Chapter 11

My "physical exam" over, Lance follows Doctor Smathers's lead, peeling off his gloves, discussing me with the Good Doctor as if he were a consulting physician. His cock obviously has something else in mind, like burying its little head deep inside me, which I would welcome.

Me? Frustrated? I'm strapped down on the gyno table, hornier than a moose, being discussed like I'm nothing more than a piece of meat. Typical doctors! They really need to work on their bedside manner.

Better it should be an in-bed manner.

Oh God does Lance have a great body, with those smooth swimmer's muscles, broad shoulders, marvelous pecs topped off with nips to nibble on, a smooth six pack. He's got a cock sculpted by Michelangelo and I have got just the right warm, wet, safe, snuggly place for it. I'm humping my hips invitingly, horny to the max after the very tactile examination they'd given me -- anatomy by Braille. Dr. Smathers casually rests her hand on my right tit and toys with my nipple, which only further stirs my libido.

"I think it's time for some dessert, don't you?" she muses, twanging my teat.

"Dessert?! Now??!!" After serving as a living anatomy lesson for the last twenty minutes food is the last thing on my mind. As meager as my supper was I'm more horny than hungry! Lance TOLD me he loves me. Now I want him to prove it!

That gets me a stinging slap on my naked tummy.

"Don't interrupt the grown ups," she scolds me in the tone you'd use with a kindergartner. Faster than Clark Kent entering a phone booth and emerging as Superman she'd shed her lab coat and become Mistress Elaine. If we were at the other end of the playroom she'd be reaching for the tawse to chastise me -- or warm me up, take your pick. It's one and the same when I'm feeling like this.

I shut up, wondering what was in store for me now that they've done the rounds of my body parts. Released from the table I climb down and hug Lance's arm, my oozing crotch humping his knuckles. Teasingly he extends a finger to part my crevice and tease my clit, wringing a soft whimper out of me.

Pretending not to notice, Mistress Elaine turns to Mom, who's been standing by playing the dutiful nurse, handing things like speculums to my examiners.

"Sweet-ums, get the gelato from the freezer, along with the ice-cream scoop and two parfait spoons -- you know, the long handled ones. Come, Lance, while she's getting those we can set the table. Bring her along."

"Her" meaning me, of course. Befuddled with horniness, my brain is having trouble processing this. The table down at the B&D end of the room is hardly suited for fine dining, though Mom and I have both eaten and been eaten on it, after being suitably tenderized by Mistress's ministrations. I suppose some might regard us as haut cuisine.

The standard height for table tennis -- its original use -- it is mid-sized, scaled down in both length and width to fit an undersized playroom, making it perfect for our anything but ping pong purposes. The legs have been reinforced to take my weight and then some -- it could probably support the entire Chinese table tennis team if you could fit them on it -- and other fittings have been added, such as anchor points for restraints.

Standing at one end, facing the table, when I bend over and lay down my head winds up right where the net should be. With my knees tied out to the table's legs, my feet dangling clear of the floor, the sharp edge digs into my tummy and I'm spread wide open. The position is exquisitely uncomfortable and highly arousing. Using a ping pong paddle or one of her selection of switches, whips and floggers Mistress practices her forehand and backhand on my butt. Sometimes she and Mom play a doubles match, one cheek each, the winner determined by the redness of my rear. Being the judge Mistress always seems to win, but I'd never accuse Mom of holding back.

Probably my favorite is when Mom and I are bent over the opposite ends, which brings us face-to-face in the middle. Mistress then orbits the table, playing a two-moon solo while Mom and I kiss and lick away each other's tears until we're on the brink of coming. Her match finished, Mistress lovingly kisses and licks our ouchies while we're still in place, or releases us so we can soothe each other. Either way the result is monstrous orgasms.

Need I point out that with our legs spread so widely our openings are quite accessible? Elaine has even had contests to see who can hold the most ping pong balls, in ass or cunt. Mom holds the cunt record. She generously attributes her greater elasticity to Carl's and my birth. I've got the ass record and I'll say no more about that!

To further serve our tastes the table is located under a section of mirrored ceiling very much like the one over the bed in the master bedroom. I don't often get to reflect on my activities here, since I'm usually face down, my ass a target for Mistress's amusement.

Now Mistress points me to the table. "Sit!"

I plant my ass on the edge of the table. It's cold!

"Now I don't want to hear a peep out of you!"

"Yes Mistress."

"Lie back."

Good little slave that I am I lay back, my fingers laced across my tummy, staring up at my reflection in the ceiling. Never one to miss a chance to keep my motor running she gives my nipples a pinch and a twist. Gosh I'm naked. With my legs dangling off the end of the table my tummy is stretched taut, my naked pussy prominent and accessible. My nipples are puffed up like mini-volcanoes, my cunt blossoming like a peony in the spring, just inviting Lance to plunder it.

But in a display of what I hope is superhuman self-control he stands back, ignoring the magnetic tug between his distended penis and my eager receptacle.

Mom appears with a tray with stuff on it -- gelato, ice cream scoop, spoons and bowls. "Here's dessert, Mistress. You didn't say anything about bowls, but I brought them..."

"Oh thank you Darling, but we won't need those, will we Lance?"

"Uh -- if you say so -- uh -- Mistress."

"I keep telling you! Call me 'Elaine' you sweet boy! Put the tray down over there, Darling, and come sit on the other end of the table and lie back like your daughter so your head's next to hers."

Mom obediently joins me and we're ear-to-ear, our legs dangling off the table at opposite ends. It stretches our tummies, offering our pussies up like oysters on a plate, since we're both hairless down there. I admire her mature womanly body with its full breasts so different from my lanky frame with my swimmer's muscles.

I'm getting a very interesting feeling about this. Ice cream and spoons, but no dishes? I can't avoid noticing the dimple of my navel. I'm an innie, but not very deep, so I won't hold much. Mom's is deeper on her softer, rounder tummy. She'll hold more, should that be the plan. We share a nervous horny look.

Taking my right hand and Mom's left Elaine raises our arms and, drawing on her boundless supply of Velcro strips, shows Lance how she wants our wrists bound together, tightly, back-to-back.

Velcro (tm), the product choice of Doms and strippers worldwide -- quick to apply it holds securely but is swift and easy to remove. It comes in a range of stylish colors, widths, lengths, fashions and holding strengths, perfect for the discriminating Dom or ecdysiast.

Available at fine stores everywhere.

In a trice -- which is to say a very short period of time, thank you lang arts -- Mom's and my wrists are inextricably linked. Shades of my teamwork weekend with Maria! Just scratching our noses will require a certain amount of cooperative choreography.

Of course my nose immediately starts to itch and I can see Mom wrinkling hers.

"Now both of you, bring your legs up -- no, bend your knees, roll yourselves up -- bring them up further. Do a tuck Dee, tuck yourself up as far as you can my Sweet Mate. See if the two of you can bump knees."

We do each fold into what in diving would be called a tuck, though not a particularly tight one. A diver doing three-and-a-half summies sticks his head between his knees as if he's trying to kiss his ass goodbye. Mom's not that limber, even with Mistress's help, and if we're going to have to hold this pose for any length of time I do like to be able to breathe, so I don't try too hard. Mistress uses soft rope to link our knees the same way she has our hands -- my left to Mom's right and vice versa -- so we can relax without losing our tuck. Our butts are up off the table, our pussies and assholes visible in the mirror. We instinctively close our legs to protect what little modesty we have left.

"No no, that won't do. Relax!" Mistress gently parts our knees to the sides, opening our crotches. "Just relax and let your legs fall open, nice and wide. That's it! We're all friends here. We have no secrets, remember?"

Speak for yourself, I think, eyeing our gaping crotches. Even though Lance has just thoroughly examined all I have to offer I feel exposed. I try to close my legs again but Mistress chastises me by slapping the inside of my thighs. Dissatisfied with our obedience, she deploys bungee cords from our knee ropes to eyebolts on each side of the table, holding us wide open, and I do mean wide. We are both visibly aroused.

"Now don't move! We don't want you spilling our dessert," she informs us as perkily as a TV cook about to fill her tarts. And I'm no longer thinking navels.

I'm not sure how I feel about this, but like it or not we are open for business and Mistress has made sure we'll stay that way. Lance is having a wonderful time toying with my ruffles, probing me with a finger, tickling my asshole, getting me juicier and juicier. The air rudely invades my aroused twat, evaporating some of the copious juices that have trickled down over my bung, a reminder of just how vulnerable we are. He could penetrate me when and where he wants with whatever he wants and I wouldn't mind if he got right to it.

If he went for Mom, on the other hand...

Mom's and my pussies are begging to be filled. I grant you, I'm open to all sorts of adventures, but this is a whole 'nother thing. I watch Mistress pick up the ice cream scoop and container of gelato.

Black cherry. How apt!

"Lance be a darling, won't you? Pull up chairs for us while I serve." She scoops out a ball of the sweet frozen confection.

Oh shit, here it comes. I'm a living sorbet cup -- no, given my funnel-like configuration I'm one of those deep parfait cups where you have to dig deep for the last delicious drips of melted ice cream and chocolate syrup, and won't that be fun! She hovers the scoop over my torso, moves it lower on me, lower, centering it between my thighs, closer and closer to my blossoming twat -- still closer -- building the suspense. Finally, her gynecology trained fingers spreading me open, she gently turns the scoop over and places that big ball of black-cherry gelato right in my...

HOLE! LEE! SHIT!!

I go into the cuntal equivalent of a brain-freeze, simultaneously sucking in my gut and gasping for air, every muscle in my body clenching. My clit tucks its hood in around itself and vanishes. My anus puckers tighter. Every muscle down there is knotting up, my crotch is chilled all the way from my pubic bone to my tail bone! My instinct is to curl up into a defensive ball.

Mom gets the same treatment, gasping and flinching, and I wince in sympathy as my crotch slowly acclimatizes. Our nipples, stiffer than stiff, jut up like upside-down mini-ice-cream cones. Her hummingbird tattoo looks to be poaching dessert. Speckled with dark bits of fruit the deep lavender of the black-cherry gelato tastefully complements the light rose of our chilled pussy folds.

Setting the container and scoop aside Mistress picks up her long-handled spoon and draws her chair up at Mom's crotch, ready to dip right in. Lance sits down, drooling over my calorie loaded crotch, brandishing his own utensil.

And guess what? He'll have a tasty reason for some deep diving. Sucking the heat out of my twat the load in my pussy is softening and melting, trickles of melted gelato slowly making their way inside me. Obviously this adventure has hardly begun. The extraction process promises to be an entirely new experience! I find myself wondering whether a spoon will do, or would a straw be more effective? I'd prefer a tongue, of course. My body continues to skate along the knife edge of an unbelievable orgasm as I watch Lance delicately start eating the cherry confection from my definitely NOT cherry pussy. The ball of dessert stirs in my sensitive pussy every time his spoon touches it, the vibrations rattling my folds.

"Now remember, no coming without our permission," Mistress warns Mom and me. "You might spill some of this delectable treat. And Lance, do make sure you get some of her juices along with the gelato. I think you'll find she contributes a delicious savor to it. Her mother does."

Aaaaahhh! Am I in heaven? Or am I in hell? And what the hell do I care? Lance's spoon flicks my clit and if I weren't trussed down like a thanksgiving turkey I'd launch right up off the table. The chilled edge brushes my inner lips, wrenching a whine out of me. He makes a show of being an epicure, taking dainty little dips to prolong my agony/ecstasy, rolling the sweet mixture of gelato and my personal syrup around in his mouth before swallowing.

"Quite delicious," he observes, smacking his lips theatrically, extracting another spoonful, careful to scrape me as he does, the cold spoon -- it's sterling, of course, an excellent conductor of heat -- burning my tender flesh. And of course I'm avidly watching the whole performance, every move of his spoon, and Elaine's. Mistress makes a very sexy show of licking her spoon, and as horny as I already am I find myself getting even hornier, if that's possible.

"I'm curious," Mistress muses after a half dozen leisurely dips into Mom's cargo, "do you suppose they taste the same?"

Oh no, I say to myself, don't go there. Please don't go there Lance! I'm yours, I'm all yours and you're mine. You stay away from my MOMMY!

"Perhaps we should change ends," he replies, "do a taste test."

Shit! ShitShitSHIT! Why am I feeling so possessive? I never felt this way about Greg.

But then, Greg and I had never been in a situation comparable to this. He'd never learned of my kink. And Lance has just said he loves me. He loves ME, not my Mom! HE loves ME. He LOVES me! It feels like a stake is being driven through my heart as he gets up and carries his spoon around to Mom's end of the table, while Mistress Elaine, that wicked, wicked witch, is rounding the table towards me. I vow my orgasm will be for Lance and Lance alone, which only gives me more motive to fight to keep from coming. Seeking distraction I flee into the recesses of my memories, recalling how I'd led a band of naked seniors out of the gym towards the school office.

I'd felt much as I had only a year before, as a senior in middle school, when I'd led the Dirty Dozen out to bring enlightenment to the sexually ignorant masses. Only this time I had a much larger and more experienced army and we were on a much more critical mission -- neutralizing the barbarians that were trying to sabotage The Program. To avoid alerting the enemy we'd kept our plans secret. Even the Program participants presently stripping in the school office didn't know that the cavalry was riding to their rescue. I could only hope my troops' maturity and self control would keep this from becoming a total catastrophe.

All it would take is one punch being thrown to bring this whole thing down around my ears. If didn't wind up in jail or hanging from a lamppost for inciting a riot I'd be on detention for the rest of my high-school career.

Our primary mission was protecting this week's Naked in Schoolers. The intention was to provide enough escorts for each participant so that no one would dare molest them. At the same time we were charged with not interfering with the spirit of The Program.

This, of course, meant allowing reasonable requests, but how to tell the intentions of those making the request? We'd be walking a fine line and I was sweating bullets, even though I was bucked up by the number of seniors I knew in the group, and their reputations. Before invoking our mojo I'd deputized Matt Mozilla and Heather McKenzie to brief the troops on our mission, figuring that seniors would be more likely to listen to their peers rather than a mere frosh.

Known to his fans as "Mongo," Matt is one of our leading lights both athletically and scholastically, with a physique that had most women and some men salivating. Heather was head cheerleader and fashionista exemplar. Though known sarcastically as the Queen Bee, she'd been making an effort to distance herself from her hive of sycophants without offending them, lest they turn on her. Among the troops was artiste extraordinaire Kathy Powers, awesomely tall and infinitely more beautiful than I and just as comfortable in her skin, along with the co-captains of the swimming team and a host of lesser lights.

Even so, I was painfully aware of how quickly this whole operation could descend into chaos, and hoped Maria had taken seriously my request to have the riot squad on standby.

As expected, with the NiS disrobing moved inside the spectator frenzy had migrated to the corridor outside the school office. My spies -- better known as the Lunch Bunch -- confirmed that the majority of the crowd was male underclassmen, their hormones inflamed by just the thought of seeing a naked girl, maybe one they already lusted after.

Acting on the reports of my agents I'd divided our forces into two groups, each an equal mix of guys and girls. On my signal we were to come in from the opposite ends of the corridor, trapping the scrum between us in a pincer movement worthy of General Grant.

But as we moved into position a low growl warned me things were a little more unstable than I'd anticipated. Keeping my troops out of sight, I peered around the corner to assess the situation and my mouth went dry.

Because of the notoriety The Program had recently gained the crowd was twice the size I'd expected, and it was undoubtedly laced with those of evil intent waiting their chance to create trouble. Adding to the problem, where the disrobing usually took place outside there was lots of open space, as well as steps and pedestals, benches, even lampposts and a flagpole offering a range of vantage points.

Here the mob was confined to the floor of the corridor. Those in the rear, trying to see, were pushing to get to the front, increasing tensions. We had a mass in danger of going critical. If the office doors opened before we defused it there'd be a stampede. Mrs. Devers was no fool, but cell in hand, I warned her to wait for a signal from me while my gerbil of a brain took a quick run on its exercise wheel.

What to do, what to do?

Borne of desperation my frontal lobes coughed up an idea. Another quick flick of my cell put me in touch with Matt and Heather, the captains leading the divisions and we refined our strategy, rearranging the troops to send the ladies in first.

Drawing a deep breath, I gave the signal to advance.

The moment we were noticed the tone in the hallway began to change and I felt a surge of hope. The males on the fringe, swayed by their raging hormones, were at first immobilized then attracted by the sight of our feminine vanguard, quickly lowering the pressure of the mob. Moving amongst the gathering we rubbed up against every boy at every opportunity, spreading our pheromones, sacrificing ourselves to their groping, our bodies the wedges that parted the throng.

The things we do for good old Central High! Time after time, after granting a good feel I gently disengaged hands from my tits, squirmed out of fingers clutching at my butt, wriggled free of fingers probing my pussy, leaving them wet and fragrant with my secretions.

Ah me. It was a tough job, but somebody had to do it

Following us were the men. These gatherings tended to be about three quarters male, mostly freshmen and sophomores. I was counting on the fact that, even in these enlightened times, most straight high school boys, especially the younger ones, have a mortal fear of appearing anything less than 100% hetero-masculine. They would rather handle a live rattlesnake than risk physical contact with another naked male.

Never mind that the ancient Greeks wrestled that way. Everyone knows they were gay, right?

My men -- just as naked, remember -- followed us ladies, taking advantage of the crevices we'd opened. The gathering fragmented even more, making our advance easier.

Phase one was succeeding. Our primary mission was to protect the innocent when they emerged from the office and this allowed us to get into position. I also had a second goal in mind. I anticipated, even hoped for at least one disruption. It was how that was handled that could make all the difference.

I wasn't disappointed on either score. One of our moron miscreants exposed himself by taking an opportunistic shot at one of my girls, something that went beyond a mild groping. There was squeal, a squawk, a brief flurry that was quickly quelled, followed by a slight stir as someone was quietly escorted away. We would hold him in a quiet corner for now. Once the NiS participants emerged from the office, acquired their escorts and headed off to class he'd be turned over to Mrs. Devers for interrogation.

With the front ranks now dominated by our forces, gently easing the crowd back, I sent a text to Mrs. Devers.

Yeah, I'd finally figured out how to do that, even on my simple dumb phone. Phase two had been completed, now for...

"YOWCH!"

A bolt of lightning ripping up from my crotch lifts me right out of my reverie. Mistress is grinning down at me, her spoon raised, presumably ready to snap down on my clit a second time. Oh Wow does she know how to press my buttons!

"You were drifting."

Still dealing with the aftershocks of the jolt she'd given my little pearl all I can do is try to catch my breath as she turns her attention back to her dessert, dipping another spoonful from my twat, which by now was kind of numb from the cold, but hotter than ever on the inside, delectably aware of every time the edge of her spoon scrapes my flesh, melted gelato creeping deeper into my grotto.

Wrapping her lips around the spoon she slowly and sensuously sucks it clean. Jeez that's sexy!

"I think Dee has a lighter flavor, don't you Lance?"

I can see in the mirror Mom's lush breasts quivering as Lance savors every spoonful from her gaping twat. He's digging deeper in her than he had in me, and I'm jealous again.

Oh please, please, please let me have Lance back! But I don't dare beg aloud. If I do she'll only torment me more.

"I'm not sure," he muses after rolling around in his mouth black-cherry gelato seasoned with Mom nectar. "Why don't we switch again."

Yes, yes, yes! My libido is doing handsprings as they exchange places and he settles back at my crotch, his spoon dipping into me.

OHmyGOSH! We're getting down to the bottom now. His spoon is scraping the inside of my vagina as he slowly, teasingly cleans me out. Oh WOW!

He smiles wickedly as his tongue suggestively slurps the softened treat off his spoon. Oh, how good that tongue would feel inside me. His lips could warm my clit back up, making it burn, and burn, and burn until I went up in flames!

"May I come?" I ask, finally breaking my silence. "Please, Master, may I come?"

Mistress chuckles. "Give her clit a pop with the bowl of your spoon. It gets a great reaction."

Oh no!

"YOW!"

He's a little gentler than Mistress had been. Instead of lightning it's one of those fireworks that goes off with a bang that you feel in your chest, shooting sparkles out and out and out, all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes, my whole body convulsing against my bindings. I really think some wires got crossed when I was assembled, because I can't tell whether it's pleasure or pain.

Now his spoon is probing deeper inside me, extracting scoops of melted gelato mixed with my lubricants, scraping the walls of my vagina, including my G spot. Oh dear God! I look at my reflection in the mirror, watch my boyfriend slipping his ice-cream spoon deep into my gaping cunt, the tip of his tongue between his lips the way it is when he's really concentrating. He didn't want to miss a single tasty drip, and I was mentally urging him on.

Mom's mouth is slack with lust as her lover is just as thorough with her dipping.

Suddenly Mom gives a shriek. Mistress Elaine is twirling the spoon buried deep in Mom's twat, spinning the bowl inside her cunt, at the same time slowly drawing it out. The rosy blush of an orgasm floods Mom's skin, her breasts quivering, her stomach muscles clenching, her head tossing beside mine as she wails at the ceiling.

Uh oh. She'll pay for that if Mistress hasn't given her permission to come.

"Brace yourself," Lance warns me softly.

Oh no. He's been watching, and he is such a good student!

His spoon twirls within me, beating me to a froth and I'm fighting not to come, only he adds his own special touch by leaning over me, planting his gelato-chilled lips right on my hot, distended nipple, and sucking hard.

Aaahhhh! Straining against the bindings my whole body is engulfed in a monumental orgasm that seems to go on forever and ever and ever until my muscles give out, leaving me panting and sweating and limp.

Mistress clucks. "Tsk, tsk, tsk."

Even as I contemplate the delectable possibilities they have available for chastising us my mind scampers away again, hiding in memories from my freshman year.

The first naked student to emerge from the office was Cameron Whitaker, whose molestation had triggered our march, and therefore the last person in the world I expected to see there.

She didn't slink out, either. The set to her jaw and frame and her clenched fists left no doubt that she was ready to do battle. My esteem for her soared and I took a step in her direction, wanting to bolster her, a little concerned with how she was dealing with all this. The moment she saw me her smile blossomed like the sun coming out from behind a dark cloud. She wrapped her arms around me, pressed her whole self against me without the reserve many girls, naked or not, would use when embracing another girl, especially a naked one with known les tendencies.

Oh she felt so good, her warm, satin skin on mine, the softness of her breasts, the bush at her crotch brushing me. I couldn't resist humping and squirming in her embrace. I was so proud of her!

"What're you doing here?" she asked after a wonderful moment, her breath hot on me as she squeezed me back.

Reluctantly I released her, though she showed no sign of wanting to move away. "I could ask you the same thing. After yesterday..."

Her jaw got that set again and there was a steely glint in her astonishingly deep blue eyes. "My parents weren't wild about it, but I'm not about to let those ... those..."

"Bastards," I filled in for her.

"Those bastards win, and I told Mom and Dad that. At first I blamed Jason for not being with me, but realized that wasn't fair."

Releasing me she cuddled up next to who I assumed was Jason. Love in bloom -- if she still had her virginity now I was willing to bet she wouldn't by the end of the week. Around us the other Program participants were being welcomed by my army becoming bodyguards.

"I realized it wasn't his fault," Cameron explained. "He had to talk to Mrs. Gleason. Then I blamed myself..."

"It wasn't your fault," Jason scolded. "I blamed myself, too. You know that."

"And I blamed myself," I admitted.

"Well don't, either of you! I finally did figure out whose fault really was -- is."

"Who?" I asked hopefully.

"I don't know specifically who it was, but it was whoever set me up."

"Set you up?"

She grabbed up her bookbag and dug into it, pulling something out. "I put it in here, trying not to handle it too much. Maybe there's fingerprints."

I took the sealed envelope she handed me. "What is it?"

"Don't open it! See, each of us who's handled it, we've initialed and put the date and time on the flap. You should, too. Mrs. Devers says it's called maintaining the chain of evidence. She's seen what's inside -- she handled it with tweezers -- said I should give it to you, that you know a cop. You'll see. It's what I was reaching for when that ... that..."

"Fucker," I suggested.

"That fucker goosed me," she went on. "He must have slipped it in my locker to catch my eye with the idea I'd go for it. Which, like a fool, I did. Don't we have classes? Maybe we can talk about it at lunch. Now, what IS all this?"

She looked around at the clusters of seniors surrounding her fellow participants, and the ones around us, among them Kathy. The spectators had melted away and Mrs. Devers was standing in the office door, looking smug. I didn't recognize our prisoner of war as he was turned over to her, but he was one of the white-shirt brigade we suspected of being responsible for the attacks.