======== Message-ID: <172426Z16051996@anon.penet.fi> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories From: an109288@anon.penet.fi (Kid Dynamite) Date: Thu, 16 May 1996 17:19:54 UTC Subject: (*) SS - 10 ss_10.txt ways he could and would left me slick and hot, all day long. Until my lesson. And even after my lessons, there was the long night, alone with Mr. Howard's "homework", and my churning, aching need. My body practically drooled into my underwear, all day long, and all night long. When I was wearing them, at least - when Mr. Howard let me. At the end of the day, they would be a mess. Sticky from me. Smelling like me. Sometimes Mr. Howard would keep them. I was actually running out of them, and wasn't sure how to get Mom to buy more without making her suspicious. All of this can't even begin to explain my humiliation at the lesson that Mr. Howard began making me learn. He wrote a note to Jack, sealed it in an envelope, and gave it to me. In it, I would come to learn that night, were instructions for Jack. Mr. Howard had asked Jack to begin helping him supervise my discipline. He asked Jack, every night before I was allowed to go to bed, to come to my room, alone. To ask me to take off my underwear and give them to him. Then he was supposed to examine them to see if I was sexually aroused. If my underwear were wet, or even just moist. If I was, Jack was supposed to make me tell him how aroused I was, and why. Then Jack was supposed to report this back to Mr. Howard. I never, ever imagined the things I would do for Mr. Howard. I never thought I could stand the shame. Worst of all, I never imagined how much I would like them. How much I would long for them. How much they made that feeling grow. * * * As I had been telling Bill all along, what we were doing to Sally involved two things: appealing to and exaggerating her submissive nature, and conditioning her to want sex more and more and more. The two were complimentary. Bill would place Sally in a situation where her role was his submissive. The more degrading and humiliating, the better. The trick was to titillate her just enough to get her to do whatever licentious nastiness he had planned. And then, when she had complied, when she had submitted, and gone further in her surrender than her limits had previously been, to reward her by giving her satisfaction. The cycle had repeated itself in lesson after lesson with Sally. I watched our voluptuous, impressionable, trusting schoolgirl gradually transformed. She hadn't lost her delicate sensibilities, her trust, or her naivete. Rather, we had moved the lines she drew. Now, after months of daily sessions, more and more wildly debauched, she no longer cringed at the things she had when I had caught her and Bill in the art supply closet. Sally wanted it, now. She wanted it very, very badly. Bill made her tell him just how much, and I had seen my surveillance tapes of her confessions. It was astonishing just how much Sally had been recast. Sally's rapid, and apparently almost total debasement was the crowing erotic achievement of my life. It went beyond mere fleshy pleasure, reaching an entirely different plane. To know that I was capable, even as removed from her direct "education" as much as I was, of giving the sweet young thing the appetites she now had was a rush of epic proportions. And, Lord, what a hunger Sally had! I rewound the latest tape of her performing for Mr. Howard. Judging from the expression he bore in the last few moments of the tape, Sally's technique was improving. Not that I thought it was lacking from the very start. No, even though the circumstances must have been crushingly humiliating for her, Sally had seemed greedily enthusiastic, her first time. Since then, she'd grown only more voracious. You could hear the longing and yearning in her voice during their sessions. She wanted it, badly. She'd been getting it, too, more and more frequently. Bill had seen to it. But each time, he exacted an ever-greater ante of submission from her. He wanted her total and complete submission. She had to surrender her charm, her shyness, her sweet innocence. Bill trod on them like so much dirt under his feet. And for her submission, she was rewarded the "honor" of pleasuring him in any way he saw fit. It was an arrangement that left all of us satisfied. But, Sally was still a virgin. Only in the strictness sense of the word, granted. But, Sally still had to much to be taught. They say you never forget your first time. I was seeing to it that Sally never would. I knew it involved some risk to my plans, but I decided to use some of my Society contacts and resources. I kept it very quiet, though. I was careful to arrange things so my involvement would be seen as only peripheral, if seen at all. After all, if things ever did blow up, I wanted to remain as distanced from the "sick" Mr. Bill Howard as I could manage. So I quietly called in a few favors, and set up a weekend "field trip" for Sally. The plan was to wisk her away the weekend that many of the girls would be away on a bona fide trip. It was a simple enough matter to inform Jack and Connie that she would be on the "real" trip, and yet arrange with her teachers and so on for her to miss it. Friday afternoon, instead of packing onto a yellow bus bound for the "historic village" field trip, Sally and Mr. Howard took two round trip tickets to Montreal, and boarded a plane. Naturally, I had arranged to go to Montreal myself, but through totally separate means that would seem unconnected under all but the harshest scrutiny. After all, I didn't want to miss this for the world. Once in Montreal, they would be settling into a hotel suite I had picked out for them. Bill would be apprehensive. Probably very much so, if I knew him, because I had given him as little detail as possible. I was running this show. I let him go along just to keep him happy. They would be settling in, in the same room, naturally. I wondered what they would be doing as my plane soared northwards through the night sky. I wondered what impromptu "lesson" Bill would teach her that evening. I knew that there was no danger of them spoiling my party by jumping the gun, as it were, because I'd forbidden him to. But, I was sure that he would seize this opportunity to indulge himself, totally alone with her, in some way. So much time in a hotel room, alone, with the object of his lust. I hoped that Sally would get at least an hour or two of sleep, because the next day was going to be very busy for her. At ten o'clock the next morning, a certain Nancy McBride would be picking Sally up from the hotel. Bill was to remain behind. I was sure he would be able to amuse himself. Sally and her escort were going on a little shopping trip. I had given explicit instructions about what Ms. McBride was going to do with Sally during the day. I had been assured that Ms. McBride, a longtime part of the Montreal "scene" of which my Society was a part, would fulfill her end of the bargain admirably. First, there was a haircut. Something very chic, I had insisted. Price was no object. Then, a makeover. Manicure and pedicure. A waxing, including her "bikini". Then, lunch at the tres "in" Bastille, a pricey cafe. Sally would love it, I knew. Then, there would be shopping. This wasn't an expedition for jeans at the local suburban mall. No, his was an excursion into the exotic land of eveningwear, fetish style. I knew Sally would be both devastated and thrilled. To make matters more interesting, Ms. McBride had instructions to make the shopping trip a bit of a "lesson", as well. "I want you to make her so weak in the knees she'll need a cane," I believe I had phrased it. Nothing over the top. Just enough low-level teasing to keep Sally at a steady throb, all day long. As if the clothing she'd be trying on, modeling in front of mirrors, and buying in tiny, appointment-only sex boutiques wouldn't be enough. I pictured her, the blushing little schoolgirl, gawking at the latex-draped displays. I wasn't sure if anything like it would happen, but I imagined Ms. McBride insisting that she disrobe and try on the outfits right there in the middle of the store, with the clerks watching. Or that Ms. McBride would take one look at Sally's oh-so plain and utilitarian undergarments, and insist that Sally remove them, and throw them away, making her go without for the rest of the afternoon. The possibilities were deliciously, achingly nasty. They would be shopping for shoes, as well. Oh, I hoped that Ms. McBride would make Sally expose herself to the shoe salesperson. I could almost see Sally's face, crimson, her eyes flashing with wounded sensibility, as she obeyed. Her shame and erotic agitation were always so easy to see. I could only hope that Ms. McBride would live up to her reputation, because I would not see Sally and Bill until late Saturday night. When I did see her, she didn't recognize me. I was naked, and was wearing a wonderful mask that completely hid my face. We were in a special club that was occasionally used for private parties like ours. In this case, the guests were all members of the Society's sister organization that was located in Montreal. I knew some of the faces out in the darkness, beyond the footlights of the stage, but I hoped none would recognize me in the mask. Bill Howard was out there, too. I could see him amid the small tables lit by candles. He was probably wondering what was going to happen to Sally. Sally was just offstage. I could see her with a striking redhead, who I knew must be Ms. McBride. Sally looked stunning, like a model, or a famous actress. Ms. McBride had done a wonderful job. The young schoolgirl had been transformed into a gorgeous, coifed young woman. Gorgeous, but also wearing the very best Submissive outfit money could buy. It did all the things that such an outfit should. It said, loud and clear, "dominate me" - "use me". It enhanced Sally's natural beauty, accenting her ripe, taught, full, young body. Some would no doubt find it too expressive. Not enough mystery. But I would disagree. It was, needless to say, very revealing, but it did leave some details to the viewer's imagination. It was quite frank, but still managed to tantalize. Sally looked bewildered and scared, as I expected. I would have felt the same, in her situation. She was dressed like, well, like the submissive she was, she was in a foreign city, and apparently about to be thrust onto a stage with a naked woman on it who was wielding a riding crop. In front of a crowd, no less. I could see her trembling, imploring Ms. McBride in hushed tones. I couldn't quite make out what she was saying, but I caught the phrase, "I'm an American..." I almost chuckled, but managed to retain my stage-dom composure. As she'd been instructed, Ms. McBride deftly handcuffed Sally's hands in front of her, and silenced her by stuffing a large silk scarf into her mouth. Sally looked really, really frightened, and was beginning to struggle in earnest, but Ms. McBride shoved her bodily onto the stage. Sally was met with a polite but enthusiastic round of applause. She blinked with confusion as her eyes adjusted to the harsh stage lighting. It was time for the show. As our subtle, understated introduction wafted down from the club's sound system, I grabbed Sally's cuffs, and dragged her to center stage. She teetered precariously on her ridiculously high heels. But she looked ravishing. Sally and I were the evening's entertainment for this select crowd. A live show, for the most discriminating of tastes. I intended to push Sally to her very limits, and then beyond. This was Sally's biggest test, and as her reward, she would soon be doing what she confessed she'd been dreaming about and masturbating about. I had brought with me every single thing in my collection I thought I might want. I was prepared to make Sally submit for me and the audience like never before. I began slowly. Teasingly. Testing her. Sally was wary, nervous, and frightened. But, I used finesse. Many years of practice makes one expert at the kinds of things that I did to Sally that night. Bill was an amateur compared to me. I had a sense for limits. A knack for finding Sally's sensitive areas, emotional, psychological or physical. At first I shied away from her vulnerabilities, instinctively knowing how and when to turn up the heat. Gradually, she began to warm up. My honed sense for it told me that she was already buzzing with desire, but that she was tight. Holding it in. Holding out on me. So I began to turn up the intensity. An hour into our performance, I finally felt Sally beginning to really get into it. She began to let go, to surrender to me. The crowd seemed completely enraptured with her, and what she was doing for me and them. I felt the bond that begins to form between a submissive and her dominant, in a scene like this. I felt it in the tingle in my fingertips. I began to sense just what Sally was feeling. Just when to use softness, and when to be cruel. Just how humiliated she was, performing in front of a room full of strangers. Just how aroused she was by this exposure. I had an array of ordeals planned for Sally, each one requiring her to submit to me a bit more than the last. Each surrender of her will passed between us like current down a wire. I could feel her resistance. Her shame. I pushed her, sensing her beginning to be overwhelmed with the pleasure, despite the depravity of my demands. I cajoled her. I taunted her. I used her. And, despite herself, she fell under my spell, as I knew the submissive young woman would. I each instance, just as she gave in to me, I changed the game, to something more perversely pleasuring. To something that required her to yield herself even more, to succumb to the insistent, throbbing delights that I would give her. What woman doesn't fantasize about performing for a crowd? Somewhere, deep in us all, there's that part that wants to be worshiped. Adored. There's that part of us that wants to know that others find us attractive. What better affirmation of one's desirableness than knowing that you can make a crowd of men hard, and a crowd of women wet? I had no doubt Sally was having this effect. And she herself was rapidly descending to the place I wanted her. The place where her shame and guilt were diminished, if not drowned, in a sea of aching need. I was cruel, it's true. Domination is cruelty. Sally, the submissive little girl, required it. She needed it. She ached for my cruelty. I merely obliged her. She performed for me and the crowd, and I humiliated her as only an expert can. The growing sense that I'd crawled inside her, and was looking out, began to sweep over me. I could feel her vulnerabilities, and I exploited them without hesitation. Part of her hated to be looked at naked. She was ashamed of her lusts. She was humiliated by being exposed. She was crushed when I made her tell the crowd what she was doing, and why, and how it made her feel. She didn't like to talk about her body with dirty words. I made her yell them. She didn't like to feel helpless, but it drove her wild. She didn't like to do nasty things, but she did. And I made her. By the time the intermission had arrived, Sally was a puddle at my feet. And I was only getting warmed up. When we resumed, I began to push her buttons in earnest. It was time to shatter Sally, to blow past her limits. I did this by bringing her to the brink of ecstasy time and again, and then frustrating her. Soon she could hardly speak, she was so overwhelmed with lust. She was nearly incoherent. When I asked for a volunteer to come up on stage so Sally could relieve his "uncomfortable" condition, as she'd recently learned to, Sally went over the edge. She obeyed my command on the first volunteer with a grunting, panting, slobbering enthusiasm that was astonishing. When he was done, I made Sally wipe the remnants off of her chin, and rub it all over her face. "Now, Sally, pick another volunteer." I motioned to the sea of waving hands beyond the footlights. I was astonished to hear her moan, "Thank you, mistress." When Sally was finished with the last man, I declared it time for women to get equal treatment. It wasn't long before the second intermission, and Sally was a mess. But I had saved the piece de resistance for last. I once again began to whip Sally into a frenzy. After a few brief and varied episodes, I thought she was ready. I made her dance. I made her dance to a throbbing dance rhythm, and chant a very, very lewd request to be deflowered. The audience seemed to loom closer and closer to the stage, as Sally whirled and undulated, and finally fell to the floor writhing and thrusting herself at them in time with the music, moaning for release. I motioned for Bill to come up on the stage, and I asked him give Sally what she was begging for. The music stopped, and a tight white spotlight circled on Sally's surging body. She was covered in a sheen of sweat and juices from the patrons. As her body rose from the stage to meet his thrust, I heard the audience gasp. When Bill and Sally's screams reached a crescendo, I motioned for the lights, and the room went dark. The next morning, I telephoned Bill at the hotel. "Get Sally ready for some visitors," I told him. "Six of them. They'll be there in an hour. I want her ready and willing for whatever they want to do to her." The six visitors had one mission: fill Sally up. I wanted her to ooze all day long. I wanted her to feel it seeping out of her, making her gooshy, soaking her panties. Making her self-conscious. Making her think about what she'd done, and about doing it some more. I also knew that Jack would be in for quite a surprise when he checked Sally's underwear. I knew Sally would be thinking about that all day as she traveled home. * * * I knew Allison was up to something again. Something bigger. I just knew it. She seemed especially mischievous. It made me want her. It made me want to spank the mischief out of her. But, she verbally danced around my not-so-veiled invitations with a merry glee. Instead, she began to outline a plan to me. A plan for Sally. Part of me felt taken aback, because she'd never spoken so directly about Sally to me before. I had always been the one telling her about what I'd down with Sally. It never failed to make the otherwise upstanding and uptight Dean Pierce, who really wasn't upstanding at all, of course, rather frisky. But tonight, something was different. "Bill," she said, "here's what you're going to do." Like I didn't even have a say in it. She described what she wanted me to do, winding up with, "Then you drop Sally off at Motel 7. You know, the one about 20 miles north? In front of room 134. It's on the ground floor. There are no lights in back, so you don't have to worry about anyone seeing her like that." She paused. "And...?" I asked. "That's it, Bill." "That's it?" "Yes. You go home." I didn't like it. She was obviously up to something. Something big. I wasn't going to do it. No way. The hairs on the back of my neck were crawling. Something was wrong. Really wrong. We had a huge argument about it. It went on for half the night, around and around. She began to get nasty. Really nasty. She didn't say so in so many words, but she started implying that if I didn't go along, she was going to get me in trouble. Like I didn't know exactly, precisely the sort of trouble I could get in. Like I hadn't lain awake, night after night, tormented with the possibility of discovery. The would-be newspaper headlines stalked my subconscious. "Professor Molester," "Acquittal Unlikely for Academy Pervert," "State Attorney's Office Seeks Death Penalty in Academy Sex Case." Ugh. The mere thought gave me heart palpitations. And a prickling realization that I had been had began to dawn on me. I vaguely remembered when this whole thing began, how Allison Pierce had set it up. How she had jingled her keys at me. Like she'd known. I realized that she'd been goading me on. In short, I began to realize how much I'd been used. I felt destroyed. I had been beaten at a game I had hardly realized I'd been playing. I was crushed, and I gave in to her. "Fine, Allison. I'll do it. Now get out of my house," I told her. * * * Another one of the Society things. God, I was both dreading and looking forward to them more than ever. ss_11.txt What a weird feeling, to loathe and fear something, and yet enjoy it so much. It was like junk food for the soul. It was Saturday afternoon, and Sally was at some school function again, and Jack was who-knows-where, and I was busy following more instructions left in the "toybox". I drove to the first destination in my instructions. It was a nice drive, despite the butterflies of anticipation and nervousness in my stomach. The sun was out, and the sky was blue and cloudless. And the scenery was pleasant, so far out into the boonies. I carefully followed the directions, which were very good, and found myself at the end of a dirt road, somewhere out in the woods. Way out. As promised, there was another set of instructions there, under a rock by the side of the road. With a shaking had, I read them, and by the time I had gotten to the bottom, I was trembling so hard I almost lost the piece of paper in a breeze. "Connie," I whispered to myself, "What are you doing?" But, despite my nearly overwhelming trepidation, I forced myself onward. I did as instructed, and left every shred of my clothing in a pile, under the same rock that held the instructions. I climbed back into the car, breathless, buzzing, stark naked. I had to sit for several moments just to collect myself enough to drive. I had never driven anywhere naked before. It was a surreal experience. I felt like I was in one of those "naked nightmares", but this was real. I somehow managed to not careen off the road, and made it the next appointed destination of my travels. This time, under the rock were instructions, a blindfold, and an incongrously neon pink latex double-headed thing. With some sort of harness. My instructions were to put it "on", as it were. It would be held in place with the harness. Then, I was supposed to put on the blindfold, and "wait to be buzzed." "Wait to be what?" I mumbled to myself. I looked around, knowing that somewhere, nearby, they were waiting. They were watching. It was making me hot. It seemed that I was alone, out in the woods. There wasn't even any airplane noise. Only birds, and the rustle of the wind in the trees. But there were eyes on my naked body, somewhere around me. I followed the instructions, growing more and more agitated as I did. The blindfold was the hardest part. It made every sound, every whisper in the trees, seem ominous. It made me so defenseless. And the thing, plugged into me on one end, and held in place with the harness around my waist, dangled down to my knees, swinging back and forth like a penis. I felt totally weird, and deeply excited. I waited, and waited, and waited. It seemed interminable, even though it was probably only a few minutes. But every time I heard a crackle in the woods, my heart raced. That was the idea, I guess. Because, just as I was sure I had heard something, nearby, the thing inside me suddenly twitched to life! I literally jumped, and screamed out loud. It was vibrating, humming away. It was like an electric shock. It sent adrenaline coursing through me. After I calmed down just a bit, I realized how much I was turned on. I was already on the verge. They waited until the buzzing pink thing sent me over the edge into a long, agonizing orgasm to come crashing through the woods and grab me. They grabbed me, pulling me down roughly. I was terrified, seized with the strangest combination of fear and arousal. It was like all my senses where heightened with my panic. I thought I'd never come again, I came so hard. They tied my hands, and tied a short length of rope to my ankles. Then, using the pink thing, which was still throbbing away inside me, they began pulling me through the woods, hard, making me trot behind them. The short rope hobbling my legs made me stumble again and again. Branches whipped me, leaving searing tracks of fire on my skin. Weeds brushed like strange hands on my legs. I was sweating, panting, tingling, wet, and so very hot, trying to concentrate on running behind them. The moments began to blur. There was another car of some sort, and a short drive. They put me in the back seat, and took turns pushing and pulling on the pink thing. I was moaning, uncontrollably. The next thing I knew, the car had stopped. They pulled me out of it, and I felt them fitting something onto my face. There was a thin elastic to hold it in place around my head. As they put it on me, I felt something soft. Feathers? They put a gag in my mouth, made of soft cloth, and then somehow lashed it in place, tying it behind my head. Then something totally unexpected - they stuck earplugs into my ears. I was instantly very, very frightened again. Now, not only was I restricted to only making out light and dark, but I could only hear in the barest of muffles. I started to struggle. They grabbed me, roughly, jerking me around by the shoulders and my tied hands. I was helpless. I felt some sort of clothing being draped around me, and they pushed me back into the car, lying face down on the seat. We began to drive again, but only for a few moments. We stopped, and they pulled me out, and with strong, unflinching hands, I was propelled, stumbling forward. I was sure that we had gone inside. They somehow turned off the buzzing thing inside me, and then removed it. They pulled off the clothing draped over me, and pulled my tied hands apart, and re-tied them above my head. They, or perhaps just one of them, began tormenting me. A feather-light touch here. A squeeze there. A shivering slide of a fingernail. I felt a raging, animal need rising inside me. I wanted release again. This was some game. The teasing was getting more insistent, but was driving me wild, because it only inflamed me. None of the touches was enough to begin to satisfy me. I found myself trying to push against the teasing fingers, trying to avail myself of more pleasure. Enough to get me off, anyway, which I was getting desperate for. Then the teasing stopped, and there was some movement in the room. I strained to hear, but couldn't make anything out. I was hanging there, throbbing, aching for more, and knotted up with anticipation about what was going to happen next. I was pulled down from my hanging perch, and led onto something - a bed? Then I realized that someone else was on it, too. I was lying on my side, next to them. They untied my legs, and then began retying them. They pulled my leg out, across the bed, and between the legs of my fellow victim, until my thigh pressed up against his - no - her crotch. At least, I thought it was a woman. I didn't feel any manly equipment against my thigh, only the electric prickle of her pubic hair. Then I felt them pushing us closer together, and pulling her leg between my thighs, until her thigh was wedged up against my mons, too, and our bellies were rubbing together. And they tied my leg, and hers, too, I assumed, so we were held in this embrace. There was a slight pause, during which I felt the powerful erotic potion of this situation begin to seep into my pores. The woman's crotch was damp and hot. More than damp. It was slick. I knew she was feeling the same thing from me. She shifted slightly, and her leg slid forward, pressing against me, sending a shockwave of heat through me. I felt my pulse quickening by the moment. I wondered if she had been through an ordeal like mine. I wondered who she was. I had been in only a few sexual situations with another woman. Needless to say, all of them had been arranged, one way or another, by Jack. I had found them, well curious. Not terribly good or bad. Indifferent. I liked men. I liked their shoulders and chests and biceps and cocks. But this was making me so very, very hot. I don't know why. Something about the situation. Or about this woman. She was about my size, I guessed. She had toned, well muscled legs. Her skin was soft and smooth, and wherever we were touching, I felt like I was on fire. Particularly where the swell of my stomach touched hers, and where her thigh mashed up between mine. They pushed us together more, until our chests were touching. As we were roughly forced against one another, I realized I was wearing a mask of some sort, and she was, too. I wondered if she could hear. Was she blindfolded? The feeling of her pointy, hard nipples against my breasts, and mine against hers, was driving me wild. I let myself enjoy it, and pushed my throbbing, hardening nipples out at her, trying to rub them against her. She responded almost instantly, and I felt her thrusting her crotch against my leg. Almost before I realized it, I was over the edge, thrusting and mashing myself against her. I think she was too. It was a short, hard, sharp orgasm. The kind that leaves me breathless. They played with us like that for what must have been hours. In different positions, standing up, lying down, sitting on a chair. Then they started using the double-headed pink thing. Throughout it, I felt like I had never, ever felt before with another woman. It was incredible. Maybe it was because I assumed she had been abused and tormented like I had been in the woods, and on the trip. But there was something about her. The way we moved together. Our rhythm together. It was mindblowing. When they were done with us, I was exhausted. I was on all fours, butt-to-butt with my fellow victim. My afternoon lover. With almost a twinge of regret, I felt them pull the pink thing out of us, first out of her, then out of me. They pulled out my earplugs. The room was quiet. I heard Jack's voice! "That was quite a show," he said. I wasn't really surprised, somehow. Then I heard a woman's voice. She said, "Why don't we give them both a little going away present?" Something about her voice was familiar. I assumed it was the Mistress of the Society, Mrs. Pierce. She slid something inside me. Then she put some sort of harness around my waist, and fastened it to the thing now lodged inside me. As it fastened around my waist, there was a metallic click. By the movements of my fellow victim's legs, I could tell she was getting a similar treatment. The woman said, "Now, sluts, you are both instructed to keep these little presents just where they are now, until you get home. Then, I'd like you both to show them to the man of your house, and invite him to do whatever he wants with it, and you. The only stipulation, is that you have to come back here to do it. And to enforce it, I've made sure that the belts that are holding those little presents inside you are very hard to get out of, without the key. The key will be right here, in room 134. Motel 7." It was over. They didn't take off my blindfold. They just slammed on the brakes, pushed me out of the car, and sped away, leaving me where I'd started, by my car, out in the woods. It seemed really stupid that I had to go all the way home, meet Jack there, and go all the way back to the dingy motel. He had been there the whole time. I had heard him. Why couldn't he just bring the stupid key himself? "These stupid games," I grumbled. It was over, though, and I was glad. I sped home, sore, tired, and hungry. I think I had a couple of strained muscles. I was feeling more than a little tender in certain spots, too. I took quite a while to get home, since I got lost a couple of time on the tiny dirt roads out in the woods. But eventually, I found my way back to the spot where I'd left my clothes, and was soon headed home. When I got there, Jack was nowhere to be seen. I looked around, and Sally wasn't either, so I went upstairs, and took a shower. I inspected the "chastity belt" contraption, which looked very sturdy. I was going to need the key to get out of it. I finished, and had some supper. Still no sign of Jack. Or Sally. I wondered if she was still at school. I looked around the kitchen for a note, but didn't find any. So, I went upstairs, and went into her room, still hoping to find a note. Instead, on her bed, I found an ornate feather mask. * * * I rewound the tape, and began to watch it one last time. But, I was tired, and I closed my eyes, and let the images already burned into my mind play themselves. The tape's quality was only mediocre, but it was like art, to me. In many ways, the best part was the ending. The beginning was a very long, very lewd sequence that left absolutely nothing to the imagination about who the participants were, or what they were doing. The beginning part went of for the better part of two long, sweaty hours. The coupling couple seem almost maniacal, they went at it so hard. The beginning was, of course, the real heart of my blackmail tape. It was the damning evidence. It was the finale, though, that really got to me. For a couple of minutes, there was a scene that one hidden camera, pointed at the door of the tiny hotel room, recorded. It was nothing but the unchanging view of the back of door, which was closed. But, the rhythmic thumping noise, the squeaking of the bed, and the grunts and moans that were this shot's accompaniment were quite unmistakable. Sally's voice, a frenzied moan of, "Harder, harder!" wafted somewhere from inside the room. Then, there was the squeal of tires from a car screeching to a halt outside the hotel room. The sound of the car door opening. Then, the room to the hotel burst open. Standing there was Connie, her face streaked with tears. The grunting and panting stopped. Connie walked forward, past the camera's view. The scene switched to the view provided by the second hidden camera, which was in the hotel room itself. On the bed, in media res, were Jack and his stepdaughter, my creation, Sally. Scattered around them were pieces of clothing, and a black leather chastity belt. Standing at the room's entrance, arms akimbo, with tears of rage and humiliation spilling from her cheeks, was Connie. Call it blackmail. Call it evil. Or, call it art. * * * Just when I thought I couldn't take anything more, when I thought I had been pushed far beyond my limits, life dealt me the final blow. It was a tape. And a letter. It was blackmail. The doorbell had rung, and when I opened the door, and saw it was him, I almost started to scream, until I saw the look on his face. He handed me the letter, and the tape, and said, "Call me. You have my number at Rick's house." I watched the tape and cried. I cried and cried and cried until I thought there were no tears left. My heart was broken. I didn't know what to think, or what to feel, anymore. At first, I wanted to literally kill Jack for what he'd done to Sally. I wasn't satisfied with all of the explanations I'd heard from him and her about what had happened, but I was pretty sure that Jack had somehow corrupted my sweet Sally. That it was his doing. Then I had thought, my husband, that bastard, with all his horrible faults, was still my husband, and my daughter had stolen him away. I blamed her. Finally, I had settled down into simply hating myself, and believing that all of this was my fault. For not being a good wife. For being a rotten mother. I had thrown Jack out of the house. Something I never thought I was capable of. I hadn't spoken more than five words to Sally, outside of screaming at her at the top of my lungs. I felt a hair's breadth away from sheer, raving lunacy. Then, this. The whole thing was about blackmail. About my money. The whole thing was a setup. It was still Jack's fault. And Sally's. And mine. But, it was different. In a strange way, it made me feel better. I had no doubt that the blackmailer was Allison Pierce, even though it didn't say so anywhere. There was only a bank account number that I was supposed to transfer the money to. And the amount of money she wanted! Oh, my God. Basically, she wanted every cent I owned. Part of me toyed with the idea of just saying, "Fuck you. Go ahead, do your worst," and taking Sally and moving away, and letting Jack deal with it. But I knew that I couldn't outrun this. It would haunt me. Daddy's old friends would find out. There would surely be some sort of police investigation. Could they take Sally away? I felt buried beneath a million tons of despair. I knew that we had to give her the money. * * * They were trying to take Sally away from me. I had known that this would happen, eventually. I hadn't known, exactly, what was really going on. I had suspected, but hadn't been able to lay my finger on it. Sally had been "sick" for several days. Dean Pierce was on some sort of unscheduled leave. Something had happened after I'd dropped Sally off at that motel. Finally, I got a call from Sally. "Mr. Howard?" She said. "Sally! My God, where have you been?" I was so relieved to hear from her. There was a silence on the line. "Sally? Sally, are you there?" Then I heard it - she was crying. She told me the whole story. About what happened after I left her. About what she'd done with Jack. About the blackmail tape. She told me that she was thinking about running away, and that she was pretty sure her mother hated her. I tried as best I could to calm her down. Finally, I told her, "Sally. I can help you." "What?" She sobbed. "I can help." "How?" * * * I gunned the Saab out of the driveway and out onto the road. I was so enraged I didn't realize how fast I was going until the speedometer read 110. I looked over on the passenger's seat at the package. There was a letter, and five audio casettes. The note was from Bill Howard. It was so maddeningly familiar. It opened, "Dearest Allison." In it, he claimed that he had been secretly taping all of our conversations. All of them. He claimed that he had incontrovertible evidence that I was the behind all of the "activities" with Sally. He stated that he was willing and prepared to have the tapes, which had been edited to remove his voice, delivered to the police, the Academy's board of directors, and to the Society. Unless, of course, I agreed to step down as Dean, naming him as my successor, and to relocate to another city. And, he went on to demand, that arrangements be made so that he and Sally could continue their "lessons", as before. In effect, Bill had both me, and Jack and Connie, right where he wanted us. How could I have been so stupid? * * * "Sally, it's for you!" I watched as she sauntered out of the kitchen, flopped down on the futon next to me, and grabbed the phone. Just before she put it to her ear, she asked, "Who is it?" "Some guy named Pierce," I said, shrugging. She frowned, and said, "Hello, this is Sally," into the phone. I watched her as she talked. She was a knockout. I was in love. We were in love. The moment I'd seen her, waiting tables in the Village, I knew I was in trouble. She was the most gorgeous thing I'd ever laid eyes on. I got a table in her section, and started talking with her. We hit it off right away. She was trying to break into Broadway, taking classes and waiting tables. She almost looked too young to be in college, but I didn't care. I was already smitten. We'd been going out for about 3 months before she told me anything about her past. Not that I cared. If she didn't want to tell me, I figured I didn't want to know. * * * Michael watched me as I talked with James Pierce, Dean Pierce's husband. Ex-husband, actually. As we talked, he told me that he had been separated from her ever since her arrest, and that now, their divorce had finally gone through. From what I could tell, it sounded like she was going to be in prison for another 2 years before she got parole. Fine with me. Talking with him started bringing back memories, even though he hadn't been involved in this very strange part of my life. Those last few weeks had been the strangest of all. After I'd done it with Jack, and Mom had caught us, it seemed like everything just got weirder and weirder. Looking back on it, it doesn't even seem possible that Allison Pierce's blackmail attempt had failed. She had expertly used me and Mr. Howard to get me to do it with Jack, so she could record the whole thing. I had been so brainwashed that I hadn't even realized what I was really doing until Mom walked into that hotel room. I guess, even now, I would understand if she never forgave me. ss_12.txt When I had found out that Mr. Howard was turning around and blackmailing Dean Pierce, I was overjoyed. Well, as happy as I could have been, under the circumstances. That relief turned sour instantly when he told me what he was planning, though. He wanted me to quit school, and to come live at his house, so we could continue our "education" together. It seemed like it was going to be the only way out of the mess I'd gotten Mom and myself into. She didn't even seem to object to the idea. I guess I couldn't really blame her. After all, I was pretty much responsible for the whole thing. I guess the way she figured it, I had been doing it all along with him, so why not? It seemed like the whole thing was a done deal. Everybody, including Dean Pierce, had agreed. She wasn't going to blackmail us. Instead, she was giving in to Mr. Howard, and stepping down as Dean. Mom didn't make any objections to Mr. Howard's plan for me. Jack? Jack had disappeared altogether. Mr. Howard started getting set to take over as Dean. A couple of days later, he came to pick me up at home. I had all of my stuff packed in a couple of suitcases. Mom hadn't even seen me to the door. But something occurred to me on the ride from home to his house. I realized that I wasn't going anywhere I didn't want to. I remembered that I had the power. That I was me - Sally - not somebody's plaything. Well, to make a long story short, I told the old fucker to give me ten thousand dollars, and take me to the airport, or I was going to the cops. He caved. I moved to New York. Now I live with my boyfriend, Michael. I'm taking classes, and trying to get a job acting... I realized that I had been spacing out. James Pierce, still on the other end of the line, was saying "Sally? Sally?" "Oh, sorry, I was distracted," I said. "Well, anyhow, Sally, I was callling to tell you that your Mother misses you." "What?" "Yes, she does, Sally. You should give her a call, sometime." "Ok, sure," was all I said. "And I have something else to tell you Sally. You're probably wondering why I'm calling, right?" "Yeah, kinda," I said. I did wonder. I had never spoken to him before in my life. "Well, Sally, I have a friend who wants to write a book." I waited for more details. "He wants to write it about your story, Sally. He's offering a pretty good deal." We talked about it some more, and I decided to look into it. He left me with the guy's number. Before we hung up, though, he left me with one more thing to think about. "Sally, well, I don't know how to tell you this, really." He paused. "Jack and I are living together." I must have had a really strange look on my face when I dropped the phone onto the floor. Michael got really concerned. "Sally, are you ok?" It took me a minute to be able to answer him. I picked up the phone, and hung it up. "Yeah, sure, I'm fine." He gave me an expectant, quizzical look. "What was all of that about?" "Nothing important, sweetie," I told him. It was the past. It didn't matter. "Sounded kinda important to me." "No, it wasn't," I said, suddenly acutely aware of how much he genuinely cared. About me. I snuggled up to him, and breathed in his close, warm smell. "Mike, tell me again how much you love me," I said. "Sally, sugar, I love you so much I might even try to sing to you. And that's saying something," he joked. I pulled him close, suddenly feeling the tingly, aching echo of the needs I had left behind me forever. I slid my hand down his jeans, and wrapped my fingers around him. So solid. So simple. No more games. Whispering in his ear, I could hear my own desire. "Tell me again, Mike, how much you think kinky sex is a waste..."