gave me a level look and said, "You are
a hell of a strange bitch. That was incredible sex, though I'm all
angry and churned up about it inside. And what am I going to tell
Jacqueline?"
Here his spirit seemed to collapse. He buried his head in his
hands and began to cry.
"What shall I tell her?" he said again several times.
I grew impatient with him. I told him it was perfectly obvious
that he couldn't tell his wife that he had had sex with her arch-enemy,
so he was going to have to lie. He should tell her that he had talked
to me but it hadn't worked out. Or he should not tell her he had come
here at all. Any fool knows how to lie - we'd never make it through
elementary school otherwise.
"I'd better go," he said.
I watched him leave the room. From the window I saw him head
for his car and drive away. This had been a hell of a start but I
wasn't through with him yet.
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