Violent Stories of Sodomy
by Unknown


PREFACE 

Violence haunts the city streets and lingers as a strange, yearning ache in 
the minds of masochistic women. 

The most violent act of all is the act of sodomy. It provides pleasure to 
the man and denies the woman all pleasure. In order to avoid pain, she must 
relax her muscles and let herself be completely dominated and at the mercy 
of her mate. She must respond to the sharp, driving jabs of his wicked lance 
the way driftwood responds to the swell of the ocean. She must learn to be 
tossed on the end of a skewer while giving as much resistance as a 
marshmallow. If she tightens her muscles in an effort to resist, the spear 
that probes unnatural places will rip her rigid flesh apart. 

The theme of these three stories is sodomy. 

All three women who are the subjects of these stories share with each other 
a store of violent fantasies and masochistic longings. All put their 
masochism and their ability to give up their own wills to the test of 
attempted domination and torture. 

These stories give us a vision of the inner conflict that mounts inside 
these women who, either because they are being violently and cruelly 
assaulted or because they are trying to provide their mates with special and 
unusual pleasure, attempt to relax while they feel like they are being 
speared to death. 

One tiny contraction and an unstretched orifice will be ripped to shreds by 
the thick, driving pole inside it. One false reassertion of ego and the 
women will be torn till they bleed and tortured until their consciousness 
becomes dim. 

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

PUSSY IN HEAT 

PART ONE 

Dora Faber was a small, blonde girl who had just moved to New York City . 
She had come from Baton Rouge and she had no very clear idea of why she had 
left her home and come to the city. She had left suddenly. One night, she 
had simply gotten into her sky blue car and drove it onto the highway and 
she hadn't stopped driving. All the way across Tennessee she had kept 
driving with the little stars winking at her above the black mountains. When 
she hit the filthy, sadly gleaming cities of the East, she had bought 
herself a giant pack of chewing gum, bravely turned the dial on her radio to 
find a new station, and she had kept driving. She knew by the time she hit 
Philadelphia that she was going to New York. And she felt inside that the 
move had something to do with boredom. She wanted something to happen to 
her. 

Perhaps the idea of moving to New York had slipped into her subconscious 
because of the long letters she'd been receiving from her older brother. He 
was in the army and had been stationed somewhere near there. He wrote her 
pages about the night life; about the lights, and the streets full of 
strangely dressed people, the cozy little bars, and the rock music that 
played everywhere. She pictured herself sitting under a shady tree on the 
sidewalk outside of a little open-air cafe. In her fantasy, she was sitting 
with a handsome man and winking coyly at him over the top of her menu. Her 
fantasy didn't take her any further than that. "But I guess," she thought as 
she took the side of the road that was. marked "Lincoln Tunnel", "that 
simple little fantasy was enough." 

Dora was a tiny person. She didn't stand above five feet high. She had long, 
blonde hair that fell below her waist. It was dead straight and its ends 
were wispy. They rested on the little shelf made by her buttocks. When she 
felt nervous or confused, Dora had a way of bringing the wispy ends of her 
hair round to her face and tickling her lips with them. She pressed the 
prickly ends into her mouth as if the ends of her hair were making a paint 
brush. She'd suck on them and make them wet. 

Sometimes, she'd bring her hair to her face and cover her nose with it and 
sniff at it. Usually it smelled like straw. Sometimes it smelled like 
raspberry jam. Once at a cookout, Dora noticed on the way home that it 
smelled like barbecue sauce and smoldering charcoal. She didn't know why, 
but sniffing at her hair comforted her. It was a childish sort of gesture, 
like sucking one's thumb. 

Dora came through the Lincoln Tunnel at a rapid rate and turned right onto 
the pot-holed, partially asphalted and partially bare brick street that ran 
under the West Side Elevated Highway. She had no idea where she was going. 
She held onto the steering wheel with one hand and with the other she pulled 
her hair across her face and sniffed at it. All she could smell were bus 
fumes. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. 

She had made a little, nebulous plan in the car on her way to New York. In 
New York, she had heard, a car was only a nuisance. It was always better to 
park it somewhere and then get out and walk. Besides, there was good public 
transport. 

Dora had decided, therefore, that the first step must be to find a place 
where she could safely lock her car and leave it. Then she would be free to 
go wherever her feet carried her. To be sure, this was not much of a plan, 
but since Dora hadn't the slightest idea of what she would do in the city 
once she had gotten inside of it, she felt very satisfied that she had a 
plan at all. Besides it gave her a reason for doing something and for 
driving somewhere. 

Dora had black eyes that sat like mournful knotholes in her white, freckled 
face. She had full white cheeks and a little smile. Seldom, even when she 
was laughing, did her mouth open. It was as if there was a reserved 
tightness inside of her and of which she could never let go. When she did 
laugh, her body shook silently. It didn't ripple. It jerked as if she were 
trying to contain something as if the noise of it were being held in and 
were trying to get out. Dora wouldn't let it out. She sat and jerked 
silently till it was over. Then she sniffed at her hair. 

Sometimes, though, when she was all alone, a wonderful feeling would fill 
her. The tiny smile would spread over her face. It was a magical sort of 
smile that seemed to say, "I've got a secret." Her tiny white hands would 
reach back and grab the wisps of her hair and pull them across her nose and 
mouth. Above this mask of hair, her black eyes would burn. 

Raised in the stifling heat of the stiflingly routine and norm-oriented 
middle-class modern south, Dora's eyes burned because she had been born full 
of a little, determined spark. She had decided she was going to get 
somewhere and that she was going to act out the fact that she was somebody 
special. She didn't know where to pick to set the stage for her life and she 
didn't know who she wanted to be. But her black eyes burned through the dust 
that rose from the streets as she walked alone on the outskirts of Baton 
Rouge. She kicked a can. She looked up to watch it roll down the sidewalk 
and her black eyes were wet and glistening against the dry, powdery clouds 
of dust. She reached the place where the can had come to a stop against the 
side of a building. She aimed it straight down the sidewalk with her toe and 
then she let fly at it with the side of her foot, lifting it up in the air 
and sending it flying with all her might. The can landed with a clatter and 
went rolling away. The pop top inside it made it clank and rattle, as it 
rolled slowly to a halt along the uneven sidewalk. Dora listened to the pop 
top clattering and echoing deeply against the metal. It was a beer can and 
its insides were golden. The can rocked back and forth lazily when it quit 
rolling, and the pop top scraped gutturally over one side of it. In the 
gutter, the can rocked the way a wheel of fortune does, slow creaking back 
and forth before it settles in final silence upon the one lucky number. 

"Something," thought Dora, as she drew back her foot again, "something lucky 
is going to happen to me in my life." She said this aloud, and there was an 
odd peal of determination, even hatred in her voice, as if she were 
frightened that the dusty streets and the dull eyes of Baton Rouge were 
going to kill her. She let fly with all her strength and all her might at 
the tin can, raising her foot up over her head. Both her penny loafer and 
the-tin can went flying. The shoe landed with a soft, dull thud a few feet 
ahead of her. She had kicked it straight up and it had done slow somersaults 
in the air. The can landed in the middle of the street with a hollow 
ringing. It immediately picked up its empty, guttural clatter as it rolled 
slowly over and over, heading down the graded asphalt toward the gutter. Its 
glinting rim flashed when it caught the hot afternoon sun. 

There had been problems with her job. Dora was a secretary and worked in the 
registrar's office at Louisiana State University. She had not been given a 
raise when she thought she should have been. She was not dumb, although she 
was uneducated, and she wanted at least the chance to try her hand at a job 
that gave her a little more responsibility. In New York, Dora had heard, a 
secretary could work her way up until she was almost an executive. Besides, 
she had heard that, in the city, even a lowly typist or file clerk could 
pull a whopping starting salary. Then she could buy clothes like the girls 
that she saw photographed in magazines. Here in Baton Rouge on the tiny 
wages she was making, she could not really even afford to buy the magazine. 
She wanted to go to plush night clubs and sit in velvet seats and wear gold 
lame hot pants. She wanted to string blue feather boas around her neck, pull 
them across her nose and sniff them instead of her hair. The wonderful, 
familiar feeling tingled through her and for an instant, Dora was oblivious 
of the brick streets jostling her car, the confusion of one way signs, and 
the gaping pot holes. The tiny smile stretched hesitating between her 
cheeks. "It all comes down to boredom," she thought. Inside she felt happy 
with her decision. "Something lucky, something wonderfully, incredibly lucky 
is going to happen to me here," she thought. 

Dora began to see signs nailed to the stone pillars under the elevated 
highway. They read "Public Parking". 

"Good," she thought, feeling as if Fate, like a magnet, was drawing her 
insistently in the right direction. She trusted in it to get her wherever 
she ought to go. The signs were nailed to the pillars at the beginning of 
every block, and she drove her car southwards for a couple of blocks before 
turning left and driving into the shady pavement under the highway. 

In front of her, when she turned, sat an enormous blue building. It was 
surrounded by a high, chain link fence. The gate in the fence was open and 
Dora drove into it, inspecting the building with sharp, inquisitive black 
eyes. 

She followed the blue wall for a short distance, and then came to a ramp 
that led down out of the building. It too was marked "Public Parking". Below 
it, on a shiny white shingle, the monthly and daily parking rates had been 
posted. They wanted thirty seven dollars and fifty cents to hold her car for 
a month. Dora sat and stared at the sign and quickly calculated. Her head 
was adding frantically. She was stunned by the price quoted on the sign and 
she was trying to figure if she could possibly afford it and expect to eat 
more than a meal a week too. 

Sadly, Dora put her car in reverse and backed up just beyond the gate in the 
fence, and turned out onto the bumpy roadway again. Without really thinking, 
she began driving south again, figuring that perhaps, further along, there 
would be another lot, where the blue paint was not so new, the metal fence 
not so high, and where the monthly rates would be lower. As she jostled and 
jerked her way over the pot holes, she held her hair like a mask over her 
face and snuffled her nose in it for comfort. 

Dora drove a few blocks, passed a sign, and sure enough, as she turned left 
under the highway, she saw a deserted pier in front of her. It stretched out 
into the cold, metallic gray water of the choppy Hudson. There were old, 
ramshackle cars parked at random all over it. Its edges were lines with 
great rotting beams that looked as if they were old, stolen telephone poles 
that had been brought down in a storm. Old tires and tin cans dotted the 
lot, and the weeds grew up under the wheels of the cars and clambered their 
stunted, knotted way up over the old wooden beams. They waved green leaves 
up from beneath the crevices where the asphalt had cracked. 

Dora pulled her sky blue station wagon through the chain link fence's gate 
and drove slowly down the center of the pier. This lot had a high fence 
also, and the fence had barbed wire along the top of it. The barbed wire was 
very fine. It seemed to cling to the chain links beneath it by its tiny 
mace-like barbs. The thin wire between the barb had been torn and frayed and 
it floated above the top of the fence like hair. 

Dora unrolled her window and smelled a fishy smell, and when the wind blew 
she thought she could smell a mixture of beer and rotten eggs. She could 
hear her tires crunching over tiny pieces of gravel. At the end of the pier, 
a tiny rusted white Corvette with enormous exposed side pipes was sitting 
parked in the middle of a vaguely delineated, winding aisle that was made by 
the other cars. Next to it stood two boys of about her own age. One had his 
head buried in under the open hood of the car. He appeared to be rummaging 
through the motor. The other boy, a tall slender fellow with curly brown 
hair, glasses, short khaki shorts and a striped T-shirt, was standing in 
front of the car with his hands on his hips. He was peering down at an old 
oil can. It was sitting rustily on the ground with a rag stuck under its 
handle. 

"Excuse me," said Dora out of her open car window as she pulled her station 
wagon up beside them. Her voice sounded squeaky and timid and piping even in 
her own head. It floated out to the boy who stood over the oil can and 
sounded like a far away whistle. It came muffled through the hank of blonde 
hair that she was holding across her mouth. 

"Do you know if I can park my car here?" Dora asked. 

The boy pointed at the rusty Corvette. "Sure," he said. "I park mine here." 

"Is it very expensive?" 

"No. It's a good deal. They charge twenty-five dollars for a month." 

Dora's face brightened a little and she dropped the hank of hair and put 
both hands on the steering wheel. "Do you think my car will be safe?" she 
asked and her eyes bored at him over the top of her window. 

"Sure," he said. "There's a guard here almost all the time." 

Dora looked back along the dusty pier but she didn't see any officials, or 
any official looking little buildings that might house someone who would 
slide a little ticket under one of her windshield wipers and take her money. 
"Where do I pay?" she asked. 

"Wasn't there anyone there?" asked the boy. "I mean in the bus. Drive back 
to it and knock on the door. There's usually someone there but sometimes 
he's watching TV" 

Dora looked behind her again and saw that, parked against the chain link 
fence just to one side of the front gate, sat an old blue school bus with 
the name of a school painted on its side in white letters. It was just like 
the school buses she had ridden on in Baton Rouge. Perhaps this one was a 
bit tinier. And the ones in Baton Rouge were all painted chromium yellow. 
This one had curtains in its windows, was tilted above one flat tire, and 
out the back window of it was strung a line of washing. A couple of T-shirts 
and some old, stiff rags hung from the line and stirred a little in the 
breeze. Next to the school bus sat an old gas pump. 

"Thank you very much," Dora said to the boy. She put her car in drive and 
turned and rolled back down to the school bus. All along the way, the rusty 
toothsome grillwork on the front of the other cars seemed to snarl at the 
body of her shiny blue station wagon menacingly. 

"Oh well," thought Dora. She was scared that the doors of her car might be 
stolen in a place like this. "I shall only leave you here for a little 
while," she said, half to the car and half to herself. "Then I shall come 
and get you and put you in a much finer, much cleaner lot, where the other 
cars are all shiny." 

Dora's mind wandered abruptly away and the little smile spread over her 
face. She was thinking of returning one day to pick up her car from here, 
and park it proudly atop the big blue building that she had first looked at. 
Her blonde hair, in her fantasy, was piled up in curls over the top of her 
head. She was wearing a tightly fitting black suit that had ruffles around 
its wrists and a little strip of black fur around its collar. Under one arm, 
she was carrying a shiny patent leather pocket book. She walked swiftly. Her 
high heels went clicking. 

Dora brought her car mechanically to a stop beside the school bus. Its door 
was open, and there was a light on inside. She turned off the station wagon 
and climbed out. The back of her thighs were wet from sweating against the 
plastic car seat in the heat. The back of her little thin, white, sleeveless 
shirt clung to her skin and looked pink. Even the yoke of the shirt above 
her bra had gotten soaked with perspiration. The sun had been streaming 
through the windshield as she came jouncing over the hot streets. Only over 
her breasts did the shirt have any of its white crispness remaining. Her bra 
had absorbed most of the moisture that came from her skin. A warm trickle of 
sweat rolled from the pit of her neck down her breast bone between her 
breasts and snake-danced down her abdomen. It got soaked up by the waist 
bond of her shorts. 

Dora crossed the lot and hesitated at the open door of the school bus. She 
heard the sound of a television coming from within. A worn strip of Persian 
carpet had been laid over the black, rubbery, runged plastic that covered 
the steps into the bus. There was a path worn down the center of the carpet 
where the pattern had completely disappeared. All that was left was a 
stretch of loosely woven gray string. But around its edges, Dora could see 
the remains of a long-tailed red bird woven against a deep blue background. 

She rapped against the blue metal door that had been folded back on itself. 
She could hear a woman's voice coming from the TV set. A man answered it. 
Then came background music. Dora knocked again. There was no answer. Dora 
timidly climbed onto the first step and peered over the railing that ran to 
the left of the little stairs. Over the railing, more rags were hung. She 
peered beyond it and saw into the interior of the bus. 

Along the wall by the door there was a long desk. It was made of yellow wood 
and its edges were gouged with cigarette burns. The burns made a black 
fringe all along the edge of the desk. The desk was covered with a 
tumultuous array of papers. They were all thin slips with blue lines printed 
on them and columns of handwritten numbers. They looked like invoices. 
Stacks of them were skewered on pieces of wood that had upturned nails in 
them. They rest sat crumpled and some had fallen on the floor. On the desk 
was a lamp and also a telephone. One of those old, tilting office chairs 
with a tripod base sat in front of the desk. 

Against the opposite wall was a built in bed. It appeared to be more or less 
a shallow wooden box in which a mattress had been inserted. The sheets were 
in disarray, and the bottom sheet was exposed. There was a yellowish stained 
area that ran down the center of it. The creases looked as if they had been 
permanently sweated into place. There was no blanket. 

The bed was propped up at the head with five or six rickety columns of red 
bricks. Below the foot of the bed was a small refrigerator. On the door of 
the refrigerator was a large rust stain in the center of which the enamel 
had blistered and chipped away, leaving what looked like an iron surface. 

At the head of the bed, on an overturned crate sat a television set. It was 
a tiny little one foot square black cube, and it was on and had a blue 
picture in it. The rusty goose-necked lamp on the desk was also on and it 
shed a golden light over the interior; over the curved metal walls that 
simply bent smoothly overhead to meet each other and form the ceiling. The 
light made the air inside the bus seem hotter. 

Dora squirmed inside her sticky clothes, and went back outside to wait for 
whoever lived there to come home. "Obviously," she thought, "they didn't 
expect to be long, or they wouldn't have left their appliances on." She sat 
on the shiny blue hood of her station wagon, and had to fetch her sweater 
from the front seat and spread it out under her, like a cushion, to stop the 
overheated metal from burning her buttocks. Beneath her shorts, despite the 
sweater, the heat of the car made her skin itch. But the heat was also 
beginning to relax her. She began to feel proud of herself for simply having 
gotten there. In addition, the sight of the cramped accommodations in the 
school bus made her feel better. "I am going to live in a better place than 
that," she thought. "And I am going to be better than a parking lot 
attendant." She got lost in her own thoughts as she waited. She fantasized 
the jobs she would get. She dreamt of air-conditioned offices where the 
efficient clicking of her high heels would be muffled by the thick 
wall-to-wall carpet. She saw herself with her hair all curled and piled up 
seated behind an enormous desk that had a shiny glass top to it. The desk 
was wedged between two enormous white columns. The columns had potted plants 
sitting in urns at the base. She began to fantasize the money she would be 
making. In her mind, she saw the yellow paychecks converted into wads of 
green stuff at the clear teller windows at the bank. She dreamt she saw her 
wallet bursting. She dreamt she had a chandelier installed in her bathroom. 
She dreamt she bought a tiny dining room table that was made of walnut. 

As she was dreaming, a man came sauntering lazily through the chain link 
gate of the parking lot. He was about five feet, three inches, he was black, 
and he was very fat. His loose blue shirt was unbuttoned. His shirt tails 
rested on his prominently round rear end. And under his shirt, his T-shirt 
clung to his protruding belly. A little circle of sweat turned the T-shirt 
dark over his navel: The T-shirt was stained a little over the bulging 
pectoral muscles of his chest. 

The man's head, like his stomach, was enormously round. It was covered with 
crisply curling, coarse hair. His head and his body looked like two 
balloons, one tied loosely on top of the other, and floating towards her 
across the parking lot. He was almost like a black snowman he was so round. 

He had on a pair of large, old tennis shoes, and he was carrying a beer can 
in one hand and a paper bag dangled from the other. 

He saw Dora immediately as he came into the lot and came sauntering up to 
her. He seemed to turn his toes in and drag them across the asphalt with 
every step. 

"You want to park here?" he said as he approached her. Up close, he looked 
even more like a snowman. Dora could feel the heat-that was radiating from 
his body with her knees, even though his head still seemed a good distance 
away from her. His belly was so tight and swollen it looked as if any moment 
she would see it bursting. It jutted towards her like an enormous model of 
the world. 

Above it, his head floated like a bowling ball. His nose was round as a 
tomato. He had tiny lips, and the area that stretched from the bottom of his 
nose to his top Up was unusually long. He blew air into his mouth after he 
spoke to her, and he puffed out this area as well as his cheeks. It was 
deeply divided as if he'd just missed having a hair lip. When he puffed it 
out, Dora saw that the sweat on it was glistening. It looked like a black 
pumpkin in the moonlight. 

His eyes were very tiny and he moved them sideways as he spoke to her. The 
whites of them were bleary and stained yellow. They seemed to slide through 
a veil of warm tea. His forehead also was glistening, and he wiped it off 
with the back of his hand. 

"Yes," said Dora. "I've heard it costs twenty-five dollars." 

The man bent his head down and watched as he moved the toe of one sneaker 
slowly forward over the asphalt. When he looked up, he was smiling at her. 
The inside of his lips were very soft and wet and pink, and his teeth were 
tiny and all had gaps in them. His smile made him look sheepish, as if he 
were a little boy who was just about to get into trouble. 

He pressed the glistening, pink velvet end of his tongue over his bottom 
teeth and against his lower Up. A pool of spit sat in the little valley 
between them. He began shaking his head. "It's twenty-five dollars if you 
come in the first of the month. Then I charge you from the first to the 
first, you see. It's not the first, so I got to charge you by the day." 

Dora looked down at the man's forearms. They were the color of chocolate and 
as thick as her thighs. His hands were enormous. They had short fingers 
relative to their own proportions, but they could have twice over covered 
her face. In her fist, his thumb would have felt like a cucumber. Besides, 
something about the abbreviated roundness 'of the back of his head, and the 
deeply halved expanse above his upper Up, made him look as belligerent and 
as hard to reason with as a bull dog. 

"Urn," she said, "Let me see, it's the twenty-seventh of June, I think," and 
she began figuring aloud for his benefit to show she was willing to go along 
and pay according to his plan. 

One dollar and twenty-five cents was the daily price quoted on a placard 
that hung on the front grill of the School bus. "Can I pay you for two 
weeks?" she whispered. She was adding quickly in her head. But her voice 
came out in a pleading whisper. It was as if there was a fist inside her 
throat that was clawing at her vocal cords. She felt as if she could not use 
them properly anymore. 

As she sat there stammering, the white Corvette came crunching over the 
gravel towards them. The boy in the striped T-shirt was at the wheel and he 
had his arm resting on the top of the door. "Good," he said as he pulled up 
alongside them, "I see you've found him." He waved a cheery good-bye and 
drove out of the parking lot. His car sputtered and his two side pipes fired 
out little explosions, and he was gone. 

Dora heard the wind pick up and from somewhere in'the city came a deep 
rumbling. She guessed it must be a subway. She had heard about them. She 
thought she could feel her car quiver a bit underneath her buttocks. 
Suddenly, she felt as if, instead of standing at the gateway to all her 
dreams, she was standing, hovering, on the edge of something hideously ugly. 
She did not want to go inside it. She did not want to leave her car here. 
She simply wanted to get back inside it and drive as fast as she could the 
whole of the long way home.- 

She wanted to get out and find herself on the streets of Baton Rouge again. 
Empty as it was, every part of it was familiar. 

When she again looked up at the attendant, he was smiling. Dora didn't like 
his smile. It had changed from sheepish to sly. She could not explain it, 
but she was certain the man was trying to steal her car. She did not want to 
leave her car with him. But the odd thing about it was that she no longer 
felt she had any choice. She was afraid to tell him that she had changed her 
mind. Had she tried to open her mouth, she didn't think her voice box could 
even have croaked it. 

Dora found herself fumbling through her pocket book to find her money at the 
same time as she had suddenly not the slightest intention of staying. "Pay 
him," she kept thinking. "Pay him and get out." 

The attendant shifted his weight from foot to foot and grinned at her. Dora 
couldn't tell whether he was smiling in anticipation of the money she was 
about to hand him, or whether he had sensed that she was frightened to be 
alone on the lot with him and was laughing at her. 

He put his head down again and looked as if he were about to ram something. 
"Come on inside and pay me," he said, and he leaned his head over and wiped 
the sweat on his forehead off onto the shoulder of his shirt. He sucked the 
spit from the front of his mouth, then grinned and settled his tongue 
against his bottom Up again. 

"Can't I just pay you?" asked Dora in a high little voice. 

"No," he said. "You gotta have an invoice." 

Dora got reluctantly down from the hood of the station wagon. She picked up 
her sweater and threw it through the open window of her car. Then she 
followed him towards the school bus. She wondered nonsensically why she was 
letting herself be intimidated into doing this thing that was so totally 
against all of her better judgment. For an instant, she hated herself. She 
felt detached from herself, and as if she were just watching herself being 
foolish. She hated herself because she did not have the strength to stop. 

She watched the attendant's ass rolling as he strode towards his little, 
metal front door. He had the puffing gait of a fat adolescent. He bent his 
arms at the elbows and held up his hands in fists that moved in locomotive 
circles as he went. 

Dora followed him up the steps. He was panting as he pulled himself up by 
the railing. The back of his blue shirt was drenched with sweat. It had 
soaked right through his T-shirt. 

He put his beer can down on the desk and picked up one of the papers from 
the floor and tossed it up into the billowing cloud of invoices. Then he 
opened the refrigerator and put the little paper sack inside it and slammed 
the door. He sighed and wiped his big hands off on his pants and stared at 
the invoices. He seemed to be unsure of what to do with them. 

"You got to pay me," he said. He put his head down and smiled coyly at her. 

"I'm happy to pay you," said Dora and, she supposed because of her fear, her 
voice sounded suddenly sharp and brusque. She was getting impatient with 
this man who she imagined to be stupid. She wanted to give him the money and 
get out of there. 

"We're going to make a deal," he said. 

Dora shifted nervously from foot to foot. "Look," she said, "just tell me 
how much it is and I'll pay you, OK?" 

He took a step towards her and she saw his eyes slide in their tea-colored 
tears. They were narrow and yellow and sly. She felt his belly brush against 
hers and it was so round and high that it pressed into one of her small, 
white, quivering tits. Without saying anything more, Dora began to cry. 

"I need womens," the attendant said. "I know how to get money." He pressed 
his stomach into her so hard that she felt she could not breath. She had 
backed up against the railing and there was no more place to go, except of 
course to run out screaming into the parking lot. 

Dora moved her foot sideways and was just about to try to slip out sideways 
from between the railing and his stomach when he put his enormous hand on 
her upper arm and held her fast. With his other hand he reached behind her 
and began squeezing one of her small, white buttocks through the thin cotton 
of her short shorts. They were as small and as hard as oranges. He squeezed 
so hard that he forced her up on tip toe, almost picking her up off the 
ground from her thin legs. 

His pinky found its way up the leg of her shorts, crawled beneath the 
elastic edges of her panties and, squirming like a worm, forced its way into 
the small hole in her red twat. He held his pinky stiffly, then brought it 
out and jumped it over the hard ridge behind her vagina and sunk it slowly 
into her ass-hole. He moved it slowly and he sunk it deep. All the time he 
was smiling at her. 

Dora stood on tip toe, trying to get away from his finger. He reached down 
and unbuttoned his shirt, slipping his hand in between his own stomach and 
her breast as if he were looking for something in an inside coat pocket. He 
stared at Dora with his yellow eyes still. The irises were as black as her 
own. His lips were beginning to pucker. They were pressed too closely for 
Dora to see exactly what he was doing, but then the squeeze came and she 
realized he had gotten hold of her red nipple. He squeezed it till her whole 
tit ached and then the ache spread into her armpit and still he didn't stop. 
She felt as if he were trying to twist her nipple off. She stood with her 
mouth slightly open. She was unable to either scream or speak. 

His belly that was pressed so tightly into her own that she felt the 
pressure bending the fragile bones of her rib cage, filled the hollow 
between the pelvic bones that stuck out on either side of her thin body. 

His belly was wet and hard. The skin was so tightly stretched that it felt 
about the texture and size of a beach ball as it pressed the air out of her. 
She could feel him breathing. Each time his chest rose up, his stomach 
squeezed her tits a little more and flattened them. She felt as though her 
nipples must be leaving permanent imprints in him. His flesh welled up 
around them and molded itself tightly to the shape of her little peach sized 
breasts. When he breathed out, she had some sliding room beneath him and she 
could feel how wet their two bodies were. 

But Dora couldn't pull away from him. To draw back even a centimeter would 
have meant pushing his pinky further up inside of her ass. She squirmed on 
it, trying to get away from him and that hideous invading breathing. She 
only felt his finger creep further up her rectum. He crooked it into a shape 
like a tiny fist and she felt him burrowing with his knuckle cruelly into 
her sensitive inside walls. He stretched her skin and made the blood vessels 
burst. Dora felt a sharp pain. She opened her mouth to scream but she could 
not. The pain was too intense. It was enveloping her. It was as if she were 
sinking into a cloud where there was no sensation except the ripping, 
bruising, pulverising motion of that curled, black, tennis ball knuckled 
finger. It felt, inside of her, as enormous and cutting as a sharp rock. As 
he crawled it round the smooth, inflamed skin inside her ass-hole, he caught 
little pinches of her flesh behind his crooked knuckle. He pinched them and 
did not let go and it felt just as if he had a sharp knife inside of her and 
he was cutting her. He moved in a pattern, pushing slowly upwards like a 
thread on a screw. She felt as if her insides must be slitted and bleeding 
in the shape of a crimson, stinging spiral. The pain was now like water. She 
had her arms up, trying to stay afloat in it and not let it knock her 
completely senseless. She was drowning in it. It was like flames that crept 
from her ass-hole over every inch of her stomach where he touched it, up 
into her dully aching breast. Only her face was not submerged in the 
burning, liquid pain. Dora opened her mouth to cry out, but her vocal cords 
only made tiny cracking noises. She could not force any sound out of them. 
She was too paralyzed, too immobile. She could not scream. 

For Dora, in the next moment, it seemed as if she were outside her own body, 
watching it, for it seemed she had no control over her actions. They felt 
involuntary. But she watched as her white hands came up drawn into fists and 
she watched as she beat on his shoulders and his face with her wrists. The 
struggle seemed to go on in slow motion. His flesh felt as soft as a rotten 
apple beneath her pounding. Her fists were frail. They made as good weapons 
as two old flowerets of cauliflower that had sat in the refrigerator long 
enough to wilt and get spongy. Still, she pummeled at him, and she made him 
angry. 

"You womens," he said. "I hate womens. Loving womens. That's all I want to 
do is loving womens." He was muttering and incoherent now. 

Dora felt his enormous fingers grab her tiny wrist. For an instant, she 
thought the bone in it would snap and splinter like an old wish bone that's 
been in the oven too long. But it held, and she could simply feel the white 
flesh grinding over the bone. It hurt so much that she thought her bone must 
be serrated like a dull saw or the inflamed gums of a teething shark. 

He stiffened his pinky in her rectum and brought it out with a sharp 
scooping motion, twanging the edge of her ass-hole. She felt as if her guts 
were going to fall out of her after him. He had stuck his finger nail into 
her as he snapped his pinky out and it left a stream of pain throbbing in 
her that made her weep. The burning scrape felt hot, as if she had sat on a 
bolt of lightning. 

"You womens," he said in a thick gruff voice. As he spoke, a line of spittle 
rolled out over his lower lip. It flew against the side of his face and 
clung to his cheek as he picked up Dora in his two enormous hands and spun 
her round. He walked her, pointing her backwards, toward the mess of 
invoices on the desk. "I tell you womens," he said, and his voice sounded 
almost calm now. The coolness of it made Dora shudder. "You got to pay. Now 
honey, I got to tell you this. I'm going to make an invoice out of you. I 
got to have invoices. Now tell me how this feels." 

He seemed to be muttering to himself and not really addressing her. He was 
simply talking while he was intent on what he was doing. He sat Dora down on 
the desk and finally pulled his stomach away from her. Dora breathed deeply 
with relief. But she found that he immediately descended on her and began 
ripping off her shirt. 

Fumbling madly, he didn't bother with the buttons but simply tore the front 
open. He broke her bra in the center between the two cups as if he were 
pulling apart a fire cracker. Her two tiny pointed tits bounced out. He 
rubbed his hand over both of them. In all her life, Dora had never felt so 
unprotected and naked. The touch of his hands left the flesh on her breasts 
literally crawling. It felt as if he'd covered her tits with handfuls of wet 
live worms. She couldn't forget the sensation of his hateful touch. 

Dora shuddered with her shoulders, trying to make her breasts forget his 
shaking them. With one hand about to rip the button on her short shorts, he 
looked at them jiggling in front of him and he slapped them hard. He used 
both sides of his hand, slapping her tits first one way with the palm and 
then immediately the opposite way with the back of his hand. He slashed 
through the air with the force of his whole arm behind the slaps. They came 
so quickly that Dora could hardly tell the slaps apart. They began to seem 
like one long pain to her. His hand was hard and as it fell on her breasts, 
each time they grew tenderer until she thought she could not bear it, his 
fingers hurt so much. They began to feel like hickory branches, thin and 
switching and covered with little sharp biting nodes where the twigs had 
been broken off them. Her breasts turned pink and began to swell. When he 
began the slapping they had flowed under his hand as soft as butter. Now 
they seemed to have hardened and clung to her like round halves of cheese. 
Her nipples had turned a dark red brown and pointed out straight and erect 
and hideously elongated. The white skin around them was so sore that when 
his hand brushed her nipples against her own breasts, her nipples stung her. 
' 

"No, no, no," she managed to mouth, though she still could not seem to croak 
out more than this quavering whisper. She shook her head back and forth and 
made the word "No" with her lips over and over again. 

He wrenched open the waist band of her shorts. He held her with one hand at 
her waist and dug his thumb into her flesh beneath her rib cage so hard that 
she thought the pressure would damage something inside of her. He peeled the 
pants off her and ripped, in the process, one blue cotton leg from the 
other. He split them up the crotch. Her panties he yanked off violently, 
holding her by her tits to keep her body still while he pulled. 

All Dora could think was how she hated him. She could do nothing but watch 
her own rape happen. There was no getting away. But she despised this man. 
She spat in his eye. 

The attendant became furious. He put his hand up and wiped his eye and then 
he grabbed her by her forearms and pressed them against her body. He lifted 
her way up in the air and brought her down with a crash on the top of his 
desk. Her naked buttocks smashed against the yellow wood. He lifted her up 
again, with a crumpled invoice stuck to her ass and brought her down on the 
desk again so hard she was dizzied. She felt the thud of contact rattle her 
brain in her head. She felt the pain of the wood smashing into the base of 
her spine and reverberating up her whole back, dislodging the little bones. 
He lifted her up again and brought her down again with a crash that made the 
sturdy, thick legs of the table creak. She heard a small splinter of wood 
snapping. She was afraid to get out of her sitting position and put her legs 
under her for fear that when he brought her down he would break them. She 
stayed motionless, with her eyes open but not watching him, and her legs 
stuck out in front of her. They extended on either side of his torso and his 
belly was in between. 

Each time he brought her down on the surface of the desk she felt her twat 
smash against the top of his belly. like her breasts, the contact with him 
set the flesh inside of her snatch crawling as if it were covered with 
slippery live worms. His stomach was like a wedge between her legs. She 
could not close them. 

Suddenly, the attendant started laughing. Dora almost wept with fear. 

"I'm going to make an invoice out of you womens," he said, and he picked up 
from the desk one of the little scraps of wood with an upturned nail glued 
onto it. This was the little device he used to skewer papers with and keep 
them from blowing about the bus in the wind. It looked none too friendly. 

"I would have had to tie you up," he said, "but I got me a better idea." His 
yellow eyes slid sideways and he smiled his coy, pink-lipped smile again. 
The valley of spit between his lip and his tongue filled to overflowing as 
he looked at the nail. 

Dora looked at it too. First she felt she was going to faint when she saw 
it. Then she shut it out of her mind. Each time she turned her eyes to it 
and looked at the way its point was sharply gleaming, she felt as if a black 
curtain were coming down over her mind and not permitting it to think. Each 
time the black curtain came down, she felt a tingling wave of dizziness 
ripple through her. 

"I would have had to tie you up, but I got a better way to make you not 
move," he said. 

Yanking at her wrist, he pulled her tiny naked body down beside his onto the 
floor. He stripped as fast as he could, still holding her. His big belly 
came bouncing out from under his T-shirt and it glistened and swayed. Dora 
felt sick as she looked at it. He saw her staring and he pressed his belly 
into her face and rubbed himself up and down over her nose. He smelled like 
sweat and beer. He battered his belly into her cheeks and her nose. 

Beneath his pants she could feel his cock straining against her breasts. 
They were still so sensitive that they felt as if he were pressing a stick 
into them and furrowing their flesh. As his abdomen beat against her, dust 
rose from his heavy denim pants the way it rises when one beats a carpet. 
They smelled musty and stale and they were oily with dirt and moist with 
sweat. 

He pushed off his pants till they were down around his ankles. His cock 
glistened like melted chocolate. It looked softer and more vulnerable than 
she'd imagined. There was one large vein that made a line that rose up 
beneath the skin and ran crookedly up the length of his prick. She watched 
it twitch and knew she was seeing his heart beat. 

Then the black curtain of fear fell down over the front of her mind again. 
Tears began to fall. She didn't want to think about what was going to 
happen. 

The man had her by both her wrists and had managed to also grab one of her 
ankles. He dragged her on her back like a hog-tied calf over the carpet. Her 
little pussy lay exposed running like a wet, seeping painfully sensitive 
wound from the crevice between her ass cheeks in between her thighs. He 
found her limbs easy to hold onto. It was as easy as holding a bundle of 
twigs. Her back scraped and jolted over the carpet. 

He stood up over her and kicked the toe of one of his tennis shoes into her 
pussy. She opened her mouth to give a howl of pain, but no sound came out. 
Her mouth opened wide though, full of her little pink tongue, and she was 
panting. He kicked her hard in the mouth also. She tasted the dust on the 
bottom of his tennis shoe, then something warm and sweet. She spat out a 
tooth and a mouthful of blood. 

He kicked her in her pussy again. It sent a sharp pain running through her, 
as sharp as if someone had brought a hatchet blade crashing down between her 
pussy lips. 

Still holding her hog-tied, he reached over the desk, pushing invoices off 
the edge as he fumbled and scrambled to get hold of two more of the upright 
nails. The cigarette burned edge of the desk sank deeply into the tarry 
blubber of his chest as he reached up from where he knelt. 

He brought two more of them down, and before Dora could really even believe 
what he was doing, he had inserted the nails into her tits, the sharp metal 
skewers piercing her exactly beneath her nipples. Had the nails been any 
fatter, they would have ripped her nipples right off her breasts. 

Dora yelped with pain as she lay there on her back. The nails held the 
little pieces of wood that they were attached to up into the air above her 
breasts. He had dug the nails in deep enough so that the weight of the 
dangling wood wouldn't pull them out. She looked down and saw that the 
points of the nails had penetrated through till they could be seen beneath 
the skin on the top of her nipples, just opposite to where they had been 
sunk in. The black curtain dizzily came down again. There was no way to bear 
the pain. She made her hands into fists and she felt the muscles in her 
upper arm tighten till they pressed against her sweating sides. The whole 
top half of her body became completely rigid. She felt as heavy and still as 
if she had been made of iron. Any movement set the dangling wood chips 
swaying slightly and she could not bear the pain. Even as she breathed, her 
breasts were set into motion and she would feel the way the metal sat 
rustily against the watery flesh inside her breasts. She opened her mouth to 
scream but she made not a sound. This time she wasn't sure whether it was 
because she couldn't or whether it was because she was afraid that the sound 
of her own scream would set off a ringing that reverberated through her rib 
cage and would set the wood chips swinging wildly back and forth. 

The attendant broke the pain barrier for her. He batted the pieces of wood 
gently back and forth. She felt the nails scrape at the glands inside her 
breasts. 

While she was cringing under the nails that were pointed into her, scraping 
back and forth through her thin breasts over her ribs, he slowly pulled her 
legs apart. She was so still and she did not struggle. She was totally 
concentrated on the pain under her nipples. All she could think about was 
how badly she wanted not to move. 

That was why he was able to sink the third nail in almost before she knew 
it. He sank it deeper than the other two. He opened her legs and played over 
the inside of her glimmering red twat with it. Then he sank it into the 
flesh at the very top of her vagina and ran it back so that the sharp, 
glistening, silver point of it pierced her again and came out just below her 
clitoris. The skin around her clitoris immediately wrinkled and puckered as 
tightly as a red raisin. From the walls of her vagina, which were turning 
white and hard with pain, no blood spilled but she oozed a few drops of 
clear seepage. It must have been fear that made her little snatch so 
bloodless. 

Slowly, the attendant worked the nail back and forth by holding onto the 
piece of wood as if it were a stick shift. He ground it as mercilessly as a 
drag racer. She felt it scrape against her pubic bone. She felt the flesh 
inside of her pressed tight against it and the metal spine felt cold and 
hard. 

Dora's mouth was wide open and there was a hideous expression on her face. 
Her tongue was half extended, her upper gums were bleeding so heavily her 
mouth looked like a red pool. Her eyes were wide open but only the whites 
were showing. 

The attendant flipped her over onto her stomach and carefully laid her down, 
straightening the nails, so that her torso was balanced precariously on top 
of them. They stood under her like little podiums with the pieces of wood 
flat on the floor. Dora felt the nails double back into her breasts, 
piercing more of her flesh. Then they came to rest against her rib bones. 
She nestled the bones against them, trying to bore holes in them that would 
hold the nails in place. There was no pain in the bones, only in the flesh. 
And the bones stopped the nails and kept her own weight from pushing the 
sharp spines right through her. She felt her delicate ribs come close to 
breaking. They bent and arched like thin, green branches, but they held. A 
convulsive shudder ran through her body. She could not help or control it. 
Again the nails shifted in the flesh of her tits. They found more sore skin 
to rub against. 

The attendant stood in back of her and held up her ankles as if she were a 
wheel barrow he was trundling. The nail in her twat was left dangling just 
above the carpet. She felt the spike of it scraping at the underside of her 
clitoris. It was beginning to make a furrow there. A hot, wet trickle told 
her that her clitoris had begun to bleed. Each time the attendant changed 
his grip on her ankle, the wood chip would begin swaying, lolling lazily on 
the end of the nail and pulling it against the sides of the hole it had made 
with its piercing in tiny, soft jerks. 

Dora was breathless but she did not move. 

She felt the attendants stomach press against her calves. Then she felt 
nestle billowing like an enormous pillow between her thighs and It pushed 
them open. She could feel that her snatch and her ass-hole were yawning at 
him. She felt helpless and naked and exposed. 

Something hot and gigantic and hard came exploring the white undersides of 
her upturned buttocks. It was his prick. As he held tightly to her ankles, 
bruising them with his rough grasp, he played his prick over her white, 
timidly quivering ass cheeks. He poked them as if they were fruits he were 
trying to lift up with his dick. Each time he poked them, Dora shuddered and 
the nails would move. There was no use struggling. She needed him to hold 
her up off those nails that pointed so threateningly into her chest. 

Then she felt a sudden burning jab. He was sticking his prick into her 
ass-hole. She was dry and tiny so that, in order to get his enormous head 
in, he had to jab her hard. She felt the skin around her ass-hole get 
pressed inside her body with him. Then it gave way. He had got beyond it. 
And she knew nothing but a searing, ripping pain. It felt as if he were 
trying to rip her ass cheeks apart and right off her body. Something was 
tearing. He was destroying the canal that ran up inside her body. He was 
bruising and breaking the delicate, pink walls. He was goring her. She felt 
as if she were sitting on a javelin. She felt as if a herd of nomads had all 
at once thrust fifty sabers inside of her. She felt as if there was a saw up 
her ass-hole and somebody was holding it and slowly turning it. 

The attendant watched as his enormous cock went slowly in and out between 
her buttocks. It looked as thick as a log moving in and out between two 
white mushroom caps. When it came out, it glistened. When he pressed it in, 
he forced his way through the curves in her that stopped him. Beneath his 
head, he could feel walls give way and feel her insides tearing. He kept on 
pushing. He buried his dick in until he could rub the bottom of his abdomen 
over her buttocks. He wiggled his hips to and fro so that his cock moved 
from side to side inside of her. It felt like a sword to him and thrust 
himself against her hard and jolted her over the nails and scraped her 
insides with his prick. 

Dora turned her face back to him. It was white and her eyes were closed. Her 
mouth was puckered and all the muscles in her cheeks were contorted with 
pain. Again she mouthed a scream but no sound came. 

The attendant leaned over her and she felt his prick press against her 
spinal cord as he did so. He set her whole back aching. It was pointing 
upwards, pressing against her backbone from the inside. The tip of his dick 
shifted her bones. 

He got his head down to her ear and he whispered in it. "This is going to 
hurt, honey," was all he said. 

Then she felt the red pain begin to ripple through her in waves. When she 
closed her eyes, she became engulfed in a flood of hot reddish-orange that 
seemed to well up from under her cheeks into her eyes 

He was coming, and as he did so, his gigantic cock moved up and down inside 
her in a series of stiff jerks. She was so tender and sensitive inside that 
it felt as if she had a flame thrower stuck up inside of her and that it was 
moving, throwing its burning, multiple tongues in all different directions. 
She felt as if she had a serpent inside of her who was rearing up. And the 
touch of his scaly back against her flesh was as sour and as sharp as if 
she'd been stuffed full of stinging nettles. 

He began to thrust faster, shooting the last drops of sperm out. "Feel 
this," he whispered over her back, and when she felt the sperm touch the 
places where he had cut her on the inside, it was salty and it stung so much 
that it made her dizzy. The pain ran through her in sick waves. 

As he thrust, he jarred her body. Her breasts moved over the nails. The nail 
beneath her clit bounced and joggled and ripped down the top of her vagina 
the way a pierced earring can rip down and elongate an ear lobe. 

With his last thrust, the attendant reached underneath her, and with one 
fast, swipe that left her shuddering, he took hold of the wood chip and 
pulled the nail that was in her vagina out. 

He rolled her over and lay her on her back on the floor. Dora had fallen 
into a swoon. He pulled the nails out of her breasts and put them back on 
the desk. 

Then the attendant simply left her stretched out naked on his floor. He 
pulled up his pants and went to the refrigerator and got out another can of 
beer. Then, without removing his tennis shoes, he got onto the bed. He 
crossed one leg over the other, propped his head up comfortably on one arm, 
and arranged himself so that he could easily see the television set. 

He looked down once at Dora. Beneath her half open eyelids he could see the 
dusty whites of her eyes. 

 PART TWO 

When Dora woke up later that evening and found herself on the floor of the 
school bus, she did not at first know where she was. The attendant was gone, 
and the sun had set, and the metal walls of the school bus had cooled down. 

Dora shifted in the darkness. She felt an intense pain in her breasts. It 
felt as if somebody had been stabbing them. She found that she was lying on 
her back with her legs open and her buttocks seemed sunk into a pool of warm 
stickiness. She moved her legs to close them, about to sit up, but when she 
tried to bring her legs together, she felt a searing pain. Something 
enormous and hard was stuck into her crotch and the tops of her thighs were 
sore and achy. She soon discovered that the big, hard, stone-like object 
between her legs was not nearly so big as it felt. It was her own swollen 
pussy. Then she remembered the terrible misadventure of the afternoon and 
silently, she began to cry. 

Repulsed, she realized that she was sitting in a pool of her own sticky 
blood. She got up quickly then, and managed to walk towards the door of the 
school bus. She stumbled and each step brought her so much pain that she 
thought she would faint. 

When she got to the railing, she found her little cotton shirt and shorts 
were hanging on it. But they were torn beyond recognition and were now, 
except as rags, totally useless. She suddenly remembered the line of washing 
she had seen hung out behind the bus. She went stumbling for the back window 
and pulled in one of the T-shirts. It was long enough to cover her ass and 
drape down almost to her knees. Billows of material stood up over her 
abdomen where the attendant's stomach had stretched the fabric. Dora felt 
sick about wearing it, but she had to cover herself if she wanted to get out 
of here, and she had to leave the lot before the attendant came home. 

As she peered through the back window, checking to make sure that the 
attendant was not to be seen on the lot, she noticed that the rags that hung 
up on the line were all bits and pieces of shredded women's clothing. Dora 
stood stock still and turned white. 

"Oh my goodness," she whispered. "I've got to call the police." She suddenly 
wondered how many girls this had happened to, and what had happened to them 
after it did. 

Stumbling as quickly as the sharp, shooting pains that were flowing like 
rippling water through her flesh, would allow her, Dora beat it for the 
door. She jumped down the steps and crouched a little with the pain of the 
jolt as she landed. 

Her body felt strangely taut and very strong. It was as if the experience 
had transformed her into a little wild animal. She peered around the 
darkened lot and in the shadows by the school bus, her eyes glistened. 

She heard the crunch of a footstep on gravel on the opposite side of the 
school bus. It was enough for her. She was off and running. She clung to the 
metal fence post beside the gate. It was closed now. 

With all her limbs aching, she scrambled over the fence. She fumbled with 
her feet, and lost her toeholds again and again. Once she thought she felt a 
hand gripping her ankle and she kicked out as hard as she could. The barbs 
on the top of the fence cut into the heels of her hands but the pain was 
minimal compared to the awful stinging in her nipples as they brushed over 
the chain link surface and that ceaseless aching in her clitoris. 

There were no facilities in the school bus and she was suddenly frightened 
that the attendant had only stepped round the back of the bus for an instant 
to urinate. 

Once over the top of the fence, she just let her body slide down the other 
side. She let herself down with her back to the chain links, facing the 
street, trying to save her nipples. 

As soon as she hit the pavement, she began running. It was impossible for 
her to tell whether or not there was someone after her. Her footfalls on the 
asphalt echoed up against the stone belly of the elevated highway and made a 
ceaseless thunder of repeating footsteps. It felt as if the sound of her 
running were making the whole earth reverberate. It sounded so loud that she 
thought the noise she was making would bring down the highway, would set off 
an earthquake, would shake the flesh off her cheeks. 

There was no time to look back now. There was someone after her. Dora ran 
until she tasted blood at the back of her throat. The night air was warm and 
muggy and after she had run a while, Dora found her pace. The rhythm of her 
footsteps was so rhythmical that she felt as if she were traveling in slow 
motion, swimming through the air. 

Then she remembered about breathing. "You mustn't forget to breathe," she 
told herself silently. She was certain she had forgotten and that she had 
been running without breathing for a long time. It was too hot to breathe. 
The air was too thick. When it came into her lungs, she felt as if it were 
drowning. "Perhaps," she thought, not knowing that she was half-crazed, "it 
would be better not to take this city air in at all. I will run faster if I 
do not breathe. The air only weighs me down." 

She went on running, and running, and panting. She took in breaths of air 
heavily, and her chest and stomach moved steadily in and out. She only 
believed she wasn't breathing. 

Dora passed an old drunk in the street. He had a wool shirt wrapped, 
turban-like, about his head. He had on a full-length wool coat, and a scarf 
round his neck, and enormous cardboard soles cut to badly fit over the 
bottoms of his shoes. The tops with the laces were still in tact. 

Dora passed him like a white ghost in the night. She ran so swiftly and 
lightly that she seemed to flutter past him. She held her wrists up on 
either side of her, and her hands dangled and flapped in time to her steps. 
She was holding her wrists up to protect her breasts from the air which felt 
so heavy and wet as she sliced through it that it landed on her breasts with 
the weight of insistent, pounding, tightly closed fists. She stumbled a 
little on the sidewalk beside him or perhaps the old drunk man would not 
have seen her at all. 

He shuffled along, headed right for the spot where only five weeks before he 
had found a full half a pint sitting in the gutter at the mouth of the 
sewer. like clockwork, since that evening, he'd returned to the spot every 
single night. Whoever had left the bottle, he figured, was certain to 
eventually come back. Maybe it was somebody who compulsively bought liquor 
and then changed their mind about drinking it. In which case, it was hard to 
change habits. They would most certainly repeat the obsession and to his own 
benefit. If this was the case he was most certainly not going to miss out. 
Or perhaps the little spot by the sewer had been blessed by Bacchus, the God 
of wine, unbeknownst to all mankind except himself. In which case, no sir, 
he was not going to refuse to perform a little sacrificial libation, or at 
any rate a chance to propose a toast to the God who had created the fruit of 
the vine. 

These were his thoughts as Dora fluttered past him, dressed in just the 
T-shirt that was as big on her as a night gown. She seemed to rear up in 
front of him as he looked at her with his drunken eyes and she fluttered her 
fingers over her shoulders as if she were pretending to be an overgrown 
moth. Through his stupor, he caught sight of her eyes. They were as large 
and as black as the night. He mistook them for the spots that marked her 
wings. He only saw her for a brief instant and she was gone. 

He turned around to watch her retreating up the street away from him. But he 
was so drunk, it took him almost a full moment of concentrated feet 
shuffling to get his body turned around and pointed in the opposite 
direction from which he had been going. By that time, the tiny Dora was 
barely visible beneath a streetlight. She fluttered once more like a moth, 
the wind pulling at the billows of her T-shirt and setting them luffing, and 
then she was gone. 

"Big butterflies they got around here," he remarked to himself. He was about 
to begin a drunken lecture to his fantasized idea of what he scornfully 
termed the "johnny-come-lately ecology band". He had coined that term when a 
young man had stopped and dressed him down in the street, humiliated him in 
front of what looked to his bleary eyes a rather sizeable crowd, and all 
because he had thrown that bottle away in the gutter and not waited till he 
got to the corner where, the young man informed him, he could have put it 
neatly into a trash can. He muttered to himself with his arthritic hands 
sunk deep into the warm pockets of his heavy coat. He was about to explain 
how, litter and car fumes be damned, nature in the city was getting thicker 
and richer all the time. But the speech was lost in his complicated 
shuffling. And it was a while before he remembered himself and got himself 
pointed right way round and was off again toward Bacchus' corner. 

Dora saw the shadows of her knees falling on the pavement. The color of the 
asphalt looked like bread dough as it streamed under her feet. It felt soft 
and moist and springy to her, as if it was clinging to her feet. Even the 
city was trying to trap her and keep her from escaping from her pursuer. She 
could not run quickly through the spongy dough. She stumbled, collected 
herself, kept going. 

Beneath the yellow rays of the street light, the shadows of her knees 
multiplied. "He's so close," she thought, that his shadow is on top of mine. 
Dora ran faster. Beyond the street light, the shadows of her knees were 
clear and single again. Relieved, she felt the outstretched hands she had 
felt on her buttocks recede into the darkness behind her again. 

Her feet made light, slapping noises on the pavements. As she ran beneath 
the streetlights, the sodium glare turned the white billows of her T-shirt 
salmon pink. She looked as if she were naked and as if she had been burned. 

An elderly man in a shiny gray suit saw her coming towards him. From far 
away, he wondered why she was running, and he noticed that her skirt was 
awfully short. As she passed him, she didn't look at him, and he stood 
hesitating in the center of the pavement, wondering whether he should pass 
her on the left or on the right. Her feet slapped out a steady rhythm as she 
went by. He felt her force a tiny breeze against his shoulder. She barely 
grazed him, as if he were invisible. 

He stared at her small white face as she flew by. She was holding her hair 
up over her nose and mouth as if it were a mask or an air filter. Her eyes 
were enormous and as black as space. She was staring straight ahead of 
herself and breathing hard. 

The man in the shiny gray suit turned and watched her retreating back. He 
noticed that her legs were very thin. They twinkled like toothpicks as she 
ran away from him. They went so fast that the images of them became multiple 
and for an instant he thought she looked as if she were riding on a cool, 
white, rolling star. 

Around the corner, Dora saw the statue. It sat silent in the middle of a 
square formed by three wide streets coming together. And on the stone 
benches around it, a small gang of innocent, unintelligent, unsoftened, 
naturally cruel little punks were holding an informal meeting. They were 
pushing each other around and trying to prove for each other's sakes which 
one of them could gurgle up in the voice that was toughest the words that 
sounded most thoughtless and crude. 

The statue stood silent and awesome above them. It was a monument to 
somebody nameless. There was a stone inscription at the base of it, but no 
one ever read it. It was simply a stone obelisk, wider at the base than it 
was at the top, and standing sullen and silent and rather meaninglessly 
pointed at the sky. Floodlights were arranged in the shrubbery all around 
it, and they lit up the concrete it was made of, and made the surface of the 
obelisk look almost as soft as skin. 

To Dora, however, the statue was a nail. It was of enormous proportions and 
the tip had been dulled, but it shimmered at her, and glinted against the 
night sky. The shrubbery around it looked to her as if it had been set up to 
camouflage the thick piece of wood that served as its base. It had four 
edges to it, four corners that ran all the way up it that were made by the 
elongated planes of its based that was shaped like a pyramid. The top three 
quarters of the statue was like a long, slightly tapering brick. One of its 
corners caught the pink rays from the floodlight. Speckles of ground glass 
embedded in the cement glistened. It made the obelisk look to Dora as if it 
were made of steel. It made it look to her tearing black eyes as if it had 
been honed and sharpened. 

Dora stumbled to the base of the statue and there she fell. She lay with her 
cheek against the concrete and thought how good it felt to stop running. For 
an instant, with her eyes closed, she smiled her tiny smile and thought that 
she lived in the obelisk and had finally found her way home. Inside, she 
remembered, was a plushly decorated apartment. It had green rugs and beige 
curtains and ever so many satin, tasseled cushions on its tightly stuffed, 
brand new brocaded couch. 

She felt something prodding at her foot and she opened her stormy dark eyes 
and looked around slowly. She was surrounded by the punks. They were just 
standing around her with their hands on their hips, staring at her. Some of 
them were chewing gum. 

They looked a nice enough bunch. She couldn't remember but they must have 
come to visit her, so Dora thought she would go ahead and confide in them, 
and help explain to them where they were. The punks who were chewing gum 
kept chewing. 

"They've buried the wood chip," Dora whispered to them. Her black eyes were 
as big as fists and they glistened. "They've buried it under the asphalt," 
she said, touching the ground, "but it's there." 

"What's there?" said one of the youngsters and he knelt down beside her. 

"The wood chip," said Dora. Her eyes trembled and she mouthed the words with 
such exaggerated movements of her lips that she looked as if she were trying 
to blow bubbles under water. 

"Forget it," said another of the teenagers. "She's just a crazy old 
bag-lady." He went back to his stone bench. 

Dora got up on her hands and knees, pulling the T-shirt up over her white 
buttocks and her aching pussy as she did so. She couldn't keep her legs 
together. Her swollen clitoris was giving her too much pain. She backed up 
slowly, walking on her hands and knees and raising her ass-hole and twat as 
far up towards the sky as she could. Her whole abdomen shook. She went back 
painstakingly and slowly, with her knees as wide apart as she could get them 
without falling. She backed towards a group of the stunned boys. Between her 
thighs and her buttocks, her inflamed pussy looked like a strip of red satin 
ribbon inserted between her lips. Her swollen skin seemed to spill out 
beneath her ass and quiver. The inside of her twat looked like a piece of 
raw beef. 

As she backed up, she dragged her hands, palms downward, over the ground. 
Her head sank between her elbows and her blonde hair dragged out behind her 
and hid her face. Her white buttocks looked like two moons in the glare of 
the floodlights. 

"Cheez," one of the punks remarked, and he whistled through his teeth. 
"What's this crazy dame doing?" 

Another of the punks began nervously laughing. He said, "She looks like a 
cat in heat." 

Dora managed to back her way against one of the boys' legs. At first he 
recoiled, and drew back his leg, but her glistening pussy quivered in the 
air without him and then came to find him again. Resting her snatch against 
his shin bone seemed to bring her some relief. He stood still while she sat 
up and lolled her head back against his thigh. She settled her wet pussy 
down over his instep, and rolling her hips back and forth, she rasped the 
skin over his laces. She reached up and nestled her loosely fisted hands 
around his soft prick. She fumbled with it as if she were trying to make it 
hard. 

The fellow she was sitting on stood stock still; immobile and fascinated. He 
figured she must be a witch. Her blonde hair stood out around her head as 
she sat up and in the floodlight it looked like spun glass. This was the 
mythical whore he'd heard whispered stories about in the hallways at school. 
He was certain of it. 

One of the teenagers who seemed more sure of himself than the rest, stepped 
out of the stunned group that simply stood there chewing and staring at her, 
and he knelt beside her. 

He stroked her fine, wispy hair, and caught his fingers awkwardly in its 
tangled snarls. "You want to pussy-kiss my cock?" he asked. His voice was 
soft and Dora responded to it. 

She looked from the boy to the obelisk and then back again. She said, "You 
can fuck me in my ass-hole if you want to." Then she clutched his bony wrist 
with her tiny fingers. Her hands were cold, and one of them stroked 
nervously over his forearm as she was speaking. It made a funny, dancing, 
swooping motion over his skin, as if she were sewing something very quickly. 

"You can do anything you like to me," said Dora and she followed every tic 
in his expression with pleading eyes. "Really," she said. "I won't complain. 
Do with me what you will. I know you're not a bad person. And anyway, I need 
it. You're right if you say I have to get ass-fucked. I'll hold my little 
pussy up for you and I'll help you in. I'll play with my clitoris until my 
ass gets moist and you can slide in with no problem. I won't be too small 
for you. Really I won't. I promise," she said. 

"Man, this chick is spooky," said one of the boys. "I think maybe we ought 
to leave her alone. I think maybe we ought to call the police." 

"Hold it," said the fellow who'd been smoothing her hair. Something in her 
dark eyes had appealed to him. "I kind of like her," he said, and he stroked 
both of her breasts. "I think she's cute." 

Dora smiled at him a little smile. It looked so anxious it almost made her 
look nauseated rather than happy. Her upper lip rose up over her front teeth 
and quivered uncertainly there. She was still mouthing her words in an 
exaggerated, crazy manner. She looked as if she thought she was talking to a 
friend over the sound of a rock band, or as if she was afraid that when she 
opened her mouth, she wasn't going to be able to make any sound. 

"Only promise," said Dora, and she slid her eyes slyly sideways and stole a 
glance at the orange gleaming obelisk. She picked up the young boys two 
lanky hands and spattered them with little subservient worshipful kisses. 
"Only promise you won't hurt me." 

A strange hush fell over the crowd of teenagers as they watched her tiny 
fingers plucking nervously at their friend's big hand as he said. "I'm 
getting out of here. This dame's giving me the creeps." 

"What's the matter?" said his friend, the one who was talking to Dora. He 
kept his voice low and he held Dora's eyes and kept stroking her hair and 
smiling at her. "You chicken?" he asked softly. He felt as if Dora were a 
little bird and he was taming her. He was not afraid and so he was already 
old enough to be sinister. 

"You only want to be butt-fucked about a hundred times, don't you honey. You 
just don't want anyone to hurt you. Why I bet you could take on all of us, 
if," he stroked her hair, "we are only very, very gentle." 

Dora looked at him and gurgled happily. "Only if you are very, very gentle," 
she repeated. Her face looked dazed, and she looked down at her own body and 
with two fingers she began softly poking at her own nipples. She poked them 
alternately as if she were playing a game with them. She got lost in the 
motion for a minute, then she looked up at the crowd of teenagers standing 
around her and she moved her enormous black eyes slowly over them. She 
didn't say anything but she ducked her head as if she were frightened. 

"Skag her," yelled one of the larger, less delicately, beautifully evil 
fellows who had been watching her with a pure, eager hunger. "Let's all fuck 
her in the ass." 

"You won't hurt me, will you," whispered Dora to no one in particular. She 
had her cheek pressed to the ground and her eyes upward on the obelisk. Her 
ass was up in the air and the large fellow was fucking her in it. He had 
both hands on her soft buttocks as he drove his hard cock into her ass-hole. 
She was dry and tight. He rested his weight on her merrily and jammed 
himself up and down on top of her as if he were riding a donkey. He had a 
cigarette in his mouth. 

"Boy, that feels good," he said jocularly. He stood up and unbuttoned his 
pants over his cock and pushed them down his legs. He leaned up against her 
buttocks. "Someone tell this dame to stand up," he said. Several pairs of 
hands grabbed Dora's tiny body around her hips and they raised her up 
beneath him, with his prick still swelling inside. They positioned her in an 
upside-down vee with her hands and her feet still on the ground, her ass way 
up, straining and available, and her legs spread wide apart. Someone shoved 
the flat side of their hand between the lips of her twat and began beating 
it against her clitoris with a relentless, savage, dizzying motion like a 
series of karate chops. 

The fellow who was fucking her put his hands round the front of her thighs 
so that he could gather her up closer to him. He almost picked himself up 
off the ground with the force of his own thrusts. He had to jump a little 
bit to get all the way in her. Then when he came back to earth, an inch or 
two of his long cock fell out and he had to jump up and throw himself 
against her again, plunging his dick twelve inches inside of her. Then he 
would poise quivering above her for an instant at the peak of each thrust, 
balancing on her buns with both of his feet in the air. He began laughing. 
"I'm going to shoot for a mile," he said. "I'm going to send my hot wad 
spilling out from behind her eyeballs." He threw himself into her again. 

Dora had to hold her head up to keep his knees from ramming her in the nose. 
Somebody saw what she was doing for a large hand pushed her head down. She 
got the toe of his hard shoe straight in her face. 

The punk on top of her was now squirming his way to a permanent balance on 
her velvet soft buns. He locked his fingers together and put the right at 
the top of the crevice in her ass like a saddle and he pressed his weight 
against it and held himself on top of her. He squirmed and he felt his prick 
pressing into the sides of her squirming body. He knew she must be in pain 
now. Dora gyrated her hips back and forth beneath him, trying to walk 
forwards or backwards on all fours. But the many pairs of hands held her. He 
felt as if he were getting his dick into places where no man had ever been 
before. He wiggled his hips from side to side as if he were walking on his 
belly over her soft, helpless buns. She moaned a little. He could feel her 
tight little ass-hole grabbing at the base of his dick. He felt her muscles 
spasm. Her body was fiercely trying to reject him. But he grabbed her around 
the waist and he would not let go. He leaned forward over her back with his 
head dangling toward the pavement, his chin resting between her shoulder 
blades. Squeezing her body to him as hard as he could, he rammed his long 
spear of a cock into her again and again as hard and as far as it would go. 

He felt masterful. He felt as if she was as helpless as a piece of putty, 
gathered into his hands. He pierced her again and again, thrusting into the 
flesh of her body irregardless of where her natural canals went. Her flesh 
was, to his cock, just like so much warm bread dough. 

Under his abdomen, he could feel the hard fingers that held her in position 
for him. He let go of her waist for a minute and let his hands and arms hang 
over his head towards the ground. He could feel her muscles spasming around 
him. Unwittingly they hotly and fiercely caressed him in their frantic 
effort to expel him. 

He groped through her fine blonde hair until he found her chin. Then he 
lifted her head back and looked at her terrified, black eyes. Her eyelids 
were flickering over them, strobing the red hot gleam in their depths. He 
pulled her head back so far that her mouth was forced open to relieve the 
tension on the front of her neck. He held her head up like that by grabbing 
her hair at her forehead and yanking. Holding onto this hair for balance, he 
once again began ramming his spear into her. He felt it pricking her. He 
felt it ripping her. Irregardless, he stuck it to her as hard as he could, 
yanking at her hair each time he shoved his big dick in. 

Dora went limp like a puppet. The hands now held her up as well as in place. 
She could feel her hair being tugged till she thought he would pull the 
whole tuft out. She could feel his dick being shoved up inside of her. To 
her mind that was crazed with pain, she felt as if his dick were a ball of 
hot lead that fell downwards into her and then grew suddenly light and 
floated upwards and then fell, steaming and molten, back between her loins 
again. It was burning a new tunnel into her where a tunnel had never been. 
It was blasting out a new mine shaft. It was digging a new well and the 
edges of its ramming shovels were sharp and they scraped and echoed 
somewhere inside of her. She felt the reverberations of the scraping all 
through her body. They even shook her arms all the way down to her wrists, 
not to mention the tips of her toes. 

There was no getting away from his terrible, rending thrusts. The hands held 
her fast. She could feel iron fingers clutching her all over her body. One 
set was working her nipples cruelly back and forth. 

"Bring her down a little bit," hissed the boy who was inside of her. He had 
got his feet back on the ground again and was standing on tip toe trying to 
keep all of his dick inside of her, in between her hairy creviced white ass 
cheeks that nibbled at him in spite of themselves. 

The hands forced her to bend her knees. This forced her ass cheeks even 
further open, and the guy who was fucking her could watch his dick forcing 
its difficult way in and out of her little ass-hole. 

She was low enough now so that he stood on the ground comfortably and simply 
by twitching his own abdomen back and forth, he could make pudding out the 
flesh under her ass-hole. She was beginning to lubricate herself with her 
own sweat. 

He siezed each of her buns in one of his hands and grasped them savagely, 
bruising and manipulating her soft flesh. He drew her buttocks up towards 
himself, and mounded it tightly round the base of his cock. With one 
shuddering, final, hot piercing thrust of his great lance, he blew his hot 
wad into her, and filled her intestines with sperm. Her ass-hole blew hot 
pearly bubbles with it around his cock. His come was blisteringly hot. He 
could feel that it was filling her, squirting smoothly into her inner 
chambers like the foam from a canister of hot shaving cream. There wasn't 
enough room inside of her to hold it all. It dribbled out of her ass-hole, 
down into her vagina. A little of it dripped on the asphalt. 

One of the boys got the wind up at that moment. "Hey, pull up your pants," 
he yelled. "I think I see some cops." 

The fellow who'd been fucking her jumped off of Dora. At once, all the hands 
let go of her. There was a general scramble of arms and legs. A few of the 
punks got onto their motor cycles. The rest clustered into groups, lit 
cigarettes, and walked hastily away. 

They left Dora on her face, bare-assed and groveling at the base of the 
obelisk. 

Dora lay there for a few minutes and the wind blew over her bare ass. Then 
she sat up and she put her fingers to her temples and shook her head from 
side to side. Her eyes were closed and from beneath the lids came rolling 
enormous tears. She sat there with her bare ass to the asphalt and she 
breathed in very deeply. Suddenly, the little blonde girl, fingers still on 
her temple, opened her little pink mouth and she screamed and she screamed. 

Dora screamed until the obelisk quivered. She screamed until the buildings 
echoed. She screamed until the streets rang. Her scream was like a hundred 
people all screaming at once. She screamed until the tightness in her chest 
that had been growing all day was let out. She screamed until her lungs and 
her throat felt good. 

Then Dora stood up and she began walking. She didn't care particularly where 
she was going, but her tiny hands were made into fists. Once or twice that 
night, she stopped on a deserted street corner, stood still and screamed 
again. People opened their windows and threw bricks at her, thinking that 
she was a cat in heat. 

Dora screamed until even the tension in her fists relaxed. Morning saw her, 
sore nippled and sore assed, walking slowly like a weary child. Her hair was 
disheveled and it stood out about her head like angel hair. And as she 
walked the streets of New York City, her eyes burned. They burned because 
she was full of a little determined spark and it had not yet been put out. 
She had decided that she was going to get somewhere and that she was going 
to find a place for herself where she could laugh and sneer at other people 
and still feel secure and safe. Her black eyes burned through the heat waves 
that rose up from the asphalt. They smoldered like dusty coals. 

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

SHE PAID WITH HER ASS 

PART ONE 

Some girls are like artichokes, Mr. Belton. I am not. Some girls have sweet 
personalities; the different facets of which one can discover and uncover 
(if you know what I mean) each day anew. Some girls are made up physically 
and emotionally of tightly clustered, deliciously sweet and tender petals 
that you can run your teeth over and wrench off the sweet meat. Some girls 
have multiple lips and folds that you can suck buttery juices from. Some 
girls are made of tight petals and legs and mysteries that you can slowly 
spread apart until, right in the center of them, you will find the softest 
and oiliest and tenderest part of them. Some people call this the heart. You 
might think from my description that I was going to say cunt. Cunt or heart 
the two words are practically interchangeable. 

Then, Mr. Belton, there are the girls like me. I am not like an artichoke. I 
have no heart. Cunt I have aplenty, and it's a particularly juicy one too. I 
circulate my blood with it. I use it to set up a rhythmic beating inside 
myself. It's the one place where I can. experience any softness. I feel with 
it. I love with it. Where my heart should be there is only a stone. It's a 
small stone, a brown stone; it looks like the pit inside of an avocado. 
Perhaps that is what I'm like, Mr. Belton. I'm a human female version of a 
softly ripe, creamy avocado. 

Mabel was sitting in a plush restaurant beside the lobby of the Biltmore 
Hotel. She was in downtown Philadelphia, and as she thought about being like 
an avocado, her eyes slid from side to side in their sockets. Her eyes were 
a soft grayish-green color. She had fine light brown hair. It was completely 
straight and it fell cutely over her forehead in a row of jaunty looking 
bangs. She was sitting alone at a large table. The table was laid with a 
stiff, white table cloth that looked as soft and as thick as skin. On it 
were folded red linen napkins, their crevices redder than the insides of 
twats. Sparkling crystal glasses glistened around her and the four forks and 
four knives at the sides of each and every place setting glinted and stood 
ready to pierce melon balls, butter pats, red, oozing rare steaks, chicken 
breasts, and to slowly scoop up the final, sweet pinkish brown billows of 
light chocolate. 

Here Mabel sat with her elbows spread wide apart on the table cloth and 
peered around the room with a delightfully mysterious expression on her 
face. Had you seen her, you would not have trusted her, though you might 
have enjoyed her enormously. She flashed her pert little turned-up nose 
round when the waiter approached her. When she turned her head, her hair was 
so straight and so shiny and so silky that it caught the light from the 
glistening chandeliers above and fell down in front of her shoulder like a 
waterfall. 

The waiter stood solicitously over Mabel and wrote on a little pad when she 
gave him her order. She held up the menu and read to him from it, and the 
big red leather covered card, strung with a golden tassel, seemed almost as 
big as Mabel herself. The waiter was small and dark. He had black eyes and a 
napkin spread over his forearm. He was wearing a brocaded red jacket with a 
black collar and the front of his white shirt had little crisp ruffles 
running down the length of it. He couldn't help noticing how pretty Mabel 
was. She ran a graceful, beringed finger down the column of prices as she 
made her final decision. Her eyes flashed as she looked up at him and said, 
"Filet mignon, very rare. And an avocado salad to begin." She shut the menu 
and the waiter was off. Mabel sat back looking very satisfied and surveying 
the grandly sparkling tables and the dark carpet. 

Mabel did not frequently get to go out to dinner. She worked in a tiny store 
in Ohio where she made hand-painted needlepoint chair seats and wall 
hangings. The job was delightful as she got to sit in a little, brightly lit 
back room and paint all day. This pleased her as jobs like that were 
difficult to find and more than anything, Mabel wanted to be an artist. On 
some days, she found she got a little tired of having to execute so many 
mushrooms with lady bugs on them, and so damnably many lavender butterflies. 
Still, whatever the content, the designs were her own and she liked making 
them. But the job paid her very little. She ate mostly macaroni, and 
splurged on an occasional can of tuna fish. 

This week, however, things were going to be different. Mabel's mouth watered 
as she thought of that rare filet that would be arriving shortly. She took a 
sip of clear, icy water from the frosty glass that sat next to her 
glistening plate and she began on the crackers. They sat enveloped in 
another red napkin in a little straw basket in the center of the table. They 
were covered with sesame seeds. 

Until a week ago, Mabel had not expected to be journeying to Philadelphia, 
nor that she would be staying alone in a beautiful, luxurious hotel. Her 
parents had helped her with the money for the trip. Her mother was excited 
for her, and told her that "the thing must be done right." Even her employer 
had offered to help her financially. But Mabel had told Mr. Reitwold that 
his proffered economic aid was quite unnecessary. 

Mabel had gotten the "big break" that some artists must wait a frustrated 
life-time for. A Philadelphia designer had come into the shop in Ohio about 
two weeks ago. The store was only a little ways off the highway and the 
designer, whose name was Mr. Belton, had been on his way home to 
Philadelphia after a business trip to California. Tired of plaza stops, 
greasy hamburgers, and the terrible mustard shortage that seemed to be 
afflicting plaza stops all over the country, he had decided to leave the 
turnpike in Ohio and drive down into the one of the little towns and find 
himself a meal that was decent. Once off the highway, Mr. Belton had 
immediately gotten lost. 

Wandering around the little streets of Mabel's hometown, his eyes had 
finally lighted on the little store where Mabel was at work. Being a vice 
president in charge of buying for one of the biggest needlepoint clearing 
houses in the country, headquartered in Philadelphia, Mr. Belton had parked 
his car and got out to go and have a "Look-see" as he called it. 

When he walked into the store, pinned up all over the corkboard walls all 
around him, hung Mabel's pink mushrooms nestled amongst green leaves with 
lady bugs on their caps. One of them, he noticed, already had its wing cases 
open. Then there were large designs for cushions and chair seats with the 
lavender and sky blue butterflies on them. Each butterfly had a different 
design on its wings. One of the butterflies was painted hovering in front of 
a branch, and from the branch behind it hung a long, silky cocoon. "Who did 
these designs?" he asked Mr. Reitwold who was standing behind the little 
glass counter. 

"Would you like to meet the artist?" Mr. Reitwold asked him pleasantly. 
"She's very talented, don't you think? And she works right here on the 
premises. A delightful girl. And with enough sense of surface pattern to, 
someday, really get herself somewhere." 

Mr. Reitwold had led Mr. Belton through the little passageway and into the 
brightly lit backroom. There Mr. Belton had met Mabel. She had been standing 
up over her light table with a little puff sleeved yellow smock on. Her hair 
fell down over her cheeks as she worked. She was concentrating hard with her 
nose almost touching her canvas when he came in. Rock music was playing on 
the radio, and she was loudly chewing a piece of gum. 

"Excuse me," Mr. Reitwold said and he cleared his throat at the doorway. 
"Mabel, I want this man to meet you. He's been admiring your designs." 

Mr. Belton strode past Mr. Reitwold and reached out his large, energetic 
hand to Mabel. "It's an honor to meet you," he said. 

Quickly, as her mother had taught her to do in just such a surprise 
situation, Mabel swallowed her chewing gum. "And it's a pleasure to meet 
you," she said gasping a little. She gave him her paint spattered hand. Her 
gray-green eyes were shining softly directly into his as she took his hand, 
and her face had flushed with pleasure at the compliment he was paying her. 
"I'm glad that you like them," she said. "They're nothing really. I haven't 
been working long. Working on this canvas is a little awkward, but I keep 
getting better." She had little curls of hair around her forehead because of 
the heat, and her cheeks were rosy. 

Mr. Belton was so pleased at the sight of her and so pleased with the bold 
colorfulness of her designs that he ventured to make a business proposition 
to her. For safety's sake, he left it open-ended, in case he should change 
his mind when he got back to the bustle of Philadelphia. But he said to 
Mabel, "My dear, I happen to be in charge of a rather large wholesale 
distribution house in Philadelphia. We handle needlepoint, creative afghans, 
and crewel embroidery. I'm so immediately impressed with the strength and 
lushness of your designs that I'm going to ask if you'd like to come to 
Philadelphia and show some of these canvases at a board meeting. I come 
through here about every six months and we might work out something in the 
nature of a regular free lance assignment for you. How does that sound?" 

Again, Mabel flushed with pleasure. "Oh, Mr. Belton, do you really think ... 
" then she collected herself. Her mother had taught her that any lack of 
confidence in one's work was extremely unprofessional. "I'd love to come to 
Philadelphia," she said. "How many canvases do you suggest that I bring. Are 
there particular types of designs that you specialize in?" 

It was settled. Two weeks later, Mabel found herself outfitted with a three 
piece navy suit, silk stockings, and a pair of high heels. She had a nice 
leather suitcase that Mrs. Reitwold had lent to her. "Useful for traveling," 
Mrs. Reitwold had said, "because it has these zipped outside pockets, you 
see, where you can stick your little tooth brush and other cosmetics," she 
winked, "just in case." 

Standing at the train station, Mabel had kissed her mother, her father and 
Mr. and Mrs. Reitwold goodbye and clambered onto the great, puffing 
locomotive. She'd heard the whistle blow, seen the columns in the station 
begin to move, waved goodbye at the window to the four, smiling beloved 
faces. Her father held up one hand and she saw that his fingers were 
crossed. 

Suddenly, as she faced forward, Mabel began to cry and she felt terribly 
nervous. This was her big chance now and she didn't want to ruin it. She 
knew that her parents had a lot of hopes resting on her. Of course they 
loved her work. But that was really because they loved her. Maybe she wasn't 
that talented after all. She wondered, "Will these little designs really be 
good enough." As she went through in her mind the canvases she had chosen to 
bring with her, they suddenly seemed terrifically inadequate. The designs 
were too simple. The colors were too bright. They were childish. In 
Philadelphia, there must be artists who worked with complex and intricate 
lines and who painted in subtler shades of beige and Tokyo jade. Perhaps she 
hadn't brought enough of them. She carped at herself for not having done 
better. "On Tuesday last week," she thought, "when I was painting, I know I 
wasn't being very careful. Oh, how I wish now that I'd paid more attention 
to what I was doing." She went on chastising herself. 

So, as she went through the rolling farms of Ohio and crossed into the 
Alleghenies in western Pennsylvania, Mabel began to remember and draw 
strength from some of the lessons that Mr. Reitwold had taught her. Mr. 
Reitwold had, in essence, been her teacher. He himself had been an artist in 
his younger days, before the exigencies of a wife, a sickly older sister, 
and a mortgaged house, forced him to take up shop-keeping. He was looking 
forward to painting again when he retired, and the work he'd shown Mabel 
from his own portfolio was, she thought, breathtakingly beautiful. In the 
meantime, he had taken a great interest in Mabel. She had a great deal of 
talent but was relatively untutored when she came to him, looking for a job. 
He had tried to help her develop her own style, and to loosen up and relax a 
bit and feel more certain of herself when she painted. Mr. Reitwold was 
convinced that if all the people in the world could get interested in some 
sort of art form, then there would be no more wars. Mr. Reitwold was an 
oddly thoughtful man who spoke with an alluring accent. He was Hungarian, 
but he had come to the States when he was quite young. He had inherited from 
his parents a rather slow and elegant way of living his life. In the 
evenings, when he would close up the shop, he and Mabel would sit in the 
little back room. He would pour them each a glass of wine and they would 
talk. Mr. Reitwold would swill his wine in his glass and sip it slowly and 
listen to Mabel prattle. Every now and then he would try to tell her all the 
things he had discovered in his many years about life and about love and 
about what society was all about. Mabel made him feel very large and wise. 
She always listened carefully and followed his every expression and gesture 
with her bright gray-green eyes. 

Mabel loved these long, lazy evenings also. She thought Mr. Reitwold knew 
more than anyone else in her town. She felt lucky to work for him, and lucky 
to be his nightly audience. He made her think about things differently. He 
made her feel that life was very long that it didn't end tomorrow or next 
week as it was so easy when you were scared about your future to start 
thinking. He made her feel as if she was above the earth and were looking 
down on it through the clouds. She felt that he helped her to see life more 
clearly than most people. 

As the train flashed in and out of the long dark tunnels that burrowed 
through the coal filled mountains, Mabel remembered in particular one thing 
that Mr. Reitwold had taught her. He had asked her to do a series of nursery 
needle points for him, something that would appeal to children. Mabel had 
settled on some illustrations depicting the home life of a large family of 
rabbits. 

At the end of the day, Mr. Reitwold had come into the back room to see how 
she was doing. There on her art table sat a picture of a kitchen full of 
rabbits. The mother rabbit was large and portly and was standing by a stove 
and wearing an enormous, billowing white apron. In her hand, she held a 
wooden spoon which was dripping with batter. Behind her, at a long wooden 
table, sat dozens of little baby rabbits. They were sucking their spoons, 
and holding up their forks. Some had their napkins tied like bibs around 
their necks, and all were obviously waiting eagerly for their dinner. Behind 
the back of the mother rabbit, stood one peculiarly mischievous looking 
rabbit who, when the mother wasn't looking, was obviously copping carrot 
cookies from the sideboard where they were cooling on a rack, and throwing 
them like missiles into the throngs of all of her little rabbit brothers and 
sisters. This little rabbit who was doing the stealing, Mr. Reitwold 
couldn't help noticing, looked peculiarly like Mabel. 

"Ahem," he said as he admired the soft browns and greens and pinks and 
yellows of the picture. "I've never before seen a rabbit with bangs." Mr. 
Reitwold winked at her. 

Then silently, he went to the refrigerator and poured them each the 
customary glass of wine, and he sat down and held his glass up thoughtfully. 
"You know," he had said to her, "you remind me of something. You remind me 
that painting is like life. There has to be a spirit of fun to it. Or at any 
rate, just like in life, there are good picture makers and there are bad 
picture makers." 

It was this statement that Mabel was remembering as she sped across 
Pennsylvania towards Philadelphia. "Surely he meant," she thought, "that to 
some extent you can control and create the things that happen to you. At 
least, I'm sure that he meant that one ought to put one's own little twists 
into situations. One ought to tune up one's reality as if it were a TV One 
ought to change the things that happen, the series of pictures that one 
finds oneself involved in. One ought to help create those pictures. One 
ought to make choices about what's going to happen in those pictures. And 
then one ought to go ahead and try to make the changes in those pictures by 
specific action." 

She wasn't sure as she mumbled all this to herself whether or not she really 
understood what Mr. Reitwold had been saying to her. But a mischievous 
little idea began to form itself in her head. Her better judgment whispered 
to her, "Mabel, don't!" But the more she sketched out the details of her 
plan, the more the mischievous side of her brain began yelling, "Yes!" 

It was the avocado salad that did it. The slices of the green fruit were so 
soft and oily and delicious that they made Mabel feel extremely pleased with 
herself, extremely rich, extremely pampered, and extremely clever. As she 
thought of her meeting with Mr. Belton that was scheduled to-take place the 
next day, she felt very unsure of herself and her situation. She was certain 
that, despite what he'd said about her painting in the shop, in Mr. Belton's 
life she, and her precious canvases, were essentially negligible. She knew 
that he was a busy executive. In the flurry of taxis and confusion in which 
she'd gotten herself from the train station to the hotel, she'd had her 
first taste of the bustle and enormity of Philadelphia. The very size of the 
city made her feel unimportant. 

Mabel's mind was searching for a way to implant herself permanently rinto 
the mind of Mr. Belton. "If I am truly to try my hardest at this interview," 
she thought, "then I must go ahead and come up with something that I can do 
that will make me absolutely unforgettable. Also," she thought, " there must 
be a way to make it clear to Mr. Belton how fantastically important this 
whole thing is to me. It's my big break. Probably I'm just a small detail on 
the busy schedule he has planned for tomorrow. The question is how to make 
him realize my whole life is resting on him giving me a job." 

Mabel lifted the slender handled silver fork to her mouth and slipped a 
narrow slice of yellow-green avocado between her lips. It was glistening 
under its oil dressing and the herbs in it made it taste fresh and spicy. 
She licked her glistening lips, chewed and rolled her eyes. Then she looked 
about the dining room with a mischievous expression. Had her mother seen 
her, the woman would t have quivered in her shoes. Mabel's eyes glinted like 
sparks. "I have no heart, Mr. Belton," she thought as she speared another 
creamy green slice. And she sat there at the table all alone and laughed out 
loud. 

When the waiter next came into the dining room, Mabel called him over to her 
table with her eyes. "How long will it be on that filet?" she asked him. 

"Oh, madamoiselle," he said, "it will be a few minutes longer. We haven't 
put it in yet, you know. We were giving you time to finish your salad." 

"Good," said Mabel. "Will you do me a favor? Will you hold it a little 
while. I've just realized that I've got to go and make a phone call. I'll be 
right back." 

"Certainly," said the waiter, and he helped her out of her chair. "The phone 
is out there," he said, pointing out into the red carpeted, red 
wall-papered, luxurious lobby. 

Mabel walked out of the dining room with a jaunty step and an excited 
expression on her face. She fumbled through her pocket book to find her 
wallet. Mr. Belton had kindly given her his home telephone as well as his 
number at work. 

"You've never been to the city before," he'd solicitously asked her. "No? 
Well, it can be a confusing place. Now you take my home telephone number 
down as well. My wife will be at home if I'm out of the office, or if you 
get home late at night. And if you have any trouble, I want you to call." 

It was eight o'clock exactly when Mabel put her dime into the machine. She 
was fairly certain that Mr. Belton must have gotten home by now. She 
unfolded the scrap of paper and carefully dialed the number that was on it. 
She waited. She heard it ring. She shifted weight. It rang again. There was 
no answer. Could they be out? No here was a click on the end of the line. 
"Hello?" said a voice and she recognized it as Mr. Belton's.- 

"Mr. Belton!" she said and her voice was full of breathless excitement. 
"This is Mabel Rawlings. I'm here in Philadelphia. I've come all the way by 
train today and now I've made it. I'm here and I think it's wonderful." 

"Good, good," said Mr. Belton. "I'm looking forward to seeing you tomorrow." 
He couldn't help chuckling at her excitement. Her personality was like her 
designs, he thought. She was decidedly uncomplicated and simple. "Now," he 
said, "have you found yourself a decent place to stay." 

"Well," said Mabel, and she hesitated. She looked slyly around the lobby and 
back toward the door of the dining room where her juicy steak dinner was 
waiting. "That's what I'm really calling you about, Mr. Belton. I can't talk 
long as I'm in a hurry. But I'm in a little trouble here. I didn't realize 
how expensive hotel accommodations were, and it seems that I didn't bring 
enough money. However, I think I've been able to work out with ... well, 
let's call it a little deal here. I haven't time to go into it but there's 
this older fellow with ... Look, Mr. Belton. This is going to cost me a lot 
personally. But you've no idea how much this opportunity means to me. If I 
can get a job working for your company, gosh, Mr. Belton, for that I'd be 
willing to do just about anything. 

"So I'm going ahead with these plans I've made for tonight, but I was just 
calling you to make sure first that that interview really was on for 
tomorrow. I don't want to go through all this for nothing, you know. Is it 
on, Mr. Belton? Will you see me tomorrow?" 

Totally taken aback and wanting to immediately allay her fears, and to talk 
her out of whatever stupid and perverse action she was contemplating, Mr. 
Belton said, "Yes, Mabel. Of course I will see you." He was about to tell 
her that he would come and get her in a taxi and that she was welcome to 
come and stay with him and his wife if she couldn't afford a hotel room. 

But Mabel didn't give him a chance to say any of this. The minute she heard 
him say "Yes," she piped out, "Gosh, thanks, Mr. Belton. I'll tell you how 

I make out tomorrow," and with a loud click, she hung up. 

She left Mr. Belton holding the phone with a stunned expression on his face 
and a dial tone humming in his ear. He had no idea where she was or what she 
was about to do. He only knew that she was out there in the city somewhere, 
helpless, innocent, and about to get herself into some kind of trouble. He 
put down the receiver and he began pacing up and down the length of the 
living room. His imagination ran away with him and he fantasized all sorts 
of dreadful things that might be happening to Mabel. Heavens knows what the 
poor simple girl was doing. And in a way, he couldn't help feeling that the 
whole situation was very much his won fault. 

Back in the hotel dining room, Mabel seated herself once again on the plush 
red velvety upholstery of her high back chair. She spread her red napkin out 
over her lap and sat back grinning and looking very pleased with herself. 
When the waiter came over to her table, she half-closed her eyes so that she 
looked like a sleepy cat. She tilted her head sideways a bit and said in a 
lazy voice, "Now sir, if you would, I'm ready for you to bring on the filet 
mignon." 

Thus, Mabel spent the evening nibbling at delicacies and chuckling to 
herself. Mr. Belton spent the evening pleading with the police on the 
telephone to find her and fantasizing the most dreadful things. Mabel knew 
she had left him fantasizing. And though she didn't know him very well, 
during her long meal she put together her own vision of what Mr. Belton's 
mind might be imagining. It made her grin several times while she was 
cutting her steak into thin, tender slices and chewing them thoughtfully. 

Mabel imagined that Mr. Belton imagined that she had been calling him, not 
from the train station, but from a hotel downtown. 

" 'Probably,' he thought," she thought, " 'she made it quite nicely from the 
train station in a taxi, with her little bit of luggage and her money 
clutched tightly in her hand. Perhaps,' he thought," she thought, " 'she was 
a bit stunned at the fare the cabbie charged her. But she probably counted 
out her money willingly and maybe even gave him a ludicrously gigantic tip. 
With her suitcase in one hand, and her pocket book in the other, and a 
ladder in her stocking about which she was no doubt terrifically distressed, 
she clambered from the taxi and went through the open doors of the brightly 
lit hotel lobby that the cabbie or her guide book had recommended to her. 
She walked bravely up to the front desk and standing on tiptoe so that she 
could rest her elbows on it, she told the clerk behind the desk that she 
would like to rent a room for the night. Possibly the price for a single had 
been as much as thirty-five dollars a day. This was the busiest time of 
year. Surely the price would have shocked her. Perhaps she even had the sum, 
but couldn't afford to pay it and take a taxi to her interview the next day 
as well. And thinking sadly that she would have to spend the night walking 
the dangerous streets, she turned away from the front counter and looked 
about the lobby and wondered in despair what on earth she was going to do 
now. The man she had made the deal was waiting for her. He was a 
well-dressed businessman, middle-aged, and he had silvery hair. He was a 
handsome fellow, but he had a fetish. He had come to Philadelphia on a 
business trip, and though he did not like to visit his obsession on his 
wife, when he was away from home he did like to indulge in it if he could. 
Seldom, if ever, did he get to indulge it with people who were as young and 
as attractive as Mabel. 

On that particular evening, he was sitting in the hotel lobby. He was 
sitting in a corner by a potted plant. He himself had just arrived and he 
was more or less waiting for something to happen. From behind his newspaper, 
he witnessed the whole of the little interchange that took place at the 
counter between Mabel and the desk clerk. He saw the look of disappointment 
on her face when the price of a room was quoted to her. He saw her come away 
from the desk without a key. He saw that none of the bell hops were called 
upon to help her with her little bag. He knew what had happened. He saw her 
open her wallet when she thought no one was looking. He saw her count the 
paltry sum of money that was inside it. He saw her shrug and look about her 
as if she were lost. In short, he saw his opportunity. 

He folded his newspaper and came across the lobby to her. 

"Excuse me, my dear," he said, "but I couldn't help noticing that you look a 
bit lost and that you have not been able to get a room, and I wondered if I 
could be of any service to you? What's the problem at the desk? Are they 
full up?" 

"Yes!" said Mabel, who was feeling very embarrassed for not having brought 
enough money. She was glad to find so easily another way of explaining away 
her plight. 

The stranger who knew the truth of the matter, clucked his tongue and he 
said, "Tsk! Tsk! Well, you know, it's the season. The hotels fill up very 
quickly. Er, Miss ... ? " 

"Rawlings," supplied Mabel. "I'm Mabel Rawlings, and I'm here because 
tomorrow I've got a very important interview." 

The stranger raised his eyebrows at her. He had black eyes and a handsome, 
loose mouth. 

Since he looked interested, and Mabel was always glad to talk about herself, 
she went on, "Yes. I'm to show my designs tomorrow to one of the biggest 
needlepoint wholesalers in the country." 

"Well!" said the stranger, making his voice sound impressed. "If this isn't 
going to sound too forward, but it seems to me, Miss Rawlings, that you are 
going to need a good night's sleep before a meeting as important as that 
one. I don't want to offend you, but there are two beds in my room, and as 
your new found friend, I'd like to offer you one. I won't bother you a bit, 
so it will all be very proper. You look like a nice person and I'd like to 
help you out if I can." 

Mabel looked at him with eyes that narrowed slightly and glittered. She was 
a simple girl but she was hardly stupid. "Thank you," she said, and she 
thought about the dark streets outside and the fact that this man was quite 
handsome. "I just might take you up on that." As she thought about it, her 
upper lip pressed downwards and her face hardened. Her expression grew full 
of determination. She fantasized working for the famous wholesalers, thought 
about her designs being sold all over the world, and she looked back at this 
man. He seemed a little thing to have to take on in comparison with the size 
of her dream. 

"Sure," she nodded at him. "And I thank you very much. You'll be helping me 
a great deal. But let me just put a call through first to the man who's 
supposed to be interviewing me tomorrow. I want to make sure that he hasn't 
forgotten or that," and she said this half hopefully, "he isn't sick or 
something. If there isn't going to be an interview, well, there's no point 
in my staying in the city at all. I'll be right back." 

With that, Mabel sped to the pay phone. She was breathless as she dialed, 
but she put a call through to Mr. Belton. She wasn't sure what was going to 
happen to her, but she had an inkling. But if Mr. Belton was really going to 
see her tomorrow, whatever she had to bear this evening would, in the 
morning, seem completely worthwhile. 

Satisfied that her meeting with the board would go on as scheduled Mabel 
returned to the stranger who introduced himself to her as "Mr. Smith." He 
picked up her little suitcase for her, and escorted her through the winding 
hallways to the elevator and took her upstairs. 

Once ensconced in his cozy hotel room, Mr. Smith put Mabel's suitcase down 
and sat on the very edge of the bed and rubbed his hands together. Mabel 
went to the mirror above the little bureau and ran her fingers through her 
straight hair, trying to fluff it out and make it look fresh again. She 
kicked off her high heels. They made her feet ache. 

The little hotel room smelled of carpeting and dusty drapes and cigarettes. 
It was warm and the little lamp spread a golden glow over the brocade bed 
spreads and the little tinselly pieces of golden fiber that spangled the 
thick, shaggy rug. 

As Mabel stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself, Mr. Smith got 
up and came and stood behind her. Mabel looked at the reflection of the two 
of them. Her arms looked very white and thin. Her face was so smooth it 
looked like china. She was tired and that always made her eyes look light 
and gleaming. She ran her fingers over her scalp and tossed her fine hair 
back over her shoulders. 

Her arms up, Mr. Smith took the opportunity to put his hands around her and 
tightly grasp hold of her breasts. He squeezed them and crushed the fabric 
of her suit. 

Mabel opened her gray-green eyes very wide and looked at the reflection of 
his face in alarm. He had pulled his body closely up behind hers, and his 
smile was right behind her ear. "Oh, Mr. Smith!" said Mabel in stunned 
amazement. 

"Call me Alex," he whispered, and he brought his pelvis against her 
buttocks. 

She gasped. Pressed against one of her soft buttocks, hard and long as a 
telescope, she felt his swelling cock. He ground it into her backside. Her 
white flesh under her suit was very soft. He held his hand tightly over her 
breast so that he could pull her harder against his dick. Her tit flattened 
under the pressure of his open hand. The soft flesh squeezed out to fill the 
spaces between his fingers. He felt her nipple grow hard and press its tip 
out exactly into the center of the palm of his hand. He moved his hand in 
tiny, slow circles over it. 

Bending his knees slightly, Alex began rubbing his prick over the insides of 
the backs of her thighs. He felt his dick press through the folds of the 
material of her skirt and find the space between her slightly parted thighs. 
He rolled his cock over the tops of the two white columns, bringing the tip 
of it up into the underside of her buttocks that were as soft as velvet. He 
pressed the little ridge where her ass cheeks bulged over the tops of her 
thighs again and again with the tip of his prick 

"Doesn't that feel good, honey?" he asked her and he squeezed her breast 
hard. He raised his abdomen and got his prick exactly into the crevice 
between her ass cheeks and he rapidly rubbed himself up and down in the 
tight, secret little valley. He could feel the tight nylon of her underpants 
stroking against him. He could feel the softness of her buns pushed back and 
forth beneath them. 

"Have you ever had it in the ass, little girlie," he whispered. 

It was then that Mabel really understood what she had bargained for. Somehow 
she had not, up until that very moment, really believed that anything was 
going to happen to her. She was not very experienced. She had had her 
breasts squeezed before a couple times and she knew she liked it. It sent a 
thrill dancing through her. She'd made out a few times in the back seats of 
cars and had her panties ripped off and had had to struggle awkwardly to get 
away from the fumbling fingers that only once had found their mark. She knew 
that she would be going to sleep in her little translucent night gown, and 
she figured that Alex might come over and raise it, and stroke his hand 
across her breasts. She figured he might even poke around in her cunt, 
exploring while she watched him, pressing her tiny clitoris just enough to 
give her a little thrill. But the idea that Mr. Smith would insert anything 
into any of her orifices that sort of behavior was entirely out of the 
question. And yet, here he was behind her, with his hands over her boobs, 
squeezing them just as casually as if they might have tooth paste in them. 
He was making her whole body feel as if it was melting. Her pussy had begun 
to lubricate itself, and the steaming hot wetness that streamed down into 
the inside of her cunt was a new sensation for her. She felt as if he was 
controlling her body merely by hanging onto her boobs. She felt the tension 
of his hard cock pressing against her and she was stunned to discover that 
any part of the human body could actually be that hard. To her surprise, 
Mabel felt like giving into him. It was not that she loved him. It was only 
that his hands on her tits felt so masterful. She felt helpless and small in 
his hands. She felt like letting all her muscles go and just letting him do 
anything he wanted to her. 

"Alex," she breathed. "I've not only never had anyone stick it to me in the 
ass. Why, I've never had anything stuck in me anywhere." 

The sound of her own voice brought Mabel back to the reality of her 
situation. For an instant, Alex's hard dick against her ass had been making 
her forget everything in the world except the size and the strength of him. 
"Wait," she said, backing away from the mirror and edging unwittingly 
towards the bed, "urn, perhaps we shouldn't do anything rash." She held out 
her hands with their palms toward him, hoping to be able to fend him off. 

Alex leapt through the air at her and brought her crashing down upon the 
mattress. She lay underneath him, almost unable to breathe or move. "I'm 
going to ream out your sweet little ass," said Alex and he jerked his cock 
up and down against her thigh. 

She struggled, bending her knees up and rolling her body back and forth 
underneath him by pushing her feet alternately into the mattress. She raised 
her little fists and pummeled against his chest. 

"Oooh, let me go! Let me go!" she squealed and she tried to ram her knees up 
into him. 

He had sunk his big, strong thighs in between her small soft ones however 
and all her kicking did no good. He held her fast. He was surprisingly 
strong for such a slender man, and he seemed to be certain enough of his own 
strength that he could have some fun with her while he overpowered her. He 
tickled her under her ribs and she bounced and squealed. He felt her breasts 
flying up against his chest. 

Alex maneuvered both of her hands behind her in the small of her back. He 
had to twist her arms slightly to do this, and suddenly she was very still 
not wanting to bring herself any unnecessary pain. With an easy motion, as 
casually as if he were flipping a pancake, Alex slipped one hand underneath 
her and flipped her over so that she was lying on her stomach, buttocks up. 

He leaned over her and he whispered in her ear, "Doesn't this feel good?" 
Rambunctiously, he squeezed each one of her nipples. She squirmed and 
struggled but he held both of her arms behind her and she could not escape. 
"Come on," he said, squeezing her nipples and laughing, "you know you like 
it. You'll like it even better without that silly shirt." He reached his 
hand under the front of her blouse, crawled his fingers inside of her bra, 
and found her rough erect nipple. He held it still with two fingers and 
rubbed a third over the tip of it. Mabel cringed away from his touch. 
"Doesn't that make you wet, honey?" he whispered. 

Alex began to batter her buttocks with his knee cap, while he held her by 
the nipple and pulled at her breast. "Let's see," he said in a casual tone, 
almost absently, "whether you like it or not. You say you don't, but let's 
see if my touching you has made you wet." 

That was all the warning he gave her. His hand flew up her thigh under her 
skirt. She felt his hard fingers fumble for an instant with the elastic in 
the legs of her pants, and then they were inside of the little cotton 
briefs, stroking their way into the mouth of her vagina, spreading the wet 
love juice that was almost bubbling out of it backwards to her ass-hole and 
lubricating it and opening it slightly. She felt his fingers fumbling with 
all the soft secret skin between her legs and she struggled. She put her 
head down into the pillow and batted her shoulders back and forth into the 
mattress. 

"Ooooh, let me go! Let me go!" she cried. 

"No," said Alex. "Why should I?" And he strummed his fingers over her 
ass-hole and the opening in her twat while he held both of her hands fast 
behind her back. "As long as I keep hold of you," he said, "I can do 
whatever I want to with you." With that, he put his head down and stuck his 
tongue between her legs. He lapped it roughly from one end of the slit 
between her legs to the other. He reached the tip of it above down in front 
just above her clitoris and wiggled it back and forth. Then rolling his 
tongue more wetly and voluptuously he licked away at the mouth of her 
snatch, drinking the love juice that fell from it, and then he bit at the 
back rim of her snatch and with a tiny jabbing motion he sunk his tongue a 
little way into her ass-hole." 

"Don't you love it?" he asked Mabel. He could tell that she did. He'd never 
been with a woman who's body had gotten wetter. Mabel was positively 
gushing. Besides she had gone limp under him and her whole body was 
shuddering as he moved his tongue in and out of the folds in her pussy and 
around her ass-hole. 

Mabel was crying, but Alex could tell that she was weeping because of the 
confusion of feelings that the conflict between what she thought was morally 
proper and what she longed for him to do to her was arousing in her breast. 

"Leave me alone," she said, with the sudden hiss of a snake. 

"Will not," said Alex and he joyfully stuck his whole finger into her 
ass-hole and twirled it. He pulled her arms back down towards her ass until 
she was forced to pick her head up off the pillow and arch her back. With 
his knee, he ground her legs further apart. His first finger inside of her 
ass-hole was bending and turning. He stuck it in straight as far as it would 
go and rotated it. He brought his knee back to her crotch and shoved it 
against her twat. 

Each time he asked, "Doesn't this feel good?" he yanked back her arms a 
little bit. 

"I know what we'll do," he said and he leapt gaily from the bed. "Stay right 
there," he said and he disappeared into the closet. 

Surprisingly, she did. She lay still with her legs apart, waiting for him. 
Her nipples were so hard that they were pressing into the mattress. Her 
ass-hole and her pussy throbbed. 

Alex came out of the closet holding four ties. "This is all fun and games 
now," he said. "But later, you're going to want to get away. We'll have such 
a great deal more fun if you can't." 

The hotel was an old one and the bed was one of those heavy, old-fashioned, 
four-posted affairs. It was made out of heavy solid oak. 

"I myself like it much better when you have your clothes on," Alex told her 
matter-of-factly. "The trouble with being naked is that you can't be 
exposed." 

"You see, like this," he said when he had finished binding her wrists to the 
posts on the bed. It was a big bed, and so in order to reach, she had to 
reach her arms way out as if she were a child pretending to fly. Her breasts 
were flattened by her own weight beneath her. The springs creaked as she 
wiggled about. 

Alex reached under her abdomen and pulled her shirt front up. He yanked her 
bra up over her tits so that the white flesh fell out beneath it. "I like to 
think," he said, "of your tits grinding against the mattress." 

"I like to think," he said as he bound one of her ankles to the bed post, 
using for twine a broad navy and red striped tie, "that even if you wanted 
to, you couldn't get away from me." He reached up a finger and tickled the 
cleft between her buttocks. Her panties were soaking wet. "Of course, you 
don't want to get away from me. Do you honey?" 

"Yes!" said Mabel and she brought her other leg closely against the one that 
he was tying up. She caught his hand between her ass-cheeks and squeezed his 
fingers tightly. Then realizing they were still in her slit, she wriggled 
away from him. 

"Oh no you don't," said Alex. He grabbed her one free leg, got up off the 
bed, and still holding her by the ankle, he walked around to the opposite 
bed post. He pulled her legs wide apart into a spread eagle position, face 
down, as he did so and he began tying up her one free limb. He held it on 
his lap as he tied her, and every now and then he would reach up into the 
ravine between the soft white mounds of her flesh and make a quick, almost 
sneaky scrambling motion with his fingers. They came away from her soaking 
wet. She felt her own love juice touch like spittle on her ankle as he tied 
her. When she was all bound up, he reached up and pulled her skirt up so 
that she was exposed to her waist. He tore her cotton panties at the crotch 
and along one side and then, just gently pulled them away from her body. 

Mabel cringed as he took away the panties. She could feel the weight of her 
own skirt rolled up over the small of her back. She could feel the air 
caressing her wet pussy lips and the downy undersides of her ass cheeks. She 
felt so terrifyingly, thrillingly naked and exposed. She lay there 
helplessly holding her scarlet pussy lips and her quivering ass-hole out to 
him. She tried pulling her legs closer together, but the knots in the ties 
simply tightened against the pressure, and they held her fast. 

Alex looked at soft pussy nestled like a heart between her soft white 
thighs, and the way that her soft buttocks mounded like ice cream, firmly 
above her legs. Between the powdery cobblestones of her white ass flesh, he 
could see a few sable pubic hairs. 

"Nobody," he whispered to her again, "has ever stuck it to you in the ass?" 

"No," whispered Mabel. And she shook her head into the pillow, and lay still 
with all of her limbs spread out. She liked to think of him looking at her 
bare ass, looking up into the crack between the cheeks. 

"This is going to hurt a little," Alex said somberly. He had clambered off 
the bed for an instant and was pulling off his pants. He had a beautiful 
prick. It was thick and round and long and a soft brown in color. His balls 
hung very full and fresh looking. His pubic hair was light brown. Suddenly, 
without his pants on, Alex was very youthful looking. 

He climbed back on to the bed. He drew his hard prick slowly over the back 
of her buttocks as if he were taking aim with a whip, drawing it over the 
ground before he got ready to snap it. 

"If you've never had anyone in your ass before," he said, "you're going to 
be very small. It may hurt a little. It may hurt a lot. If it hurts a lot, 
hang onto the ties and just squeeze them, OK? The main thing is to try to 
completely relax." 

"Oh, Alex," said Mabel, "I want you to do anything you want to, to me." 

"Good," said Alex. "Don't you worry. I will. Now I don't want to end up 
shredding your insides so relax now. Relax." He repeated the word over and 
over again as if he were a hypnotist. As he said it he began prodding the 
smooth, brown head of his hot dick into the tight, cream-colored wrinkles 
around her ass-hole. He slipped his prick a little way in. Mabel was so 
tight it was like trying to force his enormous prong through a finger ring. 
She yowled like a cat, so loudly that it surprised him, and then she began 
whimpering piteously. 

"Don't worry," Alex said. "Now just relax." He was looking at her with his 
eyes going hard and sharp and glistening. He had one hand open with its palm 
against her stomach and he was leaning his chest forward over her buttocks 
and her back. "This won't hurt," he promised, "if you just relax and let me 
have my way." 

With that, he mercilessly shoved his huge dong up into her ass-hole. To 
Mabel, it seemed as if his prick would never stop pressing its way up inside 
of her. It was of infinite length. 

She began crying out in short little screams. She was in too much pain to 
muster a long one. The throbbing was making her breathless. She sounded as 
if she were making frightened hiccoughs. 

All of her bound limbs went tense. She whimpered and spluttered beneath him. 
She rolled her face back and forth under him into the soft pillow. Once, she 
got her head turned around so that she could see him. She was crying 
silently. Her forehead was puckered. She was moaning the words "Ow! Ow! Ow!" 
in distress. But she was tied up and there was no getting away. She simply 
had to take his great big cock inside of her and wait while he finished. 

Alex spread both of his palms over her stomach and began ramming his spear 
into her rapidly. Her body jumped under him as if she were being 
electrocuted. Alex could hear his abdomen, which was wet with sweat and love 
juice, slapping against her buttocks which were also soaked. Each time he 
came down on her, he could feel her helpless, soft white buttocks fill the 
crevices at the tops of his thighs. She couldn't help nestling her bare ass 
against him. He bent down for an instant and kissed her ass cheeks. Then he 
drummed on them with the flat of his hands, making them quiver. 

Suddenly, she strained at the ties the way a boat in a storm will strain 
creakingly against its moorings. He could hear the old bed moan. He realized 
she was struggling against her bonds, but she was struggling to get her ass 
up closer to him, struggling to make penetration easier for him, struggling 
to show him that she had given herself, body and spirit, up to him 
completely. 

He thrust his prick into her as hard as he could. At the head he could feel 
a curve in her body. When he violated it, he could feel the muscle spasms of 
her pain and her reflex rejection. He struggled with this curve, ramming his 
prick into it again and again, trying to straighten it out. When she 
wiggled, he held her. When she convulsed, he brought her abdomen up close to 
his, and held his cock inside of her so that her body had to take him. 
"You'll love me whether you want to or not," he said. "You'll take my prick 
inside of you and keep it there. And now you're going to get to keep my 
come." 

With that, he blew his hot wad into her. She felt it burning and stinging 
all over the inside walls of her abdomen. She felt it streaming through her 
as hot as lava. She thought it would make her blind. She felt weak and 
helpless under the rolling, boiling avalanche of it. It was as if he had 
made a waterfall inside of her. 

Mabel's whole body was quivering. In trying to fantasize what Mr. Belton 
might be thinking, she discovered that she had aroused herself. Her steak 
was long since finished. She had left her chocolate mousse half eaten. She 
couldn't tell how long she'd been sitting with her elbow up on the white 
table cloth, dreaming. 

She looked around the restaurant, . embarrassed by her own thoughts, and 
took a hasty sip of water to wet her mouth. Her lips and tongue suddenly 
felt dry with the reality of her youthful desire. No one seemed to be paying 
much attention to her, and she was glad of that. The restaurant was 
practically empty. There were only a few stray after-dinner tipplers 
standing around the bar. Her waiter had disappeared. Probably he was in the 
kitchen enjoying his own dinner now that the supper hour crush was done for 
the day. 

Mabel was not wearing a watch and there seemed to be no clocks up on the red 
flocked walls of the restaurant. She estimated that it must be about nine 
thirty, or even ten o'clock. According to her plan, it was not time to call 

Mr. Belton back yet. "Let the poor man suffer through and enjoy his 
delusions just a little bit longer," she thought. 

The swinging door from the kitchen flew open and she saw her waiter heading 
for her table. 

"I'll have another demitasse," she said to him sweetly. "Oh yes, and how 
about a glass of brandy?" 

PART TWO 

"What have I done?" thought Mr. Belton and he paced up and down in his small 
study that had been built specially for him at the top of his house. "What 
sort of a dreadful situation have I created?" 

"And if I have created it, am I responsible for it? And if I'm responsible 
for it, is it indeed my fault? Will I feel guilty once it's all over? And 
oh, good grief, if poor Mabel's getting butt-fucked, since I'm the one who 
brought her here and got her involved in these awful circumstances in the 
first place, isn't it just as if I were the one who was butt-fucking her 
myself?" 

As this thought crossed Mr. Belton's mind, he stopped right in the middle of 
a step. He thought of poor little Mabel. He thought of her pert, turned-up 
nose, and her brown hair that was as sleek and as shiny as a waterfall. He 
thought of butt-fucking her, and his mind began to billow with fantasies 
about it. He tried to pull his mind back to worry and sympathize with her 
once more, but it simply kept straying back to the point of pleasure again. 

Mr. Belton strode to the top of the stairs and called down to his wife who 
was in the sewing room working on a pair of hot pants. 

"Veronica, my dear," said Mr. Belton. He was always gentle and polite in all 
of his dealings with his wife. "Would you please be a love and bring a cup 
of tea up to me here. Oh, and perhaps bring a glass of sherry too. I need 
something to steady my nerves. I'm so terribly distraught you know, over 
what is happening. It all came so suddenly and the worst of it," he said, as 
his wife's face appeared just beneath him in the stairwell, "is that I feel 
so damned helpless just sitting here not being able to do anything to save 
her. Those police are incorrigible. There's no talking to them. Tomorrow 
morning, I guarantee it, I shall be on the phone to the sergeant and I'm 
going to give him a piece of my mind." 

"Did you get there badge numbers, dear," asked Mrs. Belton as she came 
upstairs with a steaming cup of tea on a tray. Next to it was a tiny 
shimmering, amber colored glass of sherry. She had poured her husband rather 
a stiff one as he obviously was feeling terribly uneasy. The whole thing had 
not been good for his nerves and he really did need something to calm him. 

Mr. Belton had been pacing back and forth all evening in his study. From 
time to time, he had picked up the phone and dialed for the police. They had 
explained to him with testy patience that since he didn't know where the 
girl had been staying, or even in what section of the city she had last been 
seen in, there was very little else they could do for him but keep their 
eyes open and watch for her. They had promised him again and again that they 
would call him immediately if she turned up, or even if there was any sign 
of her. However, she had not turned up and they were getting very tired of 
Mr. Belton's squeaky, worried voice piping into their ears, "Well? Have you 
found her? Have you found her?" 

Not only did he tie up the phones that they needed for emergency calls, but 
he severely chastised them for not having discovered where Mabel had gone 
to. "What sort of a police force are you?" Mr. Belton would demand of them. 
Or he'd say, "Do you call yourself a law enforcement agency? Alot of 
worthless, lazy slackers if you ask me. Good for nothings." Furious and 
frustrated, Mr. Belton hung up. Then half an hour later he was on the line 
again, squeaking, "Have you found her? Have you found her?" and not 
understanding in the slightest why it was that each time he called, he was 
receiving lesscordial treatment. 

"I'm sure everything's going to be all right, dear," said Mrs. Belton, and 
she gently stroked her husband's white hair. 

"How can it be all right?" demanded Mr. Belton in a furious panic. 

"Well ... " said Mrs. Belton, momentarily at a loss for words, "Sometimes 
situations are not what they seem. She may be perfectly all right, you know. 
You may have misunderstood or misheard the poor child. After all, Ben, she's 
new to the city and doesn't know the inner meanings of all the words she 
uses. Besides, darling, you only spoke to her for a moment. You know you've 
got a creative mind. You know how it twists and warps things." 

"I know what I heard," her husband t insisted, and he looked shaky and pale. 
"Veronica, that poor child's in trouble. Why," he raised his arms out from 
his sides and got very excited, "why, why," he spluttered, "that poor little 
girl's probably getting butt-fucked by a monster." 

"Calm down now dear," said Veronica Belton. "You're getting terribly excited 
and you know that isn't good for you. Besides, I'm sure Mabel has better 
sense than that, if she's anything like as bright and talented as you've 
told me. I'm sure she's behaving herself." 

"But it might not be her fault," said Mr. Belton. He was almost exploding 
with impatience at his wife's lack of ability to grasp fully the true horror 
of the situation. "It might be my fault, don't you see." 

Back in the hotel dining room, Mabel was feeling very full. She was sipping 
slowly on her brandy and she was smiling softly to herself. The time was 
wearing on. 

"Wow!" she thought to herself. "He probably thinks I'm getting butt-fucked 
by a monster!" And she started to laugh. The brandy was going to her head 
and making her feel wonderful. 

The elegant tablecloth hung gracefully down over the edges of the table. It 
was long enough to make a little enclosed, tent-like space under the table. 
It was long enough to hide Mabel's legs from view all the way down to their 
ankles. She felt safe therefore as she slipped her fingers down between her 
legs, crept them up her thighs, and stuck them up the legs of her panties 
and into the hole in her twat. She liked to sit like that sometimes, without 
even masturbating, just with the two fingers stuck inside of her. It was 
sort of like providing her pussy with a pacifier. She could thus sit silent' 
for hours with her snatch sucking at her fingers the way a child, in secret, 
will suck on its thumb. 

As she sat happily at the table, Mabel began to think about Mr. Belton. She 
remembered what he looked like, and how distinguished she had thought his 
white hair had made him look, and how kindly his eyes were. Best of all she 
remembered how simultaneously strong and soft his large, moist hands had 
looked as he picked up her canvases and carefully looked through them. The 
knuckles were as round as marbles. 

As she thought of him, she began to move her two fingers up and down inside 
of her pussy and she felt herself getting wetter and wetter. "Mr. Belton," 
she called under her breath, and closed her eyes. She pretended that it was 
his fingers that were moving inside of her. She thought of how thick they 
would feel, and how strongly they would press against the walls of her 
snatch, and she spread her legs wider and brought her lips together in an 
imaginary kiss. 

Back on Cherrystone Boulevard, in the Belton's little white house, Mr. 
Belton sat upstairs in his cupola on the roof with all of his blinds drawn 
and fantasized freely. His wife had left him. Perhaps it was telepathy, but 
he seated himself on the floor in a corner with his legs apart and his knees 
up, and held onto his cock with one hand, rubbing it softly so as not to 
rush the fantasy, so as to make it last, and his fantasy went like this: 

He fantasized that he was sitting at a table in a luxurious dining room 
across from Mabel. Her eyes were glistening with the reflected glinting of 
the crystal glassware and the silver forks. Her mouth was full of chocolate 
mousse and she was smiling up at him. 

"Mabel," whispered Mr. Belton, "put your legs apart and put your knees up on 
the table." 

There seemed to be no waiters around, so Mabel did as he directed. She 
slumped down in her chair and let her legs drape over each arm rest so that 
her pussy was wide open under the table cloth and her white knees stuck up 
over the edge of the table. 

In the restaurant, the real Mabel looked slyly around herself and then 
maneuvered herself into the same position. She had a blissful expression on 
her face. 

Mr. Belton, in his fantasy, reached under the table and pressed two of his 
fingers into Mabel's little twat. "However," he said, "what I'd really like 
tonight is your ass, my dear. I want some sort of substantial proof that you 
will submit to me." 

"What do you mean by submit?" asked Mabel innocently. 

"You'll see, my dear," said Mr. Belton with a sinister sneer in his voice. 
"Just whatever I ask you, you must do." 

"Well," said Mabel, and she looked excited. "Shall we go up to the room and 
see what happens? " She looked around as she said this, and added, "I want 
to be all alone together." She indicated the kitchen door with her glance. 

Mr. Belton got up out of his chair and lifted Mabel out of hers with one 
hand on her elbow. He paid the bill, and ushered her into the elevator. 

"My, you do walk quickly," said Mabel as he pushed her down the hallway to 
the door of his room. She was beginning to feel a little bit distressed, as 
she realized that the submission he had talked about might be less innocent 
than she supposed. She was about to take her elbow away from him and run 
when he grabbed the flesh on the back of her upper arm and he hissed, 
"You're coming with me!" 

She felt the hot spittle that he shot out with his gruff words tickle her 
ear. She felt his stubbled chin brush against her cheek, and she found 
herself being hurried along even faster, with two fingers in her own vagina 
to comfort herself. 

Mr. Belton opened the door to the hotel room and pushed her inside. "Come 
on," he said roughly as she stumbled, and he kept her from falling. 

Before she knew it, he had knelt down beside her and grabbed hold of both of 
her legs. When he stood up he threw her over his shoulder with her ass in 
the air. 

Mabel began biting and kicking. She kicked him in his groin but he had 
removed her shoes, and as he held her legs close against his chest, she 
couldn't kick very hard. 

He laughed at her efforts and put his hand up on her ass and began to 
explore its surfaces with his fingers. 

Mabel pummeled with her fists on his buttocks. She got hold of some of the 
flesh at the small of his back and she held it tightly between her teeth. 
The pain of the bite and the heavy pummeling on his ass only served to 
further arouse him. 

He turned to look at himself in the mirror and he could see his enormous 
cock visibly rising beneath his pants. He looked like some wonderful pagan 
god, about to rape a mortal. 

Still standing in front of the mirror, he began to peel Mabel's skirt up 
over her thighs. He pulled it violently up over her buttocks with masterful 
strokes, as if he were peeling a banana. Then he ran his hands up over the 
backs of her white thighs again and again, crushing his fingers into her 
soft, delicate skin. 

Mabel began trying to kick him in earnest. He watched her white buttocks bob 
up and down, and he held her legs fast. She was not difficult to hold. Her 
ankles actually felt flimsy in his one strong hand. But as she struggled she 
edged her pussy up higher in the air. 

Suddenly, he raised his big, heavy hand up and he whacked her as hard as he 
could across the ass. He whacked her so hard that he could feel the two 
bones at the bottom of her pelvis through her reddening flesh. Mabel 
collapsed against him for an instant. She was stunned by the force of the 
blow. Then she began whimpering. 

Suddenly, she seized him savagely with both her hands around his waist and 
she dug her thumbs into his flesh. She began twisting and kneading his 
sides, trying to bruise his flesh cruelly. Her touch was so light however, 
it felt to Mr. Belton as if she were manipulating and stroking him. He 
relaxed against her touch and enjoyed it. 

"Hah!" he cried. Up went his hand again and down it came in a shuddering 
thunderous blow over her ass cheeks. He felt her whole body quake with the 
shock of it. Up went the hand like a pendulum, and he hit her again. He 
could see the pink inside of her twat stuffed between her overturned thighs 
and buttocks and he saw that it was moistly glistening. He smack it with his 
open hand and then began a volley of rough claps against the soft undersides 
of her buttocks. They felt like doeskin. 

Slowly, the slaps transformed themselves into rough, swiping caresses that 
had their own rhythm to them. Mr. Belton became mesmerized with the sight of 
her white flesh quivering on his shoulder in the mirror. 

Mabel became still. She was concentrating on the way the rough, circular 
caresses of his hand felt against her skin and she was relaxing and 
accepting them. 

Mr. Belton took her down from his shoulder but he held her ankles and Her 
wrists so that she had to continue to bend over. "Don't move," he hissed at 
her and he held all four of her limbs with one hand. With the other he 
loosened and removed his tie, and he used this to bind her. 

He stood up when he had successfully tied her, and he moved her so that she 
could lean against the side of the bed and so keep from falling over. He 
looked at her as she stood there with her nose almost pressed against her 
knees, her fingers groping over the floor, and her ass like two rising moons 
floating in the air. He could see the pubic hair that was buried soft and 
warm in her crevice. 

Belton put his foot up and he rubbed his toe against her ass. He worked it 
into the dark valley between the two soft cheeks. They dimpled under his 
cheeks. 

"No!" Mabel whispered. 

Mr. Belton drew his foot back and he softly kicked her. He landed his toe 
right in the softness of the back of her snatch. Mabel gave a yelp and began 
to whimper again. 

Holding her around her knees and pressing his cheek against the back of her 
thighs, Mr. Belton used one hand to untie her. He pulled her shirt off and 
left her standing white and naked and cowering. She covered her breasts with 
her arms and backed away from him. 

Mr. Belton undid his belt, and using it like a belt he began following her. 
He lashed through the air with it. He brought his arm down with all of his 
strength. She watched his jacket bunch over his shoulder as he brought his 
arm up. She watched the creases disappear as the flat belt flew down on her. 
It swished through the air. He had gotten her right across the face. Now he 
would take on the rest of her. 

Mabel licked her lips. Already she could tell that they were swelling He 
began to lash at her arms, trying to whip them away from her breasts. He had 
backed her into a corner now, and he grabbed one of her hands from where she 
clutched frantically at her own body. 

He pulled on her arm, spinning her around on the end of it as if she were a 
yo-yo. He pulled her after him towards the bed. Sitting down on the edge of 
it, he reached out one foot and he tripped her. She fell forward over his 
knees, presenting her helpless ass to him, ready for spanking 

Mr. Belton brought the leather strap down on her white flesh again and 
again. He turned it so that the end with the golden buckle attached to it 
flew at her. When it hit, red welts appeared instantly on her skin. 

He threw the belt down and went after her with the bare flesh of his hand. 
He slapped her so fast that the clapping of his hands against her flesh 
sounded like applause. 

"Now," he said sternly to her, "will you do just as I say." 

He sat Mabel upright and she looked dazedly into his eyes with a worhsipful 
expression. "Yes," she whispered. "Mr. Belton, I shall do anything you ask. 
My body is yours to enjoy." 

He threw her behind him onto the bed and began slapping her all over her 
body. She bent her knees up to her chest in an effort to escape his cruel 
hand, and she squirmed and wriggled to and fro, trying to dodge him. 

"You said you would submit to me," he said. 

"Oh," she whispered and her eyes closed. 

He took hold of both of her ankles and he stretched her legs out. He took 
her arms and laid them out beside her. "Now don't move," he said. He resumed 
slapping her. She lay quite still, though her face was very white and she 
bore the quick, insulting slaps that came up onto the undersides of her 
breasts, over her nipples, her abdomen, her snatch and the tops of her 
thighs. 

Mr. Belton whispered to her, "Now, Mabel, I'm going to turn you over, and 
we'll see how you submit to me." 

Slowly he helped her to roll over onto her stomach. He didn't stretch her 
limbs out or bind her. He trusted her to do as he bid her and to accept this 
will. 

On all fours on the bed beside her, Mr. Belton stripped off his clothes. His 
dick was ten inches long and very thick. It quivered in the air beneath him 
as he hovered above her. He looked down at his cock and at Mabel's tiny 
buttocks. His dick was as long as her ass was. And the skin of her ass was 
so soft, while his dick was as hard as young wood. 

"This is going to hurt terribly," he said to her, "but I want you to hold 
very still for me. Just accept the pain and see if you can't come to enjoy 
having me hurt you." 

Mabel shivered. She knew what to expect and she was frightened, but she did 
not move. 

With one savage lunge, Mr. Belton plunged his dick all the way up into her 
ass-hole. 

Mabel lay very still but she began sobbing. 

"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Belton and he pulled his prick partially out. 
It was so enormous that he could feel how tightly he was stretching her, 
bringing the elastic skin close to the tearing point. He could feel how he 
rasped against her unlubricated insides. She whimpered. He could feel that 
she was willfully trying to make her muscles soften and relax. She would get 
them soft and then they would tighten involuntarily around them and then she 
would whimper. She lifted her body up on her elbows and plucked at the 
bedspread, shaking her head from side to side. In a weak little voice she 
whispered back to him, "It hurts." 

"Of course it hurts," he said in a smooth voice. "I'm a very large man and 
I'm pressing an awful lot of meat into a very tiny cavity. I want to hurt 
you, Mabel." 

He reached up and grabbed onto her frail shoulders with both his hands and 
forced himself all the way into her again. 

"If you keep contracting tightly like that," he said, "I'm going to come. I 
can feel you flowing up and pressing all around me." 

In the middle of her weeping, Mabel began to laugh. 

"Don't," said Mr. Belton. "You're going to make me come." 

But Mabel couldn't help it. "I'm trying not to," she said. "Lord, it hurts 
when I laugh. It is just an unbelievable pain. It feels like you're ripping 
right through me." 

Mr. Belton felt a spasm in his stomach. He could not hold it any longer, and 
while trying to hang on with all his muscles, his sperm began to slowly flow 
out and he couldn't stop it. He could feel how hot it was with the tip of 
his prick. Finally, he let go with it, relaxed and a great wad of cream came 
shooting out of him. 

He rubbed, his abdomen over Mabel's buttocks. "Can you feel that?" he said. 

Mabel had gotten beyond pain. She wanted to move. She could feel his sperm 
filling her abdomen as if it were a bucket. She raised herself up stiffly on 
her elbows and waited for him to be done. 

When he had finished coming, Mr. Belton pulled his cock slowly out of her. 
She whimpered as he did so, and when he was gone, the pain lasted. Her 
ass-hole felt sore and stretched. 

"Thank you," said Mr. Belton as he lay down by her side. 

"The phone's ringing, dear," Mr. Belton suddenly heard his wife's voice 
calling from downstairs. 

At first, he didn't answer. He didn't want to disturb the fantasy. Besides, 
what would his wife think of him if she knew what he'd been dreaming about. 
Mr. Belton never took out his sadistic impulses on his wife. She was too 
immature to indulge them. She had a ridiculous notion of what was proper 
between man and woman and Mr. Belton felt that her vision stifled some of 
the most passionate parts of him. 

"Come quickly, dear," said Mrs. Belton. "It seems to be a young lady. What 
if it's Mabel and she needs your help? Don't you think you had better come 
down right away and talk to her?" 

"Goodness!" thought Mr. Belton, "here I've been fantasizing and that poor 
creature might really be in trouble. I'm coming immediately," he called down 
to his wife. He had taken off his pants completely while he had been 
masturbating, and he struggled them back up his thighs again in a hurry. He 
dried his wet hand on some kleenex that was on his desk, and climbed 
hurriedly down out of his cupola. He went two steps at a time. 

"Here," said his wife handing him the phone. 

"Er, urn," he spluttered as he took the receiver. Now he was not only 
worried about Mabel but he was also feeling guilty. That poor child, out on 
the streets, or in somebody's hotel room in a big strange city like 
Philadelphia. Why she had probably been battered and bruised beyond 
recognition. Perhaps she was calling him from the hospital. Perhaps she was 
calling him to tell him she couldn't make it, having had both of her legs 
broken. Perhaps ... perhaps it wasn't Mabel on the phone at all but a nurse, 
or a morgue attendant, or a secretary down at the police station. In a 
terribly distressed and confused state, Mr. Belton put the receiver to his 
ear. 

Mabel was lying between the soft white sheets of her soft bed in her room at 
the Biltmore. She was lying with two fingers up her cunt and a glazed, happy 
look in her eye. She was feeling very full, and with a toothpick, she was 
lazily removing the last bits of her filet mignon from between her teeth. 
She had just masturbated while thinking of Mr. Belton and his distinguished 
looking gray hair, and she was sitting comfortably in a puddle of her own 
cream. 

Mabel had propped herself comfortably up on two pillows in order to make the 
phone call. She had dialed lazily and waited for the phone to ring, blinking 
her sleepy eyes. She had waited while Mrs. Belton had gone and called Mr. 
Belton, massaging her gums with the softened end of her little wooden 
toothpick. She could still taste the brandy in her mouth. 

"Mr. Belton?" she said, when she heard him spluttering into the phone. 
"That's right. It's me. It's Mabel. I hope I'm not calling you too late." 

"Mabel, dear," Mr. Belton stammered. "Heavens child, I've been so enormously 
worried. Are you all right?" 

"Oh yes, sir," she said. "I am. I ... um ... well, I went ahead you know and 
did what I had to, um ... " she gulped loudly into the receiver. 

"Heavens child," said Mr. Belton. "Where are you?" 

"Who me? Now?" she asked as if she were dazed. "I'm at the Biltmore." 

Mr. Belton gulped. The Biltmore was the most expensive hotel in town. 

Mabel stroked one of her slender fingers over the soft surface of the sheet 
beside her. 

She held the receiver away from her mouth for an instant and stifled a burp. 
Then she brought the receiver back down again. "Well, oh gosh, Mr. Belton 
... I don't even know why I'm calling. Except that I've had sort of a 
confusing and upsetting evening, and ... well, gee, I just wanted you to 
know that that break you're going to give me tomorrow is worth more to me 
... well, maybe it's worth more than anything in the world." 

"Mabel, are you safe now?" 

"Yes, Mr. Belton." 

"Well, look honey, don't worry about tomorrow. I'll see that everything goes 
smoothly with the board. You rest now. Do you need anything?" 

"No," said Mabel, and she stifled another burp. 

"Well, I will look forward to seeing you tomorrow," said Mr. Belton. "You 
stay put, and don't worry about anything." 

"OK, Mr. Belton," she said in a very tiny voice. "Goodnight." 

"Goodnight, Mabel." 

Mr. Belton hung up feeling horribly guilty. "I'm so glad," he said to his 
wife, "that I'm going to be able to do something to help that child. Of 
course, I wish I'd never brought her here, but I'll make sure she makes a 
good appearance at the meeting tomorrow. I think the whole thing is very 
important to her." 

Mabel fell asleep quickly after the phone conversation. She kept on burping, 
and she kept thinking about Mr. Reitwold, and what he had taught her about 
being a good picture painter. Her tongue strayed softly over her lips, 
seeking out the last traces of her dinner. In a crevice, she found a 
distinct flavor of avocado. 

"Some girls are like artichokes," she murmured as she drifted off. "But I am 
not like an artichoke. I have no heart." 

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

SODOMY AND SUBMISSION 

PART ONE 

How do you thank some one who has taught you about fine literature and 
foreign politics and how to choose a good wine and how to be a woman? 
Shirley Jensen wept with tears of gratitude at her old teacher's feet. She 
had not seen him for three years now, not since she graduated from the small 
women's college on the outskirts of Pittsburgh. She had loved him terribly 
when she had graduated. 

But in the three years that had passed, three years that had ripened her 
body and imparted to her eyes an added glow of youthful wisdom and serenity, 
she had grown to love him even more. "I was just a baby when I graduated," 
she thought. "I didn't even know the value of the things that he taught me. 
Now I see how perfectly he was preparing me for the harsh realities of 
life." 

Shirley had some fond memories of her old teacher, Reggie Pender. She kept 
these memories constantly stored in her head and every so often, in her days 
that were busy and hectic now, her mind would turn back to him. Three years 
had not in any way dulled the sharp, aching love that she felt for him. The 
distance she had traveled, working first as a school teacher herself in New 
Mexico, then moving to California, and then finally returning to work as a 
junior administrator at a women's college on Long Island, hadn't thinned the 
flow of gratitude she felt to him. 

Shirley was taking a vacation from her office and had decided she would go 
to visit her old teacher. She worried a little perhaps that it would, after 
the space of time, be more difficult to talk to him. She longed for a late 
evening alone with him. She longed for the type of evening that the two of 
them used to have. They would sit up together in his cozy living room till 
long past midnight, talking about life and philosophy and concepts of 
religion and psychology. On winter nights, he would keep the fire going and 
she would warm her back in front of it. Then, when her back got too hot, she 
would turn around and hold her thickly stockinged feet in front of the 
flames. When her socks were wet, they would begin steaming. It seemed as if 
they were talking about the most important subjects in the world. 

On the floor of his living room was a faded, braided rug. The whole house 
was furnished in maple furniture, and it had soft wood floors that were as 
yellow as bees wax. Shirley would sit, wiggling her toes with pleasure, 
while the orange glow of the flames flickered over her cheeks. She liked to 
wear tight sweaters that clung to the fullness of her breasts. She had 
straight red hair, dark eyes, a round inquisitive face, and freckles. When 
she went to see Mr. Pender, or Reggie, as he insisted that she call him, she 
wore her hair tied in back of her head with a ribbon that matched her skirt 
and sweater set. She was trying to look studious, and demure. In the winters 
she wore high boots that zipped up the sides. She liked the way the soft 
leather clung against her calves. She liked the happy little squeaks that 
they made when she walked in them. They would lull her when, in the evenings 
she would stroll over to Reggie's house. Always as she approached the great 
white, wooden house with its dark green shutters, and its flower beds that 
sat under a thin carpet of snow on either side of the shoveled and salted 
cement walk, she would feel a little tingle of excitement. She knew that she 
tingled because she loved him. She was going to his house in order to talk 
about philosophy. But Reggie made her body glow just the same way that he 
made her mind sparkle. 

As Shirley walked down one of the small, suburban streets and turned the 
familiar corner, the same old thrill of excitement sent a flood of color to 
her cheeks. Her heart began pounding. Her nipples grew erect. Suddenly, her 
breasts were intensely aware of the clear, icy wind that was slicing through 
the front of her tight sweater. She should do up her coat, she knew, or she 
would catch a bad cold. But her breasts had gotten heavier in the past three 
years, and she wanted him to notice this first thing. 

The street she was walking on was lined with bare maple saplings. Their thin 
branches quivered in the wind and the little twigs at the ends of them stood 
up like groping fingers. Shirley looked up into the cold, clear blue sky, 
and put her arms out for a moment and let the wind whip around her body and 
storke its flying back over her breasts. She breathed deeply, and the cold 
air in her lungs made her eyes water. She felt healthy, and excited, and she 
quickened her step. 

She wondered if Reggie had changed much since she had last seen him. She 
could picture him as he had been so clearly, that sometimes, when she was 
walking alone, it was almost as if he were walking right next to her. 

She remembered the way he had strode into class on the very first morning 
she had ever seen lum. She remembered that she had remarked to herself that 
he was an extraordinarily handsome man, though he was older than anyone she 
had yet been attracted to. He was tall, extremely, and gauntly slender, with 
long legs and arms. He dressed very casually, wearing black and white 
checkered lumber jack shirts in the winter, and honey colored corduroy 
pants. His body seemed very loosely strung together and whenever he moved, 
he looked graceful. He had gray hair that was just beginning to go a little 
bit thin over the top of his head. Lastly, what she loved about his 
appearance was that he smoked a pipe. Not only did this make him look, in 
her words "sporting" as if he were just about to go hunting, but it filled 
his class room with a delicious chocolaty-cherry smell that she had come to 
associate just with him, and with the mental and emotional excitement that 
he was able to stir up in her. 

Once, just about a year ago, Shirley had been sitting in a New York 
restaurant with a date, and from across the room, the familiar smell of 
flavored tobacco had wafted to her. Automatically, she stood up; testing the 
air to see what direction the smell was coming from. "It must be him. It 
must be him," she kept repeating. She had not, until that moment, been aware 
that she had still reserved so much love for him. The instant that smell 
reached her nose, all that she felt for him came rushing back. Standing up 
from the table, she searched frantically from table to table, looking for 
that familiar, beloved face. 

Finally, she found the fellow who was smoking the tobacco. It wasn't Reggie. 
She sat down again in supreme disappointment. When her firm, sand-colored 
buttocks touched the red vinyl of the booth seat, she shuddered. She 
realized that just the smell of tobacco had made her cream in her pants. Her 
thighs against the vinyl were sticky and moist, and the strip of nylon that 
stretched over the outside of her pussy and gotten soaked and was clinging 
to the inside of her love canal as if it were stuck in a swamp. "Ooooh," she 
squealed and shifted in the booth, and then she looked sadly down at her 
plate. 

"What was that all about?" her date asked her. 

"Oh nothing," said Shirley, and she put her elbow on the table and 
delicately tickled the line of hairs that curled in the center of the nape 
of her neck. She had long spidery fingers, with long, glistening, 
pink-polished fingernails. Around her delicate white wrist was a heavy, gold 
charm bracelet. 

"I just saw someone I thought I knew, that's all." 

"Um, was it somebody important?" the young man who was with her asked. 

She looked up at him grinning, realizing she had aroused his jealousy. "It's 
just an old teacher," she said. "Somebody I feel really influenced my life." 

"Oh," said her date. He looked at her quizzically. She had gotten awfully 
excited over someone who just thought they saw an old prof. 

She really hadn't been old enough or mature enough until about a year ago to 
sort through her confused and excited feelings and admit to herself that one 
of the things she felt for him was an intense, physical desire. 

She could remember the way her little nipples would harden when he walked 
into the room. She tried harder in his class than in any of her others. She 
would watch him as he paced back and forth in front of the classroom. He 
adlibbed wisdom. He would walk with his head down, his pipe in his mouth, 
and his hands in his back pockets. Usually he wore argyle socks that could 
be seen clearly because his pants were usually too short and too tight. Once 
he wore a pair that didn't match. That delighted her. 

Watching him walking, she would find herself staring hungrily at the mound 
in his pants at his crotch. His pants fitted snugly and showed that he had 
an extremely large prick. She would stare at it, and then she would have to 
close her eyes, and she would feel her whole body shiver. Then she would 
open her eyes again and try to concentrate. 

The sartorius muscles that ran down the inside of his thighs were visible 
through his tight corduroys also. Shirley would watch them tighten and knot 
as he walked, and the bulges in them would strain at the side seams of his 
pants and lift his prick upwards a little. How she longed to slip her 
fingers inside of those tight pants, to feel the warm moist skin that was 
being pressed and hugged by the soft corduroy, to feel the weight and 
grandeur of his balls, to search for the hard, unbending prick that was like 
tempered steel, to hold and caress it with her tiny fingers, to kiss it 
softly on the head. 

These thoughts made her quiver with excitement as she walked. She was older 
now, and who knows, a whole new chapter might be opening up in their 
relationship. It might be that he thought she was old enough to get to know 
him intimately this time. 

She knew that it had been her desire for him that had made her perform with 
such academic brilliance in his class. First of all, because she wanted him 
to notice her, and since she had no way of standing out initially from the 
rest of the class other than by doing superb work, she had worked her buns 
off literally. She had sat at her typewriter night after night, eroding the 
skin on her ass. She would write her weekly paper and while she wrote it, 
she would think about him reading it. The thought would make her cream as 
she worked, and she would rub the soft white undersides of her buttocks and 
the back of her pussy on the seat of her straight-backed desk chair. She 
would wish that the seat was his hand. Sometimes she would pretend that it 
actually was, and she would spread her legs wider as she sat, and try to 
grind the soft, wetness of her snatch over the surface of the chair and call 
out his name. 

When she watched him in the classroom with his enormous cock making a soft, 
and, she imagined, sweetly fragrant, mountain out of his powdery soft pants, 
she thought he was sublime, superb, supreme over her world. Surrounded by a 
classroom full of worshipful young women, she thought he looked rather like 
a lion with an enormous pride , thousands of lionesses hungrily, slavishly 
following him. 

Not only did she work hard on her papers, therefore, but she always went 
into that classroom having read her assigned material, and having to 
struggled to understand what the texts he gave her were saying. The first 
class she ever took from him was philosophy, although he taught many 
different things. He was classified as a professor of Humanities, which is a 
very general sort of word. But philosophy is not an easy subject, and 
Shirley's desire for Reggie inspired her to do very well in it. She would 
sit up late at night, turning new ideas over and over, looking for loop 
holes in them, and when she needed refreshment, she would think about Reggie 
and she would masturbate. 

The next morning would see her bright eyed in class, with her hand up and 
ready to intelligently answer any of his questions. He began to be very 
pleased with the little red head who always sat in the front row. He 
mentioned to another teacher that she seemed very eager to learn, and that 
her mind was lively, as if it were on fire. "She's an unusually hard 
worker," he said. 

Lastly, Shirley's desire for Reggie led her to do all sorts of extra work. 
She read books that were not assigned so that she could stay after class and 
get into discussions with him. She wrote down her thoughts on paper and 
handed the pages into him, using "intellectual curiosity" as an excuse to 
let him get to know her better. 

Slowly, a trust that was initially based on intellectual respect began to 
develop between them. Shirley was so well-informed and her thoughts were so 
fresh and she worked her brain so hard, that Reggie began to genuinely enjoy 
talking about philosophy with her. Both of them were iconoclasts and they 
would get into discussions, the outrageousness of which would make Shirley 
giggle. 

Then, one evening after class, an evening that Shirley would never forget, 
Mr. Pender asked her to come home with him: They had been talking animatedly 
about whether or not the earth wasn't in fact the center of the universe, so 
that generations of philosophers and astronomers had all been walking up a 
blind alley. Neither of them believed in the theories they were expounding, 
but they were having a delightful time expounding them anyway, and laughing 
at the pillars of their particular field of study. He was sitting on his 
desk, or he had one leg propped up on it and he was swinging his leg. 

Shirley noticed the way his flesh spread sideways from his thigh as it 
rested against the surface of the solid oak table. This made his pants even 
tighter, and as he swung his leg, she almost heard the seams in his pants 
creak. She couldn't help staring at his thigh hungrily for an instant too 
long. He saw her eyes playing over him. 

"I'll tell you what," he said suddenly. "Let's not stand here in this stuffy 
classroom. I'm interested in what we're discussing and would like to 
continue with it. Why don't you come to my house? We can have some wine. And 
some cheese." 

Shirley felt as if the greatest honor in the world had just been conferred 
on her. "Oh," she stammered, hardly able to believe her good fortune, "I'd 
love to come." She suddenly felt self-conscious, and she pulled her shirt 
down further over her little abdomen. She had a tight little stomach that 
stuck out a little bit. She was not fat, but she was sway-backed, and had 
the posture of a little girl. She wiggled her big breasts at him, and as she 
pulled her shirt down, he could see her hard nipples erecting beneath it. 

As he turned around and collected his papers, he surrounded her in a flurry 
of overcoat. His papers in a stack on his desk, he reached up into the air 
to get his arms into the flailing sleeves of his heavy coat and he brushed 
up against her. Shirley still could not be sure, but she remembered that on 
that day she had been almost certain that she felt his fingers brush across 
her tit and stop for an instant to tweak one of her nipples. Then, the 
sensation of his hand was gone, and she saw his arms in the air, flapping as 
if he were an eagle. Since she couldn't be sure whether he'd actually 
touched her or whether she'd just imagined it, she had said nothing about 
it. She had simply collected up her notebooks and her text books and stood 
beside him and patiently waited. 

But as she stood there, she could feel her pussy muscles working. It felt as 
if they were spiraling downward in a circular pattern, and pushing cream 
downwards with them as she went. Her cunt was hungry for him. Her cunt was 
thinking about the size of his prick. Whatever her brain thought about, 
however long-winded and high-minded, her pussy would not stop praying that 
it was going to get this man's cock stuffed inside her. 

His cock was so big that it would probably create a gothic cathedral out of 
her pussy walls. Just from fantasizing, already she could feel the sad, 
empty space echoing hollowly inside of her. Her snatch was convulsing its 
walls together and creaming as if it were washing itself with a thin, milky 
substance, as if it were snuffling one wall against another sadly, in an 
intense effort of looking for something. She knew that that something was he 
teacher, and that until he dominated her completely, she would feel 
dissatisfied somewhere deep inside of her. 

Shirley remembered wondering as she stood there if Mr. Pender knew that her 
pussy was wet. He always seemed to know everything. 

And as she walked, remembering all these things after that gap of three 
years that had matured her. she wondered if he had known all along that she 
would one day come back. He must have known, she thought, long ago, that one 
day he would have her. He must have known that she would just pick up in the 
middle of her busy life, one day, and walk the old street back up to his 
house, with no other purpose than to give herself to him, and to beg him to 
completely dominate her. She loved him so much that she wanted his will to 
be inside her, wanted his arms to strap her, wanted him to stick his cock 
into any of her bodily orifices. She wanted her body to be able to satisfy 
his every desire. 

Reggie, she remembered, had known perfectly well what the effect was that 
his tight pants were having on his students. She remembered sitting on the 
floor by the fire, at the foot of his chair. Sometimes, she would lean back 
against the overstuffed armchair that was his usual perch. She would put her 
head between his knees , and he would put his big, long-toed feet onto her 
shoulders. Playfully, he would work his toes into the little valleys behind 
her collar bones. He would stick his big toe into her ear, and caress her 
neck by grapsing it between the soles of his feet. To show that she loved 
him, she would turn her head and lick him between his toes. 

Then they would sit companionably, the two of them sitting facing the fire, 
and they would be silent for a little while. One night, Reggie had told her 
in a wistful voice, "You know, sometimes I wonder what I'm doing as a 
teacher." 

She was about to break in and say, "Oh, but you're so good at it. You 
inspire everybody," but she realized he was not feeling insecure. He was 
simply asking some bigger, philosophical questions about the purpose of his 
job in the cosmos and how it should best be done. 

"The one question," Mr. Pender went on, "which seems to be the biggest 
question, although most teachers never bother to ask it of themselves, is 
this: You've got to stop a minute and think about why it is that all those 
people who are sitting in front of you each day are going home at night and 
writing things to you. Most teachers never ask themselves that, and 
understanding that would help you understand to a large extent what would be 
the best way for you to do your job. It's not an easy question to answer. 
Perhaps the answer is different for each student." 

As Shirley listened to him talk, she had the oddest feeling that he knew 
that the reason she had done so well and had spent so much time developing 
herself into a philosopher was all because of his big cock. She hadn't 
realized that he went home at night and thought about his students as people 
in any sort of a deep or perceptive way. Now she felt suddenly naked, and a 
little bit ashamed. She realized in a flash that all her academic progress 
was just a front. She was camouflaging and decorating a simple, achingly 
strong, sexual desire. 

What she wondered was whether there were many women students who did this. 
She wondered if he knew his tight pants encouraged his students to work 
harder. She wondered if he knew that his prick brought them flashes of 
brilliance late it the night, because it worked up in them a kind of energy 
that, having no outlet, became sunk into the subject at hand. 

Then, she wondered whether it might not be possible to make men a lot 
smarter by having more women professors. She thought that might be so. That 
was the night she had decided, therefore, to become a teacher, and see what 
she herself could do, by way of being energizing and inspirational. Now, she 
was well on her way, having had already two jobs. She felt that 
intellectually she would be less intimidated by him, more on a par with him. 
She felt that they would have more experiences in common. They could talk 
about the common ground of teaching. At the same time, she had become less 
inhibited, and, if possible, more grateful, so that she was anxious to let 
him bend her with his will. Now, too, since she was older and more able to 
be responsible for what she did, perhaps he would feel that she was old 
enough to bear the magnificent weight of his body, and to hold the grandest 
prick in the universe. Also, since she was no longer enrolled as a student 
at the school, he could now be certain that he was not going to get sued. 

Shirley gasped. She had turned the last corner and she was walking up the 
final street-his street. She gasped because everything on it, the letter box 
on the corner, the two grand old sycamores, the crooked chimneys, it was all 
so much more familiar than she realized it was going to be. Already her head 
was dizzy with the memory of his face, and his big feet on her shoulders. 
Already her fantasies were teaming again, just as they used to, and she 
imagined his long arms curling tightly about her shoulders and how it would 
feel to have her nose sinking deeply into the soft wool of his shirt front. 
In a flash, her mind brought back to her the rich chocolate-cherry smell of 
his fragrant tobacco. In her mind's eye she saw his enormous hands, with the 
black hiars curling masterfully between his knuckles. They were such huge, 
powerful hands, full of twinkling tendons and glistening veins. She had 
always been aware, when she looked at them, how quickly and how easily they 
could wrench her little legs apart. She had always known how little good it 
would do her. 

On the nights she had gone home with him, she had always known how little 
good it would do her to struggle if he wanted to slide his mighty fingers 
into the helpless slit between her ass cheeks that tunneled away into her 
pussy. If he took it into his head that he wanted her, she would simply have 
no choice but to be his. He was strong enough to force her to submit if he 
wanted to. He was strong enough to force her to submit with a smile on his 
face. The thought made Shirley dizzy. 

She felt as if Fate were bringing her back to his house now. She climbed up 
the steps on her soft leather boots. She noticed that bulbs had already been 
set out in the snowy flower pots. Eagerly, she stepped up to the front door 
and knocked on it. It had a solid brass clapper that was shaped like a lion. 
The clapper was the lion's dangling tongue. 

For a few minutes, there was silence within the house. Then Shirley heard a 
set of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs and approaching the door. The 
latch opened with a click, and suddenly, there was that beautiful, handsome, 
wonderful face of his peering round the door at her. He had his pipe in his 
mouth. 

He gaped for an instant, and then smiled broadly. "Shirley," he said. "How 
wonderful it is to see you. Are you in town for awhile now? Come in. Come 
in." 

She was creaming in her pants and at the same time, she felt slightly 
uncomfortable. "I'm sorry I didn't answer your letters," was the first thing 
that she said. "I didn't ever know what to say. When I tried to write you, 
somehow nothing I put down ever seemed good enough." 

"Oh," he said, and she realized she had forgotten how gentle his voice was 
and how relaxed were all of his manners. 

"I'm a terrible letter writer myself. I hate writing letters. I hate 
committing myself to paper," he said. "I sympathize completely." And he 
ushered her into the house. 

Again, it was the familiarity of everything that startled and warmed her. 
Everything was still exactly in place. There were even two big logs on the 
fireplace, and they had just begun to steam and catch. 

"You're just in time," he said to her. "I was just starting a fire. It's 
awfully chilly out, isn't it. Well, how about a Bloody Mary?" He rubbed his 
hands together. "And then I want to hear all about all of your adventures." 

Then he smiled at her with an extraordinarily gentle expression on his face. 
His nose was almost as pink as his lips from the cold, and it made him look 
laughably lovable. His smiled looked very happy and soft. His eyes seemed to 
be asking a question. 

Suddenly, he swooped down on her and kissed her on the lips. His mouth was 
warm and sweet tasting. He didn't give her his tongue, but he sucked the air 
out from between her cheeks and held her mouth wetly to his with the vacuum 
he created. He held her for a few seconds, and then went off to the kitchen. 

Shirley was so aroused that she felt the lips of her pussy slide over one 
another with each step that she took, as if they had been buttered. She 
could feel that the crotch of her panties was soaked. 

She looked around while he was out of the room. She noticed a new china 
figurine on the mantle piece. But almost everything was wonderfully, 
dizzyingly familiar. There was the Persian carpet onto which she'd first 
watched him spill his seed. There was the fire irons, the same poker with 
the exquisitely carved handle that she had so often admired. She stood by 
the fire, letting the growing flames warm her legs and letting the 
familiarity of the place sink in. 

"Have a seat," he said as he came in, holding two frosty glasses. "This is a 
real surprise, Shirley, and I must say, quite a pleasure. But somehow, you 
know, I also feel as if I've been expecting you. I somehow knew when I last 
said good-bye to you, that you would one day come back." 

As he said this, Shirley's cunt began churning like a washing machine. The 
rolling liquid motion of her cunt walls were slapping cream against each 
other like the ocean sprays up against a cliff. "I knew I would too..." she 
stammered out. 

With a sure, warm gesture, he put his enormous hand on her right breast. He 
held it as if it were a piece of fruit and he turned it gently from side to 
side, sampling the texture of it with his thumb. "These have gotten bigger," 
he said to her and he smiled. He let go of her breast, patting her nipple as 
he did so, and he said, "I don't want to rush this. Sit down for a minute," 
and he pointed toward the fire. 

Shirley sat down cross-legged on the carpet, just the way she had used to, 
and began peeling off her tight boots. Once her toes were free, she held 
them up to the now flickering orange flames, and she realized how numb they 
had gotten. She held her two big toes and worked them round and round, 
trying to step up her circulation. 

Reggie sat in back of her, arranged his limbs in a loose lotus with some 
effort. He looked at her and he grinned and he blinked his eyes sleepily. 
"I'm getting older," he said. 

"You look just the same," said Shirley. 

He had put on a little weight. She liked the added heaviness. It made him 
look even more powerful. 

He leaned back on one arm, and made a toasted motion with his glass towards 
the fire. "Oh, Shirley," he said, "do you remember." 

Shirley did, and the warmth of the fire was bringing back the sensation of 
his hands on her breasts. "Just touch me underneath my tits," she whispered, 
and he reached his hand over and he tickled his playful fingers under the 
weight of her boobs. He watched her nipples erecting under her sweater. She 
sat in front of the fire with her knees up and her legs apart and let the 
flames warm her cunt. It was wet, and the memories of him lubricating her 
had been uncomfortable out in the snow. Now there was so much cream on her 
and the fire was so warm, that she thought it would start to boil over her 
snatch. She moaned. She closed her eyes and put her head back. 

One evening, three years before, she had resisted him and had had to be tied 
up. Of course, he had done it gently, and with that calm air of patience 
that she loved so much, and that had always made her trust him. She was 
ashamed that she had had to be tied. She was ashamed that she had not 
listened to him. She was ashamed that she hadn't been able to he still and 
just trust him. 

He had asked her if he could fuck her in the ass. He had done so, of course, 
simply because, for him, desire was commensurate to fact. He did whatever he 
wanted as far as she was concerned. But the fact that she had struggled with 
him so fiercely had cast an unpleasant shadow over his act. It had exposed a 
chasm of doubt that undermined all her protestations of her love and 
absolute worship for him. He was hurt and disappointed that she had 
struggled, and she was insulted by his disappointment. 

He had tied her up to teach her a lesson. He tied her, not so much because 
he had to. His big hands could hold her little body quite still without the 
aid of rope. But he had tied her to show her what he would do to her if she 
resisted him. 

That was why it was so important that Shirley had come back. He knew and she 
knew, inside them, that she had come back to repeat the act. They knew that 
she was older now, and she could take the pain without flinching. At the 
same time, her love for him had grown, and she was certain she could let him 
do anything he wanted to her. 

She was in awe of him. 

The first time that it happened, it had happened in the basement. The air 
had been cool and dry down there, whispering full of hollow rustles all 
around them. They had been sitting close together by the fire, staring into 
its orange, liquid flames flowing upward from the black, steamy logs. 
Shirley could feel the heat that was being generated from his body. She 
could feel it soaking like sun rays into her shoulder. 

She walked back on her buttocks towards him. She inched backwards almost 
imperceptibly so as to get as close as possible to him without actually 
touching him. He was sitting with his knee drawn up to his chest and his 
hand clutched over his shin. As she moved back, he could feel the angora 
furs of her sweater against his knuckle. 

Suddenly, all the lights had gone out. They were not left in total blackness 
because of the fire. But they could feel the blackness fall like an inky 
silk curtain all around them. 

"It must be a fuse," Reggie whispered. He always whispered in the darkness. 
Darkness seemed to him to prohibit talking out loud. They sat still in the 
darkness for an instant, feeling self-conscious. It would have been so easy 
for Reggie to grab her by the breasts. He knew it, and she knew it too. 

He pulled his knee away from her. He was trying to control himself. After 
all, she was a student. "We better go down and check," he whispered, and he 
stood up. 

Holding her hand to keep her from tripping over things, and pulling her 
masterfully around pieces of furniture that she couldn't see but which he 
knew were there, they worked their way toward the basement door. 

It was cool on the stairway. They could hear their soles scuffling on the 
gritty stone floor. 

"Watch out," said Reggie. "Don't get too near the boiler." He struck a 
match. 

The match spluttered, dropped a hairline of white coals, then swelled into a 
little, full-breasted orange flame. 

As light spread flickering over the walls with their shelves full of old 
tools, and their nails with ropes and garden hoses hung up in coils on them, 
Shirley saw that Reggie was standing peering into a fuse box. He was 
squinting hard, as if trying to locate a switch. 

Suddenly, he turned to her, and he flicked his head once or twice to the 
side. "Get over here," he thickly whispered. 

She stood in front of him, suddenly frightened. It felt as if there was a 
little, hard raft spinning on top of a whirlpool that was working its way 
slowly down her vagina. When she moved her legs to walk towards him, the 
tops of her thighs rubbed against each other and stung. Their most, 
soft-skinned surfaces didn't slide past one another easily as usual. They 
were covered with a sticky white paste and they clung to each other. 

When she got up close to him, she began to feel less frightened however. As 
usual, he surprised her. He was smiling. 

"Do you think you're in love with my mind?" he asked. He was holding the 
match in front of his forehead and peering down at her. "Do you really think 
you're in love with my mind?" He asked this last question in a whisper and 
he reached towards her very slowly. He put his hand on her red hair where it 
fell onto the very top of her breast, and he scooped the hair together in a 
hank. He pulled it gently, as if he were teasing her. 

"Or do you think it's because I'm, perhaps, radiating something?" 

He began to laugh with a slightly irritated, impatient sort of flustered 
chuckle. "No, no," he said. "This has been fun. But, Shirley, I'm tired of 
this. Come on." 

He reached for her hand and he placed it firmly on his dick. She was amazed 
at how hard it was, already. She struggled with him. As she tried to yank 
her hand away, he held her with his thumb and his first finger circling her 
wrist. She pulled so hard that she felt the bones in her wrist crack apart 
like knuckles. But he would not let go. 

He watched the expression on her face with calm eyes, and brought her hand 
firmly up and down over the upturned back of his prick. She made her hand go 
completely limp, so he took it and he slapped his prick with it, jamming her 
knuckles into it so that she had to straighten her fingers and hang onto him 
to keep him from breaking her hands. 

"Come on," he said, and he looked at her as if he were totally disgusted. 

"Eat my cock!" he said. Pulling her outragedly by the hand, he yanked her 
towards him. He licked his forefinger and put a little drop of spittle on 
her face. Then he shoved her down onto the floor. She landed on the stone on 
her knee caps. She could feel them ringing from the impact and the pain made 
her feel slightly delirious. 

"Don't you love my cock?" he asked. 

She didn't answer. She had her face down toward the floor, and her straight 
red hair was hanging limply down into it. 

"Don't you?" he said and he put one of his enormous hands on the back of her 
head and he forced her to nod it up and down. "Say yes," he hissed, as he 
pushed her head down each time farther and farther before he let her 
struggle it back up. He could feel her head gyrating and shaking over the 
back of his hand, cushioned by her own fine, dry hair. The hairs made sand 
paper scratches as they rubbed over each other. In the palm of his big, hot 
hand, her head felt small. 

"Say yes," he whispered, "or I'll crush your skull into the floor." 

Shirley groaned.. "Ye-e-e-s," she said, in a husky rasp. She drew the word 
out into a pleading moan. 

"I do," she said. "Please let me suck your cock. I've been looking and 
looking at it in class and imagining what it could do to me. I'd rather eat 
your cock than any cock in the world!" 

With an abrupt, business-like motion, he unbuckled and unzipped his pants. 
The match had long been burnt out, but when he forced her head down to it in 
the blackness, she could feel that his dick was truly enormous. It's head 
pressed against the bottom of her nose as he fumbled it toward her lips. 
With her upper lip, she could feel a vein in which the blood, like a tic, 
was beating. She felt the thick, velvety, absorbent shaft probe between her 
parted lips and settle that beating vein down on her tongue. It soaked up 
all the juices in her mouth. She sucked as if she were thirsty. She sucked 
to get the juices back in her mouth. 

Then she opened her mouth wide and let his cock tickle the back of her 
tongue and the back of the roof of her mouth. She clamped her mouth shut 
over it, and pressed it against the roof of her mouth by flurrying hard at 
the underside of it with her tongue. 

"Don't you love my cock?" he asked. She sucked back hard, as if he were a 
lollipop. She pulled in her cheeks. 

"All semester long," he said, "girlie, I have been fucking you in the ear. 
Just like I am now with my voice." 

Shirley felt the little drops of spittle that accompanied his hissing words 
land on the inside of her ear. Her ear was full of his hot breath. "I want 
you to know what it feels like when I also fuck you in the ass!" she heard 
him whisper. 

She turned to face him and there were little drops of sweat all over his 
upper lip. The gray stubble that was beginning to sprout there looked like 
diamonds or a fine layer of ground glass. It felt the same when he pressed 
it against her own upper lip. She felt as if he were scraping her skin raw 
as he settled his lips on her. He grazed on her face like a camel. Then he 
stuck his tongue into her mouth. It was a thick tongue that filled her 
cheeks and forced her mouth open wider to accommodate it. He thrust it in as 
far as it would go and then wiggled the top of it a little bit over the back 
of her throat. 

Suddenly, she felt she hated him. 

"Come on," he said, holding her by her knees that were still aching. He made 
her shuffle them quickly round over the floor. They burnt at every step. 
Suddenly, he pulled her knees out from beneath her. Her chin struck against 
the cement with a thud. She landed with her cunt smashing into the cold 
stone of the basement floor. 

Reggie parted her legs while he held her up by the ankles. He wiggled his 
body between them. She could feel with the inside of her calves how hard and 
taut his body was. He pressed the underside of that magnificent cock into 
the soft white flesh of her buttocks. She felt the shaft of his dick rubbing 
slowly down over her twat. He was lubricating himself. 

He rubbed the base of his cock into her pussy, then he slowly inserted the 
head of his prick into her tightly drawn up ass-hole. She was so tightly 
closed, that he almost at first couldn't feel any hole at all with his dick. 

He pressed himself into her where he could feel that the flesh was the 
softest. Slowly he began to penetrate into her. He felt as if he were 
pushing his prick into a trampoline that was stretching around him more each 
time so that he was able to stretch out a little pocket in it. The fibers of 
the trampoline kept fighting him at every thrust. But he kept pressing 
against them, no matter how they fought. Slowly one by one they would loosen 
and tear and let him go past. 

When he had got in a little ways, Shirley began sobbing and screaming. She 
rotated her hips from side to side, trying to work herself off him the way 
one loosens an incredibly tight screw. 

Reggie held on tightly to her ankles, cracking the bones in them, and 
laughing. "You're not going anywhere!" he said, pulling her backwards 
towards him. He held his enormous, iron-hard prick straight up into her, and 
stood still for a moment. He was simply enjoying the feeling of her 
passageways shifting around him, scissoring against each as she gyrated her 
flailing hips. 

She didn't know it but by gyrating, she was spreading the moisture that he'd 
picked up from her pussy all over the inside walls of her anus. She was 
lubricating herself. She was unwittingly making entry simpler. She was 
making her body softer, smoother, and more vulnerable to him. 

"You're making yourself so much easier to fuck," he whispered and he thrust 
the whole of his enormous cock as far as it would go up into her. 

Shirley felt it crawling round her canal like a squirmy, wiggly lizard in a 
dark cave. 

"Ow! Ow! Wow!" she moaned. She was in hideous pain. She felt as if a burning 
hot poker had been stuck up inside her. She felt as if the poker were 
touching and pressing on her spinal column. She felt her skin rip, and then 
she felt it blistering dryly. 

"Ahhh!" she said and she gave a little wriggle. 

"Now, if," (breath), "relax," (breath), "you'd find this," (breath), " a lot 
more pleasant," Reggie said between short, powerful jabs with his 
acid-tipped spear. 

He held on tight to her buttocks and he worked the flesh of them cruelly. He 
put the heels of his hands down, one in each of the cheeks of her ass, and 
he sat all of his weight on his arms as if he were resting on a pair of 
cushions. "Relax!" he demanded and he gave her a blow on the buttocks with 
the back of his forearm. He rammed his dick up inside of her in a quick 
succession of insistent thrusts. 

Suddenly, he stopped moving. He got up off of her and stood above her. She 
lay still on the floor of the dark basement without moving. He brushed his 
hands off. They were covered with fine gritty dust from the floor. His eyes 
had dark-adapted by now, and he could see her white shape, groveling on the 
floor. "Good," he said. "Wallow in the dirt there. You don't seem to be much 
good for anything else." 

"You have got to enjoy it." He chuckled. "I insist that you enjoy it. That's 
because of who I am. At any rate, I'm going to have to tie you up. I think 
that the feeling of being bound will make it easier to relax." 

He went to the shelves and he got down four coils of rope and he strung her 
up with it. He tied each one of her wrists and ankles to a different metal 
pillar. The house seemed to rest on these metal foundation columns. They 
stood in a dark grove in the basement in three even rows. The place looked 
like a modern day, small Moorish temple. He tied her limbs high enough that, 
although there was a little room for her spine to slack downwards in, her 
belly came nowhere near to touching the floor. 

Her legs were as wide apart as they could be forced without being broken by 
the added pressure of his heavy pushing. 

"There," he said, putting his hands under her abdomen and holding her up and 
ready, with her ass-hole poised above the tip of his dick. He pushed himself 
into her with some struggle. He had to jump and jab and hold her by the hips 
in order to fight his big javelin-like dick into the tightness of her loins. 
It felt as if her pelvic bones were crushing themselves together. She was so 
tight that he felt as if he were having to pry them apart. 

"Now maybe you'll relax," he said. 

Shirley had her eyes wide open as she hung there suspended in the air. Her 
hands were stretched out in front of her and to either side of her, as if 
she were pretending she was flying. He scampered his hands up her torso and 
over her lush breasts as if his fingers were the feet of two squirrels. His 
arms were their tails that undulated, ribbon-like, after them. He grabbed 
her breasts between his fingertips as if they were delicate oysters he was 
about to pick up. He scrubbed at her nipples with the pads of his fingers as 
if he were testing the abrasiveness of a wash board. 

Shirley felt her nipples swelling. They were pointing straight downwards 
beneath her towards the floor. 

"Relax," he said. There was a cooling note is his voice. The sound of his 
whisper was suddenly like a soothing wind and she decided to give in to it. 

Suddenly all of her limbs went limp in their shackles. He was right. That 
terrible, invading, ripping, burning pressure in her ass-hole suddenly felt 
wonderful. She felt as if every tension in her body were letting go. She 
felt as if the muscles in her rectum walls all around him were suddenly 
going soft enough to become stretchable. She felt that they were billowing. 
She felt that they were rising in mounds around him, mushrooming like a 
cloud. 

She repeated aloud to herself as if in a trance, "I must not be scared of 
him. I must trust him. I must not resist him." 

His prick slid into her easily now. She felt pain as it were a sharp farming 
implement, making a furrow. But she did not tense against it. She let the 
sharp waves of pain ripple through her. 

Reggie felt her insides going soft and hot. He shot his sperm into her. It 
erupted out of him slowly, giving him intense pleasure. It flowed out thick 
and spilled, congealing into her like a giant wad of bubblegum left melting 
in the sun on the sidewalk. 

When he was done, he untied her. He helped her back into her clothes, and 
then he fixed the fuse. He gave her his arm, surveying that the ropes in the 
basement had been put neatly back in place, and then he pushed her up before 
him, up the basement stairs. 

"There," he said, as he closed the basement door behind them. He looked her 
body up and down with an appreciative expression on his face. He rubbed her 
breasts. "Now, I think this is much better. Now we can go back to the fire. 
The air has cleared. We know each other now, don't you think." He began to 
laugh. "Talking will be much easier." 

He had never mentioned anything more about the bonds he had had to put on 
her. But she knew that she had disappointed him. The shackles were like an 
added aid that she needed a crutch. She couldn't without being tied up give 
her body to him completely. 

 PART TWO 

"To tell you the truth, Shirley," said Reggie Pender, and he looked at her 
sideways with a quizzical expression as they were sitting in front of the 
fire. "I hoped you'd come back. But, of course, I couldn't be certain that 
you would. You know that I have a tremendous respect for you, and for your 
ability to see things through. I believed that something in your better self 
would want to come back. But 

I wasn't sure if it was that part of you that was going to win the battle 
that was sure to be going on inside of you." 

He grasped her with a crooked finger under her chin, and held her face up to 
his own. 

"You're a very willful woman," he said to her, and he licked her nose with 
his enormous tongue. 

"I'm pleased to see that this side of you has won. I feel that you're being 
true to yourself in a place where it isn't easy for you to achieve your full 
potential. You've come to the right place, of course," he said, and he 
grinned at her playfully. 

Shirley put her hand on his thigh above his knee and she squeezed the 
familiar knots of his sartorius muscle fondly. 

He looked down at her hand with an irritated expression on his face. He 
shook his head and he lifted her fingers away from him. He didn't let go of 
her hand, however. He brought it up against his chest, and then he turned 
her wrist around and twisted it. When he had got it twisted so much that she 
was really in pain and he could feel the tiny bones in her arm rubbing 
against one another, he began to tickle his finger tips over the tightly 
stretched skin on the inside of her forearm. Each time he touched her, the 
slight pressure of his finger tips felt as if they were burning her flesh. 

She looked straight into his eyes and he saw a flicker of resistance in 
them. Her eyes were burning. "You've got a lot of will left in you yet," he 
said. "I want you to grovel." 

He held her arm up above her head and he plucked at her nipple. "Remember," 
he said into her ear, "it's not a question of what you let me do to you. 
It's a question of what I decide I want to do to you." 

She bit her lower lip. 

"But I'm having to fight such a battle with myself inside," she said to him. 
"Don't I get any credit for that?" 

"The struggle and I'm sure it's a hard one-is your problem and not mine," he 
said. "If you want to be ready for me, I'm willing and waiting." 

Shirley sat quietly in front of the fire for a minute. She was conjuring 
images of him, trying to envision in a line of pictures the whole of her 
developing relationship with him. 

She remembered how he had frightened and startled her, very early on in 
their friendship, by seeming to know her better than she knew herself. 

Shirley put her head back, and leaned back on her hands so that her tits 
pointed in the air. She waved her feet from side to side in front of the 
fire. She touched the tip of her toe accidentally to the poker. It came 
thudding down out of the stand where he kept the tools for stoking and 
reviving the fire. It fell with a mighty whack across her shin. 

He picked it up, and as he sat cross-legged next to her, he began stroking 
his hand up and down the shaft of it slowly. Shirley turned over to look at 
him. Something about the way he looked or what he knew about her made her 
afraid to look at him. When she caught her single glimpse of him, holding 
the poker, standing it upright beside his knee so that the tip of it swayed 
in the air above his head, she thought he looked remarkably like a king who 
was holding a scepter. 

So hoary headed and regal did he look, that she was honored to find herself 
with him. She thought back to the way he had looked in class. Immediately, 
the thing that came to her mind was her memory of that wonderful soft mound 
of corduroy between his legs. She remembered his magnificent cock. 

As she thought of it, her palms itched to hold it. It was so big and so dry 
and the skin on it was like swayed. The outer skin slid loosely up and down 
the hard shaft inside it that felt beneath the thin sheaf of moveable skin 
like a piece of polished wood. She wondered if he was erect now. But she did 
not reach to touch him. He would put her hands on his cock in his own good 
time. 

"Come here," he said and he got to his feet. "I want to show you something." 

Shirley pulled herself upright slowly. The hot fire was making her feel very 
slow and lazy. She wanted to take off her sweater and lie down in the soft 
rug, and frisk her breasts over the piling like lambs. She wanted to play 
with him like a happy dog and she wished he would not always be so serious. 

His face was sullen, however. In fact, it looked almost urgent. So she stood 
up creakily, and pulled her sweater straight, and with her hands, she 
rearranged her hair. 

Reggie was waiting for her at the bottom of the little stairs that led down 
into the living room from the bedrooms upstairs. The staircase had a small 
white wood door over it, so that it could be closed off. The wood of the 
door matched the wood of the walls perfectly. 

The house had come with this door. Reggie hadn't invented it. But they 
always used to joke about how it was his secret door, and how the top of his 
house was his secret compartment where he was free to do anything he wanted. 

He held open the door to her and he followed her up the stairs. The stairs 
were so narrow that climbing up them was like going up a tunnel. Shirley had 
to duck in order to avoid hitting her head on the steeply sloping wood 
ceiling above the stairs. 

She lifted her skirt up over her knees and climbed out of the stair way into 
the room above as if she were climbing out of a well. 

The room right above the stairs had always been a spare one. She remembered 
the empty reaches of its freshly sanded wood floor. The wood had been sanded 
but it had never been polished and she thought it felt pleasantly rough and 
dry under her bare feet. The unstained wood looked pink as skin in the light 
that came from the window. 

But when she had last been to the house, that's all she had seen in the room 
just the bare unfinished floor and the single open window. That was how she 
remembered it. 

Shirley was quite surprised therefore to discover, on entering the room, 
that there had been a few additions made to it. Large cages had been 
installed. The place looked like a kennel. The cages were made of wood. They 
had slender, carved poles instead of bars in them. They stood two tiers 
deep, all the way up to the ceiling. There was room for about four cages to 
fit on each tier across the room. Since she was standing at the top of the 
aisle that was formed between them, Shirley at first couldn't see what was 
in them. Looking down the aisle to the window that sat exactly between the 
two rows, she could count four enormous locks that were hanging from the 
wooden bars. The only bit of floor that was exposed was in that aisle. That 
was still bare and unstained and the color of skin. 

Shirley felt shocked when she saw the cages. She felt they were in bad 
taste. 

"Go on," she heard Reggie's voice say behind her. She felt his hand on the 
top of her hip, pushing her forward so that she could see what was inside of 
them. 

"I want you to see," he said. 

Shirley tiptoed down between the cages, still absently holding up her skirt 
above her knees and stepping cautiously. 

She almost fainted when she saw what was in the cages. He had eight girls 
tied up in them. They sat on their bare buttocks, naked in their cages, 
shackled by their arms and legs to the bars, as if they were holding their 
arms and their legs out waiting to receive him. As Shirley walked down 
through the two rows of cages, looking into them, the girls watched her with 
wide, dull eyes but they said nothing. They looked as if they were 
frightened of Reggie and their eyes shifted and jerked when they saw him. 

When Shirley got to the last of the cages, she turned around and looked at 
Reggie inquisitively, as if to ask him, "What does this mean?" 

"Well," he said in a smooth voice, "you wouldn't like to be put in here, 
would you?" 

Shirley quickly shook her head. She wanted to go back downstairs and get 
fucked by him. 

"Well, this is for girls who need a drying out period. This is where I put 
young women who are drunk on their own will." 

Shirley gulped. 

"It's good for them. After I'm through with them, they are free to come and 
go as they choose. But believe me, they are much happier." 

"You, however," he said as he looked down at her and saw the way that her 
nipples were erecting under her sweater, "possibly don't need to be put in 
here." 

He reached his hand round behind her and squeezed one of her buttocks 
cruelly. 

Shirley relaxed against his hand, letting most of her weight sink into it. 
When he let go, she stumbled, and she fell on her buttocks in front of him. 
She landed with her knees up and spread apart and her skirt. 

"Ooops," she said softly. She hadn't worn any underpants. But that was a 
secret that she was hoping she could hold and reveal to him later. She had 
thought it would make a convincing detail when he came to ask her if she was 
ready to give herself totally to him if that wasn't in fact, exactly the 
reason she had come back. 

Reggie bent down and he quickly slid two of his fingers inside her open 
pussy-and played with her. 

Shirley hung her head. She clasped her hands in front of her, her arms 
wrapped around her knees, and she stayed completely still. 

"Come on," said Reggie, grabbing one of her forearms. "Let's go back down 
stairs." He yanked her up to her feet, and then turned and strode back to 
the doorway. 

Shirley followed him. As she alighted from the bottom step into the living 
room once again, she could feel her snatch getting sopping wet. She was 
watching his ass move as he walked ahead of her. The rolling motions of his 
flesh brought into her mind the vision of his enormous prick. She rubbed the 
top of her thighs together, trying to squeeze her pussy lips into her clit 
and relieve the aching, yearning sensation that she was experiencing there. 

"Reggie," she called to him. She said his name very softly as if even the 
sound of it was precious to her. 

He turned and saw her standing, still holding open the little white door to 
the upstairs room in one hand and the hem of her skirt in the other. Her 
eyes looked eager and adoring. 

He liked that particular expression of hers. He couldn't wait to jam his 
great big dick into her tiny little succulent ass. He remembered the way her 
ass cheeks felt as soft as snow. He remembered the way her flesh felt as if 
it were melting in his hands when he brought her a lot of pain. 

He walked quickly across the room to her and pressed her to his chest. She 
was much shorter than he was and could rest his chin on the top of her head. 
Again he felt the red strands rubbing like sand paper against each other. 

His big hand covered her back and pressed her breasts against him. She felt 
the hard bones of his rib cage press her breasts upward. They strained at 
the delicate skin beneath them, She felt the buckle of his belt press into 
her navel. She felt his hard, dull-tipped fingers work their way up and down 
her spine. Best of all, she felt his enormous cock. It pressed erect from 
her pussy to her navel. It suddenly made her feel very small, and as if his 
dick was a telephone pole that was leaning out against her. It strained 
outward at the fabric of his pants. 

With the hand that caressed her back, he sunk down amongst the folds of her 
skirt, hiked it up and found his way beneath it. He stroked his loose hand 
round and round her bare buttocks. He grabbed them and squeezed at them. 
With his knee, he shifted her legs apart. 

His middle finger found its way into the crevice between her ass cheeks. He 
sunk his finger way in, and this time he felt no resistance from her body. 
Her insides stayed soft. He moved his finger to the mouth of her twat and 
stuck it in her wet, juicing hole. He picked up as much love juice as he 
could with it, and then carried it back to her ass-hole. It helped his 
fingers to slide easily in. 

Shirley felt thrilled at his touch. She stood very still, with her eyes 
open, just experiencing the softness of his invading touch, not fighting it. 

His fingers began to walk their way up her ass-hole. She felt them 
scrambling up her insides, and she didn't move a muscle. She simply stood 
still, staring ahead of her with vacant eyes, and feeling his hard chest, 
his belt buckle and his cock. She could feel the temperature of the material 
of his pants rising. His cock was certainly generating heat. It was probably 
full of pearly lava. 

Suddenly, Shirley knew that she was ready to look at him. She knew that she 
could stare him right in the eyes and experience what he was doing to her, 
and that she would not move a muscle, would not flinch, would not hate him. 
She raised her steady gaze up into his face and stared at him happily. 

He met her eyes, looked deeply into them, drew back his fist and then he 
punched her. The blow got her right in the jaw. He felt her head go back 
with the force of his arm, as if her head and his arm were moving in slow 
motion. No. Not even to that was there any resistance. 

He stuck his middle finger as far as it could go up her ass-hole, and picked 
her up by it, resting her buttocks against his hand, her head against his 
shoulder. Her legs dangled loosely down to the ground on either side of the 
wiggling finger that was inside of her. 

Reggie carried her back to the fire. Before the leaping orange flames, he 
stripped her. She felt the warmth flow over her nipples and the front of her 
thighs. 

Reggie laid her out on her side, facing the fire, and he knelt down behind 
her. 

"I'm, just going to test you," he said. And he just let her lie where he had 
left her without touching her. He reached over her and grabbed the poker 
which he had left leaning against the white wood side of the fire place. 

The poker was made of solid brass. It weighed about forty pounds. Reggie 
held it waving in front of his face, and tested the point with his finger to 
see how sharp it was. It was quite dull, as far as skeweres go, but for his 
purposes, the poker was perfectly, hideously sharp. Reggie put the tip of 
the poker into the fire. He held the handle against his abdomen as if it 
were his cock, and he knelt and stared around the room while the tip of the 
poker heated amongst the leaping, liquid flames. Slowly, the metal began to 
glow bright orange. He had decided to heat it until it was red hot. 

"Now," he said, "I am finally going to teach you what it's like to 
completely submit yourself to me. Shirley, this will purify you." 

When he drew the poker from the fire, it glowed so brightly that its shape 
seemed to change second by second as they looked at it. Tiny coals fell from 
it as he drew it from the fire the way a warrior draws his lance from an 
open wound. The coals fell on pile of his Persian carpet, sizzled, and went 
out. 

Reggie thrust the poker into Shirley's ass-hole. Shirley felt her ass cheeks 
colliding like two squealing tram cars. They derailed each other. 

"Beautiful, baby!" said Reggie as he watched Shirley hold her ass-hole up 
for more by getting up on her hands and knees. 

"Now I really feel like I am finally teaching you something!" 
