Chapter 5
"How on earth can you stand to have that done to you?" Phil asked at breakfast the next morning. "I feel tremendous guilt, and here you are telling me that you loved it."
Janet shrugged her shoulders. "Look, do you think that I understand it? Do you think that I ever thought that I would get my jollies out of you beating my ass? I really have no understanding of this myself, but there it is, and I don't see what the hell is wrong with it."
"But it seems evil," Phil went on to say. "I felt so rotten when I woke up this morning and saw that poor little ass of yours. Do you realize that there are very heavy bruises on there now? What if you end up developing blood clots? This could end up being so dangerous, and what if things get out of hand? What if I end up permanently disfiguring you?"
"I don't think that that's liable to happen Phil. Look, I really don't have anything wrong with me right now. Okay, so my ass is turning several shades that Picasso would like to have thrown on a canvas, so what? The only thing that it really prevents me from doing is sitting down for a couple of days, and as long as the chair is nice and soft, I don't even have to worry about that."
"But what about the higher moral questions?" Phil said. "What about the law of God that decries such sordid deeds as this."
"Oh come on, you're starting to sound like a Sunday School lesson."
"I don't believe that you are taking this so calmly."
"Look, for the past ten months, I have been extremely frustrated and unhappy because you hadn't been making love to me, and after the other night, I was ready to get a divorce and hit you for all the money you were worth, because I felt that you had lied to me and misrepresented what you were all about and what you wanted out of our marriage. All of a sudden, not only are you fucking me, you're driving me into states where I can't even figure where I am, or who I am. You drove me right out of my skull the past two nights. Do you think I care about how it happens? Goddam, you didn't even have to fuck me to make it happen, you made me come skyrockets just by whipping. Believe me, I really don't care what you did, or what kind of scruples you may have been raised with concerning it, you finally gave me the thing that I have been waiting for the whole time that we've been married. I worship you now." She got down on the floor, and sat at his feet, putting her arms around his legs and holding him close to her. "Whatever do you think you're doing?" he shrieked. "I shouldn't be loved, I should be wiped off the face of the earth like some kind of dirty stain!"
"I love you," she kept on, kissing his sandaled feet, "I worship the ground that you trod on, I would do absolutely anything for you. You have shown me my true station in life," she went on. "I want nothing out of life but to be your plaything. I want you to use and abuse me for your own purposes, I want to feel you take me and brutalize me in every conceivable manner, I want to be owned by you, possessed completely by you, to be your whore, your strumpet, I want to be taken in your arms and made to feel as though I am a totally worthless wretch with no mission in life except to serve you properly and be whatever you want me to be."
Phil looked at her in stunned silence. He could not believe that any woman would say this to him, particularly not after what he had done to his wife.
"How can you say those things," he asked her in a very even tone of voice. "I have done nothing the past couple of days except beat you, brutalize you terribly, tie you up in demeaning positions, and raped you practically. I have given no thought at all to your physical comfort in any of these instances."
"Darling, don't you see that it doesn't matter? What difference does it make how you make me come? Do you think that I care? Listen," she said, rising up and sitting on his lap, "believe me, there are some things about the psychology of a woman that a man just cannot understand. We don't want to feel like large, powerful creatures. We want to be taken care of and provided for. We want to recreate the kind of relationship that we had with our fathers when we were young. We want to feel the big, strong arms of a man take us and enfold us in warmth and security, and we want to feel that we are all his. Do you remember that scene in "Gone With The Wind" when Clark Gable takes Vivien Leigh in his arms against her will and carries her up those stairs to their bedroom? Should I refresh your memory?"
"Clue me in completely," he replied, "I've never seen it."
My God, she thought, what a sheltered life he must have lead. "Well, Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable are having these problems. She is really in love with someone else all along, and he knows it, but he marries her anyway, and they have a child. They get into all kinds of quarrels, and one night, just as she is going to go upstairs alone, he picks her up, and she kicks and screams, but he takes her up this incredibly long, elegant stairway, and the very next thing you see is her the next morning. She's in her nightdress, and stretching out in bed as though the greatest thing in the world has just happened to her. She has this huge smile on her face, and she just lets it all out by stretching like some enormous cat. And all because she had been taken against her will and thoroughly, beautifully fucked. Do you see what I mean?"
"No," he said, almost on the verge of tears. My God, she thought, I may have to do more with him than I thought I'd have to.
"What I mean is, that a woman wants to be made into an object of her husband's lust. That's the natural way of things."
"But Simone de Beauvoir says —,"
"Oh, fuck Simone de Beauvoir! I'm talking about normal women, not some dike afflicted with terminal penis envy! I'm talking about being a normal, healthy, lustful woman who wants to be turned into a quivering mass of purple jello every time her husband fucks her!"
Phil appeared to be getting a slightly better grip on himself. "Maybe you're right," he said. "After all, the way that things had been going, I wasn't satisfying you at all, and at least now I am. And you do like all of those things that I do to you?" He had a very sad look. He desperately wanted to hear the answer that she would truthfully give.
"Darling," she said, "do you honestly think that I would go through with all of that if deep down in my heart of hearts I didn't love you more than anyone else in the whole world, and if I didn't find that to be one of the most arousing experiences that I've ever had? Do you honestly think I would let you do that to me if I didn't like it?"
"But how can you like it?" he said, bursting into tears. They were now back to square one.
"Darling, it isn't that I necessarily like the things that you do to me. I could have lived without the cold water, for instance. I love the feeling of helplessness that all of those activities inspires in me. I feel totally at your whims, and so governed by you. I feel as though I am a speck of dirt that you have graciously consented to allow to be ground beneath the sole of your shoe, I feel so open, I feel so much more a woman now, my darling. I feel that I can deny you absolutely nothing, and that's what excites me. I feel that I have no control over myself, that I am no longer responsible for anything that happens and that sets a fire in my cunt that eventually spreads through my entire body, and consumes me totally. Do you understand now?"
"You've made it pretty clear. It's just that I always hated that when I was a kid, I couldn't stand to have it happen-"
"And that was just because it happened to you too many times for you to remember it in any light except a frightful one. Darling, I never had that happen to me. I was spanked occasionally, but nothing like the beatings that you had to undergo. To me, it was something that happened very seldom, and a couple of times that it did happen, it was under circumstances that gave me kind of a thrill."
She told him about the incident with her childhood friend. He seemed to cheer up a little when hearing this. If he didn't look happy, he no longer looked sad either, and he listened to her story with a sense of genuine interest and understanding.
"So actually," she went on to say, "I had felt cheated that I didn't get the spanking myself. I felt that they got to atone for the wicked thing that they had done, and that now everything would be all right for them. But I felt that just telling my mother wasn't enough, that if I didn't get some other kind of punishment later on, I would have to burn in hell for it, or something like that. I no longer really believe any of that, of course, but back in my brain , there's still a little girl who wants to have her panties taken down and suffer the humiliation of a bare-ass spanking in front of her friend and her brother. And since there isn't any way that I'm going to get that, the next best thing is to do this here with you."
"You make it all sound so simple," he said, sniffling back the few tears that brimmed in his eyes.
"It isn't simple," she said, "and I'm sure that because I don't know very much psychology, I've made it sound a hell of a lot simpler than it really is. But that is the basic situation, and that is why I'd think that you are the terrible beast that you think you are, and why I like the stuff that you did to me, and why it turned little old me on and made me feel more open to a man than I have ever felt in my entire life. And I mean that. I love you. I love you even more than I did the day that we were married. I want you to know that there is nothing I would not do for you at this point. If you are feeling bad about what you did to me, then I want to help you come to terms with it in whatever way that seems most likely to produce the best results."
"Janet," he said to her, "I'm really afraid that I'm a very sick man, that I'm some kind of psychopath that ought to be locked up."
"Phil, you are no psychopath. You are a confused man who was brutalized as a child, and is only now beginning to realize that the things that have plagued you are things that can be dealt with. I don't want to say cured, because that isn't really the nature of the problem. There's nothing sick about it, you are merely acting a series of neuroses that were inflicted on you as a small boy."
"Yeah, I suppose that it's true. But just because it was something that was done to me, something that I couldn't prevent happening, that doesn't mean that I'm still not sick. I mean, look at Hitler."
"Darling, Hitler never gave anyone an orgasm, and you have. You've made me the happiest woman in the world. I really don't know what I have to do to make you believe it. You've turned me into your plaything, and I love that feeling. I want to feel that way for the rest of my life. I want to be yours. I want to be totally yours."
Phil just sat in his chair, and poured himself another cup of coffee. There doesn't seem to be any way that I can reach him, she thought. He's so consumed with his own self hatred, and so convinced that that's the way that he should feel about himself. I wish that there was something that I could do to change his mind, and make him see the truth about himself. He's a wonderful, warm, sweet man. That's been obvious all along.
She thought back for a moment to the first few months of their marriage, and of how she had felt when she wasn't disappointed about the sex that they were having. She thought of how he would call during the busy day. She knew that he was constantly on the go with things that occupied his time and his attention, but he would never fail to call and talk to her about the way that he felt. Sometimes she would be upset, and she would feel better after one of their talks because he had been so patient and kind. He would go out of his way to understand her. He would listen to any complaint or problem that she had. That's what had struck her as being peculiar when he would clam up and not talk when the topic was sex. It was the exact opposite of the way that he felt about everything else. She now understood that she had simply been threatening him on a subject that filled him with a lot of guilt and trepidation.
She thought of how he would always come home with some little present when she was down in the dumps. She thought of how he would call at three or four and order her to get dressed up and meet her at some of the fanciest restaurants in town for dinner, followed by some movie or play that she particularly wanted to see. He was so solicitous, so kind and romantic. That was also strange. He was very romantic once they had gotten married. Not that he exuded a sense of sexiness, but he had a way of making her feel like somebody very special. She loved him for this, and she was determined, absolutely determined that the man she loved and who had done so much for her was not going to slip into a slough of self loathing and despair.
She knelt and began to kiss his feet again. She stuck her tongue out, and flicked it very fast around the toes, and suddenly he began to giggle, and pulled his foot away.
"It tickles," he said through his laughter.
"There you see, that made you feel good, didn't it?" He nodded. "Well, since it made you feel good, and I did it voluntarily, then there isn't anything wrong with it, is there?"
"Given that criteria," he stated, in a rather pompous fashion, "I would have to say that there is nothing wrong with it, no."
"All right, now, look at this. I submit to you. I tell you that you can do anything you want to me, regardless of how much it might hurt. I have given my permission, and it's something that you want to do. I enjoy it in the bargain, so has anyone been hurt? Has any law been violated? I liked it, you liked it so what the hell is the problem?"
Phil was staring at her, half smiling, half looking as though he were about to cry again. "I know what you're saying, darling. Understand me, I know what you're getting at, and I have thought that to myself, and told myself that, and tried like the dickens to convince myself that that was true. Sometimes I've almost been able to make myself believe it, but ... "
"But what?" She looked at him, deathly afraid that he was going to cry again. He kept his composure, and kept on talking, however.
"I keep hearing this voice that tells me that I'm doomed forever, that I'm going to suffer the pains of hell for all eternity for my behavior."
"Who is that voice, do you think?"
"God, I suppose. Only it sounds like my father."
"Did your father always tell you that these things were wrong?"
"No, he never said that spankings or beatings were. He just said that sex was wrong, and made me feel that it was. The stuff about beatings is my own thing. I feel that they are wrong, but that was the way I was trained to respond to anyone showing that they either desired or wanted sex. If that happened, they were bad, and they were supposed to be punished."
"Well, that's not the way that things are, that's not the way that they're supposed to be, and whoever it was who told you that, in this case your parents, are very sick and very disturbed people. I hope it doesn't upset you to hear me say that, but that's the truth, and I hope that doesn't make you love me any less. They have a lot to answer for. They ruined your sister's life, from what you've told me. They ruined yours, and probably your brother's. What does your brother do anyway, you've never mentioned that?"
"He ran off to Europe, and he's involved with running a pornographic sex emporium in Copenhagen."
"You see what I mean? Look at what happened. You're the only one who didn't turn out a total waste, and you're so hung up about the perfectly normal act of making love to your wife that the only way you can do it is to turn it into punishment. Not that I'm complaining, mind you, I think that it's great. I just hate to see yourself torn apart by something that should be as natural as eating or sleeping."
"I guess that you're right, I just wish that I could make myself believe that. I really want to believe that."
"You will, darling. We'll make it happen, the two of us together. We'll make it happen, and the two of us will have orgasms together, orgasms that'll take us through the ceiling and out into space, trailing clouds of glory behind us as you turn my ass to raw hamburger."
They finished up their breakfast. Janet kissed Phil goodbye as he prepared to walk out to another day's hard work. He was supposed to see his psychiatrist that afternoon, after he finished up his court case, and he told Janet that he would begin to discuss all his problems in detail. She kissed him very hard, and then looked him straight in the eye.
"Don't worry, darling. We'll lick this, the two of us. We'll lick this, and we'll both be the better for it. Don't worry, I'm on your side. Any man that can give me orgasms such as the ones I have undergone in the past two days is a man who can overcome any problem, however great, and can surely overcome the problems that you, darling, were saddled with as a boy."
"I love you, Janet."
They kissed, and he finally left.
The first thing that Janet did upon his leaving was to clean up the breakfast dishes. She was feeling full of love for her husband at the moment, and wanted the feeling to last the whole day. As she sat down, she suddenly realized that it would last all day, and probably into the following week as well. She got up, and rubbed her very sore backside. This was something that she had wanted to do all morning, sitting in the rough breakfast table chair that graced their kitchen. She hadn't done so because she had not wanted to take the least chance of hurting poor Phil's feelings. She poured herself another cup of coffee, and walked into the living room.
She looked out the window at the well manicured lawn, and beyond, to the street, and the yards of her neighbors. It was a nice neighborhood that they lived in. She had never really appreciated it until this moment. She had never really appreciate any tiling about her life after the wedding because of the problems that she and Phil had had. They seemed so much smaller now. Before, everything had seemed to be so terrible, so incurably awful. She had given up thinking she would ever find out what the problem was, and had also given up caring if she would. But now, things had changed for the better.
The enemy was now known, and it was so much better that way, because once identified, it'd be met on its own terms and dealt with accordingly. Rather than a huge, unbeatable monster, it was a small, pale shadow that appears huge as long as the source remains obscure. But once discovered, you see that the hideous beast outlined on the wall is merely a cockroach standing in front of a flashlight. What a harmless creature. All you had to do was squash it, and the threat was terminated. Or, if you wanted to spare its life, merely turn off the flashlight.
After standing at the window and waxing poetic, Janet moved back into the kitchen, and once again made the mistake of sitting in the chair, the one with the rough seat. Ordinarily, this did not bother her at all. A simple pair of panties was usually the only protection that one's bottom needed from the rugged plastic that covered the seat.
This can't go on, she thought to herself. I'm going to be jumping out of my seat all day long, and won't that look weird in the future. I've got to sit somewhere else, my ass hurts too much from the whipping that my husband gave me last night. No, that won't do one little bit.
She went upstairs to the bathroom, slipped off her robe and dropped her panties. She got the hand mirror again, and a bottle of cold cream. She took these out into the full length mirror that stood in the hall, and held the mirror between her teeth. She opened the jar of cold cream, and stuck her hand in, removing a huge gob of the stuff, and placing the jar on the floor, took the mirror in hand, and turned her back to the larger one. She looked in the hand mirror. The sight that greeted her eyes almost brought tears to them.
Her backside was one enormous splotch of purple, fringed by some vague traces of red that had been there previous to the lavender. There were also welts and marks whose red stood out in contrast to the purple, and added an interesting effect. No wonder I feel so sore there, she thought. Yes, nice as all of this stuff is, I think that our practice of these particular arts is going to be rather more limited.
She applied the cold cream to her ass. It felt so cold that it seemed to burn. She gasped, because the sensation was so pronounced, so tingly. She had the shivers again. Her ass stood out with the little pimples, and she felt them shoot about halfway up her back before they finally stopped. Oh, the things that we do for love, she thought to herself. She continued to rub the cream into her butt, and the sensation proved to be most pleasurable. She got over the cold sting, and felt quite good as she rubbed the stuff in, very slowly, taking time to make sure that the particularly savaged areas were the ones that got the most immediate attention, there really wasn't anything that she could do about the bruises, but at least the marks that stood out on the skin surface could be dealt with, and once the stuff got into the skin, she reasoned, it sure would do some kind of good.
The cold cream was turning her on. It wasn't just the shivers, it was actually managing to stimulate her in some other which she didn't really understand, never having felt it before. Maybe it was just the feeling of being naked, and alone, and still vulnerable to the feelings that had been aroused the night before.
Or maybe it was something far more meaningful than any of that. Maybe it was what she had been feeling the night before, that she was reaching a state of true sexual knowledge, that she had now reached a level where she was never going to return to the cold ignorance of the past she had hated.
She had often observed something in other women she would see on the street that she had desired and wanted to have as one of her own qualities. It was a sense of being sexy, of carrying your sex around with you as easily as you carried your purse, as easily as you wore your sweater or your dress. There was something about chicks who had this elusive quality that Janet had always envied. It went beyond merely being pretty, or even the clothes that you wore. Many beautiful woman, gorgeously dressed, did not possess this, many fashion models that she saw in the magazines that she slavishly purchased and read every month. It was just a case of knowing who you were, what you were about, what you wanted, and why and why you liked all of this. These women knew these things. They knew what they liked, and they had no apologies for ii. They were able to see something that they liked, and could go out and get it, regardless of what it was. She had seen some women at parties pick out an impossibly attractive and sexy man, and manage to monopolize him for the entire evening. She had seen some women decide that they wanted a particular job and just go out and come back with it very shortly afterwards. And anyone who did this seemed to have solved the problems that plagued most of the world, and hung it up with equivocations and doubts.
Was she now this type of woman? She had been close, she thought, pretty much always able to get the things for herself that she wanted. She had, after all, gotten Phil that way. But now she was sure that there had been one last barrier that she had had to overstep, and now she was finally past it. She had finally managed to become a sexy woman, one with no guilt, no hang-ups.
There was really only one thing that she wanted out of life now. It wasn't a job, though that might surely come later on in life, and it wasn't clothes, and it wasn't anything material. What she wanted, was to cure that which ailed her husband. It wasn't that she wanted the bondage and sadism to stop. Far from it. She was delighted that this particular phase of human sexuality had been suddenly opened to her. She wanted him to get to the point where he could do that, screw her, do damn well anything that he wanted to do, and be able to look at himself in the mirror when he woke up without feeling a sense of total revulsion. She wanted him to see that what he wanted, what he did to her, was in no way incompatible with the type of person that he would like to think of himself as. He didn't have to hate himself, didn't have to think of it as an illness that had to be taken care of. She wanted him to see that it was a perfectly natural expression of love between two people who cared for each other, and thought the world of each other.
She felt a sense of omnipotence that was even more welcome for the fact that it was totally unlike any feeling that she had ever felt about herself. She would succeed, of this she was sure. She would succeed in this, and get absolutely everything that she wanted out of life. After all, was she now not a sexy woman, capable of anything and everything?
She finally finished rubbing the cold cream into her hindquarters, and put the cold cream back in the bathroom. She had swigged down quite a bit of coffee already that morning, but she was feeling rather sleepy in spite of it. She yawned rather violently, and decided that since she was going to be a shut in all day anyway, she might as well just skip the shit that was on television and take a few hours for a catnap. She went into the bedroom, and curled up under the covers, drawing them up over her head, and burrowing into the pillows.
She set the alarm for three. It was ten-thirty, so that would give her four and one half hours to regenerate her body and be able to meet the world with all kinds of vim and vigor. In the meantime, she fell into peaceful, blissful, lovely sleep.
She drifted off into a very deep and distant sleep. She seemed to herself to be very far away from the mundane cares of the world and she started to have visions. They were very grand, very enticing, and utterly delightful. She saw all kinds of colored lights, and they drifted and swirled like the Northern Lights, which she had never seen, but which she had always dreamed about when she was a girl.
This soon passed, and she found herself having the more concrete sort of dream, the standard kind, with people, incidents, and faces. There were a few from her past. She saw her mother and her father, standing about the kitchen, not doing much. She had looked extremely surprised at this, and pointed over to Janet, who was watching this at the far end of the room, an adult now, even though they both appeared as when they were still both alive and she was about eight years old. The two of them then looked at her, smiled, and ran off to the bedroom, a rather pointless thing to do since this was a house with see-through walls. A glass house, apparently. They got into the bedroom, and her father, impatient to get it into her mother, ripped her clothes off and threw the shreds into a pile in the corner.
She was naked, and her father began going through the motions of dominating her. She was forced onto the floor, made to kiss his feet, and all the rest of it, except that there was one important difference. Her father used nothing to beat her. He only went through the motions of swinging his arm over his head, and bringing it down on her, but there was nothing in his big hands to hit her with. There was no contact with the flesh, and no sounds of either something smacking against her flesh, or screaming. Nothing at all but the gestures.
After a few minutes of this, he made her mother stand up, and bend over at the waist, inserting his rather limp cock into her. They again went through the motions of the act without actually arousing any passion, just making all of the proper movements, and then, when he had apparently come, he pulled out of her immediately. All of his sperm immediately ran down her leg onto the floor. Then they got into bed and laid there for about ten minutes, got up, and got back into their clothing. They walked out into the kitchen, and resumed their chores as if nothing had happened.
This very odd dream soon gave way to another one. She was being kept after school by her teacher for not having done her homework. He was Mr. Simpson, a rather good looking math teacher that she had had in the eighth grade. He expressed his anger calling her a string of dirty names, something that the real Mr. Simpson had never done, and would especially never have done to her, as she had done quite well in his class, mostly because she had had a tremendous crush on him. After abusing her verbally, he ordered her to bend out over the teacher's desk. He then lifted her skirt over her head, and slowly removed the panties as well She stayed there, having a pretty good idea of what was going to happen at this point, but hoping against hope that it wouldn't. Her mother had often warned her about men who raped young girls, and now it was going to happen to her right in the school.
But it didn't. Instead, she felt the sharp crack of a ruler across her young bottom. She thought that she was imagining things, but no, it came down hard. She yelped with the pain that this was causing. She cried out for someone to help, but instead everyone just walked right by the window, oblivious to what was happening, and not even seeming to hear her, although they were clearly nearby, and you would think that anyone that close to her would hear her screaming.
And then she realized that she herself didn't hear her screaming. She was yelling as loud as she could, her mouth was wide open, and there was no sound coming out of it. The only thing that she could hear was the sound of Mr. Simpson's ruler smacking the smooth skin on her ass, filling her with a sense of total degradation and shame.
Her little backside grew warmer, and the warmth spread all over and then it shot down her legs and up her back. Suddenly, she was laughing. She was delighted. The smacks on her bottom weren't painful, they were wonderful, and she squirmed around not trying to avoid them, but trying to get her buttocks in the position where they would meet the force of the ruler full on, and receive the most from each swat. She giggled furiously, barely able to stand the wonderful sensations that welled up in her ass and then flooded out through the rest of her.
She started to come, and now she could hear her own desperate pants and sighs as her rate of breath struggled desperately to keep pace with the demands the body was placing on it. She was feeling for the first time in her life what it was to reach a climax. She knew in real life what it was, of course, but in the dream she was a little girl being spanked who never experienced anything like an orgasm but who nonetheless knew exactly what it was. She grabbed onto the sides of the table, and let out a deep, subhuman moan that came from the very pit of her lungs. She was totally enraptured with what was happening to her, and she felt a terrible sense of loss when the beating stopped.
Mr. Simpson left without any further words to her. She didn't even see him go. She stayed clutching the edges of the desk, and felt her small, still immature tits crush against the desk beneath her.
The most intense part of the orgasm was done now, but she still felt the warm afterglow surge through her veins. She got off the desk. There was not any reason for her to stay, but she wanted to. She sat in one of the classroom chairs, not putting herself back together. She left the panties on the floor, and kept the skirt above her head as she sat back down on the chair. The chair gave her a funny feeling. It was kind of cold, and this sent a shiver of excitement up her cunt. She wiggled about, centering herself right on her cunt, and squirmed there, feeling the pleasant sensations run through her body. She reached down and touched herself between the legs, feeling the sticky moisture, and manipulated the little strip of flesh her mother had once pointed out to her as her clitoris, the female equivalent of the penis.
She was feeling really delighted with herself and she rushed up out of the chair quite suddenly. She ripped off her clothes. She began doing a dance in the middle of the floor. She jumped and skipped about, and without even noticing they had turned on the P. A. system. It was loud rock music, the kind that she had really liked back in those days. She jumped about trying to imitate all of the cheerleaders she had ever seen on television, including the moves that she had so frequently seen on the cultural programming that her mother was constantly trying to get her to watch.
She was now conscious of people watching her. She could see some of the school janitors, some of her fellow pupils, and some of their parents. They watched her with genuine interest. They weren't voyeurs but interested in the dance that she was performing, in the acrobatic skill she showed. She performed up into a real frenzy now, jumping around with wild abandon. She wanted to build up to something that was really going to give all of the people watching her a tremendous thrill, and she did a series of spins and turns that came to an almost complete halt, and then threw herself up and came down in a superb imitation of the dying swan that she had seen on television in some famous ballet she couldn't remember.
The crowd applauded ecstatically, and even the school bells joined in the applause as the naked Janet took her bows. The bells then drown out the noise of the applause and bravos, and she had to plug up her ears. The rings faded into the rings of her alarm clock ...
She woke up shut off the alarm, and stumbled into the bathroom.