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2004-08-01T09:58:00.000-07:00

Completos Gratis Porn Video Sex story

2004-07-31T02:56:00.000-07:00

Second Billing to Violet and Jesus by Vulgar Argot (tags at bottom to avoid
spoilerage)

After a few years on the force, you can start to tell how bad an
accident is going to be by the tone of the dispatcher's voice. To the
untrained ear, Kim sounded calm and professional, particularly over the
static and crackles of a police radio. But, there was a slightly different
tone or a momentary tremolo that betrays what she's heard, but chosen not
to relay on an open channel.

It's been a hellacious winter. The first snows came before Halloween
and seemed to never stop. There was a blizzard that started on December
twenty-third and lasted for four days. The inane weatherman on channel
eleven kept going on about a white Christmas. I don't know who the fuck
really wants a white Christmas besides weathermen. Even my son Steven was
sick of the snow. He's five years old and he already has better sense than
the morons on TV who play at being meteorologists.

If there's anybody on the planet who likes snow on Christmas less than a
New York state trooper, I don't know who they are. Even snowplow drivers
may be torn between wanting to be with their families and making a few
extra dollars to pay for the holiday. But, to a highway patrolman like
myself, snow on Christmas means more, messier accidents as people try to
get from place to place filled with holiday cheer.

This Christmas, at least, the snow had been a mixed blessing. By
Christmas day, there was two fee on the ground and more coming down.
Traffic slowed to a crawl. There seemed to be an unlimited number of
accidents, certainly more than there were cops to cover anyway, but they
were mostly at low speed and, for the first time since I'd joined the
force, no immediate fatalities.

The snows had stopped late on the twenty-sixth and not started again
until today, New Year's Eve. Whatever blessing we were given by a slow
Christmas dried up. The combination of cabin fever and a holiday whose
main focus was drinking without even a nod to miracles or family had meant
a day where the accidents started early and didn't let up.

It was ten minutes to seven p.m. when Kim called me on the radio, "Car
seven, there's a fender bender at exit seventeen, route forty-two. Officer
required on the scene. Ambulances have been dispatched."

I sighed before picking up the mike, "Car seven here. God damn it, Kim.
I'm already headed in. Let James handle it."

"Negative, car seven," said Kim, sounding mildly sympathetic. "Car nine
was dispatched to another accident en route. I've got nobody else."

"Shit," I muttered, not keying the mike. Then, to Kim, I said, "Roger
that."

En route, I called Noelle Harris, the neighbor's kid.

"Hello, Mike," she said when I identified myself. "Do you need me to
watch Stevie tonight?"

"If you could please, Noelle," I said wearily. "Mrs. Carter said she
can't stay past eight."

"Of course," Noelle said. "I don't have any plans."

I listened to her voice for some sign of reluctance or self-pity, but
could hear neither. Either they genuinely weren't there or I was losing my
touch. "Thank you, Noelle," I said. "If you get hungry..."

"I know," said Noelle. "I can help myself to whatever is in the
refrigerator. Is there anything in the refrigerator this time?"

"I have no idea," I admitted. "Oh, wait. Mrs. Carter said she was
bringing me a casserole. It should be in there. And Noelle," I added,
remembering why I'd dismissed the regular babysitter, "no boys."

Noelle laughed, "Don't worry, Mike. I don't really know any boys."

I immediately felt stupid for saying it. Noelle is one of the most
responsible people I know of any age. As of this week, she was sixteen
going on thirty-five.

When I got to the accident, I realized that Kim's voice hadn't begun to
express how bad it was. Somehow, the wires had gotten tangled because the
local police were already there. One was standing off the side of the road
throwing up his lunch. When he stood up, he looked young to me, barely
more than a teenager.

I was tempted to let them deal with it, but the highway is our
jurisdiction. If we let the locals do the dirty work, soon enough they
feel like they can do it all without us. Besides, the kid was completely
useless here and his partner had a ring on his finger--a wife and kids to
get home to. I sent them packing and they were grateful to go.

That's why I was standing just behind the treeline, far enough away from
the accident so as not to contaminate the scene, getting rid of my fifth or
sixth cup of coffee when the coroner finally pulled up at a quarter after
ten.

He smiled at me when I emerged from the woods. It was the sad, tired
smile I'd seen so many times before. Automatically, he said, "Happy
holidays, Officer Weirsbach."

I returned the smile. There are certain pleasantries that sound wrong
when said by or to cops. We say them anyway. When people say them to me,
it's too much work and too awkward to point this out, so I just smile.

He lifted the plastic tarp the local cops had put down out of decency.
His face didn't change when he looked at the mess underneath.

"Well," he said, "she's dead--blunt trauma and blood loss. Where's the
rest of her?"

"Still in the car," I answered, "as near as I can tell."

"Do you have a prelimary ID?" he asked.

I got my pad from the cruiser, reading off the details I'd gotten from
the locals, "Beth Cole, age seventeen. She's a local girl. Died at six
thirty p.m., give or take a half hour."

The coroner nodded, "I'll take over from here. Go notify the family,
Mike."

I nodded and got into my cruiser. I knew Beth's parents a little bit,
at least enough to recognize them on sight. There was a New Year's Eve
party going on at their house, more than a dozen cars parked haphazardly
around the snow drifts. I could hear the music from the street.

I didn't recognize the woman who answered the door and, by the startled
frown on her face, she didn't recognize me. Looking down at the beer in
her hand, she tried to hide it behind her back, an interesting response
since she was at least thirty-five years old. I guess that old habits just
don't die sometimes.

"I need to speak to Marilyn," I said quietly, "or...Jeff."

She turned back towards the living room, calling out, "Jeff, Marilyn. I
think we got a noise complaint."

The incorrect assumption didn't help. Once it was cleared up, it went
like any one of the dozen or so times I'd had to do this. I got the
parents out onto the front porch, deciding for them that they would
probably prefer cold and privacy to warmth and eavesdroppers. She shrieked
when I told them. He stared at me in blank denial. The sight of his wife
crying was enough to snap him out of it. He moved to comfort her. I could
see his resolve harden as he decided to be strong for her sake. That was
about as well as you can ever expect this sort of thing to go.

Jeff invited me inside for coffee. I declined. It was already eleven
o'clock and all I wanted to do was go home. I'm not a suspicious man, but
I have always kept the tradition of trying to do something at the beginning
of the year that you would like to be portentious of what you would be
doing for the remaining three hundred plus days. For the last three years,
I spent them looking in on Steven. The year before that, I spent drunk at
home while Steven was at Violet's mother's house. The year before that,
Steven had slept soundly enough that I was able to spend it making love to
Violet, one of the last few times I would do so.

I did not want to start the new year sharing coffee and awkward company
with a newly-dead girl's parents. The truth was that they really didn't
want me there long enough for coffee either. I didn't have enough
information to last a full cup anyway. I answered what questions I could.
Yes, she'd been with her boyfriend. He was still alive. He hadn't been
drinking. The other driver was dead and no toxicity tests had been taken.
I felt like a fraud even telling them that much. All I was doing was
parrotting what the local cops had told me. By all rights, they should be
here instead of me. It hadn't even been a highway accident exactly, but an
offramp one. There would probably be a jurisdictional complaint filed
against me for taking it out of their hands. The captain would commend me
if there was one. That wasn't why I did it, though. I couldn't say why I
did do it, but that wasn't it.

It was a local cop who came to tell me about Violet. He'd known
slightly less about her than I knew about Beth Cole. He hadn't even
realized I was a cop. She'd been sitting at a stoplight. The other car
had hit her from behind at high speed. They hadn't done a toxicity test on
either driver yet, since both were dead when the police arrived, but there
had been no skid marks. Later tests would reveal that the other car was
stolen and the driver loaded to the gills with angel dust.

Despite having done half a dozen of those visits from the other side, I
found myself playing out the script as written. First, I didn't believe
it. Then, I pled with the cop. She can't be dead. We have a baby. I
might have even invited him in for coffee. To this day, I can't remember
which local officer it was. I spent most of the conversation staring at
the patterns his cruiser's red and blue flashers made on the pristine snow
of our front yard. I must have dealt with him at least a hundred times
since then, but whoever he is, he's never mentioned it.

By the time I got home, I was so tired I could have fallen asleep in the
cruiser. Instead, I forced myself to climb out of the warm car, trudge up
the unshoveled walk, and let myself into the house. The year had thirty
minutes left. I was determined to be inside when it ended.

The snow was coming down in earnest now, threatening to turn into
another blizzard. There would be more accidents tonight, more fatalities.
But, I was done for the evening. Let James and car nine deal with it. I
just wanted to sleep.

I came in from the entry hall, my coat and boots left behind in the hall
closet and, for a second, I thought I saw Violet sleeping on the couch. It
wasn't her, of course. It was only Noelle. She was much too young to be
my wife, tan-skinned and blonde while Violet was pale of skin, dark of hair
and eye. Only with the light off and her features washed out by the
baleful cathode-ray glare of Dick Clark's New Year's Rocking Eve could
Noelle be mistaken for my Violet.

I turned on the lamp by the door, avoiding the overhead lights, but it
was enough to make her. When Noelle saw me, she got a striken look like
she'd been caught doing something wrong. It took me a few seconds to see
what she was alarmed about.

If you'd asked me before tonight whether Noelle was pretty, I would have
said after some hesitation that she had the potential to be. I hadn't seen
her since the summer. She'd been skinnier then, still clearly a kid,
dressed very modestly for the heat, her hair tied back so tightly it seemed
like she was punishing it for something.

Tonight, she was pretty and it was clear that she would one day be
beautiful. Her hair was down, framing her sleepy face in a golden halo.
More significantly, she was dressed like she should have been the last time
I'd seen her--in a thin, white halter top and denim skirt. That was a big
part of why I'd momentarily mistaken her for Violet. She was wearing my
dead wife's clothes.

I suppose that I could have been angry. I'd left Violet's clothes where
they were when she died. Eventually, I'd gotten around to washing the
clothes in her hamper, neatly folded them, hung them on hangers, and put
them away as if she'd be looking for them soon. They'd stayed there for
over three years. After a few months, I'd let the cleaning woman start
maintaining the room. But, I hadn't been in there myself for more than a
few seconds at a time since I put away Violet's clothes.

I wasn't angry, though. The room was not a shrine, nor Violet's clothes
the Shroud of Turin. I just didn't want to be in the room and wasn't ready
to give the clothes to Goodwill. They certainly looked better on Noelle
than they did on hangars.

As I stood, considering this, Noelle's eyes flickered to a water glass
on the table, then away again. I leaned down, picked it up, and sniffed.

"Vodka?" I asked.

She nodded, rising, "Mike, I'm so sorry. I..."

I put the glass back on the table and sank into my chair, "I didn't
think you drank."

Noelle sat back down, "I don't. I wanted to try it, but I didn't like
it very much. How do you drink that stuff?"

I chuckled, "With orange juice."

Noelle picked up the glass and smelled it, wrinkling her nose, "It
tastes like medicine."

"Try the Amaretto next time," I said. "It's much sweeter, easier to
handle."

She raised an eyebrow, "Mike, are you all right?"

"I'm just tired," I said. "It was a long night."

She made a pained face, "It must be hard. Were there any accidents?"

I nodded. I didn't want to talk about it, so I said, "How was your
birthday?"

Noelle rolled her eyes, "It was Christmas, like it is every year. I'll
always have second billing to Jesus."

I chuckled, "And how's school this year? I haven't seen you since the
summer."

Noelle curled her legs up underneath her, "It's the same as it was last
year, except that I'm not a freshman anymore. My parents love the school
of course. All they see is nuns and green grass and they think it's the
Sound of Music."

"It's not?" I asked.

She shook her head, "It could be, I guess. If you mind your own
business, it's very quiet, almost like we were nuns ourselves. Two of my
three roommates think they want to be nuns. But, there's another side to
L'Ecole Coppet des Jeunes Filles. I just try to ignore it as best I can."

I got up long enough to retrieve a beer, then returned to my chair, "Is
it something you need to talk about? Have you told your parents?"

Noelle shook her head, "I don't think so. Like I said, it doesn't seem
to effect anyone who doesn't want to take part in it. Besides, my parents
would just tell me I was making things up. They don't listen to me.
That's part of why I like coming over here to watch Stevie."

I took a sip of my beer, "Stevie gives you more credit than they do?"

She laughed, "Stevie thinks I'm a grown-up. Sixteen must seem awfully
old when you're five. Plus, you never talk to me like I'm a kid. I feel
like I could tell you anything."

I laughed, "It's only because I have no idea how to talk to kids without
being a cop. I don't want to be a cop when I come home."

Noelle ran a hand through her hair, "I know what you mean. I don't want
to be a student when I come home, either--or a kid. I don't know how I'm
going to take two and a half more years of Swiss nuns."

I nodded, "Would you rather be in public school?"

She nodded slowly, "I think so." Then, she told me a few third-hand
stories of what the local school was like, things she'd heard from girls
she'd been friends with in the eighth grade and spent some time with
whenever she came home--fights, romantic strife, pregnany, wild parties. I
didn't bother to tell her where the details had been blurred or exaggerated
from what the local cops said actually happened in some of the more
notorious details. She might be right and they wrong, after all.

"Mike, I'm sorry about Violet's clothes. I shouldn't have..."

"It's all right," I said. "I keep meaning to give them to Goodwill.
She'd be glad they were getting some use."

"I see pictures of her all over the house," said Noelle. "She was very
beautiful. I just wanted to see what I would look like wearing the same
clothes. I don't have anything like these at home."

"They look good on you," I said. "You're becoming a lovely young
woman."

Noelle blushed. "I should get changed,"

"Definitely before you go," I said. "Your father would have a heart
attack if he saw you dressed like that. But, it's almost the New Year.
Watch the ball drop. I'm going to go look in on Steven."

I walked up the hall and opened to door to my son's room. He was sound
asleep in his bed, fist in his mouth, hair slicked against his forehead.
It was a minute to the new year. I spent the first half of that minute
just staring at him, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Then,
I became aware of Noelle's presence right behind me. I turned in profile
so that she could pass. She stepped into the room, crossing her arms under
her breasts as she watched him.

I watched her watching him. Violet's clothes fit Noelle like they'd
been bought for her. I didn't remember my wife as being so short or
petite. She'd always managed to carry herself like a taller woman, her
personality filling the room.

The last time I'd seen Violet wear that top and skirt together, we'd
been out on Block Island, spending the day walking from shop to shop, our
only real, grown up vacation, carefully saved for between our two salaries.
It had started raining suddenly, making the top dangerously translucent and
forcing us to sprint back to the cute, little bed and breakfast we'd spent
the week in. I'd peeled the top off of Violet, kissing rivulets of rain
off of her belly and between her breasts.

"Be careful," Violet had whispered. "The bed creaks and the walls are
paper thin."

I nodded, unzipping the skirt and peeling off her panties before I
lowered my mouth to her, teasing her with the tip of my tongue. Her eyes
widened in surprised and maybe alarm. As I remember, I was relentless that
afternoon, teasing her with tongue and fingers as the rain pattered against
the single window behind the curtains. By the time I took her, the rain
had cleared, the sun returning to bathe the bed in its late-afternoon
glory. Violet was laying on her belly, teeth buried in the pillow, fists
clenching the coverlet. Eventually, she forgot the neighbors and the
caretakers and everything but me inside of her. She cried out my name as
she came, gripping me inside of her.

It was that afternoon, as near as we could figure, that Steven had been
conceived. When I remember my wife, it is most often in that white halter
top, running from the rain.

Noelle took two steps back so that she was almost touching me, turning
her head, "He's a really good kid."

I put my hands on her arms. At the time, I thought nothing of the
gesture, but Noelle leaned lightly against me, the flesh of her back
against the front of my uniform.

"He sure is," I said. It was true. He'd been so young when Violet went
away, he hadn't understood at all what forever meant. He made friends
easily, trusting people far more easily than I was comfortable with. When
alone, he was serious and quiet.

Behind us, Dick Clark and a quarter of a million freezing people counted
off the remaining seconds of the year.

"Mike," said Noelle quietly, turning towards me as she spoke, "when the
year ends, you're supposed to kiss."

I smiled gently as the year ended. Leaning down, I made to kiss her on
the forehead, but she tilted her head back, lips parted and eyes closed and
wrapped her arms around the barrel of my chest. As I got closer, she went
up on tiptoe, drawing my mouth down to hers and tangling one hand in my
hair.

I didn't pull away, but let the kiss happen. Her little tongue probed
against my lips, so I let it into my mouth a little ways. One of my hands
rested on her hip, the other spread across her shoulderblades, flesh to
flesh.

When the kiss broke, Noelle said, "Mike, I can stay tonight. My parents
said I shouldn't try to walk home if the snow got too heavy."

I nodded, leaning down to kiss her briefly again, just enough to say
that the first kiss had been something more than tradition. Then, I stood
up straight and said, "You can sleep in Violet's room if you like."

She reached up behind my head, but I didn't yield to the light pressure
she exerted. "That's not what I meant, Mike."

I nodded, "I know, Noelle. I'm flattered, really."

She kissed the front of my uniform, "I'm not drunk."

I kissed the top of her head, "You're sixteen."

She laughed, "That's hardly my fault."

"I know," I said, releasing her.

"I won't always be sixteen," she said.

"I know," I said again. "But, for now, you're sixteen."

Back in the living room, we talked in quiet tones. Noelle told me that
she loved me, that she was in love with me and had been for as long as she
knew what the words meant. I told her that I hadn't thought about her that
way. I didn't bother to tell her that she was too young to love me or to
know what being in love was yet or that I was nearly twice her age. She
could do her own math and as for the rest, she would figure it out in time.
In the middle of trying to form a coherent sentence about her personal
philosophy, she fell asleep.

I stood, deeply weary myself, took the waterglass, still two-thirds full
of vodka, and drank it down before getting a blanket to cover her. After
she was tucked in, I stood looking at her, sleeping the sleep of the
innocent before I went to bed.

This morning, I'm lying in bed, the first sunrise of the new year
slanting into my window. Noelle is still asleep on the couch. I'll get
up, make her breakfast, send her home. She'll probably pine for a while,
go back to school, and eventually find someone more appropriate for
herself, get married, have a few kids of her own, forget about me. That's
fine. For now, I'll let her sleep.
Second Billing to Violet and Jesus by Vulgar Argot (MF, Mf, rom)

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2004-07-29T10:30:00.000-07:00

Completos Gratis Porn Video Sex story

2004-07-26T15:38:00.000-07:00

Hurting Her
By H. Jekyll

January 4, 2000
revised -- March 31, 2000

They have a storage area in the middle of the old
classroom building, where they sex. It had been a
restroom in its past life. Tiled, concrete walls separate
it from the classroom and other storage closet that
bracket it. In its old-fashioned way it has two doors
that stand between their chamber and the hall, and which
they keep locked. All this conspires to keep their noises
away from the heavy traffic of students and faculty. It
excites them to know that hundreds of people move about
not twenty feet from where they fuck. He had moved a
mattress in one weekend; when they aren�t using it he
leans it against a wall, draped with a tarp to protect it
from any overzealous cleaning lady.

She is not a quiet lover, prone to whimpering and crying
out, so he recently used this as an excuse to muffle her
when he had her close to climax, by stuffing her panties
into her mouth, inside out. As usual she hated the idea,
but she was not capable of resisting him, and the first
time she felt and tasted her panties she got that shivery
feeling of anxiety and excitement again. Her eyes teared
up and she retched once. Oh, it was good. She got used
to the gag, though, and he needs to take the next step to
avoid having sex become routine. This one she won�t enjoy.

"God I would love to whip you," he murmurs as he strokes
her vagina lightly, her lips so slippery and sensitive.

"Would you like that, darling? I would love you to whip
me. It would make me so hot."

"You�re just saying that because you know I can�t. I
can�t leave any marks at all on your sweet body, for your
husband to see. After I whipped you, you probably
wouldn�t see me anymore anyway."

"Why not?"

"Hell, it wouldn�t make you hot at all. You just think
it would, because you�ve never done it. You�d hate it.
You�d scream and try to get away. It makes me horny to
think about that. You�d neigh just like a horse. Your face
would be covered with tears and slobber and snot. You�d
sweat like a horse, too. I�d make you keep taking it.
God I�d like that."

He is lost in his fantasy, electric currents moving through
penis, and so soon after coming. She too. She moves
down to his penis, takes it into her mouth, and sucks
off the last of the mixture of his cum and her juices. She,
who only a month ago would never have believed that she
would be able to stomach semen.

She imagines herself hanging from a bar, imagines a
whip making snapping sounds, imagines herself crying
and struggling. Could it be that bad? Would he let
it get than bad? Oh my. She gets sudden goose bumps
from her belly, to her breasts, to her upper arms.

"Well, I�ve liked everything else you�ve done to me." She
is being a little pouty. She sucks again, to show him
something she came to like a lot. He doesn�t answer, but
moves his half-erect penis in her mouth.

"Where would you whip me?" She is a little breathless now.

"Why, in here of course! I�d have to gag you better,
though, if you couldn�t control your screaming." After a
moment: "Then I�d punish you for the screaming. To
teach you discipline."

"No darling, I meant what part of me."

"Oh, each part in its time," he chuckles. He is quiet a
moment. "A lot of porn focuses on the ass, but you�re
so lovely I�d like to whip you everywhere. But mostly
where you�re the most sensitive. And on everything sexual."

"Between my legs?" She hasn�t thought of that, and her
fantasy fragment shifts to an image of lying on the floor
with her legs tied apart. She never can seem to
completely imagine what he has in mind before he does
things to her, or makes her do them, and she sometimes
wonders how he thinks them up.

"Your inner thighs would be nice. They�re really tender
and soft, and they�d bruise up nicely so I could see what
I�d done every time I ate your pussy for days afterward.
And no one else would ever see them in this season. Then
I�d whip your pussy, too."

"My husband would see them." She likes it that he
actually called it a pussy. It always excites her. No
one she knows has ever used that word except when telling
a joke.

"Don�t let him."

"He likes to have sex with me almost as much as you do,
darling, and he likes a light on."

"And you like him to do it, too, don�t you?"

She tries to deny it but becomes tongue-tied, not finding the
words, sputtering. It is so embarrassing to have him know
she still likes sex with her husband. He laughs and
kisses her. "Don�t be such a dope. I don�t mind if you
like him. You might as well enjoy your wifely duties.
Anyway, you could just have a three-week headache." They
suck on each others lips, lightly. He runs his finger-
tips very, very lightly across her stomach, giving her more
goose bumps, while she tickles the shaft of his penis and his
balls. She doesn�t think he ever would whip her, but this talk
is exciting. It is going somewhere, too, and most of her
wants to find out where.

"Your belly would be fun to whip. So white and soft.
Right here where it pooches out just a little, saying
(in a falsetto voice) 'please mark me up�."

She rolls away. "My tummy does not pooch out!" But she
knows it does and he likes it like that. No anorexic
washboard stomach but a woman�s soft underbelly. Her
husband is a fitness freak and insults her about being out
of shape, though she works out for him regularly.

She is completely surprised by what happens next. He
grabs her, pulls her back hard, and slams her to the
mattress. He holds her down by her shoulders, staring in
her face, her heart instantly in her throat. His face
isn�t two inches above hers. "I didn�t tell you you
could leave!" He uses that voice. She lies absolutely
still, her eyes round and white, feeling so very small.

She reaches a hand, shyly, up to his face.
"Darling, I'm so sorry. Please, I'll be a good girl."
There is the tiniest catch in her voice.

"That�s better. You�re so much better when you�re
submissive. If you try to assert yourself again I�ll have
to punish you."

Now she can tell he isn�t angry at all. He is enjoying
this. He is so impetuous, always catching her off guard.
But that brief shock hasn�t completely evaporated. He
has never hurt her, just some stinging slaps in sex play,
but he seems so powerful that she doesn�t know if he
ever might.

"Would you whip me for being bad?"

"No, I�d whip you for the enjoyment of it." He massages
his penis, squeezes a drop of pre-cum onto his fingers,
then rubs it onto her lips. He holds her head still,
makes her open her mouth, then slowly spits frothy saliva
into her mouth. One of the things he came up with to dominate
her and make her excited. She works to not miss his spit,
to catch and swallow it all. "What I�d like to whip most of
all is your breasts. They�re so good, and they�d bounce all over
the place when I hit them. Not like those flour bags most
big breasted women have." This is true. She herself
loves her breasts, their firmness and the fact that her
nipples point upward. She�d heard about upward-pointing
nipples in an old movie once, as a teenager, and had
almost rushed to the bathroom to inspect herself. Even
her husband doesn�t berate her about them. One of the few
things, she thinks.

"I might not even use a whip on them. Maybe a long piece
of inch-thick doweling. I�d hit you slowly, one hit every
minute or so, on the minute, so you�d know just when it
was coming and would have plenty of time to experience
each one. Anticipation is everything, little sweet one."

She gets that shivery feeling in her belly again and now
is really hot. A couple of times he got her high like
this then said it was time to get back to their offices,
leaving her horny and distracted all afternoon. Is this
one of those times? It is working, the bastard! The image
of herself, her breasts marked and swaying while she tried
vainly to avoid the blows, is exquisite. She thinks she
would say yes if he actually put the question to her.

"You�d really like to beat my breasts, darling?"

"My sweet, simple bitch, they�re whip magnets! Anyone
would want to. Don�t get me started. They should be
battered until they're bruised and lumpy and a little bloody.
Then I�d pump them while I fucked you."

"Oh, please, would you? I�ll be brave and not even need a
gag. You�ll be so proud of me." She thinks she might
orgasm right now.

He gives her a very sweet kiss. "That gets us back to
the issue of markings, doesn�t it?" He makes her get up
on her knees and sit back on her ankles, then lock her fingers
behind her neck. He kneels in front of her and pulls
her head down to his penis. She notices that it is larger
than usual and darker hued, and realizes how much he must
like the fantasy. Now she hopes he will be able to find
a way to do it.

She licks the head of the penis, sucks it into her mouth.
He winds his hands through her hair, holding her head
still while he moves his dick in very short strokes. Then
he moves his hands to her breasts, squeezes them and
twists her nipples some more.

"There is a way I can hurt you and not leave too many obvious
marks. I�m going to do it."

She stops sucking just for a moment, but she knows not
to take her mouth off of him until he tells her to.
She runs her tongue up the underside of the head, then
around it. "I�m going to use nipple on you."

It seems suddenly quieter in the chamber. There is the
susurrus of her breathing through her nose, the sound of
a small movement he makes on the mattress. She hears
students moving distantly in the hall, and everything in the
chamber assumes a more solid character to her, as though
she is seeing it for the first time or is suddenly
wide awake. Her head is bowed but her eyes look up at him with
questions. He pulls hard on her hair, then holds her head
still while he finally explains.

"I can your nipples. They�re dark and only a
small part of you, so they won�t show much. Though yours
are a little pinkish. I want you to know exactly what�s
going to happen, so you can agree in advance." He moves
his penis in and out a little, until he is close, then
stops and holds her head still again.

"You�ll be tied upright so you can�t move and I have easy
access to you. You�ll be heavily gagged. I�ll use
pliers, and pins, and alligator clips, and I�ll fuck you
during it. You know about safe words, but we can�t have
one because I�ll hurt you too much and you wouldn�t be
able to stop yourself from using it. That would stop
things early and spoil it. It has to be more than you can
take. So you have to be gagged. You have to trust me. You
have to agree in advance to let me do it. I promise only
two things. There won�t be any permanent damage and the
time will be limited. I�ll stop after, say, thirty
minutes."

She kneels at his lap, his dick pulsating in her mouth,
her mind running in circles. Can she do it? It is so much
further and more intense than anything they have ever
done, but she is still hot, and she does want to do it for
him.

"Do you trust me?"
---------------------------------------

On the day, he meets her as she enters the chamber. She
has run hot and cold since the previous evening, afraid of
what is coming, wanting to please him, being briefly
aroused, wondering what it all means. This morning, when
no one was around, she stroked and squeezed her nipples
through her sweater, got sexy, then was nearly caught when
the work study student walked in unexpectedly.

He tells her to strip quickly. They have only her hour lunch
break, so she can�t waste time. She lets him pull up her
arms, watching as from a distance, and notices that he uses long,
beautifully patterned, silk scarves to tie her hands apart to
a pipe that runs overhead. She has never been tied before.
Having it happen simultaneously frightens her and makes her
desire herself. A phrase from last Sunday's sermon runs
around in her head: "Flesh of my flesh, flesh of my flesh."

He has fixed screw rings into the floor--she wonders how and
when he did that--and ties her legs apart with more scarves.
Another long scarf, this one with a floral design, goes around
her belly then to another ring set into the wall behind, so she
is pulled back. He tightens everything. She can hardly move.
By now she is almost hyperventilating.

He licks her nipples then kneels and sucks her pussy lips. They
kiss deeply, lips and tongue, for several minutes while he plays
with her body and gets her high. He strips and enters her for a
moment, then withdraws. She is completely slippery.

The gag is next. Not her panties this time, but something
she can�t choke on. A ball gag, with a tie around her
head, followed by duct tape around her lips. "I won�t
blindfold you, because I want you to see what�s happening
to you." Because she can't say anything she murmurs against
the gag. This is so exciting. Why hasn't he done
this before? Do more.

Then he puts his dick back in her and holds a pair of
needle nosed pliers in front of her face. She just
stares as he puts the pliers on her right nipple. They
are cold and so hard and sharp-edged, and in feeling them all
her desire drains away. It's too soon, she thinks, and trys
to tell him to wait, but she can't talk. She steels herself,
bites on the ball. She can�t look away. She thinks it's just
my nipples, only my nipples, I can stand it. She is grasping
at straws. He squeezes hard and twists.

She hadn�t known her body would jerk so. She forgets her
grip on the ball-gag, squeals, and tries to tear away. He
squeezes again and twists the other direction, and now she
is jerking back and forth, begging him through the gag to
please stop, please. He stops, waits a moment for her to
subside, to think maybe he will end it, and goes to the
left nipple. Then back.

She is moving so fast, bucking, arching, shaking, using every
contortion the scarves allow. Many directions but not
much distance. She is aware of few things beyond her
nipples, and then only as fragments of a picture.
There is no continuity. She hears herself yelling, and
then gasping because she can�t get enough air through her
nose, then screaming shallowly before her lungs can fill.
But no noise of consequence escapes. He can hear it very nicely,
but no one can in the hall or the classroom. And she is
completely winded in seconds.

This brings him to orgasm quickly, one that explodes from his
cock and sends vibrations up and down his body. He holds on to
her to keep from staggering. So good, but too damned soon. He
shoots up into her for a long time; but he doesn�t get soft
and he wants more. After he collects himself he stops for a
moment to pick up the alligator clips.

She couldn�t keep this dance up for more than a few
minutes. No one could. When he suddenly stops
she mainly just hangs by her arms from the beautiful
scarves, though she can�t stop her body from twitching
this way and that. After a moment she is merely moaning
and wheezing, but this changes to a whine when he holds
the two-inch clips to her eyes. Oh no, please don�t do
it, please no. But he does. One on each nipple. They
cut A different pain. He squuezes them, then yanks them
off roughly and gets her moving again. He puts them on
again, and adds some kind of weights that pull her nipples
down, stretching them out. He is close again, already.

There is hot water all down their legs. He realizes she
has pissed on herself. On him, too, which for just a
moment gets him to think how this is a reason to punish
her later.

She doesn�t know how long it has been, has no sense of the
time. The initial panic passes to fatigue and a great
sadness, and always the hurting. Her arms and her legs
spasm. It takes her some time to realize she lost her water.
Great shudders run through her abdomen. Not her breasts,
though. They just stand there pertly on her chest wall,
waiting for what will happen next. Between hurts she hangs,
writhing back and forth, gasping and whining, but when he
hurts her again she bucks and cries again.

He takes up a long pin with a red plastic bead on the end.
She does notice the bead, then the silvery gleam.
He starts putting it through the extended nipple, very
slowly. Her body is moving again. Though the pin is sharp
he has to push on it hard, and twist it a bit, to get it
to go through all the way. This slows things down more.

She tries to pull back away from the needles, her cries
now lacking any power. More a pathetic mewing. She sees
little black spots in front of her eyes. He pulls the pin
out, slowly, then pushes it through at another spot.
Slowly, slowly. He pulls it out again, puts it through the
areola into the meat of her breast, drives it in a way, removes
it slowly, finds another spot on the areola and drives it again.
She is now just pushing back against the wall with the scant
strength she can borrow from the pain, pushing against the ring
in the wall. He moves to her other breast and uses the pin
again. And again.

Then he removes the pin and the clips. She just hangs
there, moaning. He pulls up the breast and gets a nipple
into his mouth. He sucks. Then the other side. Then
back. She hardly feels it.

Then the clips again. He puts them on and squeezes them
very hard, drawing more blood and making her twist and
moan and mew. Then he stops, while she hangs like a sack,
gasping and whimpering, and he sucks her blood again. Then
the pliers again. He fucks up into her and comes again.
It is so good.

---------------------------------------

He pulls out of her and backs a step away, puts down the
tools, steps back up to her. She follows the usual
pattern. Her mewing subsides again, but she still
writhes softly. Her wheezing almost covers the moaning that
seeps through the gag. He puts his finger to
his lips until he is sure she sees and recognizes it.
He removes the gag.

There are streaks of froth around her mouth where saliva
was forced past the ball and tape. She can�t get enough
air and can�t hold herself up. She tries to talk to him.
"Oh darling I�m so--I�m so sorry." Another gasp. Her
face crumples. She winces, screws her eyes shut. Then:
"I tried, but I just couldn�t. I couldn�t. It hurt so
much. Oh darling please, I�m sorry." She is crying more.
Her face is covered with tears and sweat and snot, just as
he had said. She is redder in the face than he has ever seen;
the color extends down her neck to the tops of her breasts.
Her nipples are swollen hugely, very dark, and more droplets
of blood have oozed out. She will need to hide them from
her husband for awhile.

He caresses her face. "Later. You were so lovely up there.
Now I�m going to fix you up a little so your nips won�t hurt
so much and you�ll be presentable in the office."

He sprays her nipples with a freezing spray to numb them, them
washes them with a wash cloth and soap and water from the
sink. He takes some ice from a cooler and for ten minutes
numbs her entire breasts deeply. Then he applies some
antibiotic ointment and two large, circular plastic
bandages.

She becomes much calmer during this, though shivering
from both the and the ice. He unties her ankles,
her wrists, the scarf around her belly, and lowers
her to the mattress. He has to hold her tightly to keep
her from falling. He washes her face very gently, with
a warm washcloth. Even with the scarves, her wrists are
pretty raw, though her ankles seem okay. He wonders how
she will explain them to her husband. He�ll have to help
her think up something; she�d never be able to handle it
on her own.

She huddles up against him, shaking. He holds her,
decides to fuck her again. She is wet from before but has
no desire, just keeps holding him.

In a few minutes: "Time to get up. You have to clean up
your mess before you go back to your office. Tomorrow I�ll
tell you how I decide to punish you for not being disciplined
and pissing on yourself." Her eyes get red again and she
begins to cry. A sweet, sad, doleful cry. She bites her
lip to help herself stop. Then he says: "It only lasted
twenty minutes. When we do this again we�ll work it up to
the full half hour." She starts crying again, can�t
stop the crying, holding her head against his chest while
he caresses her back, kisses her hair.

---------------------------------------

Epilogue

Her nipples throb on and on, no end to the hurting.

Her husband is fully asleep, finally. She gets up softly
and walks to the kitchen, gets something, then walks to
the hall bathroom. She had been a zombie in the office,
trying not to be weepy, unable to concentrate. The work
study student had thought she�d had a fight with her husband.
At home her husband noticed something wrong, and she said she
had a sick headache. He cooked a light meal, but she couldn�t get
herself to eat much. Of course he didn�t try for sex. He was
really very attentive.

She undresses and peels the bandages off her nipples.
There is just a little blood on them. The nipples are
almost grotesque, very swollen, clearly bruised, and
a little scabbed. She thinks: oh my God, they�re
mutilated. She puts together two ice packs and
holds them to her breasts until the throbbing finally
diminishes, until the nipples are completely numb.

She washes them again, very gingerly, and puts on more
ointment. She reads the label on a medicine bottle and
takes four tablets. After a bit she leans back against the
wall and looks at herself in the mirror that fills the wall
over the sinks. She looks only for a minute; then another,
and another, and finally is staring at her breasts. The drawn
look on her face is replaced by a kind of dreaminess.
She starts slowly masturbating.