Bondage and spanking, anal sex, and attempted rape

I stood outside the cabin and watched a trio of
Canadian Geese ducking for grubs or whatever it is
that Canadian geese duck for. They foraged in the
scrub grass right at the edge of the woods, keeping a
watchful eye on their watcher. One of them honked and
I honked back, feeling not the least bit foolish.

The sunlight was brilliant, with not a cloud in the
blue sky, and there was nothing but the fresh
mountain air and the scent of pine. No pollution or
the people who cause it.

We were secluded here, the girls and I, miles from
civilization. Not a paved road this side of Cider
Creek, and only the narrow graveled track leading
back down the mountain. Even better–and more
important–there was not another cabin within five
miles.

I went back inside to my girls.

Camilla and Michelle were both naked, face down on
the floor. A large swatch of duct tape ran ear to
ear, and both had their arms folded behind them,
secured elbow to wrist with white nylon cord. Their
legs were bound also, crisscrossed at the ankles.
Where their breasts pushed against the rug and
flattened out, the wrapped nylon cords were visible.
A deep, painful red had set in. Laying head toward
the stone fireplace on a large hook rug, both were
wide-eyed and frightened. Their heads twisted back to
watch.

“You two are in a predicament,” I said.

They both squirmed and made throat sounds. I moved in
behind them and both twisted to keep me in sight. “I
can pretty much do whatever I want,” I said. “Right?”

The girls eyed one other uncertainly. Camilla,
twenty-eight, tall, dark haired with huge brown eyes,
has high firm breasts (higher and firmer when bound)
and a nice round bottom. Her classic good looks–
definitely Spanish in origin–make her a perfect
lingerie model. She finds this activity crude
indeed. Also embarrassing, admitting she likes it.

Michelle is nineteen years old, and very blonde.
Smaller than Camilla, and less well endowed, she is
has a wonderfully fine ass, and a wonderful sense of
humor, which coupled with her rather crude mouth
sometimes makes Michelle speak first and pay the
consequences later. She gets into trouble a lot. For
the afternoon at least, it’s better that Michelle is
gagged.

I knelt behind Camilla and patted her rear end. She
jumped, then began to tremble. The first time in my
cabin, the first time bound and gagged, Camilla is
quite unnerved. They both are. Neither have gone this
far in our activities and now both have reservations.

Wondering if this were an altogether smart idea, I
caressed Camilla’s buttocks, then slipped my hand
between her legs. She jumped again and moaned
lightly. She was scared enough to be dry. I lightly
pinched her cheek and Camilla jumped again. I stood
up.

Choosing one of two heavy leather paddles on the
fireplace sill–everything was laid out in plain
sight–I touched Camilla’s rear end with the tip. She
was not ready for this. Wide-eyed as a startled doe,
she watched as I lifted the paddle, then flinched
when I gave her a tentative whack on the cheek. She
whimpered and rocked back and forth. I spanked her
lightly again.

“Frightened, Camilla?”

She nodded energetically. “Mmm-nnnuuuumm-mum-um-um!”

I paddled her again, slightly harder.

“Know what this will do?” I asked, holding the paddle
aloft. Half-inch diameter holes placed half an inch
apart ran the length of it. She energetically shook
her head. “Like Swiss cheese,” I said, pipping her on
the butt.

“Mmmmmmum!” she objected.

Reaching back, I brought the paddle down moderately
hard, zinging her rear end.

“Mmmmmmmmmmmm!” she wailed.

I laughed, kissed her delicate ear, then on the
temple, then the side of her neck. She shivered
violently. “You are so not ready for this,” I said,
brushing back her hair and stroking her left cheek.
“Tell you what, Cam. Get that pretty little tail of
yours up, keep it in the air, and I’ll keep the hits
no harder than what I just did. Well, a little
harder, maybe. Let it back down though…” I
shrugged. “You understand.”

For the first time in memory, Camilla’s eyes mirrored
humiliation. And fear.

“I could put pillows under you,” I suggested. “And
spank you twice as hard.”

Camilla shook her head. Slowly, unsure exactly how to
do it trussed up, she forced her hips off the floor.
Grunting with exertion–and with embarrassment I’m
sure–her face grew increasingly red. Her breathing
became labored. She looked at one camera, then
another, closed her eyes and began to groan.

My penis was rock hard.

“You wait here,” I said.

Getting up, I went to check the cameras. Three of
them in all, each was a studio quality Sony Digicam,
and very expensive. Each tape ran six hours. I
adjusted the focus on the one directly behind the
girls. The display showed two beautiful rear ends.
The two other cameras, offset by ninety degrees
either side, captured the girls in profile. They were
perfectly set.

Hitching up my pants and inserting each thumb through
a belt loop, I forced out a beer belly. “What we have
here,” I said, in my best Elisha Parks imitation, “is
a failure to communicate.” Laughing, I then picked up
the leather strop and joined Cammy. I patted her rear
end, then slapped it lightly with the strop. Other
than her soft buttocks, she did not move. I spanked
her again. Then a third time. Then I planted one on
her that shot open her eyes and banged her chin down
on the floor.

“Emmmmmmmmmmm!” she howled.

I spanked her again and again and again. Then, rising
into a crouch and placing my left hand in the small
of her back, I lit up Camilla’s rear end like a
traffic signal. She howled, bucked and shuddered,
went down and her hips banged the floor. Then she
bounced up and down. Terribly she howled. I laughed
and I spanked her even harder, and then I realized I
was hitting with all my might and loosing control and
I got up and I backed away panting. I panted badly.

Jesus Christ, George! Lighten up!

I did not want to tighten up! I wanted to rape them
and beat them and rape them again. I wanted Cammy’s
bottom the color of passion; I wanted her to beg.
God, I wanted her to beg.

I put the strop down on a chair and went to the
window and looked out. The sunshine and clear blue
sky no longer held inspiration. I wondered what the
hell I’d done. Camay’s bottom was passion purple all
right, welts from the hard-edged strop raised on her
skin in neat parallel rows. Red, white and blue, like
a flag. She bawled in anguished denial, too shocked
for humiliation. That would come later.

Jesus, I thought. Did you really do that? Then I
realize I could do anything I wanted. They were here
clear and of their own free will; eager–willing,
anyway–participants. I didn’t force them into nudity
or onto the floor. I didn’t coerce them into bondage.
(The rather extreme wrists-to-elbow trussing now,
that was my idea. But they didn’t fight. And the
breast torture? Camay’s idea.) The whole and the
honest truth was that anything I chose to do to them,
anything I liked, what could they do?

They can do nothing, you moron! That’s the point!

Like someone stabbed with a needle, I jerked and
looked around. The voice was much too loud to have
originated in my head.

Then it said, this is Camilla and Michelle you’re
dealing with here, fella. Your Camilla and Michelle.
Look down.”

I looked down. And I knew why so many women are raped
in wartime.

Kneeling beside Cammy–she skittered frightenedly
away–I said, “Whoa, whoa! Easy.” I touched the small
of her back. “You okay?”

Her eyes were silver dollars and she sobbed
uncontrollably. Tears covered her entire face; mucus
flowed from her nose. I went into the kitchen and
returned with a hand towel and gently wiped her face.
I looked at her rear end. Where the strop had came
down it raised dime-sized polyps all over her cheeks.
All were bright red, white-edged and swollen. I had
never caused damage like that. “Cammy,” I whispered.
“I’m sorry.”

Reaching over her to the fireplace, I retrieved the
dispenser of Aloe Vera skin cream. Carefully, I
squeezed it onto her skin, laying the green liquid
down in figure eights loops. I carefully rubbed it
in. Her skin was red hot. “Jesus, Cam,” I said,
laughing in bewilderment. “I am so sorry.”

“Mmnim-num-im.”

“I know, I know.”

For the first time I looked over at Michelle. Huge
eyed and trembling, she had rolled onto her right
side. Her normally small breasts, tipped with
delicate pick aureole and tiny nipples, were deeply
crimson. The aureole, swollen with static pressure,
looked ready to explode. I looked away.

“This better?” I asked.

Camilla nodded. Her weeping had calmed, and so had
her shaking. I applied more lotion. “I’ll make it up
to you,” I promised. Slowly, letting her know my
intentions, I delved my finger between her buttocks,
located her anus. With gentle pressure I moved my
finger inside. Camilla moaned.

“Better?”

Camilla raised her eyes and told me, though not yet
forgiven, I was abrogating the harm.

Camilla loves anal sex.

“Raise up,” I suggested. As she had done before,
Camilla lifted her rear end into the air. She looked
at the camera again, and then back at me.

I shook my head. “The cameras stay on.” I grinned. “I
have the feeling you’ll thank me later on, Camilla.”
Camilla’s face turned the color of her tail.

I gathered pillows from both ends of the couch and
placed them beneath her shoulders and chin. I knew
Camilla would need them.

Michelle had worked herself into a sitting position,
prepared to watch. I lay her back down. “Think you
get away clean?” I scolded. “It’s not that easy.” I
gave her a choice. “Bare handed? Or with a paddle?”

She objected, eyes all hangdog appeal. “Mleezze?”
(Please?)

“I won’t hurt you. I promise. Not too bad at least.”

“Yeah, right,” her eyes said. She shook her head no.

Ignoring her appeal, I placed the choice of
instruments beneath her nose: A thick wooden
hairbrush, a leather strop, a wooden paddle, and a
large wooden spoon. All were big enough for the job.
I left the cane on the fireplace.

After beseeching me one last time, Michelle touched
the paddle with her nose. I replaced the other items
and patted her tenderly on the butt. Cammy, her high
color now somewhat muted, watched with a copartner’s
concern. And something else. “Want me to stop?” I
asked her.

Avoiding Michelle’s eyes, she indicated no. Michelle
softly mewed. I patted her butt again. “Cammy could
do it,” I offered, raising my eyebrows. The girls met
eyes. An ardor no man could ever kindle passed
between them and I sighed. I have watched them make
love, I have loved them both. I know.

“No,” I said. “This is my game, not yours. You two
have enough fun already.”

Bringing me home late one night, Camilla let me watch
as the unsuspecting Michelle–a runaway, barely
eighteen–found herself cornered in the kitchen,
hands dripping wet, a plate destined for the
dishwasher suddenly waylaid. Camilla’s right hand
came up and took possession of her left breast, and
even though completely clothed–right down to her new
Reebok tennis shoes–I have never seen a girl more
naked. I looked at her now.

“Now or later?” I asked Camilla. I held the paddle
aloft.

“Aiher.” (Later).

I placed the paddle between Michelle’s thighs. “Keep
this warm, okay?”

She fixed me with her most disdainful, teenage look.

I patted her arm. “Don’t worry. It’ll be worth the
wait.”

“Aah-oh.” (Asshole).

Turning to Cammy, I tentatively touched her butt–she
flinched and made a startled gasp–then spread her
buttocks apart. Like her genitals, Camay’s anus was
bare. The thick dark hair, so abundant on her lovely
head, was nowhere in evidence here. She had hot waxed
it off.

“How you stand that,” I said, blowing softly over her
clenched sphincter, “is beyond me.”

Camilla moaned.

I looked over at Michelle. She too was hairless, a
soft wedge of fluff above her clitoris, perfectly
trimmed, her only proof of age. Like that of a
preteen, her perfectly sculpted genitalia remained
nestled in secrecy, closed to prying eyes.

Leaning forward, I blew softly across Camilla’s anus
and it puckered. She moaned. I heard Michelle stir.
She was again on her side, watching. Mindful of her
pelted skin, I placed my fingertips within the cleft
of Camilla’s buttocks, drew them fully apart and
Camilla groaned loudly. I felt so ashamed. “I’ll make
it up to you,” I whispered.

Very slowly, and with gentle purpose, I licked her.
Camilla squirmed, tried to get away at first, then
moved closer. I licked her fully, then I kissed her.
“You like this, don’t you?” I said.

She emitted a groan.

Purple-brown from her deep coloring, her anus flexed
outward in a strong reflex, cupping itself, and I
licked it again, kissed the crown. I attacked her
with my tongue.

“Nunggungg-ung-ung,” Camilla moaned, then: “Nuh-uh-
uh!” Shuddered deeply, her pelvis bucked and her anus
crowned again and I pushed inside. She moaned deeply
and muscles in her abdomen clenched and released,
making her roll up and down. Pushing deeper inside, I
tasted her musky wetness, curled my tongue into a
phallic tube. I fucked her.

“Nuh!” Then: “Oh-uh-UH!”

I pulled out and kissed her and licked her, then
reentered her again.

“Neordddd! Unh-nuh! NUNH!”

Her rear end was now circling in a wild ellipse and I
could no longer stay inside. I sat back on my calves
and unzipped my jeans, removed myself from their
clutch.

God, I ached!

Beside me, Michelle moaned and rolled onto her back,
then sat up to watch. The paddles long, ridged handle
protruded from her clenched thighs like an ersatz
penis. I watched her tremble, then I was all eyes for
Camilla. Taking myself in hand, I placed the head of
my penis against her pulsating hole and I leaned
forward and entered.

“Ung-Gog!”

Camilla shuddered. She buried her face in the pillow.
A deep moan escaped her throat. When she clenched
uncontrollably on my erection, taking its breadth,
she moaned even louder.

A white man, I don’t have the huge appendage that
some woman crave. Only seven and a half inches long,
I am not solid muscle nor do I make women suffer and
scream. Camilla, however, whether by design or by
choice, reacts as though John Holmes were inside. I
am empowered, emboldened, desperate to fulfill her
need–if only for my own–because Camilla, my dearest
possession, has no need for me. I neither advance her
ambitions, nor do I, in the overall sense of the
word, prevail. Except for our shared immorality (some
would call it perversion), and Michelle, we share
nothing at all.

But I love her.

And God knows why, she loves me.

Struggling into a squat, I removed my shirt and
unbuckled my jeans. I shoved them down. Normally,
Camilla is an active partner, hands pulling herself
wide, otherwise stroking my cock or stroking herself.
Today, no fingers will enter her vagina but my own,
nor ignite her clitoris. She has only one purpose
this day, and that is to make me work.

Kicking off my shoes, I worked the jeans off, then my
underwear, so that both of us are nude. I know she
feels pain; even though I strive to avoid her tail,
avoiding it is impossible.

“Sorry,” I panted. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

Holding her waist, I angled myself down, working in.
Camilla bucked, then groaned, then moaned my name.
Her anus stretched tightly about my cock: a thin,
purple line.

Before starting for real, I bent down and retrieved
the tube of KY jelly, our personal lubricant. Camilla
moaned with impatience. She always is impatient. But
I was half way in and getting locked already, and any
more movement would only hurt her.

I had hurt Camilla enough.

“It’s coming,” I assured her. “Just wait.”

She groaned. “Ei-ont-awnuh-ait!” (I don’t wanna
wait!)

“You’ll get it soon enough.”

She complained more. “Urrry!” Hurry!

Squeezing jelly onto my shaft where it entered her
rear end, I moved it in and out. She groaned loudly.

“Told, you. Didn’t I?”

“Urrry!”

This was all she got. Camilla hated goo.

Holding her waist, I pulled out to the very tip, then
pushed myself in. I went all the way down. Camilla
grunted, then wagged her tail. I pushed really hard.
Camilla wagged her buttocks again.

“Nyeshhh! Nyeshhh!” (Yes! Yes!)

I seated myself hard, drawing a gasp (not from her
butt cheeks, but from the depth) then worked for
every millimeter of fit. Going in and out, tip to
end, I tried unsuccessfully to restrain. I always
try, and I always fail. Always Camilla forgives me.

Soon her anus was a hot collar of pain, heated by
friction, and the more she got worked, the more
Camilla wanted. I worked her hard. I worked her very
hard. Then I felt a tingle of vibration, a tightening
of groin, and Cammy was riding an orgasmic wave. She
rocked up and down, rolling her pelvis, twisting back
and forth against my cock. Her wail became
continuous. I released her waist and found her
vagina, put three fingers in from each hand. Then
settled for one. The only one that mattered. Cammy
began to come.

“NUH!” she shouted. Then “NU-UH!” Then she gave one
huge buck and we both exploded.

I stopped all movement and so did she.

“Nuh-uhhhhh-uhhhhh-uhhhhhh!” she wailed.

The first plume of semen seared her rectum and
Camilla wailed again. I remained an iron spike, a
tortured statue, knowing she would never forgive me
if I moved. My third ejaculation came, and then my
fourth, and the hot sperm built around my cock and
melted into her rectum, igniting her orgasm to a
stupendous high. And still we did not move.

“Neordddd! (George!) Unh-unh! Nunh! Neordddd!”

Then it was time and I fucked her as hard as I could,
up and down, slamming her with each burst. A second
orgasm came, and then a third, and then a fourth, and
when finally the orgasms gave out, and the liquid
subsided, I had come in Cammy two dozen times. More.
Many more. And I couldn’t stand up. I took her down
with me.

I had, literally, filled her rectum with sperm.

“Neordddd?” (George?)

“Yes, Cammy?”

“Mnioo-ed-ub.”

I laughed. “What?”

“Mnioo-ed-ub.”

“I need to get up?”

Camilla nodded.

“Bathroom, dear?”

She nodded again. I stayed where I was.

“Neordddd!”

I laughed again.

She cramped in response.

“There’s nowhere for it to go,” I reminded her. “I’m
blocking the path.”
She grunted, and so did her bowels.

I kissed the back of her neck, her shoulders, the
tips of her ears.

“Neordddd. Mleezze?”

“Forgive me for what I did?”

“Nyeth. Ow-ed-e-uh.” (Yes. Now get me up.)

I removed myself from her warmth and wetness–my
wetness–and helped her to her feet. Surprisingly, I
was still erect. “I’ll help you,” I said, because she
couldn’t walk. She grunted disagreeably, but didn’t
say no. We gave Michelle wide birth. Sometimes, not
often, Camilla fails to make it to the bathroom.

“You okay?” I asked, looking down at our girl. She
looked almost unnerved.

“We’ll be right back.”

I guided the bandy-legged Camilla back to the
bathroom–with her tied ankles, she moved on tiptoe,
in comically short steps–raised the seat lid, and
set her down.

“Nu-ankd-oo-oo,” she said. (No thanks to you.)

I waited.

“Neordddd.”

I broke out laughing. “I’ve seen it before,” I
reminded her.

“Nyeth. Mud-od-id-ish.” (Yes. But not like this.)

“I know. That’s why I’m staying.”

She squirmed, face registering discomfort. “Neordddd.
Mleezze.”

I shook my head. “Go ahead.”

Cocking her head, she looked up at me with bewildered
amusement. Then her anus squeaked and then it burped.
Then something plopped into the water and a whole
cacophony of sound erupted in her gut and her face
crunched, then her stomach, and suddenly the room was
filled with a ripping, hissing sound as just about
the entire contents of her bowels expelled.

“Ung-Gog!” she wailed. Ejected liquid which had
splashed onto her cheeks dripped back to the water
again and a huge shudder went through her and the
exploding worsened for one horrible moment and
something solid and very large hit the water.

I almost gagged.

“Ung-Gog! Ung-Gog! Ed-ouwd-od-eer!” (Get out of
here!)

I left, though not without erupting into giggles. I
was still laughing when I sat down next to Michelle
and I continued to laugh, tears streaming down my
cheeks. Michelle looked both thoroughly disgusted and
incensed. She kicked me with her knees.

“Hey!” I scolded, laughing still. “Cut it out.” Two
minor eruptions came from the bathroom.

Anything but compliant, my dear Michelle lay over on
her back and started kicking me for real.

“Hey! Stop that! Hey!”

My laughter came in peels and though she fought hard
to control it, laughter erupted from Michelle as
well. I got her feet–finally–and climbed up to her
chest. I sat down. “Smart ass!” I said.

“Aah-oh.”

“Call me an asshole!” I tickled her. I tickled
Michelle until her eyes went wild and she wiggled all
over the rug like a crab. But I was hurting her
shoulders.

“Here,” I said, sitting her up. Her breasts were a
gorgeous orchid, her nipples like spears. High color
flamed in her face. Sitting Buddha on the carpet
presented me with Michelle’s secret place, and the
almost closed lips and the glint of her hidden pearl.
I backed away. I tried to relax. I didn’t mess with
Michelle.

Evidently, most of the eruption had stopped and from
the bathroom came only an occasional moan, then
Camilla called out. Glad for the rescue, I got up.

“Be right back, okay?”

Michelle nodded. Her blue eyes didn’t know whether to
be relieved, or hurt.

Heading toward the bathroom, I was reminded of
Michelle’s look of that night at the apartment.
Standing in the kitchen doorway, my eyes wide as
saucers, I wondered who was more shocked my Camilla’s
hand. Michelle, I imagined, but myself very close. I
had not been invited to Camilla’s place since
Michelle moved in and now I understood why. Or
thought I did. I was nearly as incensed as I was
turned on.

At the time, we had been lovers barely two months. My
divorce was pending, and Camilla had just endured a
nasty breakup of her own. After assaulting her on
their final day in court–on the court steps–her ex
husband got tossed in jail. I have met him since and
he’s pure charm.

Camilla and I rescued Michelle from certain rape
outside a club downtown, nearly getting ourselves
killed. Two black guys had joined one white guy in
badgering the poor girl for sex. They had her backed
against the fender of an old, dirty station wagon in
the back lot of the club, and Michelle, obviously
strung out, distraught and unequal to the task, had
to fend them off. I saw from the moment we rounded
the corner of the building what was going on, and
hurried Camilla to the car. This was the kind of
scene that could escalate quickly and, I didn’t want
Cammy involved.

It was a cold night, and Michelle had on a bulky
white sweater beneath a denim jacket. She wore blue
jeans ripped out at the knees, and heavy work boots.
Her hair was short and strikingly disheveled.
Someone–probably herself–had terrorized it with
scissors. From her appearance, she had been on the
streets for a time.

We skirted them, staying to the outside of the
perimeter cars. Camilla, cognizant of the girl’s
danger, recognized her own. We made it to the car
safely.

“George–”

Cammy was turned in her seat. I had the key in the
ignition, ready to start the engine. I didn’t want to
look back. “What?”

“They’re gone.”

Cursing under my breath, I twisted around. Sure
enough, the four had disappeared. “Son of a bitch,” I
muttered. “She’s in the car.”

Camilla looked at me, eyes wide. “I don’t like this,
George. She’s just a kid. She didn’t even look
sixteen.”

I wanted desperately to twist the key and get out of
there. The white guy alone would scare a grizzly bear
on steroids. “The girl is–she’s not in any danger.”
I twisted again to look back. “She’s a tramp, Cam.
Young, but still a tramp. Probably just another
nights action for her.”

“George!”

I grit my teeth. “You saw those three guys, Cam. I go
over there…”

“Then I’ll go,” she said, opening her door.

I grabbed her arm. “No, goddammit.” I got out of the
car. I gave her my cell phone. “Call 911,” I said.
“Pray I don’t get killed.”

Camilla turned on the phone, and with a very
apprehensive expression began to dial. Damn the
little tramp!

I jammed my hands in my pockets, bunched into fists,
and crossed to the car. I have never been so scared.
Moving close the windows, I saw the four of them in
the back deck, the girl swamped by the three toughs.
Her arms worked against their hands and her sweater
was up and one of them had pushed her brassiere
around Michelle’s neck. Her breasts were barely
existent on a chest that exhibited every rib in sharp
relief. I couldn’t see her waist, but guessed she
already had– or was in the process of–loosing her
jeans. Problem was, I couldn’t tell if this was
against her will, or if she were only fighting the
numbers. Then she saw me outside the car and there
was no doubt. She made no sound and no physical plea
for help–she knew what to expect–but her eyes said
death was a better alternative. I backed away,
terrified for myself rather than for her, and turned
my back. I walked six steps.

I don’t understand it, or where the courage came
from, but suddenly I stopped and I looked around. The
girl’s head was turned away, a terrible grimace
twisting her features; her lips formed silent “no’s.”
I stood there a moment, willing myself to leave, then
found I was walking back to the rocking station wagon
and lashing out at its side with my foot. The three
men jerked up. Most surprised by far, and the only
one not instantly enraged, was the young girl.

“Get the fuck out of the car!” I called.

The men granted my request.

Using black idiom and his invincible black man
threat, the bigger of the two blacks said: “You must
be a fucking fool, fool. Only a fool would mess with
three men minding their own business.” He didn’t
bring it out, but there was a knife in his right
pocket.

The white guy–possibly the scariest guy I have ever
seen–said nothing as he moved right up to my face.
Then, in a very mild and reasonable voice, he said:
“Fuck off right now, joker, or I’m gonna do to your
girlfriend what I’m gonna do to her. Understand?”

I did something then I will never tell anyone. I peed
my pants. Then I kneed him in the balls just as hard
as I could, and enraged by fear, kicked him three
more times before he hit the ground. Stunned, the
other two did nothing. I went after the one on my
right and hit him hard in the chest with my shoulder.

He bounced off the car and right into me and two
seconds later the second black dragged me to the
ground, and they both started hitting and kicking. I
didn’t stand a chance. Then Camilla was running up
screaming at the top of her lungs, and one of them
had to fend her off and I wrapped myself around the
other guy’s leg and I bit him right through the
pants. He screamed out in pain. That’s when the knife
came out. Were it not for my heavy winter coat, I
would have been cut badly, maybe even killed. But his
first slash caught in the epaulet on my right
shoulder, and losing his balance, I took him down. I
fought like a madman. I kept the guy in the dirt and
kept him rolling, but he hit me twice for every blow
I landed on him. My rage blocked the pain but I was
losing strength fast. Then the knife was right by my
face and I grabbed it off the ground and thrust it
into his side. The blade skipped off, gouging his
ribs rather than puncturing them, or I would have
killed him for sure. I tried stabbing him again and
lost the knife myself and he hit me once in the side
of the head and everything went dark.

KABOOM! went a pistol and everyone froze.

Michelle, clothes apart and her genitals still bared,
stood against the open car door. She pointed the gun
directly at my head. Black and clutched in both her
hands; it didn’t move an inch. I’m going to die, I
thought, thinking she’d mistaken my for her attacker.
Then the gun pointed away. “I’ll shoot,” she panted.
“I’ll shoot anyone that moves.”

For a moment, no one did move. Then slowly, the man
on top of me rolled off, and clutching his side,
staggered erect. “Fuck,” he said, looking at his
hand. “You cut me.”

“Fuck you,” I said. “It was your knife.”

He kicked me and Michelle almost shot him. She would
have too, if Camilla hadn’t shouted out.

“Wait! I called the police!” She struggled off the
ground, where the first black man had dragged her
down. Her coat was mostly off, and her blue dress
torn. For some reason, that enraged me more. I got to
my knees and went to where the black guy sat and
punched him in the face.

“George! George, stop it!”

Cammy dragged me away.

The bear of a white man, finally able to sit up,
didn’t seem to comprehend. “What happened?” he
grunted.

Finding I could not stand, two of the onlookers sat
me on the bumper of a pick-up. Camilla stood beside
me for a moment, then went to the young girl’s side.
She talked to her quietly. Michelle would not give up
the gun. Finally, after an off-duty policeman showed
up and got the three men laying flat on the ground,
Michelle surrendered the nine-millimeter. He was very
careful with the girl, regarding her as more of a
threat than the three men. Handing the pistol over,
she sat back down in the car and started to cry.
Cammy stayed with her. Bruised, bleeding, ready to
faint, I could only sit there and hate the girl.

In the four weeks since, Michelle had lived with
Camilla. Though still harried looking and vulnerable,
she was a far cry from the terrified girl outside the
club. No more borderline starvation, no disheveled
hair, and her hollow-eyed anxiety had gone. Tonight
she wore a white velour turtleneck sweater over blue
jeans, a simple choker necklace, and other than one
stud earring in each ear, none of her previous,
plentiful accouterment. She looked very much like a
teenage girl.

Taking the plate from Michelle’s hand and setting it
in the dishwasher, Camilla moved the startled
teenager into the corner formed by the intersecting
counters. Very effortlessly, very confidently,
Camilla kissed her. I thought Michelle would faint.

“Say hello to your new boss,” she said, after a
moment.

Michelle swallowed and removed a hair from her mouth.
Her hand shook. Her whole body shook. “Hello, Mr.
Reed.”

I tried not to croak. “Hello, Michelle.”

Camilla said, “You start Monday, dear. In the
accounting office. George found you a position.” She
laughed. “Filing, but at least it’s a start. And
you’ll be with me.” Camilla turned. “Tell her the
shit little money she’s making, George.”

Michelle flinched. “That’s not important,” she said.

“It is to me. Tell her, George.”

I could have her smacked Cammy. “Seven dollars an
hour.”

Michelle seemed nonplused. “What’s wrong with that?”

Camilla laughed. “McDonald’s pays more for flipping
hamburgers.”

Michelle shrugged. “More than I’m making now.” She
looked at me. “I really mean it, Mr. Reed. Thank
you.”

“George,” I said. “I hate mister.”

Camilla whacked Michelle’s thigh. “He’s sir to you,
punk.”

Only you need call me that, I started to say, then
shut up.

Camilla laughed. “She already knows, believe me.” She
kissed Michelle again. “Don’t you dear?”

Michelle never replied because one moment later
Camilla’s tongue was in her mouth, a hand on her
breast, and Michelle had no choice but to fight back
or respond. She responded. For the next thirty
seconds Camilla demonstrated just how much in charge
she was.

“What do you think about that?” she challenged,
finally releasing Michelle’s mouth. Michelle was red-
faced and flustered. Her breast still lay under
Camilla’s hand.

“I think you need a bedroom,” I said. Standing
straight had become awkward. They both saw my
erection. “And I should go.”

“No!” Camilla exclaimed. “We just got here.”

“Yeah. And only one of us should have come.” I wanted
to back out graciously but Camilla raised Michelle’s
arms, took the bottom of her sweater, and yanked it
over her head. Michelle yelped, clutched herself over
her white satin brassiere. She looked disbelievingly
at the sweater as Cammy tossed it through the air.

I was flabbergasted. “Cam! Jesus Christ.”

Michelle’s chest and arms exploded in gooseflesh. She
said nothing at all, could say nothing. Then Camilla
took hold of her wrists, gently lowered them to her
sides. Even in a push-up bra, Michelle had little
cleavage.

“Show George your love bites,” Camilla said. She too
was red-faced.

Michelle shook her head. She looked at the floor.

“Cammy,” I said. “What are you doing?”

Camilla shook her head. “I’m tired of being torn
between Michelle and you. I can’t be with her when
I’m with you, and with her it’s always “what would
George say if he knew. “Well now you know.” She
paused, making sure her words were understood. “I
need you,” she said. “And I need Michelle too.” She
looked at both of us very hard. “And I need you both
to understand.”

With that, she coaxed Michelle into putting her hands
behind her back and unclasping her brassiere. It came
loose, falling into her hands. Covering both of her
breasts, arrayed about the small pink nipples like
guardians, were half a dozen bite marks. Bruise-
purple, a yellowish tinge about the edges, they
looked unhurriedly and lovingly placed. Something
inside me moved.

“I need her and I need you,” Camilla repeated.

After a moment, I nodded. A moment later, Michelle
nodded as well. Her face was painfully red. Camilla
looked immeasurably relieved.

Taking Michelle by the hand, Cammy lead her to where
I stood. Camilla stood behind her. Hands cupping
Michelle’s young breasts, she said: “These are mine.
Right, child?”

Michelle nodded.
Camilla lowered her hands to Michelle’s waist,
unzipped her jeans. I felt like a peeping Tom.

“Cammy–”

“Shush.” Working Michelle’s jeans down over her hips,
she slid her palms over the front of Michelle’s satin
panties–they read Victoria’s Secret across the waist
band–and down to her crotch. “Who bought you these?”

“You did,” said Michelle, and for a moment, her lips
curled into a smile. Then it was gone. Her face,
which had lost its vermilion cast, reddened again.

“And who got your hair cut and took you to the
doctor–” here Michelle started and flushed even
more, and I knew what kind of doctor that was “–and
who bought you all your nice clothes?”

“You did, Cam.”

“And who taught you to stop biting your fingernails
until they bled and how to eat a decent meal, and how
to act like a young women of eighteen?”

Michelle remained silent.

Camilla kissed her on the neck. “Where do you sleep,
baby?”

“In your bed.”

“Who’s bed do you want to sleep in?”

The grin resurfaced and after a moment, the girls
seemed to meld, to become the front side and the back
side of the same coin. I realized then that Camilla
loved Michelle intensely, and the reverse was true.
“Yours,” she said, very softly. “Only yours.”

Camilla lowered Michelle’s jeans down around her
knees, then her panties. Michelle was clean shaven
and baby smooth. “You have nothing to conceal from
George, do you?” she asked.

“No, Cammy.”

“Look at him.”

Michelle looked up. Her blue eyes, almost wet with
emotion, were fire and ice. Somehow, she still found
room for embarrassment. I wanted to spank Cammy for
this torture.

“What exactly is going on here?” I asked.

Camilla kissed Michelle’s throat. The fire had spread
downward to Michelle’s chest, and Camilla, still
looking at me, began to suckle her neck. Michelle
shivered violently, again. The middle finger of
Camilla’s right hand disappeared inside Michelle and
Michelle gasped.

This was insane.

Camilla took her mouth off Michelle’s shoulder and
there was a love bite, angry red.

“I belong to you,” Camilla said, quietly. It took a
moment to sink in. She was talking to me.

“You do?”

“I do. I have for the last four weeks, if you had
only looked.” She kissed Michelle’s neck again.

“You have the wrong idea,” I said, feeling out of
sorts and angry. “I didn’t rescue Michelle, she
rescued me.” I was still black and blue from the
experience, barely able to move. My chest was taped
until the previous week. “Don’t go mistaking me for a
hero,” I cautioned. Indeed, until that evening, I
still held an angry grudge against the girl. “If you
hadn’t shamed me into doing it, I never would have
left the car.” This time I found myself unable to
meet Michelle’s eyes.

“But you did go,” Camilla insisted. “Other men would
have refused.”

Michelle herself spoke. “And anyone else would have
left me when the men got out of the car,” she said.
“You didn’t.”

I remembered her eyes and her look of dissolution. I
remembered how, at that moment, her very worst,
Michelle’s eyes told me to walk away, that she
expected it, that I had no obligation to risk myself
for someone like her. And I knew that my empathy for
the girl’s pain was greater than fear for my own well
being. That’s why I kicked the car. That’s why I
accepted the beating. Men are cowards and leave their
women to die. I almost did the same.

For a time no one spoke. Then Michelle whispered in
Camilla’s ear.

Camilla looked at me. “What happens next is up to
you,” she said. “You know my feelings. Michelle
belongs to me, which means you also own Michelle.”
Her arms were around Michelle’s chest, clutching her
protectively. “She’s yours if you want.”

Michelle nodded. “You can have us both.”

I felt run over by a train. If ever a man’s fantasies
came up and jumped right into his lap, this was it.
But Cammy cherished this girl with a need I couldn’t
imagine; disrupting that bond, pushing myself into
the middle, would destroy us as certainly as a bomb.

“The only thing I’m ever going to do to Michelle,” I
said. “Is spank her.” And with that, I sat the
startled girl into a chair, grabbed my new
possession’s arm, and marched her right over to the
couch. “But you, young lady, are getting it first.” I
then proceeded to raise Camay’s skirt, pull down her
panties, and lambaste her precious young tail.

I lambasted her very well.

Astonished, eye’s wide and full of shock, Michelle
sat there and watched. Camilla’s rear went from olive
to bright red, and the way she bellowed and kicked,
it was a show indeed. I dropped her unceremoniously
on her rear.

“And that,” I said, brushing my hands symbolically,
“is all I have to say.”

Camilla sat looking up, open-mouthed. Her face
matched her rear ends color. “I’ve never been
spanked,” she said, in wonder. “I’ve never been
spanked before.”

“Did you like it?”

Giggling, Michelle burst out: “I liked it!”, and we
both yelled back, “Shut up!” Then Camilla repeated:
“I’ve never been spanked.”

“You said that already.”

“But I haven’t!”

“You have now.”

She rubbed the sides of her hips. “It hurts.”

“I know.”

“How do you know? I’m the one got spanked!”

I held up my hand. It was red also. “Like to go
again?”

Camilla shook her head.

“Did you like it?”

She snorted. “Describe like.”

“Did it make you feel submissive, defenseless, and
weak?”

“It made me hurt.”

“And what are you thinking now?”

She broke out in a grin. “That it’s Michelle’s turn.”

We chased the squealing Michelle all over the
apartment.

In the bathroom, I flushed the toilet and brushed
back Camilla’s hair. “Better?” I asked.

She nodded. The place smelled just horrid. “Nuh-
angst-noo-oo.” (No thanks to you.)

I began to help her to her feet. Camilla shook her
head.

“What?”

She just looked at me.

“Oh,” I said, standing back. “I’m not doing that.”

Cammy moved her head back and forth. “Oo-aa-oo-im-oo-
ond-ee-ed-uh.” (You have to if you want me to get
up.)

I didn’t want her up that much. “How about we do
this,” I said. I first peeled back the duct tape,
then leaned over and untied the cords securing her
elbows and wrists. Asleep and useless, her arms fell
limply at her sides.

“Ow,” she said, flinching. “That hurts.”

“It’ll hurt more.”

I rubbed circulation back into her shoulders and
biceps. Grimacing, she moved her arms. “That really
hurts.”

I continued to rub. “I saw pictures on the Internet
where a woman had been bound and raped.” I didn’t
say how badly she was beaten. “They had her arms like
this.” I mimicked the crisscross, wrist bound to
elbow. “Only the rapist used cable ties.”

Camilla shuddered. “Thank you for not telling me.”

“It was a turn-on with you.”

Camilla crooked her mouth. “Guess that’s all that’s
important, huh?”

“Guess so.”

I untied her breast-ropes. I massaged her gently.
Large, oval shaped, and violet-brown, the aureole
covered a third of Camilla’s breasts. Usually an
unattractive sight on a woman, on Cammy it was
spectacular. She also has the largest nipples I have
ever seen (or touched, suckled, or pinched). I
brought each to attention with my lips.

“That,” she said. “Is the first nice thing you’ve
done to me all day.” She began stroking my cock.

“I haven’t washed,” I cautioned.

She grinned. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

From the main room, I felt Michelle watching. “What
about squirt?” I said.

Camilla looked around me. “She can wait.”

“I know,” I said. “So can I.”

After quickly untying her ankles, I left Camilla to
sort herself out. I went to release our young charge.
“How’ll be here in a moment,” I said, undoing
Michelle’s feet.

“Oo-aer-ed-e-och,” she complained. (You never let me
watch.)

“You watched earlier,” I reminded her.

“Ah-och-er-ed-aidt.” (I watched her get raped.)

I stopped untying. “Is that what you think?”

She looked at me with her wonderfully blue eyes–they
glinted mischievously–and slowly shook her head.
“Oh. Ah-oh-edder.” (No. I know better.)

“You better,” I said, angry despite the tease. “I’d
never hurt either one of you.”

She held me with her eyes.

“Well, not more than I did today.” Then I remembered
Michelle had escaped it all. “Hey! Wait a minute!”

She began to laugh and push at me with her feet, but
before I could get her back in my hands, Camilla
arrived.

“Shit,” I said, watching Michelle backpedal across
the rug. She laughed delightedly under the tape. “I
forgot.”

“I know,” Camilla said. “You gave it all to me.” Her
butt was a crimson battlefield. She put her arm
around my waist. We watched Michelle watch us.

“So what now?”

Camilla smiled. “I’m in need of my little rat.” She
crooked her finger. “Come here, little rat.”

Her blue eyes radiant, Michelle shook her head.

Camilla pointed to the floor before her.

Michelle shook her head again.

Camilla folded her arms.

Scooting on her butt, Michelle very slowly returned.
Camilla encouraged her with a smile. “You are such a
brat, young lady.”

No, I’m not, Michelle said, shaking her head.

“Yes, you are.”

I am not.

“Are you challenging me, little one?”

Michelle shook her head but her eyes said otherwise.
Again I felt that charge of emotion flow back and
forth.

“Nineteen is not too old to be spanked, you know.”

Michelle nodded her head. Yes, it is.

“No, it’s not.”

Yes, it is.

In a very patient voice, Camilla said: “George isn’t
the only one with a spanking hand.”

Michelle giggled and sassed Cammy with a delighted
“Unh-unh,” and Camilla set upon her with a vengeance.
In just a moment, she had the spirited Michelle
dragged over to a chair, then wrestled atop her knee
and, although the young girl fought valiantly for her
freedom (had Cammy ever enjoyed a spanking this
much?), her rear end quickly shined a blazing red. I
sat down to watch.

To proceed further violates the sanctity of Camilla’s
and Michelle’s relationship. I won’t do that. I even
refused to watch. Soon after Michelle began to squeal
and kick, I knew it was useless and urged the two
girls into the bedroom. I made dinner for us all. I
tried not to listen.

Camilla and I have our relationship and that
relationship is fine. It is four years old. We’ll
never marry; I know that. We’ll never even live
together.

Camilla and Michelle are as close to the perfect
union as ever I have witnessed. Michelle lives for
her, and as a surrogate mother/lover, Camilla
provides for Michelle the way no parent could. Two
years ago she enrolled Michelle at Maryland
University and is paying the tuition completely out
of pocket. She won’t let me assist. Working three
days a week at the agency, Michelle has shown a
facility for set design that pleases her no end. I
think it’s the first thing she’s ever been good at
in her life, or found interest in. Other than as
Camilla’s lover.

One evening last fall, at Michelle’s request, I
joined them in bed. The three of us made passionate
love. Rather, Michelle and I made passionate love to
Camilla. It was Camilla’s birthday and Michelle’s
present to her. It was also Michelle’s first
encounter with my right hand without being spanked.

I kissed Michelle and touched every part of her body,
including her genitals, but it was incidental
contact, brought on by our mutual third partner. I
gave Camilla those things Michelle could not, and
Michelle provided the rest. I was not the third wheel
I had feared.

The following night, Michelle confessed something to
Camilla that made Camilla cry. Both of us making love
to her had finally allayed Michelle’s great fear.
When the moment of communal orgasm came, and we
clutched Camilla between us, Michelle and I had
locked eyes. For a moment the energy flowed between
us the way it flowed between the two girls, and we
both understood that sharing Camilla meant Camilla
would never be stolen away–from either of us. And
though my sperm erupted into Camilla’s vagina that
night, it filled Michelle was well.

Camilla asked tonight if I would consider
impregnating Michelle. They both want a child.
Camilla is sterile. I said I didn’t know.

But I do.

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