READ ME FIRST READ ME FIRST READ ME FIRST I'm writing this story as a CYOA in the Canterslut thread. When writing, I will continue with the option which gets the most votes. If there is a tie, I will pick the one which was suggested earlier. However, I intend to flesh out the other options too. Because of the nature of the story, and the method I'm using to write it, these other options will be added as they come. Please check back into this paste from time to time if you wish to see what another choice of action would have produced. I may also post this to fimfiction or deviant art when complete, like I did with the other stories, so if you prefer those sites, you may find them there. Thank you, and please enjoy. Post 1) You are Trixie. High school student extraordinairre, singer, and songwriter nonpariel, and best of all, a great and powerful magician! But you want more. Fame, fortune, power, all those things the Dazzlings got by talent, and the rainblossoms, or whatever they're called, stole from you by cronyism. But whatever. It's not like you can do anything about it at this point. It's water under the bridge, and Great and Powerful personalities like yourself don't deign to obsess about obstacles. No, they overcome them, and so will you. You raise your arms to the crowd, and the star-spangled half-cape covering your leotard falls back, over your shoulders, revealing...well, not too much. You're not The Whore of CHS - you could swear she actually *likes* being called that - but there's nothing wrong with clothes cut to accentuate, instead of hide, now is there? The crowd goes wild! Cheers and screams and even outright weeping are almost drowned by the thunderous applause. Yeah, this is what it's all about! At last, the boisterous praise fades, and you take a bow, then, in a cool, clear voice, "I'm Trixie Welcome to the show! Got magic trix, so here we go! We're gonna have some fun, hold onto your hats!" And the crowd goes wild again. "Trixie!" Yes, that's what they'd say. "Trixie!" Ye..wait that's not the crowd. "Trixie! Answer me when I call you! Dinner's ready, get down here so I can check you homework before you eat. Right now, young lady!" "Yes ma'am," you shout back, the packed seats of Car-neigh-gee Hall fading into the plain walls of your bedroom. You sigh into the full length mirror and take off your robe and wizard hat. _______________ Ok anon, did you remember to do your homework, or were you too busy fantasizing about your glorious future? Post 2) Homework it is. ______ You root through the pile of text books and folders on your bed before running down to the kitchen. Mom looks up as she pulls out a shephard's pie from the oven and sets it on the stove to cool. "All right, Trixie," she said, leading you into the dining room, and pulling out a chair. "Let's see what you've got." You place the papers in her outstretched hand, and wait patiently as she goes over them, ticking certain questions with a pencil she pulled from behind her ear. "Ok Trixie, after dinner I want you to go back to your room and go over these ones I marked for you again. You did better than last time, I can tell you're trying." "So, does this mean you'll let me enter?" "..." "Pleeassseee mom, you promised!" "I promised if you got straight A's." "But you said yourself I'm doing better! And it'll be over by the time report cards come out again!" "Ok Trixie, I'll let you do it this time, but if you slack off again, no more leniency." YEsyESYeS! "Now go put these back in your room, then come set the table. And tell your father dinner is ready, too. You know how he gets when boxing's on." "Yes ma'am!" "And Trixie?" You stop in the doorway and turn toward her. "I mean it, don't slack off again." "Yes ma'am," and you're back up the stairs, and in your room. She said yes! She said yes! You grab your show outfit from your closet and hold it against your chest, looking in the mirror. You really should get back down and set the table, but thinking of being back on stage is just so much fun. A couple minutes couldn't hurt, could it? ____________ Well, anons, could it? Post 3) It couldn't __________ Just a couple minutes couldn't do any harm. The pie still has to cool, and dad wouldn't notice a nuclear explosion across the street as long as the boxing doesn't stop. Quick as thought, you shimmy out of your school clothes, and into your leotard. A little starry half-cape fastens around your shoulders, and a pair of fishnet stockings with lace borders almost complete the look. Hmmm, tophat or wizard hat? We'll decide later, you think, looking at yourself in the mirror this way and that. You smile to yourself and strike some poses, sweeping your arms through the air, and practicing some overly ornate bows. Then you get an idea. You'd never let your parents know. You'd never even let them know you have the mp4 hidden away, but Showgirls, from way back in the 90s, is your favorite movie, and Naomi is sort of like your role model. God your mom would throw a fit if she knew just why you got interested in being on stage in the first place! I mean, you're not a whore or anything, you do magic, after all, but the parental units would NOT understand! Fortunately, what they don't know won't hurt them, and you start to pose like Naomi would: on your toes, with your chest puffed out, and one leg bent seductively; or facing away from the mirror, legs spread, just a little, and bending down slloowwwllly, sliding your fingertips down your leg as you go; or facing to the side, cape thrown back, and one shoulder drooping lewdly, fixing your reflection with your sexiest bedroom eyes... "Trixie!" Oh shit! "What are you doing up there?" "N-nothing mom!" You've got to get moving! But you can't let them see your outfit! A leotard with a titty window, and fishnet leggings? They'd have conniptions! But do you have time to change? Your eye catches some sweats thrown over your chair, just as your ears hear someone coming up the stairs. You can't remember if you locked your door! What do you do? What do you do? ________ Well? Post 4) Gotta cover up! ______________________ The sweats! It's your only hope! You dash over to your desk and hurl the loose garment over your head. The pants are around your waist a split second later, and you're out the door just in time to see papa walking toward your room. “Hey, Yoo-hoo, everything ok?” “Y-yeah, dad! I'm just getting into something comfortable for dinner.” “Oh, ok. But you know how mom gets if things don't go the way she wants. Let's get on down there before the pie gets cold.” “Sure dad!” you say, barely managing to contain your surprise as you realize your feet are very visible, and very visibly covered in fishnets. Dad hasn't noticed, but mom probably will. But then again, you will be sitting at a table, and do you really want to risk upsetting her right after she finally agreed? Should you ask for a minute more and go change, or throw caution to the wind, and risk going just as you are? Post 5) Covering up worked before... _____ Nah, better not push your luck, you think, bending down to pull the legs over your feet as soon as dad turns around. Besides, you're not a whore, or anything, but it going to dinner like this kind of makes you feel like Naomi. yeah, its something she might have done. You walk into the kitchen right behind dad. Thankfully Mom doesn't seem too peeved. In fact, she looks you over, and "So that's what you were doing up there. I wish you would have waited until after dinner to change. What if something spills?" "Sweats are cheaper than school clothes," you shrug. Mom seems to chew on your words, then shrugs back. "Just set the table." "Yes ma'am." A few steps brings you to the cabinet, and a few more carry you and some dishes back to the table. Every one of those steps brings a strange sensation from between your legs; the leotard is a lot tighter than underwear, and the strap is sort of rubbing your clit. You bite your lower lip and suppress a smile. You're not a whore, or anything, but Naomi would probably enjoy the sensation, so you should too. In fact, you can't help but wonder what it would be like if your bare nipples rubbed against the inside of your sweatshirt, too. After dinner, and your shower, you're finally safe back in your room. Sure, you could study some more, but you already did homework, and fixed your mistakes like mom wanted. Maybe you should practice magic, or maybe you should put on a movie, and surf the web? Decisions, decisions. Post 6 interwebs ________ It's been a long day, and you've earned some R&R. Making sure your door is locked, you fire up showgirls on your main monitor and bring up twitter and facebook on the other. Boring. A quick trip through your daily rounds on the magic sites shows nothing new. Booorrrring. Hey, what's that slut up to? "Well," you say to yourself, reflecting on how weird it is that most of the girls at your school are sluts, "the main slut." A couple clicks brings you to her tumblr: "Shameless S' Slutty Adventures." Who does she think shes fooling? Still, that's a pretty good picture, sprawled over her bed like that." Oh and that one, in a tiny skirt and no panties on the bus. And that one, naked in the bleachers at Canterlot High in the middle of the night. She really is the Whore of CHS. and she's done a hell of a job hardening your nipples under your sweatshirt. You'd swear they could cut glass. Your eyes flit back and forth between Sunset's sluttery on the one monitor, and Naomi reaching for the stars in Vegas, on the other. Slowly, you start to tug gently on your sweatshirt, pulling it lightly into your nipples. You're not a whore, or anything, but the tingling is so delicious. If you're not careful, you might get too worked up to sleep! It is a school night, and you want to do well on your test tomorrow. Then its the weekend, and time for your show. Oh dear, what to do? Post 7 schleep ____ Stupid test, you think, setting your computer to sleep. Why do teachers always have such terrible timing? They'd never make it as stage magicians! It's all about doing the right thing at the right time, otherwise, your show falls apart! About a half hour later, you're still awake! You're way too turned on, and the soft, ticklish brush of your sweatshirt on your diamond nipples while you breathe isn't helping AT ALL! You're not a whore or anything, so masturbation is right out! Jesus is always watching. But maybe something to help take the sensation away? Your leotard was so tight it held them right in place all through dinner. Quiet as a mouse you sneak across your room in the dark to your closet, and put it on. You tiptoe back to bed as careful as can be, but the sweet warmth shoots from your nub with each step. "Ok Trix, you can do this, just lie in bed and don't move and the sensations will fade. No more rubbing nipples, and no more grinding strap." _____ "TRIXIE!" You shoot out of bed, hair pointing in all directions. The daylight coming in your window tells you it's morning. "Sorry sweetie," moms voice comes through the door. "Change of plans! We have to go early today! 10 minutes!" WHAT?! How could she do this? Why didn't she wake you up earlier? You don't have time to do anything! Not brush your hair, not eat breakfast, not pick out your clothes, nothing! "Hurry and get dressed, there's poptarts in the toaster. I want you downstairs by the time they pop up!" 'Yesth ma'am!" you mumble-shout, brush already in your hand as you rush to your dresser. You're dressed and brushing your teeth before you realize you're leotard is still on under your clothes. "Are you ready to go young lady?" mom asks, appearing behind you in the bathroom door. ______ Well, are you? Post 8 k ____ "Yes ma'am," you reply. You could ask for a few more minutes to change, but then you'd just mess up your hair again, and you still have to do makeup in the car, and there's still no way you'll have time to eat those poptarts before you get to school and it's not like anybody's gonna see, anyway, so whatevs, just roll with it. A few minutes later and you're in the car, struggling with your makeup. It's not that mom's a bad driver, it's just... "You know I wish you wouldn't put so much of that stuff on. You're too young to be thinking of boys. I never wore any at your age." You roll your eyes surreptitiously. "I know mom." "I should never have let your father talk me into allowing you to join the magic club." "There's no satanism mom." "I know. Now. But look what it's lead you to. You're wearing makeup." "It's just a little lip gloss and eye shadow, mom." "I can see that. It's why I'm being a cool mom and letting you wear it, even though you're too young for it, and should be eating your pop tarts. I'm not letting you play Prisons and Dragons though! That really does lead to devil worship." Prisons and dragons? "I'm letting you do your show," she says, as you pull up to school. "And I'm letting you wear makeup now so you can practice putting it on, just, don't wear any to Sunday school, ok? Promise me?" She's like, the lamest person ever but you can tell she really does care. And promise or not, she wouldn't let you wear it even if you did try, not that you would to Sunday school. You're not a whore or anything. Easy way to score some points. "I promise mom." "Thanks Trixie. Have a great and powerful day at school!" Oh lord. "Thanks mom." Walking carefully up the steps, to minimize strange sensations, and to make sure your skirt stays as low as it will go, you can't help but notice a shock of red and yellow bacon hair surrounded by boys as usual. You'd kill for that much attention. But your class isnt that way. What do you do? Post 9 You'd kill for that much attention, but you wouldn't prostitute yourself. You're not a whore or anything. Up the steps you go, and through the doors. You're really trying to walk in a way your leotard isn't stimulating you with every step, but it's hard. And so is your nub. Maybe a little extra sway in your hips would help? NO! You think, as wet fire shoots through your body. Less hips! Slowly, walking ramrod straight, you finally make it to your desk. 1st period isn't even going to start for like a half hour. The class TV is on, showing segments of old football games, drama club performances, senior trips, and cheerleaders cheerleading. How boring, you sigh to yourself. But you only have to make it through today. Then it's showtime! But making it through today is gonna be the hard part. You ache so good. You know, maybe you have time to run to the girls room and masturbate a bit? But if you get caught... Decisions, decisions. Post 10 You probably shouldn't, but goddamn, you're so horny. It's all this stress you're being put under. Just a little trip to the ladies' room, and everything should be all right. You stand, and make your way to the door, heat and lust growing between your legs. You wonder if they can smell you? You sure can. With a sigh you close the stall and sit down, your well-practiced fingers finding their way between your legs before you're even fully settled. Soft and long, they know just what you like. You're not a whore; masturbation is healthy for someone your age! Everyone knows that! Your fingers dance in your private ballroom. So slender, strong and dexterous from your magic practice, they make short work of your frustrations. Relief floods through your body like a warm ocean wave, and you melt into the seat. It just feels so damned good, and nobody, you think, lightly pinching and rolling your flaps in languid abandon, is any the wiser. At last, with a satisfied sigh you stand and prepare yourself for the day. It shouldn't take much to get through now. Your steps carry you confidently down the hall. Images of your victory run in your mind, and you feel like Naomi must have when she became a real showgirl. Almost there; a slightly deserted area by a stairwell, and you just cant help it. Naomi wouldn't bother to try, and she's the best. A look left, then right confirms you're alone. A little adjustment to your waistband, and your skirt is a few inches shorter. It feels a hell of a lot more! But Naomi wouldn't care. be like Naomi. You make it back to class and sit in your chair. Your feeling much better now, and your thoughts drift toward tomorrow's activities. Especially what you should wear: heels, or boots? Wizard hat or tophat? You're not a whore, but you have to admit, as good as it felt to shorten your skirt, maybe showing off a little during the show would feel even better? What should you wear? Post 11 Tophat would be cute. With a little star on it. fuck-me-boots are nice, but it'd be so much more fun to wear heels, and have more of your long legs giving shape to your fishnets. All the magical assistants show as much leg as they can. It's a stage thing, not a whore thing, so it's ok. Your little cape gives a little panache, and you smile imagining using it to cover and expose parts of your body. TRICKS! You meant tricks. Cover and expose parts of your tricks, like the be-bunnied hat, and the string of handkerchiefs. At opportune times! That's what you meant! You're going to be the talk of the town. Naomi wanted to be a dancer, and she got there through determination and ruthlessness. That's why you admire her, but you're not going to have to do what she did. Your show is gonna wow them! Smoke, mirrors, and a whole lot of showmanship is all you're going to need! And look at that, it's time to head home. Where did the day go? Mom should be back to pick you up, but it's a really nice day, and a walk might be nice. What will you do? Post 12 After spending all that time in the classroom, the last thing you want is to spend even more. It's time to go home, not sit around and watch that bacon-haired whore “accidentally” expose herself in the hallways. FFS, did you see what she was doing with that H1B reject math teacher? Pathetic? No, Sunset. No, Sunset. I mean, yes Sunset, he is pathetic, but what do you call a girl who has to show her body off to get attention? Pathetic, that's what. You start off down the street, thinking about your upcoming show, and definitely NOT thinking about Sunset, and all the attention she gets! You're going to look so great and powerful up on the stage that .nobody's even going to think about that girl. You smile in anticipation of what's sure to come tomorrow, so lost you don't even hear the car stop beside you. “Beatrix Patricia Beatrice Lulamoon!” your mother hisses at you. “What do you think you're doing? Get in the car this instant!” “W-what?” you say, bewildered at being pulled out of your reverie so suddenly. Why is mom so angry? “Don't talk back to me! Get in the car before anyone else sees your shame! Now!” The fuck? Post 13 You get in the car, your previously light-hearted mood squashed under the weight of severely-knitted brows. Mom practically floors it as soon as the door closes, the acceleration pushing you back in your seat. You go in relative silence, unwilling to say a word until you know what pissed off mom so much. You can't be sure over the sound of the engine, and AC, but it sounds like she's muttering nonsense about whores, and shame, and everything being your fathers fault. Whatever. You'll just look out the window. “What is wrong with you, Trixie?” You look back at her, gripping the steering wheel in white-knuckled hands. “Haven't I been a good mother? Oh god, say I've been a good mother!” “Mom, what are you talking about?” “OH GOD YOU'RE NOT SAYING I'M A GOOD MOTHER! WHY DO YOU HATE ME TRIXIE? WHY ARE YOU ACTING LIKE THIS?” Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? “You're a good mother, mom, what is-” “If I'm a good mother, then why are you dressed like that?” “Hunh?” “Your skirt wasn't that short when you left home this morning! Are you keeping others in your locker? Did some hussy at school give it to you? Oh god, you're going to get crabs! How could you put on some other girls clothes? You're not a lesbian are you? Everyone's going to think I'm a terrible mother, how could you do this to our family?” You blink once. Twice. Goddammit, you hate it when she gets like this. “Mom, calm dow...” “Don't you tell me to calm down, young lady. That's what your grandfather always said! Do you have any idea what people are going to say about you behind your back? What they'll say about me?” “Mom, these are the same clothes I wore this morning. Nothing's different.” “I can see your knees, Trixie! Your entire knee! Do you have any idea how that looks?” Post 14 “Mom, I...I wear a leotard in dance class. And on the stage.” “That's different! That's socially acceptable attire in those situations. But these are your clothes. For school. You just look like a cheap whore here!” “Mom!” “A WHORE, Trixie. A cheap, back-alley, streetwalking whore! What will people say about me when they see what a whore you are? How will I ever live down my own daughter being a blueberry tart?” “Mom, I'm not a whore!” “Yes you are!” “No, I'm not!” “Yes you are you...you floozy!” “No, I'm ...” “YES YOU ARE! SAY IT! SAY WHAT YOU ARE OR I WONT LET YOU GO TO THE SHOW TOMORROW!” The world drops out from under you. “Mom...” “Say it, Trixie,” she says, pushing harder on the gas. What are we doing now, 60, on a residential road? “Say it, Trixie, or I swear I'll ram us into a lightpole and kill us both!” 70? “Nobody will know you're a whore then, when our bodies are burned to ashes!” 80? Oh, sweet lord above, you think, heart pounding. That look in her eyes. You haven't seen that look since your grandmother died, and she spent weeks crying and ranting. How many nights did you spend being woken up at 3am by the ambulance coming for her, or sitting in a hospital waiting room because she cut her wrists, or swallowed pills, or stood on the roof and threatened to jump? “Say it, Trixie! Or I'll kill us both right here, I swear! I'm not going to be the mother of a whore!” She'll fucking do it, you realize, panicked tears beginning to blur your vision. “Hahahhaahahah! I won't even have to do it myself!” she says in a manic voice. “ I'll just take my hands off the steering wheel, and we'll let God decide what happens! He won't protect a whore, or the mother of one! Do you think he will? Do you want to find out Trixie? Do you need to find out?” Post 15 With disbelief, you watch her close her eyes, and take her hands a fraction of an inch off the wheel... “I'm a whore! I'm a whore mom! I'm a fucking whore!” you scream at the top of you lungs. “Hahahaha! Good girl, Trixie!” she blurts, immediately taking th ewhel, and lifting her foot off the gas. “Good girl. The first step to fixing a problem is admitting you have one. Don't worry, Trixie, we'll fix you up. We'll fix you right up. Hahahahha.” The car has slowed back to normal speed, but your heart is still pounding. You feel like you want to throw up. How do other kids put up with this kind of thing? It's so hard for you to keep up a normal face at school, but the other kids do it like it's nothing. “Don't worry Trixie. Mommy loves you very, very much. I know how hormones are at your age, but this is for your own good. And don't worry, You did such a good job admitting you have a problem, I'll still let you go to the show. We'll get home, and make sure your outfit is all ready to go, ok? And not a word of this to dad, you understand? He wouldn't understand how much I love you. Not one little word, or else.” Post 16 Your heart has finally stopped pounding by the time you pull into the driveway. Mom gets out of the car with a smile on her face, and gives you a little wink as dad opens the door to let you in. “Hey girls, how was school, Trix?” “Fine, dad,” you say giving him a hug. You must have squeezed him harder than you thought because, “Is everything ok, Trixie?” Mom stops in the entryway, looking at you over dad's shoulder. “Oh, of course it is! She just has butterflies about tomorrow.” Her eyes get bigger, and she tilts her head menacingly at you. “Yeah, dad, that's all. Just nervous about tomorrow.” “Well don't let it get to you, kiddo!” he says, squeezing you back. “Daddy's great and powerful magician can handle anything life throws at her!” ____ Well, now we're home we have so much to do: study, prepare our clothes, or waste time. Post 17 The show is tomorrow, we need to get ready! Since you were wearing your leotard all day, the first order of business is laundry. Daddy's great and powerful magician, and mommy's...No! You're not a whore! But you need clean stage clothes, so you go to your room and open your closet. There's your hamper, and on the table next to the door is your portable. The one with Naomi on it. You need entertainment, too, right? You snatch it up and put it in your pocket on your way to the basement. The first few steps down the rickety old stairs immerse you in a world of dampness, and musty cement. Lines of moisture highlight cracks in the concrete walls, and a wan light through a cloudy window sends motes of dust dancing in the air. Ah, home sweet home. In the middle of the basement there is a wall, more like a divider. It goes through the ceiling into the house, providing a load-bearing break between the entryway and living room; here it gives a convenient place to nestle the washing machine and dryer, and an invisible route for the lint pipe to reach the roof. Post 18 In go the clothes, then the detergent...you smugly wonder how many of these pods that baconslut had to eat to become what she is today, and set the cycle. There. Done. Back to the stairs you go, but before you even get there you can hear raised voices filtering through the door. Fuck. It's mom's voice. Of course it is. So much for sitting on the couch while your clothes get clean. In fact, you don't even want to walk through the house and risk getting pulled into a fight before you make it to your room. Home sweet fucking home, you think, sitting at the foot of the stairs. Your handheld comes out, your earbuds go in, and suddenly you're on the side of the highway, in the mid 90s, thumbing a ride to Vegas! But the fucking voices...wtf is she so pissed about? With an angry glare at nothing in particular you walk back to the laundry nook. It's harder to hear Showgirls here, over the rumble of the washer, but it's also harder to hear them bitching up above. Worth it. Still, you want to sit, and there's nothing but the washer and dryer. Eh, whatever... ...It's surprisingly comfortable. And Naomi. Naomi looking for work as a dancer, Naomi not letting the difficulties stop her. Naomi taking a job as a stripper. Not because she's a whore, but because she's a fighter who never gives up!Naomi, naked, in front of all those people. Up on stage, the center of attention, exposing herself, piece by piece to the rhythm of the beat. You know what your mother would say about that. You can see her now, sitting in the audience, watching you bare yourself. It's not Naomi anymore, it's you. Surrounded by the greedy eyes and wolf whistles of the patrons. Horndogs! Post 19 They're there to see you, but you're no whore! They look, and they leer, their bulges strain inside their pants, and their hands wander, but you're too quick for them! Too graceful, flitting in and out of their reach, teasing them, and watching their lust grow! Their lust for you! They're waving money at you! 1s? No, The Great and Sexy Trixie gets 20s! Nyet! 50s thrown at her! A flash of her perfect skin brings showers of money! Bending over and arching her back? Roses and diamonds! That's what the Great an Powerful Trixie deserves! Mother bitches and moans, but you cant hear her over the sound of their cheers, and howls of lust and passion. You matter! And there's nothing that cunt can do about it! With a smug wink you blow her a kiss and spread your legs for all the world to see! Cameras flash, and the other working girls turn green with envy. Cпасибо, mama! You cunt! You've already got the world in the palm of your hand, and you haven't even gotten to the lapdances yet. You will, not because you're a whore, because you're totally not, but because it would just piss mom off so damned much to see you do it! And now you are doing it. Stark naked, grasping your toy by their genitals, and leading them through the beaded curtain. The others watch in furious jealously; the other girls because you get every one of the lap dances, and the guys because they all have to wait their turns. Poor little boys. Post 20 You push them into an overstuffed chair, and pick the perfect song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lMaLS8pIA2w. It's time to dance! A seductive wink and a lascivious lick of your lips, and they're already under your spell. Hypnotized by the sway of your hips, and the jiggle of your breasts. Security can barely keep the gawkers out of the VIP lounge, you're just that awesome. Your mothers screams and scolds turn to tears as she watches her little girl set herself free, straddling her John, or Jane, or whoever it is, and grinding against them. Soaking their clothes in your juices. Making them throb so hard you can see the pulses through the cloth, when you lift yourself to sway, and drawing hot, breathy gasps with your every move. They try to grab you, but your no whore, and you slap their hands away. Silly boys! You roll your head around, then whip your hair forward, letting it fall over both of your heads, making a silky soft gardenia-scented curtain to separate the 2 of you from the world. He tries to grope you again, and this time you let him, just a little bit, before you knock his paws back. You're not a whore, but you love to tease, and you do have 2 little horns, and you'll give him a little... You run a finger through your slit and, pass it, glistening, under his nose, then with a devilish grin from under your hair, you put it in your mouth, and lower yourself back to his crotch. Or hers. It doesn't matter, it's current year, after all, and man, or woman, there's nowhere to run form the fire you breathe! You sit, finger still in your mouth, lustily biting your lip as you feel yourself smoosh open against his leg. Up and down you go, shaking your tits in his face, and leaving hot wet snail trails on his thigh to remember you by. Down again, with all your weight, grinding, your skin hot and flushed, and your mouth open, panting out your passion in succubus like moans. Horns like the devil. Post 21 He wants you. She wants you. They all want you. They're bucking and grinding, sending your lithe young body tossing in the air like that stetson-wearing whore definitely does when she's in the barn by herself. It feels so good. So damned good...you're going to cum, right here in front of everyone! They're all watching you! Naked, and loose, and powerful in your sluttiness! Everybody wants you, but nobody can have you! Because you won't let them! You're in control, and they're just in the cheap seats! Silly, stupid boys! But can they ever buck, and grind, and gyrate. Can they ever toss you around! Your nipples are tingling, and your pussy is on fire! Firm, and peeled back with want. Goosebumps dot your breasts, firm with youth, even while they sway and jiggle. With a mind of its own your head lolls back and your eyes roll into your head. Shivering screams wrack your body, and a delicious warm, red haze eats at the edges of your vision...then, slowly, blissfully fades away. Like floating down from heaven on your very own cloud. … The boys can buck, and grind, and gyrate...or at least this washing machine can. God, you're going to have to clean it before the parents see it, but not just yet. For now, you wrap yourself in the warm, fuzzy-blanket feeling of your afterglow, and let the world pass you by. _____ You're so sleepy. Should you go to your room, or stay down here? Post 22 It's quiet. You can't hear them shouting anymore, gone, too are the thunderous booms of heavy footsteps, and slamming doors. You guess it must be over now, whatever it was. Time to get up to the sanctuary of your room while the gettin's good. You make quick work of giving the machines a wipe-down with wet and dry towels, then emptying the dryer into your basket. Up you go, through the house – still quiet, thankfully – and close the door to your room behind you without encountering another soul. Finally you can relax. Sort of. You probably won't get dragged into any fights as long as you stay in here, but you still need to set things ready for tomorrow. But first, the best part about laundry day: warm, tight, fresh-from-the-dryer panties! You slip them on, like a soft, radiant, naughty glove and set to work, putting the clothes you'll need tomorrow aside on your bed, folding the others up, and prancing around your room to deliver them to your dresser. It feels so good to dance nearly naked! You pass by your mirror and stop. You really are beautiful, with your long, shapely legs, and coiffure the color of softness and clouds. If your crazy mother was right, and you were a whore like those other girls at school, you wouldn't even need your magic! Everybody would throw themselves at your feet, right where they should be! You know, it's almost too bad you aren't a whore. Post 23 A naughty thought crosses your mind, leaving a wicked smile on your face in it's wake. You took off the leotard under your clothes to wash it in the basement, then put the shirt, and skirt you wore back on. But now, alone in your room, your nubile young fingers unhook the clasp, sending your skirt straight to the floor, and also open a few of your shirt's buttons along the way. All of them, actually. Your tits aren't as big as the Whore of CHS' but with the front of your shirt hanging all the way open like this, and your body tilted just so, you have enough cleavage for your own kind of magic. Perky, blue, and beautiful...you'll never have to worry about sagging, even when you get older. And besides, you think, pressing your arms together to steepen the valley a bit, it's all in how you use 'em, and The Great and Powerful Trixie is an expert at turning lemons into watermelons. You play in the mirror a little bit, turning your body this way and that, squeezing your tits together for one look, then bending over to let them dangle out your open shirt for another, but what's a whore without her holes? Not that you're a whore. Still...your leotard fits pretty snugly...what if it fit a little too snugly? It might ride up a little bit! You run your fingers down the button-line of your shirt, all the way to your panties. Should you do it? Yes, you decide without much debate. You have to know what it feels like so you can be sure it doesn't happen by mistake on stage, right? Post 24 That's plausible. With the deft, dexterous movements of a stage-magician, you thread your fingers inside the bikini line of your panties, and push the left and right sides together. Oh, it feels so naughty! Biting your lip in anticipation, you ever so gently tug the crotch of your panties upward, until it slips between your lips. “Ooh!” you start, involuntarily flinching at its thrillingly invasive touch. Who knew they would still be so sensitive this long after the washing machine? You look up at the mirror, and your reflection looks back at you, a few hairs out of place, and a light blush flushing your face. You giggle at yourself, and let your eyes wander downward. Surprisingly, you suddenly feel a little disappointed; you can barely see anything. The audience probably wouldn't even notice! It feels like you're showing a whole lot more than you are, is this what Naomi felt like her first time on the stage? Exposed and embarrassed, even though she still had something on? How much strength she must have had to get over it! So much confidence, and charisma! Just like a showgirl should be! Naomi's could do it, but can you? You're not a whore, duh, but could you show yourself on stage? Could you get naked, in front of all those people? Their eyes all over your lithe young form. Could you do it?