Chapter 10
The teachers lounge buzzed like a broken beehive. Sad thing, all agreed. Very sad. Cast a bad light on the whole school. Ah well, what could you do. Who'd have thought that such two fine boys would do such a thing? And so young, too. Weren't they just thirteen year olds? Sick. That was the general consensus. Sick.
"Well, so much for papers on Melville."
Dave Ketchum's crude attempt at humor failed to get a rise out of her.
"Oh be quiet Dave. I think it's very sad. It's so easy for young boys to be led astray. I guess we all feel a little responsible. As if maybe we failed somewhere to provide guidance."
"I don't feel responsible. Hell, I didn't tell the two fools to go pick up two children and rape them. Christ!"
'Well, they do deny it."
"Of course they do! Wouldn't you?'"
It had been three days since she'd gone to Henry Scroggins. She'd drawn near to complete madness, wondering if He would take her up on her offer. The morning headlines had answered her question.
LOCAL YOUTHS IN BIZARRE SEX ATTACK
' Victims now expected to live.
Well Henry, she thought. You've got all the style of a cattle prod, but that's nice. That's damned effective. Suffice it to say that by the time Clinton heard of Steve Tanner and Wally Joe Jordham, Julia had long since forgotten Clinton.
She handed in her resignation the next day. Sudden illness in the family. She was needed, and all that. Everyone understood. Of course they did.
And then there was Henry. What about him. Should she skip out on him. No ... connections such as his, even if by marriage could obviously accomplish a great deal. She had a feeling that Henry Scroggins would be just as small and petty about collecting his debt as you'd expect a worm like that to be.
She went to his office the afternoon of her last day as a teacher.
"Well Henry, your staff will never be able to look at you normally again. You should have seen them when I walked in. This could start rumors."
"I don't care. I want to start. I want you. Tonight."
"All right, Henry. I'm yours." She took a deep breath. "Come to my house. That should be simplest."
"No. You come to mine. My wife's away for the week. I made sure of that. You come to my place."
"If you insist."
When she got to his address, she saw that the house was dark except for a faint glow through one of the windows from somewhere deep within. She stopped her car and walked to the door. He answered at once. He was nervous, but obviously quivering with anticipation.
"Well Henry, it looks like you're ready for me.
He nodded in mute agreement. His eyes were wide. He seemed not to know where to begin. Julia walked over to him and gave him a long hard kiss. He stuttered one back at her.
"I suppose you'd like me to get undressed?" she asked, her voice a throaty whisper.
"Not all the way." Just your shirt and pants. Leave your underwear on."
She did as he instructed and when she stood before him in panties and a sheer bra, he groaned.
"Do you like my body, Henry? Do you like the way it curves in and out?"
He nodded. She turned around and bent over. As if drawn by a magnet his hands floated to her ass and he ran his fingers across the tight slick material. He reached between her legs and felt the wetness there. He slipped his fingers beneath the crotch and into her wet slit. Again he moaned.
"Spank me, Henry."
He slapped her on the ass.
"Oh yes. Spank me again."
Again he slapped her.
"Harder, Henry. Harder."
He led her into the next room. He was shaking. She'd wondered if he had a room with hooks and racks and whips lined along the walls. But those items existed only in his fantasy. Here, he was simply Henry Scroggins, small town principal unhappily married and frustrated as hell. If his fantasy was to come true, she'd have to help him.
"Why don't you take off your belt. I think I'd like you to take off your belt and use it on win " me.
He obeyed. He stood there, not sure what he was supposed to do next. She looked around the room. She noticed the thick woven cord to the draperies.
"Here, tie me to this," she said walking over the the thick shrouds of material. He wrapped the cord about her wrists, then looped the end over the curtain rod and pulled her arms up above her head.
She slowly turned on the rigid axis of legs and extended arms, turned around to face him, breasts firm and pointing straight at him through her bra, pussy warm and wet. She gave him her most wanton, pleading look.
"Give it to me Henry. Now." :
The thick belt hung from his hand. Never taking his eyes from her suspended body, he slowly brought his arm back behind him. He held that pose a second, not knowing if he could follow through. :
She turned her back to him.
"Beat me! Strap my ass till it's raw!! ! "
He swung. A mighty swing, heavy with years of unfulfilled lust and craving for just such a creature as he found helpless before him, amazingly, at his disposal. The belt slapped sharply across her buttocks. She screamed. It was not an act. She screamed a scream of pain but also of release. She was free, and this ritual of forced pain, this reawakening of every nerve in her body, this final rejection of the mind numbing boredom of the last two years formalized her freedom, made it official. And the man who had administered to her slow stiffling death, now ushered her back into the world of sensation, of freedom, of life.
As a matter-of-fact, he was really getting into it now ... again and again the leather strap cracked across her skin. Getting a little carried away at one point, he'd torn her panties off her and dropping to his knees had sunk his teeth deeply into the exposed flesh. He was going crazy.
Julia's back and ass had been thrown far beyond pain. Not quite numb either, she simply felt the surface of her skin seem to swell, so engorged with sensation was it. He must have struck her a hundred times before slowing, stopping, taking a rest.
"...oh god ... oh ... Jesus ... " was all that Julia was capable of murmuring. He'd left her devastated. Yet, she knew this was just beginning. He forced her to lay spread legged on his sofa, while he administered stroke after stroke across her wet cunt lips. She couldn't help herself; it drove her to orgasm after orgasm, her body quaking at the spasms.
He whipped her ass-hole. He whipped her breasts. He used a cane on her that she brought to him on the second night, and she left at four the next morning, her back, legs and breasts all a crisscross matrix of welts and bright red stripes. He pushed her legs back towards her head on the third night and tying her wrists to her ankles, lashed both cunt and ass-hole at the same time. On the fourth night, he used a bundle of short leather thongs with frayed ends tied to a handle. Forcing her to bend forward on her knees, he entered her from behind and viciously swung at her cheeks. She came in a multitude of orgasms.
With each individual strike against her body, she felt herself being purged of Clinton, her soul cleansed by the pain, revitalized by it. It was good. Her flesh cried out, her cunt sang from the pain. Rising upward in an ever mounting crescendo, her spirit soared. She was awake. She was alert. She was alive.