Chapter 2
Julia Perkins sat at her desk, feeling strangely hollow inside.
She'd just come back from the teacher's lounge, where she'd given her back a close study in the mirror and saw, to her horror, a pattern of red marks showing, if not clearly, than at least enough to create curiosity.
In such as Polly Pritikin. She'd been looking!
She'd known!
How had she known? Was it that obvious? Did the whole student body know?
She had an image of Henry Scroggins, the principal, calling her into his office, clearing his throat with a labored "Harumph!" or two and then, edging sideways into the topic, as was his only way, fumbling the question.
"What's the story here. Miss Perkins?"
"What story is that, Mr. Scroggins?"
"Eh?" Peering here over the top of his glasses at her, pausing to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead that always seemed to congregate there, trying to do something intelligent with what hair remained on his head and failing miserably, maybe stroking the pencil-thin moustache that looked, actually, like it had been penciled on....
She shivered.
PERVO-TEACHER BOUNCED!! ! ! Sin Mistress Sent Packing!
She saw the headlines racing past her eyes, shivered again, and then decided that paranoia would get her absolutely no where.
But it was sad that what had been a spectacular night with a spectacular lover was now something that she might have cause to regret.
They'd only made love one other time ... and both times had been sheer bliss ... and she'd decided after last night that Steve Randall would be welcomed in her bed any time he wanted.
She'd never let a man tie her up on the first date before, but with Steve, it had seemed, somehow, appropriate. And he just happened to have those silk scarves lying on the table beside his bed that night when she'd gone back to his house with him, and in the course of what turned out to be a marathon fuck, he'd held her hands down behind her head, restraining her in that awful frightening and utterly delicious way that she craved and could never admit., and she'd lost her mind, of course and found herself gasping between tortured breaths "tie me ... tie me ... tie me...."
And he'd obliged, carefully knotting each wrist with a scarf tying the other end to the bed-posts....
And she'd writhed in delicious bondage ... writhed and struggled to the limits of her endurance, and he'd been perfect, keeping the tension at a fever-pitch, yet making certain he never pushed her irrevocably over the edge ... driving her mad but not scaring her permanently.
His tongue ... licking over her breasts, up the side of her neck, down the side of her body, down ... down ... down. .
Nestling between her thighs, licking over the surface of her slit . .keeping right on the surface ... carefully ... OH, so carefully....
She felt shivers racing up her backbone now just thinking about it.
She wondered if marks had shown from that first night, two weeks ago.
She'd worn a long-sleeved shirt that day too., but she wore them often anyway.
Surely no one would have seen, would they?
She couldn't imagine ... the idea was too horrifying. Teachers weren't allowed to be people. They weren't paid to be people, and the thought of some of her outside activities mixing with her school persona....
"NO!" she cried out in the silence of her classroom. It couldn't be.
Yet ... today there'd been that undeniable look in Polly Pritikin's eyes.
There'd been a knowing glance down at her wrists. The girl had seen the marks on her back ... she'd looked ... she'd known where to look. Christ, it was enough that she'd known to look at all....
How?
How could it have been allowed to happen? More to the point how could the damage be reversed? Repaired? Was it possible?
She closed her eyes and despite her fears ... despite the murky sludge of panic that was accumulating in her stomach, certain sounds and images forced their way into her brain.
Moans.
Screams.
Gasps.
Cries.
Cries of pain.
Delicious ... hot ... searing ... magnificent pain.
Perfectly applied. OH GOD STEVE!! " Her voice there.
Her fists clenched now, clenched as they'd done again and again last night ... clench against nothing ... against the air ... clenched in pain ... and finally clenched around the throbbing shaft of his cock
OH GOD STEVE!! ! "
Her voice sounded strange in her memory. Had that been her? Legs splayed on the bed ... ankles and wrists tied to each of her bedposts.
""You bastard, 's he said, "you didn't bring your scarves."
"I was certain we could improvise with your clothing drawer ... I mean, don't women always have soft silky things that can double as ropes and the like?"
"I think something can be arranged," she'd replied.
And walked as fast as she could without appearing like an eager school-girl to her dresser and pulled out several pairs of nylons.
"They look new," Steve observed.
They'll do fine," she assured him.
"Mmmmm," he'd nodded, appreciatively How many had they used? She couldn't remember.
She remembered only the endless, timeless ecstasy.
Straining against the bonds.
Uselessly.
Agonizingly.
Wondrously.
"Oh Jesus "Steve. 's he'd cried, feeling something she'd never felt before. And it had been so deceptively simple.
A small, fine-tipped camel-hair paint brush. Such as would come in a child's watercolor kit.
She couldn't shake the sensations that brush had raised over her clitoris.
Legs spread firmly, no way open to her to prevent him from doing it as long as he desired, she'd been forced to endure it ... for an hour ... two ... three...? She didn't know.
He traced a path around the edges of her clit for an eternity.
Occasionally he would let the point glide over the surface of her clit. and more rarely he would brush it over the exposed tip.
She rapidly reached a point where each stroke sent thundering shock waves racing through her body.
Muscles tightened like screws ... goose-bumps broke out across her skin like a rash.
When she was thoroughly deranged, he stopped.
He placed his forefinger of his left hand on one side of her clit. His thumb of the same hand he placed on the other side of her clit, directly across from his finger
So that a line passing from one to the other would form a perpendicular angle with the central axis of the shaft of her swollen clitoris.
He closed his thumb against his finger, lightly at first, but constantly, steadily increasing the pressure until she could actually feel the shape of her clit starting to distort.
She gasped.
She cried out.
And then, awed by the enormity of the sensations triggered, she fell silent.
He pinched, released, built the pressure again ... released ... built the pressure again....
She slowly drew near the precipice.
She knew that beyond lurked a realm that she'd never allowed full expression within herself, but which she'd always known was there.
She knew that he was pushing her there ... that he wanted to hold her at the edge as long as he could, dangling her over the nothingness of the abyss within her, and then, when she was completely mad, let her fall.
And laugh as she screamed the long infinite spiral down ... down ... down....
To what?
To the truth that she kept even now locked inside her.
She'd allowed herself to be tied and tortured. Tortured with a velvet-gloved hand, but tortured nonetheless
She'd allowed it ... and she'd loved it.
He finished with her clit, and moved on. There were always higher plateaus to be attained.
His belt had sent her up through several levels of sensation.
"Oh Steve, no, she'd whispered, watching him remove it from his pants, coiling it slowly around his hand with a methodical, almost machine-like precision.
He'd raised his hand ... let the free end hang there ... let it dangle in the space above him. limp, harmless almost flaccid.
Then, his arm lashed out his hand descended and the leather strap bit into her cunt slit.
A single stroke.
A single flash of pain, like the flash of a nuclear fireball. It only takes one, after all.
And by the time he'd flipped her over onto her stomach and began to whip her back, she'd been passive enough that it wasn't necessary to tie her hands and ankles back.
She'd have laid right there in that same position and absorbed each blow willingly for as long as he cared to deliver them.
And now Polly Pritikin knew ... or at least suspected, and Julia Perkins was convinced that she'd never be able to see Steve Randall again.
She wanted to cry.
"I'll be back in a moment, Polly. Just make yourself comfortable, all right?"
He'd made certain that she had no important class this period, apologized for having to leave her and then, he'd left her.
Steve Randall was worth the wait, thought Polly, sitting in the silence of the classroom. He apparently had no class this period either.
Hmmmm ... she thought, rapidly abandoning that line of thought before any serious images could coalesce from the steam and fog of her itching cunt membranes.
She shook her head. Was she thinking about her cunt again?
My ... that was getting to be a habit. Maybe she was going to have to give dear old Dick Wilson what he wanted after all, not for his sake ... but for hers
She tapped her foot.
She hummed.
She glanced out the window
She tapped her foot some more.
She glanced at her watch and finally she stood up and walked over to the door to look out.
No sign of him.
Well ... she could be studying, perhaps, but she really didn't mind killing time once in a while during school hours Mr. Randall wanted to discuss her term paper with her. That could be good ... that could be bad. She wondered which. As usual, he gave no clues beneath that incredibly good looking face of his.
She glanced over at his desk and found herself seized with an urge that strikes all students at one time or other ... but which few have an opportunity to act upon....
It had no direction ... it was not a goal-oriented activity.
It was simple curiosity that drove her ... caused her to reach her hand out ... fingers trembling a bit there, that's all right, a little caution and nervousness makes you careful, right?
Heh heh.
She pulled the top drawer open.
What she thought she would find remained an indistinct blur in her subconscious.
Perhaps she'd always known that a teacher's desk would contain nothing but the boring artifacts of what had to be a boring job.
Erasers, paper-clips, pencils, a couple pads of the dreaded "pink-slips" which condemned a recalcitrant student to that long trek up to Henry Scroggins office, there perhaps to finally learn once and for all if there was or was not an "electric paddle". ...
She saw the grade book but remained unmoved by it.
She was looking for more significant treasure. What she couldn't have said. Just some proof that the human she was certain lurked behind that placid, teacherly ambivalence was no figment of her imagination.
She closed the top drawer and opened one of the side drawers.
Briefcase ... rubber boots....
Nah! Even an android could own those articles
The other side now ... sliding open the drawer....
Just about the time she heard the door knob turn.
Her heart did its John Phillip Sousa Bass Drum impression and adrenalin surged into he blood like the spring thaw.
Somehow, she wasn't sure how, the drawer managed to be closed, and she managed to be IN her seat when Mr. Randall walked back into the room. It is possible that a peeping Tom looking in the window would have been unable to state for certain that he'd actually seen her move across the room ...
It felt to her as if she'd simply materialized in her desk, but of course that was ridiculous, and there was this heavy breathing going on that suggested activity of a strenuous nature-
"Polly, are you all right?"
"YES!! " she said, noting to her dismay that the words came rushing out in a labored gasp.
Her face was white.
He frowned, his eyes instinctively dropped to the desk top, he smothered a small grin and then said, "Well, sorry I was so long, but I had to talk to Henry Scroggins, and I'm sure you know how long it takes to get through a conversation with him, no matter what you're talking about...."
And he kept talking and finally the subject came around to her paper and she must have sounded coherent and done all the right things because she walked out of the room with three pages of notes which, when she looked them over later, comprised a series of extremely helpful suggestions on the part of Mr. Randall, but for the life of her, she couldn't remember the first thing about the conversation.
In fact ... all she could think about for the rest of the day was the picture that she'd seen in that drawer, glanced at for just a second but which remained etched indelibly on her brain.
A woman, naked ... bound ... ropes at her wrists and ankles ... a rope pulled between her legs so tight it vanished between her lips ... so tight it actually had pulled her up OFF the ground....
And the itching in her cunt grew.
"Nan! We'll get caught."
"No we won't " Toni Francetti said a. she gripped Dick Wilson's hand tightly, leading him into the locker room.
"Toni I was just kidding."
"You should know better than to kid with me, Stevie," she said, looking him straight in the eye. She liked Dick, and, for his part, he seemed to like her.
Though what that might mean to their association beyond the realm of quick trips to the locker room such as this, she couldn't say.
About as much as Bowery bums meant to Rockefeller, probably.
She dropped to her knees and reached for his zipper.
"Toni," said Dick, half laughing, half scared, "What if someone comes."
"Someone will come, Dick darling. You. Maybe me, if we get real daring."
"Dick, don't argue with me. My mind's made up."
She pulled his cock from inside his pants.
"So, it would appear, is yours," she said, letting her fingers run along the stiff shaft. "You're hung like a horse, you know that?"
"Last time, you said it was a mule."
"So, you've grown. Next time it'll be a buffalo. What are we going to do, talk about similes, or am I going to...."
She couldn't finish the sentence, but Dick got a pretty good demonstration of what she might have said had she bothered to do so.
Her mouth opened and her lips, curled over the edges of her teeth to keep from hurting him, not as a gesture of consideration so much as one of precaution-guys tended to cry out when teeth scraped over their sensitive glands.
She let the thing slide all the way in her mouth.
It was a beaut-no doubt about that. Firm ... thick, wide ... a cock her cunt would welcome any day.
And, in fact, it had once, though they'd both been so drunk they'd been forced to take the word of observers that they'd in fact coupled.
Now, she was content to just suck ... and lick ... and rub his balls with her finger . He started to moan.
"Mmmmm," she cooed. "Don't come yet," she told him.
"Don't worry, darling." Dick assured her, I'm in control here."
"Yeah? I've heard that before." She stood up.
"Hey, said Dick, "you got me all hot and now you're ... oh ... I see..."
She pulled her skirt up, looking around to make sure they were still alone, and as she pulled the crotch piece of her panties aside, she gripped his cock and placed the head against her slit.
"God," he muttered, "you're wet. Are you ALWAYS horny?"
"Is there any other way to be horny?" she asked with a straight face, and then wrapping one leg around his thighs and bracing herself on her other legs and her hands which pressed down on his shoulders she started to work him in.
Oh. Jesus honey," she said, 'this is fine. This is really fine."
He had a dazed look on his face.
"You there Dick? Huh, boy? You with me there?" He smiled.
"Yeah," he said, distantly.
"Good. I'd hate to lose something as sweet as you, especially at a time like this."
She pressed her hips against his body and the rigid shaft between them plunged on deeper into her cunt.
Her lips spread around it enclosing the shaft pressing against it. squeezing it ... as did her walls and the soft inner membranes, saturated now with her juices which flowed at an ever increasing rate.
"Oh yeah, oh yeah," she whimpered, shuddering her hips through one quick spasm after another, letting the friction carry her higher, driving her into that sublime state too far from which she never wanted to stray.
He started to pump with her now, meeting her hips with his own, matching her thrust for thrust, pulling back when she did, thrusting forward at the same time....
They met and danced together in the way, frozen in their one spot, clandestinely carving a small space for themselves out of the day's normal flow, forgetting where they'd come from ... where they would be returning in a matter of minutes, content merely to attain whatever pleasure was there at the present.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In and out and in and out and in and out ... and now she was moaning, and now he was gasping and now their bodies were pounding against each other, thundering surfaces slamming into harsh contact bouncing off, returning, loving it craving it ...
She felt his cock spill its load. She was close herself ... close enough that she decided to try ... hoping that the thing would stay hard ... just hard enough.
She didn't need much. Grinding her hips and forcing his cock to scrape over her clit, she felt the sensations mount ... filling her ... expanding her body, her sensitivity ... her mind ... expanding her as air expands a balloon, stretching it harder and harder pushing it closer and closer to its limits....
She grabbed his fingers and jammed them down between her thighs, forcing them over her clit.
That was the pin in the balloon.
"OHHHHHH!! " she cried before Dick grabbed her head and forced her to bury her mouth in his sweater muffling her cries.
She came in an agonized series of contractions shivering against him until at last she was totally spent.
So was his cock.
She pulled back, readjusted her clothing and tucked his wet cock into his pants, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and said "Loved it," and was gone.
Dick stood there, a comical expression on his face, the kind you'd associate with a pre-frontal lobotomy patient AFTER surgery....
And then he wandered out, not quite sure how all that had come to pass not questioning it, certainly not regretting it.
And the locker room was empty again.
Well ... not quite empty.
They'd never been alone, you see.
And now, pipe wrench clutched firmly in hand. Svensen shambled out from behind one of the shadowed nooks,-likewise dazed, muttering to himself, eyes wild, cock bulging mightily in his pants.
He retired hastily to his sanctum sanctorum amid the pipes and the tools and the unpainted concrete walls and the boilers and heater , back in his room, a room perhaps no one else was aware of and there, he opened a drawer and removed a magazine with pictures of naked women suffering varying degrees of abuse and, of course, loving it. for they all loved it, and as he studied each picture lovingly, he masturbated like a demented chimp till he spilled his sperm on the hard, concrete floor.
And then, magazine still clutched in his hands he sat in a chair a long while in isolation