"What is done out of love always takes place beyond good and evil."
Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, Aphorism 153
Everyone hated him. That's why he was forced to pay so much. Arrogant, alcoholic, often sadistic, always misogynistic – never a good mix in anyone's books. The easy cash in hand nature of the work was often the sole reason she stayed, and the simple disposable income always came in handy.
Mr. James, the man of the house, was not what you'd exactly call obscenely wealthy, but he owned much of the arable land in the area, the only few businesses in the middle of the small township and consequently had a very good stable income. As a result, he could afford to keep Jocelynn as his maid, though she often felt more like a babysitter at times. Not that the James' had any kids – just that Mr. James often needed a lot of looking after when he started drinking, often after his bored wife hit the town every second night or so.
Jocelynn was only employed to do menial work – cooking, cleaning, washing and ironing, that kind of thing – four or five times a week after she finished school, 5 till 9pm. Sure he had his eccentricities. Every now and again he would get her to do some shitty, festy job – scrub the grotty toilet, or clean the garbage cans out – and he always seemed to watch her carefully as she did it. Mr. James was almost always drinking – usually strong whiskey – by around 6ish, which meant he'd be fairly drunk by the time she went home. The last hour or so would be particularly tense as she tried to avoid rubbing him the wrong way, knowing first hand that he usually took his anger out on her. Drunken tirades and verbal abuse were becoming the norm rather than the exception. His drinking made him aggressive and arrogant.
Jocelynn, on the other hand was quite naïve, virginal and innocent. Pious as Christ. She was no supermodel, but she was rather attractive in her own confident way. It was the way she carried herself on eggshells that made men's heads turn. The light, lolloping gait and raised chin, her alert eyes constantly aware and searching. Where Mr. James was tall (over 6') trim and tanned, Jocelynn was diminutive (5'2"), voluptuous and chalk white, with a cheeky dimpled smile and a condensed spattering of dusky freckles across her round, unremarkable nose, rounded cheeks and shoulders. Her hair was dark red, almost maroon, and swept down long and straight to her shoulders, where it, curled slightly at the tips, a sharp contrast to Mr. James' bleached, close cropped style. They did share the same shocking green eyes; but where Jocelynn's were wide, long lashed and inviting – almost mischievous – Mr. James had the cold narrow eyes of a man who had not only seen pain, but was prepared to inflict it on others. Jocelynn's told you everything about her. Her employer's answered to no one.
Tonight she only had to stack the dishwasher and endure Mr. James for another hour and a half before her mother would pick her up and take her home. She was tired, sweaty and irritable. Mr. James – for whatever reason – had stipulated that she wear a maid's uniform; and in this day and age too!
It was a stereotypical maids outfit – a brief black one-piece dress, tight and low cut, edged with frilly lace edging and separate apron; black seamed stockings with garter, and tall gleaming black stilettos. A tiny white bow sat on a black strip of satin that circled her adipose throat, matching perfectly with the ribbon adorning the maids cap on her head, both also edged with the ubiquitous white lace. He had given her a flimsy g-string and bra set – again, lace edged – though she refused to wear them most of the time. She had shown them to her mother, concerned at one stage. She merely smiled. "I worked for him in a very similar outfit years ago," smirking at some distant memory as she looked her daughter up and down. Was it approvingly? Most irritating is that there was something indefinably appealing about the uniform . . .
Now, in Mr. James' kitchen, she roughly shifted the fabric across her bust, pulling it up over her massive breasts again – she hated her almost freakish double D breasts so much in the bodice – always in the bloody way – as the dress had obviously been made for someone smaller. But then, she hated her boobs regardless – she was always getting unwanted attention, and buying brassieres was, to say the least, a bitch. The boning of the bodice cut sharply under her massive chest, making her itch constantly, to say nothing of the skirt – "T'would make a whore blush," as her grandmother would say. Mr. James' shouted taunts snapped her from her thoughts.
"Give us another drink, darling," he slurred. Jocelynn sighed inwardly and grabbed fresh cold can from the fridge for him. One and a half hours, she reminded herself.
Mr. James had his back to Jocelynn as she strode through the broad lounge room door, hurling abuse at his beloved plasma widescreen TV. Jocelynn quietly placed the can at his side and turned on her heel. She heard the sharp crack of the can. "Nuh uh," he barked, "Sit." He indicated to a rotund, fleshy footstool in front of him. "Here, have some."
Jocelynn dreaded what was about to happen. She'd heard the rumor and insinuation. How he turned young girls into women. She'd tried to ignore it. They rarely complained, true, and no one had pressed charges, but it scared her. The unknown. He was well known as a lecherous man, despite being only 49 and unconventionally attractive. However, she'd never seen him so drunk in all the time she'd spent at the house.
The living room was so . . . oppressive. Shaded slender-beamed lighting threw most of the large room in shadow, the TV the prime light source in the room. A long, tall bookshelf sat on the right of the double doors, full of popular classics – Crime and Punishment, Great Expectations, Lolita, complete Shakespeare. Lots of Penguin Editions. All in pristine quality, like they'd come straight from the book store. The only books that appeared to have been read even vaguely was de Sade – well-thumbed and annotated – and American Psycho, still with the book mark only a quarter of the way through. His DVD collection much wider, mainly action, thriller and pornographic. A massive Roy Lichtenstein print hung above the grey stone-look hearth on the left.
He was always with a well-stocked liquor cabinet, though. He became a different person when he drank. With vodka, thankfully, he was usually asleep before he left, dribbling down his front. Beer, on the rare occasion he could stand the taste, made him merry, cheery, almost humorous. Of course, he thought himself the veritable comedian. She hated it when he drank bourbon, like tonight. He turned into the kid who sits around pulling the wings off flies, out of curiosity. Interested in the reaction. But then, that's where Dahmer started . . .
"Drink," he repeated. Jocelynn sank lower and attempted to sink into the stool. She raised the can and sipped apprehensively, squinting at the taste, if only to appease him. A hot flash ran across her temples at the taste of the bourbon. She tried fluttering her eyelids and donned a cutesy smile, hoping her "Bambi" eyes would put him off. It didn't.
"I fucking told you to drink it, you stupid bitch," he shouted, "It would help if you were fucking grateful when you're offered a treat!" Abruptly incensed, he grabbed the can and tipped the base of it up, emptying the half of the can down her throat. The rest of the syrupy coke mix ran down her chin and neck, soaking her up thrust breasts, and drenching the already sweaty bodice of the uniform. "Jesus fucking Christ," Mr. James exploded, "What the fuck are you doing? Take that shit off."
Jocelynn looked up sharply. "Am I doing?!" Wide eyed and trembling with realization, "Wait. What?" She choked, "All of it?"
"Everything you got wet," he replied. Too easily.
"But I didn-"
"Everything you got wet," he repeated, "Are you gonna fucking argue? Are you being PAID to argue? I told you to drink it," he snarled aggressively, lurching forward in his seat. He made a grab for the cleavage of the dress, knocking her backward off the stool, landing heavily on top of her, straddling her chest. He seemed lost for a moment, hunting, mumbling: "Didn't fuckin' think so . . ." His hands roamed across the bodice of the garment, searching for the fasteners. He forced her arms down to her sides when she struggled, kneeling on them, disabling her completely. "Do you want me to take this out of your fucking pay?" Their eyes met for a dark moment and the elders burned like fire. Jocelynn's gaze veered off vacantly toward the ceiling.
"No." She whimpered. Jocelynn shivered, despite the fact that the heating was turned right up on that chilly night, "What . . . what are you going to do?" She felt helpless; she couldn't believe that this was happening. She was also wondering how she would feel about it in different circumstances. Desire wasn't the right word, but it was the first to spring to mind. She stuttered, "Wh- What's going on? What are you going to do?"
"Oh, not much. Well . . ." He paused, "I'm going to fuck you," he paused, still looking over the bodice, then sneering; "Unless you resist. Then I'll rape you." So matter-of-factly, almost to himself, "And it won't be pretty . . ." He chuckled. An empty, primal snort. Still immobile, Jocelynn started to cry. Not so much at the pain in her arms, or the embarrassment, more just the shock of what was going on; Mr. James remained emotionless, looking almost curious, astride her. All vestiges of arrogance seemed gone. Seemed.
He waited, observing. She grew more hopeful when she saw that he had stopped being so forward. He pressed a thumb against her swollen eyelid, wiping the moisture away. He repeated the action again with the other. She sniffed, "Why are you doing this?" A whimper, "Taking advantage of me? I'll quit. I'll never work here again," her voice rose, trying to sound older than she felt, "I'll go to the police. I'll, I'll . . . I'll hate you forever!"
"Why are you assuming you'll hate it? You might enjoy it," he chuckled, a more optimistic, sophisticated chortle. "I do apologize. I do tend to ramble." He picked up the almost empty can, drained the last dregs from it, and threw it with a series of sharp metallic clangs across the wood panel floor toward the kitchen. Jocelynn stared at the ceiling, wondering how she could avoid this confrontation, without realizing immediately it was a little late. The half can she had been forced to drink, coupled with an empty stomach had made her tipsy already. She wasn't used to alcohol at all.
"Get off me," she sobbed, "It hurts. And . . . it's just . . . weird."
"Christ. Let's not get into a pseudo-philosophical discussion about what constitutes normal, ok?" A throaty laugh. The type of laugh that skillfully conceals the true motive for mirth. "Do you want me to get off you?" A patronizing undertone.
"Please?"
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/27snkw/beyond_good_and_evil_mf
"Please?" Remaining on top of her, he shifted his knees, letting her arms free. They fluttered awkwardly before coming to rest on his meaty thighs. She squeezed, to regain her bearings in the solid world, suddenly fixated on how solid they seemed. "Wow, do you work out Mr. James?" Suddenly, she was a teenage girl, with teenage girl motives and desires, despite her naiveté. No longer a rape victim. She couldn’t ignore the obvious bulge in his trousers. "Please, call me Chris," he smiled disarmingly, "Not really. When I can be bothered. It struck both of them that this was the first time they’d really spoken on friendly terms, "You know, I rape and murder the odd teenager from time to time. That’s about it." Jocelynn ran her fleshy hands up and down his thighs, abruptly looking sheepish, almost guilty. "What is it now?" Chris sneered, changing instantly. "It just feels wrong. You and me. I mean, you’re meant to be in charge of me. YOU’RE supposed to be looking after ME!" "You want it. Same as every other fucking woman – bar my wife of course," he laughed again, more to himself. "So you’re going to resist?" "How can I not? You’re evil!" The tears started pricking from her doe-like eyes again. Mr. James snorted with derision. "I’m evil? Big fuckin’ claim." He shrugged, "I just call it being human. It’s called passion. Sexual desire. Libido. Nature. Your mum has it. Your dad had it. I have it. YOU have it." He lowered his head close to hers, smirking as she retched at his breath, "Besides, you’re powerless. It’s not like you, yaw know, have a say in it. I pay for you to work for me, so I can have you. I fucking own you now." "No you don’t!" She screamed, "I belong to MYSELF!" "No, not really. Again, not getting into discussions on free will, determinism and the like, I’m not in the mood for philosophy. Stupid girl," he muttered aloud. Suddenly, with lightning speed her arms were again pinned down, immobile again under his weight. He trailed a sleazy finger down her throat, toward the deep crease of her cleavage, "Must you make it so obvious you’re a virgin, huh? By Christ’s hairy palms . . . what a sorry state." His hand found the clasps holding the bodice together, leisurely, smilingly snapping them open, one by one, as her huge pale breasts elegantly poured out of the bodice, her pink nipples hardening at the sudden change in temperature. Jocelynn yelped, struggling to free her hands from beneath his knees, unable to cover her sticky, overflowing mammaries. She felt instantly degraded, like she was being used. And yet, she felt like she was wanted, and something in her liked that. She watched Mr. James’ wondrous expression as he stared at her chest. The chest she hated, for the very reason that men couldn’t avoid looking at them. But was he right? Did she want it? She was so confused. Desire wasn’t the right word, but it was the first that sprang to mind. Suddenly he was sympathetic again, absurdly adopting a cheery pseudo-British accent, "Look, I think you will enjoy it. Your first time is always best with a knowledgeable fellow, you know?" Jocelynn, regretfully, but out of options, nodded, her employer returning to his all too familiar aggressive tone, "You stop me when you’re uncomfortable, ok?" Another nod. "But don’t cross me. Do not reject me. Do not step back or I will be forced to take what’s mine. You just agreed to this. You don’t change." He bobbed his head down to hers, their bourbon breaths mixing more as he kissed her. Suppressing the desire to retch, she was surprised that she liked it, and she closed her eyes and kissed him back lightly, apprehensively. A flutter of his fingers and all of a sudden her corset was totally agape, her belly now in full view. She punched back at him with her forehead, trying to bite his tongue. Clutching for oxygen. "Don’t you DO that!" She screamed, still cynical as to his motives. "Breathe through your nose. Christ. Do I have to explain everything? For fuck’s sakes!" He grabbed her chin, kissing her strongly – not particularly passionately, just strongly. She decided she’d have to go along with it. To surrender to him. She might like it, as he said. Again she kissed him back, trying to figure out why she was happy, wanting to go along with it. This was practically rape. It was so . . . not her. Desire wasn’t the right word, but it was the first to spring to mind. She felt his aggressive, stabbing fingers tearing at the black boyleg cotton panties she wore beneath the skimpy skirt. Nothing else existed in the world at that time. She felt so many things she’d never dreamed of – lust, greed, submission. A billion thoughts – none of which she thought were good – fought and fumbled for space in her already bustling brain. Primal instincts took over and she was in the moment, loving it. She felt so wanted and attractive, half-naked on her boss’s living room floor, her hips bucking against his palm. Chris certainly knew what he was doing. The mental image of him caressing his wife in the same way flashed across her thoughts, but disappeared again as he gently rubbed the hood of her clit. Again she felt short of breath with his weight on top of her and his tongue in her mouth, but she couldn’t care. To the contrary. It added to the illegality, the "wrongness" of the act, heightening her already hyper senses and her hammering heart. He broke the kiss, nibbling his way down her neck, nuzzling her collarbones. She felt his spare hand cover hers and move it from her thigh toward his growing bulge. She was, frankly, shocked – both at his audacity and her naiveté – as she ran her fingers over the pleats of his trousers. She squealed, half-angry as Chris bit at her nipple, half in jest. Jocelynn was suddenly aware of her own sexuality, how much she wanted this to happen. She felt damp under his fingers. Her attention returned to the bulge in his trousers, the silence between them oppressive, stifling. The TV muted and flashing in the corner of her eye. Chris was still preoccupied with her breasts, so she tugged the zip down roughly, her hands feeling the massive solid mass of his cock, the heat that radiated from his crotch. She slid her hand into the gap, pulling his helmet out sharply . . . "Fucking careful!" He shouted, "I want to be able to use that again, you slut!" Jocelynn heard nothing. She was mesmerized with the monstrosity she had just unleashed – and his cock too. Curious, but bashfully shy. She’d never seen a penis before, not at full fighting size, anyway. She tugged it towards her, giggling as it sprang back, slapping his abdomen. She sensed Mr. James’ palm a split second before it knocked her head sideways, the sharp slapping sound rang in her ears, her hot stinging cheek bringing her to her senses. "Did you not hear what I fucking said?" He snarled menacingly, then whispering, "I . . . said . . . be . . . careful! If I have to teach you the hard way I fucking will. Stupid bitch. Do you not know how to fucking do anything right? How fucking old are you? "I’m 19, remember?!" She was yelling, crying, scared all over again; struck at the age difference between them, the size difference. "I . . . really don’t know if I can do this, you know . . . you and me . . ." He stared her down. "I really don’t care if you do or do not. It’s going to happen. You, you fuckin’ . . . lead me on, you shoot me down. Fuckin’ prick tease! I’m not fuckin’ letting you go anywhere till I get off." With the full realization of a clairvoyant, Jocelynn reacted. Pushing against him with all her strength, hitting out at him, kicking, biting, screaming, trying to scratch him. Mr. James roughly grabbed her flailing hands and, face contorted with concentration and exertion, held them up above her head. Pinning them to the hardwood floor with his wide flat palm, he slapped her hard across the face once again, more to shock than to harm. The backhand that followed managed to injure her quite soundly, opening a gouge on her lip. The bloody sting pricking tears in her eyes. With a furious gesture he jerked his tie to his midriff, staring deep in her eyes, watching them grow wide in terror, her mouth sagging. He laughed. It wasn’t a generous laugh, born on love and affection, but a lascivious laugh; the acknowledgement of an illicit pleasure. He tore his tie off over his head, still grinning, more to himself than anything, his mind elsewhere. He half rose, flipping her over onto her belly before dropping back down heavily onto her vertebrae again. He grabbed her clutching right hand, forcing it down to the incurvature of her back, pressing it tight against her fleshy spine. Grabbed the other. Repeat. Twisted 180 degrees to sit on her back, holding her arms tight against her spine as he bound her hands behind her with his tie. On top of this girl. This prick tease. So tiny. He could almost hold her entire body in his hand . . . but only in order to snap her in two . . . Jocelynn was lucid enough to admire the effectiveness of the bondage – it pulled her shoulders back, forcing her breasts outward and upward, enhancing the ogee of her back. It enabled her already tormented mind to separate from her body, and she was suddenly powerless. She was no longer able to fight back physically, only mentally, and she no longer had to. This made her position both easier and more difficult. She was amazed how it both isolated and protected her.
Mr. James sat there for a while. Reveling in the control, the domination. The ability to posses another living, breathing human being. The adrenaline. The power. It was almost tangible. Jocelynn under him. Heaving and sobbing. Begging him to let her go. His closed eyelids raised up to the ceiling, and inhaled deeply from his gut. The smell of fear and apprehension. The moans. He could see visualize her matted black eyelashes. Her crimson, tear-streaked cheeks. Her wide, scared eyes. The sniveling. This was going to get so much harder for her . . . as would his cock. And then he was up, sick of the games and teasing, snatching her hair, lifting the back of her head up. Wherever the head goes, the body will follow. Her stilettos clattering along the oak corridor as she stumbled after him, skidding, constantly half falling; his big, wide hand encircling her fiery ponytail, hauling his trophy after him down the hall. ————————————————————————– He flung her to the frigid milk-white tiles of the bathroom like a lifeless rag doll, her skirt and stocking the only items of clothing still intact. The potent smell of bleach and toilet cleaner filled her nostrils; her face was a figure of grief and humiliation. Infuriated by the boy leg panties she was wearing he walked over and slapped her hard across the face, his wedding ring taunting her as it gashed a wide wound across her cheek. Her head slamming into, rebounding off the tiles. She started screaming again, wrenching her useless bound arms around, seeking any purchase on anything solid. She flailed about on the frigid tiling like a freshly caught fish, trying to keep her face off them, fighting against Mr. James as he straddled her, legs akimbo. Huge, fat sobs retched up in her throat, hot tears streamed down her cheeks. Through reddened weeping eyes she looked around the bathroom. Tiny and bare. Cold concrete tiles, a single white enamel bath, single white enamel sink. A cupboard near the door for towels and linen. Recently cleaned, the stink of bleach still heavy. Mr. James stood at the door, "Strip off. Put your clothes here, near my feet." "Bu-" "Don’t argue. Throw them. Now. I can make life very uncomfortable. True, I’ll make it uncomfortable whether you do as I directed or not, but let us not get too pedantic." "But . . . I’m tied up. I can’t," she sniveled, fighting back a smirk as he stepped forward to untie the binding. Mr. James had other ideas. Leaving her snugly bound, he retrieved a Stanley knife from his pocket. Extending the blade, he ran a slit right up the front of her dress and opened it like a cadaver on an autopsy table. Her coupled arms jerked, unable to cover her awkward shying nakedness, despite her thrashing about. "Shut the FUCK up!" Clunking through the sink cupboard, Mr. James plastered the duct tape stiffly across her mouth. "There. Any complaints?" He watched, impassive, as she tried vainly to verbalise her frustration. Her eyes huge, swollen and pleading, her jugular bulging and throbbing with effort as she tried to scream. He smiled. "No? Good then . . . I’ll be back in a sec after I run the bath," he leant across her to the square-rimmed tub, then walked out through the steam, closing the door behind him. Jocelynn was alone for the first time that evening, her mind suddenly burning with ideas now she no longer had the domineering Mr. James above her. She was noticing with growing alarm that as the evening wore on, she grew to appreciate the role she was playing. She also noticed it was easier to ‘go along with him’, to tailor her responses to please him, to prove her submissiveness. She was enjoying it when he was violent and crass and aggressive. She noticed that the rougher Mr. James got, the more turned on she got. As if her mind and body ran on much more primal circuitry and she was able only to react like a basic uninhibited caveman; unable to think, just react. "Nah, she’s a little . . . tied up at the moment, Gail . . . yeah, that’s right," Mr. James laughed into the receiver. "Do you want to come and pick her up? Yep, hour. Hour and a half at the latest . . . Ok, ta. Bye." A beep and he dropped the phone, slouching against the doorframe as he munched a sandwich. He was naked from the waist down, his cock hanging heavy and pendulous between his muscular brown thighs. She was amazed again at the disproportionately large head adorning the shaft. "That was your mum. I told her your idea about working overtime, and she was pretty okay with it." A grin. He offered her the sandwich, "Want a bite? No? Shame, it’s really nice." Chris crossed the room, leaning over her to check the temperature of the water and switched the taps off. He bent down and yanked Jocelynn’s head up by the hair, pulling her body back into a seated position. "You’re very quiet . . . you didn’t strike me as shy, what with all that fuckin’ shoutin’ and hollerin’ before . . ." He twisted her nipple sharply as her breath jagged cold in her chest; tugging the heavy weight of her breast upwards, bouncing it heavily, as if to check the elasticity, and, seemingly satisfied, letting it loll back against her chest. Pushing her forehead back with his fingertips, she felt the back of her skull against the frigid rim of the tub, face up "And keep it there this time!" Her chest and throat exposed, her bony collarbones protruding. The humidity of the steam filled room matching Jocelynn’s foggy brain, the heat making her dizzy and lightheaded. The size of his cock still – well, consistently – frightened the shit out of her and she found her eyes following it as he moved about. She guessed it must be, at least, eleven or twelve inches long, maybe more, and little less than the width of her wrist. It dipped in a smooth downward arc, wondrously hirsute, and capped by a huge drooping flared, mushroom-head. Her eyebrows rose, scared and a soft moan escaped her gagged throat. He wrapped the shaft in his fist as it expanded, stroking himself, his other hand gently stroking the side of her face, wiping a tear away.
Mr. James stripped the tape from her face in one sudden slash and she screeched in shock and pain, instantly quieted when he backhanded her sharply, his knuckles cracking solidly against her cheekbone. "Open your mouth" He ordered tersely, "Stick your fucking tongue out." In a moment his fat shaft had pinned her head hard against the rim of the bathtub, stretching her lips till they hurt. Her eyes bugged under the pressure as he pumped hard into her throat. Mr. James’ torso pressed hard against her forehead, hurting her the back of her skull. Her nose was filled with a scum of bleach and the dark, humid sweat of Mr. James’ crotch. He slid two of his fingers, strong with the aroma of something hot and wet, into her mouth, pushing her tongue against the floor of her mouth, widening her gullet. One hand stroking his still growing – unbelievably – cock, he poked at the back of her throat, his cock twitching in anticipation when she gagged, her shoulders twitching uncontrollably. She sobbed. He picked a tube from the medicine cabinet, liberally smearing it onto his fingers. "This will hurt if your don’t pick your chin up," he warned, and as Jocelynn raised her face, his long fingers slipped easily into her esophagus where the cream was rubbed onto her tongue. She swallowed, forcing it down her throat. He hammered at her head again for thirty seconds or so, the back of her skull banging a steady rhythm on the bathtub. One a second. She had counted to herself, eyes closed . . . ‘one Mississippi . . . two Mississippi . . . three Mississippi . . .’ The cream began to work, numbing her mouth and throat against his efforts. Mr. James pulled his cock out of her mouth then, a trail of spittle leading a thin bridge to her tongue, he rubbed himself again once or twice and slapped his throbbing knob on her chin wetly. He moved forward, his legs straddling her head. "Suck my fuckin’ balls," he growled, lowering them onto her lips, his spit streaked cock casting wide shadows over her face. It almost blocked out the light, it was so massive and awe-inspiring. The knuckles of his fingers bumped her nose every time he kneaded the length of his cock. She opened her mouth with a sigh, sticking out her tongue. It zigzagged from his perineum right over his hairy coarse scrotum to the massive shaft he dangled over her face. She paused, flicking the point of her tongue over the base of his shaft. He bent down, kissing her hot little mouth hard, one hand squeezing her chin and running his carefully trimmed nails down her sensitive neck as they stared into each others eyes: hers demure, his fiery. Standing again, he dropped his scrotum onto her willful open mouth. Her tongue suckled the taut skin between his juggling testicles, and he was forced to circle them with his fingers, so determined they were to rise up to his armpits. She paused, but only to spit out a curled pubic hair onto her chin before diving back to suckle the precum that was dribbling from his cock knob. Sensing the change, Mr. James was finally able to teach Jocelynn as he had promised her mother he would. It was always the best part of his job was when the acolyte became the proselyte. Although it was more of a hobby than a job. "Good girl," he whispered, slapping her brusquely across the chin, "Open." Moaning aloud, her chest flushed, she was allowed to just experience it, revel in the feelings as he thrust his cock again and again into the back of her throat, over and over. Jocelynn, unable to move was still so, so hopeless, unable to move. With a sudden shove, she felt the head of his cock pop past the back of her throat, instantly causing her to retch against it, her stomach kicking as she tried to fight her gag reflex. Mr Chris continued forcing her to gag making her eyes water, tears welling at the corners of her eyes, leaving opaque dark stains under her eyes. The tears came more from the effort of concentration, and the intense feeling of pressure she got from being gagged so violently than feeling sorry for herself. "Please," she heaved when he withdrew for a moment, "Untie me, I think my hands are gonna fall off. And . . . I can do more if you let me go, I promise." "You know I can’t risk that," he warned. "I could, but then I’d have to kill you. I’m pretty much done, anyway. Take me in your throat again. You only get untied after I cum." Jocelynn would have been lying if she said that his pleas didn’t make her hotter, make her so wanted despite the situation, despite the fact that it was rape. Desire wasn’t the right word, but it seemed to fit. She didn’t know what she was feeling, other than it felt warm, and started deep in her pelvis, and in that tiny button she knew sat above her vagina; she felt as if it wanted to thrust out of her body and join the cock in her mouth. She began to bob her head against his juddering pelvis, half wanting him out of her mouth for all its evils, and half trying vainly to get her employer to orgasm. As Mr. James slammed against her chin, his hands began to wander, twisting her knotted nipples, rubbing his palms over her shoulders, grabbing her hair in both of his hands, dragging it towards his pelvis, forcing his cock further into her throat. She wanted him to stop so she could go somewhere private and spank herself between the legs, such was the fire that burned in her clitoris. Suddenly his movements were frantic as he felt his orgasm rise in his asshole, pushing through his shaft. Pulling hard against her hair, his knob pummeled again and again against her throat, her gullet clutching at his rod as it swelled rapidly in her mouth and she felt his shaft twitch and pulse moments before he pulled out. He pulled her head back by the hair, his angry, reddened cock head inches from her spit streaked gaping mouth as she tried to grasp at the sweet air she had been deprived of. She watched the scarlet head, as it stared her right back in the face and it gave one sudden, last twitch and popped right at her face. The first heavy rope of his pearly sperm splashed up along the bridge of her nose, pooling on her forehead. Abruptly he popped back his knob back into her throat and his spasming, jerking cock struck rock bottom as he came powerfully. Deep in her gullet, he shot wad after wad of hot sperm, which gushed down her clutching throat. She struggled to breathe and swallow, so full she felt. Chris’s pelvis slowed, his stabbing gasps turning into a long, drawn out sigh as he pulled his spit stained cock reluctantly from Jocelynn’s mouth. He squeezed the last two drops onto her outstretched tongue. He bent over her, licking the sticky load that he had fired across her face. He breathed heavily, and sighed. "Fuck that was good," he laughed. Bending down, he untied her hands. Her hands shivered a little, returning the blood to her fingers. She reached up and stroked his shriveled shaft, mournfully, reverentially, as he leaned over to put bubble bath into the tub and top up the hot water. He kissed her gently on the forehead, tasting the salty combination of his semen and her sweat. He licked his lips subtly. "Go on. Jump in, my dear." Climbing off her, he instantly brought her back to her senses. Her buttocks were cramping, having been constantly clenched against the cold white towels and his onslaught for the full 40 minutes she’d been hostage on his floor. Her uniform, torn and soaked with alcohol, spit and vomit clung cold and wet against her body. Her teeth chattered, her mouth suddenly empty. She felt like she’d survived something massive. ‘Bring it on,’ her mind screamed, ‘Push him. Make it count.’ She;d spent so long being shit scared. She still had her modesty intact. Her virginity didn’t seem to be in any real danger of being ravished, from what she could tell, it was just the thought of ‘he’s pushed me this far, what now?’ that scared her now. ————————————————————————– Jocelynn quickly stripped out of what was left of her clothes and eased her aching joints into the steaming bath, sighing as the heat seeped into her limbs, warming her core. He offered her a tall glass of champagne, which she accepted readily and drained; only the second time in her life, that she had ever indulged in alcohol. "Get clean and dry before your mum gets here," he warned: "And remember, not a word to anyone. You do, and you’ll never get anywhere in this town, ever again." Jocelynn just nodded and sank deeper into the water, relaxing and reflecting on what had just happened over the last forty minutes. She refilled her glass from the bottle at the side of the bath, and began playing through the events in her head as she sipped at her glass.
As if pulled on a string, her hands roamed across her body, through the water; over her tits, her collarbones, sliding her fingers through the scant hair on her pussy. She licked her finger, lusciously, as her other palm found her mound, curling her turgid fingers around to penetrate her soaking, heavy vulva; the feelings she’d been feeling for so long suddenly real, tangible and translated into feeling in her cunt. She had never orgasmed before in her life, and was really only half-heartedly stroking her pussy, not really in any direction, just exploratory. She couldn’t believe the feeling they produced, but was suddenly sure she needed to bring herself off. She wondered how different it would have been if she had been in control, if she’d had her hands free. She slipped another finger into her pussy, joining the first, as her mind threw up a delectable kaleidoscope of images as her soapy fingers plundered her pussy: her hands running across Chris’s finely chiseled thighs, his turgid, growing cock, his heavy, deliciously hairy scrotum, his loud, passionate orgasm. She cupped her butt in one of her palms, her fingers flew across her pussy turning the water into lather as he bent her over and slid his massive chunk of meat deep in her pussy. She felt his tongue on her pussy and her clitoris and her tight little rosebud asshole. She felt her eyelids getting heavy, her breathing and fingers slowed, and then, she sank, deep asleep in the tub . . . her last thoughts were of how confused she was, but moreover, how much she loved being herself and how much she wanted Mr. James to dominate her again. And soon.