The rest of the week flew by much too fast for Jane. She spent every free moment either with Peter, or, if he had to work nights, on the phone with him when he got home. They had hardly gone a day without seeing each other in the many weeks they’d been together and even though Jane knew she would only be gone for a few days the prospect yawned before her like a prison sentence.
She pretended otherwise before her parents, of course. And really, except for the time apart from Peter, she was looking forward to it: an actual family vacation. They hadn’t done that since she was almost too little to remember, not counting the obligatory visits to relatives.
Monday morning before work, at Jane’s request her mother had driven her to the local Department of Motor Vehicles, where she had easily passed the test to get her learner’s permit. So now whenever Peter came to pick her up he would slide over to the passenger seat and let her decide where they were going to practice.
As before, he would neither touch her nor allow her to touch him while she was driving, although once they were stopped it was a different matter. (Since his car was an automatic they developed an interesting method of practicing the stick-shift.) In secluded places they made love so vigorously in the backseat that Peter complained the car was going to need new shock absorbers.
Peter had to work on Friday night, and Jane had to pack, so Thursday night they planned to have dinner and see a movie—or at least that’s what Peter thought they were doing. Jane had other plans. When Peter came to pick her up Jane came out wearing a short summer dress and carrying a picnic basket and promptly drove them out to the old barn—she had memorized its location on the way back the previous Saturday.
When Peter realized where they were going he looked over at her with raised eyebrows but when Jane offered no explanation said nothing. When they arrived Jane parked where Peter had parked before, then in complete silence reached into the back seat and grabbed the picnic basket.
They said nothing while they ate, napkins on their laps, gazing at the dilapidated building aglow in the sunset. As Jane had expected, just looking at the site of such intense erotic adventures was arousing for both of them—as was the silence. They would gaze at the barn, eyes unfocussed in memory, turn and look at each other for a moment, the sexual current building a little each time, then return their gaze to the barn.
When they had finished eating Jane put things back in the basket and returned it to the back seat. Then she reached into the pocket of her dress and unfolded and placed on Peter’s lap the torn remnants of the panties she’d been wearing that day. He looked at them for a moment then, turning his gaze to her, brought them to his lips and kissed them, once, reverently, as if they were a silk handkerchief given to a knight by his fair lady, then handed them back to her.
“I love you so much,” he said, breaking the long silence.
They made love with only their eyes for the longest time, turning to face each other and sitting cross-legged and knee-to-knee on the wide front seat of the car. They held hands and were content to see themselves, beloved and desired, in each other’s gaze in the light of the slowly fading dusk. Only when it was nearly dark did the touch of their hands gradually become caresses that slowly made their way from wrists to shoulders, and from there to necks and ears, and from there, eyes never leaving each other, to brows and cheeks and lips. They kissed each other hungrily, as if it were the first time.
And when they knew it was time they stepped out of the car just long enough to undress each other as slowly and gracefully as they had done everything else before climbing into the back seat and making love the same way.
At lunchtime on Friday Jane and Suzy met with Lucia and a few other girlfriends at a nearby burger place for a farewell lunch, mostly for Lucia as she was going to be out of town for a couple of months, but for Jane as well since she was leaving the next day. As she and Suzy walked back to the store Suzy told her that she had another date with Joe the next night and promised to tell her all about it. She had plans, she said—but wouldn’t say anything more.
Friday night was spent packing as Jane’s parents wanted to get an early start to beat the traffic to the Cape. Because of that Jane and Peter had said their good-byes the night before and weren’t expecting to see each other until Jane returned.
When she finished she looked at the clock on her desk and saw that it was almost time for Peter to be closing up the store. She thought a moment as an idea began to tickle her. Normally she’d wait for him to call her when he got home, but he had told her that it was never very busy on a Friday night... She checked to make sure her parents were out of earshot, picked up the phone and dialed the store. If someone else answered she planned to hang up, but it was Peter’s voice, brisk and business-like, saying, “Word Works bookstore, can I help you?” that she heard.
She disguised her voice, making it lower and more grown-up-sounding. “Yes, I’m looking for a book, but I’ve forgotten the title. Is there any way you can help me?”
There was a pause, and Jane wondered if he’d seen through her disguise already. But he replied, “I can look it up by the author’s name if you have that.”
“Oh, I’m afraid not,” Jane said, “but I can tell you the subject—will that help?”
“Well, it might. Is it a non-fiction book?”
Jane could tell that Peter was becoming a little annoyed by this customer who didn’t know anything about the book she wanted. She went on, “Why yes, I believe so. It’s all about...panties.”
“Pa—“, she heard Peter start to say, then catch himself before he could say the word out loud in the store. “Um...I beg your pardon?”
Jane was surprised that Peter hadn’t caught on as soon as she’d said the word, but wasn’t about to stop until he did. “Panties,” She repeated, lingering on the word a little. “I just love panties...don’t you?”
“They’re so pretty and...” Jane lowered her voice even more, making it husky “...intimate, don’t you think?”
“It’s so nice the way they...fit down there, you know?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Jane rushed on.
“Um, well, that’s actually...”
“I’ll just bet you do...do you ever just pull up her skirt so you can look at her panties? My boyfriend does that to me all the time and I just love it.”
“Ohhhh....” Peter had caught on. “Well, perhaps you could give me a few more details. Hang on one moment, please”
Jane heard him say, “Good night, thanks for coming,” to someone—a customer, she assumed—then, in a louder voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re closing now. Please bring your purchases to the counter.” Then he was back on the phone. “Thank you for waiting, ma’am. You were saying?”
“Oh, yes,” Jane continued. “I was telling you how much my boyfriend likes to see my panties. Why, the very first time we met the first thing he did was make me lift up my dress so he could look at them.”
“Mm-hm...” Then Jane heard him say, “That’ll be six ninety-five, ma’am.”
She went on, “They were just white panties with little flowers on them, but he really seemed to like them. He made me bend over so he could see how cute my behind looked in them.”
“Mm-hm...” Then: “Yes ma’am, I can change a pant- ...a twenty.”
Jane giggled and said, “Oh, I can tell you like panties too. My boyfriend stole a pair of mine once, and you know what? He even tied me to a chair one time and made me lick his come out of them. Isn’t that cute?”
“Thank you ma’am. What? No, I’m all right; it’s just a little hot in here, that’s all. Good night.” Then to Jane, “One moment please, ma’am.” His voice at a distance, saying, “I’ll lock up. Good night, Mr. Nevin.”
Silence for a moment, then his voice again: “I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t seem to have that book.”
“Well, that’s all right,” Jane purred, her voice breathy. “Actually, I’m wearing some very nice panties right now that I’d love to show you. If you’re done with work why don’t you drop by? I’ll lift up my dress for you, and if you like my panties maybe I’ll take them off...” she pulled the mouthpiece of the phone very close and whispered, “and rub your cock with them. Your girlfriend won’t mind, will she?”
“Um...I don’t think so. She often brings other girls to her house for me to play with.”
“Meet me at the end of the driveway.”
After hanging up the phone Jane thought quickly. Peter would be there soon but it was already getting late. They really shouldn’t be doing this at all but Jane really wanted to see him again before she left...and wanted to do something special for him to think about while she was gone.
Despite what she’d said to Peter, the panties she was wearing under her summer dress were an old pair and not very attractive. She went over and opened her underwear drawer to see if she could find something nice that he hadn’t seen before. As she rustled through the various bright-colored fabrics she spotted a pair in a back corner, and paused to look at them.
She had bought them on impulse because she’d liked the design—a shiny red fabric swirled with black and trimmed with a little black lace—and had thought that Peter would like them too, of course. But she had misread the label, apparently, because when she’d gotten around to trying them on they were too large for her, and being in a hurry that day she had simply stuffed them into the back of the drawer and grabbed a different pair. But now she held them out in front of her and stared at them thoughtfully...
Then she snapped her fingers and began pulling off her clothes. It was time for a little table-turning—if she could find everything needed.
She had told her parents she was all packed and was just going for a short walk before bed—all of which was true. Her mother had suggested that she put on some insect repellent and Jane was very glad she had done so. She’d slathered herself with it from head to toe and even though it smelled terrible she was glad to be wearing it. Especially since she wasn’t wearing that much else, and she could hear the buzz of winged insects all around her. She had been wearing the same summer dress as before when she left the house, carrying a few things in a grocery bag, and walked down to the end of the driveway, but that dress was now folded and lying, along with her sandals, at the base of the tree she was hiding behind as she waited for Peter to arrive.
Now that she was actually about to do what she’d planned she couldn’t decide whether she looked sexy or really stupid. But she knew that whatever happened next would be memorable.
It was already dark when Peter’s car pulled into the driveway, drove past where Jane was hiding and stopped just around the curve where it wouldn’t be seen from the road. Jane immediately stepped into the driveway from behind her tree and crept up to the car, stopping just behind the driver’s side door. And before Peter had a chance to turn off the ignition she stuck her gun in the open window so that it touched his temple, making him jump.
Using the same low, seductive voice she’d used on the phone, she said, “Alright, Panty Boy, hold it right there. Keep your hands on the wheel.”
Peter recovered quickly from his initial surprise and played along, as Jane had expected, saying nothing and keeping his hands on the wheel as instructed.
Keeping her gun in place she said, “Turn off the engine. But leave the lights on.” When he had done so, she removed the gun, saying, “Get out. Raise your hands. And go stand where I can see you.”
She faded back into the darkness as he opened the car door and stepped out, raising his hands. She watched him walk to the point where the beams from the headlights converged, watched him turn slowly around. She was too near-sighted to see his facial expression from where she stood, and wondered if he was smiling. He was still dressed for work in a short-sleeved white shirt and tie and dark pants.
But not for long.
“All right, Panty Boy, take off your clothes.” When he hesitated she added, “Now. Put them on the hood.”
Peter did as he was told, playing it completely seriously, slowly lowering his hands and removing his tie, shirt and undershirt and stepping forward to lay them on the car hood, then stepping back into the light to repeat the process with his shoes and socks, and finally his pants and underwear. When he was completely naked he stood in the light and placed his hands—and Jane was sure he must be smiling at least to himself as he did so—behind his head.
Jane allowed herself a few moments to enjoy the sight. She didn’t want to take too long, not least because she knew Peter wasn’t wearing any insect repellent—although considering some of the things he’d put her through a few bug bites was a small price to pay, she thought. She loved looking at him, his well-shaped body, the dark hair on his chest and in his armpits and groin. His cock nestled in its bed of wiry hairs, unaroused—as yet.
“Put these on, Panty Boy,” she said, tossing him the red panties she’d been carrying wadded up in her other hand. They fell a few feet in front of him, and she watched as retrieved and unrolled them, holding them out in the light with both hands. Oh, how she wished she could make out his facial expression right now!
“I didn’t say look at them, I said put them on, Panty Boy. Go on. And then put your hands back where they were.”
She watched as he slowly lowered, then stepped into them and pulled them up to his waist, then returned his hands to behind his head. As she’d hoped, the panties fit him well. They were somewhat on the snug side, but Jane had no problem at all with that.
Again she allowed herself a few moments to enjoy the sight of him dressed only in her shiny red and black panties.
Then she walked forward, past the car and stepped between the headlights where there was just enough light so he could see her. She hoped he wouldn’t laugh and spoil the mood.
On her feet were red leather cowgirl boots with white tooling and tassels. She’d had them since she was eight years old and she’d had to dig way to the back in her closet to find them. She’d been amazed she’d still been able to get her feet into them—though she doubted she’d be able to walk far, they were so tight on her feet. Around her waist was the matching red leather holstered gun-belt, complete with silvery pearl-handled cap pistols, a little rusty from having once been left out in the rain, one of which she held pointed at him. For lack of a better disguise she was wearing a red and white bandana—with ragged eyeholes she’d hurriedly cut out—tied over the upper half of her face.
And, completing the ensemble, a lacy set of bra and panties in black.
She watched his face anxiously for any hint of amusement, but his expression remained impassive as he looked at her. As she allowed her gaze to move downward, however, she saw the definite beginnings of a reaction taking shape in the front of the panties he was wearing.
She sauntered forward, keeping the pistol pointed at him while with her left hand she drew the other from its holster. When she reached him she put the tip of the left-hand pistol against his chest and looked into his eyes in what she hoped was a believably menacing manner. Then she deliberately shifted her gaze downward to where the bulge in the front of his panties was taking a much more definite and recognizable shape.
“You really are a Panty Boy, aren’t you?” she purred. She reached down and with the tip of the pistol in her right hand stroked his erection lightly, once, from bottom to top. It stiffened noticeably. She glanced up and saw him staring, fascinated, at what she was doing, his breathing becoming a little faster. She teased him some more, using the tip of the pistol to trace the outline of his erection through the fabric, then lowered it and used the gun-sight to tickle his balls. Soon the head of his cock was straining, in what looked to Jane like a somewhat painful manner, to escape the lacy elastic waistband of the panties.
She smiled up at him. “Looks like somebody wants to come out and play.” She worked the tip of her gun under the waistband and pulled the elastic out just far enough for the head of his cock to pop free—then she pulled it out even farther, as far as she could, and let it snap back against his cock. Peter let out a short huff of breath.
“Well, that’s just too bad, Panty Boy. Now turn around—let’s see how cute your behind looks.” As soon he had turned his back to her Jane moved silently back to the car, replacing the guns in their holsters as she did so.
She picked up his pants from the hood and started going through his pockets. Working as quietly as possible she put his belt, wallet, comb, change and assorted bits of paper on the hood then, still holding his pants, turned back towards him.
“I have a message from your girlfriend,” she said. “She wants to be sure you don’t forget her while she’s away. So you’re going to keep those panties on, night and day, until she gets back—got it, Panty Boy?”
She smiled as she saw him nod, the back of his head with his hands still linked behind it bobbing once. He hadn’t spoken once since he’d arrived.
“And another thing—you’re not allowed to touch yourself while she’s gone.” She could imagine his eyebrows rising in that comical way he had. “That’s right, Panty Boy—you save it all for her. Got it?”
Again, the single bob of the head.
Jane picked up the rest of his clothes and, leaving his shoes, belt and the items from his pockets on the hood, stepped quietly back towards the car door. “Good. Have a nice drive home, Panty Boy.” And with that she reached into the car, shut off the headlights, and vanished into the darkness—leaving Peter to fumble his way back to the car and drive home wearing nothing but his shoes and her panties.
She couldn’t get herself to write his name. Chrissy knew what it was, but writing it down, or even just thinking it consciously, was to acknowledge who he wasn’t. If he was just Jane’s friend, then he could also somehow be someone else: a different, separate person who was Father Brian.
It was after midnight. She sat at her desk in near-darkness, the only illumination a small candle so that anyone passing her room on the way to the bathroom would see no telltale glow under her door.
Her head ached. She knew that Jane’s friend was now her only chance of seeing Father Brian, and she had thought of a plan, but it wouldn’t work if she couldn’t write his name. She looked down at the note she had so painfully composed. She compared the handwriting to Jane’s on the original note she’d given to Chrissy. Close enough, she was sure...but would he believe what she had written? She didn’t know how they spoke to each other; did Jane call him ‘Honey’ or ‘Sweetie’ or some other nickname Chrissy didn’t know? She didn’t dare take a chance of getting it wrong so she had to write his name—at the very least she’d have to put it on the envelope. But she couldn’t...
She lay her head down on her arms. She knew she was taking a terrible risk: even if she convinced Jane’s friend to let her meet with Father Brian while Jane was away, how could she keep Jane from finding out about it when she got back? Sweet Mother of God, those pictures!
She didn’t care. God wanted her to be purified. He would protect her from the consequences. If she could just write his name... It was so maddening to be blocked by such a simple task. She wished she could get someone else to write it for her, but of course then she’d have to say what she wanted them to write...no.
Suddenly she raised her head. Someone else...
She jumped up, went to her bookshelves, grabbed her new high-school yearbook and brought it back to her desk. Not even taking time to sit down she opened the book at random, glancing at the names of students and faculty as she flipped through the pages. About two-thirds of the way through she found it: Fenton, Peter—Shop Teacher. There! She wouldn’t write his name, she’d write Mr. Fenton’s first name! She put her hand over her mouth as she began to giggle uncontrollably.
It was a long time before she could get herself to stop, and when she did she listened anxiously for a long time to be sure no one had heard her. But the house was silent. And now it was time to go.
She sat down long enough to write...the name...onto the envelope in what she hoped looked like Jane’s handwriting, her left hand covering her mouth the whole time as a precaution, then took a last look at the note before sealing it in the envelope. She had kept it as simple as she could, but there were so many little things that could be wrong! No. It would be all right. God wanted this for her, and her plan would work.
She tiptoed downstairs and out the back door to where she had hidden her bicycle in some bushes. Driving would have been a lot easier—she had a long way to go—but she couldn’t risk the noise of starting the car. She walked her bike around the house and down to the end of the driveway before hopping on and pedaling down the street, the small light between the handlebars creating a dim, wavering path through the darkness.
When Peter got into his car the next morning he found an envelope with his name on it on the seat. He opened it and read, “Chrissy needs to see Father Brian right away. I left an extra key to the house for her and said he would meet her there at the same time as before. Love, Jane”.
He read it over several times, frowning. How had Jane been able to drop off the note between the time they left each other last night and the time she and her family had left early this morning?
His mouth quirked as he recalled having to wait in his car until he saw all the lights go out in the house so he wouldn’t be seen sneaking in dressed only in a pair of panties (which, as ordered, he was still wearing under his clothes that morning) and carrying his shoes and possessions in his hands.
The message itself was strange too. Referring to Father Brian as “he”. No little jokes about behaving himself with Chrissy while Jane wasn’t there to keep an eye on him. And if this meeting had been in the works why hadn’t Jane mentioned it? They had talked about it some time ago, but nothing recently. Hmm... The only thing he could think of was that maybe Chrissy had called Jane after she’d got back to the house last night and Jane had written the note in a hurry and (illegally) driven over to drop it off.
He shrugged and placed the note on the seat beside him. There was only one way to find out, and not until tomorrow. He started the car and drove off to work, wondering what Jane had gotten him into now.
When Jane and her parents arrived at the cabin they were wilted from the heat and the long drive. Despite their early start there had still been a great deal of traffic and the directions to the cabin had been less than precise so it had been nearly noon when they finally got there.
The cabin had been closed up since the previous winter and was dark and musty inside but once they got the shutters off and opened the windows the sea breeze freshened the air quickly. They ate a picnic lunch in the tiny kitchen then drove into town to buy food and supplies. After getting the cabin cleaned up and organized they spent a few hours on the beach, occasionally wading into the cool blue water but mostly just lying on their blanket soaking up sun.
After supper Jane asked if it would be all right if she called Peter to let him know they’d arrived safely. But when she picked up the phone there was no dial tone.
“That’s odd,” her mother said when Jane told her. “Mr. Jameson told me he’d have the phone turned on for us. Well, I guess we’ll have to drive into town tomorrow and call him from a pay phone. I have some questions about what he wants me to write. Sorry dear, maybe you can call him tomorrow.”
The next morning, after spending a few hours on the beach Jane and her mother drove into town to find a payphone while Jane’s father prepared lunch. They found a phone booth but it did neither of them much good. There was no answer at either the Jameson’s or at Peter’s house. “Guess they’re all at church,” Jane’s mother decided. “Well, we can survive until tomorrow, I guess. You can call Peter at work and I’ll call Mr. Jameson at the paper.”
Jane agreed, mostly because there didn’t seem to be anything else to be done. But she couldn’t help wondering where Peter had gone on a Sunday morning.
It wasn’t to church—of that she was certain.
Chrissy sat in her car outside Jane’s house, watching and listening. Jane had said they would all be gone but Chrissy had to be absolutely sure. She drew a quavering breath and held it as long as she could. Nothing but birdsong and an airplane flying high overhead.
She opened the car door and stepped out, staggering slightly as she stood up. She hadn’t slept at all the night before and not much the night before that, even though she’d been exhausted from her long bicycle ride to his house and back. She had just come from church, where she had been so tired and tense and preoccupied that one of her friends in the choir had had to nudge her two different times when they were supposed to stand and sing.
And now she was about to do an awful thing, something that would get her in terrible trouble if she were found out. But she had to do it. She made her way to the front door and, as a final test, rang the doorbell several times. Nothing. She looked around furtively, as if expecting someone to be spying on her from the nearby trees, then opened her purse and took out a big set of keys on a ring.
They were her Uncle Finn’s collection of skeleton keys—and she had taken them from his locker at the police station without telling him. She, the daughter and niece of police officers, was about to break into a house. Her hands were shaking. She wanted to stuff the keys back into her purse, run to her car and get away from there as fast as she could.
But she stood there, taking deep breaths to calm herself. It was all right, she wasn’t going to steal anything. It was a small sin in service of a much higher purpose. God knew that.
She isolated a number of keys that looked as though they might fit into the old-fashioned lock. She found several of them that did fit, but wouldn’t turn. Her anxiety began growing again. Father Brian would be there soon—she had to get in!
The fifth key opened the lock as if it had been made specifically for it. Chrissy looked all around one more time before hurrying inside and closing the door behind her, making sure it didn’t lock again. Taking only a moment to orient herself she hurried upstairs.
The first room she came to was Jane’s, judging by the single bed and the records, stuffed animals and other teenager’s items scattered around. Chrissy looked at the table beside the bed then opened a couple of bureau drawers and looked inside. No. She hurried out and down the hall to Jane’s parents’ room.
Ah! There it was on the bedside table! She picked up the sleep-mask and made her way downstairs again, practically running now. She clattered down the basement stairs. When she reached the bottom she stopped to catch her breath. Almost ready. She put her purse down on the couch and looked around. Everything there seemed to be as it was before.
She walked into the workshop area and—oh, sweet Mother of God, there it was: the sawhorse. She stopped, staring. It looked as if it hadn’t been touched since...since... The blanket was still folded over the crossbar. And there were the ropes, piled carelessly on the workbench!
Ohhhh.... She closed her eyes as she felt her breath beginning to quicken and a warmth begin to spread through her, making her knees feel like rubber. Yes, she would be purified again! She would be free of sin and filled with light like an angel!
But what was she doing? Father Brian would be here any moment! She had to make herself ready!
She stood facing the basement door—tense, waiting. Waiting...she had already waited so long, why were these last few moments such an eternity? She felt such a yearning, a desperation almost, for the peace she had once known. Deliver me from evil, she prayed.
At long last she heard a car approaching. She put on the sleep-mask, barely noticing that it was damp with sweat from being clutched in her hand. She carefully pulled her hair free of the elastic and arranged it as best she could with her fingers.
She waited, listening as the car approached, stopped and fell silent. She heard a car door slam. Footsteps on the porch. A door opened and closed. More footsteps, drawing closer. The door at the top of the stairs opening. And finally a heavy tread on the stairs themselves: Father Brian, coming down and down towards her.
She began to shake. And when she heard the door at the bottom of the stairs swing open she fell to her knees, arms spread beseechingly. She tried to speak clearly but couldn’t stop herself from stuttering a little as she said, “I s-submit myself to you for...for judgment and p-punishment.”
So focused was she on getting the words right that she failed to hear him gasp as he came in.
There was a long silence after she had spoken.
Finally she heard him say, “Uh, h-hello, um, my child.” Another long pause. Then: “Tell me, why aren’t you...um, why...why...are you naked?”
“To show hu-humility, Father—before you and before God.”
As she spoke she felt the warmth again; felt it spreading through her entire body. Felt her heart open, ever so slightly. “God has shown me that I’m always naked before Him. That I can’t hide anything from Him. He sees what’s inside me. And that...” She felt her eyes begin to overflow beneath the mask, and she sat back on her heels and dropped her hands into her lap. “..Th-that’s why I wanted to see you again.” She took a sharp breath. “So that I can be purified in His sight.” She let her head fall forward. “I need you to purify me, Father.”
There was another silence.
Then to her shock she felt a hand—his hand—rest gently on her head and begin to caress her hair. It sent a thrill from her scalp down into the pit of her stomach, so that she almost failed to hear him reply, “No you don’t, child. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
She started to shake her head in disagreement but stopped herself for fear he might take his hand away. She said, “But there is, Father! You don’t know...”
“Yes I do,” she heard him say gently. “You told me, remember?”
“No. Listen to me.”
Chrissy heard him kneel down so that he was at her level and felt his other hand on her shoulder—she suppressed a shiver—as he continued to smooth and caress her hair. She felt the warmth inside her increase.
“You made some mistakes,” she heard him continue, “—which you’ve already been punished for, and which you told me you were going to try to correct. Did you write to your teacher?”
“Y-yes, Father. But he never wrote back.”
“That’s not important. You tried.”
Both of his hands were on her shoulders now and Chrissy was very much aware of how close he was to her—and of her own nakedness. She noticed distantly that his voice had become inconsistent, not always sounding entirely like Father Brian’s as he went on, but she didn’t care. His words were a balm to the pain in her heart. And his touch...
Then he said, “Now, as for this other business—the...uh, touching yourself and so forth, I think...
Shame boiled up through her, choking her. She jerked away from his grasp, bringing her head up suddenly as if to look at him through the sleep-mask and said, her voice tight, “I...I’ve tried to stop, really I have! But it...the need...comes back all by itself, it’s like a demon inside me! Father, you have to help me get rid of it!”
The hands returned to her shoulders and shook her gently. She heard him say, “Cri—uh, child, listen to me. If you were...uh, daydreaming about someone other than a priest there would be no need for all of this. Wanting to...touch someone, and be touched by someone...um, the way you do, is something that everyone feels. It’s a part of life. It’s...uh, part of God’s plan, and...”
“No, Father, it’s not!” Chrissy whipped her head back and forth crazily. “It’s fornication! It’s a sin, a terrible sin! I need to be purified! Please—it’s hurting me, it’s killing me!”
And with that she reached out blindly and threw her arms around him, pressing herself to him, sobbing, her head resting at first on his shoulder then gradually sliding down his chest until it rested in his lap, where she continued to repeat the word “please” between sniffles and gasps for breath. She noted, dimly, that he was not wearing the robes of a priest—she had felt buttons on his shirt and could tell that the fabric against her cheek as she lay there was denim—but she refused to think about it. His hand was caressing her hair again and she wished she could just lie there forever.
After a while she heard him sigh, a long exhalation of breath. Then: “All right, child. As you wish.”
He helped her to her feet and took her by the hand, but even so it suddenly seemed as if she no longer had a body. In the darkness created by the mask it seemed as if she had been reduced to her essence, floating there, the touch of his hand in hers a sensation as distant as the moon, the feel of her bare feet on the braided rug and then the concrete floor as he led her toward the workroom something totally unrelated to her.
Then she became aware of the air flowing over her skin like a cool liquid as she moved through it, and for a moment she simply enjoyed it. But it reminded her that she was naked—and alone with a man. But it was all right; he was a priest...wasn’t he?
In the back of her mind there rose a sluggish uncertainty. It was Father Brian who had her by the hand, and he was about to help her become purified again. But wasn’t there something about...Jane’s friend? Didn’t he have something to do with this? She had to remember!
She felt her hand being released, and then the sound of something heavy being placed on the floor in front of her. She reached down tentatively with one hand: the sawhorse. Then his hands, taking hers, leading her forward so that she straddled it. The hands gone again. Rope being tied around her left ankle. Then her right. But who was doing it?
“Who are you?” she whispered.
There was a sudden stillness in the room.
Then the familiar voice, saying, “I...I believe we’ve been introduced, child.”
But Chrissy heard the uncertainty. She wanted desperately to tear off the mask and see who was there with her; she started to raise her hands. But...if it was Father Brian, then he would leave her—forever! She couldn’t take that chance.
So when the voice asked her if she was all right and whether she wanted to continue she simply nodded and held out her arms. But as she was gently pulled forward and bent over the sawhorse and her wrists were being fastened her mind was spinning.
Who was it?
There was no speech this time about sin and punishment. No instructions about counting and apologizing. Just his voice behind her saying, “Last chance to change your mind, child—you’re sure this is what you want?”
Her mind was saying, But what if...? But what if...? But the need was too strong now. She could feel it—all her sinfulness, all her wrongness—concentrated as a devilish heat in her loins. This was the only way. She took a deep breath through her mouth and let it out slowly as a single word, pleading.
And the first blow fell.
With the first snap of the rope across her buttocks Chrissy felt something shift within her. Even as she cried out the image that had so often come to her mind was there: the shadowy, faceless figure in a priest’s robes standing over her as he wielded the scourge. But the image was blurry, and as the rope continued to punish her a new figure seemed to be taking shape there. Someone with a face. Each burning touch of the lash seemed to bring the image into clearer focus.
(“There! Ye’ll not be siccin’ Father Brian on me, by God!”)
Sweet Lord, she remembered now! Oh God! She was naked and tied down and being whipped by Jane’s friend! He was standing behind her now, looking between her parted thighs as he raised the rope to strike her again!
She jerked as the sting of the rope sent another wave of pain through her, meeting and somehow joining with the fire in her loins.
She wanted to die of shame. Not a priest, but a boy, a boy she knew! A fornicator with that little whore! The shame of it! She had to stop him right now! Oh, Sweet Jesus, what was the phrase, what was she supposed to say to make him stop?
Another blow fell, this one across the back of her thighs, almost touching her...there!...and sending an arc of electricity racing up her spine, wiping all thought from her mind. What was it? What was it?
‘In the name of God’. That was it! She knew how to make him stop! She opened her mouth to speak, but to her horror what came out , though barely a whisper, was:
No! That wasn’t what she meant to say! She tried to open her mouth again but nothing came out but a low groan. She heard a small sound...the rope dropping to the floor? Had he somehow understood her real intention and stopped? Was he going to untie her now?
The pain that suddenly bloomed across her buttocks completely dwarfed everything that preceded it, and made her arch her back and scream. His hand! He had struck her with his open hand! He had touched her nakedness!
He did it again. And again. Oh God, the shame! She screamed, and moaned, and screamed again but somehow could not force herself to even say ‘Stop!’, never mind the phrase that was actually supposed to work.
Now she was being struck by both of his hands, one after the other, and her body was betraying her, bucking and rising to meet each assault. The pain, the heat inside her, roiling together, building, just like before only so much more intense this time, why?
Because it’s not a priest. Because it’s a boy I know, who’s tricked me into this. And yes, because of the shame of having him see my nakedness and lewdness while he strikes me across the buttocks with his bare hands. Because...Oh God, faster, yes! Because it’s...
...Peter, she breathed to herself, like the closing of a prayer.
To her own surprise she didn’t pass out this time, even though the release she’d felt had been twice, many times more than the first time. She rested uncomfortably, her head turned sideways against the blanket as she gasped for breath, her legs trembling with exhaustion as they continued to hold her up at the hips, the flesh of her buttocks and upper thighs still burning.
She was aware of her bonds being loosened, one by one. A hand gently lifting the sweat-soaked hair away from her face and smoothing it behind her ear. A voice close to her ear saying, softly, “Enough of this now, child. You’re a good girl.” And then, incredibly, warm lips pressing tenderly against her temple for a moment, followed by the sound of footsteps retreating and then climbing the stairs.
He kissed me. Father Brian kissed me.
Then her mind cleared and she remembered.
No. There is no Father Brian. It was Jane’s friend... Peter. Peter did this to me. Peter knows what I am.
The shame of it, she thought.
And felt herself smile. To show my humility...
As soon as she heard the sound of Peter’s car starting she stood up—slowly, painfully—then climbed off the sawhorse and removed the mask. After blinking a few times to accustom herself to the light she walked to the other side of the basement, where she’d left her clothes. She looked at the pile of neatly folded garments on the couch, started to reach for her underwear...then stopped, her arm still extended.
After a moment she shook her head slowly, turned and began walking up the basement stairs, still carrying the sleep mask.
At the top of the stairs she hesitated momentarily, leaning out and glancing around, listening intently to make absolutely sure the house was empty. Then she stepped out into the kitchen and stood there.
On top of the glow she still felt from what had just happened in the basement she found it oddly exhilarating to be standing naked in the kitchen of the house where Jane and her family lived. There was something vaguely familiar about the experience but she couldn’t figure out what it was.
She made a point of walking into every room and standing there for a while. She sat down on chairs, looked out of windows. She turned on the television in the living room and watched it for a moment, then turned it off again.
Naked in someone else’s house! She had never done anything so wicked, and she didn’t care. She went back into the kitchen, opened the freezer, took out a package of ice cream, opened drawers until she found a spoon and ate a few bites before returning the package to the freezer. She washed off the spoon and put it away.
Then she made her way upstairs. She went to Jane’s parents’ bedroom and replaced the mask where she had found it. As she turned to go she noticed the full-length mirror and stood before it.
Her face was streaked with make-up and tears and her hair was in wild disarray. She took some tissues from the bedside table and cleaned herself up as best she could, dropping the tissues in a wastebasket near the dressing table when she was done, then took a brush from the table and fixed her hair.
Then she stood looking at herself. Peter, a boy just her age, had seen her like this. And not just seen her...
She turned her back to the mirror and twisted her head around, straining to see.
There: buttocks and upper thighs angry red, with raised welts where the rope had struck and–Oh God–fading but still visible, the imprints of his hands! As if he had branded her with his touch!
She reached back and placed one of her hands gently over one of the outlines his had left. And shivered.
His hands on her naked body!
She turned to face the mirror again. Bent forward, legs apart, arms hanging down, imagining herself tied to the sawhorse again. Imagined Peter standing behind her, holding her gaze in the mirror as he raised his hand...
She gasped. Shameful!
She straightened quickly, and turned and left the room.
But he kissed me, she thought as she walked down the hall. He knows everything about me and he kissed me, said I was a good girl...
She started to walk past Jane’s room then stopped.
(“Do you like my new undies?”)
(“...And if you’re not inside me in ten seconds you’re the one who’s going to get punished, buster!”)
(“There! Ye’ll not be siccin’ Father Brian on me, by God!”)
She caught her breath as an image from that night flashed into her mind: Peter, standing in front of his car in the moonlight, pants around his knees, naked buttocks flexing as he...
Peter had fornicated with Jane and spanked her and done God knows what else. But it was Jane’s fault—she had tempted him, the little whore.
Chrissy turned and went into Jane’s room.
She stood, looking for a moment at the neatly made bed. Had they fornicated there? Had she lain there as she had on the car that night, and spread her legs for him and told him to...
She tore her gaze away. She had opened drawers in Jane’s bureau while looking for the sleep mask and now she turned and pulled open the top drawer again.
(“Do you like my new undies?”)
The little whore’s underwear drawer. Chrissy looked at the colorful jumble of lace and cotton and wondered what Jane had been wearing that night—what she had lifted her dress and shown to him. Black, she thought, spotting a brassiere in that color. That’s what a whore would wear. She freed the bra from the tangle and looked at it, admiring in spite of herself the flowery design of the lace cups. Slowly, she held it up in front of her breasts and looked at herself in the mirror above the bureau.
She looked at herself for a long time.
Then she slipped her arms through the straps.
Her breasts were larger than Jane’s and she held her breath as she struggled to fasten the clasp behind her back. She looked at herself again. Saw her breasts overflowing the too-tight brassiere, felt the pressure of its cups against them.
She rummaged around in the drawer until she found the panties that matched the brassiere and stepped into them, easing the elastic over her tender behind. Although tight, they fit reasonably well. But she couldn’t see them in the mirror. She’d have to go back to the other room...wait.
She went over to Jane’s closet, opened the door and began searching through the clothes hanging there.
No...no....there! That was the red dress Jane had been wearing that night, Chrissy was sure of it.
She tore it from its hanger and put it on, her fingers fumbling with the long row of white buttons in the front.
It was a terrible fit—Chrissy was much taller than Jane as well as bigger in the chest and hips—but she didn’t care. She found the red sandals Jane had worn and found to her surprise that she could get them on her feet.
Then she left Jane’s room and walked slowly down the hall to stand in front of the full-length mirror again. The dress was bunched up in places and had ridden up her hips as she’d walked. She straightened it as best she could, then looked at herself.
Then she reached down, grasped the hem of the dress on either side and raised it, slowly, tugging it up over her hips until the black lacy panties were fully exposed, watching herself all the while.
Staring into her own eyes she murmured, her lips barely moving.
“Do you like my new undies?”
She lowered the dress again. Then she began undoing the buttons that ran down the front. When they were all undone she held the dress open with both hands and looked at her reflection. Was this how Jane had done it, letting him see...everything?
Chrissy looked at herself—the red sandals, the long white legs, too-tight bra and lacy panties framed by the red fabric. Is this how the little whore seduced him? She pushed her breasts out more blatantly and spoke in a breathy whisper:
“Do you like my new undies...Peter?”
She pulled the dress off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor behind her. “I’ll bet you do,” she cooed to the mirror. “I’ll bet you like seeing me in my just my undies, don’t you Peter. I’ll bet you want to touch me...here.” She reached up with both hands and lightly touched her fingertips to the cups of the brassiere. “Or here...” She reached down and stroked herself once, delicately, between her legs.
Then she did it again.
And again, more slowly.
“Oooo, you like touching me there, don’t you...Peter.” She started backing up towards the edge of the bed behind her. “I’ll let you touch me there as much as you want—‘cause I’m just a little whore.”
She sat down on the bed and allowed herself to fall back onto it, kicking the sandals off her feet. She raised her head, grabbing a pillow from behind her to support it so she could still see herself in the mirror, and watched as she spread her legs apart and began touching herself again.
“Look, Peter, I’m spreading my legs for you. Because I’m a little whore. A dirty...little...whore. And if you’re not inside me in ten seconds you’re the one who’s going to get punished, buster.”
Unable to resist, she slipped her hand down inside the panties and began to stroke herself furiously as she panted, “Inside me...Oh God! Yes, inside me! I’m a little whore and I want you inside—ah!—inside me! Oh Peter, you’re inside me! Oh! Oh! OHHHH!”
She thrust her hips up violently to meet each stroke of her finger, the pain of her still-tender buttocks as they bounced off the mattress only adding fuel to the fire that was consuming her. She continued to cry out and watched herself arch her back higher and higher...until suddenly she felt a release like an avalanche inside her that caused her to slap both hands to the mattress and arch her back, unable to breathe, until her feet were on tip-toe and she thought her spine would snap, her eyes rolling back into her head.
And then she collapsed onto the bed.
When she was finally able to move she rose slowly from the bed and faced her reflection in the mirror. There was a look of bewilderment on her face. After a long while she reached down and picked up the red dress from where it lay on the floor and put it on and buttoned it. Stepped into the red sandals. Then, without another glance at the mirror, left the room, stopping only to straighten the bed.
She went past Jane’s room without stopping and went down to the basement. She stood gazing at the pile of clothes she’d left on the couch...then picked them up and carried them into the workroom. She carefully placed the shoes on either side of the sawhorse where her feet had been. Then she draped the bra and panties over the crossbar in the appropriate places, and laid the pantyhose over the panties, arranging the legs on either side so that the feet went into the shoes. Finally the blouse was laid over the bra, sleeves hanging down to the floor, and the skirt over the panties and pantyhose.
She stared at the result for a while. Then she whispered, ”Enough of this now, child. You’re a good girl.”
She turned and left the workroom, leaving the clothes where they were.
She didn’t need them anymore.
She returned to the couch. The purse was still there. She stared at it. Reached out tentatively, as if reluctant to touch it. Reached inside it and delicately removed, first the ring of skeleton keys, then her car keys. Then, holding the keys in her left hand, picked up the purse by its handles with her right, using just the tips of her thumb and forefinger. Holding it at arm’s length as if it might explode, she carried it up the stairs and out of the house, closing the door behind her.
When she reached her car she opened the trunk of her car with her left hand, then carefully placed the purse inside before slamming the lid shut again. The concerned expression on her face cleared, and she got in her car and drove away.