Paris knew that the best way to fully sink her claws into Britney was to do it via the press. No one knew better than she did how her own life was being chronicled in the press.
She bought Britney a deep V-neck green dress, designed to titillate the media with Britney’s cleavage. She made her wear it the next evening and she made sure Britney was completely naked underneath. No bra. No panties. No nylons.
Paris, dressed in a nice red silk dress, took Britney to several clubs and got her drunk and made her dance with whoever wanted to dance with her. She told Britney that if anyone wanted to touch her or feel her up, she was to offer NO resistance.
Britney was scared and nervous. Between every club Paris would wrap her arm around her neck and literally drag her to the next club. Britney knew that Paris’ public exertion of control over her was nothing more than a publicity stunt, but what could she do about it? Nothing. As the night progressed, Britney was only too happy to drink herself drunk. She knew that getting drunk was probably the best way to excuse her behavior.
Britney danced all night long and had never been groped so often. The crowded dance floor was the perfect place for hands to slip under her dress for a quick squeeze of her tender ass and she was sure it was red with pinch or paddle marks. Mashed in between dozens of patrons, she couldn’t be sure if the hands were men or women’s. The blaring music nullified any talk and alcohol dulled her senses to the point that the whispers and laughter she thought she heard could have been nothing more than her own paranoia.
As part of Britney’s daily routine she had to make someone cum and collect a sample as proof or get a woman to sign an affidavit. She was getting so tired as the days rolled on, one day began to blur into the next. She knew the easiest way to get a sample was to jerk off some strange guy, which she did nightly. She’d beat them off under the table or take them to some dark corner and do it there. She hated it, but what else could she do? The really scary part was that word was starting to spread around the LA club scene. Guys never failed to boast about being jacked off by Britney.
Paris loved to sit back and watch Britney being groped and fondled on the dance floor and elsewhere. The best of the evening for Paris was watching Britney jack off guys and try to capture as much of their sperm as possible. It never failed to make her smile a wide smile as Britney scrambled to scrape as much cum off her hand or wherever it landed onto one of the business card sized affidavits and then put it in her purse. Paris knew her Louie must have reeked like cum by now.
By the end of this evening, Paris wrapped her arm around Britney’s shoulder and openly fondled her left breast. As they made their way through a throng of paparazzi snapping dozens of pictures, Paris whispered in her ear, “You did good tonight, cunt. Get some sleep, whore, because tomorrow we do it all over again.”
She bought Britney a deep V-neck green dress, designed to titillate the media with Britney’s cleavage. She made her wear it the next evening and she made sure Britney was completely naked underneath. No bra. No panties. No nylons.
Paris, dressed in a nice red silk dress, took Britney to several clubs and got her drunk and made her dance with whoever wanted to dance with her. She told Britney that if anyone wanted to touch her or feel her up, she was to offer NO resistance.
Britney was scared and nervous. Between every club Paris would wrap her arm around her neck and literally drag her to the next club. Britney knew that Paris’ public exertion of control over her was nothing more than a publicity stunt, but what could she do about it? Nothing. As the night progressed, Britney was only too happy to drink herself drunk. She knew that getting drunk was probably the best way to excuse her behavior.
Britney danced all night long and had never been groped so often. The crowded dance floor was the perfect place for hands to slip under her dress for a quick squeeze of her tender ass and she was sure it was red with pinch or paddle marks. Mashed in between dozens of patrons, she couldn’t be sure if the hands were men or women’s. The blaring music nullified any talk and alcohol dulled her senses to the point that the whispers and laughter she thought she heard could have been nothing more than her own paranoia.
As part of Britney’s daily routine she had to make someone cum and collect a sample as proof or get a woman to sign an affidavit. She was getting so tired as the days rolled on, one day began to blur into the next. She knew the easiest way to get a sample was to jerk off some strange guy, which she did nightly. She’d beat them off under the table or take them to some dark corner and do it there. She hated it, but what else could she do? The really scary part was that word was starting to spread around the LA club scene. Guys never failed to boast about being jacked off by Britney.
Paris loved to sit back and watch Britney being groped and fondled on the dance floor and elsewhere. The best of the evening for Paris was watching Britney jack off guys and try to capture as much of their sperm as possible. It never failed to make her smile a wide smile as Britney scrambled to scrape as much cum off her hand or wherever it landed onto one of the business card sized affidavits and then put it in her purse. Paris knew her Louie must have reeked like cum by now.
By the end of this evening, Paris wrapped her arm around Britney’s shoulder and openly fondled her left breast. As they made their way through a throng of paparazzi snapping dozens of pictures, Paris whispered in her ear, “You did good tonight, cunt. Get some sleep, whore, because tomorrow we do it all over again.”
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