It began, as so many bad ideas do, as a bit of a laugh. A way of making some extra cash on a Saturday night - and taking a few hotshot males down a peg or two along the way.
Then, it got more serious. The money got bigger. The stakes higher. And before the girls - Jane, Pam and Tracy - knew it, they were working a fully-fledged scam.
It went like this. They were young and attractive. Full-figured: two blondes and a brunette. The sort of girl you don't expect to con you. The sort that's good for a laugh - and maybe a bit more besides. And they liked to play cards.
"'Stud' poker! What else?", one of them would giggle. Then they'd all burst out laughing, as though that was the first time anyone had ever made that joke in their presence. And they'd volunteer to play a round or two.
They'd lose a little, win a little. To liven things up, one or other might lose all the cash she had, and then bet her clothes away over the next few hands.
After a few drinks and an hour or so of playing, their 'mark' would be sat there pretty full of himself. What else, when you're gambling against a trio of pretty, semi-naked air-headed young things?
Which was when Jane would take him for all he'd got. Because whilst what little Pam and Tracy knew about cards could probably be written on the back of one, Jane was a true professional. Ever since she could remember, she'd been fascinated with cards.
As a child, she progressed rapidly from Snap to Gin Rummy. But something was always missing. She couldn't quite figure out what - until the day she discovered some boys from her class engaged in a friendly game of poker after school. This was real. This was gambling!
She begged and pleaded for them to let her join in.
Then she watched and learnt and practiced - until, by the age of 13 no-one in her school would ever dare sit down and face her in any game where there was the remotest possibility of money changing hands.
When she ran out of victims her own age, she started to dress older and hang around in bars where illicit card schools took place. After they got wise to her, she retired for a while, before joining up with her friends for a scam that was not altogether satisfying - since it depended more on male vanity than her own card-playing prowess - but did at least pay for a better class of clothes and holiday for the three of them.
It was really very simple. Hang out in one of the local Hotel bars: once the management worked out they weren't actually hookers, no-one seemed to mind much. Pick up a travelling salesman or young executive who looked like he had some cash on him. Steer the conversation round to cards: and it wouldn't be long before a game materialised.
Of course, he was always sure to believe it was his suggestion. And even if he was a few hundred pounds down at the end of an evening, they salved their consciences with the thought that he had enjoyed losing them.
The fact that there were three of them served, Jane thought, not only as added attraction: it was also a useful insurance against any man who resented his losses and tried to get nasty. Two against one might be touch and go: three meant safety in numbers.
Just because she gambled didn't mean she wasn't very aware of the percentages involved in all that she did.
So far, the evening had gone much like any other. The girls had drawn a blank in the first two hotels. In the third, the Excelsior, they picked up a prospect who looked promising. His name - the one he gave, at any rate - was Smith: Tom Smith. It didn't much matter whether he was on the level or not. Their business was strictly cash: and they had no intention of ever seeing him again after the evening was out.
He was also reasonably good-looking: tall, trim figure; somewhere in his late '30's. Pam and Tracy would usually argue about this afterward. Pam liked to take money off men she despised physically: that way, she wouldn't feel so bad about it later. Tracy said she'd rather do it to a man she fancied. After all, if he was going to get to ogle her body, she might as well enjoy the experience.
Jane didn't care much either way. To be honest, the whole charade was beginning to bore her. The sooner she found a new job, a new life away from her home town, the better it would suit her. Besides, this wasn't the real card-playing that she craved.
Now it was gone midnight. The four of them had found their way up to Tom Smith's rooms - the penthouse suite: only the second time they'd been invited into that - had consumed considerable quantities of alcohol, and were just about starting to get down to some serious card playing.
They arranged themselves around a heavy marble table that was the centrepiece to the dayroom. Jane and Tom were at opposite ends, in deep upholstered armchairs. Pam and Tracy occupied the space between: their attempts to occupy the plush two-seater sofa and still retain some dignity were doomed to failure, and merely added to the amusement of the evening.
The game commenced, as it always did, slowly. The first few hands just seemed to happen in between rounds of drinks and trips to the bathroom. Then the pace quickened: cards fell; money changed hands; and a kind of nervousness seemed to enter the proceedings.
Jane, who was sensitive to these things, wondered at it briefly. Things didn't usually cool so early on. Perhaps, she thought, the others are beginning to get as tired of this as I am. And she turned her attention back to the game.
By 2 a.m., both Pam and Tracy were nearly out of it. As far as she could tell, Jane was around fifty pounds up: Mr Smith was about even; and neither of her friends had enough cash left to stand a major hand.
It was Tracy who went first. Her cash all gone, she fluttered two long eyelashes provocatively in Mr Smith's direction before adding first her top, then her bra to the pot in the middle of the table.
Mr Smith said nothing, merely pausing for a few seconds to give her body a long appreciative stare. Tracy shivered. She was proud of her breasts - a good solid 36D, with full round nipples - and in other circumstances might not have been averse to letting her opponent get a little closer.
Then he tossed a handful of coins on top of her clothing. "Your ten...", he paused "and raise you twenty."
"Too much for me", Jane muttered and folded. Pam was already out.
Tracy swallowed hard, and unbuckled her skirt. This joined the pile on the table in front of her, as, shortly afterward, did her tights and panties.
"See you", she breathed nervously.
Again that long, thoughtful look from her opponent. If Mr Smith had any inkling of what was going on, he sure appeared determined to get his money's worth before he lost it.
Stay cool, she told herself under her breath. This isn't the first guy to get an eyeful of your tits and pussy - and it won't be the last. Just stay cool.
At length, he broke the silence. "Insufficient funds", he said quietly, determinedly.
"What do you...?". Tracy began to sense that this evening was not being played by quite the usual rules.
"I think", he stated calmly "that to see me you need to wager something extra. And since you are out of money and clothes..."
"Yes?" Tracy was puzzled.
"...since you are out of clothes, let us say that, for the sake of argument, it is your body that is now at stake here."
"My body?" Tracy worked her tongue around the words slowly, warily. After all, they were 'just words': except these words, this game seemed to have a harder edge to it than normal.
But then, she thought, what the hell? She'd got naked before: sat next to guys who thought they'd won her body along with her money - and walked away.
So, "Alright", she said as cheerfully as she could muster.
And Mr Smith turned his cards to reveal a Full House to her Flush: and she was out of the game.
About half an hour later, the same thing happened to Pam.
Jane was still up - but not as much as she had been. Meanwhile, the evening had turned very intense.
Since losing, Pam and Tracy appeared to have given up most of their interest in the proceedings. They sat back on their sofa and said very little. In fact, if Jane hadn't been quite so immersed in the game, she might have noticed that they had said nothing at all for the best part of an hour: were, in fact, sitting gazing blankly out into space.
But she had problems of her own. It was quite clear that Mr Smith was a skilful card player. Perhaps the most skilful she had ever encountered. In a straight game, she might have relished such opposition: in the context of this scam, it was a distinct embarrassment.
She wanted to win and get out of there. And because she was in a hurry, she started to make mistakes.
By half-past-three, she was in trouble and she knew it. She was seriously down - and hadn't won a worthwhile hand in over forty-five minutes. When she won, she picked up the ante and little more: when she lost, she was losing big time.
So it was with some relief that she traded a couple of cards and matched a King and a Queen to Two Queens and a King she already held in hand. A good Full House - and this time, Mr Smith appeared ready to put out some cash.
She raised. He raised. She raised again. So did he. With a start, she realised her mistake: she'd run out of funds and couldn't see him. She'd forfeit the hand unless...gallingly, embarrassingly, he'd take payment the same way he'd agreed to for the others.
A long silence. As the card player in the group, she'd never suffered the indignity of a complete striptease before. Sometimes, teasingly, she'd let her opponent think he'd won her bra - and sit a few rounds with her breasts exposed to the world. Then she'd win it back.
"OK", she muttered under her breath. "I'll see you."
Mr Smith arched his eyebrows at her. Jane understood. She got up and removed her blouse. She unhooked her bra and dropped it onto the table.
She had been wearing leggings made of sheer lycra: these she now slid down her legs and onto the floor. Her panties followed.
For the first time ever, she found herself naked in front of her opponent. Her hands hovered nervously a few inches away from her crotch.
"Is that it?", he inquired smugly. "I'm not sure that's quite enough".
Jane swallowed hard. She hated this: swore to herself it would be the last time she ever pulled this stunt. Only the knowledge that she had this bastard beaten steeled her to the final capitulation.
"My body", she added. "The money. My clothes. My body. See you."
And Mr Smith turned over a full house - Aces High.
Jane felt her head swimming: the ground had fallen out from under her feet. She had lost money - which she could accept - and her pride, which would take a lot longer to regain.
"So that's it, then," she stated calmly, and bent down to pick up her bra.
"Wait," she heard Mr Smith command. "What are you doing?"
"Just taking my clothes", she replied calmly. "Then I'll be out of here". There was definitely something she didn't like about this situation.
"My clothes", Mr Smith stated. "Do you not understand the concept of honouring a bet?"
"Yeah, sure, whatever", Jane heard herself saying. "But I'm taking my clothes and me and my friends are getting out of here. Come on Trace. Pam."
For the first time, she noticed how unnaturally still her friends had become. "Hey. What is this? Did you put something in their drinks? Maybe I ought to call down to Reception."
Jane looked around to see where the phone was. Damn: behind Mr Smith. She stepped forward and then: "Stand still", he ordered, in a voice as calm and as measured as it had been all evening.
Jane froze. To her horror, she found she could not move a muscle. She stood, posed like a statue about to walk off: one leg in front of the other; her shoulders bent ever-so-slightly forward.
Inwardly, she seethed as Mr Smith came closer to 'inspect' his winnings. She didn't understand what was going on: her mind was awhirl with theories - somehow, she had the idea that he had slipped her something in her drink. She was frightened - but also very angry.
Just you wait, she told herself. When this is over, I'm going to get you, Mr Smith - or whatever you call yourself.
She winced as, calmly, her former opponent extended one hand and tweaked her left nipple. To her annoyance, it came erect - and stayed that way.
For a moment he paused, as though considering what to do next. Then, he seemed to come to a decision. "Move the table out of the way", he ordered. "Then stand there". He indicated a spot on the opposite side of the table, facing the sofa.
Whilst Jane did as she was told, he disappeared into his bedroom, returning moments later with a small black attache case. If Jane was annoyed before, his self-assurance made her furious.
How dare he be so sure of his power over her that he would leave the room whilst she carried out his orders! If she was going to be molested, abused, assaulted he might at least notice she was there instead of treating her like - well, like part of the furniture.
If Mr Smith had any inkling of what Jane was feeling, he didn't show it. He sat himself down in the chair which he had occupied throughout most of the evening and cast a proprietorial gaze over his three new acquisitions. If he was turned on by what he saw, he gave no hint: rather, he had the look of an artist or surgeon preparing to get down to work.
"Well, well", he muttered, apparently to himself. "A very pretty catch".
Then, turning to the girl sat nearest to him on the sofa: "Pam?"
"Actually, my name is Tracy", she stammered. "Do you mind explaining what...".
"Silence!" he commanded quietly. "None of you will speak unless I give you permission. Everything will soon be most abundantly clear. Meanwhile..." the flicker of a smile crossed his face.
"...you, Tracy, are becoming very excited at the thought that you are sat next to your friend Pam. Everything about her drives you wild with desire. The way her hair drops so neatly just below her ears. The curve of her breast. Her scent, which even now is filling your nostrils. If you could move - which you cannot, yet - you would be filled with an overwhelming urge to rub your body up against hers. To touch her, taste her, lick her, make love to her."
From where she was stood, Jane could see how his words took effect almost instantaneously. Poor Tracy: she couldn't move a muscle. But she looked the picture of hot, frustrated arousal. A warm red glow took hold of her face and spread down her neck and over the top of her breasts. Her breathing slowed. Her eyes, already glazed, took on an even more distant look.
"And you, Pam, feel the same way about Tracy". A wicked grin crossed his face as he turned and winked at Jane.
"What do you say, eh?", he asked slyly. "It wouldn't be right to leave them unhappy, would it?" Before Jane could formulate a reply, he turned back to Pam and Tracy: "OK, you two", he said brightly: "you may act on your desires".
The effect of his words was obscene. The two friends turned simultaneously and leapt on each other in a frenzy of passion. Mouth to mouth. Hand to breast. Hand to pussy. Each tore into the other's flesh as though she wanted to consume the other: and after a minute or two, that was exactly what they were doing, re-arranging themselves on the sofa into an eager clit-teasing, pussy-sucking 69.
Leaving the two of them to carry on at their own pace, Mr Smith turned his attention back to Jane. "Really", he sighed, "why do you do it?"
"Do what?" Jane was startled to find her voice was back again.
"The scam. The con. The card trick. You know", he went on, "you really are quite good. Too good to be mixed up with a pair of tramps like those two."
"They are my friends", Jane responded coldly. "We stand by each other. How dare you..."
"Oh. Silence." He raised a hand dismissively, and Jane found herself again reduced to the status of mute observer. "You'll certainly have plenty of chance to stand together after tonight. But for now, please watch."
"And", he rose and moved toward her "if you're going to watch you might as well make yourself look a bit more presentable. To her horror, Jane felt his hands again on her body. This time, he was moving her limbs around, posing her like she was his own personal sex toy.
There was no mirror in her line of sight. But when he stood back to admire his handiwork, she knew that her previously coy pose - legs clamped together, hands hovering over her pussy - had been converted into something altogether more lascivious.
Her legs now gaped wide apart. Her weight was thrown back on her hips and her body arched slightly backward. Her hands and arms crossed behind her head. In a casual photo, it might appear that she was just getting out of bed, was stretching, ruffling her hair. As a pose, it felt far too available for her liking.
But she had little time to appreciate the awfulness of her situation. For Mr Smith was moving now quickly to his main business of the evening. From his attache case, he took out two items. Jane could not see clearly what they were - except that they were about six inches long and appeared to be fashioned in some pink material.
"Freeze". He stepped over to the sofa and glanced briefly at the tableau before him. Pam and Tracy, both dripping with sweat and assorted bodily fluids, still locked in a passionate embrace after several orgasms apiece. Now, at his command, they lay motionless once more: Tracy on top, Pam underneath.
"Tracy." He extended one hand and helped her rise to her feet. He indicated that she was to stand in front of the sofa and a little to one side - and to adopt the same pose as Jane.
(The latter blushed inwardly, as Tracy now assumed a position that confirmed all her worst fears about how she herself must look).
As Tracy moved, Mr Smith picked up one of the pink objects from the table. "Now, Jane. Pam. I want you both to watch carefully. Pam: you may play with yourself - and you will be immensely turned on by everything you see. Jane: you may think what you like."
He was standing behind Tracy, encircling her with his arms. With his left hand, he cupped a breast, kneading it gently. With his right, he held the 'thing' - Jane still couldn't work out what it was - now tracing abstract swirling patterns across her tummy: and now moving down between her legs, nudging the entrance to her pussy, working it slowly in and out. Perhaps, Jane thought, there had been a point to his little act with Pam and Tracy: he certainly didn't need any extra lubrication.
Tracy appeared to be enjoying herself - though as she couldn't move, it was hard to tell. Mr Smith was whispering something into her ear.
Then - Jane couldn't pinpoint the exact moment - IT happened. Mr Smith stopped working the object up and down: left it embedded within Tracy's pussy. His hand moved back up her body, stroking the fine mound of her pubic hair as it passed. Only when it passed, there was no more pubic hair. No more pussy. The intricate folds and wrinkles of her labia had vanished, leaving behind the smooth mound of a mannequin.
Her tummy seemed to shimmer and harden: her belly button vanished, leaving behind just a slight indentation around her middle. Her breasts became firm and rounded, as her nipples withdrew ever-so-slightly, leaving behind the plastic sexiness of a Barbie doll.
Her neck, stiff already, locked into place, along with the expression on her face. It was Tracy - the same old Tracy - only now Tracy gazing off into the distance with a look of vague, dreamy arousal playing about her lips.
If she could have screamed, Jane would have.
Mr Smith wasted no time in turning his attention to Pam. She was still stretched out on the sofa in accordance with his instructions. One hand stroked between her legs, the other circled her breasts. A vacant dreamy expression filled her face.
The procedure he followed was much the same - except that Pam was posed differently: her hands were placed by her sides, palms turned down and outwards. Her legs were slightly less obscenely parted.
Again Jane watched as Mr Smith held her friend close, whispered in her ear, pushed his peculiar dildo into a warm breathing body - and stood away from a hard plastic mannequin.
"So, Jane. Now you know."
"It's sick. Perverted." Jane's voice was back.
"Now, now." Mr Smith chided. "I haven't touched you yet, have I? Perhaps if you help me a little I won't need to ."
"What do you mean?"
"Well. You can start by getting these two onto stands." Without further explanation, he led Jane into his bedroom and indicated a couple of stands of a type that were familiar to her from fashion stores. Basically, a thin plastic base, with a metal rod projecting from the middle.
It was all too clear where the rod was meant to go - and when she returned to the main room and inspected her former friends, it became equally clear what the objects inserted into each of their pussies had been for. Between their legs, just below the new smoothness of each girl's crotch, was a small hole: a hole for screwing; but a very different kind of screwing to that they had formerly been used to.
Her mind racing with a mixture of emotions, Jane picked up first Tracy and then Pam, and fixed them to their new bases. As she lifted Pam, to her horror, her friend's hair dropped off. It had become a wig. When she bent to pick it up, Mr Smith was there before her.
"Now there's a thought", he grinned slyly. "I wonder what Pam would look like as a blonde." Before Jane could say a word, he had removed Tracy's hair - also a wig - and installed it on Pam's head.
If Jane harboured any doubts before as to what had become of her friends, none were possible now. A blonde Pam: Tracy, posed naked and totally hairless before her. There was no way anybody would believe these two dummies had ever been living, breathing flesh and blood.
Time to cut her losses and run. She turned to Mr Smith - and drew a sharp breath as she saw that he, too, had been busy. A third of those odd pink 'things' now sat on the table before her. Through the open door to his bedroom, she saw a third base and stand that had obviously been assembled since she went in there.
"You...You promised." She said weakly.
He smiled. "I bluffed. Come now, Jane: I thought you liked to gamble."
She wanted to turn and run. She was inches from the door. It would soon be morning. She had only to throw open the door and scream. Except, she knew, that she had lost - and he had won her body. Whatever magic Mr Smith possessed made it totally impossible for her to resist.
When he told her to walk into his bedroom and stand by his bed, she obeyed. When he told her to pose in front of a full-length mirror beside his dresser, she did as she was asked, unwillingly.
Then he began his true seduction. He told her she was beautiful and had a body that was made to be displayed. Suddenly the reflection she saw in the mirror was different, desirable, attractive.
He told her that she loved the way she looked - and then he made her look even better, laying his hands on her breasts, her waist, her lips; and where he touched, her body changed, becoming fuller, slimmer, more pouty. He told her that every inch of her skin was a hundred times more sensitive than she had ever known it before.
On and on his words went, weaving an unescapable trap for her emotions. She knew now that she was not a woman, but a sex machine, built to give pleasure. She lay on the bed and pressed her clitoris just once to bring herself to orgasm. She opened her legs and allowed him to fuck her.
As he did so, he ordered her to press her clit each time he thrust into her. She was no more than a sex machine, experiencing 60 orgasms per minute.
Here she stood again, in front of that mirror. Somewhere, deep inside, odd memories of Jane the girl, Jane the gambler, Jane the woman stirred. But they were overwhelmed by her own new and certain knowledge of herself as machine, as toy and plaything.
She was an object to be displayed. Her master wished to display her. He could not do this whilst she looked so like one of those soft humans she now despised. But she was a good machine and he would reward her. Even now, she felt his hands touching and re-shaping her.
She felt the firm insistent pressure of something pressing against the outer lips of her pussy: in the mirror, she could see the dildo entering her; could feel her future coming closer.
Her future was coming - and so was she. As her body changed and hardened, she felt herself teetering on the brink of total sexual arousal. She froze, becoming in one single instant a mannequin and a perpetual orgasm.
For the rest of her existence - except, perhaps, when her master chose to make use of her, she would be defined by a physical feeling. The old Jane was gone for ever.
Mr Smith was involved in many forms of busness. It did not do to inquire too closely how he made his money. One line of work that brought its own rewards was as supplier of exquisitely crafted, personalised Mannequins to top fashion stores.
A week or so after his card-playing activities, he was pleased to be able to place his three latest acquisitions in one of London's best-known stores.
He knew the merchandiser there quite well. So it pleased him when his suggestion for a new display theme was accepted.
Not long after - and for some time to come - customers to the lingerie section were greeted by an arrangement known, simply, as 'The card game'. Four mannequins were seated around a table.
One, that of a young man, wore a self-satisfied smile and a tuxedo. The three others - all attractive young girls - had stripped down to the bare essentials - the better to show off some of the fancy underwear that store possessed.
The prettiest of the three sat facing the man. An enigmatic smile played across her lips, as though savouring the fact that, perhaps the tables were about to turn.
Visitors to the store, who could walk freely round the table had rather a different perspective on things. For they knew what cards the young man held as well. And they knew that, whatever the lady gambler might think, she had already lost.