Anonymous

WANDA

CHAPTER I

Wanda came to meet Mr. White in his broken-down real estate agency in Greenwich Village right out of college.

It was a fluke. She needed an apartment before she could go job hunting and the sign over Mr. White's office down in the basement of his building on Christopher Street had that kind of romantic enchantment that tugged at the young girl's heart.

Even before she took the cluttered stone steps down to Mr. White's door, she felt a kind of mood passing over her like a fog, which had something magical in it, but which she could not identify.

It was as if her heart had something even greater to sing about than the fact that she'd graduated at the head of her class and that she looked years younger than her age.

Wanda's eyes were lavender. She had long dark hair and perfectly white, silky skin. She had a long nose, but not all that long, sweet full lips, and a chin with a tiny birth mark on it, which she usually covered up with makeup.

Her breasts were simply glorious. They were ripe and swollen, and very sensitive. She adored her breasts. Often she would expose them to friends and strangers alike. She loved it when her tiny pink nipples hardened and became irritated-even raw sometimes-as they rubbed against her sweater or the fabric of a blouse that was rough.

She also teased her nipples a lot. She was years ahead of her time when she snapped clothespins to them, then jumped up and down in front of the mirror to see how the pins danced obscenely on the swollen tips of her breasts.

Wanda wasn't beyond snapping the clothespins to her cunt lips either. She got the idea from a sadomasochistic magazine her brother had found in somebody's garbage.

For years Wanda kept those faded, wrinkled magazine pages with the lurid photographs. She would also search diligently for more recent copies of these exciting magazines, but was unsuccessful. Often she would use the photograph of the girl with the clothespins hanging from her fleshy cunt lips to inspire her in masturbation.

She would lay naked in bed, spread her legs open to the air and hold the photograph aloft with her hand. With her other hand she would massage the outer folds of her cunt while staring at the picture. As her pleasure increased, she would pinch the lips of her cunt, imagining her fingers to be clothespins. She would squeeze her clitoris between her two fingers, her eyes ever on the photograph as the heat spread rapidly through her body. It was not so much the idea of the pain of the woman in the photograph that aroused her. It was the image of herself, which she superimposed in her mind over the woman on the page. She imagined it was herself posing obscenely for the camera, her legs spread wide, her cunt clasped by clothespins. It was not difficult to imagine as she squeezed her clitoris, rubbing it back and forth between her fingers. She could picture it clearly in her mind.