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Disclaimers:  

If you're underage and/or sexual material is illegal where you live, stop
reading this.

If you find stories involving sex and/or dominance and submission offensive,
please stop reading (though one wonders what you're doing here in the first
place!)

Copyright 1998. All rights reserved.  Reposting and archiving is permitted, so
long as you cite authorship and don't charge anything for the privilege.
 
* * * *
Red Rain

By L.Corvidae

Part One, Chapter Five: Tickled Pink

Wednesday, January Seventh, 1998

   By the time my shift ended, my pulse was racing and the lining of my mouth
had gone as dry as a scrap of papyrus from ancient Egypt. I couldn't believe
I'd said, "Yes."

   Sunday had revolved around Casey. First we took her to the zoo, where she
spent most of her time looking at the bears. Later, Camille discovered that
"Little Mermaid" was playing at the cheap theater, but I begged off that
excursion.

   "Aw, c'mon," Camille chided, trying to drag me by the arm to the door. "I
can't believe you don't like 'The Little Mermaid!' The music in that one's the
best!"

   "Although," she added, smiling slyly, "I am a bit partial to 'Be Prepared,'
from 'Lion King!' " and she began singing:

    A shining new era
    Is tiptoeing nearer

   Meticulous planning
   Tenacity spanning -

    I'll Be king undisputed
    Respected, saluted
    And seen for the wonder I am
    Yes, my teeth and ambitions are bared
    Be prepared!

   She ended on a whooping "La la la!" and fell into my arms.
  
  "I'm sorry, really," I said. "It's just... Ariel kind of reminds me of
someone, okay?"

   Camille studied my face; curiosity and jealousy evident in her expression.

   "Okay," she said softly, gently disentangling herself from my embrace. She
didn't seem happy, but she let it rest, for the moment.

   Later, she came back from the film alone. Her shoulders were slumped and her
hung her head low.

   "Dropped her off yourself?"

   She nodded. "Figured I'd save Stacey the trouble of having to come up with a
lame excuse for getting out of it."

   I got up off the sofa and walked over to where she stood; wrapping my long
arms around her slender frame.

   "Jordan?" she asked, sounding very small and sad and far away. "Would you
mind terribly if we just cuddled in front of the fire and passed on having sex
tonight?"

   "No," I said, gently stroking her hair. "I wouldn't mind at all."

   I didn't have school during the day like a lot of the kids working part
time, so it was pretty rare that I got a weekday off. Camille, on the other
hand, didn't like scheduling clients at night, which had meant that Lars hadn't
put in any other appearances during the week.

   She'd been a little disappointed about that; I think she liked having
someone to perform for.

   She did do 'phone sessions,' though, and it was both fascinating and
disquieting to watch her sit and eat a grapefruit, or peruse a magazine, while
she coldly ordered the men on the other line to snap rubber bands against their
testicles, or fuck themselves with dildos they happened to have on hand.
Sometimes I had to suppress a laugh as she described in great detail the
leather jumpsuits, latex dresses or thigh-high PVC boots she was supposedly
wearing. Not that she didn't actually own such garments, but typically, she'd
make the calls fresh from the shower, in a ratty green bathrobe and faded blue
UNC sweatshirt underneath.

   Occasionally, she would play with herself during a "session," and once or
twice she coaxed me, or Lars, to play, too. It was weird to hear her
breathlessly describe to a total stranger what she was experiencing as I lapped
enthusiastically at her sweet, sweet pussy; but I also found it pretty
arousing, as well.

   On Tuesday, she gave me a spare key to the house.

   Later that night, after we'd gone up to her room and rutted like wild
animals, she asked me. And, tired and partly delirious with post-orgasmic
euphoria, I'd said "Yes."

   The next day I bumbled around work like some distant American cousin to
Inspector Clouseau. Luckily for me, Beth was working that day and not Tracy, or
I probably would've have gotten in some serious trouble. My agitation was made
worse every time I went into the back and saw my coat; the bulges in the side
pocket reminding me of what I'd stashed there earlier that morning, while
Camille was in the shower.

   When I finally got off work, I drove straight to Camille's; tearing through
the night like a madman.

   I got out of my car, walked to her front door, and paused. My heart was
hammering in my chest, the rush of blood thundering in my ears. I tried to take
several deep, calming breaths.

   I had said "yes," and having said "yes," I decided that I owed it to her to
go through with it without fear or hesitation. Besides, having watched her with
her clients, I definitely felt that the evening had... possibilities.

   Taking one final cleansing breath, I opened the door.

   The living room was lit only by a fire in the hearth, and by the candles on
the dinner table. A single chair had been placed next to a setting for one.

   Camille walked out of the kitchen with a serving tray in her hands. She
stopped in her tracks and gawked at me in surprise.

   "I wasn't expecting you for another fifteen minutes," she said.

   She looked beautiful: absolutely beautiful. She had her long black hair tied
up in a ponytail. A black, three-ringed collar was fastened around her neck.
Aside from that, her lithe, creamy body was completely naked.

   I forced an arrogant smirk upon my lips.

   "I come and go as I feel like," I said boldly, adding as an afterthought -
"Slave!"

   Her whole body shuddered when I said that word.

   "I'm sorry," she said nervously, "I'll get the rest of your dinner finished
right away."

   I looked at her inquisitively. She stared back, not understanding.

   "Master?"

   "Oh!" she squeaked. "I'm sorry, master! Forgive me, master!"

   I dismissed her with a callous wave of my hand. She stood there a moment
longer, regarding my demeanor with open astonishment, and then, trembling, she
set the tray down on the table.

   My smirk was not all that forced as I watched her cute little ass bounce as
she scampered back into the kitchen.

   The instant she was out of sight, however, I felt my body sag, as if someone
had let all the air (hot air, I suppose) out. I shambled over to the table, lay
my coat over the back of the chair, and sat myself down.

   I heard the slap of her feet on the kitchen linoleum as she returned, and I
forced myself back into a more rigid posture.

   Saying nothing, I contented myself to let her lay the food out in front of
me. It was the same dinner as Sunday, spaghetti, garlic bread, mushrooms, et
all, but I had to admit I was looking forward to enjoying the food without all
the sibling rivalry.

   She set the last pieces in place and froze; looking at me expectantly. When
I made no move to eat, a look of concern began to cross her face.

   "Wine," I said coolly, and she skittered away with a yelp, returning with a
bottle of Merlot. I noticed her hands were still shaking pretty badly as she
poured me a glass.
 
   When she had finished and put the bottle down on the table, she looked to me
again, hopefully. Without meeting her gaze directly, I snapped my fingers and
pointed to the floor next to my chair.

   She dropped to her knees, blindingly fast. She was the perfect picture of
submission: kneeling, hands clasped at the small of her back, her head bowed in
charming obeisance.

   I suddenly found myself without the least bit of interest in the meal I'd
been looking forward to all day. Still, I forced myself to eat bite after bite
of the sumptuous feast, not tasting a savory morsel of it.

   Suddenly, her stomach growled, shattering the stillness of the moment.

   "Have you eaten at all today?" I asked without looking at her.

   From the corner of my eye, I saw her mouth drop open into an adorable little
"O," as if, despite having worked around food all day, the very idea simply had
simply never occurred to her.

   To suppress a smile, I heaped another helping of spaghetti into my mouth.
Scanning the table as I chewed thoughtfully, my eyes fixed upon the long, slim
sticks of garlic bread; and a particularly mean spirited thought entered my
mind. 

   "Open your mouth," I commanded, reaching for one of the buttery sticks.

   She looked so precious; like a little girl brave waiting for the dentist to
begin working on her teeth. My eyes began to water up.

   Instead of a drill, I slipped one end of the bread into the open space,
delicately reached down to her chin with my other hand, and gently closed her
mouth shut.

   "Don't bite!" I warned her sternly. The five inches or so of bread
projecting from her lips wobbled comically as she nodded imperceptibly.   

   I went back to eating as if nothing had happened: spearing a mushroom with
my fork, washing down every other mouthful with the wine.

   Without any warning, I leaned over and took a swift bite from the other end
of the stick. For one brief second our eyes locked: mine infused with false
steel, hers damp with deep emotion. 

   I righted myself in my seat just as quickly as I had dropped, and chewed the
bit of bread noisily.

   Thus I finished my dinner, swinging back to take another bite every so
often. Her stomach began to complain incessantly, and drool started dribbling
out of the corners of her mouth. 

   One more pass, and our lips would meet. Her eyes betrayed an overpowering
eagerness for this to happen, and I could almost imagine her trying to send me
mental projections urging me to take that last bite.

   My plate was clean, except for some sauce smeared around its surface, and
there was only a little wine left in my glass. I turned to face her and smiled
cruelly.

   She actually moaned out loud as I plucked the remainder of the bread from
her lips with my fingers. Unfortunately, this caused her to accidentally inhale
some of the saliva that had been building up in her mouth, and as she broke
down into a coughing fit, I was torn between frantic concern and hysterical
laughter.

   She got her choking under control, fortunately, and glared up at me with
large, reproachful eyes. I was still sitting there with that soggy bit of bread
between my fingers.

   "Stand up."

   She did as she was told, and I carefully swept the dishes and trays and
silverware and what not to one side of the table with my arm.

   "Lie down. On your belly."

   She looked at me, full of curiosity, but slowly complied.

   She really more bent over the table rather than lying down completely on top
of it, which is what I wanted anyway, since it put her ass right up beside me,
right where I wanted it.

   I took the nub of garlic bread and used it to sop up much of the sauce still
left on my plate. Then, with an artist's delicate touch, I began to paint
Camille's asscheeks with little dabs and long, red streaks. Her body convulsed
and she started to mutter something, but I gave her a not-so-playful swat, and
she quieted down.

   When her derriere was sufficiently adorned in rich tomato paste, I popped
the squishy bit of bread in my mouth, savoring the fact that it was sodden with
her spit, and allowed it to dissolve completely before swallowing.

   I think Camille was still trying to figure out just what the hell was going
on when I leaned over and ran my tongue across her ass with one long, slow
stroke. Inch by inch I cleaned off her ass as she shivered and moaned. When I
was done, I pushed her legs apart a bit and, quickly dipping my fingertips into
the last of the Merlot, daubed a thin trail of wine up the crack of her ass;
followed immediately by a slow, probing lick.

   From that position I didn't need to worry if she was enjoying herself. I
knew she was. I could smell it.

   With tremendous reluctance, I pulled my face from between her legs and wiped
myself with a napkin.

   "Are you ready to go downstairs, slave?" I asked, cupping the hot, quivering
flesh of her ass in my palm. 

    "Oh, yes!" she replied dreamily. Another slap elicited the appropriate
"Master!"

   I laughed and stood up, ordering her off the table. She started to walk
towards the stairs when I snapped my fingers loudly.

   Camille stopped, turned around, and gazed at me with wounded, needy eyes.
Ignoring them, I pointed to the floor again and she complied; a lot slower this
time.

   I picked up my coat from the chair and reached into the pocket; pulling out
the first surprise I had squirreled away for her that evening.

   She looked at me, too shocked to say or do anything; and I met no resistance
as I clipped the end of the leash to her collar.

   I started down the stairs. Camille, on all fours, trailed placidly behind.

   We entered the dungeon and I led her to a low, padded bench; which I
promptly sat down on. I ordered her onto my lap and she crawled up obediently.

   However, I hadn't thought things through all that well, and in that position
her body was pressed firmly against the erection that was straining valiantly
against my slacks. She giggled and squirmed and kicked her legs, knowing full
well that each wiggle and twitch ground her hips more firmly into me.

   I regained control with a hard, swift slap to her ass. The giggling and
kicking stopped immediately. I spanked her again, as hard as the first time;
the sound of the impact reverberating off the walls. She began to writhe again,
but for entirely different reasons.

   I had meant to give her twenty strokes, but I stopped at ten. I just
couldn't take the way her body grated against my crotch any longer.
   So I told her to stand up and I watched, worriedly, as she rubbed at her
backside with both hands and gave me a pouty look.

   At first I was worried that I might of gone a little too far in spanking
her. It wasn't like I had thrashed her as hard as I could have, but I hadn't
been pulling any punches, either. Then I noticed how tightly her lips were
pressed together; the tiny dimples at the corners of her mouth.

   She might have been fighting a smile, but I had no such compunctions.

   Breaking into a wolfish grin, I said, "Get on the table, now."

   She took dainty little ballerina steps over to the same table where so many
of her clients had know both heaven and hell, and climbed up without any hint
of reservation or fear. She laid down on her back, wriggling around a little in
a fruitless attempt to relieve pressure off her bottom, and stretched out her
arms and legs in anticipation of my next move.

   I hate to keep harping on it, but she was so damn beautiful. I wanted to
chuck all the bondage games out the window and just climb on top of her and
ride her until our bodies came apart under the stress and we melted into one
single, pure protoplasmic entity.

    Instead, I walked over and seized her wrist. She trembled as I locked the
cuff on. Then I secured her other hand, then her feet. I cranked the winch so
there was just a hint of tension on the chains, but not so much that she'd hurt
herself if she were to flail about.

   After all, I was expecting her to be flailing about in another minute.

   "Having fun so far?" I asked her, gently touching the outer lips of her
pussy. My fingers came back moist.

   She replied in a sultry, sibilant whisper. "Yessss!"

   "See? There you go again!" I shook my head sadly.  "I don't think you're as
into this as you say you are!"

   She looked at me blankly, and then cried, "Yes, MASTER!"

   I just kept shaking my head. "Nope, Nope. I'm not convinced. I think maybe I
should just give you a little time alone to think this whole thing over." 

   As she continued to cry out "Master!" over and over like a mantra, I made a
show of checking my watch.

   "Hmmm.... Maybe I can catch the last half of Jeopardy! if I hurry."

   I started to walk away as she began practically screaming, "No Master!
Please Master! Wait! Master!" 

   "Of course," I mumbled, as if to myself but really for her benefit, "by then
it'll be prime time and I'd hate to miss ER, so I guess that'd be about four
hours or so, depending on what's on the news..."

    As I reached the doorway, she cried out the word "No!" like the long,
mournful howl of a dog.

   "You think hard now," I said, turning out the light.

   The room was plunged into utter, complete darkness. I stood frozen in the
doorway, listening to her whimpers and the heavy laboring of her respiration.
I'd draped my coat on one of the pegs by the door, and stealthily I reached
into the pocket and pulled out the other item I'd cleverly thought to prepare
myself with earlier in the day.

   Her breathing changed, became more even. I think she'd figured out I hadn't
gone anywhere.

   Still, trying as quietly as I could manage, I started to creep back to her
in the darkness, my "weapon" clutched tightly in my shaking fist.

   Suddenly I banged my shin against something low and sharp. I swore loudly
and Camille began to giggle.

   "You could've just blindfolded me, you know," she said.

   "You think that's funny do you?" I said crossly.

   "Oh, no, 'Master!' " The word oozed mockery.

   "You just laugh," I said, my hand finally connecting with the soft leather
edge of the table.

   "You laugh all you want!"  

   Actually, when I ran the feather along the side of her torso, she more
shrieked than laughed.

   "Jordan no!" she cried! "Please not that!"

   "Jordan is it?" I asked sternly, playing the devilishly light edge up and
down her ribcage, up into her armpit and along the undersides of her breasts.

   She screamed and laughed and the chains that held her clattered fiercely as
the thrashed around in a frantic effort to escape.

   I moved around to the other side, ad suddenly she'd rediscovered "Master."

   "No Master! Please! Oh! Oh!"

    Her long, wild fits began to leave her breathless, and when she begged, it
came out as a cross between a sob and a desperate gasp for air.

   I poked my fingers back between her legs to scout out the area before I
applied the feather, and as the tickling there began, she whined a deep,
piercing whine and her whole body arched, like a cat's, lifting her back high
off the table top; accompanied by the sharp ripping sound of sweaty flesh
parting from leather.

   By the time I took her ankle in my free hand, her pleas had become
incoherent babbling; her laughter, a shrill, hysterical titter.

   When I had finished with her second foot, Camille lay exhausted; capable
only of producing whimpers and sweat. I chuckled to myself and unbuckled my
pants.

   It was like climbing on to the hood of a car that had driven for hours in
the rain. Except this car was soft and yielding.

   It occurred to me at that moment that up until then, if lovemaking could be
considered a kind of dance, she had always led. The notion that I would get to
be the fuck-er for a change, instead of the fuck-ee, outweighed any moral
qualms I might have been feeling about forcing myself upon her in her weakened
condition.

   Literally drooling, from both ends, I took my cock in my hand and navigated
it into her lush, steamy interior. 

   The sex was beyond believing. She lay there, dead to the world, yet never
had her body felt more vibrant and alive then at that moment. I fucked her in
the crude, rough way that, as she had put it, "a man does," and when I came,
blood, or light, or maybe God, exploded behind my eyes, and the world went form
black to red.

   My shuddering gasps betrayed my complete vulnerability at that second as I
squirted my seed into her womb. Then, groaning, I pitched forward and collapsed
on top of her, our sweat pooling together on the padded surface beneath.

   In the depths of my contented dementia, I heard the chains clink again. She
was trying to lift her arms. I dragged one of my hands across the interminable
length of the table top and fumbled with the buckle on one of her cuffs.

   The leather finally sprang apart, and her arm rose from the table and
flopped loudly onto my back in a sloppy, exhausted embrace. I didn't have the
energy to free her other hand, so we just lay there like that and gently
drifted off to sleep.

   The next morning I was confronted with a familiar scent as I stepped out of
the upstairs shower. Hastily drying myself off and throwing on my clothes, I
drifted downstairs and found the table set for two, with each plate holding a
generous helping of French toast.

   Camille came out of the kitchen, wrapped in her robe and sporting a pot of
coffee.

   "Good morning, you!" she practically sang, beaming.

   "Hello back at you," I said, grinning like a fool.

   As I sat down, she absent-mindedly reached over and fixed the top button of
my collar and then took her own seat. Her robe fell open as she did, revealing
nothing underneath.

   We sat, smiling at each other like idiots.

   "I, uh wanted to apologize for last night," I said at last, awkwardly
breaking the silence.

   "For what, exactly?" She sounded genuinely curious.

   "Well, that I, uh, that you didn't... that I didn't think to make you...
bring you to... you know? Uh, cum."

   "Oooohhhh," she said. "Well, you don't have to worry about that, silly boy!"
She grinned impishly, wrinkling her nose.

   "Wait! You mean you?..."

   She just smiled and nodded.

   "When? I mean.. how?"

   "Well, if I told you that, you'd have real power over me, wouldn't you?" she
replied coyly.

   I just shook my head and chuckled to myself.

   "You know," I said, trailing my finger along the rim of my juice glass, "I
sort of felt a little insulted last night."

   "Why was that?"

   "Well, you kept looking at me so surprised. Like you weren't expecting me to
be that good!"

   "I was expecting something different," she said, stressing the last word.

  "Oh come on," I said, teasing her, "admit it, you expected me to be a big
dork and I knocked your socks off!"

   "Why do I get the feeling," she started, feigning annoyance, "that you won't
be satisfied until I declare that I've never had a boyfriend dominate me who
took control as naturally as you did or excited me as much by doing so?"

   I looked up from my breakfast; my ego feeling a little stung.

   "Only if it's true," I said earnestly.

   She didn't say anything, but she smiled and winked. That was good enough for
me.

   As I started to eat, she sighed, loudly. I looked up, curious; a drip of
maple syrup running down my chin.

   "Thank you," she said with disquieting earnestness.

   "No problem!" I replied, laughing a little. "Happy to be of service, ma'am!"
I added a tip of an imaginary hat.

   My tomfoolery failed to crack the surprisingly serious expression that had
settled on her features. She got up from her chair, walked around the table,
and took my hands in hers.

   "I think I'm in love with you," she said.

   I felt my throat tighten. Tears came to my eyes.

   "How would you know for sure?" I croaked.

  She looked up at me, raised her head, and kissed me full and deep on the
lips. We parted, staring into each other's eyes and panting like a pair of
marathon runners.

   "I could call in sick," I suddenly blurted out.

   She smiled warmly at me but shook her head.

   "You'd better get going, I don't want you getting in any trouble on my
account."

   I brought her hands to my lips and kissed them.

   I got up, reluctantly, and started for the door. Just before I got there,
the phone rang.

   I have to admit, I dragged my feet a little those last few steps so I could
overhear her conversation.

   After a few, terse, monosyllabic replies, she finally said - whispered, to
be more precise, "Oh, please! Not today!"

   I turned around at the strained quality to her voice. Her face was ashen.
She saw me out of the corner of her eye and began to wave irritably towards the
door; shooing me away.

   "Camille?"

   "Okay," she said brusquely to the person at the other end and hung up
quickly.

   "What are you still doing here?" she asked angrily.

   "Nothing, I guess," I said, turning for the door.

   "Jordan! Please! Wait!"

   I looked back at her. She looked on the verge of tears.

   "I'm... sorry. It's just.... the usual shitty timing that always seems to
happen to me, okay? I had no call to snap at you like that."

   "Camille, is everything okay? Is it about your family?"

   She laughed bitterly.

   "Everything is about my fucking family," she said darkly.

   "Please, Camille. Is there anything I can do?"

   She sighed mournfully.

   "Could you bring you saxophone with you when you come over tonight? I'd...
I'd really love to hear you play again."

   "Sure. Are you sure that's all I can do?"

   She nodded.

   "Jordan?"

   "Yes?"

   "Thank you for last night. Thank you for making me feel loved last night."

   "Okay..." I said, desperately not wanting to leave.

   "Now go to work, please."

   I still hesitated.

   "Camille?"

   She'd been staring off into space after she'd stopped talking. She looked
back over at me with her big, beautiful brown eyes.

   "Yes?"

   My palms were suddenly gushing. My head was spinning, my heart was racing.

   "I love you, too."

   She smiled. 

   "I know."

* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Note: Comments and feedback are always welcome. Unfortunately, as the story
grows in size, it becomes increasingly difficult to honor requests for missing
chapters. Please try searching Deja News or similar forums. That way, I have
more time to actually write. :)
 * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Seeing things that you do / And being one of the few
Whose habit-forming, tradition-ignoring ways to me are fine
Well I'm tickled pink
To think
That you are mine

    K.d. Lang, Tickled Pink



  


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