The following is a work of Fictionia Erotica... or erotic fiction for those of you who passed Latin. Of course, you should know this by now, and shouldn't even be on the page it is contained within if you didn't. So let me tell you now: it will be dealing with material of an erotic nature. If this offends you don't read it! Plain and simple. You better get off the web site also, in fact, go buy a security program and you won't be bothered by me anymore...

Now to the details... this is my attempt at a cement story. Let me tell you it is not an easy premise to deal with, because as you should know I don't like grim stories. And I really can't think of a plausible way to wind up up to my neck in the stuff, not even in the WAMmer Zone, but I tried. I'm not happy with the semantics, but I tried. And the wallowing part is fun, so you'll like it. Also note once again I don't die, I'm not encased in hard cement, etc. Really this story stems from an unanswered obsession I had since a disturbed childhood. I've always been fascinated by film noir, and the idea of sticking one's feet in that big apple bobbing tub of cement. Well, here goes, and a lot more.

Also I've just now decided to change the premise of the story. I was going to have some gangster tie in, but since I live in Philadelphia, "The City of Brotherly Love" which is also a city of "family business," if you know what I mean. I think I better protect my interests from the Mafioso, but I like the title (A play on that semi-wonderful movie Married to the Mob) and it has a nice font so it will stay...

Jeez, this intro is already a page, so I better get to it. Hang on to your swively computer chairs everybody it's going to be a bumpy ride...

Oh yeah, whoops, almost forgot (fem, cement, mast, anti-grim).

I have this friend who is in special effects I was visiting with one day. Walking around his studio studying all the gibbering latex monstrosities that were the masks he creates, I noticed a big six-foot cylinder in the corner of the workshop.

"What's that big six foot cylinder in the corner of you workshop?" I asked pointing to the big six-foot cylinder in the corner of the workshop.

"That big six foot cylinder in the corner of my workshop is known as a B.S.F.C.C.W in the business. That's short for a Big Six Foot Cylinder in the Corner of a Workshop."

"I see..." I said, but I really didn't.

"We use it to make large plaster molds. I make a sculpture out of clay and suspend it in the tank and then pour plaster around it to make a mold for other esoteric purposes."

"I see..." I said, because now I did.

"Let me show you," my friend said. Let's call him Paul for the sake of this story. I'm not being vague to protect his identity; its just he really doesn't exist. Paul pulled over one of those aluminum portable stairs thingies and we walked up to peer inside.

"You see the sculpture is suspended by a cable inside, and then plaster is poured all around, when it dries I open the cylinder, split the plaster and have a mould."

"What's that little hole down there... ?" I asked.

"It's a drain. I had that installed in case a call comes into to cancel a job as I'm pouring in the plaster or in case you ever wanted to use the B.S.F.C.C.W. in a work of erotic fiction..."

"Oh," I said, cocking an eyebrow. "Where does it empty out to?"

"I really don't know," Paul answered, "But then again this is a work of fiction and I don't exist and neither does the B.S.F.C.C.W., so what does it matter?"

"Not one bit. Say didn't you get a big order of cement by mistake the other day? Would you mind three days from now mixing it up and filling me in the B.S.F.C.C.W. up to my neck and then draining it out before it hardens so I can have a happy ending to my story?"

"Sure, why not..." Paul answered. Suddenly it was three days later...

(I told you it was a flimsy premise...)

I was dressed in a midnight blue cocktail dress with spaghetti straps that kept slipping off my shoulders. I had on sheer black hose and black high heels. I looked stunning.

"How do I look, Paul?" I asked.

Paul didn't reply. He was stunned.

I kicked off my high heels and padded up the aluminum steps to the top of the cylinder and climbed in. The cylinder was about four feet across and ended just above my shoulders.

"This is how things will work," said Paul. "The cement will pour in from the spout across from you. I will now wink out of existence since this is a fem story and I don't want you to have to scroll back up to the top of the story and put f, m in the parentheses. I'll wink back in and drain the cylinder when you are finished."

I slipped off my sheer black hose and threw them outside of the cylinder, since I like writing about these things in a barefoot perspective and gave Paul the o.k. He pushed a button and winked out of existence.

Slowly, cement began to pour from the spout across from me and plop to the floor of the cylinder, like a harsh rainfall that had lime mixed into it spattering on a rooftop. I leaned back against the cylinder and wiggled my toes in anticipation.

Slowly a mound of cement began to form under the spout and slide across the floor toward me like a hungry blob. I arched my toes, wanting to save my blood red painted toenails from the seething cement for the moment. The gritty cement slid around my feet, and through my wide-open toes, leaving the red polish to poke out, contrasting with the dark gray of the cement. I wiggled my toes. The cement felt cool on my tired feet, and gritty. I squished it through my toes and over their blood red tips. The cement was thick and I could feel it spread my toes apart as it seeped between them. I stood on my tiptoes in the thick cement, letting it flow into empty gaps on the floor my feet had caused. Slowly I lowered them down, the gritty cement sliding across my smooth soles. The level of the cement was rising; already it had climbed past my ankle, tickling it with a scratchy caress. I bit my lip and leaned back against cylinder, savoring the heavy embrace of the cement on my feet.

As the cement began its slow ascent up my shins, I lifted a foot with some difficulty from its greedy embrace. My foot was heavy, dripping with glorious cement. I crunched my toes up, squeezing out the thick cement trapped between them. I shook my foot sending the wet cement flying, splattering the walls of the cylinder, the tops of my legs and by midnight cocktail dress. I pressed my foot back into the cement with some resistance. It was so thick and heavy that I had to point my toes and force my foot back down. I felt the returning pleasant sensations as I pushed my foot and leg down with a greedy slurp as the cement welcomed back its treasures.

My leg slid in deeper and deeper, the cement crawling up my bare skin to the back of my knee. I hadn't noticed the level rising. The cement grittily kissed the back of my knees like a flitting pumice stone. I tried to walk around the cylinder a bit, wanting to churn my feet through the thick cement, but I couldn't move. My legs were stuck fast in the soft, squishy cement. It pressed in on my legs, swallowing my knees. It was so thick and heavy, I couldn't pull a leg free. My fingers tingled at this restriction. My belly stirred with pleasure at the liquid bondage. Deep down in the cement, I could barely wiggle my toes, as they tried to plow through the cement.

I watched as the cement slowly licked at the hem of my dress, sliding up my thighs. I squatted down a little, feeling more and more of the flesh of my thighs feel the heavy folds of the cement. And then ever so slowly, I pulled myself upward, feeling the cement slide down my thighs, tickling and touching and biting my flesh with its thick and gritty fingers as it went down to join its fellows in the thick puddle that was swallowing me.

Slowly, as the cement began to scale my thighs for real, slide up and up towards my electric flesh that hadn't yet met its touch. I felt my dress slide down and down a bit. The cement had soaked the hem of my dress and now the weight of the cement coated material was pulling it down me. I shook my shoulders to free them of the spaghetti straps and allow the cool caresses of my liquid lover to undress me unhindered. As the cement climbed higher up my thighs the dress slid lower, exposing my erect nipples. I churned my legs slowly in the heavy cement, splashing goo on my already moist panties. My eyelids fluttered and my stomach glowed hot with the expectant embrace of the rising cement on my sex.

I was tired from churning my legs against the restricting cement. It pressed in on me. Plastering my slipping dress around my legs. A sheen of sweat glistened on my breasts from fighting the embrace of the cement.

I plunged my hands down into the cement, cooling their electric fire in its grasps. I pulled up handfuls of thick ooze and dropped them onto my breasts. I shuddered as the cement slid into my cleavage and down between my breasts. Like a rough tongue, it kissed at my nipples. I pulled up more and more handfuls, sending them sliding under my dress. The cement slid across my belly, tickling my curves as it greedily descended to the top of my thatch as the cement surrounding me finally rose to kiss the lips of my sex.

I bucked in orgasm, but couldn't. The cement held me fast, delightfully heavy and restrictive. Not only did it kiss at my belly and the mound of my sex, but pressed against me. Kissing, pressing, holding me in the throes of passion. I plunged my arms into the cement wanting to be bound, to me dominated as it rose around me. My dress had finally slipped off and down, unseen in the morass of the cement bog. I looked at my breasts as I exploded. They were gray; nipples erect, pointing through the mess. My arms and breasts, not yet swallowed by the rising cement, were gray from a thin coating of the cement that had flowed down me. I was like some unfinished statue. The cement continued to rise, swallowing my arms, lifting my breasts and hungrily nibbling at my nipples. I tugged at my arms but they were stuck fast in the thickening ooze, their confinement bringing me even more pleasure. The cement flowed under my breasts forcing them upward and then over them, pushing them down as it climbed to cover my shoulders.

Thick, heavy, and hungry the cement pressed around me, between me under me. What seemed like twenty million miles away, I tried to wiggle my toes under the cement and couldn't. They were trapped by its viscous bondage. I couldn't move! I threw my neck back and, held in stasis by the cement, I felt a million different orgasms in from a million different parts of my body flow together into one cataclysm somewhere deep in the cement. Head thrown back I screamed with pleasure, bound, tied, held, suspended, crushed, caressed, grasped, grappled, restricted, and freed by the cement.

Sweat moistening my brow, I panted for awhile, just my neck and head suspended above a sea of gray. Deep down below, I tried to stir my body but couldn't and the cement continued to hold me like an attentive lover.

Suddenly, Paul winked back into existence.

"We'd better get you out of there before I have to go get my chisel."

Exhausted, I nodded in approval.

Paul disappeared and pressed a button somewhere and as slowly as it had risen the cement drained away, kissing each part of my body in farewell as it departed, taking my dress with it.

I slopped through the remaining inch of cement, my bare toes squishing pleasantly in its thickening mire, giving me one final fleeting shudder. There I stood, gray, glowing with the final memories of the cement's embrace, slowly wiggling my toes under what little surface remained, any hint of blood red polish long covered.

Paul reappeared.

"Well, well. Don't you look like a forgotten Greek goddess!"

"Paul..." I said, giving him a wry look, "I used that metaphor on the last page."

"Hey! Don't blame me I was winked out of existence." He replied, extending an arm down to me. "And thank god, this is a work of fiction since that stunning midnight blue cocktail dress is down that drain on its way to someplace we haven't determined."

I just checked my closet to make sure its still here. Yes, Paul. Thank god, indeed.