I'm lying in bed yesterday morning, still half awake and fantasizing about Daniel Craig making me his sex slave, when I hear someone digging in my front yard. I put on a wrap and go outside. A stocky little man is digging a hole in the lawn, and a "for sale" leans on the retaining wall beside him.

Our landlord has said nothing about selling the house, so I assume this must be some kind of mistake. The stocky little man speaks about five words of English, which he mumbles to my tits, but does show me a work order with my address on it. There numbers in our street address, so I assume they were transposed and the sign should be installed at another house. I memorize the number on the sign and go inside to call the realty company.

I call the number, and a voicemail recording picks up. "This is Blah Blah Realty Company, your foreclosure specialists..."

The word "foreclosure" makes me a little nervous. I don't leave a message and hang up. I hunt down the landlord's number and call him.

His number has been disconnected and there is no forwarding number. I call the operator and manage to weasel out of her that the phone was disconnected for lack of payment.

Now I'm starting to get more anxious. I fire up the computer and try to find an address for Blah Blah Realty Company on the Internet. The only thing I can locate is the same number I called. I shower and dress, then try the number again. I get the recording once more. I decide to leave a message this time but don't say anything about the sign, which I'm now worrying hasn't been put into the wrong yard.

I call a friend who knows about real estate, and he calls someone who can check things at the courthouse. Twenty minutes later, the phone rings. Yes, the house went into foreclosure. It's now owned by a division of Washington Mutual.

I'm increasingly worried because I know several people here in Las Vegas who were renting properties that went into foreclosure and things ended very badly.

To find out what's happening, I try to call the local branch of Washington Mutual, which is impossible, because they use the same toll free number for all their branches and that's answered by clueless morons in India. They have no idea who I can contact to find out about foreclosed property. They suggest I visit a local branch of their bank. I drive over to the closest one, and the zomboids there don't know anything about foreclosed properties. All they have is the number for Blah Blah Realty Company, which is the same number I have.

I drive back home again and am more than a little disturbed when I see a sheriff's squadcar sitting at the curb. I see a very hunky deputy taping something to the door, and I have a very ominous feeling. (Even in a moment of impending crisis, I do notice him.) I park in the driveway and, with the car still running, I race across the lawn to see what it is.

An eviction notice.

I am ashamed to admit at this point I burst into tears. I rarely do that, and hate it when women sob all the time, but I can't help myself at this moment. Deputy Hunk is very understanding when I explain our plight: that we're renters, we had no idea the house went into foreclosure, etc. He says this is very common and has some advice about how we can extend the process and get a little more time before we have to move out. I can't even read the notice because my eyes are a mess, so I ask him how long we have before we'll be put out on the street.

"Five days."

I tell him the rent is paid through the end of the month, plus we prepaid the last month's rent, so that means we're paid up through October 1.

He explains that doesn't matter when a property has gone into foreclosure. He suggests I speak to a lawyer, who probably can get us an extra week before we have to move out. He again apologizes and leaves.

At this point, rage is beginning to replace anxiety.

I go inside and search the Internet for Washington Mutual's corporate headquarters. (They now call themselves "Wamu," which I guess they think is endlessly cute, but as my experience on the telephone will prove, they should instead use "WaMoron.")

After calling a whole shitload of numbers and being transferred endless times, I finally speak to the Assistant Vice President of Something who oversees foreclosures in Nevada.

"I'm sorry, miss, our policy is that all foreclosed property must be vacant as soon as possible."

"But we're perfectly willing to pay rent until you sell the house."

"I'm sorry but that's against our policy."

"You would make a lot more money if you rented out your properties instead of having them sit vacant. Every third house here in Las Vegas is for sale. You won't sell this house for at least a year or two. So why not continue to rent to us? We both have good jobs and always pay our rent on time."

"I'm sorry but that's against our policy."

"I hear on the news how your bank is losing billions of dollars and is in danger of collapsing. Don't you think you might actually try to make some money and rent out houses like this instead of losing so many billions?"

"I'm sorry but that's against our policy."

This is getting nowhere, so I just hang up on the fool.

So I hope you do collapse, Washington Mutual. I hope you end up in bankruptcy. Because you're a fucking clueless monolith and your management couldn't find their collective asses if they were sitting on their hands.

You deserve to fail and to fail miserably.

I spoke to a lawyer who will try to get an extension on the eviction. My flight attendant roommate isn't even in town now and isn't due back until Saturday. She, of course, is beside herself because most of the stuff in the house is hers. I have no time to find another place to live, so I'll have to move my stuff into storage and stay in a hotel until I find another house. I figure I'll move all the small stuff first, so that way if we don't get everything out by zero hour, the sheriff's deputies will move all the big stuff onto the sidewalk and save us some labor.

And one more time: fuck you, Washington Mutual. Fuck you in a great big painful way.

Actually, Skoda hon, things are pretty shitty right at the moment. Details in my blog above.

Pezarovic, I don't have auto-add friends. You have to invite me to be your friend, or I have to invite you, which I've just done.

Well, I still have my tits, so there's more where that came from. When they fix the avatar situation here at PH, I'll repost.

My avatar has disappeared for unknown reasons. I was going to put up a new one showing my tits, but when I try to open that page, nothing happens and a blank one appears. Oh well. Maybe tomorrow.

I'm waiting at the curb, as you instructed, in the little black dress and spike heels. The clock across the street reads almost six. My heart is pounding with anticipation, and my stomach twists in tiny somersaults. I have no idea where we're going or what you're even planning.

The light changes down the block, the traffic surges forward, and a sleek black limousine changes lanes and slides up in front of me. My eyes race across its smoked windows as I wonder if you're even inside. I stand dutifully, not moving, as I know you want me to. I adjust my hair and snug the tight dress down a bit on my hips so that I will look my best for you. After a few minutes -- I know you're making me wait to test me -- the rear glass slides down a few inches, and I hear your deep, commanding voice from within. "Get in the car, Kimmy." I try to read you in that command -- are you excited? Angry? Aroused?

I open the door and, after the brightness of the late afternoon, I see almost nothing as I slide onto the seat. My pulse is so fast now I can hear the beating in my ears like a persistent drum. I close the door and my eyes search inside for you as they adjust to the dim light.

"I'm over here," you say, as if anticipating I am searching for you. You are sprawled on the far side in the other seat. You're wearing a tuxedo with a black shirt and a black bowtie, which has made you all the more difficult to see in the car. My eyes linger a moment on the jacket as I marvel how it fits perfectly on your powerful body. But then my eyes find yours, as they always do, those mesmerizing lodestones that haunt my every dream, my every waking hour. The windows to your soul that consistently fills me with lust.

You are smiling slightly, but I know that smile. It is mischievous and, yes, a little cruel. I see in that look you will toy with me tonight long before you will let me satisfy you.

"You look very pretty," you say.

"Thank you," I reply at once, genuinely pleased you are happy at my appearance. I want so badly to move across the car, to climb on you, to feel your strong arms. But I know I must wait.

"Open your legs a little," you command. At once, I do as you order. My pulse surges even more now. This is a game you like to play with me, but it is a game where you set all the rules, and I never know which ones I have broken. I so want to please you, but I know how important it is that I do not break your rules.

"You're not wearing any panties," you say, the disappointment in your voice palpable. My heart sinks at once. I never know whether to wear them or not. Sometimes you are angry when they're worn, other times you're deliriously happy. And the same when I don't wear them.

"Why aren't you wearing panties, Kimmy?" you ask like a weary interrogator who has grown impatient with my misbehavior.

"I thought that was what you might want," I reply.

"No, Kimmy, you're not wearing panties because that's what you want," you answer in a low, almost feral voice. "You think I'm like you. That I have no control. That if you show me your pussy, I'll fuck you right then and there. Isn't that right?"

"Yes," I reply, because that's true, too. I feel tears beginning to well in my eyes. My eyes drop to your crotch so you will not see this, and now that my eyes have adjusted to the light, I see the outline of your magnificent cock outlined against your pants. It is thick and large but not erect, because you, unlike me, can control your desires.

"Pull up your skirt and spread your legs more," you order, your voice harsh now, like a cop ready to manhandle a suspect caught in some insalubrious behavior. I immediately do as instructed, hoisting my skirt to my waist and spreading my legs as wide as I can. I feel the cool air in the car brush across my exposed labia. I look into your face and see that your eyes are locked on my pussy. You cannot quite hide your desire beneath that mask of seeming indifference. And with that, I feel the first beads of my juices beginning to flow.

"Are you getting wet?" you ask, almost harshly.

"Yes," I confess. I want so much to put my fingers down there, to feel my wetness, to tease my clitoris, but I know I cannot due this without your permission.

"You're going to stain the seat leather," you say contemptuously. "There's a towel in the cabinet there. Take it out and put it under you."

My heart skips a beat. You put that towel there because you know me so well. You knew as soon as I showed you my pussy that I would start to grow so wet down there. I do as instructed, reaching at once for the little cabinet and finding the towel inside. I place it on the seat beneath me and then spread my legs wide once again. My pussy is very wet now, and I can feel the juice coursing onto the moistening towel. But you remain as before, impassive and controlled, your face serene with only the hint of a smirk.

"Open your lips so I can see your hole," you instruct. My hands now shaking with desire, I do as instructed, pushing my pelvis forward and spreading my lips wide. Without even looking, even in this low light, I know that my pussy is now glistening with my juices. And I know the air in the car is filling with my natural scent.

"You're soaked," you say conclusively.

"Yes," I confess.

"So I suppose this means you want to play with your pussy?" you ask.

I know I must be very careful how I answer. "If that's what you want," I respond after a moment. "Only if that's what you want."

You turn now to gaze out the window for several minutes in silence. My pulse is racing so hard now I can hardly hear the music playing softly on the stereo. My fingers are shaking as they continue holding my lips wide open, even though you're not even looking at my snatch now. I know not to disobey.

"Well, all right," you finally say without turning back to look. "But be quiet about it."

I try not to sigh audibly as my fingers find my swollen, engorged clitoris. At once I feel the familiar burning ripples of an impending orgasm only minutes away. Finally, your eyes look back at my crotch, and a mischievous look crosses your face.

I almost don't hear you say, "you can play with yourself, but you can't cum."

My hands flail a moment but continue their movement. How can I not cum if I'm playing with my pussy? This is a new twist to the game. I honestly don't know what to do. To prevent myself from cumming, I take my fingers away from my clit and touch my moist thighs.

"I didn't tell you to stop," you say derisively. "Why did you stop playing with your pussy?"

"I... I can't..." I gag out but the words will not come.

"You can't what, Kimmy?"

"I can't play with my pussy without cumming," I confess.

You shake your head as if disappointed. "Kimmy, you must learn to control yourself," you say with an avuncular tone. "I can play with my cock without cumming. Why can't you play with your pussy without cumming?"

The mere mention of your cock sets my pulse racing again. That thought drives my hands back to my clitoris as I think about your thick, engorged manhood pistoning out of my mouth or my ass or my pussy. I am only seconds now from cumming, I realize, so I force my hands away.

"Because I am weak and you are strong," I reply. I can hear the slight but genuine whimper in my voice.

"That's right, Kimmy," you say. "That's very right. This has been a valuable lesson, hasn't it?"

"Yes," I respond dutifully, even though I'm not certain what I am meant to learn. I know I must not disobey you.

"We're almost there," you say. "So there's no more time for games. Take your hands away from your pussy." I immediately do as instructed, feeling once again the cool air on my saturated mound.

I have no idea where "there" is or how long we'll be there. But my heart sinks with disappointment because you will not let me cum now. I see you reach into your jacket pocket and extract a pair of plain, white women's panties. You toss them toward me.

"Put these on now," you instruct, and I do so at once. That you were carrying these panties with you tells me you have planned this little game from the start. And I have behaved exactly as you anticipated. I feel at once shamed and aroused.

I realize the car is slowing to the curb and see, for the first time, that we are outside a hotel. My heart leaps again, anticipating that you will take me to one of the rooms inside and fuck me senseless. But then I see women and men in formal wear milling around aside. My heart sinks again. This means a long evening, with course after course of a lengthy meal and perhaps tedious speeches afterwards. If you are going to fuck me tonight, I will have a long time waiting. And that wait will be torture here, because I will not be able to play with my pussy and cum as I imagine you fucking me.

The car has stopped and the chauffeur jumps out to open your door. You effortlessly slide out, then reach a hand in to assist me. This is the first time you have touched me all evening, and it takes all the control I can muster not to cum at the feel of your warm, strong fingers against my flesh. I just manage to succeed at controlling myself and step out of the car beside you. I still feel flushed and disoriented as you stand beside me, waving to people in the distance who must be acquaintances of yours. They're an older couple, and look immediately dull and uninteresting.

"Those are the Arnolds," you whisper in my ear. "Harry and Fiona Arnold. Be very nice to them. And if you are, then I'll take you home and fuck you senseless."

I know you must feel the grip of my fingers in your powerful hand. Steeling myself for the boring event facing me, I'm trying now to force thoughts of fucking out of my mind. And then you had to go and mention that word. That one word -- fuck -- almost makes me cum standing beside you. You squeeze my hand back, as if reading my very thought. I feel your lips nibbling at my earlobe. I want you so badly, but the more you touch me, the harder it is for me to control myself, even standing here, with hundreds of people all around.

"All right Kimmy," you say, your whisper even softer now, the heat of your breath itself into my ear like a kind of copulation. "You've been a good girl. Now you can cum." You pause a second and then I hear the whispered command, "cum now!"

That's all I need to set me over the edge without even touching myself nor your cock in sight. Standing there in front of all those people, I fight against screaming and clutching at you. But I follow your command. Silently, gripping your thick forearm, I let go and feel the fabulous power of my invisible orgasm as it seizes my clitoris. You take me in your arms, holding me close, surely realizing I can no longer stand on my own without help.

"But don't forget this, Kimmy," you whisper in my ear as the clenching orgasm releases its hold on me. "I let you cum. So, later, I'll expect you to repay that favor. You better be ready."

Copyright 2008 by Kimberly Quinn. All rights reserved.

I posted an X-rated story I wrote in my blog. Tell me if you like and would like me to post more like that.
I will continue to answer truth-or-dare in the older blog entry.

I think I've answered everyone's "truth or dare" questions (in the blog, not here) and returned questions to everyone. If I missed you, please let me know.

Kimmy is a busy girl this week.
Will try to catch up with messages and "truth or dare" in the next few days.

Yes to the ben-wah balls. They don't really do anything for me.

Lovesuckingpussy and hardrockcock, I'll answer your questions in my blog.

Kezzer, you didn't ask any questions in my blog. Maybe you forgot to hit 'add' or something.

Hello everybody.
If you want to be friends with me, please use some kind of picture as your avatar.

Junior, I think you're asking if I prefer MMF or MFF. I prefer MMF. I don't like to share unless I have to.

Okay, I know it's a little old, but it's fun, too. So let's play.

You must be one of my friends here to ask questions. If you're not already a friend, send me a request. If I'm swamped with questions, please be patient.

Ask any three questions here publicly (not in message). Anything. No matter how filthy. I can't be shocked. Seriously. (I don't think I can.)

After I answer, I get to ask three questions of you. If you don't want to answer publicly, send me a message.

Okay, let's play. Who wants to go first?

Shawn, I saw those other blogs, but they just cut and pasted the same blog post. I wanted to be more creative. I wanted to make sure only friends asked questions and to let them know they could ask whatever they wanted. No holes barred.