It was all right for him. All he had to do was zip up his fly and hide in the shadows for a couple of minutes until he could make his escape. She, on the other hand, naked and already breathing hard, had to jump down from the window-seat, grab her underwear and run through the house unlocking doors, switching on lights and appliances. Then scramble into her underwear, then the rest of her clothes and her glasses—snatched up from the floor where she’d dropped them—before dashing back into the living room to drape herself casually on the couch in front of the TV, using the hem of her shirt to wipe the perspiration from her face.
Though as it turned out her mother just stuck her head in to say good night before heading upstairs to bed.
For the next two weeks the two of them played a kind of tag in school. Every so often she would look up—in study hall, or the lunchroom—to find him looking at her. Tag. And then his eyes would quickly look away. Walking out of a class he would spot her, just passing by in the hall, giving him a quick sideways glance. Tag. Once, at a school event, she had chosen an empty seat in the middle of a row he was sitting in and, squeezing past him, brushed his knees with hers, not looking at him. Tag. Once, standing at her open locker, she felt the back of a hand brush across the back of her skirt and turned to see his retreating back. Tag.
In the evenings she would often sit in the window-seat with a book, every so often glancing down to where the drops he had spattered on the window, now dried and nearly translucent, still hung. (Her parents, if they noticed them at all, probably thought they were bird droppings.) If she were alone in the room, she might briefly cup and squeeze one of her breasts, or slip a hand into her shorts. But rarely for long, and never to completion.
She was waiting.
They never publicly acknowledged each other’s existence in any way. Never spoke, publicly or privately. Yet somehow it was communicated that they would both be attending the school’s annual Spring Fling dance that Saturday. This was the last all-school dance before the Graduation Ball. Semi-formal dress was required.
Hers was not a church-going family so Jane had only one dress that met the guidelines: her ‘party frock’, as her mother referred to it, purchased in better days and so far only worn to family holiday gatherings. It was lovely, though: knee-length velvet, trimmed with a row of false buttons covered in the same fabric running down the front, and with touches of white lace here and there. The velvet was a shade so dark that it appeared black except under strong light, when its deep purple highlights were revealed. It was old-fashioned, she knew, but she loved it, loved the feel of the warm velvet on her skin. She even had sandals that matched.
As the day grew closer even the game of Tag dwindled and fell away. But Jane could feel the tension increasing; could nearly tell from it where he was at any given moment.
Friday, the day before the dance, she picked up the mail as usual from the box at the end of the driveway. As always she just tossed it into one of the bike baskets and continued home. There was rarely anything for her except near her birthday, or Christmas.
But when she brought it into the house she noticed a manila envelope with her first name on it—no return address. She opened it at the kitchen table…
And spilled out a white froth of lingerie: a lacy brassiere and panty set worked with delicate flower, vine and leaf designs in pale pastel violets and yellows. The panties even had three tiny rows of ruffles across the seat, which she found rather silly, but didn’t care; they were the most beautiful, feminine underthings she’d ever seen.
But she wouldn’t allow herself to even try them on. She knew they would fit—he had a pair of her panties to go by, didn’t he? And he certainly knew what her breasts looked like. But she did allow herself to go upstairs to stand in front of the full-length mirror in her parents’ bedroom and hold, first the bra, then the panties up to herself.
She imagined him thinking about her wearing them, seeing her in his mind posing for him as she had before...touching himself while he thought about her...oh god. She saw herself blushing in the mirror, and went to hide the lingerie in her closet.
As she did so she wondered where he had gotten it. She tried to picture him walking into a department store lingerie department, ***********ing these undoubtedly expensive items, carrying them to a register and paying for them. She could not. Oh god, he must have stolen them. For her, the former Thief of Ridgeton Community College. It was so romantic.
The next night at dinner she casually mentioned that there was a dance at the school that night so she probably wouldn’t be home when they got back from their meeting, but would return at around the usual time for after these events. This was acknowledged with the usual vague cautions and hopes that she’d have a good time. She did not mention the dress requirements. She had a plan.
The moment the door closed behind them she ran up the stairs to her parents’ bedroom and seated herself at her mother’s dressing table. She had been surreptitiously studying fashion magazines all week, trying to find something glamorous to do with her shoulder-length hair—something that wasn’t too complicated. She had finally settled on—and practiced until she could do it with ease—a simple braid, coiled and clipped at the back of her head. She did it now, and admired the result in the mirror: the way it made her neck seem longer and more graceful, how it seemed to sharpen her features and bring out her eyes. Which brought her to Phase Two.
She had little experience with make-up, beyond a touch of lipstick and eye shadow for family events. Still, she was determined to try her hand at it tonight. So she experimented with almost everything on the table: liners and rouges and mascaras and foundations and shadows and blushes and glosses and things for which she wasn’t even sure of the purpose. She wound up wiping it all off again with cold cream and tissues and starting over. Twice.
Finally she thought she had achieved the right balance: just enough shadow to accentuate her hazel eyes; a hint of rouge on her cheekbones; and a light layer of lipstick in a shade she felt would complement her dress. Her braces spoiled that particular effect somewhat, she thought, but there was nothing to be done. She added a pair of simple silver teardrop earrings. As a final touch, she sprayed some of her mother’s perfume into the air and walked through the mist as it fell, something she’d read about in one of the magazines.
By then it was nearly time for the dance to start. There was no way she was going to put on all her dress clothes and then ride her bike to school in them, and she had planned accordingly. In her closet was a garment bag—the kind that allowed you to put your clothes in it on hangers—and in it she had put her clothing, her sandals and everything she thought she would need, including, now, the last-minute addition of a small plastic bag of make-up for emergency repairs. She took the bag out to the garage and laid it across the back of her bicycle, carefully tucking the ends into the side-baskets. Then she climbed on and rode into the sunset.
When she arrived at Ridgeton she parked and locked her bike, then retrieved her garment bag and carried it over her shoulder to the main entrance. Once inside, instead of turning left, which would have brought her to the hall where the dance was, she looked quickly around to make sure she was not observed and then took a right, heading down the other, dimly-lit hallway. She wanted to be able to change in private and there was a bathroom not too far from where her locker was.
When she arrived there it was deserted and dark, as she had expected. She switched on the light and carried her bag into the nearest stall, hanging it from the hook on the back of the door. It would be more cramped than changing in the open area of the bathroom, and she seriously doubted that anyone would come in, but she wasn’t taking any chances.
She took her time. She didn’t want to get sweaty, and she certainly didn’t want to smear her make-up if she could avoid it. To this end she had worn an old button-front shirt so she could remove it without having to pull it over her head. As she began to unbutton it she couldn’t help but remember the last time she had undressed in a bathroom stall. She was glad he wasn’t here to watch this time, as the clothes she had on were even less attractive.
She removed her shirt, her cut-off jeans and her old sneakers, piling them on the tank behind the toilet. She slipped out of her bra and panties and added them to the pile. Then her glasses. She stood quietly for a moment. Then she reached over, unzipped the garment bag and reached in.
Her new lingerie glistened like dragonfly wings as she pulled it out and unfolded it. Ceremonially, she stepped into the panties and pulled them up, feeling as though she were putting on something magical, they were so new and beautiful. They fit perfectly, as she had known they would. The brassiere was perhaps a little tight but she decided she liked that, liked the slight pressure on her nipples. Unable to resist, she swung open the stall door and went to stand in front of the mirror over the sinks. She stood with her feet apart, raised her arms and locked her hands behind her head.
Who was this exotic, sexy, near-woman looking back at her? She looked at herself. Imagined him looking at her the way he had outside her window that night. And felt herself tingle with pure feminine power. She wanted to go out and find him right now, just like this. Walk right up to him in the middle of the dance, strike this pose for ten seconds, and then walk away, slowly. He would follow her like a dog on a leash, she knew it. Well, that wasn’t a practical fantasy to carry out, but she would find her chance. She returned to the stall.
She had considered, and rejected with her usual distaste, wearing pantyhose. Had thought about surreptitiously borrowing one of her mother’s garter belts, along with some nylons, but it had seemed too unfamiliar and complex. Had finally settled for shaving her legs as closely as she dared.
Now she carefully stepped into her velvet dress, struggling somewhat to reach behind her to zip and clasp it. She took out her sandals, brushed a tiny smudge from the side of one of them, and slipped them on. Then she took out her make-up bag and hairbrush, just in case, before folding up her other clothes and placing them in the garment-bag. She placed her sneakers on top of the pile, sliding her folded-up glasses into one of them for protection. Then she stepped out of the stall and went to the mirror again.
Now she couldn’t decide if she looked like a woman or a little girl playing dress up. The velvet dress had a lovely dark luster, and she had been right in her choice of lipstick to go with it, but it was, she thought, too shapeless. Hers was a petite figure and where the lingerie had accented her small curves, the dress seemed to hide them completely.
She desperately wished she had tried it on again before coming; maybe she could have found a belt or something to give it, and her, more shape. Too late now, she thought, somewhat discouraged. Still, there was somebody new there, someone with a graceful neck and beautiful eyes. And a few freckles on her nose. Oh well. Her make-up had survived perfectly and her hair just needed a little touching up with the brush. She was as ready as she was going to be.
She restored the make-up and hairbrush to the garment-bag, zipped it up, and carried it out of the bathroom, turning off the light-switch as she went. After squashing the bag into her locker, she made her way back up to the entranceway and mingled with the others heading into the dance.
As she entered, one of her teachers startled her by saying her name and telling her how very nice she looked; she hadn’t been aware that this or any other teacher knew her as anything but a name on an attendance record. A moment later a girl she had been friends with in grade school complimented her on her dress. Even one or two of the boys in her class seemed to be glancing at her with interest. She wasn’t at all used to being visible like this—except to him—and she wasn’t sure she liked it.
Well, if things got tough there was always the coatroom.
She settled for vanishing into the shadows that surrounded the brightly lit floor where the dancers were, losing herself among the shy, the unattractive and the socially inept—the ghosts who haunt every such event. She looked around, wondering if he was here already. Or even if he were, whether she’d be able to spot him without her glasses on. She began to drift among her fellow ghosts, slowly making a circuit of the dance floor, squinting to see among the girls in their bright plumage and the boys in their darker hues.
There he was! He was on the dance floor, but he was standing with a small group of people in the corner, all moving intermittently to the music, but mostly just talking and laughing among themselves. As she got closer she was able to recognize some of them as people she’d seen performing in some of the school plays. One of them, a tall, skinny boy with horn-rimmed glasses and a shock of black hair that seemed to stand straight up, was apparently telling a joke or an anecdote, contorting his face into masks of surprise and anger and gesticulating wildly as the rest of them listened.
She watched, wanting to see him in this situation, to see who he became with other people. He was wearing a thin corduroy jacket the color of mahogany and a white shirt with a tie that brought out the color of his eyes. He stood with his hands in his pockets, watching the performance unfold with an expectant smile, waiting for the punchline.
Yet it seemed to her that he stood somewhat apart from the others. There was again, or still, that faint aura of sadness around him, a resigned quality, as if he felt himself to be among this group under false pretenses and was expecting to be discovered and cast out at any moment. She couldn’t understand it.
The skinny boy’s story reached its climax, which apparently had turned out to be an anti-climax, as everyone in the group began to groan and roll their eyes and wave their hands in front of their faces as if warding off a bad smell. The music changed just then and the group began to disperse as boys grabbed girls’ hands, and vice versa, and headed into the cluster of gyrating dancers at the center of the dance-floor.
He had remained at the periphery though, along with a couple of the girls, both of whom seemed to be urging him to dance with them. He was holding up his hands, laughingly demurring, and at the same time he seemed to be glancing over their heads, as if searching the room without wanting to appear to be doing so. The girls were becoming more insistent, grabbing on to his arms, laughing and pretending to drag him into the dancing throng by sheer force.
Jane stepped out of the shadows.
She moved directly into his line of sight. She stopped and pretended to be looking at someone on the other side of the room. She pretended to yawn and stretch, briefly raising her arms and placing her hands behind her head. Then she lowered them to her sides. And walked slowly away.
She made her way out of the hall and headed back down the corridor where her locker was. She took her time, giving him a chance to disentangle himself from his situation and come looking for her.
As she knew he would.
To kill time, she slipped briefly back into her role as the Thief of Ridgeton, checking for lockers that weren’t quite closed and testing the locks on the classroom doors.
Near the end of the hall she discovered a door that had been locked, but not closed tightly enough for the mechanism to latch. The sign on the door said “Band Room”. She eased it open, stuck her head in and looked around, then slipped all the way in.
There was a door-wedge near her feet, and she nudged it with her foot until it was where it would prevent the door from closing all the way. Then she raised her hand to the wall and fumbled until she found a panel of light switches. There were a lot of them, so she switched on the two nearest to her. Instantly a pair of floodlights came on, illuminating a small stage to her right, not much bigger than her living room and raised about three feet off the floor.
On the stage was a jumble of heavy wooden chairs and silver music stands. Stray sheets of ruled music paper dotted the floor. In one back corner stood a group of microphone stands, angled every which way, looking like a flock of silver flamingos. Many of them had black microphone cords coiled neatly at their bases. At the back was a wheeled chalkboard scrawled with musical notation.
On the floor in front of the stage, facing it, was a wooden lectern, with a conductor’s baton, also wood, resting on it. Surrounding the lectern in a semicircle on the other side were several rows of folding metal chairs. The rest of the room faded into darkness, but she could tell it was huge.
She began walking toward the stage. She couldn’t imagine what it was like to be a musician or an actor or any other kind of performer. She’d had to read things in front of one class or another, of course—everyone had to—and she had hated it, hated having everyone’s attention on her while she spoke in a terror-stricken monotone. She couldn’t comprehend the people who sought out this kind of attention. She tried to imagine herself as that kind of person. Tried to picture herself on this stage, illuminated by bright lights.
Completely visible.
She was just wrenching her mind away from this horrifying prospect when she heard the door open, then slowly close…and latch.
He came to her in the darkness near the stage, and took her in his arms and held her without speaking. After a moment she heard him sigh, quietly, as if with relief—as if she had been missing and he had been looking and looking and had finally found her. She rested her head against his shoulder and felt him raise his arm and delicately stroke the back of her neck as if it were something fragile and precious. They stood there like that for several minutes.
Found.
He took her by the hand and led her up onto the stage, to the very center, and left her there for a moment, arms at her sides, eyes dazzled by the light, while he moved things away from around her, dragging chairs back and carrying music stands off to the corner where the microphone stands were. When he came back he continued past her then stepped off the stage next to the podium and turned to face her.
By now her eyes had adjusted to the light somewhat, and she could see his face, although not very clearly. He was once again simply standing there, looking at her. She wondered if he wanted her to lift up her dress—almost began to reach for the hem—and then thought: No—he just wants to look at me.
Strangely, she found that she didn’t mind, even though this was practically the nightmare she had been envisioning when he’d come in. But it was all right as long as it was just him. And as long as he didn’t ask her to read anything. He was just looking at her. Seeing her. Embracing her with his eyes.
He brought one of the heavy wooden chairs and placed it directly behind her, then placed his hands on her shoulders and gently pressed her down into it.
She watched him as he loosened, then removed his tie, which he then used to fasten her wrists to the back of the chair. Then he looked around for a moment, walked over to the cluster of microphone stands, and returned with two coils of black microphone cord. One of these he tied around her chest, just below her breasts, circling the back of the chair a couple of times before knotting it. The other he used to secure her ankles to the outside of the chair legs, so that she now sat with her knees apart.
He knelt in front of her and rested his hands on her knees. He looked up into her face and said, his voice hushed, “You look so beautiful.”
It was the first thing he’d said to her since that day in the bathroom, she suddenly realized.
He rose up on his knees and, taking her face between his hands, kissed her with great tenderness.
And she felt safe.
When he had finished kissing her he continued to look into her eyes as he sank back onto his heels and returned his hands to her knees.
He continued to hold her gaze as he slowly began to lift the hem of her purple velvet dress, gently pushing it up her thighs; slowly, slowly continuing to lift the soft, heavy fabric until her beautiful new panties were completely exposed, glistening in the light. He carefully tucked the extra material of her dress into the cord at her breasts so that it wouldn’t fall down.
Then he lowered his head between her thighs and kissed her there, once, as tenderly as he had kissed her mouth. It reminded her of that day in the library, and she felt herself beginning to moisten where he had kissed her.
He stood and then once more walked to the edge of the stage, stepped off, and turned to look at her. As if she was a work of art that he was creating and needed to contemplate from a distance before continuing.
She liked that.
She watched him as he looked at her, wishing she could see his face more clearly, especially his eyes. She looked down, trying to imagine herself in his place, to see what he was seeing. Was he looking at her breasts, made more prominent by having her hands tied behind her, and the cord around her chest? (Guess I didn’t need that belt after all, she thought to herself.) Was he looking at the white curve of her belly as it appeared from under the mass of bunched fabric and vanished beneath the waistline of her panties? Or was it the panties themselves, the ones he had most likely stolen for her? Was he looking at the outline of the mound between her legs, where he had kissed her?
She didn’t want to speak, fearing she might break the spell, but finally she whispered, “What are you looking at?”
“Your face.”
He stepped back up onto the stage, bent down and, laying his hand against the side of her face, kissed her again, lingeringly, his fingertips tracing the shape of her ear, the line of her jaw, as he did so.
She wanted to touch him too: put her hand on his neck, run her fingers through his hair—and found that she loved the fact that she couldn’t. That all she had to do, all she could do, was be kissed.
Eventually he pulled away, just slightly. She followed his eyes, which were watching as his fingertip gently smoothed her eyebrows, then descended and began to trace the outline of her mouth, over and over, moving inward a fraction of an inch each time he did so.
She thought she had never felt anything so unbearably intimate; it seemed to accentuate her powerlessness, and yet it felt like an offering.
Now the side of his finger was moving slowly back and forth between her lips. She began to kiss it, holding it still with her lips every time it began to move. She felt it against her teeth, and opening them slightly began to nibble at his finger and tease it with her tongue. She felt it turning, and suddenly his finger was pushing slowly between her teeth and probing deeply into her mouth. She groaned aloud, and felt her pelvis inadvertently thrust upward as she did so, the muscles inside spasming for a moment, then relaxing.
He began to slide his finger in and out of her mouth, and she met it with her tongue, continuing to moan, the helplessness of it exciting her beyond belief, her pelvis now bucking in time with each thrust of his finger, the tension there beginning to build...
His finger suddenly slipped out of her mouth. She threw her head back, gasping.
He waited until she was able to focus her eyes on his. Then he said, as if continuing a conversation, “Now, it seems to me that in our last conversation, before we were so rudely interrupted,” giving a puckish smile as he said this, “you were saying that there was something of mine that you wanted. We were at your house, remember?”
Oh god. Standing outside in her bra and panties. Whispering those nasty words to him. Pulling down his pants and then running away. Of course he hadn’t forgotten. And of course neither had she. She had in fact revisited that scene, that conversation, almost every time she stepped out of her front door, reveling in the way she had turned the tables on him. And now it seemed that the tables were turning again.
“Ye-....yes,” she muttered, still having difficulty breathing. She looked at him. She had to say it—and anyway it was true:
“I want...your cock.”
She saw him take a sudden deep breath through his nose, and his eyes become bright and almost terrifyingly focused before he replied, in a near-whisper, as he leaned closer:
“Where?”
Jane was falling into his eyes, just as she had on that first day.
“In my mouth.”
He leaned even closer.
“Say it.”
She had to. She wanted to.
“I want your cock...in my mouth,” she whispered.
Now his eyes were close to hers. His face had become mask-like. He barely moved his lips as he spoke:
“Why? Are you a little slut?”
To Jane’s astonishment the words that had once brought her to tears now caused her arousal to soar, and she suddenly burst out, “Yes! I’m a little slut, and I want your cock in my mouth! Ohhhh....GOD!”
Just saying those final words had pushed her into a small climax. She breathed uncontrollably fast for a moment, and felt a sudden rush of moisture between her legs. She marveled, again, that mere words could be so exciting.
He had seen it, of course, and to Jane’s surprise he suddenly smiled, as if pleased for her.
He laid a hand gently on the side of her face and asked, “Did you just come?” And when he saw her puzzled look continued, explaining, “Have an orgasm? You know, that really nice feeling, here?”
He slipped his fingers between her legs and stroked her there once or twice, making her gasp, almost making her come again. She managed to nod.
“Oh, that’s great...I like that.” He smiled again, and kissed her, happily, as if he was proud of her.
When he had finished she smiled back at him, still aroused, her eyes half shut with it, and said, barely above a whisper, “But I still...want your cock in my mouth.”
And was thrilled to see him flush and close his eyes, and to hear a small groan escape from him.
He came and stood between her thighs, his legs almost touching her chair, so that the bulge in his pants was only a few inches from her face. She watched as he unfastened the top of his pants and began, with deliberate slowness, to unzip them. She was a little surprised when his cock sprang into view without any further preliminaries, but found the combination of dressy clothes and no underwear exciting.
His pants dropped to the floor, something in his pockets making a small metallic jingle when they hit.
He stood still for a moment, letting her look at him there.
Then he took the shaft in his hand and began to do what he had done with his finger, using the tip of his cock to trace the outline of her mouth, teasing her with it. Rubbing the head back and forth across her lips; pulling it away if she tried to kiss or lick it, until she was moaning with equal amounts of desire and frustration.
Finally he allowed her to take it into her mouth, whereupon she immediately took her revenge: first running her tongue down the length of his shaft as far as she could, making him moan in return, then seizing the head between her teeth and biting down—not hard, not much at all, really, but enough to cut him off in mid-moan, and make him look down at her with fear in his eyes.
She worried it just a little, like a dog with an especially tasty bone, looking up at him and smiling as if to say, ‘who’s helpless now?’ Then, without loosening her grip, she began to tease it with the very tip of her tongue, just barely touching him with it, giving only the tiniest, shortest little caresses in different spots, with long pauses in between—driving him crazy with frustration and thus paying him back in kind. She felt his hand on the back of her head, and knew that he wanted to push himself the rest of the way into her mouth. And knew also that he would not.
It was not until he began to plead, incoherently—saying things like, “Oh god...oh please...let...please...”—that she relented, suddenly opening her mouth wide and taking in as much of him as she could. She heard him gasp with relief, and then with something else as she continued moving her head up and down on him, her tongue painting broad strokes along the shaft, faster and faster, until he suddenly climaxed, with a loud “Ahhhhhh!” that sounded as much like pain as pleasure, filling her mouth with his juice.
But he suddenly pulled himself out of her mouth before he was done, allowing the last few drops to land on her upper lip and run down her chin. She had swallowed the rest as quickly as she could, and now licked as much of it as she could off her lip, but couldn’t reach what was on her chin, and of course was helpless to wipe it off in any other way.
She had a sudden picture of her face—the stylishly arranged hair, the dancing silver earrings, the painstakingly applied eyeshadow, rouge and lipstick (though she doubted that there was much left of the latter)—and now, the juice from his cock on her chin. Something about that contrast, like the contrast between wearing her elegant party dress and having it bunched up around her breasts while forced to sit with her legs apart, the wet spot between them in full view, made her want to swoon.
He had mostly recovered from his climax and was looking at her as if trying to guess her thoughts. He said, “What I just did in your mouth...that’s also called ‘coming’. And that stuff on your chin that came out of me is called a lot of things, but most people just call it ‘come’.”
He smiled to himself before continuing, “So your English teacher would give you an ‘A’ in grammar if you said, ‘He came in my mouth, and I have his come on my chin.’
She pictured herself in front of the class, writing that phrase on the blackboard, then turning around to show them that it was in fact still on her chin. She giggled, and he laughed with her.
He reached down and pulled up his pants, beginning to zip and fasten them, tucking his cock carefully away. She wondered, with a sinking feeling, if that was all. Whether now they were just going to go their separate ways.
After he had finished tidying himself up, he reached into the pocket of his sport coat, and pulled something out. Then he said, “Remember these?” And proceeded to unfold, and hold up before her face, her valentine panties.
It was obvious that they hadn’t been washed since that day in the library. Not only was there a discolored stain in the crotch, from when he had made her touch herself, but there were several other stains as well—more, she realized, than could be accounted for by that night outside her window. So he must have been regularly using her panties to… Oh god, that was so sweet!
But now he was holding them in one hand and placing the other against her forehead, gently tilting her head back until she was nearly facing the ceiling. Then, with great delicacy, he draped the valentine panties over her face.
Oh god, the smell!
She cried out, “No!” and struggled to straighten her neck, shake her head—anything to get them off her face! But his hands were there now, cupping her chin and the back of her head. She struggled a moment longer, even tried to blow them off with her mouth, to no avail. So finally, she acquiesced, and took several deep breaths.
As she did she felt him leaning close to her ear as he said, in a low voice, “That’s what your pussy smells like.”
‘Pussy?’ she thought. Is that what he calls it?
As if he’d heard her, he continued, “Some people like the word ‘cunt’, but that sounds too harsh to me for something so nice.”
She thought to herself that ‘nice’ was not a word she would apply to what she was currently inhaling.
Then he asked, “What else do you smell?”
She took another deep sniff. Now that she was used to it, the stale, musky odor of her own juices was not as overwhelming, and she could make out another odor, one that she recognized immediately, since she had just had its source in her mouth.
“Your...come.” she answered, her voice muffled by the fabric.
“Very good.”
The panties were lifted from her face, and he helped her lift her head into its normal position. He said, “You still have some on your chin, you know.”
He had been turning her panties inside out as he said this, and now he slipped them over his open hand, the stained crotch at his fingertips, and used them to wipe the dribble of semen from her chin.
Then he brought it up to her mouth and said, “Lick.”
Oh god, he wanted her to lick his come out of her dirty, smelly panties! And he’d even turned them inside out, so she’d be licking the part that had been right next to her...pussy.
It was completely, unbelievably disgusting.
And, oh god, she was going to do it!
She stared at him with something like defiance, not looking down even once as she put out her tongue and began to lick: Once, twice...a dozen times. Deep, full licks, as if she wanted to lick the entire crotch clean. It didn’t taste much different from what she’d smelled.
When she was done she simply pulled her tongue back into her mouth, and continued to glare at him.
He leaned down then, and kissed her, his hand cupping the back of her head—and for the first time she felt his tongue there, probing every part of her mouth as if trying to scour the foul taste from it.
Then he straightened up and, while tucking the panties back in his pocket, said, “I think that deserves a reward.”
He knelt before her again, and untangled her dress from the cord, pulling it down and smoothing it over her knees. He untied the cords from her feet and chest, then went behind her and removed his necktie from her wrists.
She brought her hands forward to her lap and tried to stretch her shoulders, which were stiff and aching slightly. He came and sat cross-legged on the floor beside her, holding one of her hands as he kissed and massaged her wrist. He switched sides and did the same with her other wrist. Then he rose and stood behind her and began to massage the top of her head with his fingertips.
Heavenly. She sighed and leaned back against his hands as his fingers worked their way slowly down to her temples. Mmmm…
She allowed her mind to drift. She thought about him, and all the different people he seemed to be. She wanted to ask him about all the strange things they had been doing. Whether other people did them. Whether he really liked her.
His fingers moved along the bones above her ears, found the soft spots where the back of her head joined her neck. So soothing. She wanted to ask him why he could do nice things like this and disgusting things like making her lick her own soiled panties.
And how he knew she’d like them both.
That was the one question around which all the others circled. Was there something wrong with her, that she had not only allowed such things to happen, but was even beginning to encourage them?
Because she had not only come to the dance tonight wearing the lingerie he had given her, but had deliberately, provocatively, lured him away, knowing full well that she would wind up doing things that nice girls should not even know about, never mind allow. Or enjoy.
Her teen magazines gravely discussed the perils of allowing boys to kiss you too soon—and tonight she had asked him to put his cock in her mouth. She was so confused. Ashamed. And suddenly felt like crying.
“Peter?” It was almost a sob.
He had been gently kneading the tendons of her neck and she felt his fingers suddenly become still. She had never called him by name before. Not once. But he must have heard the sorrow in her voice because he immediately came and knelt by her side. He took her hands and looked up at her, his concern obvious. She saw it, and for some reason the genuineness of it made her tears overflow, a mixture of sadness and relief.
She watched him fumble in his pockets for a handkerchief, come up with her panties and quickly stuff them back in his pocket. It made her want to laugh through her tears; a moment ago he’d been making her lick them and now they weren’t good enough to blot her tears with. She loved him for that. He finally settled for soaking them up with his tie.
He said nothing, but his eyes were questioning, compassionate.
When she had gotten herself enough under control to speak, she looked down, unable to meet his eyes, and asked, in a low voice, “Do you really think I’m...a slut?”
She heard shock in his voice as he replied, “Oh. Oh no. That was… Oh no...I.... Here, let me...”
He stood and, taking hold of her hands, drew her to her feet. He sat down in the chair and gently tugged her into his lap, cradling her in his arms. She could see he was upset.
He continued to stammer. “I-I’m so sorry. I thought you knew it was...it was just...just part of...” He searched for the right words, failed and ended lamely with, “...all this.”, waving vaguely around them. “I thought you liked saying it. Or having me say it. I never thought you’d… Jane, I’m so sorry...”
He was looking down, but she was astonished to see unshed tears in his eyes. Her head was resting on his shoulder, and she murmured, just loudly enough to reach his ear, “I did like it...tonight. But that first time, in the girls’ bathroom… You were so mean to me and I was so scared...”
She began to cry in earnest. He looked around wildly, but he’d left his tie on the floor. Which was too bad, because now he began to cry as well.
“I know...I know. I don’t know why I had to...”
For a long moment he simply sat there with tears running down his face. Then he took a long, sobbing breath and said, “It’s just that… I wanted to...so much...for so long. And I thought nobody would ever like me enough. And when I saw you that night, and knew you were the one who’d been who’d been stealing...”
His voice ran out at this point and he continued to look down. After a while he sighed and finished with, “And I just thought I could make you let me touch you.”
Another moment passed. Then he looked up at her and said, with a ghost of a smile, “But I never really thought you’d say yes. When I started saying all that stuff about punishing you I was sure you were going to tell me to get lost.”
She sat up and looked at him. “But you said you were going to tell...”
“I know, I know. But I’d never really have told on you, honest. I was just using that as an excuse, so you’d let me... And I never thought… I figured maybe I could get you to let me, you know, touch your breasts, or look up your dress. But when you kept going along with me, kept...doing what I told you.... I...couldn’t stop. Even when I made you cry… I’m sorry, I...I just couldn’t...”
He shook his head sorrowfully at the memory of it, tears still running down his face, but now more slowly. Then he looked back at her and said, “But I thought...some of it, you… Didn’t you like some of it? I thought...”
She thought back to that day and said, softly, “Yes. Even that first time, once I wasn’t so scared of you, I...kind of liked having you tell me what to do. It made me feel...I don’t know...bad and good at the same time.”
His eyes had widened while she said this. “Really? You mean it? You liked it? I mean, all the other stuff? Tonight? I mean, tonight you really seemed to...”
She kissed him then, and said, “Yes, Peter. I really liked what we did tonight.”
And heard him say, “Oh god...” and start to cry all over again, hugging her tightly.
She managed to reach down and snag his tie off the floor and began gently patting his face with it.
When he had mostly recovered she said, “Peter...is it all right that I like it? I mean, are we really...weird or something?”
He thought about it, and then shrugged, shaking his head. “I dunno. My old man has some magazines he doesn’t know that I know about. They have pictures of people doing… That’s how I found out about it. Books, too—that’s where all the ‘slave’ stuff came from. But I don’t know if lots of people do it. I mean, who do you ask?” He smiled slightly. “It’s not something you can bring up for discussion at dinner.”
She smiled, picked up an imaginary telephone and said, “Mom? I’m going over to Peter’s house to let him tie me up, okay?”
They both laughed. Then Peter looked at her and said, “Seriously. Do you want to stop? We can still, you know, see each other, but I don’t want you to feel...”
She got out of his lap, and stood facing him.
She said, “Please...may I take off my dress for you?”
He made no reply but stood and, taking her by the hand, led her to the foot of the stage, where the light was brightest, and had her stand there, facing outward, her hands loosely at her sides.
Then he went and stood behind her. He leaned forward and whispered, “I hope the audience enjoys this part.”
Then he unfastened the clasp at the back of her dress and kissed her bare skin there. Lowered the zipper slightly and kissed her again, his lips moist. Little by little, the zipper was lowered, leaving behind a trail of soft kisses along her spine, except where he had skipped over her bra strap.
She imagined an audience of strangers looking up at her, unable to see what was happening behind her but knowing anyway—maybe it was in the program. She imagined them all looking at her face, trying to read her reactions as the zipper was drawn lower and lower and the kisses became longer...and wetter.
At first, assaulted by memories of classroom disasters, she had tried to control her features, her breathing. But to her surprise she gradually found herself becoming excited by the idea of having something sexy done to her that the audience couldn’t see. She allowed herself to relax; allowed her eyes to close, began to breathe more deeply, her mouth slightly open. In her mind she saw the audience looking at her breasts as they began to rise and fall with her breath, and said, “...Ooooooo.” in a long, drawn-out whisper.
By now he had nearly reached the base of her spine, kneeling on the floor and using the tip of his tongue to draw a circle around each knob in her vertebrae as the zipper descended.
When he reached the elastic of her panties, he paused for a moment.
He pulled the zipper the rest of the way down.
Then he leaned forward again and, placing his lips at the base of her spine, slid his tongue inside her panties and as far down between her cheeks as far as he could reach.
She responded with a loud gasp…and imagined a polite round of applause from the audience. He did it again and continued to caress her there with his tongue.
At the same time she felt his hands sliding smoothly up the back of her thighs—still invisible to the audience, she thought—until they reached her buttocks, fondling and molding them through her panties.
She allowed her head to fall back, her breath coming in gasps, letting the audience know everything. She felt him trying to slip a hand between her thighs and spread her legs apart, allowing him to cup and squeeze her sex. She began to make little whimpering cries, not caring if the people in the back row could hear her.
She heard him rise to his feet, and felt the front of her dress rise with him as his hands traveled over her thighs, then her hips and her belly before rising to cup her breasts for a moment—just long enough to give the audience a glimpse, she thought—before letting her dress fall back into place.
Then he reached up and pushed it gently from her shoulders, allowing it to fall to the floor.
And the crowd goes wild, she thought.
He walked past her and stepped off the stage in the same place as before, again turning to face her.
Now I really have an audience, she thought.
This time, however, because of being so close to the edge of the stage, she could see him clearly, could see him looking at her, enjoying her arousal. She smiled at him then, and slowly raised her arms, clasping her hands behind her head.
He made a little ‘mmmm’ of appreciation as he looked at her. He said, “God—I wish I could tell you how beautiful you look right now, how sexy. I mean, look...” He gestured downward, and she saw that again there was a large bulge pushing against his zipper.
“I love it when you pose for me like that...do you like your new underwear?”
She nodded, smiling.
He continued to look at her, saying, “There’s something… I don’t why, but in some ways it’s sexier to see you like that than to see you with nothing on at all.” He thought a moment, then continued, “Maybe it’s because if you have nothing on at all, you’re just...naked. But if you’re standing in front of me in your underwear—especially with your dress down around your ankles like that—then you’re...undressed. It’s, I dunno, sexier somehow. Is that weird?”
She shook her head, and replied “Uh-uh.” Then, wanting to reassure him, added, “I...I love having you look at me like this,” and saw him smile.
Then she looked at him teasingly and continued, “So I must be a very bad little girl.” And saw him close his eyes. Heard him make a soft noise in his throat. And knew she had excited him even more.
He opened his eyes, swallowed, and said, “Are you?”
She nodded and said, “Yes. I’m a very bad little girl.”
He led her back to the chair, which he turned around so that its back was facing her.
Had her stand there, feet apart, while he tied her ankles to the chair legs.
He went and picked up her dress, which he folded and placed over the back of the chair.
Then he wrapped one end of a microphone cord around her wrists and used it to draw her slowly forward, then down, so that she was bent over the back of the chair, now cushioned by her dress.
He secured the other end of the cord to a rung at the front of the chair. Then he walked away.
She heard him step off the stage. Imagined him looking at her now, bent over the chair—her behind showing tightly pressed against her panties, with their silly little ruffles, the wetness visible between her spread legs.
She moaned to herself and wished he would hurry back.
After a moment she heard his footsteps approaching.
He came and stood in front of her, so she could see that in his hand he was holding the conductor’s wooden baton. He began to tap it against his palm, and asked her, “What bad things did you do?”
She raised her head to look up at him, and said, “I let a boy tie me up and pull up my dress.”
“What else?”
“I let him put...his cock in my mouth.”
God, she loved to talk like this! Loved the way it excited them both. She saw that he was now breathing as heavily as she was.
“What else?”
She smiled at him then, and said, as clearly as she was able, “I licked his...come out of my dirty panties.” And thought they both might come right then. Oh god!
After a moment, he managed to say, “You mean...these?” bringing them out of his pocket in a wad.
“Yes.”
“Open your mouth.”
She did so, and he filled her mouth with them. Then he walked out of her sight.
Again he made her wait.
She knew he was standing behind her, but for several moments he did nothing, said nothing.
Then she felt a fingertip traveling slowly across her behind, tracing the top row of ruffles.
Then the middle row.
Then the lowest row.
She felt his hands take hold of her hips, felt him pressing himself to her, his hardness nestling between her buttocks. Felt it rubbing slowly up and down. Felt her panties drawn tightly between her legs with each stroke. Ohhhh...
He was panting with excitement but after a moment managed to pull himself away. She heard him breathing heavily, trying to recover.
After a moment she heard him say, “These are too nice...”, and felt her panties slipping down over her behind and mid-way down her thighs. Felt his hand running over the smooth skin of her behind, and heard him say, “Ladies and gentlemen, isn’t this absolutely the nicest, cutest little ass you have ever seen?”
She imagined them all seeing her—panties stretched across her thighs, everything exposed—and applauding enthusiastically. Heard him continue, “Yes, it is...it seems almost a shame, but...”
Even though she knew it was coming, heard the whoosh it made as it traveled through the air toward her, the pain of his first stroke with the baton shocked her—it was so much more intense than when he’d spanked her with the palm of his hand: a thin line of fire across her buttocks.
She allowed herself to cry out, knowing that any sound she made would be muffled.
“Uhhhhnn!”
A pause. Another whoosh...another small explosion of pain that made her hips jerk involuntarily against the chair.
“Uhhhhnn!” Already she could feel tingling welts rising on her skin, the heat spreading across her behind—and inward.
With each additional blow she felt the tingling heat take focus between her legs, making her writhe. She desperately wanted him to touch her there, to stroke her into release, but had no way to tell him.
It was wonderful.
He stopped after the tenth stroke.
She heard the baton drop to the floor. Heard him getting down on knees, close to her. Felt his hands rest lightly on her hips. Felt the tip of his tongue, tracing across one of the burning welts on her behind, cool and soothing, but stirring as well. She tried to say, ‘Ooooo’ but of course it came out as, “Nnnnnn.”.
He gave the same tender attention to each welt. He hesitated for a moment. Then she felt his tongue travel slowly up the inside curve of one cheek, withdraw and repeat the process on the other side.
Then again, a little deeper. Getting very close to her… Oh god, was he going to put his tongue up...up her behind? That was even more disgusting than making her lick out her panties!
Oh god, she hoped he would do it!
Instead, he withdrew his tongue.
She heard something that sounded like spitting. And then felt his finger right there, wet, stroking her, gently probing. It was like when he had had his finger in her mouth, only much, much more...what? Nasty? Exciting? Yes!
As his finger probed deeper and deeper inside her, the combination of his violation of her and her helplessness drove her into a frenzy, which only increased as he began to move it rhythmically in and out.
“Unh! Unh! Unh! Unh!”
The finger withdrew.
She heard him rising to his feet. Heard his pants being unzipped and falling to the ground. Heard, again, the spitting sound.
A pause. The spitting sound again.
Oh no! He couldn’t possibly be going to… But it was so big and she was...Oh god!
She felt her buttocks being gently separated. Felt him placing the tip of his cock between them and, using only the slightest pressure, begin to press forward.
Felt herself, unbelievably, opening to receive him.
Felt him withdraw slightly, then press gently forward again. Withdraw, press forward. Withdraw, press forward—a little deeper each time. She felt her insides being stretched, rearranged. It hurt, but not nearly as badly as she’d thought it would.
Oh god, he had his cock up her...her ass! And now he began to move it slowly in and out, and they began to moan in unison, faster and faster as the pace increased, his hips slapping against her buttocks.
Suddenly she felt his hand sliding across the front of her thigh and down between her legs. Felt his finger slide between her lips there and begin to stroke her in rhythm with the movement of his hips.
Oh god, she couldn’t stand it! Her whole body was shuddering as if in an earthquake: she was being torn apart, she was...he was...screaming....!
He collapsed onto her back, gasping, grabbing hold of the chair back to keep from crushing her. He reached down and quickly pulled the panties from her mouth, allowing her to breathe more fully. Oh thank god, she thought, desperate for air.
As soon as he was able to move again he withdrew, quickly pulled up and refastened his pants, then untied her hands and ankles, and helped her to stand.
Then he took her in his arms and held her. She rested her weight against him, barely able to remain standing. They remained that way for a long time.
After a while, he gently balanced her on her own feet, then knelt and slid her new panties the rest of the way down. For a moment she was startled but then realized he was being thoughtful—that he knew she wouldn’t want even that much pressure touching her behind right now.
She stepped out of them and he folded them and handed them to her. He retrieved her dress from the chair and helped her into it, spreading it in a circle on the floor so that all she had to do was stand in the center and let him raise it around her, holding the fabric carefully so that it didn’t brush against her in the wrong place while he zipped and fastened it.
Then, after he had made a quick clean-up of the stage, they left the Band Room: she walking ahead, he following and holding the back of her dress away from her behind, like a courtier holding up the queen’s train.
When they reached the bathroom he had her bend over and lean on a sink, while he raised the back of her dress and soothed her still-stinging cheeks with applications of paper towels soaked in cold water, then delicately cleaned out the area between them with toilet paper.
Suddenly she put her hand to her mouth and began to laugh. She tried to do it quietly, not wanting to get caught at this late date, but was unable to stop. She added her other hand to muffle it. He was staring at her as if she’d gone crazy.
Finally she got herself under control just long enough to sputter, “I...rode...my...b-bike...here!” before collapsing into giggles and rushing out of the bathroom, quickly followed by Peter.
Together they retrieved the garment bag from her locker. Then they took turns walking her bicycle all the way back to her house.