Chapter 10

Mom and Elaine come up from the dunking I've given them and Elaine is spritzing water at me through her teeth with a wicked grin. When Mom Number 2 puts "a little relaxation session" together in a sentence with the word "playroom" it can only mean one thing.

"Have I got plans for you tonight," Elaine says, gloating. "Everyone out of the pool!"

As quick as I can slosh out I'm on my knees on the hard concrete, water puddling around me. Standing over me wearing her wicked-Mistress smile, Elaine strokes my head as if I were a spaniel.

If I had a tail I'd be wagging it. Mom is nearby, head bowed, hands clasped in front of her pussy, in full submissive mode, her nipples as hard as mine. I'm wondering what the night holds for me. Routinely I prepare and serve them supper, then it's downstairs to the playroom, where I'm the ball in their tennis match and they've been known to use real tennis rackets.

"Dinner for three this time, Dee."

Three? A guest is coming? What about the "no public display" rule we instituted after my humiliating romp in the park?

But I suppose in our own home it's not exactly public.

Guess who's coming to dinner! The Stick crows.

Oh God!

OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod!

It has to be Lance.

I should have expected this. For the last year he's been the subject of endless talks with my moms -- and my lunch bunch, of course, but that's another thing. Over dinner, during sympathy-filled snuggles on the couch, even in their bed, I've bared my love life to them as well as my body.

During the emotional cyclone that had been my junior year, what with my broken neck and Greg popping in and out of my life, Lance surfed my storm-tossed moods, strong and steady and patient, and I came to rely on him as a friend. Breaking my neck also shattered Greg's and my plans, our dreams of a long and passionate future, and our relationship. After cleaning up at the state championships he went on to greener pastures -- an Olympics training program -- leaving me behind to pick up the pieces of my life, and Lance was there to help.

As I healed, physically and emotionally, our relationship evolved from being "just friends" into something I was afraid to put into words. Greg had been my first and only great passionate love, but with Lance it was different. Instead of leaping willy-nilly into full-frontal fucking Lance and I approached sex with each other as shyly as if we were both virgins -- first chaste good-night kisses, later meetings of tongues, then hands testing limits, seeking sensitive places through clothing, even though I'd been naked when we'd first met and he'd done The Program at his school and we'd skinny-dipped together.

I think we were both afraid of risking the friendship we already had for something more glandular. After a movie date we approached our very first kiss holding our breaths, a kiss that turned out to be sweet, savory, comforting, and so arousing we didn't dare it again for a week. From that point on we began a wary and awesome voyage of discovery, date by date delicately exploring each other's erotic terrain with fingers, lips and tongues before finally taking the emotionally loaded plunge.

Now, nearing the end of our senior years we are contemplating our futures, while at home the dinner and pillow talk with my moms has mostly been me agonizing over revealing my B and D kink to him, something I never did with Greg, which tells you how serious the relationship with Lance has become.

Bold as I am, I just can't bring myself to burst out and ask him to tie me up, spank me and then fuck the shit out of me using whatever hole he damn well wants. At my moms' suggestion I tried hinting, holding my arms behind my back while we made out, once even while he fucked me, but he didn't pick up on it. We wrestle like bear cubs -- we are pretty evenly matched -- and in the end I surrender, but the love that follows is soft and tender, and unfulfilling even as he fills me.

Men can be so dense!

Elaine got so tired of listening to me bitch about it she warned me that if I didn't do something about it, she would. Now she has, I guess.

She's planned this, knowing if she dangles a playroom session in front of me I'll bite, and sure enough, once again I've leaped without looking.

I love mixing metaphors almost as much as enjoy sex.

I'm left wondering what she told him when she invited him over. Be prepared for a surprise? Guess what, your GF is a pain slut?

He's about to explore a whole new world. He's Lewis and Clark rolled into one and I'm his Sacagawea.

Tonight, tonight, won't be just any night! sings The Stick gleefully.

Oh shut up!

My pussy weeps as we make our way inside.

Once there, Mistress fastens the collar around my neck, where it will stay until she takes it off. Mom gets her own collar, same stipulation. Then Elaine digs into the small footlocker she keeps in the hall closet, hauling out things that rattle and clink.

"Since we're having such important company tonight you're going formal."

As I sink into my comforting submissive haze I feel a twinge. "Going formal" means the full kit; wrist and ankle cuffs, a chain around my waist, all linked together with so many chains I rattle. Hobbled, I have to be careful to avoid tripping myself. Shackled, I reach carefully or get pulled up short and spill whatever is in my hands.

You'd think ignominiously falling on my face or splattering our guest would be embarrassing enough, but Mistress has her own opinions on that. If I fall there are consequences. If my service is slow there are consequences. If I spill there are consequences.

I'm already unbelievably turned on, but if I come without permission there are consequences.

Notice I say "consequences" rather than "punishment." There's no place for punishment in our games, and games are what they are. The number one rule is to have fun. All the other rules, and there aren't many, insure our safety.

Mom and I welcome the opportunity to forget all our mundane worries and be under Mistress Elaine's control. Mistress Elaine relishes her power over us.

It's a wonderfully symbiotic relationship.

My formal outfit does nothing to conceal my charms, and if seeing me like this doesn't clue Lance in nothing will. My cuffs and chains stand out like a Here-there-be-Dragons billboard.

Supper preparations underway, I'm digging the colander out of a low cabinet when the doorbell rings. Rising up without thinking I whack my head, pots and pans and lids clattering. Backing out, muttering words that will have consequences, I scramble up.

Oh shit! Oh God! OhGodOhGodOhGod! It has to be him, so I run for the door, only to be brought down by my hobbles. I rattle like a clothes dryer full of bolts as I awkwardly scramble up.

What is he going to think, seeing me like this?

But if I don't get to the door before the next ring I'll pay the price, so I hurry.

Mistake. Picking myself up again, I shuffle as fast as I can.

The doorbell tolls yet again.

Ah me. What's a girl to do?

Open the damn door! The Stick answers.

My hands shaking, my palms sweating, exquisitely conscious of my cuffs, my chains, my nakedness, the eager alertness of my nipples, I open the door, the cool evening air sweeping around me, smelling of the neighbor's fresh-cut grass.

I can't bring myself to look up, but I recognize the battered, beloved joggers, so it sure isn't the FedEx man seeing me like this.

I almost wish it were. Will this ruin everything? We have such a special relationship.

"Elaine warned me, but I have to admit I didn't really believe her," he says wonderingly.

Exposed for what I am I'm shivering, my tits so hard they ache, my nether lips in full flower. The insides of my thighs are wet with my seepings. He has to be able to smell my horniness.

He tips my head up and I know I'm blushing from head to toe, and that's a lot to blush. Finally I can't avoid it any longer and look up, not sure what to expect -- shock? Horror? Disgust?

"I love your outfit." As he looks me up and down there's a fire in his eyes matching the bulge in his pants, a bulge I know well.

Okay, we'd approached sex carefully -- warily, in fact -- but in case I haven't made it clear, that doesn't mean we haven't rounded all the bases, so to speak. After all, it has been a year of getting to know each other, and a year is a lifetime when you're a teenager.

"Whatever goes on tonight, I want you to remember one thing," Lance says softly.

In full submissive mode I swallow hard and nod. His kiss is soft and tender, barely brushing my lips, and if I had shoes on I would be melting down into them. As it is, there's nothing to keep my toes from curling and my pulse rate going off the scale.

"No matter what happens you must remember that I love you." His lips brush my cheek.

OOooooohhhhhmyGOD! He's NEVER said that before! Even at the height of passion or cuddling together in the deep warmth of shared afterglow he's never said it! I want to throw my arms around him, but I can't of course -- cuffs and chains, remember? And that would not be a slavish thing to do, either.

Oh God! I squeeze my eyes shut against the tears, desperately gathering myself back together. Without a word I step aside, feeling like my innards are dissolving into a hot goo that wants to leak straight out of my pussy.

As I close the door Mom and Elaine are snuggled side by side on the couch, sipping Chablis, more naked than I am, even allowing for Mom's collar. He's seen them in their skin before and knows the house dress code. I brush his hands away so I can undress him the way a good, obedient slave should. Feeling its heat on my face I barely avoid taking a nibble at the cock that pops out to greet me, a cock as hard as I've ever seen it. A long drool of pre-come seems to sting as it hits my arm and I want to lick it off. Working within the limits of my shackles I help him out of his shoes and socks, his pants and underpants, him balancing with his hand on my head as he lifts one foot then the other.

The contact feels so good! Scrambling up, I reach for his erection, only to be frustrated by my bindings.

I shouldn't have done that. It's not proper! Regaining my composure, giving a respectful nod in my role as slave/servant, I formally introduce Lance to Mistress Elaine and my mother, even though they've met before, blaming it on my recent Jane Austen overdose.

"Wine for our guest," Elaine orders. There's never a "please" or a "thank you" during our games.

"Yes, Mistress." I rattle off to the kitchen for a glass and the chilled bottle. Filling Lance's glass, my shaking hands spill some. Topping up Elaine's and Mom's results in more spills, maybe because Mom's fingers are busy, busy, busy in Mistress's crotch, female musk scenting the air. If Lance wasn't sure before what was on tonight's agenda he has to be now.

Mom's looking at my boyfriend's endowments in a way that moms are not supposed to, and she licks her lips in a way that has me worried. Much as she enjoys her same-sex relationship with Elaine I know she isn't strictly gay. After all, Carl and I weren't found under a cabbage leaf.

Shit! What's to stop her from enjoying him tonight? Feeling a rush of emotions, among them jealousy, I remind myself that anything Mom does will have to have Elaine's approval.

Small comfort that! Elaine has an almost psychic ability to push my buttons, and she doesn't limit herself just to the physical. It's threatening to be a very interesting evening.

Leaving them to socialize I return to the kitchen, deliberately distracting myself with another of my mental jaunts into the past, back to the aftermath of Cameron's nose dive into her locker, when The Program was teetering on the brink.

The nurse had tended to Cameron's bruises and the cut over her eye and given her a medical release from The Program. A sweet, demure, virginal sophomore on only her second day in The Program, Cameron had broken down in tears again as she told Mrs. Devers and me how she'd bent over to reach for something in her locker and been poked hard right in her pucker -- not her word, of course, she only waved vaguely at her rear -- and gone flying.

At least whatever had poked her had been blunt -- presumably a finger -- rather than something that could have done real damage, like a sharpened pencil. I hoped the creep who'd done it forgot to wash his hands before lunch and would come down with something disgusting.

The situation was growing more critical. Whatever group was doing this didn't discriminate. Guys in The Program had also been catching grief -- pokes in the ass as well as strikes at other exposed targets of opportunity. Sooner or later whoever was doing it would pick on one of our testosterone fueled jocks who'd swing first and look later. Cameron's scream and clatter had told everyone in earshot what had happened.

"That does it. I'm suspending The Program!" Mrs. Devers reached for the PA.

Without thinking I grabbed her arm. "Don't!"

She turned on me, shocked, ready to rip me a new one, something I knew she could do with her glare alone.

"Please," I added, letting go like I'd grabbed something hot. Jeez she had muscles from all that tennis! Touching a vice principal had to be good for ten minutes in the penalty box, more likely a month in the dungeon on bread and water, thumbscrews optional.

"Why not?"

I cringed.

"Because, well -- uh -- that would kill any chance of us catching someone in the act," I pointed out desperately, scrambling for reasons. "And if you suspend The Program, even for just a week, the motherfu -- uh -- rats will think they're winning, and then when -- if -- the program does start up again they'll be twice as bad, and sooner or later they'll get the riot they want, and if that happens kids will get hurt, and people will blame The Program and they'll come at us with pitchforks and torches, and... !" I ran out of wind.

Mrs. Devers hesitated and I held my breath.

"But something has to be done before things get any worse," she pointed out, in a tone so reasonable and controlled it gave me cold chills.

I nodded tensely. "But maybe you could just suspend it for the rest of the day today to let things calm down? All we need to do to stop this is protect the participants better."

"That's not as simple as it sounds," she observed in a tone that implied she was talking to an idiot. She knew I knew it. It was a problem SACNISP had been batting around over lunch rather than in formal meetings. How can you protect a handful of naked students from another handful that's out to do them grief when the halls are full of a thousand decent kids hurrying between classes?

"Just how do you propose to do that?" she pressed on.

Trust her to cut to the core of the problem -- or had I done that for her?

"I have a plan," I blurted desperately.

"What plan?"

"Uhhhhhh!" The bell saved me. "I've got class. I'll explain it this afternoon. We'll have a special meeting. And don't worry, I'll let everybody know."

I got out of there before she could stop me. Over the PA I heard her asking the week's NiS participants -- I refuse to think of them as victims! -- to come to the office.

What the hell was I doing? I'd just put myself neck deep in shit! Plan? What plan? I didn't even have a clue, let alone a plan.

Why did she listen to me? Why had she asked me to be on the committee in the first place? She should never have asked me to do this. I was making a total botch of this whole thing. What had I accomplished so far? I'd gotten towels for participants to put under their naked asses. Whoop-dee-doo!

All my big plans -- ending corporal punishment of program participants, no more using The Program as punishment, good stuff like that? Those flights of fancy were being reviewed by The Powers That Be, whoever the hell they were.

And what were they doing? Sitting in their plush offices fiddling while Rome burned. At least Mrs. Devers was on the front lines with us, but in deference to our wishes discipline had gone all to hell and the fanny pinchers were having a field day. It was getting worse and worse and Cameron had paid the price. And if she was anything like me she was blaming herself, feeling that she'd failed, when actually I'd failed her, and everyone else, and it was all my fault.

And now I'd opened my mouth and stepped in it again.

I latched on to Mike Collins in the hall and told him to get a text out calling a meeting for after school and why.

When you're in a hole, stop digging! The Stick helpfully advised.

I told her to shut up, that she knows I work best under pressure. If I didn't come up with a plan by then I'd be dead meat.

Then I stripped naked and deliberately spent the rest of the fucking day being the only fucking person fucking naked -- well no, I wasn't actually fucking, oh never mind, you get the idea -- in the whole fucking school, hoping -- daring -- some fucking asshole to attack me. I'd catch the fucker in the act, haul him -- or her -- down to the office where I'd give him -- or her -- the third degree and he -- or she -- would confess everything, naming names, and I'd have everything fixed in one swell foop.

Of course no one came near me. In fact when people saw me coming they got out of my way, even my friends. Maybe it was my clenched teeth, clenched fists and clenched eyes that did it.

So at the end of the day here I was sitting alone at the conference table in a cold sweat when the rest of the committee members trailed glumly in and began stripping. I tried to find comfort and encouragement in what I saw.

I saw Matt Mozilla, who has a great bod, only he's gay. I'd die to have 'Retta's awesome tits but I'd be so overbalanced I'd flop on my face! And dangling from Mike Collins was the cock that had taken my virginity and gotten me grounded for a week. And Heather was such a squeezable sweetie despite her rep as the Queen Bee and that she's straight as an arrow, just cock-shy.

My committee drew out their chairs, spread their towels, and sat, and they were all looking at me, waiting for me to pull a rabbit out of the hat.

Suddenly something about seeing them all together -- the whole committee, naked and comfortable with each other, Program veterans all, got me thinking.

When I didn't move someone started the usual table-top soccer game using pencils and the top off a water bottle.

It was all a matter of numbers! I ripped a sheet of paper out of my notebook and started calculating.

The kitchen timer goes off -- it's suppertime, and in spite of my daydreaming everything is ready. The table is set with the good linens, china, glassware -- fresh wineglasses, ice bobbing in the water goblets, sterling silver neatly holding down the napkins, all this in honor of our guest. Artistically arranged plates of antipasto are at each place and the big pasta pot hisses and groans impatiently, only a twist of a knob away from a rolling boil. The sauce is burbling contentedly in a pan, filling the house with the mouth-watering scent of meet, tomato, onions, garlic, red wine and oregano.

Not for the first time I just have to taste-test it. As I do I see Mistress watching me. Giving her finger a lick she traces a mark in the air, the raises two fingers, making sure I know she's keeping count.

I'm not supposed to eat, remember, but lick their plates when they're finished.

And, in case you think I spent hours throwing this together, think again. The antipasto is your basic green salad with a few olives and the like to garnish it. The spaghetti sauce is from the freezer, nuked to life and set to simmer -- it's actually better that way than fresh. The pasta is just waiting for the right moment to go in the pot. The colander, indirectly responsible for the bump on my head, is ready to catch it.

In other words, I'm on the starting blocks, ready to dive into action at the exact top of the hour, when Mom shows up with a note from Mistress.

"Take the napkins off the table," signed with an elegant E.

Say what? No napkins? Spaghetti is a messy meal! And why do I have to do it? And the note specifically orders me to do it.

Making me late serving has to be one of Elaine's sadistic little plots. She has something up her sleeve -- except, of course, she isn't wearing sleeves or anything else.

Ask not, I tell myself, shuffling desperately around the table, yanking the napkins out from under the sterling, only to have to make a second orbit to realign the place settings to geometric perfection.

Or suffer the consequences, of course.

Dinner is late -- only by two minutes, but it is late. Ah me.

I hold Mistress Elaine's chair for her. Taking the cue from me, Lance graciously seats Mom. I flinch when she casually brushes his hard-on before he takes his place at Mistress's right hand.

I'm at the kitchen door, ready to leap into action, and it's only one bite of salad before Elaine's scheme becomes clear. Smiling at me she fingers her lower lip. Is that a drop of extra virgin olive oil glistening on her chin? I snatch up the napkins I'd set aside only to be stopped by a shake of her head and a sultry look.

Crooking her finger at me, she makes a show of licking her lip. Oh ho ho. She is such a witch! I am to be their napkin. Well, humiliating as it is, at least I'll get a little nourishment out of it now instead of having to wait to lick their plates when they're done.

I lick the salad dressing off her chin, then turn to Lance and do the same, then Mom, and so on. On the third time around the table Elaine turns her head just as I take my swipe at her cheek, and I hit her lips and the tip of her tongue instead. I taste Chablis and salad dressing, and sex.

Lucky dog me. Tonight I am her bitch.

Then Lance does her one better: as I go to lick him clean his hand cups the back of my head, guiding me so we go mouth to mouth.

Oh wow! Not my fault!

Something nudges my lips and the slippery roundness of an olive intrudes, but only part way. I feel him suck the stuffing out of it before his teeth close on it, biting it in half. He chews his half, I chew mine. Still mouth to mouth, our lips and tongues do a very sexy olive-flavored tango.

Oh gosh, do I ever want to jump his bones!

Of course Elaine is watching, smiling her wicked Dom smile and I know I'm going to pay for that osculation later. It is worth whatever it costs me and Lance is eager to join in the festivities.

Oh gosh, am I ever gonna get it tonight.

The salads almost finished, I beg Mistress's indulgence to slip away to crank the pot to a boil, add the pasta and set the timer before hurrying back to again lick chins and cheeks, lips and tongues. They've been very messy! It is the most intimate a gesture I've ever performed at the dinner table.

The timer sounding off, I shuffle fast as I can, back to the kitchen, chains rattling, barely avoiding a scalding as I dump the steaming pasta in the colander and give it a rinse. While it drains, trying futilely to wipe the steam and sweat off my brow -- short chains, remember? -- I shuffle back to collect the salad plates, lick them clean, get them in the sink, then dish out the spaghetti, drizzle the sauce and serve -- their guest first (my boyfriend! He said he loves me!!), Mistress Elaine next, then Mom.

He is their guest. I have no guest. I'm just the slave.

The Chablis having served its purpose as a palate wash and social lubricant, I bring out the Chianti. While I'm filling Mistress's glass a drip spots the tablecloth. An accident from hurrying? Well, it is hard to pour with my wrists shackled together, my reach shortened by the link to my waist chain.