Violence haunts the city streets and lingers as a strange, yearning ache in the minds of masochistic women.
The most violent act of all is the act of sodomy. It provides pleasure to the man and denies the woman all pleasure. In order to avoid pain, she must relax her muscles and let herself be completely dominated and at the mercy of her mate. She must respond to the sharp, driving jabs of his wicked lance the way driftwood responds to the swell of the ocean. She must learn to be tossed on the end of a skewer while giving as much resistance as a marshmallow. If she tightens her muscles in an effort to resist, the spear that probes unnatural places will rip her rigid flesh apart.
The theme of these three stories is sodomy.
All three women who are the subjects of these stories share with each other a store of violent fantasies and masochistic longings. All put their masochism and their ability to give up their own wills to the test of attempted domination and torture.
These stories give us a vision of the inner conflict that mounts inside these women who, either because they are being violently and cruelly assaulted or because they are trying to provide their mates with special and unusual pleasure, attempt to relax while they feel like they are being speared to death.
One tiny contraction and an unstretched orifice will be ripped to shreds by the thick, driving pole inside it. One false reassertion of ego and the women will be torn till they bleed and tortured until their consciousness becomes dim.
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PUSSY IN HEAT
PART ONE
Dora Faber was a small, blonde girl who had just moved to New York City . She had come from Baton Rouge and she had no very clear idea of why she had left her home and come to the city. She had left suddenly. One night, she had simply gotten into her sky blue car and drove it onto the highway and she hadn't stopped driving. All the way across Tennessee she had kept driving with the little stars winking at her above the black mountains. When she hit the filthy, sadly gleaming cities of the East, she had bought herself a giant pack of chewing gum, bravely turned the dial on her radio to find a new station, and she had kept driving. She knew by the time she hit Philadelphia that she was going to New York. And she felt inside that the move had something to do with boredom. She wanted something to happen to her.
Perhaps the idea of moving to New York had slipped into her subconscious because of the long letters she'd been receiving from her older brother. He was in the army and had been stationed somewhere near there. He wrote her pages about the night life; about the lights, and the streets full of strangely dressed people, the cozy little bars, and the rock music that played everywhere. She pictured herself sitting under a shady tree on the sidewalk outside of a little open-air cafe. In her fantasy, she was sitting with a handsome man and winking coyly at him over the top of her menu. Her fantasy didn't take her any further than that. "But I guess," she thought as she took the side of the road that was. marked "Lincoln Tunnel", "that simple little fantasy was enough."
Dora was a tiny person. She didn't stand above five feet high. She had long, blonde hair that fell below her waist. It was dead straight and its ends were wispy. They rested on the little shelf made by her buttocks. When she felt nervous or confused, Dora had a way of bringing the wispy ends of her hair round to her face and tickling her lips with them. She pressed the prickly ends into her mouth as if the ends of her hair were making a paint brush. She'd suck on them and make them wet.
Sometimes, she'd bring her hair to her face and cover her nose with it and sniff at it. Usually it smelled like straw. Sometimes it smelled like raspberry jam. Once at a cookout, Dora noticed on the way home that it smelled like barbecue sauce and smoldering charcoal. She didn't know why, but sniffing at her hair comforted her. It was a childish sort of gesture, like sucking one's thumb.
Dora came through the Lincoln Tunnel at a rapid rate and turned right onto the pot-holed, partially asphalted and partially bare brick street that ran under the West Side Elevated Highway. She had no idea where she was going. She held onto the steering wheel with one hand and with the other she pulled her hair across her face and sniffed at it. All she could smell were bus fumes. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
She had made a little, nebulous plan in the car on her way to New York. In New York, she had heard, a car was only a nuisance. It was always better to park it somewhere and then get out and walk. Besides, there was good public transport.
Dora had decided, therefore, that the first step must be to find a place where she could safely lock her car and leave it. Then she would be free to go wherever her feet carried her. To be sure, this was not much of a plan, but since Dora hadn't the slightest idea of what she would do in the city once she had gotten inside of it, she felt very satisfied that she had a plan at all. Besides it gave her a reason for doing something and for driving somewhere.
Dora had black eyes that sat like mournful knotholes in her white, freckled face. She had full white cheeks and a little smile. Seldom, even when she was laughing, did her mouth open. It was as if there was a reserved tightness inside of her and of which she could never let go. When she did laugh, her body shook silently. It didn't ripple. It jerked as if she were trying to contain something as if the noise of it were being held in and were trying to get out. Dora wouldn't let it out. She sat and jerked silently till it was over. Then she sniffed at her hair.
Sometimes, though, when she was all alone, a wonderful feeling would fill her. The tiny smile would spread over her face. It was a magical sort of smile that seemed to say, "I've got a secret." Her tiny white hands would reach back and grab the wisps of her hair and pull them across her nose and mouth. Above this mask of hair, her black eyes would burn.
Raised in the stifling heat of the stiflingly routine and norm-oriented middle-class modern south, Dora's eyes burned because she had been born full of a little, determined spark. She had decided she was going to get somewhere and that she was going to act out the fact that she was somebody special. She didn't know where to pick to set the stage for her life and she didn't know who she wanted to be. But her black eyes burned through the dust that rose from the streets as she walked alone on the outskirts of Baton Rouge. She kicked a can. She looked up to watch it roll down the sidewalk and her black eyes were wet and glistening against the dry, powdery clouds of dust. She reached the place where the can had come to a stop against the side of a building. She aimed it straight down the sidewalk with her toe and then she let fly at it with the side of her foot, lifting it up in the air and sending it flying with all her might. The can landed with a clatter and went rolling away. The pop top inside it made it clank and rattle, as it rolled slowly to a halt along the uneven sidewalk. Dora listened to the pop top clattering and echoing deeply against the metal. It was a beer can and its insides were golden. The can rocked back and forth lazily when it quit rolling, and the pop top scraped gutturally over one side of it. In the gutter, the can rocked the way a wheel of fortune does, slow creaking back and forth before it settles in final silence upon the one lucky number.
"Something," thought Dora, as she drew back her foot again, "something lucky is going to happen to me in my life." She said this aloud, and there was an odd peal of determination, even hatred in her voice, as if she were frightened that the dusty streets and the dull eyes of Baton Rouge were going to kill her. She let fly with all her strength and all her might at the tin can, raising her foot up over her head. Both her penny loafer and the-tin can went flying. The shoe landed with a soft, dull thud a few feet ahead of her. She had kicked it straight up and it had done slow somersaults in the air. The can landed in the middle of the street with a hollow ringing. It immediately picked up its empty, guttural clatter as it rolled slowly over and over, heading down the graded asphalt toward the gutter. Its glinting rim flashed when it caught the hot afternoon sun.
There had been problems with her job. Dora was a secretary and worked in the registrar's office at Louisiana State University. She had not been given a raise when she thought she should have been. She was not dumb, although she was uneducated, and she wanted at least the chance to try her hand at a job that gave her a little more responsibility. In New York, Dora had heard, a secretary could work her way up until she was almost an executive. Besides, she had heard that, in the city, even a lowly typist or file clerk could pull a whopping starting salary. Then she could buy clothes like the girls that she saw photographed in magazines. Here in Baton Rouge on the tiny wages she was making, she could not really even afford to buy the magazine. She wanted to go to plush night clubs and sit in velvet seats and wear gold lame hot pants. She wanted to string blue feather boas around her neck, pull them across her nose and sniff them instead of her hair. The wonderful, familiar feeling tingled through her and for an instant, Dora was oblivious of the brick streets jostling her car, the confusion of one way signs, and the gaping pot holes. The tiny smile stretched hesitating between her cheeks. "It all comes down to boredom," she thought. Inside she felt happy with her decision. "Something lucky, something wonderfully, incredibly lucky is going to happen to me here," she thought.
Dora began to see signs nailed to the stone pillars under the elevated highway. They read "Public Parking".
"Good," she thought, feeling as if Fate, like a magnet, was drawing her insistently in the right direction. She trusted in it to get her wherever she ought to go. The signs were nailed to the pillars at the beginning of every block, and she drove her car southwards for a couple of blocks before turning left and driving into the shady pavement under the highway.
In front of her, when she turned, sat an enormous blue building. It was surrounded by a high, chain link fence. The gate in the fence was open and Dora drove into it, inspecting the building with sharp, inquisitive black eyes.
She followed the blue wall for a short distance, and then came to a ramp that led down out of the building. It too was marked "Public Parking". Below it, on a shiny white shingle, the monthly and daily parking rates had been posted. They wanted thirty seven dollars and fifty cents to hold her car for a month. Dora sat and stared at the sign and quickly calculated. Her head was adding frantically. She was stunned by the price quoted on the sign and she was trying to figure if she could possibly afford it and expect to eat more than a meal a week too.
Sadly, Dora put her car in reverse and backed up just beyond the gate in the fence, and turned out onto the bumpy roadway again. Without really thinking, she began driving south again, figuring that perhaps, further along, there would be another lot, where the blue paint was not so new, the metal fence not so high, and where the monthly rates would be lower. As she jostled and jerked her way over the pot holes, she held her hair like a mask over her face and snuffled her nose in it for comfort.
Dora drove a few blocks, passed a sign, and sure enough, as she turned left under the highway, she saw a deserted pier in front of her. It stretched out into the cold, metallic gray water of the choppy Hudson. There were old, ramshackle cars parked at random all over it. Its edges were lines with great rotting beams that looked as if they were old, stolen telephone poles that had been brought down in a storm. Old tires and tin cans dotted the lot, and the weeds grew up under the wheels of the cars and clambered their stunted, knotted way up over the old wooden beams. They waved green leaves up from beneath the crevices where the asphalt had cracked.
Dora pulled her sky blue station wagon through the chain link fence's gate and drove slowly down the center of the pier. This lot had a high fence also, and the fence had barbed wire along the top of it. The barbed wire was very fine. It seemed to cling to the chain links beneath it by its tiny mace-like barbs. The thin wire between the barb had been torn and frayed and it floated above the top of the fence like hair.
Dora unrolled her window and smelled a fishy smell, and when the wind blew she thought she could smell a mixture of beer and rotten eggs. She could hear her tires crunching over tiny pieces of gravel. At the end of the pier, a tiny rusted white Corvette with enormous exposed side pipes was sitting parked in the middle of a vaguely delineated, winding aisle that was made by the other cars. Next to it stood two boys of about her own age. One had his head buried in under the open hood of the car. He appeared to be rummaging through the motor. The other boy, a tall slender fellow with curly brown hair, glasses, short khaki shorts and a striped T-shirt, was standing in front of the car with his hands on his hips. He was peering down at an old oil can. It was sitting rustily on the ground with a rag stuck under its handle.
"Excuse me," said Dora out of her open car window as she pulled her station wagon up beside them. Her voice sounded squeaky and timid and piping even in her own head. It floated out to the boy who stood over the oil can and sounded like a far away whistle. It came muffled through the hank of blonde hair that she was holding across her mouth.
"Do you know if I can park my car here?" Dora asked.
The boy pointed at the rusty Corvette. "Sure," he said. "I park mine here."
"Is it very expensive?"
"No. It's a good deal. They charge twenty-five dollars for a month."
Dora's face brightened a little and she dropped the hank of hair and put both hands on the steering wheel. "Do you think my car will be safe?" she asked and her eyes bored at him over the top of her window.
"Sure," he said. "There's a guard here almost all the time."
Dora looked back along the dusty pier but she didn't see any officials, or any official looking little buildings that might house someone who would slide a little ticket under one of her windshield wipers and take her money. "Where do I pay?" she asked.
"Wasn't there anyone there?" asked the boy. "I mean in the bus. Drive back to it and knock on the door. There's usually someone there but sometimes he's watching TV"
Dora looked behind her again and saw that, parked against the chain link fence just to one side of the front gate, sat an old blue school bus with the name of a school painted on its side in white letters. It was just like the school buses she had ridden on in Baton Rouge. Perhaps this one was a bit tinier. And the ones in Baton Rouge were all painted chromium yellow. This one had curtains in its windows, was tilted above one flat tire, and out the back window of it was strung a line of washing. A couple of T-shirts and some old, stiff rags hung from the line and stirred a little in the breeze. Next to the school bus sat an old gas pump.
"Thank you very much," Dora said to the boy. She put her car in drive and turned and rolled back down to the school bus. All along the way, the rusty toothsome grillwork on the front of the other cars seemed to snarl at the body of her shiny blue station wagon menacingly.
"Oh well," thought Dora. She was scared that the doors of her car might be stolen in a place like this. "I shall only leave you here for a little while," she said, half to the car and half to herself. "Then I shall come and get you and put you in a much finer, much cleaner lot, where the other cars are all shiny."
Dora's mind wandered abruptly away and the little smile spread over her face. She was thinking of returning one day to pick up her car from here, and park it proudly atop the big blue building that she had first looked at. Her blonde hair, in her fantasy, was piled up in curls over the top of her head. She was wearing a tightly fitting black suit that had ruffles around its wrists and a little strip of black fur around its collar. Under one arm, she was carrying a shiny patent leather pocket book. She walked swiftly. Her high heels went clicking.
Dora brought her car mechanically to a stop beside the school bus. Its door was open, and there was a light on inside. She turned off the station wagon and climbed out. The back of her thighs were wet from sweating against the plastic car seat in the heat. The back of her little thin, white, sleeveless shirt clung to her skin and looked pink. Even the yoke of the shirt above her bra had gotten soaked with perspiration. The sun had been streaming through the windshield as she came jouncing over the hot streets. Only over her breasts did the shirt have any of its white crispness remaining. Her bra had absorbed most of the moisture that came from her skin. A warm trickle of sweat rolled from the pit of her neck down her breast bone between her breasts and snake-danced down her abdomen. It got soaked up by the waist bond of her shorts.
Dora crossed the lot and hesitated at the open door of the school bus. She heard the sound of a television coming from within. A worn strip of Persian carpet had been laid over the black, rubbery, runged plastic that covered the steps into the bus. There was a path worn down the center of the carpet where the pattern had completely disappeared. All that was left was a stretch of loosely woven gray string. But around its edges, Dora could see the remains of a long-tailed red bird woven against a deep blue background.
She rapped against the blue metal door that had been folded back on itself. She could hear a woman's voice coming from the TV set. A man answered it. Then came background music. Dora knocked again. There was no answer. Dora timidly climbed onto the first step and peered over the railing that ran to the left of the little stairs. Over the railing, more rags were hung. She peered beyond it and saw into the interior of the bus.
Along the wall by the door there was a long desk. It was made of yellow wood and its edges were gouged with cigarette burns. The burns made a black fringe all along the edge of the desk. The desk was covered with a tumultuous array of papers. They were all thin slips with blue lines printed on them and columns of handwritten numbers. They looked like invoices. Stacks of them were skewered on pieces of wood that had upturned nails in them. They rest sat crumpled and some had fallen on the floor. On the desk was a lamp and also a telephone. One of those old, tilting office chairs with a tripod base sat in front of the desk.
Against the opposite wall was a built in bed. It appeared to be more or less a shallow wooden box in which a mattress had been inserted. The sheets were in disarray, and the bottom sheet was exposed. There was a yellowish stained area that ran down the center of it. The creases looked as if they had been permanently sweated into place. There was no blanket.
The bed was propped up at the head with five or six rickety columns of red bricks. Below the foot of the bed was a small refrigerator. On the door of the refrigerator was a large rust stain in the center of which the enamel had blistered and chipped away, leaving what looked like an iron surface.
At the head of the bed, on an overturned crate sat a television set. It was a tiny little one foot square black cube, and it was on and had a blue picture in it. The rusty goose-necked lamp on the desk was also on and it shed a golden light over the interior; over the curved metal walls that simply bent smoothly overhead to meet each other and form the ceiling. The light made the air inside the bus seem hotter.
Dora squirmed inside her sticky clothes, and went back outside to wait for whoever lived there to come home. "Obviously," she thought, "they didn't expect to be long, or they wouldn't have left their appliances on." She sat on the shiny blue hood of her station wagon, and had to fetch her sweater from the front seat and spread it out under her, like a cushion, to stop the overheated metal from burning her buttocks. Beneath her shorts, despite the sweater, the heat of the car made her skin itch. But the heat was also beginning to relax her. She began to feel proud of herself for simply having gotten there. In addition, the sight of the cramped accommodations in the school bus made her feel better. "I am going to live in a better place than that," she thought. "And I am going to be better than a parking lot attendant." She got lost in her own thoughts as she waited. She fantasized the jobs she would get. She dreamt of air-conditioned offices where the efficient clicking of her high heels would be muffled by the thick wall-to-wall carpet. She saw herself with her hair all curled and piled up seated behind an enormous desk that had a shiny glass top to it. The desk was wedged between two enormous white columns. The columns had potted plants sitting in urns at the base. She began to fantasize the money she would be making. In her mind, she saw the yellow paychecks converted into wads of green stuff at the clear teller windows at the bank. She dreamt she saw her wallet bursting. She dreamt she had a chandelier installed in her bathroom. She dreamt she bought a tiny dining room table that was made of walnut.
As she was dreaming, a man came sauntering lazily through the chain link gate of the parking lot. He was about five feet, three inches, he was black, and he was very fat. His loose blue shirt was unbuttoned. His shirt tails rested on his prominently round rear end. And under his shirt, his T-shirt clung to his protruding belly. A little circle of sweat turned the T-shirt dark over his navel: The T-shirt was stained a little over the bulging pectoral muscles of his chest.
The man's head, like his stomach, was enormously round. It was covered with crisply curling, coarse hair. His head and his body looked like two balloons, one tied loosely on top of the other, and floating towards her across the parking lot. He was almost like a black snowman he was so round.
He had on a pair of large, old tennis shoes, and he was carrying a beer can in one hand and a paper bag dangled from the other.
He saw Dora immediately as he came into the lot and came sauntering up to her. He seemed to turn his toes in and drag them across the asphalt with every step.
"You want to park here?" he said as he approached her. Up close, he looked even more like a snowman. Dora could feel the heat-that was radiating from his body with her knees, even though his head still seemed a good distance away from her. His belly was so tight and swollen it looked as if any moment she would see it bursting. It jutted towards her like an enormous model of the world.
Above it, his head floated like a bowling ball. His nose was round as a tomato. He had tiny lips, and the area that stretched from the bottom of his nose to his top Up was unusually long. He blew air into his mouth after he spoke to her, and he puffed out this area as well as his cheeks. It was deeply divided as if he'd just missed having a hair lip. When he puffed it out, Dora saw that the sweat on it was glistening. It looked like a black pumpkin in the moonlight.
His eyes were very tiny and he moved them sideways as he spoke to her. The whites of them were bleary and stained yellow. They seemed to slide through a veil of warm tea. His forehead also was glistening, and he wiped it off with the back of his hand.
"Yes," said Dora. "I've heard it costs twenty-five dollars."
The man bent his head down and watched as he moved the toe of one sneaker slowly forward over the asphalt. When he looked up, he was smiling at her. The inside of his lips were very soft and wet and pink, and his teeth were tiny and all had gaps in them. His smile made him look sheepish, as if he were a little boy who was just about to get into trouble.
He pressed the glistening, pink velvet end of his tongue over his bottom teeth and against his lower Up. A pool of spit sat in the little valley between them. He began shaking his head. "It's twenty-five dollars if you come in the first of the month. Then I charge you from the first to the first, you see. It's not the first, so I got to charge you by the day."
Dora looked down at the man's forearms. They were the color of chocolate and as thick as her thighs. His hands were enormous. They had short fingers relative to their own proportions, but they could have twice over covered her face. In her fist, his thumb would have felt like a cucumber. Besides, something about the abbreviated roundness 'of the back of his head, and the deeply halved expanse above his upper Up, made him look as belligerent and as hard to reason with as a bull dog.
"Urn," she said, "Let me see, it's the twenty-seventh of June, I think," and she began figuring aloud for his benefit to show she was willing to go along and pay according to his plan.
One dollar and twenty-five cents was the daily price quoted on a placard that hung on the front grill of the School bus. "Can I pay you for two weeks?" she whispered. She was adding quickly in her head. But her voice came out in a pleading whisper. It was as if there was a fist inside her throat that was clawing at her vocal cords. She felt as if she could not use them properly anymore.
As she sat there stammering, the white Corvette came crunching over the gravel towards them. The boy in the striped T-shirt was at the wheel and he had his arm resting on the top of the door. "Good," he said as he pulled up alongside them, "I see you've found him." He waved a cheery good-bye and drove out of the parking lot. His car sputtered and his two side pipes fired out little explosions, and he was gone.
Dora heard the wind pick up and from somewhere in'the city came a deep rumbling. She guessed it must be a subway. She had heard about them. She thought she could feel her car quiver a bit underneath her buttocks. Suddenly, she felt as if, instead of standing at the gateway to all her dreams, she was standing, hovering, on the edge of something hideously ugly. She did not want to go inside it. She did not want to leave her car here. She simply wanted to get back inside it and drive as fast as she could the whole of the long way home.-
She wanted to get out and find herself on the streets of Baton Rouge again. Empty as it was, every part of it was familiar.
When she again looked up at the attendant, he was smiling. Dora didn't like his smile. It had changed from sheepish to sly. She could not explain it, but she was certain the man was trying to steal her car. She did not want to leave her car with him. But the odd thing about it was that she no longer felt she had any choice. She was afraid to tell him that she had changed her mind. Had she tried to open her mouth, she didn't think her voice box could even have croaked it.
Dora found herself fumbling through her pocket book to find her money at the same time as she had suddenly not the slightest intention of staying. "Pay him," she kept thinking. "Pay him and get out."
The attendant shifted his weight from foot to foot and grinned at her. Dora couldn't tell whether he was smiling in anticipation of the money she was about to hand him, or whether he had sensed that she was frightened to be alone on the lot with him and was laughing at her.
He put his head down again and looked as if he were about to ram something. "Come on inside and pay me," he said, and he leaned his head over and wiped the sweat on his forehead off onto the shoulder of his shirt. He sucked the spit from the front of his mouth, then grinned and settled his tongue against his bottom Up again.
"Can't I just pay you?" asked Dora in a high little voice.
"No," he said. "You gotta have an invoice."
Dora got reluctantly down from the hood of the station wagon. She picked up her sweater and threw it through the open window of her car. Then she followed him towards the school bus. She wondered nonsensically why she was letting herself be intimidated into doing this thing that was so totally against all of her better judgment. For an instant, she hated herself. She felt detached from herself, and as if she were just watching herself being foolish. She hated herself because she did not have the strength to stop.
She watched the attendant's ass rolling as he strode towards his little, metal front door. He had the puffing gait of a fat adolescent. He bent his arms at the elbows and held up his hands in fists that moved in locomotive circles as he went.
Dora followed him up the steps. He was panting as he pulled himself up by the railing. The back of his blue shirt was drenched with sweat. It had soaked right through his T-shirt.
He put his beer can down on the desk and picked up one of the papers from the floor and tossed it up into the billowing cloud of invoices. Then he opened the refrigerator and put the little paper sack inside it and slammed the door. He sighed and wiped his big hands off on his pants and stared at the invoices. He seemed to be unsure of what to do with them.
"You got to pay me," he said. He put his head down and smiled coyly at her.
"I'm happy to pay you," said Dora and, she supposed because of her fear, her voice sounded suddenly sharp and brusque. She was getting impatient with this man who she imagined to be stupid. She wanted to give him the money and get out of there.
"We're going to make a deal," he said.
Dora shifted nervously from foot to foot. "Look," she said, "just tell me how much it is and I'll pay you, OK?"
He took a step towards her and she saw his eyes slide in their tea-colored tears. They were narrow and yellow and sly. She felt his belly brush against hers and it was so round and high that it pressed into one of her small, white, quivering tits. Without saying anything more, Dora began to cry.
"I need womens," the attendant said. "I know how to get money." He pressed his stomach into her so hard that she felt she could not breath. She had backed up against the railing and there was no more place to go, except of course to run out screaming into the parking lot.
Dora moved her foot sideways and was just about to try to slip out sideways from between the railing and his stomach when he put his enormous hand on her upper arm and held her fast. With his other hand he reached behind her and began squeezing one of her small, white buttocks through the thin cotton of her short shorts. They were as small and as hard as oranges. He squeezed so hard that he forced her up on tip toe, almost picking her up off the ground from her thin legs.
His pinky found its way up the leg of her shorts, crawled beneath the elastic edges of her panties and, squirming like a worm, forced its way into the small hole in her red twat. He held his pinky stiffly, then brought it out and jumped it over the hard ridge behind her vagina and sunk it slowly into her ass-hole. He moved it slowly and he sunk it deep. All the time he was smiling at her.
Dora stood on tip toe, trying to get away from his finger. He reached down and unbuttoned his shirt, slipping his hand in between his own stomach and her breast as if he were looking for something in an inside coat pocket. He stared at Dora with his yellow eyes still. The irises were as black as her own. His lips were beginning to pucker. They were pressed too closely for Dora to see exactly what he was doing, but then the squeeze came and she realized he had gotten hold of her red nipple. He squeezed it till her whole tit ached and then the ache spread into her armpit and still he didn't stop. She felt as if he were trying to twist her nipple off. She stood with her mouth slightly open. She was unable to either scream or speak.
His belly that was pressed so tightly into her own that she felt the pressure bending the fragile bones of her rib cage, filled the hollow between the pelvic bones that stuck out on either side of her thin body.
His belly was wet and hard. The skin was so tightly stretched that it felt about the texture and size of a beach ball as it pressed the air out of her. She could feel him breathing. Each time his chest rose up, his stomach squeezed her tits a little more and flattened them. She felt as though her nipples must be leaving permanent imprints in him. His flesh welled up around them and molded itself tightly to the shape of her little peach sized breasts. When he breathed out, she had some sliding room beneath him and she could feel how wet their two bodies were.
But Dora couldn't pull away from him. To draw back even a centimeter would have meant pushing his pinky further up inside of her ass. She squirmed on it, trying to get away from him and that hideous invading breathing. She only felt his finger creep further up her rectum. He crooked it into a shape like a tiny fist and she felt him burrowing with his knuckle cruelly into her sensitive inside walls. He stretched her skin and made the blood vessels burst. Dora felt a sharp pain. She opened her mouth to scream but she could not. The pain was too intense. It was enveloping her. It was as if she were sinking into a cloud where there was no sensation except the ripping, bruising, pulverising motion of that curled, black, tennis ball knuckled finger. It felt, inside of her, as enormous and cutting as a sharp rock. As he crawled it round the smooth, inflamed skin inside her ass-hole, he caught little pinches of her flesh behind his crooked knuckle. He pinched them and did not let go and it felt just as if he had a sharp knife inside of her and he was cutting her. He moved in a pattern, pushing slowly upwards like a thread on a screw. She felt as if her insides must be slitted and bleeding in the shape of a crimson, stinging spiral. The pain was now like water. She had her arms up, trying to stay afloat in it and not let it knock her completely senseless. She was drowning in it. It was like flames that crept from her ass-hole over every inch of her stomach where he touched it, up into her dully aching breast. Only her face was not submerged in the burning, liquid pain. Dora opened her mouth to cry out, but her vocal cords only made tiny cracking noises. She could not force any sound out of them. She was too paralyzed, too immobile. She could not scream.
For Dora, in the next moment, it seemed as if she were outside her own body, watching it, for it seemed she had no control over her actions. They felt involuntary. But she watched as her white hands came up drawn into fists and she watched as she beat on his shoulders and his face with her wrists. The struggle seemed to go on in slow motion. His flesh felt as soft as a rotten apple beneath her pounding. Her fists were frail. They made as good weapons as two old flowerets of cauliflower that had sat in the refrigerator long enough to wilt and get spongy. Still, she pummeled at him, and she made him angry.
"You womens," he said. "I hate womens. Loving womens. That's all I want to do is loving womens." He was muttering and incoherent now.
Dora felt his enormous fingers grab her tiny wrist. For an instant, she thought the bone in it would snap and splinter like an old wish bone that's been in the oven too long. But it held, and she could simply feel the white flesh grinding over the bone. It hurt so much that she thought her bone must be serrated like a dull saw or the inflamed gums of a teething shark.
He stiffened his pinky in her rectum and brought it out with a sharp scooping motion, twanging the edge of her ass-hole. She felt as if her guts were going to fall out of her after him. He had stuck his finger nail into her as he snapped his pinky out and it left a stream of pain throbbing in her that made her weep. The burning scrape felt hot, as if she had sat on a bolt of lightning.
"You womens," he said in a thick gruff voice. As he spoke, a line of spittle rolled out over his lower lip. It flew against the side of his face and clung to his cheek as he picked up Dora in his two enormous hands and spun her round. He walked her, pointing her backwards, toward the mess of invoices on the desk. "I tell you womens," he said, and his voice sounded almost calm now. The coolness of it made Dora shudder. "You got to pay. Now honey, I got to tell you this. I'm going to make an invoice out of you. I got to have invoices. Now tell me how this feels."
He seemed to be muttering to himself and not really addressing her. He was simply talking while he was intent on what he was doing. He sat Dora down on the desk and finally pulled his stomach away from her. Dora breathed deeply with relief. But she found that he immediately descended on her and began ripping off her shirt.
Fumbling madly, he didn't bother with the buttons but simply tore the front open. He broke her bra in the center between the two cups as if he were pulling apart a fire cracker. Her two tiny pointed tits bounced out. He rubbed his hand over both of them. In all her life, Dora had never felt so unprotected and naked. The touch of his hands left the flesh on her breasts literally crawling. It felt as if he'd covered her tits with handfuls of wet live worms. She couldn't forget the sensation of his hateful touch.
Dora shuddered with her shoulders, trying to make her breasts forget his shaking them. With one hand about to rip the button on her short shorts, he looked at them jiggling in front of him and he slapped them hard. He used both sides of his hand, slapping her tits first one way with the palm and then immediately the opposite way with the back of his hand. He slashed through the air with the force of his whole arm behind the slaps. They came so quickly that Dora could hardly tell the slaps apart. They began to seem like one long pain to her. His hand was hard and as it fell on her breasts, each time they grew tenderer until she thought she could not bear it, his fingers hurt so much. They began to feel like hickory branches, thin and switching and covered with little sharp biting nodes where the twigs had been broken off them. Her breasts turned pink and began to swell. When he began the slapping they had flowed under his hand as soft as butter. Now they seemed to have hardened and clung to her like round halves of cheese. Her nipples had turned a dark red brown and pointed out straight and erect and hideously elongated. The white skin around them was so sore that when his hand brushed her nipples against her own breasts, her nipples stung her. '
"No, no, no," she managed to mouth, though she still could not seem to croak out more than this quavering whisper. She shook her head back and forth and made the word "No" with her lips over and over again.
He wrenched open the waist band of her shorts. He held her with one hand at her waist and dug his thumb into her flesh beneath her rib cage so hard that she thought the pressure would damage something inside of her. He peeled the pants off her and ripped, in the process, one blue cotton leg from the other. He split them up the crotch. Her panties he yanked off violently, holding her by her tits to keep her body still while he pulled.
All Dora could think was how she hated him. She could do nothing but watch her own rape happen. There was no getting away. But she despised this man. She spat in his eye.
The attendant became furious. He put his hand up and wiped his eye and then he grabbed her by her forearms and pressed them against her body. He lifted her way up in the air and brought her down with a crash on the top of his desk. Her naked buttocks smashed against the yellow wood. He lifted her up again, with a crumpled invoice stuck to her ass and brought her down on the desk again so hard she was dizzied. She felt the thud of contact rattle her brain in her head. She felt the pain of the wood smashing into the base of her spine and reverberating up her whole back, dislodging the little bones. He lifted her up again and brought her down again with a crash that made the sturdy, thick legs of the table creak. She heard a small splinter of wood snapping. She was afraid to get out of her sitting position and put her legs under her for fear that when he brought her down he would break them. She stayed motionless, with her eyes open but not watching him, and her legs stuck out in front of her. They extended on either side of his torso and his belly was in between.
Each time he brought her down on the surface of the desk she felt her twat smash against the top of his belly. like her breasts, the contact with him set the flesh inside of her snatch crawling as if it were covered with slippery live worms. His stomach was like a wedge between her legs. She could not close them.
Suddenly, the attendant started laughing. Dora almost wept with fear.
"I'm going to make an invoice out of you womens," he said, and he picked up from the desk one of the little scraps of wood with an upturned nail glued onto it. This was the little device he used to skewer papers with and keep them from blowing about the bus in the wind. It looked none too friendly.
"I would have had to tie you up," he said, "but I got me a better idea." His yellow eyes slid sideways and he smiled his coy, pink-lipped smile again. The valley of spit between his lip and his tongue filled to overflowing as he looked at the nail.
Dora looked at it too. First she felt she was going to faint when she saw it. Then she shut it out of her mind. Each time she turned her eyes to it and looked at the way its point was sharply gleaming, she felt as if a black curtain were coming down over her mind and not permitting it to think. Each time the black curtain came down, she felt a tingling wave of dizziness ripple through her.
"I would have had to tie you up, but I got a better way to make you not move," he said.
Yanking at her wrist, he pulled her tiny naked body down beside his onto the floor. He stripped as fast as he could, still holding her. His big belly came bouncing out from under his T-shirt and it glistened and swayed. Dora felt sick as she looked at it. He saw her staring and he pressed his belly into her face and rubbed himself up and down over her nose. He smelled like sweat and beer. He battered his belly into her cheeks and her nose.
Beneath his pants she could feel his cock straining against her breasts. They were still so sensitive that they felt as if he were pressing a stick into them and furrowing their flesh. As his abdomen beat against her, dust rose from his heavy denim pants the way it rises when one beats a carpet. They smelled musty and stale and they were oily with dirt and moist with sweat.
He pushed off his pants till they were down around his ankles. His cock glistened like melted chocolate. It looked softer and more vulnerable than she'd imagined. There was one large vein that made a line that rose up beneath the skin and ran crookedly up the length of his prick. She watched it twitch and knew she was seeing his heart beat.
Then the black curtain of fear fell down over the front of her mind again. Tears began to fall. She didn't want to think about what was going to happen.
The man had her by both her wrists and had managed to also grab one of her ankles. He dragged her on her back like a hog-tied calf over the carpet. Her little pussy lay exposed running like a wet, seeping painfully sensitive wound from the crevice between her ass cheeks in between her thighs. He found her limbs easy to hold onto. It was as easy as holding a bundle of twigs. Her back scraped and jolted over the carpet.
He stood up over her and kicked the toe of one of his tennis shoes into her pussy. She opened her mouth to give a howl of pain, but no sound came out. Her mouth opened wide though, full of her little pink tongue, and she was panting. He kicked her hard in the mouth also. She tasted the dust on the bottom of his tennis shoe, then something warm and sweet. She spat out a tooth and a mouthful of blood.
He kicked her in her pussy again. It sent a sharp pain running through her, as sharp as if someone had brought a hatchet blade crashing down between her pussy lips.
Still holding her hog-tied, he reached over the desk, pushing invoices off the edge as he fumbled and scrambled to get hold of two more of the upright nails. The cigarette burned edge of the desk sank deeply into the tarry blubber of his chest as he reached up from where he knelt.
He brought two more of them down, and before Dora could really even believe what he was doing, he had inserted the nails into her tits, the sharp metal skewers piercing her exactly beneath her nipples. Had the nails been any fatter, they would have ripped her nipples right off her breasts.
Dora yelped with pain as she lay there on her back. The nails held the little pieces of wood that they were attached to up into the air above her breasts. He had dug the nails in deep enough so that the weight of the dangling wood wouldn't pull them out. She looked down and saw that the points of the nails had penetrated through till they could be seen beneath the skin on the top of her nipples, just opposite to where they had been sunk in. The black curtain dizzily came down again. There was no way to bear the pain. She made her hands into fists and she felt the muscles in her upper arm tighten till they pressed against her sweating sides. The whole top half of her body became completely rigid. She felt as heavy and still as if she had been made of iron. Any movement set the dangling wood chips swaying slightly and she could not bear the pain. Even as she breathed, her breasts were set into motion and she would feel the way the metal sat rustily against the watery flesh inside her breasts. She opened her mouth to scream but she made not a sound. This time she wasn't sure whether it was because she couldn't or whether it was because she was afraid that the sound of her own scream would set off a ringing that reverberated through her rib cage and would set the wood chips swinging wildly back and forth.
The attendant broke the pain barrier for her. He batted the pieces of wood gently back and forth. She felt the nails scrape at the glands inside her breasts.
While she was cringing under the nails that were pointed into her, scraping back and forth through her thin breasts over her ribs, he slowly pulled her legs apart. She was so still and she did not struggle. She was totally concentrated on the pain under her nipples. All she could think about was how badly she wanted not to move.
That was why he was able to sink the third nail in almost before she knew it. He sank it deeper than the other two. He opened her legs and played over the inside of her glimmering red twat with it. Then he sank it into the flesh at the very top of her vagina and ran it back so that the sharp, glistening, silver point of it pierced her again and came out just below her clitoris. The skin around her clitoris immediately wrinkled and puckered as tightly as a red raisin. From the walls of her vagina, which were turning white and hard with pain, no blood spilled but she oozed a few drops of clear seepage. It must have been fear that made her little snatch so bloodless.
Slowly, the attendant worked the nail back and forth by holding onto the piece of wood as if it were a stick shift. He ground it as mercilessly as a drag racer. She felt it scrape against her pubic bone. She felt the flesh inside of her pressed tight against it and the metal spine felt cold and hard.
Dora's mouth was wide open and there was a hideous expression on her face. Her tongue was half extended, her upper gums were bleeding so heavily her mouth looked like a red pool. Her eyes were wide open but only the whites were showing.
The attendant flipped her over onto her stomach and carefully laid her down, straightening the nails, so that her torso was balanced precariously on top of them. They stood under her like little podiums with the pieces of wood flat on the floor. Dora felt the nails double back into her breasts, piercing more of her flesh. Then they came to rest against her rib bones. She nestled the bones against them, trying to bore holes in them that would hold the nails in place. There was no pain in the bones, only in the flesh. And the bones stopped the nails and kept her own weight from pushing the sharp spines right through her. She felt her delicate ribs come close to breaking. They bent and arched like thin, green branches, but they held. A convulsive shudder ran through her body. She could not help or control it. Again the nails shifted in the flesh of her tits. They found more sore skin to rub against.
The attendant stood in back of her and held up her ankles as if she were a wheel barrow he was trundling. The nail in her twat was left dangling just above the carpet. She felt the spike of it scraping at the underside of her clitoris. It was beginning to make a furrow there. A hot, wet trickle told her that her clitoris had begun to bleed. Each time the attendant changed his grip on her ankle, the wood chip would begin swaying, lolling lazily on the end of the nail and pulling it against the sides of the hole it had made with its piercing in tiny, soft jerks.
Dora was breathless but she did not move.
She felt the attendants stomach press against her calves. Then she felt nestle billowing like an enormous pillow between her thighs and It pushed them open. She could feel that her snatch and her ass-hole were yawning at him. She felt helpless and naked and exposed.
Something hot and gigantic and hard came exploring the white undersides of her upturned buttocks. It was his prick. As he held tightly to her ankles, bruising them with his rough grasp, he played his prick over her white, timidly quivering ass cheeks. He poked them as if they were fruits he were trying to lift up with his dick. Each time he poked them, Dora shuddered and the nails would move. There was no use struggling. She needed him to hold her up off those nails that pointed so threateningly into her chest.
Then she felt a sudden burning jab. He was sticking his prick into her ass-hole. She was dry and tiny so that, in order to get his enormous head in, he had to jab her hard. She felt the skin around her ass-hole get pressed inside her body with him. Then it gave way. He had got beyond it. And she knew nothing but a searing, ripping pain. It felt as if he were trying to rip her ass cheeks apart and right off her body. Something was tearing. He was destroying the canal that ran up inside her body. He was bruising and breaking the delicate, pink walls. He was goring her. She felt as if she were sitting on a javelin. She felt as if a herd of nomads had all at once thrust fifty sabers inside of her. She felt as if there was a saw up her ass-hole and somebody was holding it and slowly turning it.
The attendant watched as his enormous cock went slowly in and out between her buttocks. It looked as thick as a log moving in and out between two white mushroom caps. When it came out, it glistened. When he pressed it in, he forced his way through the curves in her that stopped him. Beneath his head, he could feel walls give way and feel her insides tearing. He kept on pushing. He buried his dick in until he could rub the bottom of his abdomen over her buttocks. He wiggled his hips to and fro so that his cock moved from side to side inside of her. It felt like a sword to him and thrust himself against her hard and jolted her over the nails and scraped her insides with his prick.
Dora turned her face back to him. It was white and her eyes were closed. Her mouth was puckered and all the muscles in her cheeks were contorted with pain. Again she mouthed a scream but no sound came.
The attendant leaned over her and she felt his prick press against her spinal cord as he did so. He set her whole back aching. It was pointing upwards, pressing against her backbone from the inside. The tip of his dick shifted her bones.
He got his head down to her ear and he whispered in it. "This is going to hurt, honey," was all he said.
Then she felt the red pain begin to ripple through her in waves. When she closed her eyes, she became engulfed in a flood of hot reddish-orange that seemed to well up from under her cheeks into her eyes
He was coming, and as he did so, his gigantic cock moved up and down inside her in a series of stiff jerks. She was so tender and sensitive inside that it felt as if she had a flame thrower stuck up inside of her and that it was moving, throwing its burning, multiple tongues in all different directions. She felt as if she had a serpent inside of her who was rearing up. And the touch of his scaly back against her flesh was as sour and as sharp as if she'd been stuffed full of stinging nettles.
He began to thrust faster, shooting the last drops of sperm out. "Feel this," he whispered over her back, and when she felt the sperm touch the places where he had cut her on the inside, it was salty and it stung so much that it made her dizzy. The pain ran through her in sick waves.
As he thrust, he jarred her body. Her breasts moved over the nails. The nail beneath her clit bounced and joggled and ripped down the top of her vagina the way a pierced earring can rip down and elongate an ear lobe.
With his last thrust, the attendant reached underneath her, and with one fast, swipe that left her shuddering, he took hold of the wood chip and pulled the nail that was in her vagina out.
He rolled her over and lay her on her back on the floor. Dora had fallen into a swoon. He pulled the nails out of her breasts and put them back on the desk.
Then the attendant simply left her stretched out naked on his floor. He pulled up his pants and went to the refrigerator and got out another can of beer. Then, without removing his tennis shoes, he got onto the bed. He crossed one leg over the other, propped his head up comfortably on one arm, and arranged himself so that he could easily see the television set.
He looked down once at Dora. Beneath her half open eyelids he could see the dusty whites of her eyes.
PART TWO
When Dora woke up later that evening and found herself on the floor of the school bus, she did not at first know where she was. The attendant was gone, and the sun had set, and the metal walls of the school bus had cooled down.
Dora shifted in the darkness. She felt an intense pain in her breasts. It felt as if somebody had been stabbing them. She found that she was lying on her back with her legs open and her buttocks seemed sunk into a pool of warm stickiness. She moved her legs to close them, about to sit up, but when she tried to bring her legs together, she felt a searing pain. Something enormous and hard was stuck into her crotch and the tops of her thighs were sore and achy. She soon discovered that the big, hard, stone-like object between her legs was not nearly so big as it felt. It was her own swollen pussy. Then she remembered the terrible misadventure of the afternoon and silently, she began to cry.
Repulsed, she realized that she was sitting in a pool of her own sticky blood. She got up quickly then, and managed to walk towards the door of the school bus. She stumbled and each step brought her so much pain that she thought she would faint.
When she got to the railing, she found her little cotton shirt and shorts were hanging on it. But they were torn beyond recognition and were now, except as rags, totally useless. She suddenly remembered the line of washing she had seen hung out behind the bus. She went stumbling for the back window and pulled in one of the T-shirts. It was long enough to cover her ass and drape down almost to her knees. Billows of material stood up over her abdomen where the attendant's stomach had stretched the fabric. Dora felt sick about wearing it, but she had to cover herself if she wanted to get out of here, and she had to leave the lot before the attendant came home.
As she peered through the back window, checking to make sure that the attendant was not to be seen on the lot, she noticed that the rags that hung up on the line were all bits and pieces of shredded women's clothing. Dora stood stock still and turned white.
"Oh my goodness," she whispered. "I've got to call the police." She suddenly wondered how many girls this had happened to, and what had happened to them after it did.
Stumbling as quickly as the sharp, shooting pains that were flowing like rippling water through her flesh, would allow her, Dora beat it for the door. She jumped down the steps and crouched a little with the pain of the jolt as she landed.
Her body felt strangely taut and very strong. It was as if the experience had transformed her into a little wild animal. She peered around the darkened lot and in the shadows by the school bus, her eyes glistened.
She heard the crunch of a footstep on gravel on the opposite side of the school bus. It was enough for her. She was off and running. She clung to the metal fence post beside the gate. It was closed now.
With all her limbs aching, she scrambled over the fence. She fumbled with her feet, and lost her toeholds again and again. Once she thought she felt a hand gripping her ankle and she kicked out as hard as she could. The barbs on the top of the fence cut into the heels of her hands but the pain was minimal compared to the awful stinging in her nipples as they brushed over the chain link surface and that ceaseless aching in her clitoris.
There were no facilities in the school bus and she was suddenly frightened that the attendant had only stepped round the back of the bus for an instant to urinate.
Once over the top of the fence, she just let her body slide down the other side. She let herself down with her back to the chain links, facing the street, trying to save her nipples.
As soon as she hit the pavement, she began running. It was impossible for her to tell whether or not there was someone after her. Her footfalls on the asphalt echoed up against the stone belly of the elevated highway and made a ceaseless thunder of repeating footsteps. It felt as if the sound of her running were making the whole earth reverberate. It sounded so loud that she thought the noise she was making would bring down the highway, would set off an earthquake, would shake the flesh off her cheeks.
There was no time to look back now. There was someone after her. Dora ran until she tasted blood at the back of her throat. The night air was warm and muggy and after she had run a while, Dora found her pace. The rhythm of her footsteps was so rhythmical that she felt as if she were traveling in slow motion, swimming through the air.
Then she remembered about breathing. "You mustn't forget to breathe," she told herself silently. She was certain she had forgotten and that she had been running without breathing for a long time. It was too hot to breathe. The air was too thick. When it came into her lungs, she felt as if it were drowning. "Perhaps," she thought, not knowing that she was half-crazed, "it would be better not to take this city air in at all. I will run faster if I do not breathe. The air only weighs me down."
She went on running, and running, and panting. She took in breaths of air heavily, and her chest and stomach moved steadily in and out. She only believed she wasn't breathing.
Dora passed an old drunk in the street. He had a wool shirt wrapped, turban-like, about his head. He had on a full-length wool coat, and a scarf round his neck, and enormous cardboard soles cut to badly fit over the bottoms of his shoes. The tops with the laces were still in tact.
Dora passed him like a white ghost in the night. She ran so swiftly and lightly that she seemed to flutter past him. She held her wrists up on either side of her, and her hands dangled and flapped in time to her steps. She was holding her wrists up to protect her breasts from the air which felt so heavy and wet as she sliced through it that it landed on her breasts with the weight of insistent, pounding, tightly closed fists. She stumbled a little on the sidewalk beside him or perhaps the old drunk man would not have seen her at all.
He shuffled along, headed right for the spot where only five weeks before he had found a full half a pint sitting in the gutter at the mouth of the sewer. like clockwork, since that evening, he'd returned to the spot every single night. Whoever had left the bottle, he figured, was certain to eventually come back. Maybe it was somebody who compulsively bought liquor and then changed their mind about drinking it. In which case, it was hard to change habits. They would most certainly repeat the obsession and to his own benefit. If this was the case he was most certainly not going to miss out. Or perhaps the little spot by the sewer had been blessed by Bacchus, the God of wine, unbeknownst to all mankind except himself. In which case, no sir, he was not going to refuse to perform a little sacrificial libation, or at any rate a chance to propose a toast to the God who had created the fruit of the vine.
These were his thoughts as Dora fluttered past him, dressed in just the T-shirt that was as big on her as a night gown. She seemed to rear up in front of him as he looked at her with his drunken eyes and she fluttered her fingers over her shoulders as if she were pretending to be an overgrown moth. Through his stupor, he caught sight of her eyes. They were as large and as black as the night. He mistook them for the spots that marked her wings. He only saw her for a brief instant and she was gone.
He turned around to watch her retreating up the street away from him. But he was so drunk, it took him almost a full moment of concentrated feet shuffling to get his body turned around and pointed in the opposite direction from which he had been going. By that time, the tiny Dora was barely visible beneath a streetlight. She fluttered once more like a moth, the wind pulling at the billows of her T-shirt and setting them luffing, and then she was gone.
"Big butterflies they got around here," he remarked to himself. He was about to begin a drunken lecture to his fantasized idea of what he scornfully termed the "johnny-come-lately ecology band". He had coined that term when a young man had stopped and dressed him down in the street, humiliated him in front of what looked to his bleary eyes a rather sizeable crowd, and all because he had thrown that bottle away in the gutter and not waited till he got to the corner where, the young man informed him, he could have put it neatly into a trash can. He muttered to himself with his arthritic hands sunk deep into the warm pockets of his heavy coat. He was about to explain how, litter and car fumes be damned, nature in the city was getting thicker and richer all the time. But the speech was lost in his complicated shuffling. And it was a while before he remembered himself and got himself pointed right way round and was off again toward Bacchus' corner.
Dora saw the shadows of her knees falling on the pavement. The color of the asphalt looked like bread dough as it streamed under her feet. It felt soft and moist and springy to her, as if it was clinging to her feet. Even the city was trying to trap her and keep her from escaping from her pursuer. She could not run quickly through the spongy dough. She stumbled, collected herself, kept going.
Beneath the yellow rays of the street light, the shadows of her knees multiplied. "He's so close," she thought, that his shadow is on top of mine. Dora ran faster. Beyond the street light, the shadows of her knees were clear and single again. Relieved, she felt the outstretched hands she had felt on her buttocks recede into the darkness behind her again.
Her feet made light, slapping noises on the pavements. As she ran beneath the streetlights, the sodium glare turned the white billows of her T-shirt salmon pink. She looked as if she were naked and as if she had been burned.
An elderly man in a shiny gray suit saw her coming towards him. From far away, he wondered why she was running, and he noticed that her skirt was awfully short. As she passed him, she didn't look at him, and he stood hesitating in the center of the pavement, wondering whether he should pass her on the left or on the right. Her feet slapped out a steady rhythm as she went by. He felt her force a tiny breeze against his shoulder. She barely grazed him, as if he were invisible.
He stared at her small white face as she flew by. She was holding her hair up over her nose and mouth as if it were a mask or an air filter. Her eyes were enormous and as black as space. She was staring straight ahead of herself and breathing hard.
The man in the shiny gray suit turned and watched her retreating back. He noticed that her legs were very thin. They twinkled like toothpicks as she ran away from him. They went so fast that the images of them became multiple and for an instant he thought she looked as if she were riding on a cool, white, rolling star.
Around the corner, Dora saw the statue. It sat silent in the middle of a square formed by three wide streets coming together. And on the stone benches around it, a small gang of innocent, unintelligent, unsoftened, naturally cruel little punks were holding an informal meeting. They were pushing each other around and trying to prove for each other's sakes which one of them could gurgle up in the voice that was toughest the words that sounded most thoughtless and crude.
The statue stood silent and awesome above them. It was a monument to somebody nameless. There was a stone inscription at the base of it, but no one ever read it. It was simply a stone obelisk, wider at the base than it was at the top, and standing sullen and silent and rather meaninglessly pointed at the sky. Floodlights were arranged in the shrubbery all around it, and they lit up the concrete it was made of, and made the surface of the obelisk look almost as soft as skin.
To Dora, however, the statue was a nail. It was of enormous proportions and the tip had been dulled, but it shimmered at her, and glinted against the night sky. The shrubbery around it looked to her as if it had been set up to camouflage the thick piece of wood that served as its base. It had four edges to it, four corners that ran all the way up it that were made by the elongated planes of its based that was shaped like a pyramid. The top three quarters of the statue was like a long, slightly tapering brick. One of its corners caught the pink rays from the floodlight. Speckles of ground glass embedded in the cement glistened. It made the obelisk look to Dora as if it were made of steel. It made it look to her tearing black eyes as if it had been honed and sharpened.
Dora stumbled to the base of the statue and there she fell. She lay with her cheek against the concrete and thought how good it felt to stop running. For an instant, with her eyes closed, she smiled her tiny smile and thought that she lived in the obelisk and had finally found her way home. Inside, she remembered, was a plushly decorated apartment. It had green rugs and beige curtains and ever so many satin, tasseled cushions on its tightly stuffed, brand new brocaded couch.
She felt something prodding at her foot and she opened her stormy dark eyes and looked around slowly. She was surrounded by the punks. They were just standing around her with their hands on their hips, staring at her. Some of them were chewing gum.
They looked a nice enough bunch. She couldn't remember but they must have come to visit her, so Dora thought she would go ahead and confide in them, and help explain to them where they were. The punks who were chewing gum kept chewing.
"They've buried the wood chip," Dora whispered to them. Her black eyes were as big as fists and they glistened. "They've buried it under the asphalt," she said, touching the ground, "but it's there."
"What's there?" said one of the youngsters and he knelt down beside her.
"The wood chip," said Dora. Her eyes trembled and she mouthed the words with such exaggerated movements of her lips that she looked as if she were trying to blow bubbles under water.
"Forget it," said another of the teenagers. "She's just a crazy old bag-lady." He went back to his stone bench.
Dora got up on her hands and knees, pulling the T-shirt up over her white buttocks and her aching pussy as she did so. She couldn't keep her legs together. Her swollen clitoris was giving her too much pain. She backed up slowly, walking on her hands and knees and raising her ass-hole and twat as far up towards the sky as she could. Her whole abdomen shook. She went back painstakingly and slowly, with her knees as wide apart as she could get them without falling. She backed towards a group of the stunned boys. Between her thighs and her buttocks, her inflamed pussy looked like a strip of red satin ribbon inserted between her lips. Her swollen skin seemed to spill out beneath her ass and quiver. The inside of her twat looked like a piece of raw beef.
As she backed up, she dragged her hands, palms downward, over the ground. Her head sank between her elbows and her blonde hair dragged out behind her and hid her face. Her white buttocks looked like two moons in the glare of the floodlights.
"Cheez," one of the punks remarked, and he whistled through his teeth. "What's this crazy dame doing?"
Another of the punks began nervously laughing. He said, "She looks like a cat in heat."
Dora managed to back her way against one of the boys' legs. At first he recoiled, and drew back his leg, but her glistening pussy quivered in the air without him and then came to find him again. Resting her snatch against his shin bone seemed to bring her some relief. He stood still while she sat up and lolled her head back against his thigh. She settled her wet pussy down over his instep, and rolling her hips back and forth, she rasped the skin over his laces. She reached up and nestled her loosely fisted hands around his soft prick. She fumbled with it as if she were trying to make it hard.
The fellow she was sitting on stood stock still; immobile and fascinated. He figured she must be a witch. Her blonde hair stood out around her head as she sat up and in the floodlight it looked like spun glass. This was the mythical whore he'd heard whispered stories about in the hallways at school. He was certain of it.
One of the teenagers who seemed more sure of himself than the rest, stepped out of the stunned group that simply stood there chewing and staring at her, and he knelt beside her.
He stroked her fine, wispy hair, and caught his fingers awkwardly in its tangled snarls. "You want to pussy-kiss my cock?" he asked. His voice was soft and Dora responded to it.
She looked from the boy to the obelisk and then back again. She said, "You can fuck me in my ass-hole if you want to." Then she clutched his bony wrist with her tiny fingers. Her hands were cold, and one of them stroked nervously over his forearm as she was speaking. It made a funny, dancing, swooping motion over his skin, as if she were sewing something very quickly.
"You can do anything you like to me," said Dora and she followed every tic in his expression with pleading eyes. "Really," she said. "I won't complain. Do with me what you will. I know you're not a bad person. And anyway, I need it. You're right if you say I have to get ass-fucked. I'll hold my little pussy up for you and I'll help you in. I'll play with my clitoris until my ass gets moist and you can slide in with no problem. I won't be too small for you. Really I won't. I promise," she said.
"Man, this chick is spooky," said one of the boys. "I think maybe we ought to leave her alone. I think maybe we ought to call the police."
"Hold it," said the fellow who'd been smoothing her hair. Something in her dark eyes had appealed to him. "I kind of like her," he said, and he stroked both of her breasts. "I think she's cute."
Dora smiled at him a little smile. It looked so anxious it almost made her look nauseated rather than happy. Her upper lip rose up over her front teeth and quivered uncertainly there. She was still mouthing her words in an exaggerated, crazy manner. She looked as if she thought she was talking to a friend over the sound of a rock band, or as if she was afraid that when she opened her mouth, she wasn't going to be able to make any sound.
"Only promise," said Dora, and she slid her eyes slyly sideways and stole a glance at the orange gleaming obelisk. She picked up the young boys two lanky hands and spattered them with little subservient worshipful kisses. "Only promise you won't hurt me."
A strange hush fell over the crowd of teenagers as they watched her tiny fingers plucking nervously at their friend's big hand as he said. "I'm getting out of here. This dame's giving me the creeps."
"What's the matter?" said his friend, the one who was talking to Dora. He kept his voice low and he held Dora's eyes and kept stroking her hair and smiling at her. "You chicken?" he asked softly. He felt as if Dora were a little bird and he was taming her. He was not afraid and so he was already old enough to be sinister.
"You only want to be butt-fucked about a hundred times, don't you honey. You just don't want anyone to hurt you. Why I bet you could take on all of us, if," he stroked her hair, "we are only very, very gentle."
Dora looked at him and gurgled happily. "Only if you are very, very gentle," she repeated. Her face looked dazed, and she looked down at her own body and with two fingers she began softly poking at her own nipples. She poked them alternately as if she were playing a game with them. She got lost in the motion for a minute, then she looked up at the crowd of teenagers standing around her and she moved her enormous black eyes slowly over them. She didn't say anything but she ducked her head as if she were frightened.
"Skag her," yelled one of the larger, less delicately, beautifully evil fellows who had been watching her with a pure, eager hunger. "Let's all fuck her in the ass."
"You won't hurt me, will you," whispered Dora to no one in particular. She had her cheek pressed to the ground and her eyes upward on the obelisk. Her ass was up in the air and the large fellow was fucking her in it. He had both hands on her soft buttocks as he drove his hard cock into her ass-hole. She was dry and tight. He rested his weight on her merrily and jammed himself up and down on top of her as if he were riding a donkey. He had a cigarette in his mouth.
"Boy, that feels good," he said jocularly. He stood up and unbuttoned his pants over his cock and pushed them down his legs. He leaned up against her buttocks. "Someone tell this dame to stand up," he said. Several pairs of hands grabbed Dora's tiny body around her hips and they raised her up beneath him, with his prick still swelling inside. They positioned her in an upside-down vee with her hands and her feet still on the ground, her ass way up, straining and available, and her legs spread wide apart. Someone shoved the flat side of their hand between the lips of her twat and began beating it against her clitoris with a relentless, savage, dizzying motion like a series of karate chops.
The fellow who was fucking her put his hands round the front of her thighs so that he could gather her up closer to him. He almost picked himself up off the ground with the force of his own thrusts. He had to jump a little bit to get all the way in her. Then when he came back to earth, an inch or two of his long cock fell out and he had to jump up and throw himself against her again, plunging his dick twelve inches inside of her. Then he would poise quivering above her for an instant at the peak of each thrust, balancing on her buns with both of his feet in the air. He began laughing. "I'm going to shoot for a mile," he said. "I'm going to send my hot wad spilling out from behind her eyeballs." He threw himself into her again.
Dora had to hold her head up to keep his knees from ramming her in the nose. Somebody saw what she was doing for a large hand pushed her head down. She got the toe of his hard shoe straight in her face.
The punk on top of her was now squirming his way to a permanent balance on her velvet soft buns. He locked his fingers together and put the right at the top of the crevice in her ass like a saddle and he pressed his weight against it and held himself on top of her. He squirmed and he felt his prick pressing into the sides of her squirming body. He knew she must be in pain now. Dora gyrated her hips back and forth beneath him, trying to walk forwards or backwards on all fours. But the many pairs of hands held her. He felt as if he were getting his dick into places where no man had ever been before. He wiggled his hips from side to side as if he were walking on his belly over her soft, helpless buns. She moaned a little. He could feel her tight little ass-hole grabbing at the base of his dick. He felt her muscles spasm. Her body was fiercely trying to reject him. But he grabbed her around the waist and he would not let go. He leaned forward over her back with his head dangling toward the pavement, his chin resting between her shoulder blades. Squeezing her body to him as hard as he could, he rammed his long spear of a cock into her again and again as hard and as far as it would go.
He felt masterful. He felt as if she was as helpless as a piece of putty, gathered into his hands. He pierced her again and again, thrusting into the flesh of her body irregardless of where her natural canals went. Her flesh was, to his cock, just like so much warm bread dough.
Under his abdomen, he could feel the hard fingers that held her in position for him. He let go of her waist for a minute and let his hands and arms hang over his head towards the ground. He could feel her muscles spasming around him. Unwittingly they hotly and fiercely caressed him in their frantic effort to expel him.
He groped through her fine blonde hair until he found her chin. Then he lifted her head back and looked at her terrified, black eyes. Her eyelids were flickering over them, strobing the red hot gleam in their depths. He pulled her head back so far that her mouth was forced open to relieve the tension on the front of her neck. He held her head up like that by grabbing her hair at her forehead and yanking. Holding onto this hair for balance, he once again began ramming his spear into her. He felt it pricking her. He felt it ripping her. Irregardless, he stuck it to her as hard as he could, yanking at her hair each time he shoved his big dick in.
Dora went limp like a puppet. The hands now held her up as well as in place. She could feel her hair being tugged till she thought he would pull the whole tuft out. She could feel his dick being shoved up inside of her. To her mind that was crazed with pain, she felt as if his dick were a ball of hot lead that fell downwards into her and then grew suddenly light and floated upwards and then fell, steaming and molten, back between her loins again. It was burning a new tunnel into her where a tunnel had never been. It was blasting out a new mine shaft. It was digging a new well and the edges of its ramming shovels were sharp and they scraped and echoed somewhere inside of her. She felt the reverberations of the scraping all through her body. They even shook her arms all the way down to her wrists, not to mention the tips of her toes.
There was no getting away from his terrible, rending thrusts. The hands held her fast. She could feel iron fingers clutching her all over her body. One set was working her nipples cruelly back and forth.
"Bring her down a little bit," hissed the boy who was inside of her. He had got his feet back on the ground again and was standing on tip toe trying to keep all of his dick inside of her, in between her hairy creviced white ass cheeks that nibbled at him in spite of themselves.
The hands forced her to bend her knees. This forced her ass cheeks even further open, and the guy who was fucking her could watch his dick forcing its difficult way in and out of her little ass-hole.
She was low enough now so that he stood on the ground comfortably and simply by twitching his own abdomen back and forth, he could make pudding out the flesh under her ass-hole. She was beginning to lubricate herself with her own sweat.
He siezed each of her buns in one of his hands and grasped them savagely, bruising and manipulating her soft flesh. He drew her buttocks up towards himself, and mounded it tightly round the base of his cock. With one shuddering, final, hot piercing thrust of his great lance, he blew his hot wad into her, and filled her intestines with sperm. Her ass-hole blew hot pearly bubbles with it around his cock. His come was blisteringly hot. He could feel that it was filling her, squirting smoothly into her inner chambers like the foam from a canister of hot shaving cream. There wasn't enough room inside of her to hold it all. It dribbled out of her ass-hole, down into her vagina. A little of it dripped on the asphalt.
One of the boys got the wind up at that moment. "Hey, pull up your pants," he yelled. "I think I see some cops."
The fellow who'd been fucking her jumped off of Dora. At once, all the hands let go of her. There was a general scramble of arms and legs. A few of the punks got onto their motor cycles. The rest clustered into groups, lit cigarettes, and walked hastily away.
They left Dora on her face, bare-assed and groveling at the base of the obelisk.
Dora lay there for a few minutes and the wind blew over her bare ass. Then she sat up and she put her fingers to her temples and shook her head from side to side. Her eyes were closed and from beneath the lids came rolling enormous tears. She sat there with her bare ass to the asphalt and she breathed in very deeply. Suddenly, the little blonde girl, fingers still on her temple, opened her little pink mouth and she screamed and she screamed.
Dora screamed until the obelisk quivered. She screamed until the buildings echoed. She screamed until the streets rang. Her scream was like a hundred people all screaming at once. She screamed until the tightness in her chest that had been growing all day was let out. She screamed until her lungs and her throat felt good.
Then Dora stood up and she began walking. She didn't care particularly where she was going, but her tiny hands were made into fists. Once or twice that night, she stopped on a deserted street corner, stood still and screamed again. People opened their windows and threw bricks at her, thinking that she was a cat in heat.
Dora screamed until even the tension in her fists relaxed. Morning saw her, sore nippled and sore assed, walking slowly like a weary child. Her hair was disheveled and it stood out about her head like angel hair. And as she walked the streets of New York City, her eyes burned. They burned because she was full of a little determined spark and it had not yet been put out. She had decided that she was going to get somewhere and that she was going to find a place for herself where she could laugh and sneer at other people and still feel secure and safe. Her black eyes burned through the heat waves that rose up from the asphalt. They smoldered like dusty coals.
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SHE PAID WITH HER ASS
PART ONE
Some girls are like artichokes, Mr. Belton. I am not. Some girls have sweet personalities; the different facets of which one can discover and uncover (if you know what I mean) each day anew. Some girls are made up physically and emotionally of tightly clustered, deliciously sweet and tender petals that you can run your teeth over and wrench off the sweet meat. Some girls have multiple lips and folds that you can suck buttery juices from. Some girls are made of tight petals and legs and mysteries that you can slowly spread apart until, right in the center of them, you will find the softest and oiliest and tenderest part of them. Some people call this the heart. You might think from my description that I was going to say cunt. Cunt or heart the two words are practically interchangeable.
Then, Mr. Belton, there are the girls like me. I am not like an artichoke. I have no heart. Cunt I have aplenty, and it's a particularly juicy one too. I circulate my blood with it. I use it to set up a rhythmic beating inside myself. It's the one place where I can. experience any softness. I feel with it. I love with it. Where my heart should be there is only a stone. It's a small stone, a brown stone; it looks like the pit inside of an avocado. Perhaps that is what I'm like, Mr. Belton. I'm a human female version of a softly ripe, creamy avocado.
Mabel was sitting in a plush restaurant beside the lobby of the Biltmore Hotel. She was in downtown Philadelphia, and as she thought about being like an avocado, her eyes slid from side to side in their sockets. Her eyes were a soft grayish-green color. She had fine light brown hair. It was completely straight and it fell cutely over her forehead in a row of jaunty looking bangs. She was sitting alone at a large table. The table was laid with a stiff, white table cloth that looked as soft and as thick as skin. On it were folded red linen napkins, their crevices redder than the insides of twats. Sparkling crystal glasses glistened around her and the four forks and four knives at the sides of each and every place setting glinted and stood ready to pierce melon balls, butter pats, red, oozing rare steaks, chicken breasts, and to slowly scoop up the final, sweet pinkish brown billows of light chocolate.
Here Mabel sat with her elbows spread wide apart on the table cloth and peered around the room with a delightfully mysterious expression on her face. Had you seen her, you would not have trusted her, though you might have enjoyed her enormously. She flashed her pert little turned-up nose round when the waiter approached her. When she turned her head, her hair was so straight and so shiny and so silky that it caught the light from the glistening chandeliers above and fell down in front of her shoulder like a waterfall.
The waiter stood solicitously over Mabel and wrote on a little pad when she gave him her order. She held up the menu and read to him from it, and the big red leather covered card, strung with a golden tassel, seemed almost as big as Mabel herself. The waiter was small and dark. He had black eyes and a napkin spread over his forearm. He was wearing a brocaded red jacket with a black collar and the front of his white shirt had little crisp ruffles running down the length of it. He couldn't help noticing how pretty Mabel was. She ran a graceful, beringed finger down the column of prices as she made her final decision. Her eyes flashed as she looked up at him and said, "Filet mignon, very rare. And an avocado salad to begin." She shut the menu and the waiter was off. Mabel sat back looking very satisfied and surveying the grandly sparkling tables and the dark carpet.
Mabel did not frequently get to go out to dinner. She worked in a tiny store in Ohio where she made hand-painted needlepoint chair seats and wall hangings. The job was delightful as she got to sit in a little, brightly lit back room and paint all day. This pleased her as jobs like that were difficult to find and more than anything, Mabel wanted to be an artist. On some days, she found she got a little tired of having to execute so many mushrooms with lady bugs on them, and so damnably many lavender butterflies. Still, whatever the content, the designs were her own and she liked making them. But the job paid her very little. She ate mostly macaroni, and splurged on an occasional can of tuna fish.
This week, however, things were going to be different. Mabel's mouth watered as she thought of that rare filet that would be arriving shortly. She took a sip of clear, icy water from the frosty glass that sat next to her glistening plate and she began on the crackers. They sat enveloped in another red napkin in a little straw basket in the center of the table. They were covered with sesame seeds.
Until a week ago, Mabel had not expected to be journeying to Philadelphia, nor that she would be staying alone in a beautiful, luxurious hotel. Her parents had helped her with the money for the trip. Her mother was excited for her, and told her that "the thing must be done right." Even her employer had offered to help her financially. But Mabel had told Mr. Reitwold that his proffered economic aid was quite unnecessary.
Mabel had gotten the "big break" that some artists must wait a frustrated life-time for. A Philadelphia designer had come into the shop in Ohio about two weeks ago. The store was only a little ways off the highway and the designer, whose name was Mr. Belton, had been on his way home to Philadelphia after a business trip to California. Tired of plaza stops, greasy hamburgers, and the terrible mustard shortage that seemed to be afflicting plaza stops all over the country, he had decided to leave the turnpike in Ohio and drive down into the one of the little towns and find himself a meal that was decent. Once off the highway, Mr. Belton had immediately gotten lost.
Wandering around the little streets of Mabel's hometown, his eyes had finally lighted on the little store where Mabel was at work. Being a vice president in charge of buying for one of the biggest needlepoint clearing houses in the country, headquartered in Philadelphia, Mr. Belton had parked his car and got out to go and have a "Look-see" as he called it.
When he walked into the store, pinned up all over the corkboard walls all around him, hung Mabel's pink mushrooms nestled amongst green leaves with lady bugs on their caps. One of them, he noticed, already had its wing cases open. Then there were large designs for cushions and chair seats with the lavender and sky blue butterflies on them. Each butterfly had a different design on its wings. One of the butterflies was painted hovering in front of a branch, and from the branch behind it hung a long, silky cocoon. "Who did these designs?" he asked Mr. Reitwold who was standing behind the little glass counter.
"Would you like to meet the artist?" Mr. Reitwold asked him pleasantly. "She's very talented, don't you think? And she works right here on the premises. A delightful girl. And with enough sense of surface pattern to, someday, really get herself somewhere."
Mr. Reitwold had led Mr. Belton through the little passageway and into the brightly lit backroom. There Mr. Belton had met Mabel. She had been standing up over her light table with a little puff sleeved yellow smock on. Her hair fell down over her cheeks as she worked. She was concentrating hard with her nose almost touching her canvas when he came in. Rock music was playing on the radio, and she was loudly chewing a piece of gum.
"Excuse me," Mr. Reitwold said and he cleared his throat at the doorway. "Mabel, I want this man to meet you. He's been admiring your designs."
Mr. Belton strode past Mr. Reitwold and reached out his large, energetic hand to Mabel. "It's an honor to meet you," he said.
Quickly, as her mother had taught her to do in just such a surprise situation, Mabel swallowed her chewing gum. "And it's a pleasure to meet you," she said gasping a little. She gave him her paint spattered hand. Her gray-green eyes were shining softly directly into his as she took his hand, and her face had flushed with pleasure at the compliment he was paying her. "I'm glad that you like them," she said. "They're nothing really. I haven't been working long. Working on this canvas is a little awkward, but I keep getting better." She had little curls of hair around her forehead because of the heat, and her cheeks were rosy.
Mr. Belton was so pleased at the sight of her and so pleased with the bold colorfulness of her designs that he ventured to make a business proposition to her. For safety's sake, he left it open-ended, in case he should change his mind when he got back to the bustle of Philadelphia. But he said to Mabel, "My dear, I happen to be in charge of a rather large wholesale distribution house in Philadelphia. We handle needlepoint, creative afghans, and crewel embroidery. I'm so immediately impressed with the strength and lushness of your designs that I'm going to ask if you'd like to come to Philadelphia and show some of these canvases at a board meeting. I come through here about every six months and we might work out something in the nature of a regular free lance assignment for you. How does that sound?"
Again, Mabel flushed with pleasure. "Oh, Mr. Belton, do you really think ... " then she collected herself. Her mother had taught her that any lack of confidence in one's work was extremely unprofessional. "I'd love to come to Philadelphia," she said. "How many canvases do you suggest that I bring. Are there particular types of designs that you specialize in?"
It was settled. Two weeks later, Mabel found herself outfitted with a three piece navy suit, silk stockings, and a pair of high heels. She had a nice leather suitcase that Mrs. Reitwold had lent to her. "Useful for traveling," Mrs. Reitwold had said, "because it has these zipped outside pockets, you see, where you can stick your little tooth brush and other cosmetics," she winked, "just in case."
Standing at the train station, Mabel had kissed her mother, her father and Mr. and Mrs. Reitwold goodbye and clambered onto the great, puffing locomotive. She'd heard the whistle blow, seen the columns in the station begin to move, waved goodbye at the window to the four, smiling beloved faces. Her father held up one hand and she saw that his fingers were crossed.
Suddenly, as she faced forward, Mabel began to cry and she felt terribly nervous. This was her big chance now and she didn't want to ruin it. She knew that her parents had a lot of hopes resting on her. Of course they loved her work. But that was really because they loved her. Maybe she wasn't that talented after all. She wondered, "Will these little designs really be good enough." As she went through in her mind the canvases she had chosen to bring with her, they suddenly seemed terrifically inadequate. The designs were too simple. The colors were too bright. They were childish. In Philadelphia, there must be artists who worked with complex and intricate lines and who painted in subtler shades of beige and Tokyo jade. Perhaps she hadn't brought enough of them. She carped at herself for not having done better. "On Tuesday last week," she thought, "when I was painting, I know I wasn't being very careful. Oh, how I wish now that I'd paid more attention to what I was doing." She went on chastising herself.
So, as she went through the rolling farms of Ohio and crossed into the Alleghenies in western Pennsylvania, Mabel began to remember and draw strength from some of the lessons that Mr. Reitwold had taught her. Mr. Reitwold had, in essence, been her teacher. He himself had been an artist in his younger days, before the exigencies of a wife, a sickly older sister, and a mortgaged house, forced him to take up shop-keeping. He was looking forward to painting again when he retired, and the work he'd shown Mabel from his own portfolio was, she thought, breathtakingly beautiful. In the meantime, he had taken a great interest in Mabel. She had a great deal of talent but was relatively untutored when she came to him, looking for a job. He had tried to help her develop her own style, and to loosen up and relax a bit and feel more certain of herself when she painted. Mr. Reitwold was convinced that if all the people in the world could get interested in some sort of art form, then there would be no more wars. Mr. Reitwold was an oddly thoughtful man who spoke with an alluring accent. He was Hungarian, but he had come to the States when he was quite young. He had inherited from his parents a rather slow and elegant way of living his life. In the evenings, when he would close up the shop, he and Mabel would sit in the little back room. He would pour them each a glass of wine and they would talk. Mr. Reitwold would swill his wine in his glass and sip it slowly and listen to Mabel prattle. Every now and then he would try to tell her all the things he had discovered in his many years about life and about love and about what society was all about. Mabel made him feel very large and wise. She always listened carefully and followed his every expression and gesture with her bright gray-green eyes.
Mabel loved these long, lazy evenings also. She thought Mr. Reitwold knew more than anyone else in her town. She felt lucky to work for him, and lucky to be his nightly audience. He made her think about things differently. He made her feel that life was very long that it didn't end tomorrow or next week as it was so easy when you were scared about your future to start thinking. He made her feel as if she was above the earth and were looking down on it through the clouds. She felt that he helped her to see life more clearly than most people.
As the train flashed in and out of the long dark tunnels that burrowed through the coal filled mountains, Mabel remembered in particular one thing that Mr. Reitwold had taught her. He had asked her to do a series of nursery needle points for him, something that would appeal to children. Mabel had settled on some illustrations depicting the home life of a large family of rabbits.
At the end of the day, Mr. Reitwold had come into the back room to see how she was doing. There on her art table sat a picture of a kitchen full of rabbits. The mother rabbit was large and portly and was standing by a stove and wearing an enormous, billowing white apron. In her hand, she held a wooden spoon which was dripping with batter. Behind her, at a long wooden table, sat dozens of little baby rabbits. They were sucking their spoons, and holding up their forks. Some had their napkins tied like bibs around their necks, and all were obviously waiting eagerly for their dinner. Behind the back of the mother rabbit, stood one peculiarly mischievous looking rabbit who, when the mother wasn't looking, was obviously copping carrot cookies from the sideboard where they were cooling on a rack, and throwing them like missiles into the throngs of all of her little rabbit brothers and sisters. This little rabbit who was doing the stealing, Mr. Reitwold couldn't help noticing, looked peculiarly like Mabel.
"Ahem," he said as he admired the soft browns and greens and pinks and yellows of the picture. "I've never before seen a rabbit with bangs." Mr. Reitwold winked at her.
Then silently, he went to the refrigerator and poured them each the customary glass of wine, and he sat down and held his glass up thoughtfully. "You know," he had said to her, "you remind me of something. You remind me that painting is like life. There has to be a spirit of fun to it. Or at any rate, just like in life, there are good picture makers and there are bad picture makers."
It was this statement that Mabel was remembering as she sped across Pennsylvania towards Philadelphia. "Surely he meant," she thought, "that to some extent you can control and create the things that happen to you. At least, I'm sure that he meant that one ought to put one's own little twists into situations. One ought to tune up one's reality as if it were a TV One ought to change the things that happen, the series of pictures that one finds oneself involved in. One ought to help create those pictures. One ought to make choices about what's going to happen in those pictures. And then one ought to go ahead and try to make the changes in those pictures by specific action."
She wasn't sure as she mumbled all this to herself whether or not she really understood what Mr. Reitwold had been saying to her. But a mischievous little idea began to form itself in her head. Her better judgment whispered to her, "Mabel, don't!" But the more she sketched out the details of her plan, the more the mischievous side of her brain began yelling, "Yes!"
It was the avocado salad that did it. The slices of the green fruit were so soft and oily and delicious that they made Mabel feel extremely pleased with herself, extremely rich, extremely pampered, and extremely clever. As she thought of her meeting with Mr. Belton that was scheduled to-take place the next day, she felt very unsure of herself and her situation. She was certain that, despite what he'd said about her painting in the shop, in Mr. Belton's life she, and her precious canvases, were essentially negligible. She knew that he was a busy executive. In the flurry of taxis and confusion in which she'd gotten herself from the train station to the hotel, she'd had her first taste of the bustle and enormity of Philadelphia. The very size of the city made her feel unimportant.
Mabel's mind was searching for a way to implant herself permanently rinto the mind of Mr. Belton. "If I am truly to try my hardest at this interview," she thought, "then I must go ahead and come up with something that I can do that will make me absolutely unforgettable. Also," she thought, " there must be a way to make it clear to Mr. Belton how fantastically important this whole thing is to me. It's my big break. Probably I'm just a small detail on the busy schedule he has planned for tomorrow. The question is how to make him realize my whole life is resting on him giving me a job."
Mabel lifted the slender handled silver fork to her mouth and slipped a narrow slice of yellow-green avocado between her lips. It was glistening under its oil dressing and the herbs in it made it taste fresh and spicy. She licked her glistening lips, chewed and rolled her eyes. Then she looked about the dining room with a mischievous expression. Had her mother seen her, the woman would t have quivered in her shoes. Mabel's eyes glinted like sparks. "I have no heart, Mr. Belton," she thought as she speared another creamy green slice. And she sat there at the table all alone and laughed out loud.
When the waiter next came into the dining room, Mabel called him over to her table with her eyes. "How long will it be on that filet?" she asked him.
"Oh, madamoiselle," he said, "it will be a few minutes longer. We haven't put it in yet, you know. We were giving you time to finish your salad."
"Good," said Mabel. "Will you do me a favor? Will you hold it a little while. I've just realized that I've got to go and make a phone call. I'll be right back."
"Certainly," said the waiter, and he helped her out of her chair. "The phone is out there," he said, pointing out into the red carpeted, red wall-papered, luxurious lobby.
Mabel walked out of the dining room with a jaunty step and an excited expression on her face. She fumbled through her pocket book to find her wallet. Mr. Belton had kindly given her his home telephone as well as his number at work.
"You've never been to the city before," he'd solicitously asked her. "No? Well, it can be a confusing place. Now you take my home telephone number down as well. My wife will be at home if I'm out of the office, or if you get home late at night. And if you have any trouble, I want you to call."
It was eight o'clock exactly when Mabel put her dime into the machine. She was fairly certain that Mr. Belton must have gotten home by now. She unfolded the scrap of paper and carefully dialed the number that was on it. She waited. She heard it ring. She shifted weight. It rang again. There was no answer. Could they be out? No here was a click on the end of the line. "Hello?" said a voice and she recognized it as Mr. Belton's.-
"Mr. Belton!" she said and her voice was full of breathless excitement. "This is Mabel Rawlings. I'm here in Philadelphia. I've come all the way by train today and now I've made it. I'm here and I think it's wonderful."
"Good, good," said Mr. Belton. "I'm looking forward to seeing you tomorrow." He couldn't help chuckling at her excitement. Her personality was like her designs, he thought. She was decidedly uncomplicated and simple. "Now," he said, "have you found yourself a decent place to stay."
"Well," said Mabel, and she hesitated. She looked slyly around the lobby and back toward the door of the dining room where her juicy steak dinner was waiting. "That's what I'm really calling you about, Mr. Belton. I can't talk long as I'm in a hurry. But I'm in a little trouble here. I didn't realize how expensive hotel accommodations were, and it seems that I didn't bring enough money. However, I think I've been able to work out with ... well, let's call it a little deal here. I haven't time to go into it but there's this older fellow with ... Look, Mr. Belton. This is going to cost me a lot personally. But you've no idea how much this opportunity means to me. If I can get a job working for your company, gosh, Mr. Belton, for that I'd be willing to do just about anything.
"So I'm going ahead with these plans I've made for tonight, but I was just calling you to make sure first that that interview really was on for tomorrow. I don't want to go through all this for nothing, you know. Is it on, Mr. Belton? Will you see me tomorrow?"
Totally taken aback and wanting to immediately allay her fears, and to talk her out of whatever stupid and perverse action she was contemplating, Mr. Belton said, "Yes, Mabel. Of course I will see you." He was about to tell her that he would come and get her in a taxi and that she was welcome to come and stay with him and his wife if she couldn't afford a hotel room.
But Mabel didn't give him a chance to say any of this. The minute she heard him say "Yes," she piped out, "Gosh, thanks, Mr. Belton. I'll tell you how
I make out tomorrow," and with a loud click, she hung up.
She left Mr. Belton holding the phone with a stunned expression on his face and a dial tone humming in his ear. He had no idea where she was or what she was about to do. He only knew that she was out there in the city somewhere, helpless, innocent, and about to get herself into some kind of trouble. He put down the receiver and he began pacing up and down the length of the living room. His imagination ran away with him and he fantasized all sorts of dreadful things that might be happening to Mabel. Heavens knows what the poor simple girl was doing. And in a way, he couldn't help feeling that the whole situation was very much his won fault.
Back in the hotel dining room, Mabel seated herself once again on the plush red velvety upholstery of her high back chair. She spread her red napkin out over her lap and sat back grinning and looking very pleased with herself. When the waiter came over to her table, she half-closed her eyes so that she looked like a sleepy cat. She tilted her head sideways a bit and said in a lazy voice, "Now sir, if you would, I'm ready for you to bring on the filet mignon."
Thus, Mabel spent the evening nibbling at delicacies and chuckling to herself. Mr. Belton spent the evening pleading with the police on the telephone to find her and fantasizing the most dreadful things. Mabel knew she had left him fantasizing. And though she didn't know him very well, during her long meal she put together her own vision of what Mr. Belton's mind might be imagining. It made her grin several times while she was cutting her steak into thin, tender slices and chewing them thoughtfully.
Mabel imagined that Mr. Belton imagined that she had been calling him, not from the train station, but from a hotel downtown.
" 'Probably,' he thought," she thought, " 'she made it quite nicely from the train station in a taxi, with her little bit of luggage and her money clutched tightly in her hand. Perhaps,' he thought," she thought, " 'she was a bit stunned at the fare the cabbie charged her. But she probably counted out her money willingly and maybe even gave him a ludicrously gigantic tip. With her suitcase in one hand, and her pocket book in the other, and a ladder in her stocking about which she was no doubt terrifically distressed, she clambered from the taxi and went through the open doors of the brightly lit hotel lobby that the cabbie or her guide book had recommended to her. She walked bravely up to the front desk and standing on tiptoe so that she could rest her elbows on it, she told the clerk behind the desk that she would like to rent a room for the night. Possibly the price for a single had been as much as thirty-five dollars a day. This was the busiest time of year. Surely the price would have shocked her. Perhaps she even had the sum, but couldn't afford to pay it and take a taxi to her interview the next day as well. And thinking sadly that she would have to spend the night walking the dangerous streets, she turned away from the front counter and looked about the lobby and wondered in despair what on earth she was going to do now. The man she had made the deal was waiting for her. He was a well-dressed businessman, middle-aged, and he had silvery hair. He was a handsome fellow, but he had a fetish. He had come to Philadelphia on a business trip, and though he did not like to visit his obsession on his wife, when he was away from home he did like to indulge in it if he could. Seldom, if ever, did he get to indulge it with people who were as young and as attractive as Mabel.
On that particular evening, he was sitting in the hotel lobby. He was sitting in a corner by a potted plant. He himself had just arrived and he was more or less waiting for something to happen. From behind his newspaper, he witnessed the whole of the little interchange that took place at the counter between Mabel and the desk clerk. He saw the look of disappointment on her face when the price of a room was quoted to her. He saw her come away from the desk without a key. He saw that none of the bell hops were called upon to help her with her little bag. He knew what had happened. He saw her open her wallet when she thought no one was looking. He saw her count the paltry sum of money that was inside it. He saw her shrug and look about her as if she were lost. In short, he saw his opportunity.
He folded his newspaper and came across the lobby to her.
"Excuse me, my dear," he said, "but I couldn't help noticing that you look a bit lost and that you have not been able to get a room, and I wondered if I could be of any service to you? What's the problem at the desk? Are they full up?"
"Yes!" said Mabel, who was feeling very embarrassed for not having brought enough money. She was glad to find so easily another way of explaining away her plight.
The stranger who knew the truth of the matter, clucked his tongue and he said, "Tsk! Tsk! Well, you know, it's the season. The hotels fill up very quickly. Er, Miss ... ? "
"Rawlings," supplied Mabel. "I'm Mabel Rawlings, and I'm here because tomorrow I've got a very important interview."
The stranger raised his eyebrows at her. He had black eyes and a handsome, loose mouth.
Since he looked interested, and Mabel was always glad to talk about herself, she went on, "Yes. I'm to show my designs tomorrow to one of the biggest needlepoint wholesalers in the country."
"Well!" said the stranger, making his voice sound impressed. "If this isn't going to sound too forward, but it seems to me, Miss Rawlings, that you are going to need a good night's sleep before a meeting as important as that one. I don't want to offend you, but there are two beds in my room, and as your new found friend, I'd like to offer you one. I won't bother you a bit, so it will all be very proper. You look like a nice person and I'd like to help you out if I can."
Mabel looked at him with eyes that narrowed slightly and glittered. She was a simple girl but she was hardly stupid. "Thank you," she said, and she thought about the dark streets outside and the fact that this man was quite handsome. "I just might take you up on that." As she thought about it, her upper lip pressed downwards and her face hardened. Her expression grew full of determination. She fantasized working for the famous wholesalers, thought about her designs being sold all over the world, and she looked back at this man. He seemed a little thing to have to take on in comparison with the size of her dream.
"Sure," she nodded at him. "And I thank you very much. You'll be helping me a great deal. But let me just put a call through first to the man who's supposed to be interviewing me tomorrow. I want to make sure that he hasn't forgotten or that," and she said this half hopefully, "he isn't sick or something. If there isn't going to be an interview, well, there's no point in my staying in the city at all. I'll be right back."
With that, Mabel sped to the pay phone. She was breathless as she dialed, but she put a call through to Mr. Belton. She wasn't sure what was going to happen to her, but she had an inkling. But if Mr. Belton was really going to see her tomorrow, whatever she had to bear this evening would, in the morning, seem completely worthwhile.
Satisfied that her meeting with the board would go on as scheduled Mabel returned to the stranger who introduced himself to her as "Mr. Smith." He picked up her little suitcase for her, and escorted her through the winding hallways to the elevator and took her upstairs.
Once ensconced in his cozy hotel room, Mr. Smith put Mabel's suitcase down and sat on the very edge of the bed and rubbed his hands together. Mabel went to the mirror above the little bureau and ran her fingers through her straight hair, trying to fluff it out and make it look fresh again. She kicked off her high heels. They made her feet ache.
The little hotel room smelled of carpeting and dusty drapes and cigarettes. It was warm and the little lamp spread a golden glow over the brocade bed spreads and the little tinselly pieces of golden fiber that spangled the thick, shaggy rug.
As Mabel stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself, Mr. Smith got up and came and stood behind her. Mabel looked at the reflection of the two of them. Her arms looked very white and thin. Her face was so smooth it looked like china. She was tired and that always made her eyes look light and gleaming. She ran her fingers over her scalp and tossed her fine hair back over her shoulders.
Her arms up, Mr. Smith took the opportunity to put his hands around her and tightly grasp hold of her breasts. He squeezed them and crushed the fabric of her suit.
Mabel opened her gray-green eyes very wide and looked at the reflection of his face in alarm. He had pulled his body closely up behind hers, and his smile was right behind her ear. "Oh, Mr. Smith!" said Mabel in stunned amazement.
"Call me Alex," he whispered, and he brought his pelvis against her buttocks.
She gasped. Pressed against one of her soft buttocks, hard and long as a telescope, she felt his swelling cock. He ground it into her backside. Her white flesh under her suit was very soft. He held his hand tightly over her breast so that he could pull her harder against his dick. Her tit flattened under the pressure of his open hand. The soft flesh squeezed out to fill the spaces between his fingers. He felt her nipple grow hard and press its tip out exactly into the center of the palm of his hand. He moved his hand in tiny, slow circles over it.
Bending his knees slightly, Alex began rubbing his prick over the insides of the backs of her thighs. He felt his dick press through the folds of the material of her skirt and find the space between her slightly parted thighs. He rolled his cock over the tops of the two white columns, bringing the tip of it up into the underside of her buttocks that were as soft as velvet. He pressed the little ridge where her ass cheeks bulged over the tops of her thighs again and again with the tip of his prick
"Doesn't that feel good, honey?" he asked her and he squeezed her breast hard. He raised his abdomen and got his prick exactly into the crevice between her ass cheeks and he rapidly rubbed himself up and down in the tight, secret little valley. He could feel the tight nylon of her underpants stroking against him. He could feel the softness of her buns pushed back and forth beneath them.
"Have you ever had it in the ass, little girlie," he whispered.
It was then that Mabel really understood what she had bargained for. Somehow she had not, up until that very moment, really believed that anything was going to happen to her. She was not very experienced. She had had her breasts squeezed before a couple times and she knew she liked it. It sent a thrill dancing through her. She'd made out a few times in the back seats of cars and had her panties ripped off and had had to struggle awkwardly to get away from the fumbling fingers that only once had found their mark. She knew that she would be going to sleep in her little translucent night gown, and she figured that Alex might come over and raise it, and stroke his hand across her breasts. She figured he might even poke around in her cunt, exploring while she watched him, pressing her tiny clitoris just enough to give her a little thrill. But the idea that Mr. Smith would insert anything into any of her orifices that sort of behavior was entirely out of the question. And yet, here he was behind her, with his hands over her boobs, squeezing them just as casually as if they might have tooth paste in them. He was making her whole body feel as if it was melting. Her pussy had begun to lubricate itself, and the steaming hot wetness that streamed down into the inside of her cunt was a new sensation for her. She felt as if he was controlling her body merely by hanging onto her boobs. She felt the tension of his hard cock pressing against her and she was stunned to discover that any part of the human body could actually be that hard. To her surprise, Mabel felt like giving into him. It was not that she loved him. It was only that his hands on her tits felt so masterful. She felt helpless and small in his hands. She felt like letting all her muscles go and just letting him do anything he wanted to her.
"Alex," she breathed. "I've not only never had anyone stick it to me in the ass. Why, I've never had anything stuck in me anywhere."
The sound of her own voice brought Mabel back to the reality of her situation. For an instant, Alex's hard dick against her ass had been making her forget everything in the world except the size and the strength of him. "Wait," she said, backing away from the mirror and edging unwittingly towards the bed, "urn, perhaps we shouldn't do anything rash." She held out her hands with their palms toward him, hoping to be able to fend him off.
Alex leapt through the air at her and brought her crashing down upon the mattress. She lay underneath him, almost unable to breathe or move. "I'm going to ream out your sweet little ass," said Alex and he jerked his cock up and down against her thigh.
She struggled, bending her knees up and rolling her body back and forth underneath him by pushing her feet alternately into the mattress. She raised her little fists and pummeled against his chest.
"Oooh, let me go! Let me go!" she squealed and she tried to ram her knees up into him.
He had sunk his big, strong thighs in between her small soft ones however and all her kicking did no good. He held her fast. He was surprisingly strong for such a slender man, and he seemed to be certain enough of his own strength that he could have some fun with her while he overpowered her. He tickled her under her ribs and she bounced and squealed. He felt her breasts flying up against his chest.
Alex maneuvered both of her hands behind her in the small of her back. He had to twist her arms slightly to do this, and suddenly she was very still not wanting to bring herself any unnecessary pain. With an easy motion, as casually as if he were flipping a pancake, Alex slipped one hand underneath her and flipped her over so that she was lying on her stomach, buttocks up.
He leaned over her and he whispered in her ear, "Doesn't this feel good?" Rambunctiously, he squeezed each one of her nipples. She squirmed and struggled but he held both of her arms behind her and she could not escape. "Come on," he said, squeezing her nipples and laughing, "you know you like it. You'll like it even better without that silly shirt." He reached his hand under the front of her blouse, crawled his fingers inside of her bra, and found her rough erect nipple. He held it still with two fingers and rubbed a third over the tip of it. Mabel cringed away from his touch. "Doesn't that make you wet, honey?" he whispered.
Alex began to batter her buttocks with his knee cap, while he held her by the nipple and pulled at her breast. "Let's see," he said in a casual tone, almost absently, "whether you like it or not. You say you don't, but let's see if my touching you has made you wet."
That was all the warning he gave her. His hand flew up her thigh under her skirt. She felt his hard fingers fumble for an instant with the elastic in the legs of her pants, and then they were inside of the little cotton briefs, stroking their way into the mouth of her vagina, spreading the wet love juice that was almost bubbling out of it backwards to her ass-hole and lubricating it and opening it slightly. She felt his fingers fumbling with all the soft secret skin between her legs and she struggled. She put her head down into the pillow and batted her shoulders back and forth into the mattress.
"Ooooh, let me go! Let me go!" she cried.
"No," said Alex. "Why should I?" And he strummed his fingers over her ass-hole and the opening in her twat while he held both of her hands fast behind her back. "As long as I keep hold of you," he said, "I can do whatever I want to with you." With that, he put his head down and stuck his tongue between her legs. He lapped it roughly from one end of the slit between her legs to the other. He reached the tip of it above down in front just above her clitoris and wiggled it back and forth. Then rolling his tongue more wetly and voluptuously he licked away at the mouth of her snatch, drinking the love juice that fell from it, and then he bit at the back rim of her snatch and with a tiny jabbing motion he sunk his tongue a little way into her ass-hole."
"Don't you love it?" he asked Mabel. He could tell that she did. He'd never been with a woman who's body had gotten wetter. Mabel was positively gushing. Besides she had gone limp under him and her whole body was shuddering as he moved his tongue in and out of the folds in her pussy and around her ass-hole.
Mabel was crying, but Alex could tell that she was weeping because of the confusion of feelings that the conflict between what she thought was morally proper and what she longed for him to do to her was arousing in her breast.
"Leave me alone," she said, with the sudden hiss of a snake.
"Will not," said Alex and he joyfully stuck his whole finger into her ass-hole and twirled it. He pulled her arms back down towards her ass until she was forced to pick her head up off the pillow and arch her back. With his knee, he ground her legs further apart. His first finger inside of her ass-hole was bending and turning. He stuck it in straight as far as it would go and rotated it. He brought his knee back to her crotch and shoved it against her twat.
Each time he asked, "Doesn't this feel good?" he yanked back her arms a little bit.
"I know what we'll do," he said and he leapt gaily from the bed. "Stay right there," he said and he disappeared into the closet.
Surprisingly, she did. She lay still with her legs apart, waiting for him. Her nipples were so hard that they were pressing into the mattress. Her ass-hole and her pussy throbbed.
Alex came out of the closet holding four ties. "This is all fun and games now," he said. "But later, you're going to want to get away. We'll have such a great deal more fun if you can't."
The hotel was an old one and the bed was one of those heavy, old-fashioned, four-posted affairs. It was made out of heavy solid oak.
"I myself like it much better when you have your clothes on," Alex told her matter-of-factly. "The trouble with being naked is that you can't be exposed."
"You see, like this," he said when he had finished binding her wrists to the posts on the bed. It was a big bed, and so in order to reach, she had to reach her arms way out as if she were a child pretending to fly. Her breasts were flattened by her own weight beneath her. The springs creaked as she wiggled about.
Alex reached under her abdomen and pulled her shirt front up. He yanked her bra up over her tits so that the white flesh fell out beneath it. "I like to think," he said, "of your tits grinding against the mattress."
"I like to think," he said as he bound one of her ankles to the bed post, using for twine a broad navy and red striped tie, "that even if you wanted to, you couldn't get away from me." He reached up a finger and tickled the cleft between her buttocks. Her panties were soaking wet. "Of course, you don't want to get away from me. Do you honey?"
"Yes!" said Mabel and she brought her other leg closely against the one that he was tying up. She caught his hand between her ass-cheeks and squeezed his fingers tightly. Then realizing they were still in her slit, she wriggled away from him.
"Oh no you don't," said Alex. He grabbed her one free leg, got up off the bed, and still holding her by the ankle, he walked around to the opposite bed post. He pulled her legs wide apart into a spread eagle position, face down, as he did so and he began tying up her one free limb. He held it on his lap as he tied her, and every now and then he would reach up into the ravine between the soft white mounds of her flesh and make a quick, almost sneaky scrambling motion with his fingers. They came away from her soaking wet. She felt her own love juice touch like spittle on her ankle as he tied her. When she was all bound up, he reached up and pulled her skirt up so that she was exposed to her waist. He tore her cotton panties at the crotch and along one side and then, just gently pulled them away from her body.
Mabel cringed as he took away the panties. She could feel the weight of her own skirt rolled up over the small of her back. She could feel the air caressing her wet pussy lips and the downy undersides of her ass cheeks. She felt so terrifyingly, thrillingly naked and exposed. She lay there helplessly holding her scarlet pussy lips and her quivering ass-hole out to him. She tried pulling her legs closer together, but the knots in the ties simply tightened against the pressure, and they held her fast.
Alex looked at soft pussy nestled like a heart between her soft white thighs, and the way that her soft buttocks mounded like ice cream, firmly above her legs. Between the powdery cobblestones of her white ass flesh, he could see a few sable pubic hairs.
"Nobody," he whispered to her again, "has ever stuck it to you in the ass?"
"No," whispered Mabel. And she shook her head into the pillow, and lay still with all of her limbs spread out. She liked to think of him looking at her bare ass, looking up into the crack between the cheeks.
"This is going to hurt a little," Alex said somberly. He had clambered off the bed for an instant and was pulling off his pants. He had a beautiful prick. It was thick and round and long and a soft brown in color. His balls hung very full and fresh looking. His pubic hair was light brown. Suddenly, without his pants on, Alex was very youthful looking.
He climbed back on to the bed. He drew his hard prick slowly over the back of her buttocks as if he were taking aim with a whip, drawing it over the ground before he got ready to snap it.
"If you've never had anyone in your ass before," he said, "you're going to be very small. It may hurt a little. It may hurt a lot. If it hurts a lot, hang onto the ties and just squeeze them, OK? The main thing is to try to completely relax."
"Oh, Alex," said Mabel, "I want you to do anything you want to, to me."
"Good," said Alex. "Don't you worry. I will. Now I don't want to end up shredding your insides so relax now. Relax." He repeated the word over and over again as if he were a hypnotist. As he said it he began prodding the smooth, brown head of his hot dick into the tight, cream-colored wrinkles around her ass-hole. He slipped his prick a little way in. Mabel was so tight it was like trying to force his enormous prong through a finger ring. She yowled like a cat, so loudly that it surprised him, and then she began whimpering piteously.
"Don't worry," Alex said. "Now just relax." He was looking at her with his eyes going hard and sharp and glistening. He had one hand open with its palm against her stomach and he was leaning his chest forward over her buttocks and her back. "This won't hurt," he promised, "if you just relax and let me have my way."
With that, he mercilessly shoved his huge dong up into her ass-hole. To Mabel, it seemed as if his prick would never stop pressing its way up inside of her. It was of infinite length.
She began crying out in short little screams. She was in too much pain to muster a long one. The throbbing was making her breathless. She sounded as if she were making frightened hiccoughs.
All of her bound limbs went tense. She whimpered and spluttered beneath him. She rolled her face back and forth under him into the soft pillow. Once, she got her head turned around so that she could see him. She was crying silently. Her forehead was puckered. She was moaning the words "Ow! Ow! Ow!" in distress. But she was tied up and there was no getting away. She simply had to take his great big cock inside of her and wait while he finished.
Alex spread both of his palms over her stomach and began ramming his spear into her rapidly. Her body jumped under him as if she were being electrocuted. Alex could hear his abdomen, which was wet with sweat and love juice, slapping against her buttocks which were also soaked. Each time he came down on her, he could feel her helpless, soft white buttocks fill the crevices at the tops of his thighs. She couldn't help nestling her bare ass against him. He bent down for an instant and kissed her ass cheeks. Then he drummed on them with the flat of his hands, making them quiver.
Suddenly, she strained at the ties the way a boat in a storm will strain creakingly against its moorings. He could hear the old bed moan. He realized she was struggling against her bonds, but she was struggling to get her ass up closer to him, struggling to make penetration easier for him, struggling to show him that she had given herself, body and spirit, up to him completely.
He thrust his prick into her as hard as he could. At the head he could feel a curve in her body. When he violated it, he could feel the muscle spasms of her pain and her reflex rejection. He struggled with this curve, ramming his prick into it again and again, trying to straighten it out. When she wiggled, he held her. When she convulsed, he brought her abdomen up close to his, and held his cock inside of her so that her body had to take him. "You'll love me whether you want to or not," he said. "You'll take my prick inside of you and keep it there. And now you're going to get to keep my come."
With that, he blew his hot wad into her. She felt it burning and stinging all over the inside walls of her abdomen. She felt it streaming through her as hot as lava. She thought it would make her blind. She felt weak and helpless under the rolling, boiling avalanche of it. It was as if he had made a waterfall inside of her.
Mabel's whole body was quivering. In trying to fantasize what Mr. Belton might be thinking, she discovered that she had aroused herself. Her steak was long since finished. She had left her chocolate mousse half eaten. She couldn't tell how long she'd been sitting with her elbow up on the white table cloth, dreaming.
She looked around the restaurant, . embarrassed by her own thoughts, and took a hasty sip of water to wet her mouth. Her lips and tongue suddenly felt dry with the reality of her youthful desire. No one seemed to be paying much attention to her, and she was glad of that. The restaurant was practically empty. There were only a few stray after-dinner tipplers standing around the bar. Her waiter had disappeared. Probably he was in the kitchen enjoying his own dinner now that the supper hour crush was done for the day.
Mabel was not wearing a watch and there seemed to be no clocks up on the red flocked walls of the restaurant. She estimated that it must be about nine thirty, or even ten o'clock. According to her plan, it was not time to call
Mr. Belton back yet. "Let the poor man suffer through and enjoy his delusions just a little bit longer," she thought.
The swinging door from the kitchen flew open and she saw her waiter heading for her table.
"I'll have another demitasse," she said to him sweetly. "Oh yes, and how about a glass of brandy?"
PART TWO
"What have I done?" thought Mr. Belton and he paced up and down in his small study that had been built specially for him at the top of his house. "What sort of a dreadful situation have I created?"
"And if I have created it, am I responsible for it? And if I'm responsible for it, is it indeed my fault? Will I feel guilty once it's all over? And oh, good grief, if poor Mabel's getting butt-fucked, since I'm the one who brought her here and got her involved in these awful circumstances in the first place, isn't it just as if I were the one who was butt-fucking her myself?"
As this thought crossed Mr. Belton's mind, he stopped right in the middle of a step. He thought of poor little Mabel. He thought of her pert, turned-up nose, and her brown hair that was as sleek and as shiny as a waterfall. He thought of butt-fucking her, and his mind began to billow with fantasies about it. He tried to pull his mind back to worry and sympathize with her once more, but it simply kept straying back to the point of pleasure again.
Mr. Belton strode to the top of the stairs and called down to his wife who was in the sewing room working on a pair of hot pants.
"Veronica, my dear," said Mr. Belton. He was always gentle and polite in all of his dealings with his wife. "Would you please be a love and bring a cup of tea up to me here. Oh, and perhaps bring a glass of sherry too. I need something to steady my nerves. I'm so terribly distraught you know, over what is happening. It all came so suddenly and the worst of it," he said, as his wife's face appeared just beneath him in the stairwell, "is that I feel so damned helpless just sitting here not being able to do anything to save her. Those police are incorrigible. There's no talking to them. Tomorrow morning, I guarantee it, I shall be on the phone to the sergeant and I'm going to give him a piece of my mind."
"Did you get there badge numbers, dear," asked Mrs. Belton as she came upstairs with a steaming cup of tea on a tray. Next to it was a tiny shimmering, amber colored glass of sherry. She had poured her husband rather a stiff one as he obviously was feeling terribly uneasy. The whole thing had not been good for his nerves and he really did need something to calm him.
Mr. Belton had been pacing back and forth all evening in his study. From time to time, he had picked up the phone and dialed for the police. They had explained to him with testy patience that since he didn't know where the girl had been staying, or even in what section of the city she had last been seen in, there was very little else they could do for him but keep their eyes open and watch for her. They had promised him again and again that they would call him immediately if she turned up, or even if there was any sign of her. However, she had not turned up and they were getting very tired of Mr. Belton's squeaky, worried voice piping into their ears, "Well? Have you found her? Have you found her?"
Not only did he tie up the phones that they needed for emergency calls, but he severely chastised them for not having discovered where Mabel had gone to. "What sort of a police force are you?" Mr. Belton would demand of them. Or he'd say, "Do you call yourself a law enforcement agency? Alot of worthless, lazy slackers if you ask me. Good for nothings." Furious and frustrated, Mr. Belton hung up. Then half an hour later he was on the line again, squeaking, "Have you found her? Have you found her?" and not understanding in the slightest why it was that each time he called, he was receiving lesscordial treatment.
"I'm sure everything's going to be all right, dear," said Mrs. Belton, and she gently stroked her husband's white hair.
"How can it be all right?" demanded Mr. Belton in a furious panic.
"Well ... " said Mrs. Belton, momentarily at a loss for words, "Sometimes situations are not what they seem. She may be perfectly all right, you know. You may have misunderstood or misheard the poor child. After all, Ben, she's new to the city and doesn't know the inner meanings of all the words she uses. Besides, darling, you only spoke to her for a moment. You know you've got a creative mind. You know how it twists and warps things."
"I know what I heard," her husband t insisted, and he looked shaky and pale. "Veronica, that poor child's in trouble. Why," he raised his arms out from his sides and got very excited, "why, why," he spluttered, "that poor little girl's probably getting butt-fucked by a monster."
"Calm down now dear," said Veronica Belton. "You're getting terribly excited and you know that isn't good for you. Besides, I'm sure Mabel has better sense than that, if she's anything like as bright and talented as you've told me. I'm sure she's behaving herself."
"But it might not be her fault," said Mr. Belton. He was almost exploding with impatience at his wife's lack of ability to grasp fully the true horror of the situation. "It might be my fault, don't you see."
Back in the hotel dining room, Mabel was feeling very full. She was sipping slowly on her brandy and she was smiling softly to herself. The time was wearing on.
"Wow!" she thought to herself. "He probably thinks I'm getting butt-fucked by a monster!" And she started to laugh. The brandy was going to her head and making her feel wonderful.
The elegant tablecloth hung gracefully down over the edges of the table. It was long enough to make a little enclosed, tent-like space under the table. It was long enough to hide Mabel's legs from view all the way down to their ankles. She felt safe therefore as she slipped her fingers down between her legs, crept them up her thighs, and stuck them up the legs of her panties and into the hole in her twat. She liked to sit like that sometimes, without even masturbating, just with the two fingers stuck inside of her. It was sort of like providing her pussy with a pacifier. She could thus sit silent' for hours with her snatch sucking at her fingers the way a child, in secret, will suck on its thumb.
As she sat happily at the table, Mabel began to think about Mr. Belton. She remembered what he looked like, and how distinguished she had thought his white hair had made him look, and how kindly his eyes were. Best of all she remembered how simultaneously strong and soft his large, moist hands had looked as he picked up her canvases and carefully looked through them. The knuckles were as round as marbles.
As she thought of him, she began to move her two fingers up and down inside of her pussy and she felt herself getting wetter and wetter. "Mr. Belton," she called under her breath, and closed her eyes. She pretended that it was his fingers that were moving inside of her. She thought of how thick they would feel, and how strongly they would press against the walls of her snatch, and she spread her legs wider and brought her lips together in an imaginary kiss.
Back on Cherrystone Boulevard, in the Belton's little white house, Mr. Belton sat upstairs in his cupola on the roof with all of his blinds drawn and fantasized freely. His wife had left him. Perhaps it was telepathy, but he seated himself on the floor in a corner with his legs apart and his knees up, and held onto his cock with one hand, rubbing it softly so as not to rush the fantasy, so as to make it last, and his fantasy went like this:
He fantasized that he was sitting at a table in a luxurious dining room across from Mabel. Her eyes were glistening with the reflected glinting of the crystal glassware and the silver forks. Her mouth was full of chocolate mousse and she was smiling up at him.
"Mabel," whispered Mr. Belton, "put your legs apart and put your knees up on the table."
There seemed to be no waiters around, so Mabel did as he directed. She slumped down in her chair and let her legs drape over each arm rest so that her pussy was wide open under the table cloth and her white knees stuck up over the edge of the table.
In the restaurant, the real Mabel looked slyly around herself and then maneuvered herself into the same position. She had a blissful expression on her face.
Mr. Belton, in his fantasy, reached under the table and pressed two of his fingers into Mabel's little twat. "However," he said, "what I'd really like tonight is your ass, my dear. I want some sort of substantial proof that you will submit to me."
"What do you mean by submit?" asked Mabel innocently.
"You'll see, my dear," said Mr. Belton with a sinister sneer in his voice. "Just whatever I ask you, you must do."
"Well," said Mabel, and she looked excited. "Shall we go up to the room and see what happens? " She looked around as she said this, and added, "I want to be all alone together." She indicated the kitchen door with her glance.
Mr. Belton got up out of his chair and lifted Mabel out of hers with one hand on her elbow. He paid the bill, and ushered her into the elevator.
"My, you do walk quickly," said Mabel as he pushed her down the hallway to the door of his room. She was beginning to feel a little bit distressed, as she realized that the submission he had talked about might be less innocent than she supposed. She was about to take her elbow away from him and run when he grabbed the flesh on the back of her upper arm and he hissed, "You're coming with me!"
She felt the hot spittle that he shot out with his gruff words tickle her ear. She felt his stubbled chin brush against her cheek, and she found herself being hurried along even faster, with two fingers in her own vagina to comfort herself.
Mr. Belton opened the door to the hotel room and pushed her inside. "Come on," he said roughly as she stumbled, and he kept her from falling.
Before she knew it, he had knelt down beside her and grabbed hold of both of her legs. When he stood up he threw her over his shoulder with her ass in the air.
Mabel began biting and kicking. She kicked him in his groin but he had removed her shoes, and as he held her legs close against his chest, she couldn't kick very hard.
He laughed at her efforts and put his hand up on her ass and began to explore its surfaces with his fingers.
Mabel pummeled with her fists on his buttocks. She got hold of some of the flesh at the small of his back and she held it tightly between her teeth. The pain of the bite and the heavy pummeling on his ass only served to further arouse him.
He turned to look at himself in the mirror and he could see his enormous cock visibly rising beneath his pants. He looked like some wonderful pagan god, about to rape a mortal.
Still standing in front of the mirror, he began to peel Mabel's skirt up over her thighs. He pulled it violently up over her buttocks with masterful strokes, as if he were peeling a banana. Then he ran his hands up over the backs of her white thighs again and again, crushing his fingers into her soft, delicate skin.
Mabel began trying to kick him in earnest. He watched her white buttocks bob up and down, and he held her legs fast. She was not difficult to hold. Her ankles actually felt flimsy in his one strong hand. But as she struggled she edged her pussy up higher in the air.
Suddenly, he raised his big, heavy hand up and he whacked her as hard as he could across the ass. He whacked her so hard that he could feel the two bones at the bottom of her pelvis through her reddening flesh. Mabel collapsed against him for an instant. She was stunned by the force of the blow. Then she began whimpering.
Suddenly, she seized him savagely with both her hands around his waist and she dug her thumbs into his flesh. She began twisting and kneading his sides, trying to bruise his flesh cruelly. Her touch was so light however, it felt to Mr. Belton as if she were manipulating and stroking him. He relaxed against her touch and enjoyed it.
"Hah!" he cried. Up went his hand again and down it came in a shuddering thunderous blow over her ass cheeks. He felt her whole body quake with the shock of it. Up went the hand like a pendulum, and he hit her again. He could see the pink inside of her twat stuffed between her overturned thighs and buttocks and he saw that it was moistly glistening. He smack it with his open hand and then began a volley of rough claps against the soft undersides of her buttocks. They felt like doeskin.
Slowly, the slaps transformed themselves into rough, swiping caresses that had their own rhythm to them. Mr. Belton became mesmerized with the sight of her white flesh quivering on his shoulder in the mirror.
Mabel became still. She was concentrating on the way the rough, circular caresses of his hand felt against her skin and she was relaxing and accepting them.
Mr. Belton took her down from his shoulder but he held her ankles and Her wrists so that she had to continue to bend over. "Don't move," he hissed at her and he held all four of her limbs with one hand. With the other he loosened and removed his tie, and he used this to bind her.
He stood up when he had successfully tied her, and he moved her so that she could lean against the side of the bed and so keep from falling over. He looked at her as she stood there with her nose almost pressed against her knees, her fingers groping over the floor, and her ass like two rising moons floating in the air. He could see the pubic hair that was buried soft and warm in her crevice.
Belton put his foot up and he rubbed his toe against her ass. He worked it into the dark valley between the two soft cheeks. They dimpled under his cheeks.
"No!" Mabel whispered.
Mr. Belton drew his foot back and he softly kicked her. He landed his toe right in the softness of the back of her snatch. Mabel gave a yelp and began to whimper again.
Holding her around her knees and pressing his cheek against the back of her thighs, Mr. Belton used one hand to untie her. He pulled her shirt off and left her standing white and naked and cowering. She covered her breasts with her arms and backed away from him.
Mr. Belton undid his belt, and using it like a belt he began following her. He lashed through the air with it. He brought his arm down with all of his strength. She watched his jacket bunch over his shoulder as he brought his arm up. She watched the creases disappear as the flat belt flew down on her. It swished through the air. He had gotten her right across the face. Now he would take on the rest of her.
Mabel licked her lips. Already she could tell that they were swelling He began to lash at her arms, trying to whip them away from her breasts. He had backed her into a corner now, and he grabbed one of her hands from where she clutched frantically at her own body.
He pulled on her arm, spinning her around on the end of it as if she were a yo-yo. He pulled her after him towards the bed. Sitting down on the edge of it, he reached out one foot and he tripped her. She fell forward over his knees, presenting her helpless ass to him, ready for spanking
Mr. Belton brought the leather strap down on her white flesh again and again. He turned it so that the end with the golden buckle attached to it flew at her. When it hit, red welts appeared instantly on her skin.
He threw the belt down and went after her with the bare flesh of his hand. He slapped her so fast that the clapping of his hands against her flesh sounded like applause.
"Now," he said sternly to her, "will you do just as I say."
He sat Mabel upright and she looked dazedly into his eyes with a worhsipful expression. "Yes," she whispered. "Mr. Belton, I shall do anything you ask. My body is yours to enjoy."
He threw her behind him onto the bed and began slapping her all over her body. She bent her knees up to her chest in an effort to escape his cruel hand, and she squirmed and wriggled to and fro, trying to dodge him.
"You said you would submit to me," he said.
"Oh," she whispered and her eyes closed.
He took hold of both of her ankles and he stretched her legs out. He took her arms and laid them out beside her. "Now don't move," he said. He resumed slapping her. She lay quite still, though her face was very white and she bore the quick, insulting slaps that came up onto the undersides of her breasts, over her nipples, her abdomen, her snatch and the tops of her thighs.
Mr. Belton whispered to her, "Now, Mabel, I'm going to turn you over, and we'll see how you submit to me."
Slowly he helped her to roll over onto her stomach. He didn't stretch her limbs out or bind her. He trusted her to do as he bid her and to accept this will.
On all fours on the bed beside her, Mr. Belton stripped off his clothes. His dick was ten inches long and very thick. It quivered in the air beneath him as he hovered above her. He looked down at his cock and at Mabel's tiny buttocks. His dick was as long as her ass was. And the skin of her ass was so soft, while his dick was as hard as young wood.
"This is going to hurt terribly," he said to her, "but I want you to hold very still for me. Just accept the pain and see if you can't come to enjoy having me hurt you."
Mabel shivered. She knew what to expect and she was frightened, but she did not move.
With one savage lunge, Mr. Belton plunged his dick all the way up into her ass-hole.
Mabel lay very still but she began sobbing.
"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Belton and he pulled his prick partially out. It was so enormous that he could feel how tightly he was stretching her, bringing the elastic skin close to the tearing point. He could feel how he rasped against her unlubricated insides. She whimpered. He could feel that she was willfully trying to make her muscles soften and relax. She would get them soft and then they would tighten involuntarily around them and then she would whimper. She lifted her body up on her elbows and plucked at the bedspread, shaking her head from side to side. In a weak little voice she whispered back to him, "It hurts."
"Of course it hurts," he said in a smooth voice. "I'm a very large man and I'm pressing an awful lot of meat into a very tiny cavity. I want to hurt you, Mabel."
He reached up and grabbed onto her frail shoulders with both his hands and forced himself all the way into her again.
"If you keep contracting tightly like that," he said, "I'm going to come. I can feel you flowing up and pressing all around me."
In the middle of her weeping, Mabel began to laugh.
"Don't," said Mr. Belton. "You're going to make me come."
But Mabel couldn't help it. "I'm trying not to," she said. "Lord, it hurts when I laugh. It is just an unbelievable pain. It feels like you're ripping right through me."
Mr. Belton felt a spasm in his stomach. He could not hold it any longer, and while trying to hang on with all his muscles, his sperm began to slowly flow out and he couldn't stop it. He could feel how hot it was with the tip of his prick. Finally, he let go with it, relaxed and a great wad of cream came shooting out of him.
He rubbed, his abdomen over Mabel's buttocks. "Can you feel that?" he said.
Mabel had gotten beyond pain. She wanted to move. She could feel his sperm filling her abdomen as if it were a bucket. She raised herself up stiffly on her elbows and waited for him to be done.
When he had finished coming, Mr. Belton pulled his cock slowly out of her. She whimpered as he did so, and when he was gone, the pain lasted. Her ass-hole felt sore and stretched.
"Thank you," said Mr. Belton as he lay down by her side.
"The phone's ringing, dear," Mr. Belton suddenly heard his wife's voice calling from downstairs.
At first, he didn't answer. He didn't want to disturb the fantasy. Besides, what would his wife think of him if she knew what he'd been dreaming about. Mr. Belton never took out his sadistic impulses on his wife. She was too immature to indulge them. She had a ridiculous notion of what was proper between man and woman and Mr. Belton felt that her vision stifled some of the most passionate parts of him.
"Come quickly, dear," said Mrs. Belton. "It seems to be a young lady. What if it's Mabel and she needs your help? Don't you think you had better come down right away and talk to her?"
"Goodness!" thought Mr. Belton, "here I've been fantasizing and that poor creature might really be in trouble. I'm coming immediately," he called down to his wife. He had taken off his pants completely while he had been masturbating, and he struggled them back up his thighs again in a hurry. He dried his wet hand on some kleenex that was on his desk, and climbed hurriedly down out of his cupola. He went two steps at a time.
"Here," said his wife handing him the phone.
"Er, urn," he spluttered as he took the receiver. Now he was not only worried about Mabel but he was also feeling guilty. That poor child, out on the streets, or in somebody's hotel room in a big strange city like Philadelphia. Why she had probably been battered and bruised beyond recognition. Perhaps she was calling him from the hospital. Perhaps she was calling him to tell him she couldn't make it, having had both of her legs broken. Perhaps ... perhaps it wasn't Mabel on the phone at all but a nurse, or a morgue attendant, or a secretary down at the police station. In a terribly distressed and confused state, Mr. Belton put the receiver to his ear.
Mabel was lying between the soft white sheets of her soft bed in her room at the Biltmore. She was lying with two fingers up her cunt and a glazed, happy look in her eye. She was feeling very full, and with a toothpick, she was lazily removing the last bits of her filet mignon from between her teeth. She had just masturbated while thinking of Mr. Belton and his distinguished looking gray hair, and she was sitting comfortably in a puddle of her own cream.
Mabel had propped herself comfortably up on two pillows in order to make the phone call. She had dialed lazily and waited for the phone to ring, blinking her sleepy eyes. She had waited while Mrs. Belton had gone and called Mr. Belton, massaging her gums with the softened end of her little wooden toothpick. She could still taste the brandy in her mouth.
"Mr. Belton?" she said, when she heard him spluttering into the phone. "That's right. It's me. It's Mabel. I hope I'm not calling you too late."
"Mabel, dear," Mr. Belton stammered. "Heavens child, I've been so enormously worried. Are you all right?"
"Oh yes, sir," she said. "I am. I ... um ... well, I went ahead you know and did what I had to, um ... " she gulped loudly into the receiver.
"Heavens child," said Mr. Belton. "Where are you?"
"Who me? Now?" she asked as if she were dazed. "I'm at the Biltmore."
Mr. Belton gulped. The Biltmore was the most expensive hotel in town.
Mabel stroked one of her slender fingers over the soft surface of the sheet beside her.
She held the receiver away from her mouth for an instant and stifled a burp. Then she brought the receiver back down again. "Well, oh gosh, Mr. Belton ... I don't even know why I'm calling. Except that I've had sort of a confusing and upsetting evening, and ... well, gee, I just wanted you to know that that break you're going to give me tomorrow is worth more to me ... well, maybe it's worth more than anything in the world."
"Mabel, are you safe now?"
"Yes, Mr. Belton."
"Well, look honey, don't worry about tomorrow. I'll see that everything goes smoothly with the board. You rest now. Do you need anything?"
"No," said Mabel, and she stifled another burp.
"Well, I will look forward to seeing you tomorrow," said Mr. Belton. "You stay put, and don't worry about anything."
"OK, Mr. Belton," she said in a very tiny voice. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Mabel."
Mr. Belton hung up feeling horribly guilty. "I'm so glad," he said to his wife, "that I'm going to be able to do something to help that child. Of course, I wish I'd never brought her here, but I'll make sure she makes a good appearance at the meeting tomorrow. I think the whole thing is very important to her."
Mabel fell asleep quickly after the phone conversation. She kept on burping, and she kept thinking about Mr. Reitwold, and what he had taught her about being a good picture painter. Her tongue strayed softly over her lips, seeking out the last traces of her dinner. In a crevice, she found a distinct flavor of avocado.
"Some girls are like artichokes," she murmured as she drifted off. "But I am not like an artichoke. I have no heart."
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SODOMY AND SUBMISSION
PART ONE
How do you thank some one who has taught you about fine literature and foreign politics and how to choose a good wine and how to be a woman? Shirley Jensen wept with tears of gratitude at her old teacher's feet. She had not seen him for three years now, not since she graduated from the small women's college on the outskirts of Pittsburgh. She had loved him terribly when she had graduated.
But in the three years that had passed, three years that had ripened her body and imparted to her eyes an added glow of youthful wisdom and serenity, she had grown to love him even more. "I was just a baby when I graduated," she thought. "I didn't even know the value of the things that he taught me. Now I see how perfectly he was preparing me for the harsh realities of life."
Shirley had some fond memories of her old teacher, Reggie Pender. She kept these memories constantly stored in her head and every so often, in her days that were busy and hectic now, her mind would turn back to him. Three years had not in any way dulled the sharp, aching love that she felt for him. The distance she had traveled, working first as a school teacher herself in New Mexico, then moving to California, and then finally returning to work as a junior administrator at a women's college on Long Island, hadn't thinned the flow of gratitude she felt to him.
Shirley was taking a vacation from her office and had decided she would go to visit her old teacher. She worried a little perhaps that it would, after the space of time, be more difficult to talk to him. She longed for a late evening alone with him. She longed for the type of evening that the two of them used to have. They would sit up together in his cozy living room till long past midnight, talking about life and philosophy and concepts of religion and psychology. On winter nights, he would keep the fire going and she would warm her back in front of it. Then, when her back got too hot, she would turn around and hold her thickly stockinged feet in front of the flames. When her socks were wet, they would begin steaming. It seemed as if they were talking about the most important subjects in the world.
On the floor of his living room was a faded, braided rug. The whole house was furnished in maple furniture, and it had soft wood floors that were as yellow as bees wax. Shirley would sit, wiggling her toes with pleasure, while the orange glow of the flames flickered over her cheeks. She liked to wear tight sweaters that clung to the fullness of her breasts. She had straight red hair, dark eyes, a round inquisitive face, and freckles. When she went to see Mr. Pender, or Reggie, as he insisted that she call him, she wore her hair tied in back of her head with a ribbon that matched her skirt and sweater set. She was trying to look studious, and demure. In the winters she wore high boots that zipped up the sides. She liked the way the soft leather clung against her calves. She liked the happy little squeaks that they made when she walked in them. They would lull her when, in the evenings she would stroll over to Reggie's house. Always as she approached the great white, wooden house with its dark green shutters, and its flower beds that sat under a thin carpet of snow on either side of the shoveled and salted cement walk, she would feel a little tingle of excitement. She knew that she tingled because she loved him. She was going to his house in order to talk about philosophy. But Reggie made her body glow just the same way that he made her mind sparkle.
As Shirley walked down one of the small, suburban streets and turned the familiar corner, the same old thrill of excitement sent a flood of color to her cheeks. Her heart began pounding. Her nipples grew erect. Suddenly, her breasts were intensely aware of the clear, icy wind that was slicing through the front of her tight sweater. She should do up her coat, she knew, or she would catch a bad cold. But her breasts had gotten heavier in the past three years, and she wanted him to notice this first thing.
The street she was walking on was lined with bare maple saplings. Their thin branches quivered in the wind and the little twigs at the ends of them stood up like groping fingers. Shirley looked up into the cold, clear blue sky, and put her arms out for a moment and let the wind whip around her body and storke its flying back over her breasts. She breathed deeply, and the cold air in her lungs made her eyes water. She felt healthy, and excited, and she quickened her step.
She wondered if Reggie had changed much since she had last seen him. She could picture him as he had been so clearly, that sometimes, when she was walking alone, it was almost as if he were walking right next to her.
She remembered the way he had strode into class on the very first morning she had ever seen lum. She remembered that she had remarked to herself that he was an extraordinarily handsome man, though he was older than anyone she had yet been attracted to. He was tall, extremely, and gauntly slender, with long legs and arms. He dressed very casually, wearing black and white checkered lumber jack shirts in the winter, and honey colored corduroy pants. His body seemed very loosely strung together and whenever he moved, he looked graceful. He had gray hair that was just beginning to go a little bit thin over the top of his head. Lastly, what she loved about his appearance was that he smoked a pipe. Not only did this make him look, in her words "sporting" as if he were just about to go hunting, but it filled his class room with a delicious chocolaty-cherry smell that she had come to associate just with him, and with the mental and emotional excitement that he was able to stir up in her.
Once, just about a year ago, Shirley had been sitting in a New York restaurant with a date, and from across the room, the familiar smell of flavored tobacco had wafted to her. Automatically, she stood up; testing the air to see what direction the smell was coming from. "It must be him. It must be him," she kept repeating. She had not, until that moment, been aware that she had still reserved so much love for him. The instant that smell reached her nose, all that she felt for him came rushing back. Standing up from the table, she searched frantically from table to table, looking for that familiar, beloved face.
Finally, she found the fellow who was smoking the tobacco. It wasn't Reggie. She sat down again in supreme disappointment. When her firm, sand-colored buttocks touched the red vinyl of the booth seat, she shuddered. She realized that just the smell of tobacco had made her cream in her pants. Her thighs against the vinyl were sticky and moist, and the strip of nylon that stretched over the outside of her pussy and gotten soaked and was clinging to the inside of her love canal as if it were stuck in a swamp. "Ooooh," she squealed and shifted in the booth, and then she looked sadly down at her plate.
"What was that all about?" her date asked her.
"Oh nothing," said Shirley, and she put her elbow on the table and delicately tickled the line of hairs that curled in the center of the nape of her neck. She had long spidery fingers, with long, glistening, pink-polished fingernails. Around her delicate white wrist was a heavy, gold charm bracelet.
"I just saw someone I thought I knew, that's all."
"Um, was it somebody important?" the young man who was with her asked.
She looked up at him grinning, realizing she had aroused his jealousy. "It's just an old teacher," she said. "Somebody I feel really influenced my life."
"Oh," said her date. He looked at her quizzically. She had gotten awfully excited over someone who just thought they saw an old prof.
She really hadn't been old enough or mature enough until about a year ago to sort through her confused and excited feelings and admit to herself that one of the things she felt for him was an intense, physical desire.
She could remember the way her little nipples would harden when he walked into the room. She tried harder in his class than in any of her others. She would watch him as he paced back and forth in front of the classroom. He adlibbed wisdom. He would walk with his head down, his pipe in his mouth, and his hands in his back pockets. Usually he wore argyle socks that could be seen clearly because his pants were usually too short and too tight. Once he wore a pair that didn't match. That delighted her.
Watching him walking, she would find herself staring hungrily at the mound in his pants at his crotch. His pants fitted snugly and showed that he had an extremely large prick. She would stare at it, and then she would have to close her eyes, and she would feel her whole body shiver. Then she would open her eyes again and try to concentrate.
The sartorius muscles that ran down the inside of his thighs were visible through his tight corduroys also. Shirley would watch them tighten and knot as he walked, and the bulges in them would strain at the side seams of his pants and lift his prick upwards a little. How she longed to slip her fingers inside of those tight pants, to feel the warm moist skin that was being pressed and hugged by the soft corduroy, to feel the weight and grandeur of his balls, to search for the hard, unbending prick that was like tempered steel, to hold and caress it with her tiny fingers, to kiss it softly on the head.
These thoughts made her quiver with excitement as she walked. She was older now, and who knows, a whole new chapter might be opening up in their relationship. It might be that he thought she was old enough to get to know him intimately this time.
She knew that it had been her desire for him that had made her perform with such academic brilliance in his class. First of all, because she wanted him to notice her, and since she had no way of standing out initially from the rest of the class other than by doing superb work, she had worked her buns off literally. She had sat at her typewriter night after night, eroding the skin on her ass. She would write her weekly paper and while she wrote it, she would think about him reading it. The thought would make her cream as she worked, and she would rub the soft white undersides of her buttocks and the back of her pussy on the seat of her straight-backed desk chair. She would wish that the seat was his hand. Sometimes she would pretend that it actually was, and she would spread her legs wider as she sat, and try to grind the soft, wetness of her snatch over the surface of the chair and call out his name.
When she watched him in the classroom with his enormous cock making a soft, and, she imagined, sweetly fragrant, mountain out of his powdery soft pants, she thought he was sublime, superb, supreme over her world. Surrounded by a classroom full of worshipful young women, she thought he looked rather like a lion with an enormous pride , thousands of lionesses hungrily, slavishly following him.
Not only did she work hard on her papers, therefore, but she always went into that classroom having read her assigned material, and having to struggled to understand what the texts he gave her were saying. The first class she ever took from him was philosophy, although he taught many different things. He was classified as a professor of Humanities, which is a very general sort of word. But philosophy is not an easy subject, and Shirley's desire for Reggie inspired her to do very well in it. She would sit up late at night, turning new ideas over and over, looking for loop holes in them, and when she needed refreshment, she would think about Reggie and she would masturbate.
The next morning would see her bright eyed in class, with her hand up and ready to intelligently answer any of his questions. He began to be very pleased with the little red head who always sat in the front row. He mentioned to another teacher that she seemed very eager to learn, and that her mind was lively, as if it were on fire. "She's an unusually hard worker," he said.
Lastly, Shirley's desire for Reggie led her to do all sorts of extra work. She read books that were not assigned so that she could stay after class and get into discussions with him. She wrote down her thoughts on paper and handed the pages into him, using "intellectual curiosity" as an excuse to let him get to know her better.
Slowly, a trust that was initially based on intellectual respect began to develop between them. Shirley was so well-informed and her thoughts were so fresh and she worked her brain so hard, that Reggie began to genuinely enjoy talking about philosophy with her. Both of them were iconoclasts and they would get into discussions, the outrageousness of which would make Shirley giggle.
Then, one evening after class, an evening that Shirley would never forget, Mr. Pender asked her to come home with him: They had been talking animatedly about whether or not the earth wasn't in fact the center of the universe, so that generations of philosophers and astronomers had all been walking up a blind alley. Neither of them believed in the theories they were expounding, but they were having a delightful time expounding them anyway, and laughing at the pillars of their particular field of study. He was sitting on his desk, or he had one leg propped up on it and he was swinging his leg.
Shirley noticed the way his flesh spread sideways from his thigh as it rested against the surface of the solid oak table. This made his pants even tighter, and as he swung his leg, she almost heard the seams in his pants creak. She couldn't help staring at his thigh hungrily for an instant too long. He saw her eyes playing over him.
"I'll tell you what," he said suddenly. "Let's not stand here in this stuffy classroom. I'm interested in what we're discussing and would like to continue with it. Why don't you come to my house? We can have some wine. And some cheese."
Shirley felt as if the greatest honor in the world had just been conferred on her. "Oh," she stammered, hardly able to believe her good fortune, "I'd love to come." She suddenly felt self-conscious, and she pulled her shirt down further over her little abdomen. She had a tight little stomach that stuck out a little bit. She was not fat, but she was sway-backed, and had the posture of a little girl. She wiggled her big breasts at him, and as she pulled her shirt down, he could see her hard nipples erecting beneath it.
As he turned around and collected his papers, he surrounded her in a flurry of overcoat. His papers in a stack on his desk, he reached up into the air to get his arms into the flailing sleeves of his heavy coat and he brushed up against her. Shirley still could not be sure, but she remembered that on that day she had been almost certain that she felt his fingers brush across her tit and stop for an instant to tweak one of her nipples. Then, the sensation of his hand was gone, and she saw his arms in the air, flapping as if he were an eagle. Since she couldn't be sure whether he'd actually touched her or whether she'd just imagined it, she had said nothing about it. She had simply collected up her notebooks and her text books and stood beside him and patiently waited.
But as she stood there, she could feel her pussy muscles working. It felt as if they were spiraling downward in a circular pattern, and pushing cream downwards with them as she went. Her cunt was hungry for him. Her cunt was thinking about the size of his prick. Whatever her brain thought about, however long-winded and high-minded, her pussy would not stop praying that it was going to get this man's cock stuffed inside her.
His cock was so big that it would probably create a gothic cathedral out of her pussy walls. Just from fantasizing, already she could feel the sad, empty space echoing hollowly inside of her. Her snatch was convulsing its walls together and creaming as if it were washing itself with a thin, milky substance, as if it were snuffling one wall against another sadly, in an intense effort of looking for something. She knew that that something was he teacher, and that until he dominated her completely, she would feel dissatisfied somewhere deep inside of her.
Shirley remembered wondering as she stood there if Mr. Pender knew that her pussy was wet. He always seemed to know everything.
And as she walked, remembering all these things after that gap of three years that had matured her. she wondered if he had known all along that she would one day come back. He must have known, she thought, long ago, that one day he would have her. He must have known that she would just pick up in the middle of her busy life, one day, and walk the old street back up to his house, with no other purpose than to give herself to him, and to beg him to completely dominate her. She loved him so much that she wanted his will to be inside her, wanted his arms to strap her, wanted him to stick his cock into any of her bodily orifices. She wanted her body to be able to satisfy his every desire.
Reggie, she remembered, had known perfectly well what the effect was that his tight pants were having on his students. She remembered sitting on the floor by the fire, at the foot of his chair. Sometimes, she would lean back against the overstuffed armchair that was his usual perch. She would put her head between his knees , and he would put his big, long-toed feet onto her shoulders. Playfully, he would work his toes into the little valleys behind her collar bones. He would stick his big toe into her ear, and caress her neck by grapsing it between the soles of his feet. To show that she loved him, she would turn her head and lick him between his toes.
Then they would sit companionably, the two of them sitting facing the fire, and they would be silent for a little while. One night, Reggie had told her in a wistful voice, "You know, sometimes I wonder what I'm doing as a teacher."
She was about to break in and say, "Oh, but you're so good at it. You inspire everybody," but she realized he was not feeling insecure. He was simply asking some bigger, philosophical questions about the purpose of his job in the cosmos and how it should best be done.
"The one question," Mr. Pender went on, "which seems to be the biggest question, although most teachers never bother to ask it of themselves, is this: You've got to stop a minute and think about why it is that all those people who are sitting in front of you each day are going home at night and writing things to you. Most teachers never ask themselves that, and understanding that would help you understand to a large extent what would be the best way for you to do your job. It's not an easy question to answer. Perhaps the answer is different for each student."
As Shirley listened to him talk, she had the oddest feeling that he knew that the reason she had done so well and had spent so much time developing herself into a philosopher was all because of his big cock. She hadn't realized that he went home at night and thought about his students as people in any sort of a deep or perceptive way. Now she felt suddenly naked, and a little bit ashamed. She realized in a flash that all her academic progress was just a front. She was camouflaging and decorating a simple, achingly strong, sexual desire.
What she wondered was whether there were many women students who did this. She wondered if he knew his tight pants encouraged his students to work harder. She wondered if he knew that his prick brought them flashes of brilliance late it the night, because it worked up in them a kind of energy that, having no outlet, became sunk into the subject at hand.
Then, she wondered whether it might not be possible to make men a lot smarter by having more women professors. She thought that might be so. That was the night she had decided, therefore, to become a teacher, and see what she herself could do, by way of being energizing and inspirational. Now, she was well on her way, having had already two jobs. She felt that intellectually she would be less intimidated by him, more on a par with him. She felt that they would have more experiences in common. They could talk about the common ground of teaching. At the same time, she had become less inhibited, and, if possible, more grateful, so that she was anxious to let him bend her with his will. Now, too, since she was older and more able to be responsible for what she did, perhaps he would feel that she was old enough to bear the magnificent weight of his body, and to hold the grandest prick in the universe. Also, since she was no longer enrolled as a student at the school, he could now be certain that he was not going to get sued.
Shirley gasped. She had turned the last corner and she was walking up the final street-his street. She gasped because everything on it, the letter box on the corner, the two grand old sycamores, the crooked chimneys, it was all so much more familiar than she realized it was going to be. Already her head was dizzy with the memory of his face, and his big feet on her shoulders. Already her fantasies were teaming again, just as they used to, and she imagined his long arms curling tightly about her shoulders and how it would feel to have her nose sinking deeply into the soft wool of his shirt front. In a flash, her mind brought back to her the rich chocolate-cherry smell of his fragrant tobacco. In her mind's eye she saw his enormous hands, with the black hiars curling masterfully between his knuckles. They were such huge, powerful hands, full of twinkling tendons and glistening veins. She had always been aware, when she looked at them, how quickly and how easily they could wrench her little legs apart. She had always known how little good it would do her.
On the nights she had gone home with him, she had always known how little good it would do her to struggle if he wanted to slide his mighty fingers into the helpless slit between her ass cheeks that tunneled away into her pussy. If he took it into his head that he wanted her, she would simply have no choice but to be his. He was strong enough to force her to submit if he wanted to. He was strong enough to force her to submit with a smile on his face. The thought made Shirley dizzy.
She felt as if Fate were bringing her back to his house now. She climbed up the steps on her soft leather boots. She noticed that bulbs had already been set out in the snowy flower pots. Eagerly, she stepped up to the front door and knocked on it. It had a solid brass clapper that was shaped like a lion. The clapper was the lion's dangling tongue.
For a few minutes, there was silence within the house. Then Shirley heard a set of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs and approaching the door. The latch opened with a click, and suddenly, there was that beautiful, handsome, wonderful face of his peering round the door at her. He had his pipe in his mouth.
He gaped for an instant, and then smiled broadly. "Shirley," he said. "How wonderful it is to see you. Are you in town for awhile now? Come in. Come in."
She was creaming in her pants and at the same time, she felt slightly uncomfortable. "I'm sorry I didn't answer your letters," was the first thing that she said. "I didn't ever know what to say. When I tried to write you, somehow nothing I put down ever seemed good enough."
"Oh," he said, and she realized she had forgotten how gentle his voice was and how relaxed were all of his manners.
"I'm a terrible letter writer myself. I hate writing letters. I hate committing myself to paper," he said. "I sympathize completely." And he ushered her into the house.
Again, it was the familiarity of everything that startled and warmed her. Everything was still exactly in place. There were even two big logs on the fireplace, and they had just begun to steam and catch.
"You're just in time," he said to her. "I was just starting a fire. It's awfully chilly out, isn't it. Well, how about a Bloody Mary?" He rubbed his hands together. "And then I want to hear all about all of your adventures."
Then he smiled at her with an extraordinarily gentle expression on his face. His nose was almost as pink as his lips from the cold, and it made him look laughably lovable. His smiled looked very happy and soft. His eyes seemed to be asking a question.
Suddenly, he swooped down on her and kissed her on the lips. His mouth was warm and sweet tasting. He didn't give her his tongue, but he sucked the air out from between her cheeks and held her mouth wetly to his with the vacuum he created. He held her for a few seconds, and then went off to the kitchen.
Shirley was so aroused that she felt the lips of her pussy slide over one another with each step that she took, as if they had been buttered. She could feel that the crotch of her panties was soaked.
She looked around while he was out of the room. She noticed a new china figurine on the mantle piece. But almost everything was wonderfully, dizzyingly familiar. There was the Persian carpet onto which she'd first watched him spill his seed. There was the fire irons, the same poker with the exquisitely carved handle that she had so often admired. She stood by the fire, letting the growing flames warm her legs and letting the familiarity of the place sink in.
"Have a seat," he said as he came in, holding two frosty glasses. "This is a real surprise, Shirley, and I must say, quite a pleasure. But somehow, you know, I also feel as if I've been expecting you. I somehow knew when I last said good-bye to you, that you would one day come back."
As he said this, Shirley's cunt began churning like a washing machine. The rolling liquid motion of her cunt walls were slapping cream against each other like the ocean sprays up against a cliff. "I knew I would too..." she stammered out.
With a sure, warm gesture, he put his enormous hand on her right breast. He held it as if it were a piece of fruit and he turned it gently from side to side, sampling the texture of it with his thumb. "These have gotten bigger," he said to her and he smiled. He let go of her breast, patting her nipple as he did so, and he said, "I don't want to rush this. Sit down for a minute," and he pointed toward the fire.
Shirley sat down cross-legged on the carpet, just the way she had used to, and began peeling off her tight boots. Once her toes were free, she held them up to the now flickering orange flames, and she realized how numb they had gotten. She held her two big toes and worked them round and round, trying to step up her circulation.
Reggie sat in back of her, arranged his limbs in a loose lotus with some effort. He looked at her and he grinned and he blinked his eyes sleepily. "I'm getting older," he said.
"You look just the same," said Shirley.
He had put on a little weight. She liked the added heaviness. It made him look even more powerful.
He leaned back on one arm, and made a toasted motion with his glass towards the fire. "Oh, Shirley," he said, "do you remember."
Shirley did, and the warmth of the fire was bringing back the sensation of his hands on her breasts. "Just touch me underneath my tits," she whispered, and he reached his hand over and he tickled his playful fingers under the weight of her boobs. He watched her nipples erecting under her sweater. She sat in front of the fire with her knees up and her legs apart and let the flames warm her cunt. It was wet, and the memories of him lubricating her had been uncomfortable out in the snow. Now there was so much cream on her and the fire was so warm, that she thought it would start to boil over her snatch. She moaned. She closed her eyes and put her head back.
One evening, three years before, she had resisted him and had had to be tied up. Of course, he had done it gently, and with that calm air of patience that she loved so much, and that had always made her trust him. She was ashamed that she had had to be tied. She was ashamed that she had not listened to him. She was ashamed that she hadn't been able to he still and just trust him.
He had asked her if he could fuck her in the ass. He had done so, of course, simply because, for him, desire was commensurate to fact. He did whatever he wanted as far as she was concerned. But the fact that she had struggled with him so fiercely had cast an unpleasant shadow over his act. It had exposed a chasm of doubt that undermined all her protestations of her love and absolute worship for him. He was hurt and disappointed that she had struggled, and she was insulted by his disappointment.
He had tied her up to teach her a lesson. He tied her, not so much because he had to. His big hands could hold her little body quite still without the aid of rope. But he had tied her to show her what he would do to her if she resisted him.
That was why it was so important that Shirley had come back. He knew and she knew, inside them, that she had come back to repeat the act. They knew that she was older now, and she could take the pain without flinching. At the same time, her love for him had grown, and she was certain she could let him do anything he wanted to her.
She was in awe of him.
The first time that it happened, it had happened in the basement. The air had been cool and dry down there, whispering full of hollow rustles all around them. They had been sitting close together by the fire, staring into its orange, liquid flames flowing upward from the black, steamy logs. Shirley could feel the heat that was being generated from his body. She could feel it soaking like sun rays into her shoulder.
She walked back on her buttocks towards him. She inched backwards almost imperceptibly so as to get as close as possible to him without actually touching him. He was sitting with his knee drawn up to his chest and his hand clutched over his shin. As she moved back, he could feel the angora furs of her sweater against his knuckle.
Suddenly, all the lights had gone out. They were not left in total blackness because of the fire. But they could feel the blackness fall like an inky silk curtain all around them.
"It must be a fuse," Reggie whispered. He always whispered in the darkness. Darkness seemed to him to prohibit talking out loud. They sat still in the darkness for an instant, feeling self-conscious. It would have been so easy for Reggie to grab her by the breasts. He knew it, and she knew it too.
He pulled his knee away from her. He was trying to control himself. After all, she was a student. "We better go down and check," he whispered, and he stood up.
Holding her hand to keep her from tripping over things, and pulling her masterfully around pieces of furniture that she couldn't see but which he knew were there, they worked their way toward the basement door.
It was cool on the stairway. They could hear their soles scuffling on the gritty stone floor.
"Watch out," said Reggie. "Don't get too near the boiler." He struck a match.
The match spluttered, dropped a hairline of white coals, then swelled into a little, full-breasted orange flame.
As light spread flickering over the walls with their shelves full of old tools, and their nails with ropes and garden hoses hung up in coils on them, Shirley saw that Reggie was standing peering into a fuse box. He was squinting hard, as if trying to locate a switch.
Suddenly, he turned to her, and he flicked his head once or twice to the side. "Get over here," he thickly whispered.
She stood in front of him, suddenly frightened. It felt as if there was a little, hard raft spinning on top of a whirlpool that was working its way slowly down her vagina. When she moved her legs to walk towards him, the tops of her thighs rubbed against each other and stung. Their most, soft-skinned surfaces didn't slide past one another easily as usual. They were covered with a sticky white paste and they clung to each other.
When she got up close to him, she began to feel less frightened however. As usual, he surprised her. He was smiling.
"Do you think you're in love with my mind?" he asked. He was holding the match in front of his forehead and peering down at her. "Do you really think you're in love with my mind?" He asked this last question in a whisper and he reached towards her very slowly. He put his hand on her red hair where it fell onto the very top of her breast, and he scooped the hair together in a hank. He pulled it gently, as if he were teasing her.
"Or do you think it's because I'm, perhaps, radiating something?"
He began to laugh with a slightly irritated, impatient sort of flustered chuckle. "No, no," he said. "This has been fun. But, Shirley, I'm tired of this. Come on."
He reached for her hand and he placed it firmly on his dick. She was amazed at how hard it was, already. She struggled with him. As she tried to yank her hand away, he held her with his thumb and his first finger circling her wrist. She pulled so hard that she felt the bones in her wrist crack apart like knuckles. But he would not let go.
He watched the expression on her face with calm eyes, and brought her hand firmly up and down over the upturned back of his prick. She made her hand go completely limp, so he took it and he slapped his prick with it, jamming her knuckles into it so that she had to straighten her fingers and hang onto him to keep him from breaking her hands.
"Come on," he said, and he looked at her as if he were totally disgusted.
"Eat my cock!" he said. Pulling her outragedly by the hand, he yanked her towards him. He licked his forefinger and put a little drop of spittle on her face. Then he shoved her down onto the floor. She landed on the stone on her knee caps. She could feel them ringing from the impact and the pain made her feel slightly delirious.
"Don't you love my cock?" he asked.
She didn't answer. She had her face down toward the floor, and her straight red hair was hanging limply down into it.
"Don't you?" he said and he put one of his enormous hands on the back of her head and he forced her to nod it up and down. "Say yes," he hissed, as he pushed her head down each time farther and farther before he let her struggle it back up. He could feel her head gyrating and shaking over the back of his hand, cushioned by her own fine, dry hair. The hairs made sand paper scratches as they rubbed over each other. In the palm of his big, hot hand, her head felt small.
"Say yes," he whispered, "or I'll crush your skull into the floor."
Shirley groaned.. "Ye-e-e-s," she said, in a husky rasp. She drew the word out into a pleading moan.
"I do," she said. "Please let me suck your cock. I've been looking and looking at it in class and imagining what it could do to me. I'd rather eat your cock than any cock in the world!"
With an abrupt, business-like motion, he unbuckled and unzipped his pants. The match had long been burnt out, but when he forced her head down to it in the blackness, she could feel that his dick was truly enormous. It's head pressed against the bottom of her nose as he fumbled it toward her lips. With her upper lip, she could feel a vein in which the blood, like a tic, was beating. She felt the thick, velvety, absorbent shaft probe between her parted lips and settle that beating vein down on her tongue. It soaked up all the juices in her mouth. She sucked as if she were thirsty. She sucked to get the juices back in her mouth.
Then she opened her mouth wide and let his cock tickle the back of her tongue and the back of the roof of her mouth. She clamped her mouth shut over it, and pressed it against the roof of her mouth by flurrying hard at the underside of it with her tongue.
"Don't you love my cock?" he asked. She sucked back hard, as if he were a lollipop. She pulled in her cheeks.
"All semester long," he said, "girlie, I have been fucking you in the ear. Just like I am now with my voice."
Shirley felt the little drops of spittle that accompanied his hissing words land on the inside of her ear. Her ear was full of his hot breath. "I want you to know what it feels like when I also fuck you in the ass!" she heard him whisper.
She turned to face him and there were little drops of sweat all over his upper lip. The gray stubble that was beginning to sprout there looked like diamonds or a fine layer of ground glass. It felt the same when he pressed it against her own upper lip. She felt as if he were scraping her skin raw as he settled his lips on her. He grazed on her face like a camel. Then he stuck his tongue into her mouth. It was a thick tongue that filled her cheeks and forced her mouth open wider to accommodate it. He thrust it in as far as it would go and then wiggled the top of it a little bit over the back of her throat.
Suddenly, she felt she hated him.
"Come on," he said, holding her by her knees that were still aching. He made her shuffle them quickly round over the floor. They burnt at every step. Suddenly, he pulled her knees out from beneath her. Her chin struck against the cement with a thud. She landed with her cunt smashing into the cold stone of the basement floor.
Reggie parted her legs while he held her up by the ankles. He wiggled his body between them. She could feel with the inside of her calves how hard and taut his body was. He pressed the underside of that magnificent cock into the soft white flesh of her buttocks. She felt the shaft of his dick rubbing slowly down over her twat. He was lubricating himself.
He rubbed the base of his cock into her pussy, then he slowly inserted the head of his prick into her tightly drawn up ass-hole. She was so tightly closed, that he almost at first couldn't feel any hole at all with his dick.
He pressed himself into her where he could feel that the flesh was the softest. Slowly he began to penetrate into her. He felt as if he were pushing his prick into a trampoline that was stretching around him more each time so that he was able to stretch out a little pocket in it. The fibers of the trampoline kept fighting him at every thrust. But he kept pressing against them, no matter how they fought. Slowly one by one they would loosen and tear and let him go past.
When he had got in a little ways, Shirley began sobbing and screaming. She rotated her hips from side to side, trying to work herself off him the way one loosens an incredibly tight screw.
Reggie held on tightly to her ankles, cracking the bones in them, and laughing. "You're not going anywhere!" he said, pulling her backwards towards him. He held his enormous, iron-hard prick straight up into her, and stood still for a moment. He was simply enjoying the feeling of her passageways shifting around him, scissoring against each as she gyrated her flailing hips.
She didn't know it but by gyrating, she was spreading the moisture that he'd picked up from her pussy all over the inside walls of her anus. She was lubricating herself. She was unwittingly making entry simpler. She was making her body softer, smoother, and more vulnerable to him.
"You're making yourself so much easier to fuck," he whispered and he thrust the whole of his enormous cock as far as it would go up into her.
Shirley felt it crawling round her canal like a squirmy, wiggly lizard in a dark cave.
"Ow! Ow! Wow!" she moaned. She was in hideous pain. She felt as if a burning hot poker had been stuck up inside her. She felt as if the poker were touching and pressing on her spinal column. She felt her skin rip, and then she felt it blistering dryly.
"Ahhh!" she said and she gave a little wriggle.
"Now, if," (breath), "relax," (breath), "you'd find this," (breath), " a lot more pleasant," Reggie said between short, powerful jabs with his acid-tipped spear.
He held on tight to her buttocks and he worked the flesh of them cruelly. He put the heels of his hands down, one in each of the cheeks of her ass, and he sat all of his weight on his arms as if he were resting on a pair of cushions. "Relax!" he demanded and he gave her a blow on the buttocks with the back of his forearm. He rammed his dick up inside of her in a quick succession of insistent thrusts.
Suddenly, he stopped moving. He got up off of her and stood above her. She lay still on the floor of the dark basement without moving. He brushed his hands off. They were covered with fine gritty dust from the floor. His eyes had dark-adapted by now, and he could see her white shape, groveling on the floor. "Good," he said. "Wallow in the dirt there. You don't seem to be much good for anything else."
"You have got to enjoy it." He chuckled. "I insist that you enjoy it. That's because of who I am. At any rate, I'm going to have to tie you up. I think that the feeling of being bound will make it easier to relax."
He went to the shelves and he got down four coils of rope and he strung her up with it. He tied each one of her wrists and ankles to a different metal pillar. The house seemed to rest on these metal foundation columns. They stood in a dark grove in the basement in three even rows. The place looked like a modern day, small Moorish temple. He tied her limbs high enough that, although there was a little room for her spine to slack downwards in, her belly came nowhere near to touching the floor.
Her legs were as wide apart as they could be forced without being broken by the added pressure of his heavy pushing.
"There," he said, putting his hands under her abdomen and holding her up and ready, with her ass-hole poised above the tip of his dick. He pushed himself into her with some struggle. He had to jump and jab and hold her by the hips in order to fight his big javelin-like dick into the tightness of her loins. It felt as if her pelvic bones were crushing themselves together. She was so tight that he felt as if he were having to pry them apart.
"Now maybe you'll relax," he said.
Shirley had her eyes wide open as she hung there suspended in the air. Her hands were stretched out in front of her and to either side of her, as if she were pretending she was flying. He scampered his hands up her torso and over her lush breasts as if his fingers were the feet of two squirrels. His arms were their tails that undulated, ribbon-like, after them. He grabbed her breasts between his fingertips as if they were delicate oysters he was about to pick up. He scrubbed at her nipples with the pads of his fingers as if he were testing the abrasiveness of a wash board.
Shirley felt her nipples swelling. They were pointing straight downwards beneath her towards the floor.
"Relax," he said. There was a cooling note is his voice. The sound of his whisper was suddenly like a soothing wind and she decided to give in to it.
Suddenly all of her limbs went limp in their shackles. He was right. That terrible, invading, ripping, burning pressure in her ass-hole suddenly felt wonderful. She felt as if every tension in her body were letting go. She felt as if the muscles in her rectum walls all around him were suddenly going soft enough to become stretchable. She felt that they were billowing. She felt that they were rising in mounds around him, mushrooming like a cloud.
She repeated aloud to herself as if in a trance, "I must not be scared of him. I must trust him. I must not resist him."
His prick slid into her easily now. She felt pain as it were a sharp farming implement, making a furrow. But she did not tense against it. She let the sharp waves of pain ripple through her.
Reggie felt her insides going soft and hot. He shot his sperm into her. It erupted out of him slowly, giving him intense pleasure. It flowed out thick and spilled, congealing into her like a giant wad of bubblegum left melting in the sun on the sidewalk.
When he was done, he untied her. He helped her back into her clothes, and then he fixed the fuse. He gave her his arm, surveying that the ropes in the basement had been put neatly back in place, and then he pushed her up before him, up the basement stairs.
"There," he said, as he closed the basement door behind them. He looked her body up and down with an appreciative expression on his face. He rubbed her breasts. "Now, I think this is much better. Now we can go back to the fire. The air has cleared. We know each other now, don't you think." He began to laugh. "Talking will be much easier."
He had never mentioned anything more about the bonds he had had to put on her. But she knew that she had disappointed him. The shackles were like an added aid that she needed a crutch. She couldn't without being tied up give her body to him completely.
PART TWO
"To tell you the truth, Shirley," said Reggie Pender, and he looked at her sideways with a quizzical expression as they were sitting in front of the fire. "I hoped you'd come back. But, of course, I couldn't be certain that you would. You know that I have a tremendous respect for you, and for your ability to see things through. I believed that something in your better self would want to come back. But
I wasn't sure if it was that part of you that was going to win the battle that was sure to be going on inside of you."
He grasped her with a crooked finger under her chin, and held her face up to his own.
"You're a very willful woman," he said to her, and he licked her nose with his enormous tongue.
"I'm pleased to see that this side of you has won. I feel that you're being true to yourself in a place where it isn't easy for you to achieve your full potential. You've come to the right place, of course," he said, and he grinned at her playfully.
Shirley put her hand on his thigh above his knee and she squeezed the familiar knots of his sartorius muscle fondly.
He looked down at her hand with an irritated expression on his face. He shook his head and he lifted her fingers away from him. He didn't let go of her hand, however. He brought it up against his chest, and then he turned her wrist around and twisted it. When he had got it twisted so much that she was really in pain and he could feel the tiny bones in her arm rubbing against one another, he began to tickle his finger tips over the tightly stretched skin on the inside of her forearm. Each time he touched her, the slight pressure of his finger tips felt as if they were burning her flesh.
She looked straight into his eyes and he saw a flicker of resistance in them. Her eyes were burning. "You've got a lot of will left in you yet," he said. "I want you to grovel."
He held her arm up above her head and he plucked at her nipple. "Remember," he said into her ear, "it's not a question of what you let me do to you. It's a question of what I decide I want to do to you."
She bit her lower lip.
"But I'm having to fight such a battle with myself inside," she said to him. "Don't I get any credit for that?"
"The struggle and I'm sure it's a hard one-is your problem and not mine," he said. "If you want to be ready for me, I'm willing and waiting."
Shirley sat quietly in front of the fire for a minute. She was conjuring images of him, trying to envision in a line of pictures the whole of her developing relationship with him.
She remembered how he had frightened and startled her, very early on in their friendship, by seeming to know her better than she knew herself.
Shirley put her head back, and leaned back on her hands so that her tits pointed in the air. She waved her feet from side to side in front of the fire. She touched the tip of her toe accidentally to the poker. It came thudding down out of the stand where he kept the tools for stoking and reviving the fire. It fell with a mighty whack across her shin.
He picked it up, and as he sat cross-legged next to her, he began stroking his hand up and down the shaft of it slowly. Shirley turned over to look at him. Something about the way he looked or what he knew about her made her afraid to look at him. When she caught her single glimpse of him, holding the poker, standing it upright beside his knee so that the tip of it swayed in the air above his head, she thought he looked remarkably like a king who was holding a scepter.
So hoary headed and regal did he look, that she was honored to find herself with him. She thought back to the way he had looked in class. Immediately, the thing that came to her mind was her memory of that wonderful soft mound of corduroy between his legs. She remembered his magnificent cock.
As she thought of it, her palms itched to hold it. It was so big and so dry and the skin on it was like swayed. The outer skin slid loosely up and down the hard shaft inside it that felt beneath the thin sheaf of moveable skin like a piece of polished wood. She wondered if he was erect now. But she did not reach to touch him. He would put her hands on his cock in his own good time.
"Come here," he said and he got to his feet. "I want to show you something."
Shirley pulled herself upright slowly. The hot fire was making her feel very slow and lazy. She wanted to take off her sweater and lie down in the soft rug, and frisk her breasts over the piling like lambs. She wanted to play with him like a happy dog and she wished he would not always be so serious.
His face was sullen, however. In fact, it looked almost urgent. So she stood up creakily, and pulled her sweater straight, and with her hands, she rearranged her hair.
Reggie was waiting for her at the bottom of the little stairs that led down into the living room from the bedrooms upstairs. The staircase had a small white wood door over it, so that it could be closed off. The wood of the door matched the wood of the walls perfectly.
The house had come with this door. Reggie hadn't invented it. But they always used to joke about how it was his secret door, and how the top of his house was his secret compartment where he was free to do anything he wanted.
He held open the door to her and he followed her up the stairs. The stairs were so narrow that climbing up them was like going up a tunnel. Shirley had to duck in order to avoid hitting her head on the steeply sloping wood ceiling above the stairs.
She lifted her skirt up over her knees and climbed out of the stair way into the room above as if she were climbing out of a well.
The room right above the stairs had always been a spare one. She remembered the empty reaches of its freshly sanded wood floor. The wood had been sanded but it had never been polished and she thought it felt pleasantly rough and dry under her bare feet. The unstained wood looked pink as skin in the light that came from the window.
But when she had last been to the house, that's all she had seen in the room just the bare unfinished floor and the single open window. That was how she remembered it.
Shirley was quite surprised therefore to discover, on entering the room, that there had been a few additions made to it. Large cages had been installed. The place looked like a kennel. The cages were made of wood. They had slender, carved poles instead of bars in them. They stood two tiers deep, all the way up to the ceiling. There was room for about four cages to fit on each tier across the room. Since she was standing at the top of the aisle that was formed between them, Shirley at first couldn't see what was in them. Looking down the aisle to the window that sat exactly between the two rows, she could count four enormous locks that were hanging from the wooden bars. The only bit of floor that was exposed was in that aisle. That was still bare and unstained and the color of skin.
Shirley felt shocked when she saw the cages. She felt they were in bad taste.
"Go on," she heard Reggie's voice say behind her. She felt his hand on the top of her hip, pushing her forward so that she could see what was inside of them.
"I want you to see," he said.
Shirley tiptoed down between the cages, still absently holding up her skirt above her knees and stepping cautiously.
She almost fainted when she saw what was in the cages. He had eight girls tied up in them. They sat on their bare buttocks, naked in their cages, shackled by their arms and legs to the bars, as if they were holding their arms and their legs out waiting to receive him. As Shirley walked down through the two rows of cages, looking into them, the girls watched her with wide, dull eyes but they said nothing. They looked as if they were frightened of Reggie and their eyes shifted and jerked when they saw him.
When Shirley got to the last of the cages, she turned around and looked at Reggie inquisitively, as if to ask him, "What does this mean?"
"Well," he said in a smooth voice, "you wouldn't like to be put in here, would you?"
Shirley quickly shook her head. She wanted to go back downstairs and get fucked by him.
"Well, this is for girls who need a drying out period. This is where I put young women who are drunk on their own will."
Shirley gulped.
"It's good for them. After I'm through with them, they are free to come and go as they choose. But believe me, they are much happier."
"You, however," he said as he looked down at her and saw the way that her nipples were erecting under her sweater, "possibly don't need to be put in here."
He reached his hand round behind her and squeezed one of her buttocks cruelly.
Shirley relaxed against his hand, letting most of her weight sink into it. When he let go, she stumbled, and she fell on her buttocks in front of him. She landed with her knees up and spread apart and her skirt.
"Ooops," she said softly. She hadn't worn any underpants. But that was a secret that she was hoping she could hold and reveal to him later. She had thought it would make a convincing detail when he came to ask her if she was ready to give herself totally to him if that wasn't in fact, exactly the reason she had come back.
Reggie bent down and he quickly slid two of his fingers inside her open pussy-and played with her.
Shirley hung her head. She clasped her hands in front of her, her arms wrapped around her knees, and she stayed completely still.
"Come on," said Reggie, grabbing one of her forearms. "Let's go back down stairs." He yanked her up to her feet, and then turned and strode back to the doorway.
Shirley followed him. As she alighted from the bottom step into the living room once again, she could feel her snatch getting sopping wet. She was watching his ass move as he walked ahead of her. The rolling motions of his flesh brought into her mind the vision of his enormous prick. She rubbed the top of her thighs together, trying to squeeze her pussy lips into her clit and relieve the aching, yearning sensation that she was experiencing there.
"Reggie," she called to him. She said his name very softly as if even the sound of it was precious to her.
He turned and saw her standing, still holding open the little white door to the upstairs room in one hand and the hem of her skirt in the other. Her eyes looked eager and adoring.
He liked that particular expression of hers. He couldn't wait to jam his great big dick into her tiny little succulent ass. He remembered the way her ass cheeks felt as soft as snow. He remembered the way her flesh felt as if it were melting in his hands when he brought her a lot of pain.
He walked quickly across the room to her and pressed her to his chest. She was much shorter than he was and could rest his chin on the top of her head. Again he felt the red strands rubbing like sand paper against each other.
His big hand covered her back and pressed her breasts against him. She felt the hard bones of his rib cage press her breasts upward. They strained at the delicate skin beneath them, She felt the buckle of his belt press into her navel. She felt his hard, dull-tipped fingers work their way up and down her spine. Best of all, she felt his enormous cock. It pressed erect from her pussy to her navel. It suddenly made her feel very small, and as if his dick was a telephone pole that was leaning out against her. It strained outward at the fabric of his pants.
With the hand that caressed her back, he sunk down amongst the folds of her skirt, hiked it up and found his way beneath it. He stroked his loose hand round and round her bare buttocks. He grabbed them and squeezed at them. With his knee, he shifted her legs apart.
His middle finger found its way into the crevice between her ass cheeks. He sunk his finger way in, and this time he felt no resistance from her body. Her insides stayed soft. He moved his finger to the mouth of her twat and stuck it in her wet, juicing hole. He picked up as much love juice as he could with it, and then carried it back to her ass-hole. It helped his fingers to slide easily in.
Shirley felt thrilled at his touch. She stood very still, with her eyes open, just experiencing the softness of his invading touch, not fighting it.
His fingers began to walk their way up her ass-hole. She felt them scrambling up her insides, and she didn't move a muscle. She simply stood still, staring ahead of her with vacant eyes, and feeling his hard chest, his belt buckle and his cock. She could feel the temperature of the material of his pants rising. His cock was certainly generating heat. It was probably full of pearly lava.
Suddenly, Shirley knew that she was ready to look at him. She knew that she could stare him right in the eyes and experience what he was doing to her, and that she would not move a muscle, would not flinch, would not hate him. She raised her steady gaze up into his face and stared at him happily.
He met her eyes, looked deeply into them, drew back his fist and then he punched her. The blow got her right in the jaw. He felt her head go back with the force of his arm, as if her head and his arm were moving in slow motion. No. Not even to that was there any resistance.
He stuck his middle finger as far as it could go up her ass-hole, and picked her up by it, resting her buttocks against his hand, her head against his shoulder. Her legs dangled loosely down to the ground on either side of the wiggling finger that was inside of her.
Reggie carried her back to the fire. Before the leaping orange flames, he stripped her. She felt the warmth flow over her nipples and the front of her thighs.
Reggie laid her out on her side, facing the fire, and he knelt down behind her.
"I'm, just going to test you," he said. And he just let her lie where he had left her without touching her. He reached over her and grabbed the poker which he had left leaning against the white wood side of the fire place.
The poker was made of solid brass. It weighed about forty pounds. Reggie held it waving in front of his face, and tested the point with his finger to see how sharp it was. It was quite dull, as far as skeweres go, but for his purposes, the poker was perfectly, hideously sharp. Reggie put the tip of the poker into the fire. He held the handle against his abdomen as if it were his cock, and he knelt and stared around the room while the tip of the poker heated amongst the leaping, liquid flames. Slowly, the metal began to glow bright orange. He had decided to heat it until it was red hot.
"Now," he said, "I am finally going to teach you what it's like to completely submit yourself to me. Shirley, this will purify you."
When he drew the poker from the fire, it glowed so brightly that its shape seemed to change second by second as they looked at it. Tiny coals fell from it as he drew it from the fire the way a warrior draws his lance from an open wound. The coals fell on pile of his Persian carpet, sizzled, and went out.
Reggie thrust the poker into Shirley's ass-hole. Shirley felt her ass cheeks colliding like two squealing tram cars. They derailed each other.
"Beautiful, baby!" said Reggie as he watched Shirley hold her ass-hole up for more by getting up on her hands and knees.
"Now I really feel like I am finally teaching you something!"