Johnsonville Road is nowhere near Johnsonville, maybe it went there some time ago. Now it's only a long gravel road joining two more inportant rual highways in a remote part of the country. Except for the few people who live along it, the only ones who use it do so because there's nothing else joining those two roads for miles in either direction. I'm one of the ones who live along it, well, off a ways on an even smaller side road, and up a long winding driveway
I'm heading home, driving down Johnsonville Road when I see a car pulled over to the side, the hood open. As I slow and pull over in front of it, I see you, city slicker, fancy piece, sophisticated in your sunglasses, long black cape, high collar, five shiny large buttons marking the distance from the base of your neck to the bottom of your breasts.
As you turn from the car and walk over to my pickup truck, the front swings open a little, giving me a glimpse in the side view mirror of sheer black stockings rising from high heals, to disappear at mid-thigh level under a tight leather skirt. I smile as you arrive to the passenger door, as I lean over to roll down the window. You're still wiping the non-existent dirt from your hands and wrists, having, after all, reached into the engine compartment of your car, and the three bracelets on your right rights jangle, flashing in the sinking sun
"Hi Mister! You know anything about cars?" You push the brown, chin-length hair back from your face."Mine's decided to stop here. I've been trying to call on my cell phone, but I can't get a signal."
"You'll be surprised to here it out here, lady, but I'm a programmer. And while that fancy thing you're driving is full of computers, they're strictly an unplug-and-replace item. No, looks like you're stuck for a while."
"Shit!" You do a little city-girl pouty dancing, stamping your feet a couple of times. "Can't you raise someone on your CB or something?"
"Well, that's kinda tough. It's Sunday afternoon, almost evening. All the garages are closed for miles around. Nothing within at least 30 miles, probably sixty. Now, I can call up Jerry or Steve, get one of them to tow your car out of here, but no mechanic's gonna take a look at it before morning."
A burst of incromprehensible speech come from the CB, and I turn the volume down a little.
"You're gonna have to stay overnight. How about I drop you off at Ma Maggy's? She takes house guests sometimes, when people have too many people for a wedding or funeral. I'm sure she can put you up. There aren't any real motels closer than the highway, and that's a distance. With your car here, you might as well be close."
"Shit! I had work to do in the city tomorrow. Now I won't get back before tomorrow night, at the earliest. Daaamn!
Seems cursing is a major part of your vocubulary. You'll be doing more of that soon, I know.
"OK, here's what we do. I'll call Jerry or Steve on the CB, get them to come collect your car. Leave the keys in the ignition for them. Nobody's taking the car anywhere, anyway, and it's safe enough around here. You might want to bring your valuables, though, or lock 'em in the trunk. Get your suitcase or overnight bag, or whatever, and I'll drive you to my place. I'm only a mile from Maggy's. We'll call Maggy, let her know you're coming, then I'll give you supper. Maggy's supper ain't worth a darn. After supper I'll drive you over to her place."
"Gee thanks, Mister!" You give me your flirtatious, win-them-over smile. "I really apreciate this. Damn! Damn car!"
When you come back from the car with an expensive overnight bag and your purse, you hear me talking to Steve.
"You got a deal, Tom," comes out of the speaker. "Where you gonna put her up?"
"Taking her home for dinner then driving her over to Maggy's for the night, Steve." I turn to you, as you open the door. "Got everything? Hop in." Talking into the microphone again, "OK, Steve, get the car into the garage right away, don't want anyone damaging that fancy white paint job. We'll come over in the morning and find out what's happening."
"You got it, Tom Have a good time." I can see him smirking as he says that.
You drop your bag on the bench between us, and lean back in frustration.
As we drive along, past huge farms with only the occassional farmhouse, everything far apart, I tell you about myself. About programming in the city, coming out to the middle of nowhere to get away from the noise, smoke, to get close to fresh vegetables---important to a vegetarian. Contracting means you can work from anywhere, so long as you can connect to the computer you want. Needing the only high-speed connection within miles, I set up my own ISP, earned a few steady bucks servicing the neighbourhood. With the occassional, more lucrative contract, it was an easy life, so long as you didn't want too much.
As we drive, I glance at you occassionally--natural enough as we talk, but I'm enjoying the view of your slim, long legs, the hint of breast curve visible through the slightly transparent white blouse you're wearing under now-unbuttoned cape. Small tits, I can tell, sticking out less than they curve up. I can't see your nipples, the cape is still covering those. Bet they're small hard lumps, little chocolate circle around them so you can find them in the dark. I smile into your green eyes as I pull off the road onto a rougher track.
"Here we are! This is all mine, from the road back to the house and an equal distance in every direction. Round here, folks don't like to be disturbed if they can help it."
The road wiggles back and forth around this rock, that tree, the spot where a tree used to be thirty years ago, and then we turn a corner to come to a clearing and arrive at the old farmhouse. The driveway curves around the back of the house, and that's where I stop, between the house and the barn.
"Hardly know why country houses have a front door, " I comment. "Nobody uses them. You can leave your stuff there, unless you want your purse."
I lead you up the stairs into the kitchen. Old farmhouses may lack the crisp lines and the polish of modern homes, but they provide a feeling comfort and relaxed warmth only fifty or a hundred years of being lived in can provide.
"May I take your cape?" You unfasten the buttons and I slide it back from your shoulders. Being brought up by a mother with European manners can be useful sometimes. As I carry the cape to the front closet, I say, "There's a washroom off the kitchen, if you need. Why don't you make us some tea or coffee, you'll find them on the counter, kettles on the stove, and I'll phone Ma Maggy.
When I return to the kitchen, the kettle is boiling. While you finish making the coffee, I take the vegetable lasagna I had prepared in the morning, and place it in the oven to cook. We gathere together our cups, and soon we're sitting in the living room, where I had lit the waiting fire, and are warming up from a cool autumn evening as we look through the side windows at the fields beyond, the stubble of the summer's harvest amber in the glow of setting sun.
I discover your name is Lola, that you had come to visit a college friend for the weekend. The friend's husband had suggested this route as the quickest, though not simplest, path back to the city. Unfortunate that your car would break down twenty miles from your friends', more than thirty miles from the highway. We talk about city life, country life, my work, her work.
I also discover Lola has a firm, flat belly and slender waist, that her breasts were as small as I had gathered in the pickup, that her nipples every bit as dark and large and hard as I had suspected, had hoped. Her collarless shirt as sheer, quite transparent, and delightful to look through.
You are clearly aware that I can see your naked body. I watch you flirting with me, teasing. I might be a middle aged, country bumpkin geek, but also tolerably good looking, the owner of a small but flourishing business and of a beautiful house and property. I look at you on an angle as you face the fields. If I can't see up the skirt, it's not from your modesty. Your legs are slightly separated, level, not crossed.
How far would she go, I wondered, on her own? Would it stop at inciting my passion, or would she actually make herself available to me?
We wouldn't find out.
"I have to go out to the barn, to the ISP room, and make sure things are running properly. Would you like to come take a look? It's a small, but interesting high-tech communications shop. Lots of flashing lights and other neat toys. Then we'll have just enough time to toss together a salad and supper will be ready."
I lead you out the back door and escort her to the side of the barn. I unlock a modern door and we enter the lounge, with it's sofa, bed, coffee pot and sink, as I close the door behind me.
"Through that door," I say.
You open the inner door to find yourself not in a communications center, but in a fully furnished dungeon. I am right behind you, giving her a nudge to push you into the dungeon. I close the inner door behind you.
"What are you doing!?" you shout, as you rattle the door, trying to open it.
I wonder if I should tell you the communications shop is in the wing of the house.
An hour later, I had enjoyed my supper and called Steve, aranging that he would bring me any possessions left in the car, and would ditch the vehicle 60 miles away. A small dirt bike would easily fit in the trunk, if it wasn't closed completely, and he would get home easily.
I brought in overnight bag from the truck, admiring the designer tag, and spread out the contents before me.
Hairbrush, tons of toiletries, tons more makeup, obviously necessities on a weekend alone far out in the sticks. A flimsy negligee, long, thing, and as opaque as a sunny summer day. Three pairs of high-heeled shoes, fairly new; four sets of stockings in various designs; another leather skirt; three blouses as suitable to a walk in the country as was her bedwear; a slinky, stretchy, skin-tight cocktail dress; an assortment of necklaces, earings, bracelets, and a ring.
The purse was hardly more interesting. More makeup, various papers, money, bank cards, ID---you seem to be Lola Helen Hampton---various receipts signed 'LoloHH', too much cash, some tampons, just in case, and a dildo.
I gather together a couple of cupplies and head back to the barn.
"Let me out, damn it! Let me go, you dumb fuck!"
You start shouting again as you hear me open the outer door.
At the inner door, you try to push past me, but that's hardly a surprise. I grab your hair in my hand, clench it tightly to tilt your head back, and shove you forward so you stumble, fall sprawling on your hands and knees.
"The outer door is locked, you dumb cunt. Getting into the lounge wouldn't do you any good."
You turn your head to look at me. I can see you've been crying.
"What do you want from me?"
"You're a pretty slut," I say. "Been a while since I've had a pretty cunt around the house. They come back to visit when I've trained them completely, turned them into fuck toys. I let them go when they're completely trained, off to have other masters."
Let them go to the highest bedder, but no need to tell her that, yet. Anyway, the girls are happy to go. By that point, they've leaved learned they exist to serve.
"But they keep coming back to visit. They miss me. Seems no one else puts them in their place quite right. Anyway, they want to freshen up their training, make sure they're the best slavegirl they can be. But it's been a while, I need someone new."
"You can't do that to me! I'm supposed to be at the office tomorrow! And Steve ..."
"No one from work knows where you are, bitch. You've left Jennifer and Sam's place after a pleasant weekend. Steve will dump your car. Oh yes, he's looking forward to a taste of obedient cunt and ass. His cock is a lot bigger than mine, he likes to see how farhe can jam it down a fuck slut's throat."
"But..."
"But nothing! Strip naked and kneel before me! You have thirty seconds!"
You look around, frightened. As I begin to move toward you, you scramble to your knees, then to your feet, and run away hiding behind a supporting beam in the center of the room, leaving your spilled shoes before me. I chase you around the dungeon.
I can't help it, I enjoy that look in their eyes, the wide eyes of a frightened doe, during that first chase, while they wonder whether they might escape.
We're both somewhat out of breath by the time I tackle you, knocking you to the rough concrete. With my weight on your back, keeping your belly pressed hard agaisnt the floor, there's little you can do as I fit a cuff to one of your ankles. You struggle and wiggle as I pull one of your arms behind your back to put a leather cuff on your wrist. You might be my height, but I weigh half again your 120 pounds. There isn't much you can do.
There isn't much you can do when I release your wrist and grab the other arm. If both hands were free, you would remove the cuff, but with the other arm behind your back, being cuffed to match, you struggle to open the buckle with your teeth. Pointless, but you can't know that.
I twist your arm up behind your back, to hold you steady while I reach into my pocket for the remote control. My weight pushing the arm up toward your neck, down against your back, presses your tender, nearly naked breasts hard against the rough floor, while my finger on a control causes a winch to lower a rope from the rafters.
When it descends low enough, I put the remote away, then grab your hair to pull your head back. I quickly slide my arm around your neck.
I squeeze your neck with my arm, the forearm forcing your chin up so you can't see, pushing your arist hard up your back.
"Raise your ass up off the ground, little cunt," I grunt, as I slowly slide my weight back, pulling your shoulders up off the ground.
Your weight is on my arm, the one tight around your neck, and you push your hips back toward me. Controlling you, I help you kneel upright.
"Stay on your knees like a god sex slave, Lola. Turn to the right. Further. Now go forward, keep going, to the rope."
You stumble forward, step by step, on your knees, the stockings tearing as the rub against the floor.
My cock is raging hard in my pants from listening to your halting breath, the whines that would be sobs if you had more air.
We arrive at the rope, and I release your neck, a knee between the shoulder blades driving you hard against the floor.
I twist the arm the other way, over your head and down your back, and grab the cuffed ankle, bending the leg at the knee. Only my weight on my knee presses you down, but there isn't much you can do. Anyway, it doesn't take long to snap a short chain between ankle cuff and wrist cuff, and you aren't going anywhere.
I stand up and admire you, laying there, as we both gather our breath.
I look at you, a roughed up gem, a bundle with a handle of arm joined to leg.
The skirt has ridden up your thighs. I admire the garters holding up the tops of your stockings, and the nicely tanned bare thigh above them. I can see a glimpes of your bare groin, the beginnings of the slit of a shaved cunt, a hint of an ass cheek.
You lay there, trying to reach back with the other hand to release the snap holding you secured.
"That's sweet, romantic, almost, but I have other plans for that hand."
I grab your wrist by the ring on the cuff, take the rope hanging from the ceiling, and snap the two together.
"I'm afraid you aren't going anywhere, my dear."
A finger on the remote, and the rope starts rising, pulling your free arm up a couple of feet.
"You're under my control, I'm afraid. This can be more painful, or less painful, as you wish. My suggestion is that you roll on your belly."
After a brief hesitation, you do. You lay with your stomach and breasts on the ground, one leg bent far up your back, one arm bent over your head to join it, the other arm pulled off the ground by the rope.
"Pull yourself back into a kneeling position, Lola. Yes, I know you have to drag your tits across the concrete. I know that isn't pleasant, but it entertains me to watch, and it isn't as bad as other things that might be happening to you right now."
You slide your torso back, grinding your breasts, tearing the thin shirt, the already torn shirt, as your weight hangs from your arm. The expression on your face is a mixture of hatred, anger and disbelief, as your weight moves back, your ass sticking out past the knees, your weight finally on your legs. Well, one leg, one knee.
I press the button and the rope rises again.
"Don't do this!" You plead with me as the rope pulls your arm past your shoulders, pulls it upright far overhead. "I'll pay you! I have money! Please let me go! Tom, Please!"
"You're a pretty girl,Lola" I tell you, "but you should take better care of yourself."
I look up at the rope holding your hand high overhead, then gradually lower my gaze.
"Your shirt sleeve is torn, your arm is scraped.Your hair is a mess, your make-up is a disaster, awash in tears and sweat. I bet you haven't sweated outside a gym in years. But three times a week, then the sauna. Isn't that how it is, Lola?"
I run my fingers through your hair, stroking your cheek.
"I'm afraid you have a bruise on that cheek, but it'll be gone in a few days. Must have been when I talked you, or maybe when we arrived at the rope."
"Now look at your shirt. Rips and tears all over, the bottom half pulled out of your skirt. Look at his tear across your breast. There's a little blood on this scrape."
I lean forward to lick the drops of blood away from your breast. You growl but there's nothing you can do. The position leaves you pretty well forced to stick your tits out for me.
"Now this skirt, that's ruined. Nice finished damaged by rubbing against pavement, it's a lost cause, even if it is in one piece. Garters all jumped, stockings messed up and torn, scrapes on your legs, no shoes, feet dirty. I thought your mother brought you up better than this, little Lola."
I cross the room and unlock a cabinet, pulling out a long, gleaming knife.
"Please don't hurt me, please don't hurt me, please, please, please!"
The tears are running down your cheeks as your panic increases.
"No need for that, Lola, I'm not going to hurt you. If you struggle and fight you might get cut, but be a good slut and you'll be just fine."
I walk back to stand in front of you, and squat in front of you, so our heads are on a level.
My arms rest on my thighs.
"Now, Lola, what's under this scuffed, ruined skirt?"
I point the tip of the knife at your hips.
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"Here!" I slap the side of the blade against your ass cheek.
"My butt!" You seemed confused at what this is getting at.
"And here!" I prod the point of the knife at your cunt.
You seem somewhat embarassed. "My..... pussy."
"Your ass, Lola! Your ass and your cunt! You better remember that from now on. Nice girls may have a behind or a butt, and a 'down there' or a pussy or a 'sex', they may have a bosom or breasts or boobies on their chests, but you're not a nice girl, Lola."
"Maybe you thought you were, maybe you really were. Judging by the clothes in your overnight bag, judging by the clothes in which you paraded in front of your good friend Jennifer whom you haven't seen in ages, the way you thrust yourself like a harlot at her husband, the first time you met him, I don't think you were ever a good girl! You'are a slut, you've always been a slut, and now you're a slut, a sex slave, a fuck toy!"
"Sluts like you have an ass, a cunt, and tits! Say it with me, an ass, cunts, and tits! Say it!"
I slap your face, your head spins helplessly to the side, your whole body turns a little.
"Say it! What are you? What do you have?"
When your head turns back, the tears are runing freely down your cheeks.
"I'm a slut." Your thoat spasms for a second as you try to swallow. "With an ass, a cunt, tits."
"That's very good, slut."
"I bet you've never worn damaged clothes, maybe when you were a child, not since you grew up and became so sophisticated. You wouldn't keep a scuffed leather skirt, now would you, slutgirl?"
"No?" You don't sound very confident.
"The fancy girl I met on the highway wouldn't stand scuffed clothing in her home, that I know. But now you're a fuck toy. What do fuck toys wear when they're alone with Master?"
You stare at me as your realization deepens, as it sinks in this is really happening.
"Come, now, Lola. You know the answer to that one."
You whisper it very quietly. "Nothing."
"Very good."
"That's why I'm doing you this favour, little slut Lola. For the fancy piece who wouldn't want any scuffed clothes, and for the fuck slut who wants her new Master to see the lovely cunt and ass she's bringing for him to play with."
A speaker gives two brief tweets, as an alarm circuit detects something aproaching across the fields.
"That's Steve! Just in time for the unveiling!"
I move over toward the door.
"You're not going to? ... You can't?"
"But he's looking forward to it so eagerly, Lola."
Steve had the dirt bike parked on a flat slab of rock and was walking toward the barn by the time I had the outer door open.
"Hi, Guy."
"Heya, Tom. Is she a cutie?"
"Come take a look, you're gonna like her. Let's go unwrap her."
Writing down Steve's words, I have to struggle to avoid making him sound like a hilbilly, an extra out of Deliverence. Sure, he's a product of his remote home, what Lola would call a country bumbkin. That's how I saw him when I arrived. He's over six feet tall, wide from the shoulders on down, goes around in his overalls. But he does keep both straps done up, and if he doesn't have a fancy education, he still has some smarts. He's damn good at fixing cars, doing them fast and cheap and making a profit on it too. Has an accountant for the garage, but he helps his family with their taxes, so he's got to be quick. Don't know why he likes me, weird city intellectual, if he knows that word. Don't know why I like him. But we have the same taste in women: we like fuck sluts.
I'm tempted to say Steve curled his lip as he said, "is she ... puhrty?" But he didn't. he said, "Is she a cutie?" All one sentence. But when Lola saw him, she wouldn't know the difference. She'd see Deliverence. "Squeal like a pig!"
She did. You did.
You had turned while I was away, to face the door. When you catch sight of Steve, you practically scream.
"Tom! You can't! He's a ..! Can't he at least shave?"
"Shut up, slut!" I bark.
"That's nice!" Steve smiles at me. "You have all the luck, Tom."
You stuttur and voice some objection that I ignore.
"Look at those lovely little tits, Steve. Aren't they pretty?"
Steve places his large mechanics hands on you soft white shoulders, hands perpetually darkened from ingrained grease, and strokes your delicate skin. His hands slide down over your arched chest, down into the cleavage displayed where two buttons had popped away.
"Why don't you get that rag off her?" I suggest.
Steve's large hands grab a fistfull of shirt and yank upward hard. A ripping sound reveals the fabric beginning to give way. A second yank tears the back up to the neckline. He reaches around your neck to part the final barrier.
"Stop! Please, Tom, make him stop! Tom, don't let him..!"
It was too late, the back was split from bottom to top. Steve grabs the front of the shirt at the bottom. A simple yank pops some buttons open. The others fly across the room.
Steve pushes one half of the shirt up the arm that was chained to your foot, making the cloth drop to the floor. While he strokes a fingertip down your cleavage and toys with your tensed belly, I pul the other piece up the other arm, and jumble it into the rope, so it will remain out of the way.
"She's not quite perfect," I say. "There's one touch missing."
I fetch a few pieces of twine, and grab a bunch of your hair. I twist the clump into a spiral, then fold that double. One piece of twine I tie to the bend in the spiral. The other I wrap tightly around the doubled clump, tying it snugly so it would hold against a strong tug. I pull gently on the twine dangling from from your hair, from your head.
"Her body's nicely arched, Steve, but it doesn't look right when she faces forward. She should be looking up, to a new future."
I give a gentle yank on the twine, forcing you to tilt your head back, and tie the end of the string to your ankle cuff.
"There! Isn't that charming?"
"I like the way her belly curves," Steve said, as he slides his tongue up your ribs and between your breasts. He chuckles,"Oh, look, she wiggles!" He slides his tongue across her breast, sliding down across your nipple lump.
"I wonder what it's like when it stiffens, " I comment with a smile.
Steve suddenly snaps his teeth shut, giving a vicious nip to the nipple. You yelped loudly, but when Steve takes his mouth away, we admire the new heights your nipple has attained.
"What present shall we open next?"
"Oh yeah, my knife." I fetch the knife from the table in the lounge.
I stand before you, stroking the flat of the gleaming blade across your cheek, across your lips.
"Keep very, very still, Lolaslut," I whisper. "I wouldn't want you to get hurt."
I drag the point of the knife down your neck, down your chest, teasing your nipple with the point.
"Stick your little tit out as far as you can, my little Lolita, or I might be tempted to decided disobedient sluts don't need nipples."
You arch your back further, thrusting your belly forward, your tit higher into the air.
"That's very good, my little slut. You're learning. Just a little further now."
I can't help admiring the beautiful tension in your arched body as I slide the point of the knife down your belly.
I raise the knife up between your thighs, against the bottom edge of the skirt.
"Are you ready, Lolita? You really don't want to move for the next little while."
I draw the knife upwards and gently forwards. The fine Italian leather parts like butter, like flesh under a scalpel. With your thighs tensely parted as they are, I am able to draw the knife up to within an inch or two of the waist in a single, gradual stroke of the blade. I slide the knife sideways between your waist and the leather waistband.
"A turn of the blade, a tug forward, and Voila! .. it disappears!" the skirt falls down behind you, leaving you dressed only in rumpled, misadjusted, torn stockings and black lacey garters.
"It's like magic!" Steve can't resist commenting.
"This is certainly like magic, isn't it, Steve?"
I stroke my fingertips across your smooth mound, drawing a finger down the edge of your lips.
"I think that's enough for tonight, Steve. I want to leave her to soak this all in. A night in this position will leave her much more malleable tommorow. Call me lazy, but why put up with resistance if you can put an early stop to it."
"Absolutely right, Tom. I can see that."
"Just one last thing for tonight. Those tits need a good strapping. Now where should I put the knife while I flog those tits?"
I pull open your labia, sliding the point of the knife into your cunt.
"NO! Please! Don't! Tom! Don't! Don't cut me! Tom! Please!"
"Grab her ass cheeks, Steve, and spread them wide."
He does, and I place the knife blade between the cheeks. You can't know that the handle is upwards, and only the blunt edge against the bottom of your ass crack, but that hardly matters, anyway. As Steve releases your ass cheeks, there's a razor sharp knife blade between them.
"You're going to hang on to that knife for me, Lolita." As I'm instructing you, I fetch a thick leather belt from the cupboard. If it moves so much as an inch before I ask for it back, you'll get a very harsh punishment. And now you'll begin to learn what harsh punishments are like, so you can find the motivation to be a good, obedient, fuck toy cunt who obeys her Master."
I fold the belt double and swing it hard, bring it crashing down on one of the tits you are sticking out into the air for me.
You scream, loudly.
I bring the belt down on the matching tit, and you scream again, or rather, louder.
Blow after blow, the belt comes down hard on your breasts, as your screams gradually fade into a general mewing, panting, an assortment of grunts and odd noises.
"You're slipping, cunt! Get those tits out as far as you can, or I start back at the beginning! And make sure that knife hasn't slipped! Only ten more .... count them out for me, slut!"
I bring the belt down hard on the outer edge of a bright red breast.
"unnnn one"
And the other side.
" .... twwwooo"
I am at the middle, the cleavage edge of the breasts.
" .... threeeeee"
" .... fooooouuur"
Upwards, hard, from below, striking those sensitive spots that never feel any rubbing, not even from an underwire, since you obviously don't bother with a bra.
"agggg .... fiiiiiiiive"
"uhnn ... sixxxxxxx"
I stretch my arm overhead and bring the belt down with all the force I can muster, so the tips just catch the nipples, the tender hard nipples you are thrusting forward for us so well."
"arhhhh ..... see ven"
"huuuuuu .... eight"
I unfold the belt and stand out to one side, swinging my arm full force, so the end of the belt lands flat on your breast.
You scream, then lay there panting for second after second.
"I'm waiting, Lolitaslut," I say, as I cross over to the other side.
" .... nine"
The blow lands hard. You scream again.
"nyynnn ten"
Clearly you have no understanding left, no realization it is over. Your body strained, you wait for the next blow.
I squat before you, and gently drag my fingernails across the red, tender flesh, across the aching, erect nipples as they rise and fall with your panting breath.
"Goodnight, Lolitaslut. I'll see you in the morning. Don't let the knife move, or I'll have to punish you.
Steve and I go to the lounge, switching off the lights and shutting the door behind us, plunging you into black reverberating isolation.