Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. Dee STP 10 by peregrinf Mom and Elaine come up from the dunking I've given them and Elaine is spritzing water at me through her teeth with a wicked grin. When Mom Number 2 puts "a little relaxation session" together in a sentence with the word "playroom" it can only mean one thing. "Have I got plans for you tonight," Elaine says, gloating. "Everyone out of the pool!" As quick as I can slosh out I'm on my knees on the hard concrete, water puddling around me. Standing over me wearing her wicked-Mistress smile, Elaine strokes my head as if I were a spaniel. If I had a tail I'd be wagging it. Mom is nearby, head bowed, hands clasped in front of her pussy, in full submissive mode, her nipples as hard as mine. I'm wondering what the night holds for me. Routinely I prepare and serve them supper, then it's downstairs to the playroom, where I'm the ball in their tennis match and they've been known to use real tennis rackets. "Dinner for three this time, Dee." Three? A guest is coming? What about the "no public display" rule we instituted after my humiliating romp in the park? But I suppose in our own home it's not exactly public. Guess who's coming to dinner! The Stick crows. Oh God! OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod! It has to be Lance. I should have expected this. For the last year he's been the subject of endless talks with my moms -- and my lunch bunch, of course, but that's another thing. Over dinner, during sympathy-filled snuggles on the couch, even in their bed, I've bared my love life to them as well as my body. During the emotional cyclone that had been my junior year, what with my broken neck and Greg popping in and out of my life, Lance surfed my storm-tossed moods, strong and steady and patient, and I came to rely on him as a friend. Breaking my neck also shattered Greg's and my plans, our dreams of a long and passionate future, and our relationship. After cleaning up at the state championships he went on to greener pastures -- an Olympics training program -- leaving me behind to pick up the pieces of my life, and Lance was there to help. As I healed, physically and emotionally, our relationship evolved from being "just friends" into something I was afraid to put into words. Greg had been my first and only great passionate love, but with Lance it was different. Instead of leaping willy-nilly into full-frontal fucking Lance and I approached sex with each other as shyly as if we were both virgins -- first chaste good-night kisses, later meetings of tongues, then hands testing limits, seeking sensitive places through clothing, even though I'd been naked when we'd first met and he'd done The Program at his school and we'd skinny-dipped together. I think we were both afraid of risking the friendship we already had for something more glandular. After a movie date we approached our very first kiss holding our breaths, a kiss that turned out to be sweet, savory, comforting, and so arousing we didn't dare it again for a week. From that point on we began a wary and awesome voyage of discovery, date by date delicately exploring each other's erotic terrain with fingers, lips and tongues before finally taking the emotionally loaded plunge. Now, nearing the end of our senior years we are contemplating our futures, while at home the dinner and pillow talk with my moms has mostly been me agonizing over revealing my B and D kink to him, something I never did with Greg, which tells you how serious the relationship with Lance has become. Bold as I am, I just can't bring myself to burst out and ask him to tie me up, spank me and then fuck the shit out of me using whatever hole he damn well wants. At my moms' suggestion I tried hinting, holding my arms behind my back while we made out, once even while he fucked me, but he didn't pick up on it. We wrestle like bear cubs -- we are pretty evenly matched -- and in the end I surrender, but the love that follows is soft and tender, and unfulfilling even as he fills me. Men can be so dense! Elaine got so tired of listening to me bitch about it she warned me that if I didn't do something about it, she would. Now she has, I guess. She's planned this, knowing if she dangles a playroom session in front of me I'll bite, and sure enough, once again I've leaped without looking. I love mixing metaphors almost as much as enjoy sex. I'm left wondering what she told him when she invited him over. Be prepared for a surprise? Guess what, your GF is a pain slut? He's about to explore a whole new world. He's Lewis and Clark rolled into one and I'm his Sacagawea. Tonight, tonight, won't be just any night! sings The Stick gleefully. Oh shut up! My pussy weeps as we make our way inside. Once there, Mistress fastens the collar around my neck, where it will stay until she takes it off. Mom gets her own collar, same stipulation. Then Elaine digs into the small footlocker she keeps in the hall closet, hauling out things that rattle and clink. "Since we're having such important company tonight you're going formal." As I sink into my comforting submissive haze I feel a twinge. "Going formal" means the full kit; wrist and ankle cuffs, a chain around my waist, all linked together with so many chains I rattle. Hobbled, I have to be careful to avoid tripping myself. Shackled, I reach carefully or get pulled up short and spill whatever is in my hands. You'd think ignominiously falling on my face or splattering our guest would be embarrassing enough, but Mistress has her own opinions on that. If I fall there are consequences. If my service is slow there are consequences. If I spill there are consequences. I'm already unbelievably turned on, but if I come without permission there are consequences. Notice I say "consequences" rather than "punishment." There's no place for punishment in our games, and games are what they are. The number one rule is to have fun. All the other rules, and there aren't many, insure our safety. Mom and I welcome the opportunity to forget all our mundane worries and be under Mistress Elaine's control. Mistress Elaine relishes her power over us. It's a wonderfully symbiotic relationship. My formal outfit does nothing to conceal my charms, and if seeing me like this doesn't clue Lance in nothing will. My cuffs and chains stand out like a Here-there-be-Dragons billboard. Supper preparations underway, I'm digging the colander out of a low cabinet when the doorbell rings. Rising up without thinking I whack my head, pots and pans and lids clattering. Backing out, muttering words that will have consequences, I scramble up. Oh shit! Oh God! OhGodOhGodOhGod! It has to be him, so I run for the door, only to be brought down by my hobbles. I rattle like a clothes dryer full of bolts as I awkwardly scramble up. What is he going to think, seeing me like this? But if I don't get to the door before the next ring I'll pay the price, so I hurry. Mistake. Picking myself up again, I shuffle as fast as I can. The doorbell tolls yet again. Ah me. What's a girl to do? Open the damn door! The Stick answers. My hands shaking, my palms sweating, exquisitely conscious of my cuffs, my chains, my nakedness, the eager alertness of my nipples, I open the door, the cool evening air sweeping around me, smelling of the neighbor's fresh-cut grass. I can't bring myself to look up, but I recognize the battered, beloved joggers, so it sure isn't the FedEx man seeing me like this. I almost wish it were. Will this ruin everything? We have such a special relationship. "Elaine warned me, but I have to admit I didn't really believe her," he says wonderingly. Exposed for what I am I'm shivering, my tits so hard they ache, my nether lips in full flower. The insides of my thighs are wet with my seepings. He has to be able to smell my horniness. He tips my head up and I know I'm blushing from head to toe, and that's a lot to blush. Finally I can't avoid it any longer and look up, not sure what to expect -- shock? Horror? Disgust? "I love your outfit." As he looks me up and down there's a fire in his eyes matching the bulge in his pants, a bulge I know well. Okay, we'd approached sex carefully -- warily, in fact -- but in case I haven't made it clear, that doesn't mean we haven't rounded all the bases, so to speak. After all, it has been a year of getting to know each other, and a year is a lifetime when you're a teenager. "Whatever goes on tonight, I want you to remember one thing," Lance says softly. In full submissive mode I swallow hard and nod. His kiss is soft and tender, barely brushing my lips, and if I had shoes on I would be melting down into them. As it is, there's nothing to keep my toes from curling and my pulse rate going off the scale. "No matter what happens you must remember that I love you." His lips brush my cheek. OOooooohhhhhmyGOD! He's NEVER said that before! Even at the height of passion or cuddling together in the deep warmth of shared afterglow he's never said it! I want to throw my arms around him, but I can't of course -- cuffs and chains, remember? And that would not be a slavish thing to do, either. Oh God! I squeeze my eyes shut against the tears, desperately gathering myself back together. Without a word I step aside, feeling like my innards are dissolving into a hot goo that wants to leak straight out of my pussy. As I close the door Mom and Elaine are snuggled side by side on the couch, sipping Chablis, more naked than I am, even allowing for Mom's collar. He's seen them in their skin before and knows the house dress code. I brush his hands away so I can undress him the way a good, obedient slave should. Feeling its heat on my face I barely avoid taking a nibble at the cock that pops out to greet me, a cock as hard as I've ever seen it. A long drool of pre-come seems to sting as it hits my arm and I want to lick it off. Working within the limits of my shackles I help him out of his shoes and socks, his pants and underpants, him balancing with his hand on my head as he lifts one foot then the other. The contact feels so good! Scrambling up, I reach for his erection, only to be frustrated by my bindings. I shouldn't have done that. It's not proper! Regaining my composure, giving a respectful nod in my role as slave/servant, I formally introduce Lance to Mistress Elaine and my mother, even though they've met before, blaming it on my recent Jane Austen overdose. "Wine for our guest," Elaine orders. There's never a "please" or a "thank you" during our games. "Yes, Mistress." I rattle off to the kitchen for a glass and the chilled bottle. Filling Lance's glass, my shaking hands spill some. Topping up Elaine's and Mom's results in more spills, maybe because Mom's fingers are busy, busy, busy in Mistress's crotch, female musk scenting the air. If Lance wasn't sure before what was on tonight's agenda he has to be now. Mom's looking at my boyfriend's endowments in a way that moms are not supposed to, and she licks her lips in a way that has me worried. Much as she enjoys her same-sex relationship with Elaine I know she isn't strictly gay. After all, Carl and I weren't found under a cabbage leaf. Shit! What's to stop her from enjoying him tonight? Feeling a rush of emotions, among them jealousy, I remind myself that anything Mom does will have to have Elaine's approval. Small comfort that! Elaine has an almost psychic ability to push my buttons, and she doesn't limit herself just to the physical. It's threatening to be a very interesting evening. Leaving them to socialize I return to the kitchen, deliberately distracting myself with another of my mental jaunts into the past, back to the aftermath of Cameron's nose dive into her locker, when The Program was teetering on the brink. * * * The nurse had tended to Cameron's bruises and the cut over her eye and given her a medical release from The Program. A sweet, demure, virginal sophomore on only her second day in The Program, Cameron had broken down in tears again as she told Mrs. Devers and me how she'd bent over to reach for something in her locker and been poked hard right in her pucker -- not her word, of course, she only waved vaguely at her rear -- and gone flying. At least whatever had poked her had been blunt -- presumably a finger -- rather than something that could have done real damage, like a sharpened pencil. I hoped the creep who'd done it forgot to wash his hands before lunch and would come down with something disgusting. The situation was growing more critical. Whatever group was doing this didn't discriminate. Guys in The Program had also been catching grief -- pokes in the ass as well as strikes at other exposed targets of opportunity. Sooner or later whoever was doing it would pick on one of our testosterone fueled jocks who'd swing first and look later. Cameron's scream and clatter had told everyone in earshot what had happened. "That does it. I'm suspending The Program!" Mrs. Devers reached for the PA. Without thinking I grabbed her arm. "Don't!" She turned on me, shocked, ready to rip me a new one, something I knew she could do with her glare alone. "Please," I added, letting go like I'd grabbed something hot. Jeez she had muscles from all that tennis! Touching a vice principal had to be good for ten minutes in the penalty box, more likely a month in the dungeon on bread and water, thumbscrews optional. "Why not?" I cringed. "Because, well -- uh -- that would kill any chance of us catching someone in the act," I pointed out desperately, scrambling for reasons. "And if you suspend The Program, even for just a week, the motherfu -- uh -- rats will think they're winning, and then when -- if -- the program does start up again they'll be twice as bad, and sooner or later they'll get the riot they want, and if that happens kids will get hurt, and people will blame The Program and they'll come at us with pitchforks and torches, and...!" I ran out of wind. Mrs. Devers hesitated and I held my breath. "But something has to be done before things get any worse," she pointed out, in a tone so reasonable and controlled it gave me cold chills. I nodded tensely. "But maybe you could just suspend it for the rest of the day today to let things calm down? All we need to do to stop this is protect the participants better." "That's not as simple as it sounds," she observed in a tone that implied she was talking to an idiot. She knew I knew it. It was a problem SACNISP had been batting around over lunch rather than in formal meetings. How can you protect a handful of naked students from another handful that's out to do them grief when the halls are full of a thousand decent kids hurrying between classes? "Just how do you propose to do that?" she pressed on. Trust her to cut to the core of the problem -- or had I done that for her? "I have a plan," I blurted desperately. "What plan?" "Uhhhhhh!" The bell saved me. "I've got class. I'll explain it this afternoon. We'll have a special meeting. And don't worry, I'll let everybody know." I got out of there before she could stop me. Over the PA I heard her asking the week's NiS participants -- I refuse to think of them as victims! -- to come to the office. What the hell was I doing? I'd just put myself neck deep in shit! Plan? What plan? I didn't even have a clue, let alone a plan. Why did she listen to me? Why had she asked me to be on the committee in the first place? She should never have asked me to do this. I was making a total botch of this whole thing. What had I accomplished so far? I'd gotten towels for participants to put under their naked asses. Whoop-dee-doo! All my big plans -- ending corporal punishment of program participants, no more using The Program as punishment, good stuff like that? Those flights of fancy were being reviewed by The Powers That Be, whoever the hell they were. And what were they doing? Sitting in their plush offices fiddling while Rome burned. At least Mrs. Devers was on the front lines with us, but in deference to our wishes discipline had gone all to hell and the fanny pinchers were having a field day. It was getting worse and worse and Cameron had paid the price. And if she was anything like me she was blaming herself, feeling that she'd failed, when actually I'd failed her, and everyone else, and it was all my fault. And now I'd opened my mouth and stepped in it again. I latched on to Mike Collins in the hall and told him to get a text out calling a meeting for after school and why. When you're in a hole, stop digging! The Stick helpfully advised. I told her to shut up, that she knows I work best under pressure. If I didn't come up with a plan by then I'd be dead meat. Then I stripped naked and deliberately spent the rest of the fucking day being the only fucking person fucking naked -- well no, I wasn't actually fucking, oh never mind, you get the idea -- in the whole fucking school, hoping -- daring -- some fucking asshole to attack me. I'd catch the fucker in the act, haul him -- or her -- down to the office where I'd give him -- or her -- the third degree and he -- or she -- would confess everything, naming names, and I'd have everything fixed in one swell foop. Of course no one came near me. In fact when people saw me coming they got out of my way, even my friends. Maybe it was my clenched teeth, clenched fists and clenched eyes that did it. So at the end of the day here I was sitting alone at the conference table in a cold sweat when the rest of the committee members trailed glumly in and began stripping. I tried to find comfort and encouragement in what I saw. I saw Matt Mozilla, who has a great bod, only he's gay. I'd die to have 'Retta's awesome tits but I'd be so overbalanced I'd flop on my face! And dangling from Mike Collins was the cock that had taken my virginity and gotten me grounded for a week. And Heather was such a squeezable sweetie despite her rep as the Queen Bee and that she's straight as an arrow, just cock-shy. My committee drew out their chairs, spread their towels, and sat, and they were all looking at me, waiting for me to pull a rabbit out of the hat. Suddenly something about seeing them all together -- the whole committee, naked and comfortable with each other, Program veterans all, got me thinking. When I didn't move someone started the usual table-top soccer game using pencils and the top off a water bottle. It was all a matter of numbers! I ripped a sheet of paper out of my notebook and started calculating. * * * The kitchen timer goes off -- it's suppertime, and in spite of my daydreaming everything is ready. The table is set with the good linens, china, glassware -- fresh wineglasses, ice bobbing in the water goblets, sterling silver neatly holding down the napkins, all this in honor of our guest. Artistically arranged plates of antipasto are at each place and the big pasta pot hisses and groans impatiently, only a twist of a knob away from a rolling boil. The sauce is burbling contentedly in a pan, filling the house with the mouth-watering scent of meet, tomato, onions, garlic, red wine and oregano. Not for the first time I just have to taste-test it. As I do I see Mistress watching me. Giving her finger a lick she traces a mark in the air, the raises two fingers, making sure I know she's keeping count. I'm not supposed to eat, remember, but lick their plates when they're finished. And, in case you think I spent hours throwing this together, think again. The antipasto is your basic green salad with a few olives and the like to garnish it. The spaghetti sauce is from the freezer, nuked to life and set to simmer -- it's actually better that way than fresh. The pasta is just waiting for the right moment to go in the pot. The colander, indirectly responsible for the bump on my head, is ready to catch it. In other words, I'm on the starting blocks, ready to dive into action at the exact top of the hour, when Mom shows up with a note from Mistress. "Take the napkins off the table," signed with an elegant E. Say what? No napkins? Spaghetti is a messy meal! And why do I have to do it? And the note specifically orders me to do it. Making me late serving has to be one of Elaine's sadistic little plots. She has something up her sleeve -- except, of course, she isn't wearing sleeves or anything else. Ask not, I tell myself, shuffling desperately around the table, yanking the napkins out from under the sterling, only to have to make a second orbit to realign the place settings to geometric perfection. Or suffer the consequences, of course. Dinner is late -- only by two minutes, but it is late. Ah me. I hold Mistress Elaine's chair for her. Taking the cue from me, Lance graciously seats Mom. I flinch when she casually brushes his hard-on before he takes his place at Mistress's right hand. I'm at the kitchen door, ready to leap into action, and it's only one bite of salad before Elaine's scheme becomes clear. Smiling at me she fingers her lower lip. Is that a drop of extra virgin olive oil glistening on her chin? I snatch up the napkins I'd set aside only to be stopped by a shake of her head and a sultry look. Crooking her finger at me, she makes a show of licking her lip. Oh ho ho. She is such a witch! I am to be their napkin. Well, humiliating as it is, at least I'll get a little nourishment out of it now instead of having to wait to lick their plates when they're done. I lick the salad dressing off her chin, then turn to Lance and do the same, then Mom, and so on. On the third time around the table Elaine turns her head just as I take my swipe at her cheek, and I hit her lips and the tip of her tongue instead. I taste Chablis and salad dressing, and sex. Lucky dog me. Tonight I am her bitch. Then Lance does her one better: as I go to lick him clean his hand cups the back of my head, guiding me so we go mouth to mouth. Oh wow! Not my fault! Something nudges my lips and the slippery roundness of an olive intrudes, but only part way. I feel him suck the stuffing out of it before his teeth close on it, biting it in half. He chews his half, I chew mine. Still mouth to mouth, our lips and tongues do a very sexy olive-flavored tango. Oh gosh, do I ever want to jump his bones! Of course Elaine is watching, smiling her wicked Dom smile and I know I'm going to pay for that osculation later. It is worth whatever it costs me and Lance is eager to join in the festivities. Oh gosh, am I ever gonna get it tonight. The salads almost finished, I beg Mistress's indulgence to slip away to crank the pot to a boil, add the pasta and set the timer before hurrying back to again lick chins and cheeks, lips and tongues. They've been very messy! It is the most intimate a gesture I've ever performed at the dinner table. The timer sounding off, I shuffle fast as I can, back to the kitchen, chains rattling, barely avoiding a scalding as I dump the steaming pasta in the colander and give it a rinse. While it drains, trying futilely to wipe the steam and sweat off my brow -- short chains, remember? -- I shuffle back to collect the salad plates, lick them clean, get them in the sink, then dish out the spaghetti, drizzle the sauce and serve -- their guest first (my boyfriend! He said he loves me!!), Mistress Elaine next, then Mom. He is their guest. I have no guest. I'm just the slave. The Chablis having served its purpose as a palate wash and social lubricant, I bring out the Chianti. While I'm filling Mistress's glass a drip spots the tablecloth. An accident from hurrying? Well, it is hard to pour with my wrists shackled together, my reach shortened by the link to my waist chain. The look she gives me makes my pussy contract again, knowing my "consequences" will be adjusted accordingly. How many offenses is that now? Another drip by Lance's glass, and one by Mom's, and another! My debt grows. Tsk! I really must be more careful! Spaghetti sauce slides down my mother's chin, drips on her bare breast, demanding my attention. I lick it away, my tongue flicking her already stiff nipple. I'm barely able to keep myself from sucking it off. Out of the corner of my eye I see Elaine saying something to Lance, waving her spoon at him as if to emphasize a point. A large blob of spaghetti sauce detaches itself from the implement and drops into Lance's lap. Both of them look down, and he blushes. It isn't hard to guess where the sauce landed. Oh dear! What if it's hot! Dee to the rescue! I dive under the table to crawl up between my horny boyfriend's bare legs. Fortunately he doesn't seem to be in pain, but he is a mess. He's the only nude teenage boy sitting at the dinner table with two very attractive nude ladies, waited on by one as-good-as-naked female slave (whom he loves) -- it has had the expected effect. His thighs are wet and sticky, and it's not sauce, so I use my tongue on them, making his legs jump reflexively, before turning my attention to his saucy cock. I lick the head, and it is yummy, my incomparable sauce Bolognese enhanced by a certain je ne sais quoi. The next time I make up a batch I'll invite him over the season it. I make big batches so it might require several of his contributions, but I'm sure he won't mind. Closing my lips around the plummy knob I suck gently, my mouth watering. I am so hungry! While they suck pasta above the table I suck cock beneath it, working to swallow his meat until his curly brown bush tickles my nose. Abandoning his supper for a moment, his hands muss my hair, his groan interrupting Elaine's small talk. It's very dangerous to smile with a throat full of cock. I have to back off and take him down again, his shaft hot and vital, so alive in my mouth. Ravenous, I slip my fingers under his balls, lifting them in their soft, warm, sensitive sack, tickling and fondling their weight. His legs tense, his belly knots, his butt clenches, and there's a powerful pulse down the length of the very hotdog cradled in the bun of my velvety tongue. The initial thick eruption, hot and gooey, musky and a little salty, fills my mouth, even tastier than my world-famous sauce. I gulp down the first wad, quickly deep-throating him so my empty stomach gets his warm load directly. As his spurtings ease I backed off, catching the last surges on my tongue so I can savor his rich come, my head swimming with its musky scent. While all this is going on Elaine is telling him about the day she and Mom came home to find me stark naked, bound spread-eagle on Mom's bed. I'd gotten myself in that fine fix by experimenting with the bondage gear I'd ferreted out in Mom's closet. They'd laughed themselves silly. I was mortified. Lance laughs at Elaine's telling, his cock jumping in my mouth. "After making sure she wasn't in any danger," Mistress explains in a droll tone, "we took advantage of her in every way we possibly could, and she enjoyed it just as much as we did, maybe more. "I think that was the birth of her fetish," she concluded. As I finish sucking Lance off my cunt goes clench, clench, clench. No sooner do I lick him clean and spit him out than Elaine nudges me with her foot, spreading her legs and sliding her ass closer to the edge of her chair, her distended pink ruffles demanding my attention. As if that weren't enough, she's sauced herself while I was busy, and even added a bit of Parmesan cheese. It's a blatant command for me to service her, so of course I obediently shift and dive between her thighs. My head still awash in Lance's rich, masculine scent, I finger my Mistress's fragrantly feminine labia, lapping up off the sauce, seeking her pussy's glistening heart. His dick shriveled, Lance slumps. Fleetingly I find myself hoping he'll last longer the next time. I'm quite sure there will be a next time tonight, but who knows with whom or in what hole. Ah me. No matter how hard I try to distract her with my oral skills, Elaine still has the breath to tell him, in meticulously vulgar detail, about my weekend of total servitude to her and Mom. She leaves nothing out, not even the golden showers I received and then had to suck up off the kitchen floor I'd just scrubbed. Talking about that? At the dinner table?! I'd "eeewwwww" if my mouth wasn't planted in her twat. She then takes particular relish in describing my exhibitionist romp in the park chasing a Frisbee, concluding with the erotic whipping I got while tied between two saplings in the back yard. My God how I came! Of course all this was before Lance moved to town, so it's new to him, which made it all the more humiliating for me to listen to. "And you loved it, bitch, didn't you, every minute of it?" Elaine asks, interrupting my muff diving. "Yes Mistress." And I had. "Unfortunately it resulted in an incident at school the next day that got her suspended for a week," Elaine confesses, "which is why we're now more discreet. "Now get back to work down there." "Yes Mistress." She shoves my head back between her thighs. Her feminine aroma draws me on, my tongue parting her slippery inner petals. I'm rewarded by her sigh and feel a surge of joy at the pleasure I'm giving her, my own pussy weeping sympathetically. My tongue digs deep inside her, slurping up her juices, her slippery clit painting my nose with her fragrant secretions. Excusing herself to Lance, telling my boyfriend that she wants to concentrate on me eating her out, Mistress pushes my face more firmly into her pussy. I'm wallowing in her wetness, coating my face with her ooze. If I could shove my head up her cunt I probably would. She's coming on my tongue, lips and cheeks, her cunt spasming as I suck out her sweetness and swallow. She makes no secret of her orgasm, vocalizing musically. Her soggy folds muffle my own forbidden orgasmic groans, but judging by her cuntal contractions she feels the humming in her crotch. She knows, I'm sure she knows I'm coming again. The list grows longer. We'll be downstairs all night at this rate. When you're in a hole you're supposed to stop digging! The Stick tells me. It's one of her favorite and most frequent scolds. But it's so much fun! I retort. And all the while my mother knows perfectly well what's going on under the table without having to see it. I swear, I can smell her frustration even with my face buried in Elaine's crotch. When Mistress is done she pushes me away with her foot -- call it a kick, if you will -- and it is my Mom's turn. I wheel around and join the hummingbird tattoo feeding from her blossom. It doesn't take long for her thighs to clamp shut on my head as she floods my mouth with so much come I think for a moment she's peeing. In spite of my very best efforts to avoid it I whimper as I'm rocked by yet another orgasm and I know Mistress hears it. Then it's back out from under the table to resume my napkin duties, moving from face to face, licking spaghetti sauce off lips and cheeks and chins -- even Lance's chest -- my face still reeking of their juices. There's a certain feeling of pride at leaving all three of them not only limp and panting for a time, but with full stomachs and clean faces as well. As I'm licking Lance's face again a strand of spaghetti pokes from his mouth. Lips to lips I suck and more emerges. So I suck some more, and still more. He must have a full-length strand tucked in his cheek just for me! What a sweetie. As I'm eating it, savory with his spit, I come again, a very small orgasm, another offense to a growing list. Maybe Mistress hasn't noticed that one, but I'll tell her. A good slave always tells Mistress everything the slave has done. Besides, I know she sees me chew and swallow the spaghetti. I tingle at the thought. Finally it's time to clear the table. Going to each of them I perform a final, thorough napkin service before licking their plates as clean as possible. Stacking the plates I suck the silverware clean as well. The wine glasses are too deep for my tongue so I tip and suck in hopes of getting at least a taste out of them before clearing everything away to soak in the kitchen sink. No dishwasher for the good china or silver or glassware, of course. I'll have to deal with it eventually. How much later will depend on how long they use me downstairs. The dishes should be done before I sleep, though not necessarily before I'm in bed. I wonder. Did Cinderella feel like this? But then, that's a G-rated story, at least as Uncle Walt told it in the movie. What was the true story, I wonder? And speaking of bed, who might I be bedded with? There's been no sign Lance is spending the night, but if he does, might it be with Mom instead of me? Oh God! He's just told me he loves me, shared spaghetti with me like those Disney cartoon dogs -- who was it? --Lady and the Tramp? Will I ever be able to watch that movie again without masturbating? What if I have to sit there and watch him fuck my mother, all the time wishing it was me? Oh God! Talk about torture! But I love them both and will do anything for them! The table cleared, the three of them agree they're much too full for dessert at the moment. Yeah, right, The Stick snorted, they just want to get to the real action. And so do you, The Stick concludes. I shiver! To draw a culinary metaphor, I'm near a rolling boil, and every look from Lance only turns up the heat. When he sees what I let them do to me will he be disgusted? Or will he join in? The Playroom, as we so delicately refer to it, occupies the entire floor below the bedroom level. One end of it is a mini-clinic devoted to Elaine's "family" practice, if you get my drift. The centerpiece is the requisite examination table, complete with stirrups. It takes a sharp eye to spot the modifications Elaine has made to insure the -- ah -- cooperation of her "patients." No matter how willing they may be, they sometimes flinch. On the walls, instead of the usual medical illustrations of female plumbing and the stages of pregnancy Elaine has some of Kathy Powers's exquisite artwork, including a reproduction of the one of Beth Finch's beautiful cunt. Flattering me is an intimate life-sized ceramic sculpture of my female fixtures, in full flower and glazed in life-like colors -- modeled by Kathy while she was blindfolded. It shares shelf space with speculums and other instruments of Elaine's profession. At the other end of the room are more traditional furnishings -- if you're into bondage and discipline, that is. While Lance is being shown around I keep from working myself up into a total lather by recalling how I revealed the plan I'd developed before the committee's very eyes, and what happened next. * * * When it sailed within range I'd ended table-top soccer game by ceremonially smashing the water-bottle cap to fragments with my gavel. After yielding to our parliamentarian's insistance we needed a motion to dispense with the reading of the minutes of the last meeting I'd rolled out my strategy. The fools lapped it up as if I were some kind of an oracle. So the next morning I was pacing the gym, praying my call to arms would be answered and that the plan would work, because if it didn't there'd be hell to pay and I'd be the goat. Mindful of my teamwork lessons from Maria, I'd told her what was going down and suggested she have a squad with tear gas and nightsticks on standby. She'd told me she had news for me, too, to be passed along in a face to face, and oh how I loved going face to face with her! I'd suggested next weekend, giving me something yummy to look forward to, assuming I wasn't in jail. But where were my troops? The whole scheme depended on them. In a few minutes the week's program participants would be headed for the school office, where Mrs. Devers would somehow talk them into once again stripping to take on the hostiles in the hallways. We needed to be ready. Matt Mozilla and Heather McKenzie leaned casually against the wall, chatting like they didn't have a care in the world. After the meeting, using cells and texts rather than horses, they'd been my Paul Revere and William Dawes -- look him up, he rode with Paul -- calling the minutemen and women to arms. They seemed confident. The other members of SACNISP huddled more nervously. Of course we were all naked. The troops had been notified that the uniform of the day was skin. This was, after all, a stand to save the Naked in School Program. I just hoped it wouldn't go down in history as Walker's last stand. Maybe I could run off and join the French Foreign Legion. The Stick gave me a mental slap upside my head, telling me to have faith, that I already had support, reminding me that the committee thought it was a great plan or they'd never have gone along with it. Yeah right! I'd heard enough stories of committees led astray not to put much faith in that. My most reliable critic, Mrs. Devers, had missed the meeting, handling the fallout from Cameron's incident. This morning she was in the office preparing to deal with the nerves of today's participants. I'd barely had time to see her to get her to sign a stack of blank hall passes. I'd told her what we were doing but she'd been pretty distracted. I'd gone into the SACNISP meeting knowing we'd been sending the newbies out alone -- lambs to the wolves. But how to protect them? The Committee undressing as a sign of unity made me think of safety in numbers. We needed to muster an overwhelming force -- isn't that a great military term? -- to guarantee the comfort and safety of every one of the week's participants. The problem was getting the numbers and I suddenly thought of where we might recruit them. So while the others batted the cap around I'd worked the math. It turned out to be surprisingly simple. During the school year two students per week per class are in The Program. The school year consists of roughly thirty weeks. That meant that, out of just one class, sixty students completed the program every year. Whoa! That many? I was surprised. The senior class has three years of the program under their belts -- when they wore belts, that is -- not counting those who'd been caught in it so far this year. I could do three times sixty in my head and thought "holy shit!" With pencil and paper I'd rechecked my math. Over half the senior class, about 180 students, male and female, had already done The Program, which was surprise number two. Hadn't anyone ever done the math? I guess not! We only had to protect seven participants -- eight if Cameron had the guts to show up after her experience the day before. If we could enlist even half the seniors who had Program experience -- hopefully the most stable and mature half -- we could pull it off. Each participant could have as many as ten bodyguards. The plan was that anytime a participant was not in class they'd have bodyguards -- plural -- bodyguards as naked as they were, bodyguards already experienced in The Program, not about to be intimidated by the twerps who were preying on them. Even if a program participant had to be excused to go to the john, we'd have multiple bodyguards with him, or her. Hence the hall passes Mrs. Devers had signed. The Committee had bought it, and Heather and Matt had gone to work with their phones. Now where were the recruits? I was bucked up by a few curious seniors wandering in, greeting Matt and Heather, taking off their clothes. Then there were more, and then it was a flood, and before long in front of me was a milling mob of tits and tumescences. Matt and Heather had predicted we'd get eighty, but it looked like more. Matt and Heather had briefed them. I didn't need The Stick to remind me that now it was up to me to bugle "Charge!" and send them into battle. Would they listen to a mere freshman? I could only hope. Most of them by now had heard of me. I had to admit I'd created a bit of a stir in my brief high school career. Some -- mostly swimmers -- knew me personally. I'd heard some seniors who didn't know me personally liked what they'd heard about me, others not so much. Well, you can't please 'em all, and maybe those aren't here. It was Showtime, and just like always I didn't have the faintest idea what I was going to say. * * * Now, four years later, I don't remember what I did say, but it must have worked. Or maybe it was because I instigated the world's biggest mojo bounce -- notify Guinness! -- before we marched forth to take on the forces of evil. But now, having taken the ten-cent tour, Lance is by my side, and my whole body's tingling in anticipation of what will happen next. Elaine is on her throne, a high-backed chair with no arms, of course, so a miscreant can be draped comfortably over her lap for a spanking. I'm familiar with the position, but tonight, given my shoddy service and the company, we're obviously going to be more formal. Maria might say the proceedings resemble a twisted version of the Catholic sacrament of reconciliation, without the crucifixes and fancy outfits and all that. I stand before my Mistress and witnesses to confess to all the sins I've committed since kneeling before her this afternoon. I begin with the naughty words said when I banged my head while getting out the colander -- bless me Mistress, for I have sinned. I cursed again -- when did I curse again? -- don't remember but I did, under my breath, and I confess to it -- bless me Mistress, for I have sinned. I didn't answer the door on the first ring -- bless me Mistress, for I have sinned. And on and on. I overflowed the Chablis as I poured, supper was two minutes late, I dripped Chianti on the tablecloth three times - no, four. Service was slow. Mistress had to point out a schmear of sauce I'd missed on her left tit. (I swear she'd put it there herself, just after I turned away.) I didn't mind at all going back for that one, and neither did she, but she will make sure I pay for it now, which we'd also both enjoy. And oh yes, Lance passed me an olive which we'd then jointly chewed, and there was that yummy strand of angel hair from his lips to mine. Forbidden food by a forbidden act should count double at least. And all those orgasms without permission. I have to think. How many of those were there? Three? Four? At least five. I remember having at least three while I was under the table servicing them. I'd better admit to eight just to be sure, even though Mistress has no way of knowing the true number. In the end I confess to ten, just to be safe. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, and thank you, Maria, for the words. And oh my, is Mistress going to bless me for every one of those sins, and she'll enjoy it just as much as I will. Mistress has accumulated an impressive array of implements, both commercially available and improvised, with which to bless me. I'm set up for quite an evening. Understand, I don't do this out of some guilty need to be punished for past transgressions, though God knows I have enough of them. I do it because I like it. I'm such a perv. Me, a shining light in the senior class of Central High, has her own very, very, very dark side. Following Mistress's orders, Mom and Lance remove my chains and cuffs, leaving me as naked as the day I was born except for the collar. Then I'm escorted over to the examination table and helped up on to it. So this is where is where we'll start tonight! I'm suddenly wracked with goosebumps. I guess Lance is about to find out the kind of stuff I'm made of and I'm going to find out the kind of stuff he's made of. Elaine adjusts the table. Mom used it last. With my feet in the stirrups spreading my legs wide I'm blatantly exposed to Lance's intimate study, and use, if it comes to that, which I sincerely hope it will. Now Mistress's custom modifications to the table come into play. My feet are strapped to the stirrups, my wrists to the sides of the table, a strap across my shoulders and another across my waist. I can barely wiggle. Mom and Lance look on as I lie here helpless, naked and exposed on this gynecological altar, a sacrifice to carnal pleasures. Mistress Elaine slips on her Doctor Smathers Ceremonial White Lab Coat. I know from doing the laundry that it is stiff and abrasive. She likes the way it makes her nipples burn. As for me, I hope I never get used to the feeling of being naked in front of other people. The air touching me everywhere, my skin is sensitive to the slightest draft. Somehow I can even feel people's eyes on me, on my breasts, summoning my nipples to stand at attention, encouraging my pussy to blossom and become a receptacle for their pleasure and mine. Dr. Smathers pulls on a pair of gloves -- NOT latex to avoid any allergic reaction -- and hands a pair to Lance. Oh my! He's going to be playing doctor, too. Mom has to help him get them on, while the good doctor ruffles my hair affectionately. Of course this is for Lance's benefit. After all, what red-blooded teenage male wouldn't give almost anything to witness his girlfriend's physical exam? I only hope it doesn't take too long. I'm getting more and more anxious to get to the main event. When she is Doctor Smathers, as opposed to Mistress Elaine, she is so gentle! I just turn myself over to her. What else can I do? I'm strapped down here, helpless. I can do nothing, she can do anything with me. I'll surrender just as willingly to the not-so-gentle Mistress Elaine when that alter ego resumes control. The good Doctor shows Lance how to feel my breasts and it gives me a warm feeling in my tummy and lower down as they both toy with my nipples, pinching and rolling them. He listens to the drumbeat of my heart through her stethoscope, the soft whoosh of my breathing, the gurgle of my digestive tract, my empty-but-for-an-olive-and-one-strand-of-spaghetti digestive tract. They palpate my abdomen and I go all soft and runny when she tells him "here is her liver, here is her spleen, here are her kidneys which keep her blood clean." She guides his fingers to feel my ovaries, my womb, and my vagina -- inside and out. She shows him how a speculum stretches my cunt wide so he can peer at my cervix. Pressure on my bladder makes me want to pee. I will have to pee at some point. They tickle my anus and I get warm memories of my mom taking my temperature back there, but this is just a quick tour and they won't take the time now. I'm sure my anus will be in for some attention later. Mom and Mistress both like playing with my anus, and I like it, too. I feel like a child again. My shrink Ms. Andrews says it is regression, and that it happens because I've grown up so fast that I long for my lost childhood. I think I just like to shed all of the angst of a being teenager so I can live in the moments of sensuous, intimate pleasure and pain they'll give me. Let the games begin.