CHAPTER ONE

 

When Sylvia Hughes came to New York City, her confidence was boundless. After all, she had been the most attractive girl in her home town. She won all the local beauty prizes on the county level and even competed in the state Cornflower Queen Contest.

She lost that one, but she decided it made no difference. The only reason she wasn't Miss Cornflower Queen, Sylvia decided, was because she was too sophisticated and too good for the small-town hicks that made up the jury - and who made up the whole state.

It was time to get out, go to the big city and cash in on the phenomenal good looks that had got her as far as they had. In fact, they got her to the altar with the son of the richest, most prominent family in Higgins, her home town.

The only trouble was, that the son of the richest and most prominent family in town, wasn't there at the altar to meet her, according to plan.

Sylvia, after her years of glory as Homecoming Queen and every kind of small town beauty contest winner imaginable, had been kicked in the teeth in what should have been her moment of ultimate triumph: her marriage to the town's most eligible bachelor.

She took it badly, very badly, but she didn't show it. In fact, Sylvia even managed to maintain a polite pleasant mask when all the guests in the church began to whisper and the minister began to cough with embarrassment. Her mother and her two younger sisters crying loudly.

Her father slowly turned redder and redder, until Sylvia worried he would have a heart attack or a stroke, suffering from high blood pressure as he did. She decided to take matters into her own hands.

After a brief, whispered exchange with the minister, Sylvia and her party slowly and gracefully withdrew from the church by the side door and drove back to her parents' home. The entire family didn't leave the house for four days afterwards.

Her blatant jilting became notorious throughout, not only in Higgins, but all the neighbouring counties. After all, she was something of a local celebrity herself.

Sylvia knew only too well that all her high school classmates were giggling behind her back, that the mothers of all those girls who just couldn't make first prize in the competitions, were now having their moment of triumph.

But just to show them, she entered the Miss Cornflower Queen Contest. Her courage was admired, but the whole effect was ruined when she was placed third.

This was quite a come-down for Sylvia. She decided there and then not to go to the small community college that had accepted her on full scholarship, but to come to New York and seek her fortune.

On the day she left, right after she and her father had driven off to the train station, Tom, the fiancé who'd jilted her, appeared at her front door. He wanted to beg forgiveness and was looking for a reconciliation. But it was too late. Sylvia's train had already pulled out of Higgins railway station, and Sylvia's heart had already been hardened irrevocably against the handsome, but heartless Tom.

As her train raced across the mid-western plains, she decided that she should be grateful that Tom had jilted her. If he hadn't she would have lost the chance of a fabulous career she envisaged for herself in New York. She would have ended up a plump suburban housewife with bawling brats but now, she was going to have a chance to become the best in the greatest town of all, New York City.

Sylvia was in for a brutal shock. After two weeks of job hunting, she thought she was going to have to hit the streets. The only offers she'd had so far were for her ass and never more than fifty dollars a throw.

She was mortified. After all she was a nice girl. She had never even fucked her fiancé, that's how conservative she was. Sure, a little dry-humping, a little cock-sucking now and then in the secrecy of the back seat of the car. But through it all, her cherry had remained intact. Now, the dirty old men who ran 'model agencies' or what passed for model agencies in New York, didn't want to hire her.

She had given up the idea of being a real model, a fashion model. With her thirty-nine, twenty-two, thirty-six figure, she had no chance of becoming a fashion model.

The skinny, flat-chested girls at the agencies laughed her out of the door when they saw her lush measurements.

One kindly lady, the owner of a posh modelling agency, did give her a hint.

"Honey, with a figure like that, you're more cut out to be a stripper or a burlesque queen. Fashion modelling needs thin, thin women, so thin that they don't have any shape at all. Those are the only kind of figures that high-fashion clothes look good on. Didn't they teach you that out on the farm?"

Sylvia couldn't reply. She bowed her head and stared fixedly at the deep turquoise rug that covered the opulent office. Hot tears of disappointment and humiliation poured down her face.

"I guess they didn't teach me that down on the farm," she sobbed.

"Poor little sweetheart," the lady said, her long, bony hand stroked Sylvia's soft, rounded buttocks. "Perhaps I can help you."

"How?" Sylvia asked. "How can you help me, when you've just said that with a voluptuous figure like mine I could never get a job as a model?"

"I could give you a job," the lady replied.

Sylvia's eyes widened. "Doing what?" she gasped, hardly daring to let herself hope.

And she shouldn't have let herself hope, because the answer she got from the lady, whose name was Helen, made her blood run cold.

"I could give you a job, entertaining me," Helen said, her narrow eyes glinting meaningfully. "Or didn't they teach you that on the farm? Didn't they tell you how women can entertain other women?"

"No," stuttered Sylvia.

"I see," said Helen. She leaned back in her chair and put her long, thin legs on her fancy desk. "Maybe I could teach you," she said suggestively.

"I just want a job," said Sylvia humbly, her eyes still fixed on the carpet.

"How about a job sucking my cunt?" Helen said.

Sylvia gasped. She had never heard that word spoken out loud before, much less from the mouth of such an elegant lady, a successful career woman in New York.

"Miss Helen!" Sylvia breathed.

"Yes, Miss Helen," the woman said, "is what you would call me. You would be my maid. You would serve me, bring me everything I needed, dress me and undress me."

"But Miss Helen," Sylvia protested.

"You would service me sexually, that is, you'd have the privilege of fucking me with a dildo, things like that, licking my asshole, sticking your tongue deep inside it, all that sort of thing."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," said Sylvia, backing away from the desk ready to make a getaway through the door.

"Of course you understand, you little fool," Miss Helen snapped. "I am the mistress and you are the servant, the slave. It's a marvellous sort of relationship."

"But I don't want to be a servant or a slave. I just want a modelling job."

"Nonsense! Being a slave is wonderful," hissed Helen. "I could spank that round, white, soft bottom of yours when you're naughty or disobey an order. I could give you such a delicious spanking, it would make your sweet little pussy ooze and cream all over my hand."

"Miss Helen, please," gasped Sylvia. "I think I had better leave. If you can't help me get a regular modelling job, I really shouldn't be wasting your time."

"Nobody wastes my time, you little fool," Miss Helen hissed, "the only reason I'm talking to you now is because I want to."

"Oh, thank you," whispered Sylvia.

"And do you know why I want to?"

"No," Sylvia said, her eyes widening as Helen's lean, cat-like face moved closer and closer to hers.

"Because I like your body. You have the body of a natural slave, a body that fairly begs to be whipped and punished, a soft little pussy that must be perfect of fucking with a hard rubber dildo, maybe a studded dildo that hurts, that hurts just enough to make you cry, squeal and even beg a little."

Helen took two steps towards Sylvia and grabbed both of her huge, lush young tits in her bony hands.

"Oh, please," gasped Sylvia.

"Please, yes indeed," Helen laughed evilly. "That's the right word, the perfect word. Please. You see, you're learning already."

"Oh, I can't stand this anymore," Sylvia cried, the tears streaming down her face.

"You can't stand it?" Helen asked. "Why? I'll tell you why you can't stand it. Because you like it too much."

"NO!"

"Yes," snarled Miss Helen. "You like the way I'm squeezing your ripe, soft tits. You like the way I'm rolling your nipples around in my fingers, pressing them, pinching them, just a little, but enough to make it hurt."

"No!" screamed Sylvia. Yet despite herself, she couldn't move. She remained glued to the floor, not budging an inch, her eyes riveted on Miss Helen's evil green eyes, as helpless as a young rabbit hypnotized by a snake.

"Yes you do," Miss Helen insisted. "You like the pain don't you?"

"NO!" Sylvia whispered.

"You do," came the stern retort, "and I can prove it." The next instant her bony hand dived under Sylvia's skirt. The sharp, claw-like fingers dug between her warm thighs and under the narrow strip of black silk that covered her cunt.

"Aha!" Helen said triumphantly. "The crotch piece of your panties is wet. So you do like it after all."