EASY DOES IT by C. Lakewood Part 1 "Goddammit! Fucking tech support is absolutely worthless!" Elaine Zeamer was furious. She'd just spent over half an hour on the phone and gone through three so-called "experts" before she found one whose technical skills and proficiency with English allowed him to convince her that her PC was irretrievably dead, all its major components fried. She tried to calm herself, but then she remembered that her misbegotten ex-husband had insisted on this make and model. And now it was as useless as he had always been. She wasn't much of a drinker -- and didn't do drugs at all -- and she knew that the only thing that would smooth her out now was prolonged masturbation. Unfortunately, she had gotten into the habit of masturbating while surfing the Web (femdom stories in particular -- either F/f or F/m), and her access was interrupted now. Obviously she'd have to get a new PC, but, even in the best of times, she had sizeable expenses -- house, car, clothes, gym, goddamn a-l-i-m-o-n-y -- and a high school principal's salary, while good, was not infinitely stretchable. But Video Village, the big electronics chain, was due to have a sale soon, and she'd just have to wait. It was Friday evening when the PC died, and she went to bed early that night. She tried and tried, but failed to achieve a satisfactory orgasm. She mentally riffled through fantasy after fantasy, in which she dominated and disciplined her wretched ex and/or his bimbo girlfriend, but every scenario seemed stale. She was still angry about the PC, and, as well, she missed the rituals to which she had become accustomed. Finally, she did manage to cum, but only after she cast herself as the submissive. It was distasteful, but she did get some relief. Saturday was no better -- worse, if anything. And Sunday was a torment of frustration. She spent most of Monday attending to school business, with occasional longing glances at the PC on her office desk. But she didn't dare use it to cruise porn sites, for she was afraid it might harbor spyware that would betray her. By the end of the day, her need having increased exponentially, she finally thought of the PC in the outer office, where fifty or more people had access to it, at one time or another. So, after all the academic staff had left, but well before the custodians began work, she stowed her panties and pantyhose in her purse, walked softly out to that PC, fired it up, and logged onto the Internet. As she was waiting for the connection to be established, she pulled her skirt up and began playing with her crotch. She heaved a contented sigh as her favorite story site came up. It was a bit risky to be masturbating out in public this way, but that just added to her excitement. She came across a story that captured and held her attention, even though it was not quite her usual thing. It was entitled "A Dog's Life" and totally captivated her with its blend of humor and heat. And, shortly, she had the best orgasm -- not merely of the last four days, but certainly of the last several weeks, and probably of the entire year. Not wanting to push her luck, she straightened her clothes, covered her tracks (by clearing her "private data"), logged off, and went home. ****************************** She slept soundly that night and woke up wonderfully refreshed on Tuesday morning. After a long, hot shower, a leisurely breakfast, and an unusually pleasant drive to school, she strolled into the administration offices of Emerson Cod High School feeling quite benevolent. She collected her mail, smiled at the PC in passing, and let herself into her office. Her mail was hum-drum, as usual...routine school board notices, monthly PTA memos, band schedule, yada-yada, and one 3x5 manila envelope with a quaint address label. ("Dot matrix," she thought. "Who uses dot matrix printers any more? Well, except for our computer science classes -- the school's gotta curb costs somewhere, after all....") She threw the academic junk mail in the waste basket and vaguely noticed that there was no return address on the manila envelope before slitting one end and dumping out, onto her desktop, two photographs and a printed note.... "Oh, god!" ****************************** Milo Fishwater was tallish, tall enough for high school basketball, maybe, but his qualifications ended there. He was awkward, unmuscular, and very nearsighted. So he wound up as "manager" for the team -- which meant, basically, that he kept roll and picked up wet towels and used jocks. He loathed the job; it made him seem like a sad hanger-on, trying to soak up some reflected, athletic glory -- whereas he was actually doing it only to pad out his college applications and increase his chances for financial aid. And he needed the help. He could be an excellent student -- especially in history, English, and philosophy -- but his performance in math, biology, and physics was not really of honors quality. Throughout his 7+ semesters of high school, he had usually been something of a square peg in a round hole, and he was very much looking forward to moving on at last -- graduation was only 16 weeks off. His teachers called him "Milo," but nobody his age did. The few that called him anything at all called him "Fish." He didn't care for the nickname, but he didn't like his actual surname any better. He often imagined that it had originally been the storied name "FitzWalter" (and that he was related to Maid Marion), but that some nitwit clerk on Ellis Island had screwed it up. This was not his only fantasy, of course, or even his most common one. Being an 18-year-old dweeb, his primary fantasies were sexual, stoked by a steady diet of Internet porn. On that particular Monday, late in the day, Milo had been just ambling along, pushing the A/V cart and daydreaming...as usual. He was relatively happy, because the basketball season was over, and so his job as "manager" had also ended. He was running late because he'd had to finish up copying and cataloguing the season's game tapes as his last official managerial act. So, beginning tomorrow, then, he could get back to something he really enjoyed: his part-time job at Bo Jackman's camera shop. At this time of day, moreover, he found the school very pleasant -- dim, quiet, deserted. He liked the broad, shadowy corridors, the Depression-era decoration scheme (with lots of real wood and brass instead of plastic and aluminum), the reassuringly solid terrazzo floors underfoot.... Everything was tranquil.... But not everything was as it should be. There was a light on in admin. The soft glow through the pebble glass of the upper panel of the door was puzzling. Nobody worked late around here any more. It had been different barely a year and a half ago. He'd liked old Mrs. Pinkley, who'd been principal his first two years there. She'd been good-natured, old-fashioned, and primarily interested in academics and good manners. Then she'd retired and been replaced by "The Z" -- a self-absorbed bitch who seemed to care only for preppies, jocks, and covering her own ass. A naturally suspicious person, he crept up to the door and cautiously peered through the big mail slot on general principles. His stealth was rewarded, to a stunning extent. In front of the front office PC was The Z, utterly naked from her belly button on down, with one hand on the mouse and the other in her cunt, her attention riveted on the monitor's screen. Milo eased his camera-phone out of the pliers-pocket on the leg of his jeans. He'd just got it for Christmas, and it was about as state-of-the-art as they came. He was proud of it, though almost nobody ever called him except his mother. Now he was doubly glad that it was so sophisticated, as he snaked it through the mail slot and took a rapid series of snapshots of his half-naked principal finger-fucking herself.... And then he switched to video. ****************************** The note that Elaine Zeamer received that Tuesday morning, which was to so affect her life, was brief and geeky-looking, printed in dot-matrix. It merely told that he had opened an e-mail account for her today...viz., Bad_Girl@juiceemail.com with the password EZisEZ and that she would get further instructions there. Failure to comply would result in the immediate release of the enclosed photos (and other, similar ones) to the Internet...and to everyone on the school's mailing list. There was one consolation, if it could be believed. The note concluded: "I'm not into long-term relationships. Behave yourself and obey me for 6 months, and I'll let you off the hook." Elaine, absolutely livid, flung her staple-puller across the room and winced at the unexpectedly loud clatter. But it did seem to calm her down. She reviewed her options, muttering curses from time to time, and, in the end, concluded she really had no choice. She left school early that day, complaining of some unspecified illness. Despite the expense, she knew she couldn't afford not to replace her PC immediately. She eventually found one at a fairly reasonable price and managed to get it up and running with a minimum of angst (thanks largely to color-coding). The first thing she did was to log onto the stipulated e-mail account. She got a couple of messages right away -- the usual welcome and spam from the e-mail provider -- but had to wait more than an hour before receiving instructions from someone whose address was Eyeball@juiceemail.com First, it instructed her to immediately join the Whoopee! group http://groups.whoopee.com/group/EZduzit That was easy enough; she was already familiar with the procedure. She noted, in passing, that the group had just been created and that she was the second person to join. "Eyeball," of course, was listed as owner. Second, the e-mail ordered her to send Eyeball her "vital statistics," her "masturbation schedule," and answers to a list of intimate questions by return mail. Grumbling, but beginning to be impressed despite herself with his no-nonsense, authoritarian attitude (she just wished it were being used on those loathsome students of hers), she complied, using the formulae she imagined he wanted. To: Eyeball@juiceemail.com From: Bad_Girl@juiceemail.com Subject: My Statistics & Schedule, Etc. Dear Sir, I am 34 years old at present. 5'9" tall, 139 lbs., 36C-29-38. I normally masturbate an average of once a day, on most days. (More often on week-ends, holidays, and vacations -- perhaps 3 times a day.) I am not on the Pill, having had my tubes tied several years ago, when I was still married. (I'm now divorced.) I consider myself straight. I am rarely -- if ever -- submissive. I am not promiscuous and do not at present have a lover. Respectfully, Bad Girl The third thing that the Eyeball had required was somewhat more complicated.... ****************************** She had to make a phone call Wednesday, so she went home for lunch to call "Bo's Cameras and Photographic Services." "Bo's," said a deep voice on the other end of the line. Elaine wondered momentarily if he might be Eyeball, but quickly decided the mystery man would have to be cleverer than that. "Um...yes. I understand you take pictures...well, of a...sort of...private nature." "Private?" "Well, my...um...boyfriend has been o-overseas for a while -- and h-he'll be away for some time to come.... So.... So I thought he might like to have some photos -- s-sexy photos -- of me, t-to keep...um...focused...." "Sexy photos? Tasteful...or raunchy?" "Oh, um...r-raun-raunchee...." "Sure, no problem. When you want to come in?" "Saturday? Early afternoon?" "Okay.... Let's make it 1 o'clock." "Y-yes, that's fine." Then, remembering Eyeball's instructions, she added, "Um...about the cost.... I-I can't really afford much...." "Oh, I'm sure we can work something out. Don't worry about it. And the name?" (Oh, god! She wasn't going to tell him her real name, and she couldn't think of an alias, except for....) Could you...um...just call me 'Bad Girl'?" His laugh was rich and throaty. "Sure. Don't be late. And, if you drive, there's a small lot next door to the shop. Park under the sign that says, 'Reserved for Customers of Bo's Cameras,' and nobody'll bother your car." "Thank you. Goodbye." She was sweating heavily when she hung up. She changed her blouse -- she didn't have enough time to shower (and barely enough to masturbate and, at the same time, send Eyeball an e-mail, dutifully reporting the appointment for her photo-shoot). Normally fastidious about her appearance and personal hygiene, she was fidgety the rest of the day. But she got through her afternoon's work largely by rote, frequently fantasizing variations on Eyeball's possible appearance. When she left school for the day, she took a detour past Bo's shop. Though in a blighted neighborhood, it turned out to be only marginally seedy, as if the owner had a bit more self-esteem than most of the other shop-keepers nearby. Of course, the first thing she did when she got home was to log onto the Internet and check her mail. She found that Eyeball had curtly acknowledged her note, but also that he had a new duty for her: she was to TRIPLE her masturbation rate (starting immediately). And she had to capture her orgasms on a digital camera and e-mail him the pics. She just hoped Eyeball had been telling the truth about the six month limit. She knew she had no other way out of this mess. Though she was nervous about supplying him with additional blackmail material, she knew he already had more than enough to ruin her.... Besides, from the beginning she had been impressed that he could use the word "viz." correctly. That evening, as she performed to order, she grew angry. The idea of some stranger commanding her to play with herself -- and to record it. Outrageous! Yet, she had to admit, there was something erotic about being dominated by someone she'd never even seen.... She hadn't photographed her noon-time cum, so she masturbated three times before going to bed, just to make sure. As soon as she turned in that night, she sank into a deep and dreamless sleep, from which her alarm awakened her, groggy and disoriented, Thursday morning. ****************************** Naked, she forced herself to have breakfast -- juice, coffee, and a bagel -- before picking up her vibrator.... Later, still stinking of sweat and sex, she dressed for school, deliberately skipping a shower again. In the closed car, with the heater on, her smell was pervasive. She cursed her stupidity in not washing...and for being aroused by it all. The rest of the day, she self-consciously tried to stay down-wind of people. But she also masturbated in her office through lunch period. Then she realized she'd forgotten her camera, and, since she couldn't document the session, knew it wouldn't count. ****************************** Friday was more of the same, and she almost literally had to stagger through the last few hours of the afternoon doing a routine inspection of the equipment in the computer science room, the A/V room, shop, and home ec. At last it was over, and she could go home -- though she had to stop on the way and make some clothing purchases in the Junior Department at Sprawl-Mart. That evening, she diddled herself again, and so, by bed-time she calculated she'd masturbated to orgasm -- and, on several occasions, well beyond orgasm -- eleven times in three days, and her cunt was red, swollen, and constantly throbbing. She shuddered at the thought of what Saturday would bring: not only that damned photo session, but also having to do "it" nine! times (and nine more on Sunday). That night, she had a dream, from which she awakened suddenly. Afterward, she could remember nothing about it, except that it had been...unsettling. ****************************** On Saturday morning, following orders, she carefully shaved her cunt bare. Despite her resentment, it had actually been an extremely sensual experience -- what with the tingling shave cream before, the touch of the razor and her fingers during, and the look afterwards -- by the time she had finished, she was wet, very wet, and getting wetter. Her labia minora had always been small and unobtrusive, and now, with a bald cunt, she thought she looked like a 12-year-old. How humiliating! And what a turn-on! She had been ordered to go braless, but was allowed panties (in this case, a thong). She also wore the rest of the things she'd been forced to buy the day before: a tight, thin, pink tank-top (two sizes too small) and an off-white mini-skirt so short that she blushed at even the thought of being seen in it. (She measured it and found the hem was exactly 10" above her knee. Since she was not quite 11" from knee to crotch, it did cover the important parts, but there wasn't much room to spare.) A pair of thong sandals completed the outfit. She didn't dare even look at herself in the mirror, but grabbed her keys and some money and headed for the door to the garage. It was time to hurry off to her appointment with the photographer. She was grateful for the attached, heated garage. She was dressed for mid-July on the Gulf Coast -- not mid-February in the Midwest. Her panties were already soaked with pussy-juice, and she was sure that she squelched audibly when she walked. But she made it to the car, started it, turned on the heater, and opened the garage door. The next phase of her servitude was about to begin. ****************************** Part 2 Elaine paused at the end of the driveway. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and muttered, "Okay...here we go." She turned right and drove off, headed for the camera shop. Half-way there, her resolve began to slip. How could she trust Eyeball to keep his word about the six-month limit? Of course, if he were a graduating senior (which was unlikely -- he seemed too sure of himself, too self-possessed)...or a staff or faculty member who was leaving before the fall term, then maybe it would work out. (And, in the meantime, maybe she should compile a list of suspects and do some detecting.) But six goddam months! How would she be able to cope? Well, of course she HAD played the submissive from time to time in her fantasies, albeit reluctantly, and -- dammit! -- she'd already fallen into the distasteful habit of obeying Eyeball's orders.... She was suddenly recalled to the here-and-now as she caught herself about to turn the wrong way down a one-way street. "God!" she said to herself. "I hope I don't get stopped, dressed this way...and -- oh, shit! -- I don't even have my license." The rest of the trip was uneventful, even after entering the seedy ghetto neighborhood with its cheap bars, boarded-up houses, abandoned storefronts, frequent vacant lots full of weeds and junk, and, right across the street from Bo's, an evil-looking tattoo shop. Glancing at the camera store, she was again struck by how much it seemed like a fairly healthy incisor in a mouthful of rotten teeth. She parked where Bo had told her and sat for a while, trembling, reluctant to go on and afraid not to. Because of the cold, there were not many people in sight. But what there were, were definitely not her sort of people -- a wino sprawled in an alley, a couple of shivering black hookers with blonde hair, a scowling buck in cheap, flashy clothes (pimp or pusher?).... The car's heater was off, and, as the interior began to cool significantly, Elaine shook herself into action. She left the haven of her car (such as it was), scurried around to the front of the art deco building, and, without further hesitation, proceeded inside. The front part of the shop was a small, semi-shabby room, divided by a long counter running across its width. There was a bell hanging above the front door, and its ringing summoned a tall black man from the back of the shop. He was youngish (30, give or take), had a shaved head, and resembled someone who had been a jock in high school or juco, but who had been slowly going to seed for the last decade. This was obviously "Bo," and Elaine immediately felt superior...yet diffident at the same time. "I...um...have a 1 o'clock appointment...." "Ah," he said. "You must be 'Bad Girl.'" "Y-yes...sir...." "You're right on time. And I got your e-mail with additional instructions." ("E-mail?" she thought. "Oh, shit! That bastard Eyeball must have sent it. What the fuck were these 'additional instructions'? Godawful, undoubtedly. But, steady! Just act the submissive 'bad girl,' and do whatever you have to.") "Oh! Um...yes, sir. I...I hope it was clear." "Absolutely." He lifted a flap in the counter. "C'mon into the back, and we'll get started. I'm all set up for you." The "studio" in back was a fair-sized, well-lighted room, the perimeter lined with heavy drapery of a smooth, matte, cream-colored fabric. The room was sparsely furnished -- a predominately dark blue, Bokhara pattern rug in the middle of the floor, a couple of cameras on tripods, and, off to the side, an elderly roll-top desk and swivel chair. "I like your outfit," Bo said. "Let's start with some photos of you as you are. Stand there, on the rug." He dimmed the lights around the periphery of the room, fiddled with a light meter a bit, and then, with a hand-held camera, took a few shots. "Okay, now take off your clothes; you can pile them on the chair." "Undress? Here? Don't you have a private place?" "Yes. Undress. Here. I AM going to be photographing you naked, remember, so what's the hang-up? Besides, your e-mail said that I was to be boss, right? I was to tell you what to do, and you'd do it, right?" ("Crap!" she thought.) "Yes, s-s-sir. I'm just a little nervous at the prospect, is all." He opened the desk and poured half a glass of some murky liquid. He handed her the drink, saying, "Down the hatch." Elaine looked at the glass doubtfully, but then obediently chugged it...and was almost overcome by a fit of coughing. It was bitter, acrid. "Kill or cure, eh?" Bo grinned. "Now, get yourself naked." Trembling, she obeyed. ("He is the boss," she kept telling herself. "He is my boss....") When she had blown her nose, had stripped, and was again standing on the rug, Bo clicked on a CD player. The room was filled with a languorous, powerfully sensual melody.... Ravel's "Bolero." "Put your hands over your head, and move with the music. I'm the boss, remember? Listen to it...live it. Pretend your lover's feeling you up. And now he starts fucking you. Every down beat is him pounding into you. And you push back. Yes! Again! Wriggle...writhe! Yes! Yes! Keep it up!" While encouraging her, he was, of course, continuously snapping pictures from a variety of angles. Elaine found the experience irresistibly arousing, and she was breathing hard by the time Bo stood up and said, "Okay, take a break. I have to reload. Also, you could stand to loosen up a tad more." He poured her another drink (of the same stuff as before). She drank it down while he was putting fresh film in the camera. This time, there was no coughing -- just a wheeze -- and she actually licked her lips afterward. ("Bassard's tryin' to get me drunk," she told herself. "An' then he'll try to 'do' me. He IS sorta 'tractive, though...in a jungly kinda way....") Having reloaded, he motioned her back to the rug. "Now, girl, get yourself down on all fours. Imagine your stud wants to fuck you doggie-style. Reach back and spread your butt-cheeks; invite him in." He knelt down behind her. "Look around here...and gimme a 'come-hither' expression. Yes! Perfect!" His camera was clicking as rapidly as his patter. "Now, down on your back, legs in the air and s-p-r-e-d! Yeah! Play with yourself! Yes!" Elaine was getting hot -- both literally and figuratively. She was sweating because of the lights, but also because of her growing arousal, and the funky odor rising from her body was almost as intoxicating as the two drinks she'd gulped. Befuddled by the liquor and by her libido, she didn't notice someone else standing in the dark area of the room, likewise taking pictures. Although his movements were perforce restricted to the shadowy, perimeter areas, Milo Fishwater was getting photos of considerably higher quality than had been possible with his camera-phone. Skilfully alternating between a digital camera and a 35mm one, he paused in his movements only long enough to switch on the tripod-mounted camcorder that was focused on the blue rug. Bo put down his camera and fetched a wooden device from the shadows -- a small set of stocks, distressed dark oak, with holes for wrists and ankles. He stroked Elaine's shaven cunt, causing her to purr, and then he deftly fitted her into the device. ("He's done this before...probably often," Milo thought.) When it was locked in place, Elaine lay neatly on her back, bent double, with her wrists and ankles securely fastened. Belatedly realizing the significance of her position, she attempted to close her legs...and failed. She started to panic. "Please," she moaned. "Please...." "'Please'?" Bo said, mockingly. "Please what? What do you want, Bad Girl?" He caressed her cunt again and dipped a finger deep into its wetness. He stirred it for a moment, then added a second finger. As quickly as the panic had risen, it subsided. Sometimes, Elaine thought, dreamily, it was okay not to be in control...to just be someone else's plaything...to just follow orders and let the other person shoulder all the responsibilities.... "Please...do it...." "Do what, exactly?" Bo teased. "Please...please fu-uck me, s-s-sir...." "What a slut!" Milo exclaimed silently to himself. "And she had the gall to claim that she was 'not promiscuous.' The bitch rolled over so easy on this one, I've got to up the ante on her next adventures...." But he decided he'd think about that later. At the moment, he knew he should concentrate on his photography. Still, as he smoothly fed a fresh roll of film into the 35mm, he licked his lips in appreciation of what was obviously to come.... Meanwhile, Bo had stripped naked and squatted down by Elaine, who lay there, with stiff nipples, a drooling cunt, and a vacant smile on her face. She seemed mesmerized by the sight of his hard cock. It was large -- though not monstrous -- and dark brown and purplish red. It was so intimidating.... And so intriguing. Bo dipped his fingers into Elaine's brimming cunt again, pumped them in and a few times, and then began playing with her tightly puckered asshole. She sighed at first and wriggled contentedly, but, when she finally became aware of what he apparently intended, her eyes widened, and she moaned, "Nooo, please! I-I've never done THAT!" (Milo made a mental note of that.) "Please fu-uck me in my pussy!" Bo turned her over, so that she rested primarily on her shoulders and knees. He slapped her up-turned butt sharply, twice...and twice again. "In your CUNT," he corrected. "With my fingers up your ass. Say it!" "Please fuck my c-cunt, sir, with your fingers up my ass!" she sniffled. "And do it bareback...please," she added softly. "Of course, 'specially since you ask so nicely...." He crouched down and eased his cock into her. Elaine bared her teeth and hissed. "It's s-s-so big!" "But you like it big, don't you, girl? You LOVE it big...and black." "I do.... I love it big a-and bl-black!" He skewered her asshole with one thick finger -- and then another. "Aaaah! Oh, god!" "You got a nice, tight asshole...but it'll loosen up." He began fucking her slowly, moving his fingers in her ass in counter-point. "C'mon, girl. Time to really show off now. Start humping back.... Let me know how hot you are...how much you want it!" And she did. It was a tribute to Milo's powers of concentration that he was able to ignore the demands of his teenage hormones and continue taking pictures, despite the throbbing in his groin. As it was, he easily outlasted Elaine (who started cumming, very vocally, almost immediately) and even beat Bo (who prided himself on his stamina). When the black man finally collapsed on top of Elaine with a sigh, however, Milo had to dash through the curtains to an adjacent washroom, clawing at his zipper as he went. He made it...but only just. ****************************** With the resilience of youth, however, Milo recovered quickly. He got back to the studio in time to see (and to photograph) Elaine obediently licking Bo's cock clean. When she'd finished that task, and Bo was dressing, Milo switched off the camcorder and retreated again to the washroom, where he packed up his 35mm camera and its film canisters. By the time he was back to a spot, just behind the curtains, where he could see and hear, Bo had released Elaine, and they were apparently discussing payment arrangements. He was at the desk, writing something. (She was still naked...and was absentmindedly playing with her cunt.) Bo looked up. "Okay, to recap.... You don't have enough cash, and you got no ID, no credit cards, no ATM card, no check-book.... But you say you MUST have your pictures tonight." He handed her the paper he'd been writing on. "This is a model's release. I'll stay late and make sure copies of the photos get to your e-mail box this evening. But, if I'm not paid in full within a week, all rights to the pictures revert to me, and I'll be free to do whatever with 'em." "But...but...," she began. "Nah-nah-nah-nah. Don't even start with me. Those are my terms, and I'm not gonna do different. Take it or leave it -- my way or the highway." "I-I couldn't sign this...not with my real name," she quavered. "No, but you could stand on that rug -- naked -- and read what's written there while I video tape you. Not quite as good as a signed document, maybe, but, if it's okay for somebody's last will.... Well, what's it gonna be?" Silently, Elaine slouched over to the blue rug, waited while Bo readied the camcorder, then straightened up and cleared her throat. She began reading, in her clear, educated voice, "I, under the alias of 'Bad Girl,' hired Mr. Bo Jackman, owner of 'Bo's Cameras and Photographic Services,' to take XXX-style photos of me...." Milo stayed long enough to snap a couple more pictures with his digital camera, then slipped out the back door and headed home. The 35mm stuff could wait. He was anxious to inspect the digital pictures he'd taken and, later, to collect, crop suitably, and post (to the EZduzit Whoopee! group) the photos that "The Z" would be sending him. ****************************** That night, before turning in, Milo re-visited the EZduzit site and was pleased to see that there were already twelve new members. He password-protected his bulging files of "EZ pics," and he smiled at the long, tentative list of things he'd be subjecting his horny principal to -- flashing at the mall, nipple rings, work in a topless-bottomless bar.... He'd have to improve on that list, but it was pretty sweet for a first draft. He yawned contentedly. It was a win-win situation for him: either she'd play ball (and go through a series of penalties born of his feverish imagination and extensive porn-reading), or she'd balk (and he'd start posting pictures that did NOT have her face cropped off). He logged off, turned out the light, slid into bed, and drifted off to sleep, as thoughts of how pleasant the next six months would be danced in his head like visions of sugar plums.