("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW! Thank you... _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text Archive name: phs04.txt (mf,blkmale,humil) Authors name: Wiley06 Story title : Portervill High: The Picnic Part 4 of 11 parts ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ © 1998 This work is copyrighted to the author. No changes may be made to this story, and the author information must remain intact. This work may be copied freely for non-profit purposes only. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Porterville High: The Picnic Part 1.3 By Wiley06 Achilles Brown spent all night Tuesday developing the photos he had taken of Amy Sanders. Beautiful, hot, oh so great he thought as he pulled each one out of solution. The black dress had been a good choice for her -- it contrasted nicely with her pale skin. She was more beautiful, sexier, than he had imagined; he only hoped he could make this blackmail scheme work: he wanted her, bad. Amy went to sleep that night, her window open as commanded, dreading his return that evening. Thankfully she was not awoken in the middle of the night with more demands, and she woke up confused and disoriented. She still didn't know what that snooping rat wanted. She didn't have that much money, and although she would be willing to part with all of it, Achilles didn't seem to really want it. She suspected him of having designs on her body -- she was slightly revolted by the thought -- given that he had taken somewhat revealing pictures of her and his decree that she wear no pants, only skirts and dresses. If that was his goal, she thought, he could forget it; she would turn herself in before she submitted to his advances. He must know that, she thought, and that is what confused her. What was his game? Better not to think about it now; just wait and watch and see if she could somehow get out from under his thumb. Wednesday at school, Achilles decided a policy of avoidance was best; he didn't want to raise anybody's suspicions, and he certainly didn't want to incon- venience Amy, yet. He had planned their after school activities last night, and all day they occupied his thoughts. He had big plans for Amy, big plans. He ran them through his mind time and time again, hoping that he could pull them off. He was glad that Jim had offered him use of Ms. Ellsworth, Sara to him now he smiled, since he would certainly have to use her to relieve himself, so he wouldn't force things with Amy. The next day at school, Amy was glad Achilles seemed to be avoiding her. Wearing an ankle length skirt and a bulky sweater, she was distracted the entire day, trying to puzzle out Achilles and his motivations. Her friends, though more acquaintances than friends, figured it was due to her recent breakup with the hunk of the school, and just gossiped knowing- ly about her state of mind. Achilles skipped his last period class again that day, and prepared his planned reception of Amy deep in the orange groves. It was nothing particularly bad, he thought to himself, but it was quite a mindfuck. He needed to keep her off balance, confused, in order to really turn her to him, and this was just the first part of the plan. Amy returned home right after school and found, as expected, Achilles waiting for her in her room. She wasn't happy to see him, and made that quite clear, pointedly ignoring him until he spoke and held some- thing out to her. "Here, I thought you might like to see some of these." She looked down and took a thick pad of prints from his hand, her eyes widening as she saw herself, dressed sexily in her black sheer dress, holding myriad poses before the camera. Like out of some fashion magazine, she thought, flipping through them, blushing a little at the more provocative poses. She caught herself as she saw him looking at her with a little smile on his face, and resumed her previous cold manner. He didn't seem to mind: his smile broadened as he watched her put the photos in the top drawer of her dresser. He had hoped she would react positively to the pictures, and by the expression on her face, he figured she was. He watched as she caught him smiling at her, and turned the ice on. He didn't mind; it was time to start anyway. "Amy, join me outside. I've arranged a little picnic for us among the orange groves." He said it in his most relaxed tone; he didn't want to risk her refusing to go with him. It was a simple request, but he knew if he got her hackles up, even the fear of jail wouldn't make her do what he wanted her to. A picnic! She glared at him. She didn't want to go on a picnic with him, didn't want to even be with him. What was he up to? What did he want? It was all so bizarre, like a waking nightmare. Still, it shouldn't be too bad, and he still had those incrimi- nating photos. "I'll be out in 5 minutes," she responded sharply. Achilles just smiled and climbed out the window and waited for her at the base of the old oak tree. She arrived shortly thereafter, flipping her kinky, sandy blonde hair out of her eyes, and Achilles began to lead her toward the orange groves. Halfway there, walking across little used streets and old fields, he said, "You know, Amy, I really don't want to inconvenience you too much..." "Inconvenience me!" she blurted out. You stupid bastard, she thought, "What do you think you're doing? You come into my life, holding something I didn't even know about over my head, and demand money, and pictures, and now a picnic! What else do you have in store in your twisted little mind!" she ended, practically shouting at him. Achilles was a little bit taken aback by this outburst, but just a little. They had stopped and he stood looking at her flushed face and glaring light blue eyes, her posture one of defiance. Well, he thought to himself, here's the first obstacle to over- come. "Did you really think you could get away with murder, Amy?" he said slowly and strongly, seeing her defiance crumble as her face took on a look of aghast horror. "I... I... didn't..." she stammered. "Shut up!" he said forcefully, making her take a step back and killing the denials on her tongue. She looked down at her feet in consternation and confusion. "Now, Amy, you did something bad, something which you should be in jail for right now. _I_ am the one keep- ing you from jail, _I_ am the one protecting you. In return all I ask is a little of your time. Isn't that better than being in jail? Isn't it?" he demanded. "Y... yes," she stammered, looking into his eyes. He nodded, satisfied, and turned, saying in a calm voice, "Now, where were we?... oh yes..." Amy walked along after him as he told her how he was going to arrange their future meetings (an envelope on her dresser each Friday detailing plans for the following week), all her anger gone. She was stunned: murder? Was she a murderer? No, she wasn't, she had only been driving the car... god it was so awful, the way he had turned on her. She had always thought of him as a worm, a loser, but he had met her anger power- fully, shattering it with his accusation. She knew he was right, in a way. She was involved in a murder, she was responsible to some degree. Being with him certainly wasn't as bad as being in jail, and if that was the only price she had to pay for her actions, she should be happy. The calm that had come over him during the con- frontation had left him, and he was shaking from the reaction. He tried to hide it, keeping his arms against his side and increasing his pace, hoping Amy wouldn't see. She was still following him, so he had won. He felt exultation as the shakes began to wear off: her first resistance had been crushed. From this point on, he thought, she would not challenge him again about him forcing her to spend time with him. He smile broke out on his face as he strode into the orange grove, Amy trailing obediently behind him. "Help me lay this out," he said as the reached the spot he had chosen for the picnic, at the base of a tree among the even rows of them. Together they laid out the clothe and took the food from the basket: fried chicken, greasy and still warm; mashed potatoes with gravy still steaming in a thermos; a small, home- made chocolate cake, moist and covered thickly with gooey chocolate frosting; and finally a bottle of wine, its cork already pulled. Unpacking the food, Amy noticed something strange. "Where's all the utensils and glasses and stuff?" she asked. "Damn," Achilles cursed, looking up at her from where he was kneeling, "I forgot them. Well, we'll just have to make the best of it." So saying, he motioned her to sit down beside him, not touching, but very close nonetheless, and handed her a drumstick. She took it daintily, not wanting to get her hands too greasy and was surprised when he grabbed it away from her, saying, "No no, that won't do. I can't let you get your hands all dirty. Let me." With that, he held the drumstick up against her lips. At first she drew her head back, confused. What was he doing? She could feed herself fine, even without utensils. Then it hit her, and she groaned inwardly: he wanted to hand feed her everything, like she was some small child. She thought for a moment about re- fusing, but something in the back of her mind was telling her that she deserved this, that through this humiliation she could somehow atone for what she had done. She didn't like these thoughts, didn't believe them, but for now they overcame her resistance. Carefully, she moved forward toward the drumstick just before her lips, and opened her mouth. She felt the warm, greasy skin of the meat against her lips, and she opened her mouth wider, sliding her lips over the drumstick until her teeth found purchase in the meat. She bit down, feeling grease come off around her mouth, and pulled her head back, chewing. Achilles watched her closely as her lips closed over the meat. He felt his penis swell as he watched her -- luckily he had worn loose pants -- and he imagined her mouth closing over his cock. He kept the drumstick near her mouth until she had finished it, making sure her mouth became smeared with grease. He felt a rush of power as she looked at him with her pale blue eyes, chewing the last bite, her mouth glistening with chicken grease. He had planned this, to humiliate her by forcing her to eat from his hands, and it had worked. Confident now, he poured a generous amount of gravy over the mashed potatoes. "Aren't you going to eat?" she asked, licking some of the grease from her lips. She knew what she must look like, and was blushing furiously. This was one of the most embarrassing things that had ever happened to her. "I'm not hungry," he answered, scooping up some potatoes and gravy on his fingers and presenting them to her. She knew what he wanted and was committed; she lowered her head and used her lips to bring the po- tatoes into her mouth, where she quickly swallowed them. They felt warm against her lips and face, and she glanced up at him when all that was left was the potatoes covering his fingers. He nodded and smiled at her and she took three of his fingers into her mouth, sucking the food from them. She ran her tongue between them to make sure she got everything, and then she sucked off the last finger. As he felt her suck his fingers into the warm cavity of her mouth, what felt like and electric jolt traveled from his fingers to his groin. He almost moaned at the sensation of her tongue between his fingers, and couldn't take his eyes off her lips as it sucked in his finger, cleaning it of food. It was wild; he had never felt anything like it before. She pulled her head away when she had finished, and turned to him as he reached for a bottle of wine. She watched as he poured a little into the cup of his hand and offer it to her. There was something so degrading about her situation, about being fed like this, that brought panic welling up in her gut. She fought it down as she slurped the wine from his hand, and looked at him again. What was he doing to her? It was like some sensuous dream, with him silently feeding her, her lips and mouth tingling from the slick feel of food and the salty taste of his skin. She moved to drink again from his hand two more times, each time feeling something warring within her. Some basic instinct told her to run, to escape from this, but her mind told her to stay, forced her to remain seated beside him, eating from his hand. It was terrible, both sensual and terrifying. Achilles fed her the rest of the food, reveling in the sensations her mouth brought to his hands, the power this simple act of feeding conveyed to him. His penis throbbed in his pants as he watched her chew the last of the chicken her face greasy and smeared with mashed potatoes and chocolate cream. He reached over with a towlett and wiped her face clean; she did not resist, and he wallowed in it, in her sitting docilely there, letting her control her, dominate her. Time for the next step, he thought, wiping off her chin. "Tell me about yourself," he said, sitting back and opposite her. She looked at him for a minute, a frown crinkling her brow, "What?" she asked softly. "About your plans: what college you're going to, what you want to be, your politics, that type of stuff." She didn't understand; she was pretty numb from the feeding, and shook her head to clear her senses. What was this all about? He wanted to know about her? She didn't know what to do, but what could she do but go along with it, just like she had gone along with his other demands. She almost felt like crying; she had no control left. She began to answer, softly, hesitatingly, but was soon drawn out by his questions, by his gentle, inqui- sitive desire to know. She couldn't look at him -- she was still too humiliated by the feeding -- but she began to talk about herself, where she wanted to go to college, what she wanted to be; what teachers she liked, what subjects interested her; who she liked, who she didn't and why. She talked for about forty five minutes prompted throughout by him, always seeming to know what to ask to keep a thread alive, before he said, "Let me walk you home." That night, back in her room, Amy pondered over what had happened. She thought she had gotten over her part in the crime, but some part of her, some deep hidden recess, must still feel guilt. How else could she explain her reaction to Achilles' accusation? She was amazed and ashamed that she had let him hand feed her like some infant, and disgusted that she had actually taken his fingers into her mouth. And then to tell him all about herself! It was too horrible. She wasn't really in her right mind -- he had taken advan- tage of a momentary weakness of hers. She was deter- mined it wouldn't happen again. At least she had gained one thing from that afternoon: she had some idea of what he wanted. He, she decided, wanted her to like him. Achilles spent that evening looking at the pictures he had taken of Amy, tantalizing himself with the thought of his final conquest. He knew he had caught her off balance today, bless his luck, and knew what to expect now. There would be a backlash -- she would stand up to him, assert herself. Well, he thought he knew how to handle it when it came: today the kind, gentle, understanding Achilles; tomorrow the hard, mean disciplinarian Achilles. Carrot and stick, carrot and stick he thought as he went to sleep. ______________________________________________________ Kristen's collection - Directory 8 Text 8411