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From: "Seurat" <seurat7@enter.net>
Subject: {ASSM} RP:Seurat's Twighlight Zone chapter 4: Art Critic (Femdom, bondage)
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A note form Seurat:

My heartfealt apologies for those waiting for the rest of the 
'Twighlight Zone' series.  After rechecking some of the original 
reviews, I discovered that the original 5 chapters (#1-4) were 
misformatted, and am currently reformatting them.  As chapter 4 
was the largest at the time, it is taking the longest.  Throw 
into that the fact that I finished and polished chapter 5: Max 
and the trainer; have conceived of a new chapter 6 (and it's a 
doozy), and have changed the now 80% done chapter 6 to be 
chapter 7, I can at least say that I have been busy.  Not prolific,
 but busy.  One more note:  Chapter 4: Art Critic will have a 
slighly adjusted ending.  After a number of comments and some 
rethinking, there will be a better explanation of what happened 
to our poor Mr. O'Neill.
	As always, this stuff is intended 
for adults only and may not be published for money or charged for 
without my consent.  I do have access to lawyers, and have sued for 
copyright infringement before.  And I will do it again, even if it 
is just for the pure satisfaction of making somebody's life hell.

Just in case you're new here: lots of Femdom, anal and oral sex, 
and stuff like that there.  If you like it, let me know.  If you 
got ideas, let me know.  If you didn't like it, well then, um, you 
shouldn't have read it.


 THE ART CRITIC, by Seurat
     Chapter Four of 'The Twighlight Zone' series.

Wednesday, May 8th.

     THWOCK!  The ball hit high and wide right.  A hard shot, but not 
impossible.  I lunged for the return and put away the kill into the 
corner.  My point, giving me the second game.  "Nice shot" said my 
opponent, a Ms. Tara Worthington.  She was cute, sexy, and dressed in 
spandex shorts and a loose fitting T-shirt.  I had noticed she wasn't 
wearing any bra during the first game and it was probably why I lost.  
It made the second game a close one, but I had eaked that one out.  In 
point of fact she was almost as good as me, but she had a way of 
twisting and arching for shots that distracted me to no end and gave 
her an edge.
     Third games are always the worst for me, even though they only go 
to eleven.  By the time I get that far, I don't have a whole lot of 
directional power left.  Power, yes.  Direction, no.  I just hoped I 
could it them to a corner where she couldn't return them.  The first 
few serves went off the way I wanted.  Strong, fast, and so powerful 
that when I hit the ball it lifted me off the ground.  By the time I 
lost the serve I was up 5-0.  Her first serve was an ace, and not 
because it was fast.  Just before she hit the ball she bent over, and 
the spandex (or rather what was in the spandex) distracted me.  On the 
next serve she wiggled a little and it had the desired effect: another 
ace. I may be married, but I'm not dead, and I was really beginning to 
notice her body.
     By this time she knew exactly what effect she was having on me and 
my game.  She was constantly wiggling a little, or smiling, or liking 
her lips.  By the time I returned a serve she was up 9-5.  She was so 
suprised that I made a return that she stood there and watched as I took 
the serve back.
     The muscles in my legs and arms were so tired they were quivering.  
If I could keep the power going, I might just pull off a win.  The 
first serve was fast and low, and her return was short.  Same with the 
second.  7-9.  I gave her a lob and she was caught off guard.  Two more 
power shots and I was up 10-9, a point away from victory.  She returned 
my next shot and we volleyed for a while before she put it away.  Just 
like me she tried to put away the next two serves.  They were screwy 
back corner lobs, but I returned one for a kill and we were tied 10-10.  
     I stood in the sever area, trying to catch my breath.  "Ready?"
     "Hot, wet, and ready, yes."  I bounced the ball and brought the 
raquet around just as her words hit me.  The ball went high off the 
front, and she slammed it high for a wall hugger on the far side.  I 
sprinted across in a valiant attempt to catch it on the rebound, and 
only succeeded in slamming into the wall.  "Sorry, but I couldn't 
resist.  If you want the serve over, I understand."  I shook my head, 
declining the offer.  Tied 10-10, a point away.
     She bounced the ball a few times as she walked to the lines.  She 
turned around, looked at me, and made a show of giving the ball a 
squeeze.  "Ready for me?"  I would've swore the temperature on the 
court went up 10 degrees.  I nodded.
     The ball moved so fast off the front wall that I didn't even see 
it coming.  I should have, because it was aimed straight at me, and it 
caught me between the legs.  I dropped to the ground and folded into 
the fetal position.  No return made it her point, her game, and her 
match.  I didn't care.  I tried to uncurl my body and congratulate 
her, and decided instead to wait for a minute or two.
     I've caught it in the crotch before, always unexpectedly, and 
recovered fairly fast since it doesn't really hurt that much.  
Unless, of course, your playing with a tease and you have a hard-on 
straining against your shorts, because getting hit then is like falling 
onto the bar of your bicycle.  It hurts real bad, and you wonder if the 
pain will ever go away.
     She waited until I started to get up before she asked if I was 
okay, and if I wanted to get some coffee or tea afterwards.  At least 
I think that was when she asked me, as I was a little preoccupied 
before that.  I agreed,  and searched around for my goggles and 
glasses, both of which came off when I hit the ground.  I could soon 
see again.
     A little backgound before we go too far here.  My name is 
Alan O'Neill, and I'm a critic for a local newspaper.  I specialize 
in art shows, and I had met Tara the night before at a show at the 
University.  In fact, it was her show.  We talked a little, and came 
on the subject of sports.  That was how we ended up playing tonight.
     When I first met her I thought she was attractive.  She was short, 
for my tastes, about five-four, maybe five-five.  Long curly black hair 
framed a delicate face with blue eyes, small nose and full lips.  Her 
body was nice; not nice like when your wife gives you exercise 
equipment for Christmas and you didn't think you needed it, but nice 
like what you say when you get caught by the same wife watching Kelly 
LeBrock in a movie you hate and she asks you if you think LeBrock 
has a sexy body and you tell her it's just...nice.  Let me just say 
it was athletic and firm...some parts so firm that I wasn't sure they 
were all natural.  I didn't really care.
     I wasn't going to be hitting on her.  I am what they call happily 
married, and am also what they call a dog.  I talk a good show, and 
always figured there was nothing wrong with looking as long as I didn't 
touch.
      My mind was still preoccupied with the pain, and I realized that 
not only had I agreed to tea at her place, now, but I would be driving 
her back to her house.  She had taken a cab.
     I pulled up outside the gym in my sensible little two door, and 
let her in.  I could tell she had not showered either, and her scent 
started to fill the car, or at least that was the way it seemed.  I 
was getting thoughts that a married man shouldn't be getting.  
"Everything okay?" she asked, "I mean, you got hit pretty hard.  I 
hope everything works okay."  
     I decided to let that one slip by.  
     "Yeah, nothing that's never happened before."  It was true.  
You take your life and genitals and pretty much hope they don't get 
it by the ball, let alone a racquet or an elbow.  She gave me 
directions to one of the nicer areas of the town, where rows of large 
brownstones lined the streets.  Hers was like the others there, a 
one-car garage and basement entrance off the street, and a short flight 
of stairs led up to the main entry.
     I parked in the drive and we headed up to the huge cherrywood and 
leaded glass front door. Inside was a tastefully decorated, if sparse, 
living room and dining area with a kitchen in back. Pieces of modern art 
and sculpture decorated the room.
     "Any particular type of tea?" she asked, walking across the room to 
the kitchen.
     "No, as long as it's hot."  I looked around.  "Nice place you have 
here."
     Her voice rang from the kitchen.  "Thanks.  It used to be my 
father's.  He had made some good investments a few years back, and 
when he retired to Florida, I got this place.  I'm still remodeling 
some parts, but it'll be done to my tastes soon.  Would you like honey 
in your tea?"  I yelled back 'yes', and she returned to the living 
room, where I still stood, admiring the art.  Force of habit, I guess.  
"Have a seat."
     I took the mug of tea, sat down on an overstuffed  leather chair, 
and had another look around.  "Most of this stuff yours?"  It all seemed 
pretty eclectic, but the was some undercurrent that tied them all together.
 I figured it was the artist.
      "Oh no.  I just like to dabble in a little sculpture.  This is 
actually my private collection.  Mostly unknowns, but maybe someday 
they'll be worth what I payed for them."
     "You live here, and support starving artists?  Dad must have made 
some good investments.  Wish I could get into art that way."
     "I'm sure you'll really get into art someday. I do have a day job. 
I'm a computer-technochemist for Baum-Dietrich Technologies.  I have to 
have some way to relax."
     "Computer-technochemist?"  I was in way over my head on this one.  
"Just what does a computer-technochemist do? 
     "Right now, we're developing synthetic nerve actuators.  Sort of 
a replacement skin, which could be regulated through the use of 
micro-computers."  She could tell she was losing me fast, and I could 
tell she was on the way to change the subject.  She looked at me for a 
moment, then asked,"more tea?"  
     Taking a quick look at the clock, I saw that I had plenty of time 
to get home before my wife.  "Sure."
     The next move was pure textbook slapstick, though I probably 
couldn't prove it.  As she stood her knee hit the table and her mug of 
tea was knocked into the air.  As if in slow motion I watched it come 
right at me, dousing my left thigh and crotch with hot tea.
     "Shit! I'm really sorry."  She grabbed her sweat towel and rushed 
over as I tried in vain to dry of with some tissues from the table.  
She began to towel of my thigh and, before I could stop her, she began 
wiping my crotch too.  My cock sprang to life at her touch.  "Seems more 
got wet than I first thought."
     I grabbed her hand and pushed it away.   "Please!  I'm married, if 
you hadn't noticed."  I showed her the gold band on my finger.
     "I didn't mean anything.  Really.  Why don't you run upstairs and 
shower off, while I wash your clothes.  Unless you want to explain to 
your wife why your privates are covered in honey-tea. Upstairs, through 
the bedroom.  Should be plenty of towels."  I got up and climbed up the 
spiral stairs.  "Better hurry.  You don't want to have any stains there, 
do you?"  My pace picked up.
     I quick-stepped it back through the bedroom and into the bathroom, 
taking a quick look at the four-poster bed decorated with gossamer 
scarves and the other furnishings as I passed by.  Once in the bathroom, 
I turned on the water and stripped out my clothes.  Putting my glasses 
and wedding ring on the vanity, I hopped under the hot spray and pulled 
the curtain shut.  After a few moments I heard the door open, and a 
slight noise as my clothes were picked up.  The door shut again.  I 
finished the shower quickly.
     I reached out of the shower and grabbed a towel, and looked around 
as I dried myself off. The whole room was done in maroon and white, down 
to the soap in the dish and the toothbrush. I toweled off my hair, put 
my glasses back on, and wrapped the towel around my waist and made a 
roll-over knot.  Turning off the light, I stepped out into the bedroom.
     There was a chair in one corner of the room with an odd looking 
terry-cloth robe lying across it.  I say strange because it looked too 
bulky to be just a robe.  As it was not there when I went into the
bathroom, I figured it was for me.  I undid the towel, letting it drop 
to the floor, and put on the robe.  The lining of the robe was cotton; 
it was snug around my arms (probably wasn't used to arms larger then 
Tara's) and cinched it tight around my waist.  The robe was cut high 
for a woman, and rode even higher on me, nearly exposing my genitals.  
I vowed not to sit down while wearing it.
       "Guess that robe isn't quite big enough for you," she said, 
standing in the doorway.  I probably turned red enough to heat water.  
She walked over to me, her body swaying the way I had noticed in the 
court, and I could feel myself starting to get hard.  "We should really 
find something a little more appropriately sized for you.  I always did 
like that robe.  You didn't pull the sleaves down far enough, though.  
Here, let me show you."  She stepped behind me.  "Cross your arms in 
front of you."  I did as she asked, and felt her hands run up the 
sleeves a little, her left up my right, and vice-versa.  The cotton 
sleeves were about halfway up my forearm, and by the time she reached 
them, she was giving me a tight hug from behind.  I looked down to see 
my now stiff prick sticking out from the folds of the robe.
     I felt her grab the ends of the sleeves and start to slide them 
down my forearm.  With a suddeness that caught me completely unaware, 
Tara brought her knee up to the center of my back and pulled hard on 
the sleeves, and I heard some snaps pop.  The sleeves slipped over my 
hands, and she somehow connected them behind me, effectively 
straightjacketing me.  Tara grabbed my shoulder as I started to 
protest and spun me around, throwing me off balance.  With a smile 
of contempt she pushed my off-kilter body backwards, causing me to 
fall on the bed.
     "What the hell do you think you're doing!?!"
     She looked at me and laughed.  "I figured we would have a little 
fun.  Looks like you were figuring on it, too.  The flesh seems 
willing enough."  With that she grabbed my cock, "Is the spirit just 
as willing?"
     "I told you, I'm married!  Now let me out of this thing!"
     "If you really were happily married, you wouldn't have come back 
to my house.  And you certainly wouldn't have such a big erection.  
Now move back onto the bed, before I make you do it myself."  I felt 
her fingernails jab into my flesh, and decided that, at the moment, 
I should probably go along with her.
     I slid back on the bed so that my head was on the pillows.   
She got on the bed on walked over (on her knees) until she was 
straddling me, the earthy smell of her body preceding her.  She looked 
me in the face, smiled, then looked at my crotch.  She then leaned 
over and began kissing my neck, then my chest, then moved downward, 
finally reaching head of my cock, and my head flopped back.  Seeing 
her chance, she quickly moved up so that her knees were on the outsides 
of my arms, and sat back on my chest.  "Now, I'm going to go change, 
and I don't want you to go anywhere.  Promise you won't move?"  
I nodded.  "For some reason, I don't believe you.  But I do know how 
to help you keep your promise."  She reached below my crotch and under 
my ass, and pulled up another strap, this one about a half inch in 
width, and I felt a tug on the back of the robe.  Tara pulled it up 
through my ass cheeks tightly, so that it felt like I had a wedgey.  
With her left hand she lifted my cock and balls up, and with her right 
wound the strap tightly twice around the base of my genitals.  The 
strap then went back under itself and up to my crossed arms, which it 
circled twice, and was tied off on the headboard.
     She walked around to the foot of the bed and pulled a scarf from 
under the bed and looped it around my left ankle, drawing the loop 
tight.  I panicked and tried to get out, but realized that any attempt 
to escape might mean serious injury to my manhood. She stretched out 
the scarf, tying it to an unseen anchor at the bottom corner of the bed.  
She then did the same with my right ankle.
     "Now, I'm going to change into something a little more 
appropriate.  Don't go anywhere.  Like you would."
     With that she walked out of the room, and I heard her as she 
walked down the stairs. Even though I had come out of the shower only 
a few minutes ago, I was really starting to sweat.
     I heard her return a few minutes later.  If I had gone limp at 
all while she was gone, it was even harder when she came in.  Dressed 
neck to toe in a white cyre' catsuit, she looked the picture of kinky 
sex.  White leather spike heeled boots adorned her feet, and her hands 
were in white latex gloves,  Her nipples stood erect through cutouts 
for purpose of showing them off, and the lips of her pussy showed 
through the cutout between her legs.
     "My, you look good enough to eat.  No, don't say anything, just 
relax and enjoy.  In fact, I don't want to here a word from you."  
She leaned over and took off my glasses, then reached under the bed at 
the side, and when I saw what she pulled out I started to buck 
frantically to get away.  Knowing my predicament, she took the black 
leather hood she had pulled out and wiggled it over my head, cinching 
it tight behind my head and under my chin.  The hood had cutouts for 
eyes and mouth, but the nose was so firm against my own I couldn't 
breath that way.  When I made the mistake of opening my mouth to protest 
she promptly filled it with a large pacifier shaped gag, which velcroed 
in place.  The inside of the gag was big enough that I couldn't move my 
tongue, but was perforated at the front so that I could breathe.  Then 
she undid the cock strap.
     "That's better.  Now, before we begin, let's set a few ground 
rules.  One - I do to you what I want, when I want, and you accept, 
willingly or not.  Hmm.  Guess that about covers it."  With that she 
moved her head back down to my now red prick and took it into her 
mouth.  She wrapped her left hand around the shaft and began to fondle 
my balls with her right as she bobbed her head up and down.  She must 
have felt me about to explode because she stopped and gripped my dick 
so tight that I couldn't cum.  "Something wrong here.  I know!"  She 
waited a few seconds to make sure I was relaxed enough so that I 
wouldn't cum, then dropped my cock and jumped of the bed and back 
into the kitchen.  When she returned I saw that she carried a small 
spray can, a cup, and a large towel.  She put the can, the cup and 
something else down on the ground at the foot of the bed and started 
wedging the tower under my legs from ankles to hips.  "Cream can get 
so messy, you know."  Cream?  As in whipped cream?  This was 
definitely getting different.  
     She leaned off the edge of the bed and I heard the spray can.  
When she came back up her hand was filled with a large mound of foamy 
cream, which she proceeded to rub all over my cock and through my 
pubic hair.  By the time she was finished the cool cream covered me 
from hips to knees.  "Ready for the big surprise?"  What next? 
chocolate syrup and a cherry?


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