WWAC: The Answer is “Yes”

by Ashley B. D. Zacharias

Friday, 29 August:

“I hereby call this meeting of the Wicked Women’s Adventure Club to order.” Lydia said to the other four women sitting at her table. “Today, we are meeting in Jeanne’s home because we have a single item of business that concerns her. As you recall, we had a problem with our adventure in May. Amelia was playing a game against three young men who now work for Jeanne. Amelia played well and may have won, but we will never know because Jeanne intervened on behalf of the men. In a word, Jeanne cheated. Our first impulse was to expel her from the club, but she offered an alternative. She offered to allow us to devise a suitable punishment, to be served over Labor Day weekend. This weekend. I have devised a punishment that I trust will satisfy the other members of our club and that I hope will serve to convince Jeanne to play fairly in the future.”

She looked a Jeanne for a long minute, letting her suffer in suspense. The other three members waited, curious to know what deviltry Lydia’s twisted mind had devised. Jeanne looked nervous; she knew that Lydia could be merciless.

“Because your crime was to speak too much, I propose that, from now until eight o’clock on Monday night, you speak a little less. Not be silent, just reduce your speech by the smallest bit. In fact, you will only have to eliminate a single word, one of the smallest words in the English language, from your vocabulary.. You will no longer use the word, no. For the next seventy-two hours, the only answer that you will give to any question is, yes. It does not matter who is asking or what they are asking. If any person asks you any question that has a yes or no answer, your answer will always be yes. Do you understand?”

Jeanne nodded. “Yes.”

“Do you wish to remain a member of our club?”

“Yes.”

“Do you agree to abide by this rule until Monday evening?”

Jeanne paused for a long moment, then said, “Yes.” She watched the other members of the club as she gave her assent. They were looking at each other and smiling.

“And, of course, when you agree to something, we expect that you will do as you say because we would be most disappointed if we thought that you were lying to us. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“To be absolutely clear, you do not have to obey direct orders. Though you are prohibited from saying no in response to a direct order, you do not have to do what you are told, either. You are only obligated to answer questions with yes and then, if necessary, take action that is consistent with your answer. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

After giving the other members a moment to think about the implications of Jeanne’s new, slightly restricted vocabulary, Lydia opened the floor. “Does anyone have anything that they would like to ask Jeanne?”

Natasha understood exactly what Jeanne’s restriction meant and spoke first, “Jeanne, are you tired of wearing such stylish, conservative clothes?”

Jeanne’s heart sank. She liked her clothes just the way they were, but had to reply, “Yes.”

“Would you like to go shopping for some new clothes?”

“Yes.”

“Then, get your credit card and come on.”

It was not a question; Jeanne sat and waited.

Natasha realized her error. “Would you like to get your credit card?”

“Yes,” Jeanne replied, and, consistent with her newfound spirit of cooperation, , and left the room to fetch it.

Her American Express card weighed heavy in her hand when she returned; it had no limit and she no longer had the power to deny anything. This weekend not only promised to be personally humiliating, it could become quite expensive.

Lydia held out her hand. “You won’t need to bring a purse as long as your card is available. Would you like me to hang on to it for you?”

“Yes,” Jeanne said reluctantly, handing her card over.

Sitting in the back seat of her own car – “Would you like us to take your car?” “Yes.” “Would you like Trixie to drive?” “Yes” – she was trapped between Amelia and Natasha. Lydia was riding shotgun, telling Trixie where to turn. Before they had driven a mile, Amelia had a question. “Jeanne, I think you must feel a little constrained by your bra. Would you like to take if off?”

“Yes,” Jeanne sighed. She knew that this was just the beginning of what would turn out to be a long list of ridiculous questions that required affirmative responses followed by humiliating actions. It was tight in the back of her BMW, especially when she was sharing the bench with two other women, so she had to be careful not to poke them with her elbows as she struggled out of her tweed jacket. It would not do to antagonize the women any more than she already had. As soon as her jacket was free of her arms, Amelia took it from her and tossed it on the floor. Jeanne suspected that she would not be wearing it again any time soon; she only hoped that it would not be trampled beyond redemption. Her bra had a clasp between the cups in the front so it was easy to undo, but she had to pull her arms out of the tight sleeves of her beige silk blouse before she could slip the straps over her shoulders. As soon as her bra was free of her body, Amelia snatched it out of her hands, rolled down her window, and tossed it out. “You wanted to get rid of that old thing, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” The bra was not ‘an old thing.’ It was almost brand new and had cost forty-five dollars at Victoria’s Secret. Now it was gone.

“If you need to wear a bra, you’d rather wear one that’s a lot more interesting wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.” Jeanne did not want to think about what an ‘interesting’ bra might be like.

“And you’d prefer a bra that’s a lot less comfortable?”

“Yes.” She was sure that any bra that Amelia considered ‘interesting’ would be a damn sight less comfortable than the full coverage seamless cup Ipex bra that was now playing in traffic somewhere behind them.

“I’m sure that we can find one that will suit you perfectly.”

Lydia turned around to look into the back seat. “Will you put that blouse back on before we get out of the car?”

“Yes.” Jeanne slid her arms back into the sleeves of her blouse and buttoned it back up. She had an average bust – 34C – but she felt like she was flopping all over inside the thin, slippery blouse. It was not tight, but it was tailored to fit her perfectly. She glanced down and saw that, though the material was opaque, her nipples were well defined where they pressed against the beige silk.

Amelia followed her gaze down to her chest and smiled, “You like to look sexy, don’t you?”

“Yes,” was the only answer that was permitted. And it was true that she wanted to look sexy, but she understood the difference between sexy and slutty. She had looked sexy in her tailored business suit and proper bra. Now, wearing nothing on top but a thin silk blouse, she looked slutty. What would men think when they saw her? A certain kind of man, when he saw a woman dressed like a slut, would automatically ask a certain kind of question. She already knew that her automatic answer would have to be yes. She prayed that her colleagues would not decide to take her to the kind of place where that kind of man would be found in abundance. Her stomach churned with new fear as she rode toward the setting sun.

“I bet they have interesting clothes here. Would you like to go in and buy some stuff?”

“Yes,” Jeanne forced herself to reply, looking at the sign on the storefront: “The Erotic Boutique: Adult DVDs, Novelties, Lingerie.” It was not the most imaginative name for an adult store, but it left her with no doubt that ‘interesting’ wares would be sold inside. The windows were painted black. She had seen places like this before, but never been inside one.

The four other women followed Jeanne into the store. Their first impression was that the store was filled with racks of DVDs, but when they glanced around, they saw a few manikins wearing leather and lace and latex, as well as glass display cases filled with many more items of the same nature.

A tall, thin thirtyish man who was leafing through a bin of DVDs glanced up when the five women entered, then tucked his head back down, trying to stay anonymous. Another customer, an elderly gentleman in a suit that had not been cleaned in some time shuffled between two shelves away from the women. He appeared not to see them.

As soon as they were inside, the middle-aged, overweight man with thin, greasy black hair who was standing behind the counter said, “Can I help you?” Women came into the store on occasion, invariably in the company of their boyfriend, but never before had five young, professional-looking women enter as a group. He feared that they might be feminists coming to make problems for him and his business. It had happened before in the eighties, though those women had been younger and not dressed like executives. Now, older and wiser, he preferred to confront problems head on before the escalated out of control.

The other four turned to Jeanne and waited. With a start, she realized that the manager had asked a question and that she was expected to answer. Her problems were just beginning. “Yes,” she answered, unable to deny his request though she would have preferred a chance to look around without being dogged by a large, sweaty man.

“What interests you?”

Jeanne presumed that she could say whatever she wanted in response to this. Her only constraint was that she could not answer no if the question permitted a yes answer. But, before she could speak, Trixie replied, “Jeanne, here, wants to shop for some things. Isn’t that right, Jeanne?”

“Yes.”

“I think she’d like to look at some bras to start with. You need a bra, don’t you Jeanne?” She looked pointedly at Jeanne’s chest.

“Yes.”

The manager looked at the points where Jeanne’s nipples were pushing against her silk blouse. Her lack of a bra was obvious and the manager continued to stare until Lydia interrupted him. “Will you show us some of your more interesting bras?”

“Sure thing.” He stepped around the counter and led the women to a shelf of bras.

The selection was small, but interesting, nonetheless.

“Look at this,” Amelia picked up a box. “This one doesn’t have any cups on it, just straps to hold your naked tits in place. You could wear a bra and still have your naked little nips poking out. Don’t you just love it, Jeanne?”

“Yes,” she replied, hating it.

“How about this one?” Trixie giggled, picking up another box. “It’s just the bottom half of a lace cup and it’s a nice bright red with sparkly rhinestones all over it. It doesn’t cover your nips and I bet you could see it from half a mile away. Don’t you just love this one, Jeanne?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to buy both of them?” Lydia asked Jeanne without smiling.

“Yes.”

“She’d like to take one of each,” Lydia told the manager. “What size?” she asked Jeanne.

“Thirty four C.”

The manager leered at her. “Thirty four we got. These bras don’t have cup sizes. They don’t need ‘em cause they don’t have cups.” He laughed. “You want anything else?”

The women looked at Jeanne.

“Yes.”

“You need a skirt, don’t you?” Natasha asked.

“Yes.”

“We don’t got much in skirts. Mostly just leather and latex minis.”

“Oh. Latex sounds interesting, doesn’t it, Jeanne?” Natasha asked.

“Yes.”

“We got red, black, white, pink,” he said. “You’ll be able to squeeze into a small. You’ve got a nice, tight bottom and they stretch.”

“Would you like one in each color?” Natasha asked.

“Yes,” Jeanne replied.

The manager handed her four boxes.

“Hey, look at this.” Amelia had wandered over to look at the items displayed under glass. “I’ve found something that Jeanne will want bad.”

Jeanne was the last to arrive at the display case. She was in no hurry to see what she was going to have to buy next, but could tell from the gasps and giggles that it was going to be bad.

“Do you want a thong panty with a built-in vibrating dildo?” Amelia asked.

“Yes.”

“The dildo fits right inside you and it comes with a remote control. Do you want me to take care of the remote control for you?”

“Yes.” Jeanne did not even look in the case.

“You also want a set of butt plugs, don’t you?” Natasha asked.

“Yes.”

Lydia looked at her without smiling. “And handcuffs. The good ones that double lock.”

“Yes.” Jeanne wondered briefly how Lydia knew that the better handcuffs had double locks.

“And that leather paddle.”

“Yes.” Jeanne’s heart was pounding.

“Anything else?” the manager asked her, as he pulled the items out of the display case.

“Yes,” Jeanne had to reply even though she did not know what else she could possibly want.

Trixie helped out. “You want a garter belt, fishnet stockings, and those high-heeled boots, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

The knee-high black plastic boots that laced up the side had ridiculously high heels and platform soles. Jeanne would barely be able to walk in them. When asked if they looked comfortable, she said, “Yes.”

She bought two garter belts, one in black and one in red, because those were the only colors in stock.

“Anything else?” the manager asked.

“Yes,” Jeanne said.

“No, I don’t think so,” Lydia contradicted her. “You can check her out now.”

The manager raised an eyebrow, grinned, and said, “I’ve been checking her out all night,” but he slowly checked out Jeanne from bottom to top one more time before beginning to ring her purchases into the register.

She groaned to see the total, but gave up her credit card.

After she signed the slip, Lydia said, “Would you like to change into your new outfit before you leave?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry, I don’t have a change room,” the manager shrugged.

“That’s all right. Nobody can see in from the street. Your windows are painted over so this is like one big change room, isn’t it?”

The four women looked at Jeanne, waiting for her to answer.

“Yes.”

“Would you feel comfortable changing right here?”

Jeanne looked around. The tall thin customer had slipped out the door as soon as the women had begun shopping, but the elderly gentleman had stayed and was standing at the back of the store staring frankly and openly at her. “Yes,” she answered.

“Let’s see. You need the bra. Do you think the black open cup one is best for now?”

“Yes.”

Lydia handed the box to Jeanne and waited. When Jeanne turned her back to the manager, she was facing the old pervert at the back of the store. Somehow, he seemed to be the lesser of the two evils. She unbuttoned her silk blouse, and slipped it off without ceremony. None of the other women made a move to help her, so she had to turn and put it on the counter. When she turned back toward him, the manager’s eyes dropped to her chest and he kept them there for as long as she continued to face, never averting his gaze for an instant. She slipped her arms through the straps, and then clipped the bra closed behind her back. The movement made her breasts, still naked in the cupless bra, thrust out in his direction. He licked his lips. “I’d sure like a taste of those ta-tas,” he muttered.

Lydia raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me. They’re her tits. Ask her.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Can I lick your tits?”

“Yes,” Jeanne replied with resignation. She pressed against the counter and arched her back to raise her breasts as close to the manager’s face as possible.

He bent forward and licked her right nipple with vigor. Then he moved to the other side and sucked the left nipple hard, pulling her entire areola into his mouth. Then he returned to the first nipple. After a couple of minutes, Lydia said, “That’s enough.” When he pulled his head back, the points of both Jeanne’s breasts glistened with his saliva.

“Can I–” he began, but Lydia cut him off before he could finish the question.

“That’s enough, I said. That’s all the tip you get tonight,” she said.

“Fine,” he pouted.

Jeanne sighed in relief. She had little enthusiasm for giving any more favors to this guy.

Her relief evaporated when Lydia added, “We’ve got a lot more stops tonight and can’t wear her out early.”

Jeanne’s heart fell at the mention of ‘a lot more stops.’ She hoped that Lydia was exaggerating for effect but feared that she meant what she said.

As soon as Jeanne finished rebuttoning her blouse, Lydia handed her another box. “Do you want to wear the red garter belt?”

“Yes.” Jeanne stepped out of her brown pumps, slipped her hands under her tweed skirt, grabbed the top of her pantyhose and pulled it down past her knees. She slipped it off one foot, then the other, careful to keep from snagging it an putting a run in it. It was a wasted effort. As soon as it was off, Lydia took it, handed it to the manager and said, “Throw these away. She won’t be needing pantyhose for the rest of the weekend.”

Jeanne turned away from the manager when she raised her skirt to clip the garter belt around her waist, once again facing the elderly man at the back of the store. She saw that he had stepped several paces closer, the better to see her uncovered tits and panties.

“Do these need batteries?” Lydia asked the manager, holding the box containing the thong with the built-in vibrator.

“The batteries are included. I’ll install them for you.” The manger took the thong out of the box and gallantly installed the batteries both in the vibrator and in the remote control.

“I’ll take that,” Amelia said, and picked up the control. She examined it, and then pushed a button. The vibrator began making a loud buzzing sound as it vibrated against the glass counter top. It was slowly bouncing toward the edge of the glass.

Jeanne winced.

“It’s a lot quieter when it’s inside,” the manager explained.

“Would you like to find out about that?” Natasha asked.

“Yes,” Jeanne lied.

Amelia thumbed the remote control to turn the vibrating dildo off, then Lydia handed the thong to her.

When she took it, Jeanne was surprised by the weight of the material. Then she realized that they had to use substantial material with no elasticity to ensure that the vibrator was held inside a woman. Once again Jeanne reached under her skirt, this time to slip her panties off. Once again, the manager threw her old underwear into the trash can behind the counter. The old geezer in the back was grinning in delight.

When Jeanne slid the thong up to her hips, she had to fiddle with herself for a few seconds to get the vibrating dildo inside. As soon as she dropped her skirt, Lydia said, “Would you like the man to inspect it and make sure that it got inside you properly?”

“Yes.” Jeanne grimaced as she pulled the front of her skirt up to her waist and spread her knees to give the manager a good view of the thong that covered her crotch. The red straps from the garter belt hung loose on each side.

“I better make sure,” he replied and stepped around the counter. He put his hand out toward her and, in a further show of gallantry, asked, “May I?”

“Yes.”

He rubbed his fingers up and down Jeanne’s crotch, lost in bliss at the feel of her plump lips beneath the heavy material. Finally, he said, “It’s inside her, all right,” and stepped back.

Jeanne was still holding her skirt up when Amelia pressed the button. There was a faint hum from her crotch and Jeanne squealed in surprise and twitched her knees together.

“It’s a pretty good vibrator,” the manager commented. “Good strong vibration. It’ll stimulate all her parts down there.”

Jeanne gritted her teeth and let her skirt drop.

Trixie looked at the elderly customer and said, “Would you like to see what it feels like when it’s working inside her?”

“Yes, please,” the man said.

Jeanne did not wait for anyone to ask her the question, but obediently turned to face him, raised her skirt above her crotch again and spread her legs.

The man shuffled forward, reached out, and stuck his fingers against the part of the thong that was vibrating.

He smelled of B.O. and Jeanne tried to breathe shallowly to keep from gagging. It was a losing battle because the sensations in her cunt could not be ignored and her body was demanding more oxygen.

Lydia let him fondle her vibrating crotch for a long time before telling him, “That’s enough, now.”

“Thank you,” the old man said, pulling his hand away from Jeanne. As he stepped back, he raised his fingers to his nose and sniffed deeply. She wanted to gag again.

Despite herself, all four women could hear that Jeanne’s breathing was increasing more in volume and speed. Both of the men sighed in disappointment when Amelia pressed the button again and the hum stopped – they were hoping to see her cum right there in the store. “We don’t want to wear the batteries out all at once.”

Jeanne groaned, anticipating a long night before the batteries wore down.

Lydia replied, “We’ll stock up on fresh batteries when we need them.”

Jeanne groaned again.

The manager spoke up, “I stock spare batteries. Also, I just noticed, if you’re going to use the butt plugs, you’ll need some lubricant. I recommend Astroglide.”

“Good,” Trixie replied. “She’ll want two sets of replacement batteries and a tube of Astroglide. Right, Jeanne?”

“Yes.”

“It comes in a bottle,” the manager said.

“Make it a big bottle.”

Jeanne groaned again.

Lydia handed her a pair of fishnet stockings. “You better put some stockings on. You wouldn’t want to walk around with bare legs.”

Lydia spoke as though the wide mesh would actually cover an appreciable amount of skin. Trixie giggled.

Jeanne slid the stockings up to her thighs, then raised the hem of her tweed skirt just far enough to clip the garter straps to the front and back of each.

“Would you rather wear one of your new latex miniskirts than that boring old tweed thing?”

Jeanne could only say “Yes.”

Lydia handed her the short, wide tube of red rubber.

Jeanne unzipped the tweed skirt, slipped it off over her head, and handed it to Lydia. The rubber skirt was tight, though, so she stepped into it and pulled it up over her hips. Once she had the waistband settled in place, she tried to stretch it as far down past her hips as she could. It did not extend far – the hem rode well above the tops of the stockings, revealing a generous strip of the tender white skin of her upper thighs.

Worse, it was stretched tight around her, fitting the contours of her buttocks, belly, and crotch like a glove. Anyone who saw her from the back could see that she was wearing a thong. And would see that she was athletic; every muscle in her butt and thighs was clearly defined.

“It’ll be a lot shinier you spray some polish on it.” The manager was eager to help; every sale was more money in his till and he got a bonus based on total annual revenue.

“Do you have any?” Lydia was eager to help him make sales at Jeanne’s expense.

“Yes.”

“We’ll take some.”

The manager added a small spray bottle to the pile of batteries and lube. “Want me to spray some on now?”

All eye turned to Jeanne.

“Yes,” she said.

The manager came around the counter again, bent to one knee and said, “Hold your blouse out of the way.” Jeanne gathered the hem of her silk blouse and raised it above her waist while the manager carefully sprayed the skirt. “Turn.” Sprayed some more on her side. “Turn.” Sprayed her rubber-covered ass lovingly. “Turn.” And finished her other hip.

The latex sparkled in the store lights.

Lydia handed the tweed skirt to the store manager. “You can throw that away, too. She’s got a new look now.”

He laughed. “She sure does.”

Natasha looked at the skin tight latex around Jeanne’s waist and noted that she was still holding the tails of her blouse up to let the polish dry. “She can’t tuck her blouse into that and it would be a shame to let her blouse cover it, even a little. You got any scissors?”

“Sure.”

“You want me to alter your blouse for you, Jeanne?”

“Yes.” There was a tear in her eye. She loved her beige silk blouse.

Natasha took a pair of scissors from the manager, inserted the point just above Jeanne’s navel, and cut a rude new hem, leaving an ample swath of bare skin above the top of the skirt. She dropped the scrap of silk that she had cut off on the floor. “That looks much better, don’t you think?

“Yes,” Jeanne answered. Mercifully, there was no mirror for her to see herself, but it would have made no difference. She had only one answer for every question.

Suddenly there was a quiet buzzing. Jeanne gasped in surprise, froze, then pressed her thighs together and turned her head to look at Amelia.

Amelia grinned and pushed the button to stop the vibrator. “Gets your attention, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.” Jeanne was not lying that time.

“Put on your boots, buy those last couple of items and we can get on with the rest of our evening.”

As the manager began to ring up the second group of odds and ends, Natasha waved the scissors in his direction, “We’d like to buy these, too. We’re going to need them later.”

“Those aren’t for sale. I need them myself.”

“I’m sure you can get by without them for tonight. Jeanne would be happy to pay fifty dollars for them, wouldn’t you?” She turned to look at her.

“Yes,” Jeanne said in a voice that sounded anything but happy.

The store manager saw his opportunity to gouge someone and that made him happy in turn. “A hundred bucks to compensate me for my inconvenience?”

“That sounds like a question. What do you say, Jeanne?” Natasha grinned at her.

“Yes,” Jeanne answered without meeting her eyes, angry that she was being forced to pay a hundred dollars for a pair of scissors that would cost less than ten at any Wal-Mart.

Jeanne was in no hurry to get on with the rest of the evening, but she did not want to linger in this store a second longer than necessary, either. There was too much risk that the manager would ask her permission to do something else to her and she did not want to have to agree to anything more. She slipped the God-awful plastic boots on her feet, signed the credit card receipt, grabbed the bags containing her new purchases, and tottered out of the store on the ridiculous platforms as quickly as she could. The rest of the women followed her, giggling in amusement.

At one time or another, Jeanne had pushed each of them to their limit in some way and would get no sympathy this weekend.

In the car once again, sitting in the back seat between Natasha and Amelia, riding through the fading light of the late summer evening, Jeanne squirmed in discomfort in her plastic boots, latex skirt, and rudely cropped silk blouse. The platform soles and high heels thrust her knees too high; the latex pulled at the skin on her upper thighs where it was left bare by the stockings and thong; and her nipples, left naked by the cupless bra, slithered around inside the silk half-blouse. The abbreviated blouse felt like it was about to slip up to her neck at any moment, baring her tits to public view.

Amelia noticed her discomfort and remembered her own discomfort when she had been creeping through a shopping mall in a dress that was, for all practical purposes, little more than a collection of cloth scraps hanging from a high waist band. She smiled. “What goes around, comes around, right?”

“Yes,” Jeanne replied with a sideways glance at the younger woman.

Amelia had had her cunt stuffed with a double dildo in the shopping mall and now Jeanne also had a foreign object stuffed inside her. She waved the remote control for the vibrating dildo and said, “Would you like us to make your ride a little more stimulating?”

“Yes.” There was a tone of resignation in her voice.

“Okay. Whatever you want.” Amelia clicked the button on the remote control and the car was filled with a quiet hum.

This time Amelia left the vibrator running.

Lydia, in the front seat, turned around to watch Jeanne and Trixie, who was driving, adjusted the rear view mirror down a few degrees to get a better view of Jeanne’s face.

After a minute, the vibrator began to have its effect, despite Jeanne’s effort to ignore it. She began breathing noticeably more quickly and deeply; her face began to flush. After another two minutes, she opened her mouth and began to moan softly.

The other four women were fascinated by her; opportunities to observe another woman having an orgasm from so close were rare.

Jeanne realized that she was going to have to come eventually and gave herself over to her need. Her hand slid between her legs, pushed the hem of the miniskirt up, and began to massage her clit through the heavy material of the thong. Then she slipped her finger under the material and began to work on herself directly, her hips rocking back and forth to aid her intimate massage. After another half minute, she opened her mouth and began to groan loudly. Her eyes rolled up, her body shuddered, and she groaned one last time.

Amelia pressed the button to turn the vibrator off while Lydia and Natasha applauded loudly. She took a little bow in their direction, acknowledging their appreciation of her work as the director of Jeanne’s performance.

Jeanne hung her head in shame.

The car smelled of sex.

“Did you like that?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to do it again, later?”

Jeanne hated having to say, “Yes.”

“We need a table for five,” Jeanne told the maitre d’, trying to make herself look as innocent as she could in her whorish clothes. “The other four will be along in a couple of minutes.”

“We have no table for you or your friends,” the silver-haired man in the tuxedo replied pointedly, looking down his nose at the dimples where her nipples deformed the crudely butchered silk half blouse, her bare midriff, the red latex miniskirt that made her hips look vacuum packed, the black fishnet stockings held up by visible red garter straps, and the black plastic go-go boots with inch-high platform soles and six inch heels.

“I see some empty tables back there,” she pointed toward the kitchen.

“They are reserved.”

“I don’t mind a table in the back, out of the way. We’re not going to make any trouble. We just want to eat.”

“I suggest you try eating in some other part of town. There might be some dives left over from the Combat Zone days.” He was referring to Boston’s old red light district, now mostly gentrified. “You will not be served anywhere in this part of town.”

The diners nearest the front of the restaurant, dressed in evening gowns and business suits, were chattering to each other and snickering at the stupid whore who thought that she was good enough to eat in their presence. The ones with their backs to her began turning in their seats to look at the woman in the rubber skirt and plastic boots. Jeanne saw one of the women slap her husband smartly on the arm for some comment that he made which indicated his appreciation of her whorish attire. She wanted to scream at them, Do you have any idea how much this pure silk blouse cost before it was cut to rags? but knew that any hint of insanity would be counterproductive.

She kept her attention focused on the maitre d’. “Please reconsider.” She drew a hundred dollars in twenties from her purse and slid it across his podium.

“I don’t need your kind of money,” he replied with disdain and pushed it back to her with a single extended finger as though the bills themselves were contaminated by some dreadful disease. “Please put it away and leave before I call the authorities and have you removed by force.” He is calculation was obvious; a hundred dollars may be a lot of money, but his job was worth far more than that.

Jeanne was desperate. A few minutes ago, she had agreed, against her will, to accept punishment if she were unable to secure a table for herself and her friends. “Surely there is something that I can do to change your mind.” she smiled as seductively as possible and sank to a new low, offering him her body in exchange for a seat in a restaurant. “If there’s some favor that I can do for you, you need only ask.” He would never know how true that statement was.

“I only have one thing to ask of you.” He was adamant. “Will you leave right now?”

Oops. A question. Her answer was “Yes.”

The maitre d’ did not wait for her to comply, but was already gesturing toward a busboy. “Morris, please escort this woman off the premises.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she told Morris, earning a look of relief from the young man. She turned and sauntered back toward the exit on her high plastic platform soles, trying to project at least a shred of dignity. She failed. A smattering of applause from the diners heralded her retreat: an expression of their thanks to the maitre d’ for protecting them so efficiently from sharing the room with a woman of low repute. She trotted the last few steps to escape the sound.

As soon as she rounded the corner to where the other members of the club were waiting, Lydia said, “Tell us if you got a table for us.”

Though not a question, Jeanne was careful to avoid the banned no word. “We will have to look elsewhere.

“You mean, you have disappointed us?”

“Yes.”

“Do you deserve to be punished?”

“Yes.”

“Will you accept a sound paddling from Amelia?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll take care of that later. Right now, I’d like to eat. Are you going to get us a table somewhere decent?”

“Yes.”

“Good. First, though, I think your blouse needs a little adjustment. Do you want us to adjust your blouse for you?”

“Yes.” Jeanne’s heart sank. What more could they do to her blouse? Any further alteration would only make it that much more difficult to gain access to a restaurant.

“Good. Let’s go back to the car.”

At the car, Lydia told Jeanne to wait outside while Natasha fetched the scissors that had cost Jeanne so dearly.

“What do you think, Natasha? Do you think that her blouse has too many buttons on it?”

“I certainly do.” Natasha turned to Jeanne. “Do you want me to remove some of the buttons from your blouse?”

“Yes.”

“Raise your chin.”

Jeanne raised her chin high so that Natasha could slip the points of the scissors around the threads that held the top button. Snip. The button clattered on the pavement. Snip. The second button followed the first. “Would you like me to remove the third button, too?”

“Yes.”

“You realize that you will be showing some serious cleavage if you lose that one?”

“Yes.”

“And you still want me to cut it off?”

“Yes.”

Snip.

The button joined its mates on the pavement. Now there were only two buttons left on the front of her cropped blouse, the one at the level of the bottom of her breasts and the one just above the hacked-off hemline.

“Do you think we should remove one more button?”

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

This was not a yes/no question and required a real answer. Jeanne looked down at the front of her ruined blouse. “The bottom one should be removed.” The other alternative, losing the forth button from the top would leave the front of the bra showing and let the blouse gape open far enough to allow one of her naked tits to slip out if she twisted her torso.

“Okay.” Snip. Now the bottom of the blouse slid open with every movement, giving spectators peeks at her midriff all the way up to the bottom of her bra.

“Maybe that will help the next maitre d’ find a table for us,” Natasha snickered.

Jeanne was driven to another fine restaurant where she suffered through the same humiliating public scene as at the first. She actually begged the maitre d’ to give her a table, but he was having nothing to do with her type.

Apparently Lydia intended to send her into all the finest restaurants in Boston, establishments that would refuse to seat a woman dressed like a slut no matter what bribes were offered to the maitre d’s.

Jeanne wondered if she would ever be able to eat in Boston again. Even next month when she was dressed in a business suit, these men and women were likely to turn her away if they remembered seeing her dressed like this.

Defeated again, Jeanne had to agree that she deserved a sound paddling from Trixie – a second paddling as she had already agreed to accept one from Amelia. This one also was to be administered at some later, unspecified time.

When they returned to the car, Lydia asked her, “Do you think that your blouse looks a little odd with long sleeves when the bottom is cropped so short?”

“Yes.” Jeanne agreed.

“Natasha, will you do Jeanne the honor of removing the sleeves from her blouse?”

“I would be delighted,” Natasha replied.

She fetched the scissors and removed the entire sleeve from each arm, cutting above the seam that attached the sleeve to the body of the blouse so that Jeanne’s shoulders were half bare. She stood back to admire her work. “I think the arm holes need a little adjustment at the bottoms, don’t you Jeanne?”

Jeanne could not see herself and had no idea what Natasha intended, but it did not matter. Her reply to every question was an automatic “Yes.”

“Raise your arms, please.”

Jeanne complied and Natasha used the scissors to enlarge the bottom of each arm hole so that it extended to the top of the bra strap on each side. With her arms raised, everyone could see a generous amount of Jeanne’s ribs and get a peak at the black bra straps that surrounded each naked tit. With her arms lowered, one saw even more of the bra straps.

“That looks much better, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

After being turned away from the third restaurant, Jeanne was forced to agree to a third sound paddling to be administered by Natasha at some time in the near future.

Again, Lydia forced Jeanne to agree that her lovely silk blouse, now hacked almost to rags, required even further modification. “Do you think that collar looks out of place on a cropped, sleeveless blouse?”

“Yes.”

“Natasha, would you like to remove the collar?” Lydia asked.

“With pleasure.” Natasha had already fetched the scissors from the car. She began at the bottom of Jeanne’s cleavage and not only cut away the collar, but removed most of the front, shoulders neat the neck, and back. Jeanne was left with a silk halter held together with a single button between her breasts, barely covering her bra. And, considering that her bra had no cups, but left most of her breasts naked, she was at considerable risk of flashing passers-by if she moved incautiously.

“You look lovely, dear.” Lydia smiled wickedly. “I remember what a nice tune you hummed in the car earlier tonight.” Natasha picked up on the hint and reached into her purse. Suddenly the vibrator began to hum in her pussy and Jeanne moaned. “Yes, that tune.” The vibration ceased and Lydia continued. “Don’t you think a talent like that should be shared?”

There was a long pause before Jeanne replied, “Yes,” with obvious reluctance.

“There’s a great new karaoke bar downtown. Would you like to go there?”

Another reluctant “Yes.”

“I think we’d all like to go there. And we can eat some snacks while we are being serenaded. I’m a little hungry and you have failed to find a restaurant that will serve us. We’ll have to settle for nachos and chicken wings at the bar, won’t we?”

“Yes.”

“And it still early enough that we can get a table.”

Even though the evening was young, the karaoke bar was already half full. The hostess raised her eyebrow at Jeanne’s appalling apparel, but led them toward a table in the back without comment. Jeanne noted that they were being led past empty tables closer to the front that were large enough to seat five, but  said nothing – she was content to be as far from the public eye as possible.

A young man, probably a student at the nearby Boston University, was singing a passable cover of “Drops of Jupiter.” He was just asking, “Did Venus blow your mind?” in verse when he spotted Jeanne in the flesh. His own mind was blown by the sight of a live Venus in silk and latex. He stumbled on the next line, “Was it everything you wanted to find?” and took two more lines to recover his place. His friends, a group of half a dozen young jocks sitting at a table in front, heard him stumble halfway through the song and burst into catcalls; none of them had yet seen the woman in slut clothes who had distracted him.

Natasha saw the byplay and felt a rush of satisfaction. It was early Friday night; they still had three days left to humiliate Jeanne to their heart’s content.

Even before the waitress arrived to take their drink order, Trixie asked, “Do you want to get up on stage and sing House of the Rising Sun?

Of course, the answer was, “Yes.” Of course, her tone was low and reluctant.

“Don’t forget that, no matter what the monitor says, the song was originally written for a woman and the lyrics are “a girl like me,” not “a boy like me.”

“Yes.”

Jeanne was sent to fill out a ticket and sign herself into the rotation. Every male eye in the house watched her walk to the front of the bar and back. While she was gone, there was a brief discussion about alcohol among the women. The consensus was that, although it would be fun to get her stinking drunk, Jeanne would feel her humiliation more keenly if she were stone cold sober. When Jeanne returned, Natasha asked, “Are you the designated driver tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like to order something to drink?” The waitress had arrived.

“Yes,” Jeanne answered automatically.

“Not her, she’s the designated driver,” Natasha replied, “But the rest of us would like a bottle of champagne to start. A good bottle.”

Jeanne suppressed a groan as she thought about her poor American Express card.

“And a food menu,” Trixie added. “I think I might like to sample everything.”

Jeanne glanced at the menu. If Trixie decided to order one of everything, the bill would total hundreds of dollars.

Thankfully, the women only ordered the veggie platter to start. Jeanne spoke sincerely when she agreed that she did not want to share either the deep-fried vegetables or the champagne. Her stomach churned as she sat quietly in her horrible outfit and waited for her turn on stage. The other women could not know that being forced to sing in public was a worse torture for her than anything else they could have demanded. Jeanne never sang in public, never even sang in the shower. She had no ability to carry a tune.

The emcee called her to the stage long before she was ready. No surprise because she would never be ready to humiliate herself in public.

She tried to hold her head up as she walked between the tables to the stage, but found the weight of her despair heavy.

When she had gone to the front to fill out the ticket requesting the song, the emcee had sneered at her outfit long and hard. Apparently he had not had his fill because he sneered at her again as he handed her the microphone. It was clear that he thought that he was better than her; that in his mind, a karaoke emcee was many rungs higher on the social ladder than a whore.

When the table of young men at the front saw her climb onto the stage, they expressed the same sentiment in their own way, shouting a chorus of catcalls, the cleverest being, “Take it off!” Clearly, Jeanne was not inspiring them to high wit.

Her face shone red as a rising sun, but not as red as the tight latex skirt that failed to cover the tops of her fishnet stockings.

The music began and, after the intro, words began to scroll across the screen. Jeanne had no choice but to sing, “There is a house in New Orleans…” when the words appeared. She could barely hear herself over the shouts at first, but, as she sang more, the catcalls faded to background noise level. When she sang, “the ruin of many a poor girl,” one of the frat boys shouted, “You can ruin me!” and the other boys jeered in assent. Then, when she sang, “I’m going back to New Orleans,” the same boy shouted, “Want to come to our House of the Rising Sun?”

Jeanne kept singing until the music stopped, then, handed the microphone back to the emcee and fled the stage. There was a lewd and raucous ovation from the table of frat boys, but only a smattering of applause from the remainder of the house.

As soon as she returned to the table, Lydia fixed her with a cold stare. “I heard one of the boys at that table ask you a question. I did not hear your answer.”

“I don’t remember hearing a question,” Jeanne stammered.

“Do you want to go over to those boys and introduce yourself?” Trixie asked.

“Yes,” Jeanne replied after a long pause.

“I bet they have a lot of questions for you.”

“Wait,” Lydia said as Jeanne began to walk back. “While you’re there, find out if there are any frat parties happening tomorrow night.”

“Frat parties?” Jeanne asked faintly.

“Yes, of course. You’d love to go to a frat party, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.” Jeanne’s answer was so faint as to be barely audible.

“Speak up.”

“Yes,” she said more clearly.

“Good, because I’m sure that you’ll be a real hit.” Lydia dug a pen and paper out of her purse. “Here. Write down the address,”

Jeanne’s heart fell as every step brought her closer to the table covered with empty beer pitchers. The students turned to stare and chattered to each other as she got nearer, but then fell silent when she arrived. “Hello. I’m Jeanne.”

The boys stammered through their own introductions, suddenly shy. Mostly drunk, they would not stay shy for long. The boldest of the bunch said, “Nice song.”

“Thank you. I don’t think I sing very well, but you have to try new things, you know.”

“Do you like trying new things?” the bold boy asked.

“Yes,” Jeanne answered automatically.

“I love a woman who tries new things.”

There was a silent pause, and then Jeanne screwed up her courage and said, “I was wondering if you gentlemen knew of any fraternity parties that might be happening tomorrow night.”

The boys were taken aback by the term, gentlemen, suspecting that she might be speaking sarcastically. They were correct; she was. After a brief pause, they began discussing what fraternities were doing what among themselves. Finally, the bold one summarized their discussion for her. “It’s only Labor Day weekend, you see. School hasn’t started yet but some of the guys like us are on campus early, getting our houses fixed up and ready for rush week. There might be a party or two somewhere, but we don’t know about any yet.”

Jeanne felt a huge relief until he added, “Do you want us to ask around and see if we can find one?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to give us your number and we’ll call you if we do?”

“Yes.” She wrote her number on the piece of paper, praying silently that it would be too early for any fraternity parties anywhere in Boston.

The bold one took the paper from her, then said, “What are your rates?”

“Rates?”

“Yeah. You know. How much do you charge to do a party?”

Jeanne blushed again. “I’m not a hooker. I don’t charge anything.”

“You’ll come to a party for free?”

“Yes.”

“And this is your real phone number?”

“Yes.” She made a mental note to have her phone number changed as soon as the telephone offices were open on Tuesday morning.

“Hot damn.” the boy grinned. “I’m sure we can find a party somewhere.”

“Thanks.” Jeanne’s heart was pounding in fear as she bid her farewells and walked back to the table. Surely they wouldn’t host a party just because one woman wanted to come. Before she was more than a few feet away, she heard the word, cougar, being tossed around. Damn, they sounded horny.

When she got back to her own table, Amelia asked, “Did they invite you to a party?”

“Yes,” Jeanne answered, smiling at Amelia’s error.

“You seem happy.”

“Yes.”

Lydia understood how Amelia had misspoken. This weekend, they could not get information from Jeanne by asking questions that could be answered with yes or no. She said, “Will you tell us what happened at the table?”

“Yes.” Jeanne explained about the boys’ promise to phone if they found a frat party.

“Then we’ll have to check your phone messages tomorrow afternoon.”

“Yes.”

Trixie smiled. “I bet you’d like to sing ‘Like a Virgin’ for your new friends, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Off you go, then.” Trixie waggled her away with her fingers.

By now, the bar was full and many people wanted to sing; it was an hour and another bottle of champagne before Jeanne was called to the stage to sing again. She butchered Madonna’s falsetto, but the boys at the front table were in a forgiving mood. There were no catcalls, thought they did giggle loudly every time Jeanne sang that she was, “Like a virgin, touched for the very first time.”

She was occupied with reading the lyrics and did not notice when Amelia walked along the wall to within a few feet of the stage. Just as she sang, “I was beat incomplete,” in the second verse, the dildo in her cunt began vibrating like a little jackhammer. She stumbled over, “I’d been had…” in surprise, but forced herself to recover and continue the song. The music was loud enough to hide the humming sound, but she could feel her crotch getting wet in response to the insistent stimulation.

As the song continued, she had to concentrate harder and harder on the lyrics. She never realized how long this song lasted. It felt like the longest three minutes of her life. When the song was finally over, she looked around for Amelia and saw that she had returned to the table in the back.

The range of the remote control was limited; Amelia could not have turned the vibrator off even if she wanted to.

Now that the music ended, Jeanne could hear a muffled hum coming from her crotch. She could only hope that no one else would hear it, or, if they did, would not be able to determine its location accurately.

They frat boys applauded politely when she finally finished the song. They were the only table in the room to applaud her loud but toneless performance. The bold one said, loudly, “I’ll call you tomorrow,” as she walked past their table. She smiled a rather sickly smile at him. Her crotch felt like it was on fire and she had to concentrate on making it back to her table.

“Having fun?” Amelia asked.

“Yes.”

The other women at the table laughed long and loud. The champagne was working overtime.

Amelia left the vibrator running.

Jeanne was breathing shallow and fast.

The other women watched her with clinical interest.

Jeanne clenched her hands into fists and gritted her teeth, but she could not stop the stimulation. The vibration in her crotch kept intruding into her thoughts until she could think of nothing else. She moaned and quivered and came hard, then collapsed in exhaustion.

Amelia left the vibrator running.

Jeanne looked at her with tears in her eyes, silently pleading. The orgasm over, the vibrator was nothing but an irritation now.

“Do you want to see how long the batteries will last?”

“Yes,” Jeanne gasped.

“Goody.” Amelia clapped. “I hope they last until we get home. Don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Lydia said. “Do you want to go?”

“Yes,” Jeanne said, meaning it.

“Settle the bill and we’ll meet you at your car,” Lydia handed Jeanne her American Express card and then the other four women left the bar to discuss Jeanne’s fate in private.

While she was waiting for the waitress to return with the credit slip, a middle-aged businessman stopped by her table.

“Hi. I’m Marvin. I liked the way you sang up there.”

“Thanks,” Jeanne said, certain that he was lying. No one could possibly like the way she sang. Clearly this man meant that he liked the way she looked – available.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Yes.”

He waved to the waitress – it was an unnecessary gesture, she was coming to the table with Jeanne’s credit slip regardless – but he acted like she was responding to his demand.

“What are you drinking?”

Great. An open-ended question. “Actually, I’m the designated driver. A coke would be fine.”

“A coke for the lady,” he told the waitress. “And I’ll have another gin and tonic.”

After the waitress left, he asked, in a puzzled voice, “Do you hear something humming?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. Probably the light fixtures.”

“Yeah? Maybe.” He looked up toward the ceiling. “Doesn’t sound like it’s coming from up there.” He looked down at the table but did not have the nerve to say where he thought it was coming from.

She shrugged.

“I like your outfit.”

“It’s new. Not the kind of thing I usually wear. Kind of over the top.”

“Yeah. Well, you gotta get wild and crazy sometimes, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you feeling wild and crazy right now?”

“Yes.” Jeanne could see where this was going, fast.

“Look, you want to get out of here?”

“Yes.”

The man threw a twenty on the table and stood up.

Jeanne followed suit; then followed the man through the bar.

The other four women were waiting outside. “Hey, Jeanne, where are you going?”

“This gentleman asked if I wanted to get out of the bar.”

“But you’re our designated driver. Did you forget that?”

“Yes.”

“Hey,” the man in the rumpled suit interjected. “You didn’t tell me that you had friends waiting for you. I wouldn’t have bought you a drink if you’d said that you were occupied.”

“You didn’t ask me if I had other plans,” Jeanne replied.

Lydia looked at the businessman with a little smile. “I think that we can resolve this easily enough. Jeanne, would you like to give this man a nice quick blow job in the backseat of your car before you drive us home?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead. We don’t mind waiting for a few minutes.”

Jeanne took her keys from Trixie and led the man to her BMW.

“Nice car. You must get paid well.”

“Yes.” Jeanne could not resist adding “I’m a manager in a high-tech company.” to try to salvage at least a bit of her self respect.

“You just do this on the side?”

“Yes.”

“Whatever.” The man looked at Jeanne with a cagy expression. “Will you do this for twenty bucks?”

“Yes.”

As she opened the door, he opened his wallet and pressed a bill into her hand. It was official. She was being paid for sex. She was not only dressed like a whore, she was doing a whore’s trade. Only twenty bucks? She was a cheap whore at that. She could not help feeling disgusted with herself for needing to stay in the club so badly that she would do this.

It was quiet in the backseat and the vibrator was soldiering on, clearly audible. Wouldn’t those damned batteries every run down? Damn that pink bunny.

“I still hear that humming.”

She shrugged and unbuckled the man’s pants. “Let’s forget about that and have some fun.” The man was already hard. Thank goodness for small mercies. She licked her lips and set to work on him. Precum was already dripping from his cock – but he did not taste too bad. She was certain that her own pussy, after having been stimulated all night, would have had a much funkier taste.

In less than a minute, the man groaned, his back arched lifting his hips from the seat, and he came in her mouth, strong contractions that shot thick steams of cum into the back of her mouth. She swallowed it all. That was what whores did and, if she were going to be a whore, she was going to be a great whore. A woman had to take pride in what she did.

“Thank you,” he muttered, packing himself away.

“You’re welcome.”

“Damn,” he said as he let himself out of the car, “I still hear that buzzing.”

“It’s nothing,” she replied, but her crotch disagreed. It had been long enough since her last orgasm that she had passed the point of feeling irritated and was beginning to feel simulated again.

She moved to the driver’s seat as the other women approached the car. She speculated that driving under the influence of a vibrator might be as hazardous as driving under the influence of booze, but, as near as she knew, there was no law against it.

Halfway back to her house, she had to pull over to the side of the road, stop and finger herself while she had her third orgasm of the night. This time, when she was finished, Amelia fingered the remote control and finally made the humming in her crotch stop.

Before she began driving again, Lydia said, “That blouse is nothing but rags. Would you like to throw it out the window?”

“Yes.”

Jeanne drove the rest of the way to her house with her naked tits hanging out of the cupless bra.

“We’re going to let you have a good night’s sleep because tomorrow will be a busy day,” Lydia said when they were gathered in Jeanne’s living room. “You want to be fresh for tomorrow, right?”

“Yes.”

“Are you looking forward to doing a lot of fun things tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“But you recall that we have an unpleasant bit of business to get out of the way tonight, first, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Jeanne replied, having no idea what Lydia meant.

Lydia pulled the leather paddle out of the shopping bag that she was carrying. “You should have tied harder to get us into a decent restaurant. Much harder.”

“Yes.” She had not been asked a question, but Jeanne had become so accustomed to agreeing with everything tonight that the word came to her lips automatically.

“I think you should remove your underwear before we get down to this unpleasant business. We don’t want to damage you by paddling you with that thing still inside.”

“Yes.” Jeanne unsnapped the garter belt from the tops of the stockings, hiked her skirt up and unsnapped the belt from her hips. Then she pulled the thong down and slipped the vibrating dildo from her pussy. She was so wet that it slipped down as soon as the thong was no longer holding it up.

When she stepped out of the thong, Lydia asked her, “Who would you like to paddle you first?”

Jeanne thought for a minute and decided that it would be best to have the woman who was likely to go easiest on her go first. Natasha had it in for her and Amelia had a legitimate grievance as well. Trixie was more interested in sex than anything else, so she would probably be the least enthusiastic spanker. “Trixie.”

Lydia handed the paddle to Trixie, who giggled and waved it in the air. “This is heavier than I thought. What am I supposed to say? Assume the position. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Jeanne replied, stepped to the center of the room, raised her skirt to her waist and bent over as far as she could, presenting her bare ass to the other women. If she was going to take a paddling, she was going to do it right.

Smack! Trixie applied the paddle with surprising brio. Smack! Smack! Smack! Jeanne’s ass quivered and rippled with every blow. Trixie giggled each time. After a half dozen strokes, she handed the paddle back to Lydia. “I think that’s a good sound paddling.”

Jeanne silently disagreed. Her ass was stinging, but she could have taken a lot more if she had to. She remained bent over and, when Lydia asked who next, said, “Amelia.”

Smack! Amelia’s first blow was significantly harder than any of Trixie’s. Jeanne gritted her teeth, but kept silent.

Smack! Smack! Smack! Amelia delivered her blows at a precise tempo, each landing solidly in the same place, each hurting more than the previous. Smack! Smack! Trixie had set a precedent of six strokes so Amelia delivered the same number. Possibly she would have liked to keep going, but she did not want the other women to think that she was taking advantage.

Jeanne’s ass was hurting, now; she was grunting with every stroke and her eyes had filled with tears.

When Natasha was handed the leather paddle, she took a stance on the other side – Jeanne’s right side – because Natasha was left handed.

Natasha’s first stroke echoed and Jeanne staggered forward a half step from the force. Whereas the greater part of the previous dozen strokes had fallen on the right side of her rump, Natasha’s blows punished her left side most heavily.

“Did that feel good?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like another?”

Oh, God. Natasha was going to make her ask for it. “Yes.”

Whack! As asked, Natasha delivered another blow, putting all the strength of her arm into it.

“Would you like another?”

“Yes.” The word was barely uttered before Natasha’s third blow staggered Jeanne.

Now tears flowed down Jeanne’s cheeks, but she refused to make a sound. Tears alone did not indicate crying and Jeanne refused to cry for Natasha.

“Would you like another?”

“Yes.” Her voice cracked on the word.

The paddle cracked on her ass for a fourth time.

“Do you like this?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want another stroke?”

Jeanne forced herself to say, “Yes.”

Again the sound of the leather on flesh echoed throughout the house.

Jeanne wanted to scream, but she gritted her teeth and waited.

“Do you want another?”

“Yes.”

The paddle whacked into her again. That was six. Jeanne started to rise, but Natasha asked, “Do you want another?”

The number, six, was not carved in stone. Jeanne had agreed to ‘a sound paddling’ and, if Natasha wanted to spend all night beating her, Jeanne had to submit to it. “Yes.” She bent back down and waited to suffer again.

After a long minute, Natasha said, “Too bad. I’m through.”

Again, Jeanne started to rise, but Natasha said, “Does anyone else want to finish paddling Jeanne?”

Jeanne bent over again and waited.

Amelia replied, “No thanks. I’m satisfied.”

Trixie giggled. “I think she’s had enough to motivate her to try harder next time.”

“Okay,” Lydia said. “Get a good night’s sleep. We’ll meet back here at ten tomorrow morning, ready for a good long day of fun. Do you want that, Jeanne?”

She straightened up at last. “Yes.”

After the other women left, Jeanne undressed, laid on her stomach on her bed, and let the tears flow, partly from the pain in her butt, partly from the stress of the evening, but mostly in fear of what was coming. Friday evening had been hell. How could she survive Saturday and Sunday and Monday?

But she wanted to stay in the Wicked Women’s Adventure Club more than anything in the world.

All she had to do was keep saying ‘yes’ for three more days.

Saturday, 30 August:

Trixie was the first to knock on Jeanne’s door on Saturday morning. “Ready for a big day?”

“Yes.” Jeanne forced herself to give the required response, though she did not feel particularly ready for anything. She had slept fitfully, alternately worrying about what the day would bring, then berating herself for being foolish because worrying could not help. She could do nothing about it.

“How are you feeling?” Trixie sounded concerned because she was concerned; she enjoyed the club for the sexual adventures but had little taste for trying to punish one of their own.

“I’m fine. A little tired, but I think I’m up for the day.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Trixie patted her hand lightly. “I hope you aren’t too sore from yesterday.”

“My ass hurts a little, but it’s not as bad as I expected. It feels more like discomfort than actual pain.”

“That’s good.” Trixie had been worrying about how hard Natasha had hit Jeanne. The real punishment was supposed to come from humiliating her, not from causing injury. Lydia had made certain that the three women who would be wielding the paddle understood that while Jeanne had been otherwise occupied, earning twenty dollars with her mouth in the backseat of her car. To Trixie, though, Natasha had seemed to be administering far more than a merely symbolic punishment; and Amelia had seemed rather enthusiastic as well.

The doorbell rang again. It was Natasha, eager to get on with the day’s activities. “Is everyone here yet?”

“Yes,” Jeanne answered with a smile.

“Just you and me so far,” Trixie corrected her.

Natasha glared at Jeanne. “Wouldn’t you rather be nude?”

“Yes.” Jeanne reluctantly shed the blue jeans and sweatshirt that she had put on after her morning shower.

Natasha was not particularly interested in seeing Jeanne naked, but she definitely wanted to see her humiliated and nudity was a good start.

The doorbell rang again and Jeanne was sent, naked, to answer it. When Lydia was escorted into the room, she asked, “Are you wearing a butt plug yet?”

“Yes,” replied Jeanne quickly.

Natasha looked at Trixie who shook her head. “No, she’s not,” Natasha replied.

“Would you like to shove a plug up your ass?” Lydia asked.

“Yes,” Jeanne replied and retreated to her bedroom. When she returned a minute later, she was walking carefully with her legs held slightly apart. The other women did not ask her to bend over and show it; they were willing to assume that she had inserted one – presumably the smallest one. With ample lube, it had slipped into her ass easily enough and had a sufficient shoulder to keep it in but she had learned in the bathroom that she would have to suppress her natural reflex to expel it again. Before coming back out, she had accidentally popped it out onto the floor twice.

“Would you make some tea for us?” Natasha asked. She was not particularly thirsty, but thought that it would be mildly amusing to send Jeanne into her kitchen to waddle around for a while.

“Yes.”

After a few minutes, Jeanne served tea to the other women in her living room. They amused themselves by asking her to sit down, then sending her back into the kitchen for honey, then to sit with them, then send her back for lemon, and so forth. Over the next few minutes she fetched glasses of water, extra napkins, and any other errand that they could think of. Natasha delighted in noting how carefully she lowered herself into her chair each time, having to ensure that she did not dislodge the plug.

Finally, the doorbell rang and she was sent to usher Amelia into the room. “Sorry I’m late everyone, but the traffic on the Mass Pike was bad. I thought that everybody but us would have left town yesterday for the weekend.”

“You were downtown?” Trixie asked.

“Yes. We’re going to be bidding on a contract next week. The request isn’t published yet, but we got a couple of days advance notice and the management team wanted to have a breakfast meeting this morning and make sure that we’ll be ready to go as soon is we get the green light.”

“So I guess you’re not hungry?”

“Not really, but if you all want to go for breakfast, I’m happy with that. Breakfast is on you, right?” Amelia looked at the naked woman and smiled.

“Yes,” Jeanne replied.

“It’s the only thing on Jeanne this morning,” Natasha laughed.

“Except for the plug she wanted to stuff up her ass,” Lydia said, choosing crude language to humiliate their victim as much as possible, “Right, Jeanne?”

“Yes.”

“Speaking of plugs, would you like to bring your whole kit out here so that we can get you dressed up for the rest of the morning?”

“Yes.” Jeanne left and returned a minute later with the bag containing her purchases from the Erotic Boutique the previous night.

“What do you think, women?”

Natasha pulled the set of butt plugs from the bag. “She’s had the little one in for a while. Would you like to put a bigger one in now?”

“Yes,” Jeanne answered in a tone of resignation, taking the plug from Natasha’s hand. The quarter inch difference between the diameter of smallest plug and the next of the five sizes did not sound like much, but the second plug was visibly larger, not only in diameter, but longer as well. The largest of the five plugs was two inches in diameter at its widest point and terrified her. Surely nobody expected her to stretch far enough to be able to accommodate that one in only three days. But she already knew that if someone asked if she could, her answer would have to be Yes.

“Don’t forget the Astroglide.” Natasha held out the bottle.

“Yes,” Jeanne went into her bathroom. The women could have asked her to stay in the living room for the extra humiliation, but none of them particularly wanted to see her inserting the hunk of black rubber into herself.

She had been waddling about with care before, but when she returned, her discomfort was blazed across her face. There was much less danger that she would accidentally pop this one out, but the trade-off was that her sphincter felt like it was being stretched constantly.

“Well,” Lydia said, looking at her watch. “Time does fly when we’re having fun, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“But we better hurry. You have an appointment and you wouldn’t want to miss it.”

“What kind of appointment?” Jeanne asked.

“You’d rather be surprised, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I thought.” Lydia grinned, but did not look particularly friendly. “I think the black latex miniskirt, black garter belt, fishnet stockings, and black boots will nicely compliment the black plug you so eagerly shoved into yourself, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Jeanne noticed that there was no mention of panties. If the alternative had been the ones with the vibrator installed, she was just as happy to be naked under the rubber skirt.

The clothing that was specified left her naked from the waist up. “Can’t let you flash everyone on the street, much as we know that you’d like to. We need to do something about covering your tits, don’t we?”

“Yes.”

“That sweatshirt that you had on this morning will do, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

“But I’m sure that you’d like Natasha to modify it a little, wouldn’t you?”

She handed the scissors to Natasha without waiting for Jeanne to give her assent. Approval was a foregone conclusion.

Natasha ruined the sweatshirt in the same way as she had ruined the silk blouse the previous evening. She happily snipped the sleeves away, once again extending the new arm holes down a couple of extra inches, cropped the bottom, and removed much of the front and back around the collar. “Here. Try this on…raise your arms.” Jeanne was wearing no bra. Natasha adjusted the ragged bottom hem so that the lower halves of Jeanne’s breasts were revealed when her arms were raised high. “Arms by your side.” The arm holes were enlarged to show the curve at the side of each naked breast. Then the neckline was lowered to show the tops of both breasts almost to the areoles. “Turn around.” The back was cut away slightly at the top, but left intact for the most part.

When Natasha was finished, more of the sweatshirt was lying in scraps on the floor than remained draped over Jeanne’s body. It was exactly what Jeanne had expected would happen.

“Ready to go?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t forget to bring your bag of fun.”

“Yes.”

Jeanne also picked up her purse. She had not been instructed to leave it behind and felt more independent if she had it with her. She had to walk carefully to her car, not only because she was wearing plastic boots with one inch platform soles and six inch heels; not only because her unsupported breasts bounced and swayed, threatening to escape the butchered sweatshirt with every step; but also because she still had an anal dilator inserted and its flared base rubbed against her cheeks every time she moved, making the intruding object press against one side of her sphincter, then the other.

“Would you like me to drive this time?” Lydia asked.

“Yes.”

It was almost noon when Lydia pulled into a strip mall and the women got out of the car. What was here? Jeanne’s jaw dropped when Lydia led everyone toward a hair salon. At the door, Lydia asked, “Would you like a different hair style?”

“Yes.” Jeanne’s heart pounded as she began to imagine ‘punishment hair styles.’ There were so many possibilities, none of them good.

Jeanne could not see the pictures that Lydia handed to the stylist when she said, “My friend wants her hair styled like this,” she pointed to one of the pictures, “but colored like this,” she pointed to the other picture, “right, Jeanne?”

“Yes.” But Jeanne, not having seen the pictures, had no idea what she was agreeing to.

The woman’s eyes widened into ovals. “Are you sure?” She looked at Jeanne.

“Yes.” Jeanne was sure that she wanted to remain a member of the club and every yes was really an answer to that question.

“To get it this bright, I’ll have to bleach it first.”

“Is that what you want?” Lydia turned to Jeanne.

“Yes.”

Jeanne sat gently in the stylist’s chair, being careful to avoid jostling the plug in her ass, and then laid back slowly, making certain that her tits stayed inside the loose scraps of sweatshirt that almost covered them.

Two agonizing hours later, Jeanne left the salon with a bright pink spiked Mohawk. The sides of her head had been shaved bald, leaving only a wide brush of hair down the middle. That had been trimmed to two inches in length and was held stiffly erect by a generous application of mousse.

Jeanne managed to hold back her tears until she left the shop, but could not keep her eyes from overflowing all the way downtown. She had loved her long brunette waves and had suffered agonies seeing them fall to the floor, soon to be swept into a trash can. Even Natasha felt a twinge of sympathy for her. Monday night, as soon as her punishment was over, her best option would be to finish shaving her head to get rid of the pink hair. Then she would have to wear wigs for months until she grew enough hair back to allow a decent-looking short cut.

“Now dry your eyes, dear,” Lydia admonished her when she stopped the car again. “You want to buy a nice pink lipstick and eye shadow that will match your nice new hair, but you don’t want your eyes to be pink too.”

Jeanne stifled her sobs and tried to dry her eyes, but every movement stirred a breeze against the naked parts of her scalp and reminded her how she had looked in the hairdresser’s mirror. She tried to console herself with the thought that people would be so busy looking at her horrible hair, they would barely notice the latex and plastic outfit that she had been forced to wear. They wouldn’t even notice if both her tits popped right out of the cropped sweatshirt. She actually managed to giggle a little through her tears at that thought.

Then Lydia said, “I wonder if those nice boys found a party for you to go to tonight. I hope we don’t have to start walking the streets looking for a party to crash. It’s much nicer to be invited. Would you check your phone messages?”

“Yes.”

“You can use my phone.” Lydia handed her a cell phone.

“That’s all right. I have my Blackberry in my purse. That’s the number that I gave to them.” Jeanne regretted having thought to bring her purse along. She regretted it more when she found that the college students from the bar had left a message, just as she had feared. They had been busy this morning and a breathless young voice reported that she was invited to a party at the Beta Delta Sigma Mu House tonight beginning at eight o’clock. Amelia jotted down the address as Jeanne recited it aloud.

“I know where that is,” she said, “It’s just a couple blocks off Commonwealth.

“Have you been there?” Trixie asked, raising an eyebrow.

Amelia blushed. “Only once. A few years ago, I had a boyfriend who was a student at Boston University and he talked about parties down in that area a couple of times. We weren’t really suited to each other.” Her face had turned almost as pink as Jeanne’s hair.

Trixie wondered why the memory made Amelia blush, but did not ask for any more details. The women in the club sometimes volunteered information about their boyfriends, but never pressed each other for details. It could be a tricky subject. In general, they knew that most members had casual boyfriends but if things got too serious, either they dropped the boyfriend or their membership in the club, depending on which they valued more. Lydia was an exception. She was living with a man and seemed to be serious about staying with him but maintained her membership in the club regardless. No one knew whether he was ignorant about the activities of the club, knew about them and approved, or knew about them and disapproved. From the little that Lydia had said, she cared about him but not enough to worry about his real or potential disapproval.

“You do want to go to a party tonight, don’t you?” Lydia brought everyone’s thoughts back to Jeanne.

“Yes.”

“Then you need a party dress, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Jeanne was afraid to guess what a ‘punishment party dress’ might be like.

She still had the second butt plug – or anal dilator as it said on the box – inserted. It had felt uncomfortable at first, but she had hoped that she would grow accustomed to it. Rather, she found to her dismay that it was growing less comfortable as she wore it for longer. By this time, her asshole was aching to the point of being almost painful. She concentrated on walking and sitting as normally as she could. The small silver lining in the cloud was that thinking about the ache in her lower end helped to distract her from thinking about the shocking hair that crowned her upper end.

Two hours later, she was puzzled and relieved to find herself buying a regular party dress from a regular store. It tended toward the sexy end of the spectrum with a neckline that dove almost to her navel and was backless – there was no way to wear a bra under it – and it had a hemline well above the knee, but would not be out of place in a disco or nightclub. Of course, it was bright pink to match her hair.

She wondered if Natasha was going to be taking her scissors to it before the party.

By five thirty, her outfit was completed with a pair of matching pink shoes and clutch, pink stockings held up by her black garter belt – Lydia made good on her promise that she would be wearing no pantyhose this weekend – and matching pink eye shadow and lipstick. She felt like a cupcake covered in pink frosting.

By the end of the shopping trip, Jeanne’s credit card was lighter by almost eight hundred dollars. She was dismayed when she totaled her account in her head and calculated that she had spent over a thousand dollars in less than twenty-four hours. And she still had two entire days of punishment left to serve.

After Jeanne bought the final piece of the ensemble – a pair of large pink hoop earrings – she looked long and hard at herself in a full length mirror in the store. She had to admit that, apart from the hair, she looked good. Sexy, but like a disco diva rather than a whore on the stroll. Then she realized that that was exactly the effect that Lydia was going for. A young man with any sense at all would think twice about climbing into bed with a woman who looked like a down-on-her-luck, aging crack whore. That same man wouldn’t think twice about fucking the clean-looking, presentable woman that Jeanne saw in the mirror. The birthday-cake pink made her look like a scrumptious dessert just waiting to be devoured.

She had been perfectly prepped for a frat house gang bang.

“Well, Jeanne,” Lydia asked, “Do you think you can get us into a decent restaurant tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Good because your night will last long enough as it is without having to extend it with any additional spankings.”

Lydia took Jeanne back to the same restaurant as on the previous night. She could not tell if the maitre d’ no longer recognized her with her new hair style, or if he chose not to acknowledge having thrown her out before, but this time the outcome was different. He claimed that all the tables were booked, but, for only a couple of twenties, Jeanne was able to convince him that he could fit a party of five in somewhere – especially when she promised him that they had an appointment at eight and would be leaving by seven thirty at the latest.

She still had the second butt plug installed. By now it was causing her real pain but she had learned to walk without waddling and to lower herself into chairs slowly to keep from banging it into her, but with a reasonably natural motion it.

To the other women it looked like it was no longer causing her any problem and, when they joined her a few minutes later, Natasha took steps to rectify that. “Jeanne, would you like to fit your rear with a more substantial intrusion?”

“Yes.”

Natasha handed her the plastic bag that had recently held her new shoes but now contained the middle-sized anal dilator and her bottle of lubricant.

“When you take the little old one out, you will wash it off with soap and water until it is sparkling clean and then put it back in this bag, right?”

“Yes.”

“Because you might just have to lick it off later and you’d hate for it to still be dirty, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, and you want to leave your purse here, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

Jeanne took the bag and went to find the Ladies Room. In the stall, she smeared lubricant liberally all over the larger plug, and then squatted to pull the old one free. It hurt because her anus was so sore but she was relieved that she did not see any sign of blood on it after removal. She had not done any damage to herself.

Inserting the larger one was more difficult than she had anticipated. She worked it around a little, only getting it half inside, then pulled it out, smeared more lubricant on it and worked it around some more, pushing hard until it finally slid into place. When it was finally inside her, it felt huge. Being unaccustomed to having her asshole penetrated at all, and now having had one plug after another inside her for more than eight hours, each larger than the previous, she was suffering more pain than the other women realized. She wanted nothing more than to be able to clear her ass completely and let her sphincter relax back down to its normal size. Nothing, that is, except to remain a member of this club. She loved to feel her adrenaline flowing whenever the club staged a game; and, if she were expelled, she would never find another group of women who were willing to participate in these kinds of adventures.

Earlier at her house, she had thought about not inserting the second plug and faking it. She had been correct to doubt that any of the other women would want to actually see the plug in place. Now, though, she was glad that she had not tried to get away with the fraud. Natasha was demanding to see the second plug as proof that she had worn it into the restaurant. If she had left it hidden back in her own bathroom, her deception would be revealed. She dared not let herself be accused of cheating a second time or she would be thrown out of the club for certain.

She scrubbed the old plug in the washroom sink until it was spotless. She doubted that the other women would want her to put it to her lips, but had to be ready just in case Natasha decided to put her to the test.

The women ate handsomely, sharing a bottle of fine wine. Again, Jeanne agreed to be the designated driver and was not permitted to drink. This time she was permitted to eat, but had to agree to order the lobster and agree that she loved to eat the body as well as the meat in the claws and tail. Possibly the other women were hoping that she would dislike the roe and tomalley, but, to their disappointment, Jeanne liked lobster and ate every part with enthusiasm.

The only part that did not please her was the three hundred dollar bill that was served after dessert.

Lydia asked if she agreed that the excellent service merited a sixty dollar tip on top of that.

She said, “Yes,” as she totaled up the bill.

The waitress was happy that the maitre d’ had seated the woman with the wild pink Mohawk hair in her section and wished Jeanne a good evening as she left the restaurant.

Jeanne knew that her waitress was wasting her breath – she was not going to have a good evening.

The door to the frat house was open and music blasted out. Looking through the windows from the front stoop, Jeanne could see men inside, but no women. She turned and waved at the four women sitting in her car at the curb, then turned back and bravely walked inside.

Her asshole felt loose. As soon as she had left the car, Natasha had asked her if she wanted to have all her orifices unobstructed and available when the party got underway. When she agreed, she was asked to remove the butt plug and throw it into one of the empty plastic shopping bags. If she had to wear a plug again, she hoped that she would be allowed to use that one again, rather than being forced up to the next size. It had been hard enough to get this one in and out, she did not know if she could get the next size larger in without tearing herself.

Now that her rear was free of the plug, she was ready for anal action. She wished the plug was back in place. Though the club’s adventures sometimes included anal intercourse it was not common and was always a voluntary option. Jeanne had allowed herself to be sodomized only once before and that was a special favor for a special boyfriend. She had hated every minute of it. She had no desire to allow a stranger access to her back door but tonight she would have no choice if someone asked the right question.

As soon as she stepped over the threshold, every man in the house stopped talking and turned to look at her.

Jeanne was slightly relieved to see a couple of other women in the room – not many, she saw only saw about four woman compared to over a dozen men, and they were all more than a decade younger than her – but at least she was not the only female in the house. She smiled briefly at one of them, but received a cold stare in return. Either she was put off by a woman more than a decade her senior wearing outlandish hair or someone had been telling her about Jeanne’s karaoke performance.

“Nice hair,” a young man wearing a varsity sweater called out.

“Thanks,” she answered, coolly, ignoring the intended sarcasm.

“Can I get you a drink?” the nearest man, a fresh-faced preppy type, asked, “We’ve got a keg.”

“Yes,” Jeanne replied in answer to his question, then asked one of her own, “Do you have any red wine?”

“No,” the man’s face fell in dismay, “Just beer. Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

His face brightened again. “All right,” he drawled theatrically. “Come on in. I’ll get you that beer and introduce you to a few of the guys.”

A minute later, she had a large plastic glass of beer in her hand and was being introduced to Jack, Harry, and George. The young man commented, “I’d introduce you around more, but there’s a lot of guys here that I don’t know.”

“That’s all right. I’m sure that I’ll be getting around to meeting a lot of them before long,” she replied dryly and took a sip of the beer.

She wondered if the young man had slipped a roofie into her glass; she had not been with him when he had drawn it. It hardly mattered to her. She would be saying yes to whatever he asked without drugs. Maybe it would be better for her tomorrow if she didn’t remember anything about this night.

The four boys tried to make conversation, but were at a loss for a topic that they thought might appeal to a woman ten years their senior. They fell back on their old standard chestnut. “Do you like sports?”

“Yes.”

“What did you think about that Sox’ game last night?”

“Sorry, I don’t watch much baseball.”

“Oh. What sports do you watch?”

“Actually, I don’t follow sports that closely.”

“Oh.” The young men looked puzzled at the contradiction.

Jeanne decided that it would be better if she took the initiative. Otherwise the boys might start asking the wrong questions, like “Would you like to go upstairs and get naked?” Instead, she asked, “Are you from Boston, Harry?”

“Nope. I’m from Vermont. Montpelier.”

“Terrific. Nice country up there. I spent a week at Stowe and Smuggler’s Notch last winter. Great powder. I loved the run through Doc Dempsey’s Glades.”

“Yeah,” Harry grinned enthusiastically. “I usually do Sugarbush, though.”

“Do your parents ski, too?” Jeanne chuckled to herself at his sudden change in demeanor when she mentioned parents. These boys were young and she was not. She might have to say yes when asked a direct question, but she was far from helpless. Nothing would smack a horny nineteen year old boy back to reality like being forced to talk about his parents.

“Uh, yeah. Dad’s even on the ski patrol at Sugarbush. That’s why we go there mostly.”

“That’s great. He must be proud of you here in Boston, getting a good education.”

“Yeah.” Harry looked abashed.

“How about you, Jack,” Jeanne turned to her next victim. “Is your family here in Boston?”

“Yes,” Jack looked around for an escape route.

“What does you father do?”

“He’s a contractor.”

This was going great. At this rate, these guys would be asking her to leave the party within a half hour. Jeanne set her beer down. There was no need for her to risk a dose of date rape drug now. “That’s great. Does he build–”

“Hey, now, Jeanne,” Natasha interrupted loudly from behind. “You can find something a lot more interesting to talk about than that, can’t you?”

“Yes,” Jeanne replied without turning around. Damn. The cavalry had come to check up on her. Not only would they not rescue her, they would strip her, cover her in honey, and throw her naked to the Indians. Double damn. She tried to keep the upper hand. “So, George, what’s your major?”

“Major?” Trixie giggled behind her back. “Who cares about that? School hasn’t even started yet. This is a party so let’s party. Jeanne, I bet you’d like to get yourself a fresh beer, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And I’d like one, too.”

“Okay.”

Jeanne went off in search of the keg. Amelia followed along to help carry the beers back. “That was awesome,” Amelia said as soon as they stepped away from the other women. “The way you were going, it looked like you were going to walk out of here untouched.”

“Yes,” Jeanne replied dryly.

“Well, I spent all night entertaining three guys last May, thanks to you, and I got touched but good. I think it’s only fair that I return the favor and make sure that you get similar treatment, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Jeanne wanted to point out that there was a big difference between the three geekish men that Amelia had ‘entertained’ and thirty or forty drunken frat boys but she thought it better not to antagonize her any more than necessary.

“You ask any of these boys about their parents again and I’m going to start telling them what questions they should be asking you. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“You can try to keep them at bay for as long as you can. I’ll enjoy watching you try to manage your evening but I’m not going to let you be a total kill joy.” Amelia warned her quietly. “They put on this nice party just for you, so I think it would be a shame if you ruined it. You’d like to keep them happy, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

Amelia was about to say something else, but a loud voice preempted her. “Hey! You made it! Nice hair.” Jeanne turned to see the bold boy from the Karaoke club coming out of the kitchen with a bowl of potato chips in his hands. He turned back and called out, “Hey, guys, our guest of honor has arrived!” Jeanne’s stomach knotted at the appellation, ‘guest of honor.’

A half dozen semi-familiar faces peeked out of the doorway.

“You changed your hair,” one of them commented on the obvious.

“Yes.” It was not a question, but Jeanne felt like agreeing anyway. “I felt like a change.”

“Well, that sure is a change.” This boy was sharp as a tack.

“Yes.”

The bold boy said, “I’m Clance. I was in charge of getting the house ready for rush week, but, after you suggested a party, I was kind of put in charge of getting it together. Pretty good for less than twenty-four hours notice, eh?” He gestured at the assembled guests.

“Yes,” she replied.

“I’m surprised that this many people showed up this early. Must not be much else happening on campus yet. But it’ll get even better later. These things really start to swing in this neighborhood by ten or so.” He offered the bowl, “Chip?”

“Yes,” she replied, taking one.

He watched intently as she brought the chip to her mouth, parted her lips, and crunched it in half. “You sure are beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“I made up a CD for you,” he said. “You like Madonna, right?”

“Yes.” Jeanne disliked Madonna intensely.

“I’ll go put it on for you.” Clance – Jeanne assumed that was short for Clancy – slipped past her into the main room. As soon as he had gone, the other boys from the bar wandered out of the kitchen and surrounded her.

“Nice dress,” one of the boys said, staring at the diving cleavage that plunged almost to her navel, his eyes lingering on the mounds of her unrestrained breasts beneath the material. “I’m Billy.”

She shook his hand, “I’m Jeanne.”

The boy’s eyes never left her chest.

“I’m Hal.” “Terry.” “Gus.” “Norm.” The other four boys introduced themselves, each taking a good long gander at her cleavage. The dress was having exactly the effect that Lydia had planned. Norm apparently fancied himself a ladies’ man. When she offered her hand, instead of shaking it, he bent his head and planted a wet kiss on the back of it. The other three boys had crushed it, instead. She liked neither, but if forced to choose, would prefer wet skin to bruised bones.

She wished that these boys were old enough to have a little less enthusiasm and a lot more sense.

Madonna began blasting “Like a Virgin” out of the stereo and half the men in the room turned to look at her reaction. Apparently there had been some discussion of her Karaoke performance before she had arrived. She smiled weakly, wondering if anyone expected her to sing along, hoping no one would ask her to.

“So how do you like our place?” one of the boys asked; Jeanne thought it was the one who had introduced himself as Terry, but it might have been Hal.

“It’s nice,” she said, looking around.

“Maybe you’d like a tour a little later?”

The inflection implied that he was asking a question. Amelia was staring hard at her.

“Yes,” was exactly the answer that she did not want to give but she said it anyway.

Hal chuckled. “The bedrooms are upstairs.”

That was not a question and Jeanne was free to reply, “I’m happy down here.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, either to Jeanne or to her male fans.

“So do you guys play any sports?” Jeanne led the conversation back to safe territory.

Natasha was busy on the other side of the room, engaging in a slightly different conversation. “So who are the brains here?” she asked a young man with a ring through his lip.

“I dunno. You oughta ask one of the greeks. I’m not exactly plugged into the frat boy network, you know.”

“You aren’t in a fraternity?”

“Nah. I’m not even a student. I’m an artist. I live across the street and come over here whenever there’s a party happening. They don’t mind because every neighbor who comes to the party is one less neighbor who’ll be calling the cops about the noise. And I don’t mind because I get free beer and chips.”

“I see,” Natasha smiled. “What kind of art do you do?”

“Cognitive conceptual multimedia.”

“Oh.”

The artist grinned at the confused expression on her face. “Yeah. Nobody else knows what that is either. I kind of invented it. I make web sites that don’t exist.”

“Oh?”

“You see, I think of a real cool web site and then, instead of making the site, I just go around putting pointers to it everywhere else on the web so that everyone thinks that there’s a real cool web site somewhere, but nobody can find it.”

“Oh.”

“That’s the conceptual part, you see. The cool web site exists in thousands of people’s minds even though it will never exist in reality. It’s about what’s real and what’s not real in the cognosphere.”

“Oh.”

Another voice intruded. “Has the Artist Formerly Known as Nerd bored you to death yet?”

Natasha turned to see a large, linebacker-looking kind of guy grinning at her. “No, actually, I was appreciating the ironic self-referential problem that he was presenting. In describing how his art is based on web sites that don’t exist, I had to question whether his art exists at all. Maybe he is just inventing the idea here on the spot. He might never have created a false link. Then, his entire art project would exist only in his head and mine. And, it would have accomplished his purpose. The impact on me would be the same no matter whether the conceptual component exists in other parts of the cognosphere or not. Which is, in itself, the whole point that he is trying to make about reality existing in people’s minds. Right?” She turned back to look at the artist.

“Wow. I never spoke to anyone who actually got it before.” The artist stared at her with an expression akin to awe.

“So,” Natasha turned back to the linebacker and smiled wickedly, “I guess that makes me the nerd formerly known as a hottie.”

He grinned good-naturedly – when the ratio of men to women at a party is more than three-to-one and the other women came here with their boyfriends, single men can be amazingly tolerant of the unattached women. He said, “You can be wicked smart and still be a hottie. As far as I’m concerned, a woman’s most important measurement is her IQ.”

“Yeah, sure,” Natasha allowed herself to sound disbelieving.”

“It’s true. IQ is an honest measure of a woman. You can’t plump it up with silicone implants.”

“So your ideal woman has a head full of brains and a chest full of plastic?”

“Naw. I like my women real from top to bottom. All I’m saying is that a woman can fool you about her breasts but can’t fake brains. Give me a smart woman and I don’t care if she’s got pancakes in her bra. In my experience, some of the less-endowed women can be the hottest lovers. Implants have a real downside. Too many nerves can get cut and the woman can lose her sensitivity in her breasts. Talk about a pyrrhic victory. I don’t know how a woman could accept feeling numb just to try to look hot.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You have a lot of experience with women’s breasts?”

“Not nearly enough. I’m going into my last year of psychology now, but I’m thinking about specializing in plastic surgery after I finish medical school. Just because I don’t like implants myself, doesn’t mean that I’d deprive women of them if they really want them.” The linebacker grinned in a self-deprecating way.

“You’re planning on going to medical school and you’re not pre-med?”

“Yeah. You don’t have to be pre-med to get accepted and I liked the idea of getting a more rounded education. Med school is really just sophisticated vocational training so I’m working on getting a full education now.”

“But that will make it harder to get into medical school, won’t it?”

“Naw. I’ve already been accepted into medical school in San Diego. UCSD. I got early acceptance in the spring, but decided that I’d rather finish my undergraduate work here so I asked them to delay my admission for a year.”

“Good school.”

“The MCAT was good to me.” He grinned again.

She noticed that the artist had faded away, probably off to find more free beer. No matter. Now that she was getting to know him, she liked the linebacker/soon-to-be-doctor better. She touched his arm lightly, feeling the soft blond curly body hairs. “You must be popular with the girls here.”

His grin faded. “Not as much as you think. I had a fiancée but she’s gone now. I thought that we’d get married eventually but after I got accepted into medical school, she decided that she didn’t want to be a doctor’s wife and gave my ring back. I’ve been a free man only for the past couple of months and I’ve been working pretty steady all summer long.”

“I thought that every woman’s dream was to be a doctor’s wife.”

“Not hers. Her father was a pediatric surgeon and she figured that her mother had to be some kind of saint to put up with him. She didn’t mind me dreaming about becoming a doctor, but when it got real, she got cold feet.” He shrugged philosophically. “Them’s the breaks, I guess. I should have clued into her feelings about her father a whole lot earlier. Guess I haven’t studied enough psychology yet.” He paused, then said, “So is that your dream? To be a doctor’s wife?”

“No,” Natasha replied. “I never wanted to be anyone’s wife. I like my independence.”

“So you’re a free spirit?”

“It sounds like we’re both free spirits.” She smiled. “It’s fun to be free. You can live in the moment and not worry about tomorrow.” She tickled the hair on his arm lightly.

“Look,” he said, “Do you want to…” he paused.

“Yes,” she replied, not waiting for him to find the right words. “I’d love a little no-strings-attached, spur-of-the-moment fun. Is there some place that we can get a little privacy?”

“I’m in the fraternity. I have a bedroom upstairs.”

“I’d love to see it.”

“This way.”

Natasha took his hand and let him lead her away.

As she passed Jeanne, who was still talking to her coterie, she noted wryly that maybe Jeanne had to say yes, but she wasn’t going to get laid first.

And she certainly wasn’t going to enjoy it as much.

Lydia was more than slightly irritated to see Natasha climbing the stairs in the company of one of the best looking young men in the room. The club members were exposing Jeanne to a considerable degree of hazard and they had an obligation to make sure that her situation did not fly out of control. Natasha had abandoned her post completely and Trixie looked like she was about to go AWOL as well. She was standing in a far corner of the room, laughing and poking at two other young men who were laughing in delight in response to her attention. She was not paying the slightest attention to Jeanne’s situation. They had to be vigilant to ensure that the degree of distress that Jeanne experienced was kept constant at a tolerably high level. She was supposed to be distressed, not destroyed.

The only other member of the club who was paying attention to Jeanne was Amelia. Lydia had her doubts about her. Amelia was the least experienced member of the club and had been involved in only a couple of adventures apart from her own; she did not yet know how far to let things go before intervening. Worse, as the person who had been wronged by Jeanne in the first place, Amelia was might want to pour gasoline on the fire rather than keep Jeanne simmering under a low constant heat.

Lydia moved in to hear what Amelia was saying.

“She’s a big fan of Madonna.” Amelia laughed. “Ask her if she admires her.” The stereo was blasting Madonna singing “Hanky Panky”. In the song, she was asking for a spanky. She wondered if the boys had spankies in mind when they compiled the disk; and if they would ever figure out that they only had to ask and Jeanne would agree.

The boy muttered something that Lydia could not overhear and Amelia said again, “No, go ahead and ask her. Straight out. Yes or no. See if she says yes.”

Lydia thought that prompting the man to ask specific questions was getting too close to blowing the game. She intervened. “Now, Amelia. Don’t try to embarrass the man. He can chat with Jeanne however he prefers.” She was smiling, but her eyes were looking hard at Amelia.

Amelia flushed in response to the rebuke and said, “I’m sure he knows that. Don’t you, Roger? You can say whatever you like to any of us.”

“Yeah,” the young man said, knowing that something had happened between the two women, but uncertain about exactly what it meant.

Lydia turned her attention back to Jeanne.

“I was in a couple of relationships,” she was saying, “but nothing too serious. How about you? Have you ever been married?” she asked one of the young men in the group that was standing around her, hanging on to every word she said.

“Me?” the young man looked shocked. “I’m only nineteen. Do I look like I’ve been married?”

“Yes,” Jeanne replied automatically and the other men hooted and slapped him on the back.

“Do you like movies?” one of the other men asked.

“Yes.”

“All kinds of movies?” he leered at her.

“Yes.”

“Even movies that aren’t suitable for mixed company?”

“Yes.” Jeanne decided that she had let this line of questioning had gone too far and countered. “Do you like film noire?”

The man looked puzzled. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Old black and white movies about detective stories,” one of the other boys said shortly. “But we prefer special movies like the ones that we keep upstairs.”

“Yeah,” one of the other men laughed. “You mean the ones that you watch on your computer when you’re alone in your bedroom late at night?” He made a jerking gesture towards his crotch with his hand. “The ones that make your keyboard all sticky.”

The boys hooted again, congratulating the man on being able to get away with showing his excellent lack of good taste in front of older women.

Jeanne turned away, looking for a fresh audience. The boy who had explained film noire asked, “We aren’t offending you, are we?”

“Yes.” Jeanne turned away from them.

“Don’t go, yet. Will you give us a second chance?”

Jeanne replied, “Yes,” and turned back to the boys.

One of the boys, the one who had introduced himself as Gus, had been listening quietly for some time with a puzzled look on his face. Now he pushed forward and said, “I have a couple of questions for you. Will you answer them?”

“Yes.” Jeanne looked at him cautiously.

“Are you playing games with us?”

“Yes.”

One of the other boys started to say something, but the thoughtful one put up his hand to shush his comrade and said to Jeanne, “Is the sky green?”

“Yes,” she replied with a sinking heart, fearing that the wolf had her scent now.

“Would you like to come upstairs and see my room?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go,” he said, taking her hand. He turned to his friends and said, “I’ll be back in a while. You guys have another beer and enjoy yourselves down here while you’re waiting.”

Lydia and Amelia followed Jeanne and the boy to the base of the stairs. There, Lydia put her hand on the boy’s arm to stop him and said to Jeanne, “Wait at the top of the stairs for us.”

It was not phrased as a question, but Jeanne obeyed anyway.

As soon as she had moved away, Lydia asked the boy, “Do you have protection?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“No matter what she says, you use it. And don’t get rough with her.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t lock any doors unless you want us to break them open.”

“Okay.” The boy was looking impatient and sounding annoyed.

“Go have some fun, tiger.”

The young man bounced up the stairs as though his legs were steel springs.

As soon as Jeanne and her new lover were out of sight, Amelia asked, “What gives? This isn’t supposed to be a picnic for her.”

“Don’t worry. She’ll have a long night tonight that she won’t soon forget. But if we don’t set the right mood up front, then we’ll have to cut the night short. If it looks like she’s going to get hurt, we’re going to get her out of here right away. You don’t want to have to haul her out of here ten minutes from now, do you?”

“No.” Amelia smiled, understanding the wisdom of keeping Jeanne in good shape for as long as possible.

“Because that young man figured out how to rub our Jeannie’s bottle to get his wishes fulfilled and it looks like this party won’t be winding down for hours yet.”

In the adjacent bedroom, after having spent a considerable time necking and petting with her new friend, Natasha and he had both lost their clothing, one precious item at a time. Now they were having an entirely different conversation than Lydia had had.

“I’ve got protection,” he said, reluctantly pulling himself away from her naked body and opening a drawer beside his bed.

“Do you have any diseases?” she asked.

“No. Do you?”

“No. I get a full physical done every year and I’m not nearly as active as you might think, so let’s forget about the rubber. You’ll like it more if you can feel me when you’re inside.”

He knew that he should be using a condom no matter what she said, but he looked at her naked pussy and his resolve crumbled to dust. How could a horny young man distrust naked willing pussy?

She pulled him back down on the bed and held him close for a minute, kissing him deeply and feeling his cock, hard as a cock could get, pressing against her lower stomach. She was more than wet enough so she rolled onto her back and pulled him on top of her, spreading her legs to open herself to him. “Come on. I want you in me now.”

He scooted onto her and poked at her crotch. She reached down to guide him into her pussy with her hand. Wet as she was, his dry cock still rubbed slightly as it went in. After a brief instant of discomfort, her juices were spread along his length and his eager thrusts began bringing waves of pleasure to her. She tilted her hips up to meet him, grabbed his butt with both hands, and pressed her clit against his pubis with every stroke. He was big and weighed heavily on her chest, but she reveled in his strength.

She listened to the increasing intensity of his passion expressed in his panting and groaning and lost herself in her own urgent needs. “Yes,” she muttered between groans. “I need you…Yes…Yes.” Unlike many women, Natasha was not shy about encouraging her lovers in bed; the words came naturally to her lips. “God, you feel good…Yes.” As he pushed harder and faster, she stimulated herself against him.

He came, but she cried, “Keep going,” and kept pulling him into her, bringing herself to climax before he lost his tumescence. Not quite the legendary simultaneous orgasm, but close enough to give joy to both of them.

She wrapped her arms about his limp body in a bear hug and held him close, prolonging the intimate moment for as long as possible, letting every last drop of his cum soak into her.

“You’re terrific,” she murmured in his ear before finally allowing him to roll off.

He said nothing, but squeezed her breast lightly and snuggled his head against hers, sharing her post-coital contentment.

As soon as Jeanne followed her boy, Gus, into his room, he shut the door, being careful not to lock it as he had been instructed, then said, “Will you take your dress off?”

“Yes.” She reached behind her neck to unbutton the yoke. As soon as she released it, the front fell to reveal her naked tits.

“You are gorgeous,” Gus replied with conviction.

She pulled the dress over her head, revealing that she was wearing stockings and a garter belt, but no panties.

“You are so hot.”

She smiled at him and waited.

He said nothing, but stepped in front of her, put his hands behind her shoulders and pulled her into a kiss. He had no finesse: a kiss should be ninety percent promise and only ten percent biology. A mouthful of a man’s tongue is not as erotic as it sounds. She could have resisted – he had not asked if he could kiss her – but she did not want to draw the line too quickly. Better to give a kiss freely on the mouth now than wait for him to ask her to kiss his ass. She had no desire to rim anyone.

On the other hand, she had no interest in encouraging him to go further, either. She kissed him back as best as she could when her mouth was being forced open by his tongue but made no other move toward him.

After a few moments, he pulled his right arm around, grabbed her breast, and squeezed too hard. She broke contact and stepped back a step. “Easy, tiger. It’s not a football. You don’t have to worry about a fumble. Nobody’s going to try to knock it out of your hand.”

“Do you want me to be gentle?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to be rough?”

Her heart sank, “Yes.”

“Well, your friends told me not to be rough, so I’ll try for gentle,” he smiled at her.

“Thank-you.”

“Are we going to go all the way?”

“Yes.” There was no avoiding it, so she decided that it would be better for both of them if she took the initiative. “It’s all right if you haven’t done this as much as you’d like.” A thought struck her. “Are you a virgin?”

“No.” He looked peeved. “I’ve made love to a girl before.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, a couple of times.” He looked defensive, then blushed. “Actually, it didn’t work out very well.”

“Don’t worry about that.” She smiled and stroked his cheek. “It’s going to work out great this time. It helps a lot if the woman knows what she’s doing and I do know what I’m doing.”

“Are you…” He stumbled. “Are you a… You know. A…”

Thank goodness, he had not managed to ask the question. She put a finger to his lips to stop him from finishing. “A hooker?”  She looked down at her attire ruefully – pink high heels, pink stockings, black garter belt, and nothing else. “I’m just playing dress up this weekend. It’s a game with my friends. I’m thirty-two years old, so I’ve had a few boyfriends, a couple of them serious, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve had a couple of one-night stands, but I don’t do this kind of thing often. I would never, ever ask a man to pay me for it. Most of what I know about sex, I learned from a couple of long-term boyfriends, not from screwing a huge number of strangers. It works better that way because you get to try a lot of things in a safe environment and see what works.” She laughed. “Most things don’t. But the things that do make it worth the effort.” She stepped into him again and began unbuttoning his shirt. “I promised that we were going to go all the way, and I make good on my promises so let’s get some of your clothes off.”

She worked slowly, caressing each part of him as she revealed more of his skin, using not just her hands, but her lips and breasts and thighs. When she finally pulled down his boxers, it was clear that there was no need for her to work on his cock. She left it alone for fear of setting him off too early. He had asked for ‘all the way’ and that did not mean ending with an accidental hand job.

She had agreed to the game and would play it out fully and honestly.

When he was naked, she asked, “You want me naked, too, or should I keep the shoes and stockings on?”

He gasped, “You’re perfect just the way you are!”

“Hooker costume it is, then.” She laughed gently and kissed him sweetly. “Let’s have some fun.” She led him to the bed and let him down on his back.

He popped up again. “There’re a couple of condoms in the drawer. I’ll get one.”

She didn’t want him fumbling with a condom if he was unsure of himself. She smiled and said, “I’ll take care of that. You just lie back and enjoy yourself.”

She retrieved a condom from the drawer, tore the foil open, and pulled the rubber out. Sitting beside him, she stroked his cock lightly to make sure that he was hard enough, and then unrolled the condom over him, taking time to murmur, “You’re lovely. You don’t know how badly I want you.” There was a bit of risk to that, making a man self-conscious at this point. It could backfire, but she was confident that she could recover if he started to go soft. He did not; he stayed nice and hard. The condom was lubed – always a nice touch for the woman.

She put a knee on the bed beside him and swung the other leg over to straddle his stomach. She put her hands on his shoulders, and then lay forward to rub her breasts across his chest. “I want you bad,” she smiled at him, looked deep into his eyes and pushed her crotch back against his rigid cock. She had been sexually aroused all evening and her pussy was already amply lubricated. She slid up and down a couple of times, smearing the head of his cock against her inner lips, mingling her juices with the lube already on the condom, making sure that she was positioned right, then began slowly sliding back and forth, working him deeper into herself with every thrust.

He groaned with pleasure and she echoed him as she pushed him all the way home. Once he was fully inside her, she settled into a nice, easy rhythm that kept him groaning softly and regularly.

She let herself moan in rhythm to encourage him to come quickly. She did not fake passion and never faked orgasms – that bit of honesty was her gift to her lovers – but that still allowed a considerable range of expression for her feelings, from subtle changes in breathing to outright screaming. Mounted on this young man, she felt sexier than she had expected and she had no problem showing it. He was young, strong, and eager. But, beneath the surface, she saw a mixture of innocence and decadence that intrigued her. It felt as though he wanted to be decadent, knew the theory, but lacked the experience to pull it off. He was too innocent to know that genuinely decadent men had done it all, were bored with it all, and were, themselves, boring as a result. The man arching and thrusting beneath her was too eager, too happy to be decadent. Jeanne, who had not quite arrived at that state but was many years and many lovers closer than him, was at exactly the right point in her life to be fascinated by his innocence. And to take joy in moving him one step, one lover, further down the path of wickedness that he imagined but had not yet trod.

She did not doubt that the night as a whole would be a punishment but this first boy was an oasis of pleasure and she let him hear her joy.

He came but she did not. She was thrilled to feel him pulsing inside her and could have come herself but decided against it. There was a good chance that she would be getting fucked again soon and did not want to put her cunt in the hypersensitive state that invariably followed an orgasm. If this boy sent someone else up here immediately, and that boy was in a hurry the second penetration would be painful. Instead of giving herself the stimulation that would bring her to climax, she worked on getting the boy off as quickly as she could.

He lasted for almost three minutes, two minutes longer than she had predicted based on his eagerness. That was probably because even the thinnest condom decreased a man’s stimulation noticeably and extended his endurance.

When he stopped moving, she remained astraddle his hips and bent forward to put her face close to his. As he shrank within her and his breathing slowed to a deep, relaxed rate, she kissed him lightly on the lips and said, “That was perfect.”

“Did you come?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied and he laughed lightly.

“Sorry. I should have remembered that I can’t ask you a question and get an honest answer.”

“But, if you don’t ask, I can tell you the truth. I enjoyed that a lot. Thank you.” She kissed him again, a slow brushing of her lips against his, her mouth slightly open and relaxed.

“Thank you,” he replied when his mouth was available for speech again. “So what exactly are the rules of your game? Do you always have to tell a lie or do you always have to say yes?”

That was not quite a yes/no question so she was free to reply as she wanted. “I thought that you’d already figured that out.”

“Are you in my bedroom right now?”

“Yes,” she replied automatically.

“So,” he replied, “the answer is always yes, no matter whether it is true or false.”

“Smart boy.”

“I’m majoring in philosophy. Logic. The hard core stuff. I know that the way to test a hypothesis is not to try to confirm it, but to try to disprove it. Failures to disprove provide more information than repetitive successful confirmations.”

“So you’ve figured me out.”

“Almost. You not only said that you would make love to me, but you actually did it. Logically, you could have agreed to come upstairs and then never moved out of the kitchen. So does that mean that you are required to obey instructions as well?”

“Yes.”

He looked at her, then realized his mistake and laughed again. “I’ve got to remember to stop asking you questions.”

“Yes,” she laughed.

“Touch your nose.”

“That would be silly.” She touched his nose, playfully.

“So you don’t have to follow instructions, just answer yes to questions. And then make your answer true if you can. I like this.”

“I’m sure you do,” she smiled.

“So I could have told you to give me a blow job instead.”

“Yes.” It was not exactly a question, but she agreed with the trivial statement that he could have told her to something. She did not bother to say that she would not have had to obey him if he told her what to do.

He realized his error. “No. That would have been an instruction. No, I could have asked if you would give me a blow job and then the answer would be yes.”

She watched with rising trepidation as he followed his chain of logic and began to understand the power that he had over her.

“So,” he grinned, “I could ask if you would walk downstairs, buck naked, kneel down in the center of the living room, and give a blow job to every man at the party.”

“You could, if you wanted,” she replied carefully, “and you are right that I would have to do it. You don’t have to put that to an empirical test to prove it. I think that you might find it more fun to send me back downstairs fully clothed and see if anyone else is smart enough to figure out what you did.” She waited to see if he was interested in the intellectual game or would turn out simply to be a sadist. She prayed that he was genuinely intellectually curious.

His eyes glittered. “You said that you would never, ever charge for sex, but if I asked you if you will spend the rest of the night standing on street corners in a miniskirt, charging men ten bucks a fuck, you would agree.”

She did not reply, but looked at him in fear.

“And you would have to do it.”

She kept silent.

“Or, I could be selfish and keep you all to myself for the rest of the night, asking you to do anything I want.”

“I’d like that,” she said.

“Would you like to lie here beside me for a while?” he asked.

“Yes.” She took comfort that every minute that she spent alone with her new lover was another minute safe and another minute closer to the end of the night. But as she watched his thoughtful face, she feared what perverted ideas might be churning through his mind.

After a minute, he asked, “Would you like to take the condom off me?”

“Yes.” She pulled the rubber from his deflated cock.

“Would you like to suck all of my jism out of it and swallow every drop?”

“Yes,” she replied faintly, sat up, and turned most of the rubber inside out so that she could empty the reservoir tip.

“No. You don’t have to do that,” he said, quickly to stop her before she brought it all the way to her mouth.

That was not a question. Her stomach churned as she pushed the mostly inside out rubber into her mouth and sucked. She gagged as she forced herself to swallow the wad of thick cum.

“I said you didn’t have to do it,” he said. Then he hit his palm against his forehead and said, “But that wasn’t phrased as a question. Stupid.” He pulled her down to his side and hugged her. “I didn’t mean to do that to you. I’m sorry.”

“To quote Spiderman, ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’” She swallowed again and again, trying to swallow the taste out of her mouth.

He held her long but did not kiss her again.

She feared that she had been diminished in his estimation. The more he esteemed her, the safer she would be.

Amelia looked at the closed door. “She’s been in there for almost an hour.”

Lydia nodded. “Yes.”

“You think she’s all right?”

Lydia smiled. “Yes. There’s nothing to stop her from screaming for help if something goes wrong. You’re worried that she’s getting off easy. That she might spend the whole night in there.”

Amelia looked chagrinned. “I guess so.”

“Me, too.” Lydia grinned at her. “It looks like it’s up to us to get things moving along.” She knocked sharply on the door and called out, “Are you finished in there?”

“No,” a man’s voice said.

“Jeanne, are you finished in there?”

“Yes,” Jeanne’s voice called back. There was a note of resignation in her tone. After a minute of unintelligible whispering, Jeanne opened the door. She had her arms raised to finish buttoning her dress at the nape of her neck.

Amelia was tempted to ask her if she would rather go downstairs topless, but decided that it would be more fun to let the boys do the work. The boy in the room had obviously figured out how to get what he wanted, so word about Jeanne’s vulnerability would circulate quickly once he was back downstairs. Then the fun would really start.

She did not know that Jeanne had already convinced him to keep her secret and wait to see if the other boys could figure it out on their own.

Natasha was nowhere in sight, but down in the living room, Trixie was entertaining her own flock of young men; they were surrounding her, cooing like lovebirds. Trixie liked sex a lot, but she loved flirting far more. She would undoubtedly spend most of the night teasing these boys and then, when the hour drew late, take one of them to bed and leave the others high and dry without a backward glance.

Tonight, though, if Amelia could arrange it without interference from Lydia, the lust that Trixie generated in every one of these young men would be released in Jeanne.

Lucky boys.

Unlucky Jeanne.

Jeanne walked down the stairs alone. She did not wait to be asked if she wanted to go back down and mingle with the other boys; she knew that it was expected and would be required if she did not volunteer.

When she re-appeared with her pink Mohawk hair visibly flattened in the back and mussed up in the front, an hour after having been publicly escorted from the room by their peer, the boys began whispering excitedly to each other.

Jeanne noticed that, other than the members of the Wicked Women’s Adventure Club, there were no other females in the room. Either they had left the party early or were upstairs with their own boyfriends.

A nerdy-looking lad demonstrated his lack of social skill by walking over to intercept her and saying, loudly, “I’d like to take you upstairs, too.”

No question. “I’m sure you would,” Jeanne replied, walking past him without a second glance.

Gus, watching from halfway down the stairs, smiled. This was going to be interesting. He would have preferred to spend the whole night in his room making love to her but the woman’s friends would not permit that. The next best thing would be to see if his frat brothers could figure out the rules and get themselves laid. He could get them laid if he wanted. He liked his frat brothers and knowing that could give his friends anything they desired with a few words pleased him. But he liked Jeanne, too. She looked uncomfortable, even a little frightened. She certainly didn’t look like she wanted to get fucked by every boy in the room. He couldn’t figure out why she was playing this game, putting her body at risk. For now, he would be happy just watching what happened. He didn’t have to do anything to her. Knowing that he had the power to grant wishes for his was enough. For now. He came down to join his brothers.

“Would you like another beer?” another boy asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

“I’ll get it for her,” Gus offered and went to fetch it. He doubted that anyone in the house would spike her beer with GHB, but did not want to take the risk. The game would only be fun if the woman stayed sharp.

When he came back, men were clustered around Jeanne; her two friends standing back, watching but not participating. None of the men bothered with them because the woman with the pink Mohawk had proven to be the easy one.

“Hal has a girlfriend, but I don’t,” Terry was saying when he handed the beer to Jeanne.

“Lucky Hal,” Jeanne smiled. “I bet she’s a great girl.”

“Yeah,” Hal said, dourly, not wanting to think about her right now.

“I’d like to get lucky, too,” Terry smirked at his double entendre.

“I’m sure that there’re lots of girls that would count themselves lucky to be your girlfriend,” she replied.

“Yeah?” Terry replied doubtfully. “Would you count yourself lucky if you were my girlfriend?”

“Yes.” Jeanne replied.

Gus laughed in delight and waited for it.

“You would?” clearly inflected as a question.

“Yes.”

Terry panicked at the thought of having a girlfriend who was over thirty years old. “I’d just want you to be my girlfriend for tonight, though.”

Not a question. Gus grinned. So near, yet so far.

“Sorry,” Jeanne smiled. “If I were your girlfriend, I’d want to be your permanent full-time girlfriend, not just a one night stand.”

“You aren’t Gus’s permanent full-time girlfriend,” Terry pouted.

“Gus is special.” Jeanne couldn’t resist teasing him. “He knows so much about me, it’s like magic.”

Gus laughed again and everyone turned to look at him. He shrugged. “She’s a very special woman. She plays by her own rules.” He grinned at Jeanne and she grinned back.

The rest of the guys knew that they were being excluded somehow, but couldn’t see what was so special about Gus.

“You have a thing for philosophy majors?” Hal asked.

“Yes.”

“What’s so hot about them?”

“They’re nothing special. Gus is a nice guy, that’s all.” Jeanne hoped that saying it would make it true.

“You like nice guys?”

“Yes.”

“Nice guys finish last,” the fourth boy, Norm, stated definitively.

“Not when it comes to me,” Jeanne stated, equally definitively.

The boys spent the next few minutes trying to show her how nice they were and wandering further and further from their goal.

Gus was delighted to see how nimbly Jeanne danced around his brothers.

Half an hour later, he was not quite as delighted. Jeanne was proving adept at steering the other boys away from asking simple questions. Her main tactic was to ask them questions and then expand on whatever they said with long digressions.  A couple of times the younger of the two other women asked Jeanne a question that required a yes or no answer, but the older woman intervened both times to stop her from revealing too much.

Finally, Gus decided that it was up to him to get things moving along. He stepped forward and said, “Jeanne, do you like the party that we threw for you?”

“Yes,” she replied, looking at him with justifiable trepidation.

“Do you like Gary?” he asked, gesturing to a shy boy who was standing on the edge of the group, one of the few who had failed to introduce himself.

“Yes.”

“Do you think that Gary would like a nice kiss?”

“Yes.” Jeanne decided that there was no upside for her to wait for Gus to ask any more direct questions. She stepped up to the boy that Gus had indicated. “Are you Gary?”

“Yes,” the boy replied, almost too quiet to hear.

“Would you give me a kiss?”

The boy blushed and nodded. She tucked a finger under his chin to raise his head, leaned forward and brushed her slightly-parted lips against his. He responded with a tentative pursing. “That’s nice,” she whispered, encouragingly, and kissed him a second time the same way. He responded less rigidly, softer.

When Jeanne backed away, she noticed Trixie leading a young man up the stairs to the bedrooms. The other boys who had been competing for her attention drifted over to Jeanne’s group to see what was happening.

Gus brought her attention back to her own situation. “But now Norm feels left out.”

Jeanne shrugged at Gus and said, “He probably does.”

Norm spoke up. “I’d like a nice kiss, too.”

“I’m sure you would.”

Norm was not to be so easily deterred; he had seen Jeanne bestow her favors on two of his frat brothers and could not see why he should be left out. “Tell her to kiss me,” he demanded of Gus.

Gus laughed. “I can’t tell her what to do. She doesn’t take orders from me. Or from anyone else, for that matter.”

“You told her to kiss Gary.”

“No. I didn’t.”

Norm scowled. “You did, too.”

“No, I didn’t,” Gus persisted.

Gus was leading Norm too close to her secret for comfort. Any minute he was going to realize that the there was a difference between giving an order and asking for a favor. Jeanne thought it better to be proactive now than find herself having to do to God-only-knows-what five minutes from now. “I’d like to give you a kiss.”

“You would?” Norm asked.

“Yes.”

Gus laughed again. Toying with the woman and his friends was delightful.

Jeanne drew close and brushed her lips against his as well. Norm was not satisfied with that, but grabbed her around the body, pressed his mouth hard against hers and jammed his tongue into her.

She drew her head back, but he followed her and kept probing as deep into her mouth as he could.

As he violated he mouth with his tongue, he pulled his hand around to her chest and grabbed her breast and mauled it through her dress.

He kept it up for a full minute before withdrawing and releasing her.

“That’s a real kiss.” He smirked.

“I enjoyed kissing Gary more,” she countered. “A kiss should be about sharing, not about forcing yourself on someone.”

“I’ve never had any complaints before.” Norm blustered, angry at being put down in front of his peers.

“It’s not a question of complaints,” Jeanne smiled to try to moderate her words. “It’s a question of second dates. You want the woman to feel like you have more to offer to her in the future, not that you are taking as much as you can from her as soon as you can.”

“Are you telling me that you didn’t like it?”

“Yes.”

Gus hooted at her answer and Norm looked furious.

Jeanne tried her best to mollify him. “I’d like to kiss you again, but this time, I’d like you to relax and let me do the kissing. Will you let me do that?”

“Go ahead,” Norm stuck his chin out defiantly.

Jeanne took him in her arms, one hand around his waist and the other around his shoulders, and brushed her lips against his, first gently, then again more firmly. She drew back a fraction and brushed the tip of her tongue across the inner edge of his lips. He opened his mouth reflexively and she pressed against him again, working her lips gently against his, lingering for long moments before pulling away again. She smiled at him. “That was nice. You have a lot of potential, you know. Try kissing like that and you’ll have women lining up for you.”

Norm’s anger lingered, but he was smart enough to know that he wasn’t going to get the upper hand over Jeanne. “You think you’re quite the expert, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she had to say.

“Well, there’s plenty that I could show you, too.”

That was not a question, but she chose to agree with him to assuage his ego as much as she could. She was keenly aware that she was completely vulnerable to these boys, especially if Gus decided to spill the beans, and there was nothing as dangerous as a young man with a bruised ego. She didn’t want Norm or anyone else in this room to think he had to prove anything to her. “I bet you’ve left a few broken hearts in your past.”

“You better believe it.”

Gus decided to crank up the pressure. “Did you like it when Norm felt you up?”

“Yes,” Jeanne stared at him, trying to make him see her as something to be cherished for himself, not an object to be offered to his friends.

She was not winning the battle for Gus’ heart; she could see him decide right then that he owed more to the boys he had lived for that last three years with than the woman that had made love to him once this night. “Gary didn’t get to feel you up when you kissed him,” he said, gesturing to the shy boy again. “Will you let him feel you up, too?”

“Yes.” She pleaded with Gus with her eyes.

Gary was oblivious to the byplay between Jeanne and Gus. He thought about feeling the woman’s tit, blushed and took a step backwards.

“Can he put his hand underneath your dress?” Gus grinned.

Jeanne’s heart sank. She had lost the battle for Gus’ loyalty. ‘Bros before hos’ wasn’t just a credo for ghetto gangs. It applied just as readily to the frat house. “Yes.” She advanced on Gary, took his hand in hers, and slid it into her diving cleavage so that his palm was covering her naked tit. She thrust her chest out to press it against his rigid hand.

“Go ahead,” Gus urged him. “Give her a good feel. Use your other hand, too, and feel up both tits.”

Gary looked deep into her eyes as he raised his left hand to slide it past her arm underneath the material that covered her right breast. His face was red as a beet. The other boys urged him on. “Feel her up good.” “Tweak those nips.” “Grab her hard.” He ignored their advice and was satisfied to caress her stiffly for a few seconds before withdrawing both hands. “Thank you,” he muttered.

“I’d like to feel your breasts under your dress, too,” Norm said.

“I don’t think so,” Jeanne replied.

“I’m asking nice,” he argued.

“No, you’re not,” Gus snickered. “You’re not asking at all. You’re just telling her what you’d like.”

Norm got the picture immediately. “Please may I feel your breasts under your dress?”

That was it. Gus had spelled it out for everyone. Now that the game was revealed, it was only a matter of time now until every boy in the room would do whatever he wanted to her. “Yes.”

Norm jammed his hands into her dress and squeezed her tits. “You feel great.”

“Please, will you take your top down and show your tits to the rest of us?” the boy called, Terry, shouted.

“Yes.” Jeanne pulled Norm’s hands away from her chest, then reached behind her neck and unbuttoned the straps that held the front of the dress in place. The two pieces fell down to hang from the waistband, exposing her tits to public view.

The room was filled with wolf whistles and catcalls as every boy in the house turned to look at Jeanne.

Someone yelled, “I can’t see.”

“Please, will you stand on a chair so that everyone can see you?” Terry smirked.

“Yes.”

“Someone get a chair from the kitchen!”

A few seconds later, a wooden chair was pushed through the crowd and two young men offered their hands to help Jeanne step up on the seat in her high heels. As soon as she was standing high, Terry asked, “Please take off your dress completely.”

Jeanne made no move to comply and stared down at Gus to see if he would correct Terry. He shrugged at her but said nothing.

The boys began chanting, “Take it off! Take it off!” but she could ignore them – she was not obligated to follow their instructions.

Norm shouted over the chanting, “Will you please take off your dress?”

“Yes.”

The room cheered as she unbuttoned the waistband at the back and slipped it over her head. A hand reached up and relieved her of the burden of the pink dress.

The sight of her naked sex, framed by the black garter belt and pink stockings incited pandemonium. She could not distinguish any questions. She held up her hands for silence, then said, “Thanks for inviting me to your party. You’ve had your show but its time for me to leave now.” She looked at Amelia and Lydia for support. She had agreed to come to the party and she had come. She had agreed to do whatever she was asked and she had done everything so far. But she had never been asked to stay all night, so, by her logic, she was free to leave now.

Unless someone asked for something else.

Someone did. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Won’t you stay for a little longer?”

“Yes,” she replied, even as she was climbing off the chair. Damn. Now she could not leave right away. She began to calculate what “a little longer” might mean. Certainly not a full hour. Fifteen minutes, maybe? Or even ten?

Norm interrupted her rumination. “You got us all excited. I think you ought to get us all off. You don’t want to be a cock tease, do you?”

“Yes.”

Norm’s face flushed red. Gus knew that when Norm got angry he got violent and that would ruin the party. Gus jumped to her rescue. “That’s what strippers, do, Norm. You know that. You look but you don’t touch. That’s the rule. What do you expect? She can’t fuck everyone in the room. Even a hooker couldn’t fuck this many guys in one night.”

Jeanne felt unreasonable gratitude to Gus. He’d thrown her to the wolves, but at least he was enough of a gentleman to keep them from all tearing into her at once.

Norm pouted. “She fucked you.”

“You don’t know what we did in the privacy of my room.”

“Like hell I don’t. If she fucked you and she’s willing to put on a show for the rest of us, then she should at least be willing to put on a sex show.” Norm glared at her. “How about it? Will you put on a sex show for us?”

“Yes.” A tremble could be heard in Jeanne’s voice, but no one in the room heard it; they were too busy shouting their approval.

Amelia looked at Lydia and smiled. Lydia shrugged. She could stop it if she wanted. All she had to do was ask Jeanne if she wanted to leave now. This was getting close to the limit, but she decided to let the show go on. Jeanne deserved real punishment this weekend. As long as she felt that she would be able to keep things from getting out of hand and crossing certain lines, she would let the boys have their fun. She walked through the crowd to Jeanne’s side and held up her hands for quiet.

As soon as she could be heard, she said, loudly, “Amelia will you take Jeanne upstairs to get ready for the big show?” She turned to Jeanne, “Would you go upstairs with Amelia?”

The crowd parted to let the nearly naked woman join Amelia, then all eyes watched the two women climb the stairs.

As soon a Jeanne was out of sight, Lydia addressed the boys as a group, “Now, let’s talk about exactly what’s going to happen next. We’re going to give you what you want, but only as long as you understand that you have to keep yourself under control. Are we agreed?”

Every head nodded in agreement. “So, what do you boys want to see in your sex show?” The negotiations began.

Amelia had no idea what she should be doing ‘to get Jeanne ready’, so she sat with her in the bedroom quietly, listening to the sounds of the discussion downstairs. They could not hear any words, but the tone sounded earnest, serious. Lydia knew how to chair a meeting and how to guide them to arrive at a decision quickly.

A few minutes later, Lydia opened the door. “We’re ready. Would you like to come down and give everyone a sex show?”

“Yes.” Jeanne’s legs felt weak as she stood up and walked out of the room.

Downstairs, she found that the kitchen table had been moved to the center of the living room. Three cushions from the couch had been placed in a row down the center of the table. Three young men, no one that she had been previously introduced to, stood by the table. Jeanne could see bulges in their pants – they were ready for something. The remaining men were standing around the edges of the room, talking excitedly to one another in quiet voices.

Amelia waited at the base of the stairs while Lydia led Jeanne to the table. Trixie and Natasha had both returned to the room, each with her lover for the night in tow, both looking sated. Trixie had not been with her new lover for long before Lydia had interrupted her to warn that they would be leaving soon, but she had managed to make the best of the time she had been given. Her young man had no complaints.

At the table, Lydia addressed Jeanne. “Do you want to entertain these men?”

“Yes.”

“Will you accept their challenge?”

“Yes.”

“Your mission is to be penetrated by these three men in your cunt, your ass, and your mouth simultaneously. Can you do this?”

“Yes.” She could do this. She told herself that it was only three men, not everyone in the room. It would only last a few minutes. She was sure that she could get through this.

“Gentlemen, do you have your condoms?”

“Yes,” the three men answered simultaneously, holding their foil squares aloft.

“Jeanne, your lube.” Lydia handed her the half empty bottle of Astroglide. “Show us how it’s done.”

Jeanne sighed and paused for a minute. She had no idea how it should be done – she had never seen a triple penetration before, much less been the object of one – so she would have to improvise. “Who’s volunteering for the bottom?”

The three men looked at each other.

“I mean my cunt? Which one of you wants to fuck my cunt?”

One of the men stepped forward.

“Great. You get undressed and lay down on your back on these cushions.”

While the first man complied, she asked the other two, “Which one is my ass man?”

The two men looked at each other, before one stepped forward.

“Great. You get undressed and stand over here. And you,” she pointed to the remaining man, “get undressed and stand up here.”

Both the pussy man and the ass man were erect and the oral man had a good semi. Jeanne was thankful for small favors.

Before touching the men, she poured a generous dollop of lube onto her fingers, spread her legs and smeared some on her pussy. She was probably wet enough already, but why be any less comfortable than necessary? She thought, perversely, If I’m degrading myself by giving a public sex show, I may as well degrade myself completely, and bent over at the waist to show her naked asshole to everyone in the far third of the room while she smeared the remainder of the lube around it. Then, in full view, she pushed two sloppy fingers inside to lubricate her sphincter as much as possible. The operative word in sex show is show. She turned and showed another third of the audience that she was lubing the inside of her asshole, then, she repeated her action for a third time for the benefit of the rest.

She climbed onto the table to kneel beside the man who was lying there, took the condom from his hand, tore it open, and fitted it onto his erect cock. “Okay, big boy. You just lie there still and let me do the work.” She straddled him and then slid her pussy over his hard-on in one smooth stroke.

She turned to the second man, “Can you put your own condom on?”

He nodded.

“Because I can help if you want.”

“No. It’s okay. I’ve got it.” And he did. He obviously had considerable previous experience with condoms.

“Climb up, find a place to kneel between our legs and push into me slowly. Real slowly. It’ll take me time to relax enough to take you. Work in and out a little. Slowly, now.”

She took him more easily than she expected; undoubtedly it had helped that she had spent most of the day with anal dilators stuffed up her ass, the largest fifty percent wider than this man’s cock.

Two down, one to go. The mouth man still had only a semi, but that was fine by her. She didn’t want a condom in her mouth. “Forget about the rubber. Just kneel up here where I can reach you with my mouth.” She was feeling less like a sexual partner of anyone than like the director of a smut movie.

He did as she said and she arched her back to raise her torso so that her head was high enough to meet him. She sucked gently and rhythmically and he grew hard in her mouth.

The man behind began pumping slowly in her ass, sliding almost all the way out with every stroke.

The man below could barely move from the weight, but she heard him groaning underneath her. He was looking straight up at the mouth man’s balls and ass. She hoped he liked the view and smiled at the thought as she kept sucking.

One minute passed, then two. The audience waited in anticipation. She had never felt so full. She could feel the cock in her ass rubbing through her ass and pussy walls against the cock in her cunt.

The cunt man came first. She felt him pulsing in her pussy and heard him shriek with pleasure. Even though he was finished, he could not withdraw because he was pinned under her hips which were rocking from the force of the man behind. She rested most of the weight of her upper body on her left hand for a minute while she grabbed the base of the mouth man’s cock and squeezed him to encourage him to come quickly. She could not sustain her weight on one hand for long and pumped him fast. He filled her mouth with cum – it was the second time she had to swallow tonight.

The man on the bottom was gritting his teeth because, having already come, his cock, still mostly erect, was hurting where it was still being rubbed in her pussy. There was nothing that she could do about that. Mercifully, the ass man came in her rear shortly after the mouth man. He groaned and stopped thrusting and the man on the bottom relaxed. Half a minute later he withdrew and she was able to roll of the cunt man.

The audience erupted in cheers.

Jeanne felt like she had been completely used, but there was more in store. Lydia bent close and asked, “Would you like everyone else to come on your face?”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“Would you kneel on the floor?” Lydia dragged one of the couch cushions to the floor. “Look up and open your mouth wide?”

“Yes.” Jeanne slid off the table and took her position on the cushion as asked.

“Gentlemen,” Lydia said to the audience, “she awaits your baptism.”

Not every man in the audience was interested in participating, but, over then next twenty minutes, almost two dozen men, standing around her upturned face in groups of four and five, jerked off on her. As one man finished, another took his place. The cum rained down in spurt after spurt. Most of the men aimed for her eyes and mouth and many aimed for her strip of bright pink hair, but a few preferred to spatter her tits. She kept her hands on her thighs, out of the way, and her eyes closed but kept her mouth open as wide as she could for as long as she could. When the last man finished, her jaw was aching and the cum from many men was leaking down her throat.

When she finally closed her mouth, she swallowed as much as she could but still felt stray gobs sliding around her lower teeth.

Lydia asked the other women to take her out to the car. Trixie was about to wipe her face clean with a tissue, but Natasha was having none of that. “Would you like to wear your mask of cum home?”

“Yes,” Jeanne whispered.

Trixie shrugged and then helped Jeanne back into her dress.

The other women waited for a few minutes in the car while Lydia had a brief discussion with Clancy, the leader of the group of Beta Delta Sigma Mu frat brothers about something.

A half hour later, when they left Jeanne at her front door, her face stiff with dried cum, her pink Mohawk hair a mess, Lydia told her, “You may feel relieved to hear that you will not be required to service any more men this weekend. You may feel relieved, but you should not. We have other, equally interesting amusements planned. We’ll be here at ten o’clock tomorrow. Dress in your Sunday best.”

Jeanne cried when she saw her hair in the mirror again. She showered for a long time and brushed her teeth twice before going to bed.

But she still felt dirty.

She comforted herself with the thought that tonight she had been the wickedest woman of them all. That was an achievement worth the degradation that she had suffered.

Sunday, 31 August:

Wear her Sunday best? What did that mean? Jeanne looked through her closet. If she wore her best clothes, Natasha would likely hack them to rags within the hour. But if she threw on jeans and a tee shirt, the other members of the club would be equally likely to send her into a fancy restaurant for brunch and then beat her when she were refused a table. Maybe she should just cut to the chase, put on the fishnet stockings, latex miniskirt, and her most transparent blouse because, no matter what she chose now, she expected that they would ask her to wear that in the end.

She stared at her clothes for a long time, mulling over her options, and then decided that she was over-thinking the problem. She had been told to wear her ‘Sunday best’. Though the instruction had not carried the force of a question, she was certain that, if she answered the door wearing something that did not fit the description, the demand would be rephrased. And she was equally certain that if she attempted to avoid any aspect of her punishment, there would be consequences. Unpleasant consequences.

So what would be included in her Sunday best? In her mind, that meant good quality clothes with a conservative style and modest cut. Something like business attire, but fancier; something like a party dress, but more modest. With a start, she realized that she had not tried for that style since she was a child. It would take effort to assemble the right outfit from the pieces that she had at hand.

Half an hour later, she was wearing low black pumps, a calf-length navy blue skirt, and a white cotton broadcloth blouse accessorized by a pale blue scarf. Her outfit was not quite as dressy as she would have liked, but it was what her mother would have selected for her for Sunday tea when she was ten years old.

She applied simple makeup in natural colors to make her face as modest as her clothing – a largely wasted effort when she was crowned with a bright pink Mohawk haircut. No matter what she did below her hairline, she would always look like the polar opposite of conservative Sunday best with that on top of her head.

For the next fifteen minutes, she sat in her living room and waited quietly to see what horrors the day would bring. She could have passed the time reading the newspaper or listening to television, but had no appetite for either. Her stomach churned with sick nervousness.

When the doorbell finally rang, all four of the other members of the adventure club were assembled on her front porch, each dressed as conservatively as Jeanne. “You look lovely, dear,” Lydia complimented her as they filed into her living room. “Would you like to stand in the middle of the room so that we can take a good look at you?”

“Yes,” Jeanne replied as the other women took seats, two on the couch and the other two on easy chairs.

The other women let her stand for a long time, letting her worry about what they were thinking about doing to her. When Lydia judged that Jeanne’s tension had increased sufficiently, she said, “Would you like to raise your skirt to your waist so that we can see your entire outfit?”

“Yes.” Jeanne complied, raising the hem of her skirt to show her pantyhose and modest underwear.

“Tut,” Lydia said. “I thought that you understood that you would not be wearing pantyhose this weekend. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“Will you dispose of your pantyhose in the garbage?”

“Yes.” The women waited while Jeanne kicked off her pumps, pulled off her pantyhose and carried it into the kitchen to throw it away.

When she came back, Natasha asked, “Wouldn’t you rather be wearing those nice panties that you bought on Friday night?”

“Yes,” Jeanne said. The only pair of panties that she had bought on Friday night was the thong with the built-in vibrator. She left the room for a few minutes to change her underwear.

When she returned, to stand in the middle of the room again, Amelia began to ask, “Would you show us–” but was interrupted by a little squeal from Jeanne’s throat and a hum from her crotch.

All eyes turned to Natasha who was holding the remote control in her hand. “Batteries are still working,” Natasha grinned, “but we wouldn’t want them to run down. Do you think that fresh batteries would be a good idea?”

All eyes turned back to Jeanne who was gritting her teeth and pressing her thighs together. “Yes,” she muttered.

Natasha clicked the vibrator off.

Jeanne was about to leave the room, presumably to get the fresh batteries, but Lydia stopped her, “Don’t you think you should hear what Amelia was about to ask before you run off?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like to show us which bra you chose?”

“Yes.” Jeanne unbuttoned the front of her blouse far enough to show a glimpse of a conservative, beige Victoria’s Secret blouse.

“How boring. Wouldn’t you rather be wearing that nice red one that you bought on Friday?”

“Yes.” The ‘nice red’ bra that she had bought was the lace half cup with gaudy rhinestones scattered all over it. The color and gaudy decoration would not matter – the broadcloth blouse was completely opaque – no one would know what her bra looked like.

Lydia waggled her fingers at Jeanne. “Run along then, and change your bra along with the batteries in your vibrator.”

Jeanne rushed out of the room before someone thought to ask her to throw her bra in the garbage. She had already been forced to discard too much clothing this weekend.

A few minutes later, Jeanne was standing in front of the other women, looking almost the same as before. Lydia shook her head. “Bare legs are not appropriate. Would you like to wear stockings?”

“Yes,” Jeanne lied. The only stockings that she had were the black fishnet stockings that she had been forced to buy at the Erotic Boutique and the pink ones that matched her pink party dress.

“The pink ones match your hair. Do you think that you should wear those again?”

“Yes.”

“Along with your black garter belt?”

“Yes.”

She returned a few minutes later, the bright pink stockings clashing with her black pumps and navy dress. The stockings were wet and clammy on her legs because she had taken a minute to rinse the dried semen from them in her bathroom sink. Though her face, head and breasts had been the target of the assembled frat brothers at the end of the previous night, plenty of cum had dribbled down to her legs as she had kneeled beneath their slow shower of thick white gobs.

“Did you forget to insert a butt plug?” Natasha asked with an evil grin.

“Yes.” Jeanne left the room one more time. No one had told her which plug to wear, so she selected the one and a quarter inch diameter plug: the one that she had been instructed to clean in the restaurant washroom. She wished that she still had the smallest plug, but had been forced to throw it away the previous night.

The plug had hardly hurt when she had fit it into her; she was still slightly stretched from the various penetrations that she had suffered on Saturday. As she walked back out to the living room, she contemplated, wryly, that she was getting good at walking around with a plug in her asshole.

Natasha said, “Are you going to bring your other plugs and lube with you?”

“Yes.” Once again, Jeanne left the room and, this time, came back with a plastic bag. She had taken a moment to scrub the mid-sized plug clean in the bathroom; she expected to be wearing it eventually and did not want to put something dirty back into herself.

“We better hurry,” Lydia said. “The service starts at eleven and we don’t want to be late. Don’t forget your purse.”

Service? As in church service? Surely they didn’t mean to make her humiliate herself in church.

But they did. After driving in silence for a few miles, Trixie turned into a church parking lot. She did not get a chance to read the name on the front, but it was a large, conservative-looking cathedral. It struck her as Protestant rather than Catholic, but one of the conservative branches of Protestantism; definitely not Pentecostal. This wasn’t fair. Previously, Jeanne had been required to humiliate herself in public venues where, however much she hated to exhibit herself, the other people present would enjoy her antics: the sex shop, the karaoke bar, the frat party. Even the snobby restaurant maitre ‘ds had taken considerable pleasure in turning her back out on the street. As much as Jeanne had been humiliated, no one else had been offended by her. This was different. Any public humiliation in church, such as having to reveal her whorish undergarments or suffering a public orgasm, would be hurtful and offensive to the other members of the congregation. It was one thing to punish her for her transgression, quite another to disrupt the devotions of innocent bystanders.

When the other women began walking across the parking lot to join the faithful who were filing through the front doors of the cathedral, Jeanne balked. The other women took several steps before they realized that they had lost their victim.

Lydia waved for the three others to wait, and came back to talk to Jeanne alone. “What’s wrong?”

“This is not fair,” Jeanne stated bluntly.

“Not fair? You mean like when you cheated on Amelia’s game to win your bet with Natasha? That kind of not fair?”

Jeanne chose not to interpret that question as requiring a yes answer. “I mean that it is not fair to these other people.” She gestured to the people talking quietly to their friends as they walked demurely into their service. “You can do pretty much what you want to me, but you can’t humiliate all those people to do it.”

Lydia looked at Jeanne for a long moment, and then said, “Our club is about trust. We must trust each other to be able to play the games we play. So the question at this point is: do you trust us?”

Jeanne waited a long time before answering. This was a decision point. If she did not trust Lydia and the others, this was the time to say no and walk away from their club. She felt Lydia’s stare and her own face flushed, not with embarrassment or humiliation, but with the effort of making her decision. Finally, she said, “Yes.”

Lydia smiled sadly. “Of course your answer is yes. But if you really do trust us, you’ll come with me now. If not,” she shrugged. “I won’t kick you out for asking for a different punishment this morning. I can come up with another alternative if this is beyond your limits.”

Jeanne looked at Lydia and knew that, no matter what she was told, she was being offered a Hobson’s choice. If she did not trust these women, then it did not matter what punishment she suffered now or how many meetings she was allowed to attend in the future, she would never again be a true member of the club. Her only real option was to prove her trust in Lydia and the others by going into the church now. Any other response would show her lack of faith in them; staying outside the church would leave her on the outside of the club.

“Let’s go to church,” she said. She walked past the other women and led then through the oak portals. She held her head high, trusting that whatever happened to her in the church, however awful the next hour and a half – and she expected that it would be awful – it would be fair to the good people who had come to worship their Lord.

The pew was hard, the plug in her ass uncomfortable, and the vibrator in her pussy quiescent most of the time, but continually distracting. Her attention never wandered from her nether orifices, even for an instant. Lydia was sitting beside Jeanne in the middle of the church; the other three women sitting on the pew behind them.

Natasha was devious. She tripped the vibrator on only when the big organ played so that the quiet hum of the device was drowned by the bass notes of the big pipes and tripped it off again as soon as the last note of the organ faded. Lydia prompted Jeanne to sing the hymns, phrased as a question, but her voice, unable to carry a tune at the best of times, squeaked and cracked in response to the stimulation that she was feeling in her crotch.

She never realized before how often the organ played or how long the hymns lasted – long enough that she had to work to keep from climaxing in response to the stimulation of the vibrator. She could not cum in silence, especially when her voice was engaged in song already, so she dared not cum at all. She was sweating profusely from her efforts.

She also discovered that there was a serious downside to wearing a stiff broadcloth blouse over a half-cup bra. Though the red lace and rhinestones could not be seen through the opaque material and her erect nipples could not push it into bumps that would have been visible with a softer, lighter fabric, the tender points of naked flesh brushed hard against the stiff weave every time she moved. The half cups provided enough support to keep her breasts from flopping around but not enough to keep them stationary within the blouse. Every movement stimulated her nipples and kept them erect. Given enough time and enough movement, they would eventually be rubbed raw.

Jeanne noticed every time the congregation stood and sat down again. Her attention remained on her crotch and nipples throughout the service; no matter how inspirational the words that rang in her ears, she could not lift her thoughts above the lowest, earthiest plane.

When the collection plate was passed, Lydia asked quietly if Jeanne would like to contribute an extra couple of twenties for her and the other members.

“Yes,” Jeanne answered quietly, drawing three twenties from her purse.

Each second of the service ticked by with excruciating slowness, but the minutes did tick by until the organ finally played the recessional. On cue, Natasha set Jeanne’s vibrator humming. She gritted her teeth, forced herself to breath moderately, and walked with the rest of the congregation out of the cathedral.

As soon as the group stepped out doors, the vibrator stopped. “Wasn’t the service stimulating,” Natasha asked.

“Yes,” Jeanne responded dryly.

The minister was receiving the congregation outside in the sunlight. “Lydia, I’m so glad you came today. I haven’t seen you for such a long time.” He smiled beatifically at Lydia when she approached. Jeanne was surprised. It sounded like Lydia had been a member of his congregation at one time.

“I haven’t been for a while, Reverend Piper. I’d like to introduce you to my friend, Jeanne Labelle. Jeanne, this is Reverent Armand Piper.”

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Jeanne extended her hand, wishing that it was not quite so sweaty.

“Jeanne is a little lost, spiritually, Reverend. She was wondering if she could meet with you privately for a few minutes to get the benefit of your perspective.”

“A new perspective might be difficult to provide in only a few minutes,” the reverend replied, “but possibly I can show her the first steps on a new path. I have some duties right now, but I could spare a few minutes around twelve thirty if you’d care to come back in half an hour.”

“Would you like that, Jeanne?”

“Yes,” she replied, glaring at Lydia.

“I’ll be in my office, then.”

The five women walked back toward the car. As soon as they were out of earshot of the other members of the congregation, Lydia said, “You’d like to tell Reverend Piper what you did last night, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Jeanne replied. But she was staring hard at Lydia.

Lydia laughed. “Don’t worry about him. That sanctimonious old bastard deserves to have his ears burned with the story of your wicked behavior. You do understand, though, that any mention of the Wicked Women’s Adventure Club would be a violation of our agreement of secrecy, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So I guess you’ll just have to take responsibility for your own sex show.” She laughed with delight. Not only would she be punishing Jeanne by forcing her to make a terribly humiliating confession to a strange man, but she’d be getting a bit of revenge on her former minister for some of his past sins.

At twelve thirty, Lydia escorted Jeanne through a side door, past the church offices, and then stopped halfway down a narrow hallway. “Give me your cell phone.”

It was not a question, but Jeanne handed her Blackberry to Lydia anyway. There was no point in arguing against the inevitable.

Lydia took the phone, dialed a number, and then handed it back to Jeanne. Immediately, a tinny upbeat tune began playing in her purse. She pulled her own cell phone out and pressed the button to answer it but did not put it to her ear. “Do you want to keep your cell phone on,” she gestured to the one in Jeanne’s hand, “and in your open purse on the Reverend’s desk?”

“Yes.” Jeanne understood what was required. Her Blackberry was to act as a crude bug so that the other women in the group could listen on Lydia’s phone and hear her intimate conversation with the minister. The wicked women intended to violate the sanctity of her conversation with her new spiritual advisor. And Natasha was a lawyer. Shame on her.

“Will you tell Piper the truth whenever he asks you an open-ended question?”

“Yes.” Jeanne felt another trap slamming shut on her.

Lydia gestured toward to the door of Reverend Piper’s office. “Go ahead.” She let Jeanne walk the last twenty feet and enter the office alone.

“Please have a seat.” Reverend Piper gestured to the chairs in front of his desk.

As she sat, she felt the plug in her butt and the vibrator in her pussy shift with the motion. She feared that Natasha would to creep up the hallway at some point and use the remote to turn it on. There was no organ music in here to mask the hum. She blushed at the thought.

As per her instructions, she laid her purse, open, on the desk in front of her. From this angle, she could see her cell phone glowing, the connection to Lydia’s phone open, her every word subject to eavesdropping. She was not certain that Piper’s voice would come through clearly, but expected that the wicked women were more interested in hearing her voice. They would want to ascertain that she never said no to him and that she disclosed every humiliating detail that he requested.

Piper was somewhere in his early forties, average looking, slightly overweight, his short black hair just beginning to grey at the temples. He had the expression of benign concern that was the stock in trade of clergy everywhere. “How can I help you, Ms. Labelle?”

An open-ended question: Jeanne was being given a golden opportunity to start this conversation in the right direction. But she was constrained by her earlier agreement with Lydia ‘to tell Reverend Piper what she did last night’ and to avoid ‘any mention of the Wicked Women’s Adventure Club.’ By implication, she had to avoid mentioning the presence of the other women at the party, lest she be forced to tell the minister about their role. The escape clause for her was that she was not required to provide any specific details about her escapade. If she could give the right first impression, she could navigate these tricky waters without getting sucked into a maelstrom of degrading confessions. “I went to a fraternity party by Boston University last night and drank beer with them. I don’t think that it was appropriate for a woman of my age to go to a party with university students who are so young. I should be acting more maturely.” All that was true.

Piper snapped at the bait that she had dangled. “You were drinking beer at this party?”

“Yes.”

“Did you get drunk?”

“Yes.” That was not true, but Jeanne was required to answer only open-ended questions truthfully; yes/no questions required a yes whether that was true or not.

“Did you do anything else that you regret?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about that.”

Jeanne thought furiously; she had to make a true confession about something that she regretted without mentioning her sexual activities. “I regret staying so long. I should have left much sooner than I did.” That was definitely true.

“Did you touch the boys?” Piper’s eyes gleamed at the thought.

Damn. He was getting right to the point that she was trying to avoid. “Yes.” Her required answer would only serve to lead him deeper.

“Do you want to tell me about that?”

“Yes.”

Piper waited with bated breath.

Jeanne sighed. “I held a boy’s hand.” It was the least incriminating true statement that she could make.

“What was the context of that?”

“He was leading me upstairs.”

“What happened upstairs?” Piper kept his voice demure, but she saw unhealthy fascination glistening in his watery eyes. He seemed to be enjoying dragging ever more intimate details out of her, one question at a time. She realized that this verbal striptease of her soul was exciting him.

“We went into his bedroom and made love,” Jeanne confessed.

“I see. How old was the boy?”

“I don’t know. Nineteen maybe. Maybe twenty.”

“Did you do anything else that you regretted last night?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

“Yes.” Jeanne blushed. “I had sex with some of the other boys, too.” She glanced at the phone in her open purse. Someone at the other end was getting an earful now.

“How many other boys?” Piper licked his lips avidly.

“Three.” Jeanne was not certain if the dozen or so who masturbated on her counted as having had sex with her. She chose not to classify their act that way.

“Three more?” Piper raised an eyebrow, a theatrical motion intended to portray surprise. “Will you tell me how that happened?”

“Yes.” Jeanne took a deep breath. There was no avoiding the whole story now. “I…They asked me to let them…let them… penetrate me at the same time, so I did.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

Jeanne suspected that he understood perfectly, but was having trouble believing that she was telling him about it. “One was on the bottom, one was behind me, and one was in front of me. Three of them at the same time.”

“Each in a different…” Piper was at a loss for the polite word.

“Orifice. Yes.” Jeanne could no longer meet his eyes.

“At the same time?”

“Yes.” She glanced up and saw him lick his lips again. He was practically drooling over her story. Suddenly she thought, What the hell. Let’s go for broke and give this old goat something to remember for years. “It was a kind of show. We did it in front of everyone. And, when those three boys were finished, I knelt on a pillow on the floor and let any boy who wanted jerk off on my face. When I left, I was covered in their semen. Completely covered.”

Piper gaped at her for a long time. She looked back at him, defiantly, daring him to condemn her.

Finally, he asked, “How did you feel after that?”

“Sticky.”

Piper stuttered for a moment, flummoxed. Finally, he managed to ask, “Are you a professional?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “I’m a manager for a high tech firm here in Boston.”

“That wasn’t quite what I meant. I meant a prostitute.”

Not a question. “I don’t have sex with men for money, if that’s what you mean. I just did that last night because that was what everybody wanted me to do. I did it for free.” She liked the sound of that. It made her feel wicked.

“Your friend, Lydia, is concerned about you.”

Jeanne glanced at the cell phone and hoped that Lydia was listening. “Her main concern is that I don’t have enough sex in enough different ways with enough men.” Based on the previous two days, that was an honest answer.

“I know that she’s been exploring different paths, but she’s not completely lost to the church. She brought you to me.”

“Maybe she wants me to have sex with you.” Now Jeanne was being deliberately nasty.

He stuttered for a second before finding his voice. “I don’t believe that, either. She’s told me how she feels about things like that.”

Jeanne shrugged and waited to see what he would do.

“I thought that you came here looking for spiritual guidance, not to drag me into sin.”

“I came here because Lydia asked me to come here.” That was true.

“Don’t you regret what you did last night?”

“Yes.” Jeanne realized that she regretted it last night, but her regret was fading fast. She was rather enjoying shocking the hell out of Reverend Piper with her wickedness. She wondered if Lydia had sent her in here to hurt him or to entertain him. Maybe both at once. Maybe she planned to rub his own hypocrisy in his face: to prove to him that, no matter how holier-than-thou he acted, he could be as entertained by weird sex as any other pervert. Lydia’s plots were never straightforward.

“You need to take God’s word into your heart.”

“Yes.” It was not a question, but that was the simplest answer.

“Do you want God’s forgiveness?”

That was a question. “Yes.”

“Do you want to give up your sinful ways?”

“Yes.”

“Will you pray with me?”

“Yes.”

Reverend Piper rose and walked around his desk. “Let us kneel in prayer.” He extended his hand to help her to her knees. When he said ‘us’, he meant the royal us. She knelt while he stood over her and intoned, “Dear God. Please help this woman find peace in your love. Let her turn her head from sin and follow a righteous path.” He stood over her and droned on for several minutes in a similar vein while she contemplated that it had been less than twenty-four hours since she had last knelt in front of a man – more than a dozen men in fact – and let them shower her with a different kind of blessing. Or maybe their blessings had not been so different after all. The reverend was doing his best to plant a kind of seed in her heart just as the men last night had sprayed their seed in her face.

She raised her eyes to the level of his crotch and noticed a small bulge. Did he know? Could he feel his own semi?

When he finally finished, he extended his hand and raised her to her feet. “This is but the first step on a long journey to heaven, my dear. Come to church next Sunday. I will be happy to meet with you again to give you further guidance.”

She thought about bulge in his pants and knew that he spoke with utter sincerity when he professed to be happy to counsel her further. “Thank you, Reverend. I’m sure that things will be better in the future.” She added silently, Especially after my punishment ends tomorrow evening.

She scooped up her purse and left the building.

The rest of the club was waiting by her car.

Amelia waved the other cell phone and grinned. “Terrific confession.”

“I’ll bet that he’s already jerking off,” Trixie giggled.

“Did you enjoy your chat?” Natasha asked.

“Yes.”

“Would you like to have a picnic on the Commons?” Lydia asked.

“Yes.”

Jeanne treated the group to a takeout lunch from Legal Seafoods: baked scrod (“Hey, Jeanne, would you like to get scrod?” “Yes.”), Mediterranean salmon, Louisiana gumbo, grilled scallops and arctic char left her American Express another century lighter. There was going to be hell to pay at the end of the month.

While their lunch was being prepared, Amelia sent her to the washroom to upsize the plug in her butt. After two days of stretching, she could force the inch and a half diameter in with only a modicum of pain. Walking back, her asshole settled into a new level of dull ache and her gut felt uncomfortably full.

On the Boston Commons, the other women sat on benches, Jeanne sat on the grass. Her blouse was unbuttoned halfway to her navel (“Hey, Jeanne, would you like to show us your rhinestones?” “Yes.”) and Natasha kept her pussy vibrating. She came twice during the meal, managing to keep her groaning quiet enough to avoid attracting the attention of passers-by, but not enough to keep from providing the other club members with lunch-time entertainment. Besides her quiet, urgent groans, her breathing quickened and her face turned lobster shell red each time.

When asked, she had no choice but to agree that it felt good to be forced to cum in public.

After the women had finished eating, Jeanne had the dubious privilege of throwing more than half the food that she had bought into the garbage.

“It’s a lovely warm day, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” In fact, it was a lovely warm day.

“Don’t you think it’s the kind of day that you would enjoy spending on the beach?”

“Yes.” Jeanne imagined that she would not enjoy anything that happened to her on the beach this weekend.

“Would you like to go shopping for a new bathing suit?”

“Yes.”

The suit was hot pink, of course. It consisted of a tri-top – two reasonable triangles of fabric large enough to cover her breasts properly that were held in place by spaghetti straps tied in the middle of the back and at the nape of the neck – and a Brazil cut bottom – considerably wider at the back than a thong, but not quite as full as an American bottom – that was held on by spaghetti straps tied at the sides of her hips. When Jeanne was trying it on in the store, she felt exposed, but not completely indecent. It was a daring suit for a Boston beach: daring enough to turn heads but not so daring as to cause a problem. It was a suit that would make a teenager look confident in her budding sexuality, but a thirty-two year old woman look desperate, like she was in denial about her actual age.

Jeanne told herself that it could have been worse. A lot worse.

The other women picked out new suits for themselves: gifts from Jeanne. Lydia and Natasha chose one piece suits, Natasha’s cut high on the hip and Lydia’s cut more modestly. Amelia and Trixie chose bikinis that were cut conservatively, flattering their mature bodies.

When Lydia added four beach towels and a big bottle of SPF 30 to the pile at the register, the women were ready for an afternoon in the sun.

They took Jeanne to Constitution Beach – a downtown beach that is frequented by families and includes a picnic area, tennis courts and a playground. It was not the kind of place where Jeanne wanted more than an acceptable amount of skin to be exposed to public view. This was a beach where indecent exposure charges would be laid and would stick.

Just outside the change rooms, Lydia presented Jeanne with a dilemma. “Here’re your options,” she said, handing her a familiar plastic bag, “you won’t be wearing the vibrator under your suit, it goes in the bag, but you will keep your ass plugged. If you keep the plug that you already have, then we’re going to do something quite unpleasant to you. If you can fit the next size up, then we will do something mildly unpleasant to you. If you can manage to fit the monster plug, then we won’t do anything terribly unpleasant. We’ll still make you uncomfortable, but that’s all. It’s up to you to decide how big you can go. If you can’t get the bigger ones in, then you can’t. We will do nothing so bad that it would be worth injuring yourself. But if you can fit one of the big ones, then your afternoon will be noticeably easier in all other respects. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes.”

“Go as big as you can, but only so long as you feel it’s safe. Don’t put the ‘wreck’ in ‘rectum’.”

Jeanne took the bag into a stall in the change room and shut the door. She stripped off her clothes and put them into a large plastic bag that had been provided. It was a relief to finally get the vibrator out of her pussy. After all the action that she had seen in the past forty-eight hours, she was feeling rather sore between the legs. As well, she was happy to remove the half cup bra. After wearing it since early morning, her nipples were sorely irritated from constant rubbing against the broadcloth blouse. It had not been easy putting the blouse back on after taking it off to try on bathing suits.

She took the biggest butt plug from the bag. It was enormous, but she was determined to try it on for size. Bravely, she slopped a liberal amount of lube on the plug and then greased up her asshole. She spent more than five minutes, lubing, working it around, then lubing it again, but it just was not going to go. The more she worked it, the more her ass ached. Twice it slipped out of her fingers and fell on the filthy concrete floor. Each time, she had to wipe it off thoroughly with paper towels that she had brought into the stall, then relubricate it, then clean her fingers off enough to get a grip on it again. Eventually, she had to admit that she was still too tight to accommodate the last quarter inch of taper. Finally, she gave up and began working with the one and three quarter inch diameter plug. Even that one took everything she had to get it in. She felt like she was being split in two when she finally forced the head past her rings of muscle and managed to slide the shaft into herself all the way to the base. The pain was intense and did not fade back to a dull ache for some time afterward.

When she slipped the Brazil cut bottom over her ass, she wondered if the base of plug were properly covered. Her ass crack was spread so wide by the flared base of the plug that she feared that the narrow back of the bikini might not cover it. She tied the top around her torso, then, with some trepidation, left the stall, checking in both directions first to see if any other women were looking her way. As soon as it was safe, she stepped all the way out, turned her back to the mirror and examined the reflection of her butt. Though she felt like she was exposed, in fact, the bottom did cover enough to hide the plug.

She walked carefully as she left the change rooms to ensure that the back of the bottom did not slip into her enormous crack and show all.

The other women were waiting for her. “We thought that you were never going to join us,” Natasha snapped.

“It took a while to get things worked out.”

“Would you like to show us what’s in your bag?” Lydia asked.

“Yes.”

“It looks like you went for the second largest option.”

“That’s right. I tried hard but I couldn’t fit the big one,” she admitted.

“That’s okay. We didn’t really expect you to,” Trixie replied sympathetically.

“Would you like to get some sun?” Lydia asked, coldly.

“Yes.”

The beach was packed; it took a few minutes for the other four women to find a spot to spread their towels and sit on them. “Too bad you didn’t get a towel for yourself,” Natasha grinned. “You’ll just have to lie on the sand.”

“Here,” Lydia said, “You can put sunscreen on your front yourself, but don’t worry about your back. We’ll do that for you. Would you like that?”

“Yes.” She coated her arms, legs, belly, and shoulders with sunscreen.

When she was finished, Natasha asked if she would lie down so they could do her back for her.

“Yes.” She had no choice but to lie prone on the warm sand. The sand under her was hot, not hot enough to burn her, but hot enough to hurt. She felt the grains sticking to her fresh coat of sunscreen. Her nipples were stinging.

“We want to get these straps out of the way. You want to keep your new bathing suit free of that messy sunscreen, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, dear,” Natasha said, “that knot that you tied in the back is really tight. I’m not sure that I’d be able to untie it. Do you want me to solve the problem in the same way that Alexander the Great solved the problem of the Gordian Knot?”

The knot was a simple bow and Natasha had not even tried to pull the ends to undo it. Jeanne knew that Natasha could pull it loose in an instant but she had no option but to agree. “Yes.” Jeanne’s heart sank. Her new bathing suit had cost almost a hundred dollars. She knew what Alexander had done to the Gordian Knot. She twitched as she felt the scissors snip the straps of the bikini halter on either side of the knot in the center of her back and again at the knot at the nape of her neck. The severed straps slipped to the sand. To the casual glances of passersby, it would appear that Jeanne had untied the bikini to get an uninterrupted tan on her back, as so many other women did on the beach. But Jeanne knew that the straps were now too short to re-tie. When she stood up again, she would have to hold the halter cups over her breasts with both hands.

With a start, she felt the scissors slide against the side of her right hip and heard another snip. Turning her head, she saw that Natasha had cut the thin strap that held her bottom in place. “Oops. I think I got carried away with the Alexandrian solution. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

The scissors snipped on the other side of her hips. Now her bikini bottom was lying across her ass, held in place by nothing but gravity. If she moved it would slip down between her legs, not only showing her most intimate parts, but revealing that her ass was penetrated by a huge black plug.

“Do you want me to throw these old bits of strap in the garbage?” Natasha asked.

“Yes.” The women were making certain that Jeanne would not have access to any small pieces of strap that she could use to tie the suit back together.

She felt the fabric begin to slide down her behind and automatically reached down to grab the edges of her ruined bikini bottom to hold it in place against any further slippage. Now she had no hand free to hold her top in place. Unless she was willing to flash her tits to everyone on the beach, she was stuck right here in the sand. A child with a plastic bucket and shovel was building a sandcastle not more than twenty feet away. A pair of young teens were tossing a Frisbee on her other side. Families were sitting on towels all around her. And, worst of all, her car was parked right next to the children’s playground.

There was no way that she was going to move an inch until the beach was clear of children and their families.

It was three o’clock now; the sun wouldn’t go down for hours.

“Would you like me to apply some sunscreen to your back?” Amelia asked.

“Yes.”

Amelia began rubbing sunscreen across her shoulders and down her sides. She took her time spreading it across her lower back and made certain that the exposed parts of her ass cheeks were well covered. Slowly she worked her way down her legs, making certain that even the soles of her feet were covered. When she was finished, she returned to the center of Jeanne’s back and worked her way across it, dragging a single finger up and down. “Is that all right?”

“Yes.” Jeanne was certain that it was not all right. It felt like her whole back had not been covered; that last bit of poking and prodding had felt like some pattern had been drawn on her with the sunblock. But, whatever had been done, there was nothing that she could do about it now.

“Hey, Trixie,” Amelia said, “I’m getting kind of thirsty. Do you want to go get a drink?”

“Sure.”

“How about you, Lydia? Natasha? Want to join us?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.”

The other women stood up.

“Are you going to stay here, Jeanne?”

“Yes.”

“I bet you just love sunbathing, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to be all right if we go for a drink?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you are,” Natasha said with a laugh. “This is a nice public beach. Families all over. Nothing could happen to you here.”

The other women scooped up their towels and sauntered away, leaving Jeanne lying alone in the sand, her halter top lying flat and useless under her tits, the straps cut beyond salvation, and her bottom staying in place only as long as she held it with both hands.

The sun baked down. It was late in the season, the end of August, and late in the afternoon, just after three, but it was still uncomfortably hot. She was grateful for the sunscreen.

She looked up and saw the other four women walking toward the parking lot, still wearing their bathing suits, carrying their towels and bags of clothes. Lydia was carrying two bags, both her own and Jeanne’s, ensuring that Jeanne had no resources left within reach.

Even if she were willing to sacrifice her modesty and traumatize dozens of children by dashing to her car, topless, desperately holding her bottom in place with both hands, she did not have the keys to get into her car. In fact, she had no guarantee that her car would still be in the space where she left it.

She had no choice but to lie in place, bake under the sun, and trust that her friends would return to extricate her from her predicament. Either they would return or she would have to wait until long after dark when the beach was deserted and then jog back to her car half naked, trusting the night to protect her modesty.

There was another alternative. She could ask one of the people nearby to fetch a lifeguard and tell him that she had suffered a wardrobe malfunction of catastrophic proportions. They would bring her a robe and help her get home.

There was only one problem with that solution. Natasha had asked if she were going to stay here and she had been forced to agree. Though she had a way to get help to leave the beach, she was prohibited from doing so.

Time passed. Sand ground into her hair every time she put her head down. More fine grains blew across her back and stuck in her sunscreen every time a child ran by. Her hands were aching from having to keep holding tight to the sides of her butchered bikini bottom. And her asshole ached horribly from being stretched too wide. She was miserable.

As the afternoon dragged on, minute by minute, she contemplated that she was not quite as miserable as she had been when she had been fondled by the poor specimens of humanity in the Erotic Boutique. Not quite as miserable as when she had been forced to croak out songs in the Karaoke bar. Not quite as miserable as when her lovely hair had been cut and dyed in a style suitable only for a circus clown. Not quite as miserable as when she had been made to orchestrate an impromptu sex show for the entertainment of an entire frat house. Not even quite as miserable as when she had been forced to confess her compliance in her own humiliation to a man of the cloth.

That, presumably, was her reward for forcing an inch and three quarters plug into her own anus: that she would be made to suffer, but marginally less than she had suffered during the previous forty-eight hours. Mostly, she was tired of hurting, tired of being humiliated, tired of not knowing what was going to happen next, and just plain tired of being tired.

While she waited for this trial to end, she wondered what would have been done to her if she had failed to get that second-largest plug into her, but had returned with the mid-sized one still embedded in her asshole. Maybe she would have been put in the water and then had her suit removed completely – thrown into the water to be lost, eventually washing up on shore and being carried away by curious children. She would have had to spend hours getting colder and colder while constantly working to keep at least twenty feet away from any other swimmers. Maybe they would have done that to her, but it seemed unlikely. The other women would have had to stay in the water nearby, taking shifts to ensure that she did not exhaust herself completely and drown. It would have been almost as unpleasant for them as for her. They preferred to be entertained by her punishments. It was more likely that Lydia or Natasha had had something more devious in mind.

She had a sudden thought of herself on the beach, entirely nude, a fake bikini painted on with watercolors. A polka dot bikini would disguise her nudity from a distance, but hide nothing up close. And she would dare not go near the water because that would wash the camouflage off. She would have to spend the afternoon walking back and forth, making certain that she stayed at least fifty feet away from everyone else – a near impossibility when the beach was this crowded. And she wouldn't have dared move quickly because that would have made her sweat and the moisture would have degraded the paint job. And, of course, young men would continually try to get close enough for a good look at her because young men always tried to walk close to beautiful bikini-clad women on the beach.

That would have been worse than lying here on the sand, mostly inconspicuous.

The warm sun was soporific. She wanted to sleep but dared not. If her hands relaxed, the bottom of her suit could slip off and the civilians would start screaming for her arrest. If she twitched in her sleep, she would certainly expose her private bits. The sun would shine where the sun was never supposed to shine. She would awake to find herself in handcuffs, under arrest for indecent exposure.

People had been glancing at her as they walked past all afternoon, but now she noticed that they were giving her more pointed looks. She feared that someone – one of the young men – might stop and try to start a conversation with her. She would rather not have to fend off some pickup artist from her position prone on the sand, so she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep.

As the sun sank toward the city skyscrapers, she heard someone snicker nearby. This was different from the distant happy laughter of children that she had been hearing all afternoon. This was a low, rude sniggle that robbed her of her peace. She opened an eye and saw two teenaged boys staring down at her from six feet away. When they saw her looking up at them, they snickered again and turned away.

This was her first indication that she had been in the sun for long enough that whatever had been drawn on her back with the sunscreen was now visible as a sunburned pattern.

A few minutes later, a middle-aged woman in an overstuffed one-piece suit with two young children in tow, sniffed, “I believe that,” while looking at her and then, to her children, “Come along. That doesn’t mean anything.” The children stared at her as they were dragged away.

What had been drawn on her back?

She continued to pretend to nap, but became aware of various comments, hissed in low tones by people who passed near her as they were leaving the beach. “I don’t know why they allow something like that.” and “She should be ashamed of herself.” and “I bet that’s true.” and “What else would you expect from a woman who wears her hair like that.” Listening carefully to the timbre and tones of the voices, she inferred that the men were most often amused, the women invariably offended.

Perversely, she hoped that people were only reacting to something drawn on her back and not to her butchered bathing suit. Had she slipped and let too much show around her Brazilian cut bottom? She wriggled her hands slightly and felt the fabric of the bottom press against the center of her nether cheeks. It felt like she was properly covered.

“Well, aren’t you shameless?” Natasha’s voice was right beside her.

“Do you think it pays to advertise?” Amelia’s voice giggled.

There was a pause, then Jeanne realized that she had been asked a question. “Yes.” She wondered what she was agreeing to now.

“We better get you covered up,” Trixie said, and Jeanne felt a towel being draped over her back, from ankles to neck.

“You better get to the car before you get arrested,” Lydia said. Two more towels were dropped by her head.

“Will you bring the towels to the car?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure that you agree that there’s no reason to bring that bathing suit with you. You’ve treated your new suit shamefully, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

The other women walked away toward the parking lot, leaving Jeanne to grab the towels and wrap them around her body, top and bottom as she got up, first to her knees, then to her feet, always careful to ensure that she did not exhibit herself to the remaining stragglers scattered across the beach to watching how the sun that was setting over the city behind them highlighted the gently roiling water with flashes of gold.

Jeanne rode shotgun clad only in beach towels. She was completely covered, but felt naked and vulnerable underneath the terrycloth. The plug in her aching anus felt bigger than ever.

“Aren’t you glad that we’re taking your car?” Amelia asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m sure that you wouldn’t want to be leaving all this sand in one of our cars. I bet you’ll be vacuuming until Halloween.”

“Yes.” It was not a question, but Jeanne agreed with heavy heart. Her thighs felt like sandpaper against her leather seats. The interior of her car would never look new again.

“We’ll take you home and let you have a nice shower,” Lydia commented. “You’ll want to be nice and clean for your Sunday night socializing, don’t you?”

“Yes.” This was the first that Jeanne had heard about socializing tonight. She was exhausted and had no desire for anything but to pull the plug from her ass and get a good night’s sleep. She prayed that they would not ask her if she wanted to stay plugged up all night long.

“After such a relaxing day at the beach, I’m sure that you want to get out and find a little excitement, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I know exactly where you will find a full measure of excitement.”

“Where?”

“Don’t you want to be surprised?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because we love surprises.”

Jeanne was not so fond of the surprises that the other women had been springing on her so far this weekend. She received a particularly unpleasant surprise before her shower. As soon as she undressed, she turned to look in her bathroom mirror and examine her back. There, in the middle, between her shoulder blades, she saw an angry patch of red – a perfect rectangle of skin that had been left unblocked, left to be burned. But it was not an unmarred rectangle. There were white letters left in the red: TULS. Amelia had carefully drawn the letters within the square with the sunblock on her forefinger so that Jeanne was left with a sign burned into her skin. TULS? No, that was the image in the mirror. Everyone else would see the letters the other way around, spelling slut. That is what the other bathers had seen on her back at the end of the day: a sign proclaiming that she was a slut. The burn would fade in a few days, but it would leave a tan in the same pattern. She would have a sign on her skin that labeled her a slut for weeks to come. She wouldn’t be wearing a swim suit or even a low backed dress for the rest of the year.

She raised her eyes to the pink Mohawk haircut in the mirror. The slut tan was the second thing that had been done to her that would last well past Labor Day. She had agreed to a long weekend of punishment, but she had not agreed to any punishment that would persist for several months afterward.

She had no clothes in the bathroom and could not be bothered wrapping a towel around herself, so she walked back into her living room in the nude to confront the other women. Though she was addressing all the women collectively, she mostly looked at Lydia as she delivered her accusation. “You have exceeded our agreement. I never agreed to be punished past Labor Day. This haircut and the burn on my back constitute a punishment that will last longer than that.”

Lydia shrugged. “You think that we are cheating you?”

“Yes.”

“Feels bad when someone cheats you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

She shrugged again. “These things aren’t permanent. They’ll just be a minor inconvenience that’ll serve as a reminder for a while that we don’t cheat on each other.”

Jeanne examined the faces of each of the women in turn. Trixie and Amelia had the grace to look embarrassed and uncomfortable. They did not like the idea that Jeanne’s punishment might be excessive. Lydia was impassive. She was certain that she was in the right; that she was administering appropriate justice. Natasha looked smug. She was happy that Jeanne was getting more punishment than she thought she deserved. Natasha wanted revenge and people who want revenge always want more. That was the difference between justice and revenge. Justice can be satisfied; revenge never can.

Lydia spoke. “Are you going to finish the weekend?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Get dressed. You’ll be back wearing your Erotic Boutique clothes tonight. Plastic boots, fishnet hose, garter belt, and latex skirt. You can wear any panties that you want. We never did get you a proper top, so just pick out your lightest sweater. No bra, of course. Would you like Natasha to help you choose a sweater?”

“Yes.”

A few minutes later, Natasha escorted Jeanne back into the living room. She was wearing the white latex miniskirt and a soft white cashmere sweater with short sleeves and a scoop neck. The sweater would have looked modest and conservative – the neck did not scoop low enough to show any cleavage and was not especially tight – but for the lack of a bra. Without a bra, Jeanne’s breasts bounced and swayed freely under the thin material. And her nipples, not raw but still quite sensitive from having rubbed against the rough broadcloth blouse all morning, stayed erect under the caress of the soft cashmere. They pushed the soft white fabric out into proud, prominent protrusions.

The sunburn on her back was hidden beneath the clothing; but the clothing showed the world the meaning of the hidden word.

As she was escorted back to her car, she wondered how many men she would be entertaining tonight. She clung to the promise that Lydia had made the previous day that she would not be required to service any more men this weekend. But she was well aware that Lydia was not bound by that promise. If she, or one of the other wicked women, asked Jeanne to host an orgy, the answer would be yes. She had less than twenty-four hours left to serve. She could not give up now, not after all that she ad already endured.

Half an hour later, she was sitting on the king-sized bed in the Brookline Holiday Inn – another two hundred on her credit card – wondering who she was waiting for. The Brookline was uncomfortably close to Boston University; it was possible that the entire Beta Delta Sigma Mu fraternity was walking over here right now, eager to do a lot more than just jerk off on her face.

She told herself that it was unlikely that the frat boys would be coming here. They had a whole frat house to themselves. She would not have had to rent a hotel room if she were going to spend another night with those naïve young sinners.

That left a host of possibilities that were far worse.

One thing that concerned her was that, once again, Lydia had dialed her own cell phone with Jeanne’s Blackberry and left it on the bedside stand, the line open. Her last words before leaving were to make certain that she stayed near the Blackberry, speak loudly and clearly, and make sure that she fed a running commentary of what was happening into the phone.

Maybe Lydia was just snoopy, but Jeanne had a clear feeling that Lydia was afraid that something might go wrong and wanted to keep abreast of what was happening in the room.

Maybe she was sending a sadist in, fully equipped with whips and chains to administer severe physical punishment.

Jeanne could not say no.

Jeanne recalled that Lydia had included a pair of handcuffs among the items that she had been required to buy at the Erotic Boutique and that they were the one item that had not yet been used.

She was trembling in fear when her waking nightmares were interrupted by a sudden knock on the door.

None of the scenarios that she imagined included the man who was actually standing in the hallway when she opened the door. “Reverend Piper,” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“Lydia Anderson called me and told me that you needed assistance. She was worried that you were about to do something desperate.” He looked into the room and saw that it was empty. “Are you expecting to meet someone here?”

“Yes.”

“A man?” He eyes moved slowly up Jeanne’s body, from her plastic platform boots to her fishnet stockings to her white latex miniskirt to her obviously unrestrained breasts under her thin sweater to her pink Mohawk do.

“Yes.”

“More than one man?” he asked with a note of concern in his voice.

“Yes.”

“Oh dear. Can I come in and talk to you about it?”

“Yes.” Jeanne stepped aside and let the reverend into the room.

He closed the door behind himself. “Are you determined to do this thing?”

“Yes.” Jeanne sat on the bed, remembering to sit near the pillow so that she was near the bedside stand where her voice was most likely to be caught by her Blackberry.

The reverend stood in the center of the room staring at her. “I’ve been thinking about you today. Thinking about what you told me. Thinking about what you did last night. You’re a beautiful woman, Jeanne. Very beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She wondered at the change in his tone.

“St. Augustine asked God to grant him chastity and continence, but not yet. Funny that, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Piper continued speaking as though he had not heard her interjection. He spoke as though talking to himself. “He was the expert on temptation. St. Augustine. He wrote that we are tested through temptation. You are my temptation. I pray for strength every day, but my flesh is weak.” He moved to stand directly in front of Jeanne. “You are going to sin tonight with someone. Why should it be with some other man? Why not me? God called me to his service, but he did not make me superhuman. I’m still the man that he made. I still have needs. My wife doesn’t care about my needs, you know. She doesn’t even want to hear about them. You understand more about a man’s needs than she ever will. You are more of a woman than she could ever be. A man needs variety. It’s important to my calling. I need to understand sin before I can preach against it. Why should a bunch of atheist college students experience more in one night than I've seen in my entire life? I want you so badly, you wouldn’t believe it. A little more sex is nothing to you. You’ll do anything with any one. An hour from now, you’ll barely remember what we did. You won’t care what I do to you. But I’ll treasure tonight forever. I promise you that. I want you worse than you can imagine.” He sank to his knees before her and pulled her sweater up to reveal her naked breasts. “God, you’re beautiful. You have perfect tits. Perfect.” She raised her hands to cover them – an automatic reflex – but he grabbed her wrists roughly and pulled her hands down to her sides. He was stronger than he looked. Stronger than she was. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend to be modest with me. You’ve already told me that you’re a whore. You’re the great whore of Babylon come back to life.” His voice had turned harsh, nasty. “You let a whole gang of men see you naked, fuck you every way possible, spray their semen in your face. I deserve to get as much as they got. I’ve devoted my life to helping people. You can’t give me any less than you gave them. You can’t deny me what you give freely to everyone else. That’s not fair. Look at you. Look at the way you’re dressed. You put yourself on display for the whole world to see. And now you think you can flutter your hands and say ‘just kidding?’ Just teasing? Well, fuck you!” He was shouting, working himself into a frenzy with his wild rant. “You can’t play the cock tease with me. I deserve better than that. I will have you. You will let me take you up the ass just like those other men. Turn around and get down on your knees. Do it now; or I’ll slap you silly and make you do it anyway.”

Jeanne knew that she was going to be raped. He raised his hand but, before he swung at her, she slid off the bed and turned around like he told her to. Better to be raped than to be beaten and then raped anyway. If he started hitting her, who knows how much damage he would do to her before his rage was spent. She only hoped that he still had enough control left to fuck her asshole properly and not simply tear her apart.

Her sweater was still raised above her breasts; as soon as she turned around, her naked back was exposed to him. He shouted, “God has branded you for the slut that you are! It’s a sign from the Lord to me! Praise the Lord!” Then he began shouting more orders. “Bend over that bed. Push your tits into it and raise that filthy whore skirt up to your waist. Offer your ass to me.” The man did not wait for her to comply with the second part of his instruction, but grabbed her miniskirt and jerked it high above her ass himself. “Spread those knees wide. Show my your asshole!”

She was terrified because he had clearly already passed the point of caring what happened to her. He didn’t see her as a human being any longer, just an object that he could abuse.

When she heard the rip of him yanking his zipper open, she spread her knees apart and waited for the inevitable agony of being penetrated in her dry anus. Either he did not know that artificial lubrication was necessary for anal sex or he didn’t care. The penetration would surely cause him some pain as well, but not as much as her. He had worked himself passed the point where he cared about his own pain. Or hers.

Suddenly, the door burst open and the Wicked Women’s Adventure Club charged into the room. Lydia screamed, “Freeze, Piper! Stop right there! Get the hell away from her and get the hell out of here right now.”

Piper jerked his head around, shocked by the unexpected intrusion. “Lydia? What are you doing here?” he asked in confusion. Then he rose from his knees and stuffed his raging erection back into his pants. His anger was dissipated by public exposure and replaced by hypocritical righteous indignation, “How dare you come barging into my room! What do you think you’re doing?”

His room? Jeanne thought, incongruously, about the charge on her American Express card.

“Saving your immortal soul, I imagine,” Lydia replied dryly. “You think that God is going to forgive you again? You think you can bully women into submitting to you whenever you feel horny and then excuse yourself later by telling God in the privacy of your room how sorry you are? Get out of here, you foul hypocrite.”

“You deliberately set me up!”

“I presented you with a damaged woman who needed help. You’re the one who chose to damn yourself instead of saving her.”

Jeanne stood up and pulled her skirt back down over her hips, feeling like the poster child for damaged women everywhere.

“You’re going to go burn in Hell for this,” Piper stormed.

“Maybe so, but you’ll be burning in a deeper, hotter furnace than me.” Lydia stared hard at the man.

Piper looked at the five women arrayed against him and gave up. He sputtered a stream of vile imprecations against Lydia, Jeanne and all the other women in the room as he stormed out.

As soon as the door slammed, Jeanne turned on Lydia. “You set me up!” she snarled. Her whole body was vibrating with layers of terror, horror, and fury. “You knew exactly what he was going to do!”

“I know what kind of man he is. You would have said yes to anything that he asked, but he’s the kind of man who doesn’t ask for anything. He’d rather force an unwilling woman than have a willing one. It was time to take him down.”

“You had no right to use me for that.”

“You agreed to come into this room and accept whatever happened,” Lydia answered smoothly.

“You knew that I had no choice.”

“That’s why we were waiting right outside, listening to every word, making sure that you were safe.”

“You had no right. You knew that I wasn’t really consenting to anything.”

“Maybe not, but the world is going to be a better place once I tell the reverend about the video.”

“What video?”

Lydia walked to the closet. The door was already ajar. When she opened it wide, everyone saw the video camera mounted on a tripod. “I’m going to tell him to resign his position and leave the ministry within the month. He’ll do it because he knows that I’ll show his superiors this disk if he doesn’t. If I have to do that, they’ll crucify him.”

“You set me up to be raped and then videotaped me without my knowing?” Jeanne’s voice fell to a low, dangerous register. “You know what would have happened to me if something had gone wrong?”

“That’s all right with you, isn’t it?” Lydia asked in an equally low voice.

Jeanne paused for a long minute before saying, “Yes.”

Natasha looked at Lydia. “He raped you, didn’t he?”

“It was a long time ago,” Lydia said, quietly. “I didn’t have the power to get him then so got on with my life, but that doesn’t mean that I’ll ever forget or forgive.”

Jeanne said, “You could have told us your story. We would have helped to set him up any time you’d asked.”

Lydia looked at Jeanne for a long minute, and then said, “I believe you would have. But this way was more certain.” She turned to the others. “It’s been a long day for all of us. Let’s take Jeanne home and let her get a good night’s sleep in her own bed. Tomorrow will be another big day.”

That night, Jeanne lay in bed thinking about her punishment weekend. She realized that there was a pattern to Lydia’s game. She was being forced into different sexual roles, each role stripping her of more of her power. She’d been turned out as a cheap whore giving a twenty dollar blow job in her car on Friday; had been presented as a slut so desperate for acceptance that she’d entertained an entire frat house with a sex show on Saturday; and now had been made the helpless victim of a rapist today. What role was left for tomorrow? What could be worse? She was still trying to guess as she fell asleep.

Monday, 1 September:

Jeanne wondered if the other women had forgotten about her. It was almost noon and she was still sitting in her living room waiting for them to arrive. They had not specified any special clothing or other preparations so she was wearing a comfortable sweat suit and trying to relax with Stephen King’s latest novel, Duma Key. Her failure to relax, evident in the slight tremble of her fingers and the fine sheen of sweat on her brow, had nothing to do with the horror novel. The horror that she expected to experience during the last day of her punishment were figments of no one’s imagination.

She did not know that, as she was trying to relax, Lydia, Trixie, Natasha, and Amelia were munching on salads in a restaurant a few miles away and deciding her fate.

“Yes or no?” Lydia asked.

There was a moment of silence while the other women thought about the question.

Amelia, the youngest and least experienced member of the club was the first to speak. “What do you mean?”

“The point of this weekend was to decide if Jeanne stays in the club or not. It’s time to decide,” Lydia explained.

“I thought that we already decided. You told her that if she submitted to a long weekend of punishment, she could stay in the club. She cheated in that game with me but if she allowed herself to be punished for it then all would be forgiven.”

“Yes, well, it’s not that simple. Justice for her transgression is one thing, ensuring that the club has the right members to keep working properly is quite another. She had been punished enough by the end of the frat party to serve justice. Yesterday was more of a test to give us a sense of how much she could be trusted in the future.”

“So you’re going to kick her out even though she’s done everything you asked? Even though you said that you wouldn’t? And you accuse her of not being trustworthy?” Amelia was appalled.

“It’s not like that,” Lydia replied, soothingly. “It’s not a matter of kicking her out. It’s a matter of having a club where we can trust each other with our lives. And I don’t just mean playing games that could get us killed if things went wrong. Our social lives would be ruined if our straight friends knew what kinds of kinky games we played. Our professional lives would be ruined if our employers knew that our games were being used to advance our careers. Justice has been served already, but the practical problem of managing the club remains. And that becomes a problem of managing Jeanne. We won’t kick her out. But we can arrange it so that she will be uninterested in remaining a member. That’s the issue before us now. If we want, we can present her with an alternative to remaining a wicked woman that will suit her better. So the question on the table is, ‘Do we trust Jeanne? Yes or no?’”

There was silence around the table as the women looked at each other. Then Natasha said, “No. I still don’t trust her. Cheating on Amelia’s game was indicative of her character. It was just the tip of the iceburg.”

“Yes,” Trixie countered. “She’s done everything we’ve asked and more. We put her through hell and we don’t have any right to force her out now.”

“Are you saying that you trust her?” Natasha asked.

“Yes,” Trixie replied. “I know that she can be mean. We’ve all seen that. But she’s never gone too far. She’s never done anything to any of us that was nearly as bad as what we’ve done to her this weekend. Putting her in that hotel room last night was really dangerous. If it had gone wrong, we would have been responsible.” Trixie meant that Lydia would have been responsible: she was the one who knew what Reverend Piper was really like. “We should be asking if she has reason to trust us.” And by us she meant Lydia and Natasha who were now talking about going back on their word and betraying her.

Lydia did not respond, apparently feeling no need to defend herself against the implied accusation. She had made it clear that her responsibility to Jeanne had to be weighed against her responsibility to keep the club working properly for the benefit of all of them.

After a beat, Trixie summed up her case for Jeanne. “No matter what you say, the fact is that we promised her that she could stay in the club if she submitted to a long weekend of punishment and we have to honor that promise.”

There was another silence, then Lydia said, “Amelia? What do you think?”

“I don’t know. I see what you’re saying about having to trust each other, but we promised that she could stay in the club. How can we kick her out now? After everything that we did to her? That wouldn’t be fair.”

“So you’re voting to keep her? That you trust her?”

“No. All I’m saying is that I don’t see how we can kick her out.”

Lydia shook her head. “I’m not saying that we’ll kick anyone out. No matter what, she can stay if she wants. We all agree that she’s earned that. But we can still set up her day so that she will be happy to leave. We have alternatives that will be better for her and for us if we want to use them. So, in or out?”

Amelia shook her head. “I don’t know her as well as you. I don’t have an opinion. I’m abstaining.”

“So that leaves Trixie voting in her favor and Natasha voting against. I guess I get the deciding vote.” She looked at the other women, then stood. “If you will excuse me, ladies, I have to finalize my preparations.” She threw twenty dollars on the table. “We’ll meet at Jeanne’s house at noon.”

After Lydia left, Amelia looked at Natasha. “How can you do this? How can you trust Lydia if she’s going to betray Jeanne?”

Natasha shrugged. “I trust that Lydia is not going to betray Jeanne. It’s that simple. Lydia works in mysterious ways but she has always looked for ways that are good for all of us.”

“You voted to get rid of Jeanne.” Amelia said tentatively.

“No. I voted that I did not trust her. That was a simple truth.”

“Are you tired of that pink Mohawk?” Lydia asked.

“Yes.”

“Would you like to cut it off now?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead,” Lydia gestured toward the hallway that led back to Jeanne’s bathroom. “We’ll wait.”

Jeanne walked into her bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror for a long time. The Mohawk looked terrible on her. But, faced with removing it, she had to admit that at least it looked like something, even if that ‘something’ was some kind of ridiculous, age-inappropriate statement. Was bald less humiliating? Jeanne remembered hearing that French women who collaborated with the Nazis in World War II had their heads shaved in front of cheering crowds. This was a different era, though. Today, bald looks like chemotherapy; some healthy women shave their heads to express sympathy with people living with cancer. Other women like Sinead O’Connor do it as a fashion statement. But Jeanne was not martyring herself for any cause or making an avant-garde fashion statement. As she applied scissors and then an electric razor to her own scalp, she felt like the one of French women who were being humiliated. She had planned to do exactly the same thing voluntarily after her punishment weekend was finished, but that did not lessen her humiliation in being coerced into doing it now.

She was keenly aware that the pink fuzz that she was throwing in the garbage had cost her a lot of money. Shaving it off cost nothing but pride.

The women had given her no instructions on clothing, so she was still wearing her sweat suit when she returned to the living room with a naked scalp.

She expected to be sent back to the bedroom to change into something whorish, but Lydia said only, “Let’s go.”

She did not bother asking where, she would find out soon enough.

It was Labor Day Monday – everything was closed – so she was puzzled when Lydia turned into a strip mall. There was only one other car on the lot. She parked one space away and led Jeanne and the other women toward a storefront bearing a sign, “Hair Today”.

A matronly woman unlocked the door from the inside to admit them. “Good morning, Lydia.”

“Good morning, Sadie. Thanks ever so much for coming in on a holiday.”

“Always glad to help in an emergency.” She appraised Jeanne’s freshly-shaved pate with an expert eye. “And this certainly looks like an emergency. Please, have a seat.” The woman wasted no time measuring Jeanne’s head with a tape measure, then asking, “Do you prefer monofilament or natural human hair?”

Lydia spoke first, “Human hair. My friend deserves the best, don’t you, Jeanne?”

“Yes.”

“That’s great. Do you have any ideas about length and style?”

Again Lydia spoke before Jeanne could answer. “I have a picture. It doesn’t have to be exact, but if you could match this as closely as possible.”

The woman looked at the photo that Lydia offered. “I have something that is pretty close in her cap size. I could dye it to match the color exactly if you want, but it may already be close enough to work. I don’t think it needs cutting, which is just as well. I hate to cut human hair if we don’t have to.”

“Let’s try it on and see how it looks.”

Jeanne wondered what a ‘punishment wig’ would look like. Even a clown’s fright wig couldn’t look any worse than her ‘punishment haircut’. And she could remove a wig as soon as the day was over.

“Okay.” The woman disappeared into the back of the store and returned a minute later with a mop of brunette hair in her hands.

Jeanne was shocked when the wig was fitted to her head. Even before it was combed out, she recognized her familiar self. Lydia had told Sadie to give her a wig that closely matched the color and length of her usual cut. It was exactly the wig that Jeanne would have chosen if she were shopping for herself.

As Sadie combed it out, Lydia put a hand on Jeanne’s shoulder. “How do you think that looks?”

“It looks good,” Jeanne replied. There was a catch in her voice, but she reminded herself that there was going to be a vicious catch somewhere in Lydia’s plan. It was only noon, eight hours too early to expect any mercy from the women. Most likely Natasha was going to hack the wig into some hideous misshapen do with her all-purpose scissors as soon as they got back into the car, destroying another thousand dollars worth of her property.

Jeanne was being optimistic. The wig added almost two thousand dollars to her increasingly massive credit card debt.

It was almost one o’clock by the time they returned to Jeanne’s house. What now? More fishnet stockings and latex miniskirts? Another session with the leather paddle? Get the butt plug back in her ass? She preferred the paddle to the plug. Having her asshole stretched and aching for hours on end was more oppressive than anything she could have imagined.

But Lydia only said, “You should wear something nice for a day out. I’m sure that you have a pretty dress suitable for dinner in a nice restaurant.”

It was not a question, but Jeanne knew that she was not being given a choice. “Yes.”

She returned a few minutes later wearing a teal cotton-rib sweaterdress with a knee-length pleated skirt and turtleneck collar. She would have worn her scoop-necked pale blue summer dress, but exposing the word ‘slut’ that had been sunburned into her back did not fit with the instruction to wear ‘something nice’. The sweaterdress was more suitable for fall or winter, but it was Labor Day, the unofficial end of summer, so it would not look entirely out-of-season.

Lydia looked at her critically. “Do you think that would look better if you were wearing a proper bra and pantyhose?”

“Yes.”

“I think so, too.”

Jeanne returned to the bedroom to add conventional underwear to her ensemble. She hated to lose yet another bra to the trashcan, but had little choice. The pantyhose concerned her more. Lydia had said no pantyhose for the rest of the weekend and the weekend was not over. Was she going to be punished in some terrible way for wearing pantyhose?

She did not doubt that the hammer was going to fall hard on her before she made it to eight o’clock this evening.

“That looks much better,” Lydia commented when she returned to the living room. “You look just like your old self.”

The other women had barely said a word since arriving. Though this had been an adventure of Lydia’s design since Friday evening, she was making it crystal clear that she alone was responsible for whatever happened to Jeanne today.

“Why don’t you girls grab a little lunch? I’d love to join you, but I have some errands to run. I’ll catch up with you later,” Lydia said.

The four women lunched at the Tapeo Tapas Bar. The other women chatted lightly about books and movies after selecting their food.

Jeanne waited for Natasha to send her to the washroom to stick a huge plug in her butt, but the question was never asked.

Eventually, inevitably, the women’s conversation turned to their love lives.

Natasha mentioned that she was going on a real date on the weekend with the young man that she had met at the frat party. She felt like she was taking advantage of an innocent, but assured the other women that both of them were just having a little fun. He understood that nothing permanent could come from a woman dating a man who was more than ten years her junior. It helped that he was committed to moving to San Diego in less than a year and she was tied to Boston. There was no question of either of them making any commitments.

Trixie thought that was perfect. “I love a man who’s guaranteed to leave me with nothing but happy memories. When an affair is over, it’s over, but men always want to make a big, ugly scene. Even when they know from the first kiss that it isn’t going to last, they have to end with a fight. It’s like their egos can’t handle the thought that a woman can have a little great sex with them and then not want their company forever. I love the idea of a firm deadline that everybody knows up front. Then, when the deadline is reached, it’s over with no feelings hurt.”

Natasha nodded, but her nod seemed a little distracted, as though she had a different thought in mind.

“It’s like that old joke about prostitutes,” Amelia laughed. “Men don’t pay prostitutes for the sex, they pay them to leave quietly afterward. Maybe we should do the same – pay our men to go away quietly instead of mooning on about how they love us and can’t live without us until we have to get a restraining order against them.” She spoke about restraining orders with a tone of experience.

“You know what’s different about us?” Jeanne asked.

“What?” Amelia looked at her.

“Exactly that. We have to make men leave us. Other women get dumped, you know. What’s different about us is that men want to stay with us and we’re the ones who do the dumping. Always.”

“It’s true,” Natasha nodded. “When’s the last time one of us got dumped?” She looked around the table and saw nothing but shrugs and heads nodding in agreement. “You know why?”

“Why?” Amelia asked.

“Because men love wicked women. We give them great sex and don’t demand any commitment from them,” Jeanne said.

Trixie laughed. “They’re the one’s who keep trying to get us to commit.”

“And we’re the ones who end up dumping them,” Natasha grinned in answer. “We may not be the youngest and prettiest women in the room, but we’re the women who have to beat men off with a stick.” She raised her glass, “Here’s to wicked women everywhere.”

The other women answered with a chorus of, “to wicked women everywhere,” and drained their glasses.

At the end of the lunch, Natasha picked up the tab. “My treat,” she said, smiling at Jeanne who already had her Amex card in her hand.

Jeanne read something evil into her smile; she was sure that there was something foul behind Natasha’s unexpected generosity.

At Trixie’s suggestion, the women spent the next few hours in the Boston Museum of Fine Art looking at some of the greatest American and international work ever produced. Natasha had a fine understanding of art, but Trixie was the real expert. Though she worked as a conservator of rare books in the Harvard University library system, art was her first love – she had a Masters of Fine Arts from Florida State University. She gave the other women an impromptu tour of the European collection that was replete with stories of the art and artists, often earthier than anything taught at the undergraduate level and expressed in language considerably saltier than would be permitted in the politically correct lecture halls of modern universities.

Trixie's tour, highlighted by Natasha’s biting insights and Amelia’s incisive questions, taught Jeanne more about art in one afternoon than she could have learned from watching PBS for a year.

She would do almost anything to be permitted to stay in these women’s company. Lydia was still AWOL, presumably setting up something terrible. Jeanne silently dared Lydia to bring it on, do her worst. There were only four hours left in the weekend and Nietzsche had said, “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”

Jeanne was sure that Lydia would not kill her when she returned.

She was certain that something must be happening behind the scenes and watched the other women closely. At about three thirty, Natasha excused her self from the group for a few minutes “to go make a phone call.” Jeanne had to assume that the mysterious phone call had something to do with her impending punishment. She expected that Natasha would do something to her when she returned from ‘making her phone call’ but nothing untoward happened.

The longer nothing happened, the more Jeanne’s distress increased.

At four thirty, Natasha said, “We better be on our way. The museum is closing in a few minutes and Jeanne has a dinner date at five thirty. You want to be on time, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Jeanne replied. This was the first that she had heard about a dinner date. Undoubtedly this would be the final punishment. She felt exhausted. Nothing terrible had been done to her all day, but the constant stress of waiting for something to happen was taking its toll.

She was asked if she wanted to go home to freshen up.

“Yes.”

Lydia was waiting at her front door to give her final instructions. “Make yourself look nice. You have a reservation in your name at the Pierrot Bistrot Francais at five-thirty. Don’t be late. You remember that your punishment lasts until eight o’clock?”

“Yes.”

The women left in their own cars.

Jeanne was dumbfounded. She was alone. She had not been instructed to leave a line open on her Blackberry. She had been told to look nice, but that had not been posed as a question. She was free to keep wearing proper underwear and she didn’t have to shove anything into her asshole or pussy. Something wicked was coming but she had no idea what it might be. The only thing that was left was the restaurant. Something awful was waiting for her there.

She arrived a little before five-thirty – traffic was light on the holiday – and entered the restaurant with her heart pounding, looking around to see where the other women might be hiding, waiting to ambush her. She saw nothing.

The maitre d’ seated her in a quiet corner table. She was alone at the moment but there were place settings for two on the table.

As she waited, she wondered who was going to join her. Some misshapen man who would ask for obscene sexual favors throughout the meal? At the end of Saturday night, Lydia had promised that she would not have to service any more men as punishment and so far, she had kept that promise. Lydia’s promise left open the possibility that she would be required to service a woman. Until now, that had been niggling in the back of her mind but she had dismissed it. None of the other women were gay; they would not want to have to lick another woman’s cunt, and Jeanne had thought that they would not force her to do that, even as a punishment. Now, for the first time, Jeanne was not so certain. Maybe none of them were present because they did not have the stomach to watch what was going to happen to her.

Jeanne imagined a beautiful lesbian joining her and asking her for favors. Would it be that bad? She would not like it, but she could force herself. What about a not-so-beautiful woman. What about an overweight, masculine, butch woman? What about a woman wearing leather and studs?

Jeanne shrugged to herself. A woman was a woman. She would no more enjoy licking the crotch of a beautiful woman than a homely one.

But it was not a woman who was ushered to her table by the maitre d’.

It was worse.

It was Jeremy Wilkins, a man that she had been dating on and off for over a year.

“Hi, Jeanne. How are you tonight?”

“I’m fine. Are you joining me?”

He grinned. “May I?”

“Yes.”

She liked Jeremy and he seemed to like her but there was no electricity between them. No sparks. No chemistry even though he was one of the few really nice guys that she had ever dated. For some reason, since high school, most of the men that asked her out were bad boys – men who liked black leather and disliked gainful employment. Sparks flew when Jeanne clashed with those men. Sparks of passion early in their relationship, sparks of anger later.

In contrast, Jeremy was well educated and enjoyed stable employment: he had a Ph.D. in molecular biology, taught biomedical sciences at Bunker Hill Community College. Unlike most of her other boyfriends, he got along well with people.

Jeanne found him a bit dull but a reliable companion; someone she could spend time with when she was not locked in a passionate love-hate relationship with some overgrown juvenile delinquent.

She wondered why he had been sent – for Lydia had surely sent him. What would be so terrible about having dinner in a lovely restaurant with such a nice fellow?

They chatted, ordered dinner, chatted some more, ate, and chatted even more.

Throughout it all, Jeanne grew increasingly puzzled. Jeremy seemed nervous, which was unusual because he was usually the calmest person that she knew. Her punishment weekend was not over so she should be the one feeling nervous. She did not doubt that Lydia and the gang were about to do something horrible to her. Jeanne hoped that Jeremy wouldn’t end up being collateral damage in the explosion that surely would be coming sometime before the bill.

On the other hand, he might be in on the game. Lydia knew Jeremy, she had been the one who first introduced them. Jeanne had made love with him often enough, but it had always been simple, straightforward sex. Maybe Lydia had found out that he had a secret urge to do something really kinky and had promised him that Jeanne would be a willing partner in some bizarre scene that involved specially-trained dogs and leather harnesses.

“You know how much I like you, Jeanne,” Jeremy was saying. “I’ve never told you that I’ve fallen in love with you, but it’s true. It’s time for me to admit it to you.”

Suddenly he had her total attention. In a flash, she knew what was coming and there was nothing that she could do to stop it. Damn, Lydia! Damn her to hell! This was too much!

“Jeanne, will you make me the happiest man in the world? Will you marry me?” Jeremy held her hand across the table and looked at her with puppy-dog eyes.

She looked at him for a long minute and said nothing, just squeezed his hand. After all she had endured, after all the pain and humiliation that she had suffered in the past seventy hours, could she throw it away by saying no?

But, could she promise to marry this man falsely? Could she say yes today and then break off their engagement tomorrow? He deserved better than that. He was a great guy and she did not doubt that he loved her sincerely. Even she could not be that cold. If Jeanne said yes, she would honor her commitment to him.

She could say yes and immediately explain what kind of marriage she wanted: a marriage where they would live in their own houses and keep going out with other people. That would be a yes answer that would force Jeremy to withdraw his proposal. She did have options.

But instead of weaseling out with a fake yes, she said nothing while she thought about a real yes. She realized that she could see this man as her husband. She never doubted that she wanted to get married some day. And she never doubted that she could not marry the men that she usually dated. Jeremy was a good man, the best that she had ever dated, but could she live with him? Day and night? Year after year?

All the time that she was debating with herself, he was looking at her with hope in his eyes; he desperately wanted her and was afraid that she might spurn him.

She felt a pang in her heart. Sympathy for the man? Or had she been slowly, gradually falling in love with him without realizing it before?

She hated the idea that Lydia might have known that she had feelings for this man better than she knew herself. Hated the idea.

She squeezed Jeremy’s hand, looked into his eyes and said, “Yes.”

She meant it with all her heart.

It was exactly eight o’clock when Jeanne brought Jeremy home. Her punishment weekend was over. She was no longer constrained to always answer yes. She could give honest answers again.

She held Jeremy’s hands in hers, looked into his face and said, “Ask me again.”

“Ask you what?”

“Ask me to marry you?”

He looked concerned. “Why?”

“I want to hear it again.”

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “Yes. I want to marry you.”

“Good” He looked relieved, but was puzzled why she would want him to ask again.

“What date did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t given it much thought. I assume that it will take a while to plan everything. Is next summer too long to wait?”

“No.” It felt wonderful to say the word at last. “What about June? Would you like a June wedding?”

“June sounds fine to me.” He grinned. “I’d love to marry you in June.”

“I think we need to celebrate.”

“Okay. What should we do?”

“Something wicked.” Jeanne smiled at him. “If you’re going to make an honest woman out of me in June, then we only have ten months left to be sinful. You go into the living room and make yourself comfortable. I’ll join you as soon as I get ready.”

Jeremy was reading the Arts section of the Boston Globe when Jeanne entered the room a few minutes later. His jaw dropped when he saw his fiancée wearing black plastic boots with impractically high heels, fishnet stockings held up by garter snaps that were visible below the shortest, tightest, shiniest white rubber skirt that he had ever seen, and a red lace, rhinestone studded bra that left most of her breasts exposed, including her entire nipples.

But the most shocking aspect of her appearance was that her head was entirely bald.

She smiled at his expression. “Don’t worry about the hair, dear. I just shaved it off this morning. It’ll grow back by our wedding.” Her smile turned evil smile. “If you want me to let it grow back. Otherwise, I’ll keep it shaved for you. Just think of it as an example of how far I’m willing to go. If you want me to do anything special for you, just ask. I’ll say yes.”

He was dumbstruck. Absently, he reached down to adjust his rapidly hardening cock that was becoming painfully constricted in his briefs.

“I’ll be happy to take care of that for you, dear,” she replied, catwalking across the floor on her platform soles, letting her almost naked breasts sway in the inadequate bra. She bent over him, letting her left nipple brush against his lips. “You can amuse yourself with this while I amuse myself with that.”

As she reached down to unbuckle his belt and unfasten his pants, he delicately brushed his fingertips over her tits, then drew the erect nipple between his lips and began sucking gently.

She moaned with pleasure; her nipples were wonderfully sensitive and she loved having them stimulated.

She took her time freeing her lover’s cock just to give her more time to enjoy the attention that her tits were receiving. When he was free, she said, “Stand up, dear, and let’s make you a lot more comfortable.”

He stood and she sank to her knees so that her mouth was at the perfect level to kiss and lick the head of his cock. It was his turn to moan with pleasure. She kept working on him with her mouth while she pulled his pants and underwear down to his ankles. Then she pushed him back on the sofa and pulled everything off, including his shoes and socks.

Her mouth never left his cock at any time as she stripped him from the waist down. She continued to work on him with mouth and hands until his breathing was fast and shallow and his cock rigid to the point of bursting. Then she began kissing him up the length of his belly and chest, unbuttoning his shirt as she went. When she unbuttoned the last button, she worked on his nipples while she slipped the shirt from his shoulders and over his arms. In her opinion, not enough women paid enough attention to men’s nipples. They could be as erogenous as women’s. Apparently Jeremy agreed because he was moaning constantly now, running his hands over her naked head.

She moved up to his ear, kissed the lobe and said, “Do you want to find out if my pussy is as bald as my head?”

It was. She had taken the time to shave her mons while she was getting dressed. She wanted to do something extra for her fiancé that the wicked women had not thought to do to her.

He reached down and pushed the latex up over her hips. She was wearing no panties. He felt between her legs and gasped to feel only bare skin – not a hair remained.

She let him feel her slit, feel the soft moist folds, feel how wet she was, then she slid back on the couch and pulled him on top of her. “I want you to do me now. Go for it.” She spread her legs wide and pulled him into her.

He went for it.

He came fast and so did she. As they lay together, still joined but shrinking fast, she held him tight and said, “Being married to me is going to mean a lot of sex. All kinds of sex. Are you up for that?”

“Yes,” he replied.

As she was falling asleep, Jeanne’s last thoughts were that Lydia had not continued the trend of each sexual role being less powerful than the previous. The wife who was enthusiastic in bed was the most powerful woman of all.

Sunday, 7 September:

As soon as Jeanne walked into the restaurant to join the other members of the Wicked Women’s Adventure Club for lunch, Lydia rose and held out her right hand to take Jeanne’s left and bring it close. “Lovely ring.” She smiled. “Congratulations!”

She sounded sincere to Jeanne; not triumphant or ironic. Jeanne wondered if Lydia was really that good at faking sincerity. “Jeremy bought it for me yesterday. He knew that I’d want to help choose it, so he waited until we had time to shop together. He’s terribly considerate that way.”

“You’re lucky to have him,” Amelia said. She sounded sincere as well; Jeanne did not doubt that she was.

After they sat down, Natasha asked, “Are you going through with the marriage?”

Jeanne looked offended. “I didn’t get engaged just so that I could dump him. We’ll be married next summer. We both feel that, not having dated each other exclusively before, we should not rush the wedding. A year-long engagement will suit us both.”

“So I guess you’ll be withdrawing from the club?” Lydia commented with forced casualness.

“No.” That little word sounded particularly wonderful to Jeanne; it was only a week but she felt like she had not been able to say no to these women in forever. “Of course not. Why would I resign?”

Lydia’s face fell. “Because you’re engaged. You’re soon going to be a bride and a wife. You can’t be a good wife and a wicked woman at the same time.”

“I can if I want,” Jeanne grinned in her moment of triumph. “There’s no law against it, is there? I’ve never heard any club regulation that restricts club membership to single women. I’ve earned my place more than any of you. I’m going to do both: get married and stay in the club.”

“But women always withdraw when they get married,” Lydia protested.

“You mean one woman did. It’s true that Nancy withdrew when she got married two years ago but I’m not Nancy. I don’t want to withdraw. You’re just going to have to get used to the idea of having a married woman in the club. I won’t cheat on Jeremy so you’ll have to work around that constraint in future adventures. You can’t put me in any game that requires that I fuck other men. I’m sure that you can think of other ways that I can be wicked.”

“I can think of a few ways,” Trixie offered with a smile, “especially if Jeremy is willing to play, too.”

“After the week we just had, I think he’d like that a lot. But I don’t intend to tell him about the club. The adventures will be taking him by surprise. Happy surprise, I expect.” Jeanne addressed Natasha with a wide grin. “You may be the first to have to figure out how I can be wicked without being unfaithful. I promised that I would serve in a game of your design for my three geeks. I will honor that promise if you want. But I won’t be giving them or their friends blow jobs like you wanted. You put me in this position, so you’ll have to think of some other kind of game.” She laughed lightly. “Next time, be careful what you wish for, dear, because you’re likely to get it.”

Lydia looked at Trixie and Amelia. She had no choice but to accommodate Jeanne’s new circumstance. “We’re thrilled to have you stay with us,” she told Jeanne, trying desperately to sound like she meant it.

After the meal, after the other three women had left, Lydia lingered with Natasha at the table. “That was unexpected.”

“Yes,” Natasha agreed. “I thought that she’d call him back and tell him that she’d changed her mind about the engagement as soon as the clock struck eight.”

“I didn’t. I was confident that Jeanne has more character than that. I thought that she’d either tell him ‘no’ and withdraw from the club because she’d failed her punishment or tell him ‘yes’ and withdraw from the club in order to stay true to him. It’s a sex club. I never thought that she’d try to stay in a sex club when she wouldn’t be able to have sex.”

“That’ll be a problem.”

Lydia shrugged. “Trixie’s right, though. It doesn’t take much effort to think of a few games that she can play without cheating on her fiancé. There’s potential for some fun here.”

Natasha looked hard at Lydia. “Speaking of fun, there’s another thing we have to talk about. I went out with David again last night. You remember him; he’s the young guy from the frat house that I’m kind of dating now.”

“Your hot young doctor-to-be. Sure, I remember him.”

“He told me a story that I found rather shocking.”

“I can guess. He told you that I’d volunteered to help out with Beta Delta Sigma Mu initiation ceremony this year.”

“Yup. He’s on the Rush Committee so he knows all about it.”

Lydia shrugged. “I have a rule of my own. I never let anyone in the club do anything that I wouldn’t do myself. When I was negotiating for Jeanne to perform her big sex show, I knew that I would be submitting to whatever treatment I put her through.” She smiled wryly. “Let’s just say that it added an extra dimension of interest to the negotiations for me. If I weren’t willing to do the same as Jeanne, then, I could never have forced her to go through with it. It’s kind of my own personal sanity check. When I called the next day to offer myself to them, the Rush Committee Chairman suggested that they could make my performance part of their secret initiation ceremony. I like the ‘secret’ part of the deal. Three senior members of the fraternity will be penetrating me simultaneously and the pledges will be jerking off on my face afterward.”

“You want to do this?”

“I’m not looking forward to it, but I have to do it. I’m going to have a spotter there to make sure that they don’t get carried away and do more to me than we’ve agreed. I was going to ask you to be my spotter. You’ll be in the kitchen, out of sight, but the door will be open far enough for you’ll be able to hear and see what happens. I can ask Trixie if you don’t want to do it.”

“No. I’m happy to help. I’m in a better position to help than Trixie anyway because I can rely on David to back me up if things start to go bad.”

“I’ll feel better knowing that you’ll have my back.”

“There’s one other thing that you should know. I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying in the club.”

“Because of Jeanne?”

“No. I can put up with her. Because of David. We aren’t using condoms. He assumes that I’m on the pill, but he’s wrong. I don’t want a husband but I do want a child before I get too old. I’ve been looking for a suitable unwitting sperm donor for a few months now. The party gave me quite a smorgasbord to choose from. David was the best candidate.”

Lydia was shocked. She thought that she had her finger on the pulse of all the women in the club. This had struck her like a thunderbolt out of a clear blue sky. “Where is this going to leave him?”

“Nowhere. Ignorant. I’ll break up with him before I start to show. He’ll never know that he fathered a child. I have no intention of asking for financial support. Hell, he’s not even a medical student yet. I have enough money and my kid will be in college before dad’s paid of his student loans.”

“You sure you want this? It’s tough being a single mother.”

“I’ve been thinking about this for some time. As Nietzsche said, ‘For the woman, the man is a means: the end is always the child.’ David is just the means to my end. I think Jeanne is right that a married woman can be a wicked woman but I don’t think that a mother should be wicked. When I get pregnant, I’ll resign. Until then, I won’t be having sex with any strangers, either. David may never know that he’s a father, but I want to be sure that he’s the one.”

Lydia smiled as she re-aligned her thoughts to this new information. She had expected that Jeanne would be the one to leave but if Natasha withdrew, it would have the same effect. She didn’t hold any grudge against Jeanne; her only real concern had been trying to maintain the integrity of the club when two of its members were feuding. If Natasha left, the problem was solved. “I wish you the best.”

“Well, I’m not gone yet. I have to get pregnant first. That may take some time.”

Lydia nodded. “Time for a few more adventures, I hope.”

“Me, too.”

“We are wicked women, aren’t we?”

“We sure are.”