Dear Diary 1977 : Homecoming - Vol 2
Copyright© 2026 by Emily Wendling
Chapter 11
Fiction Story: Chapter 11 - My eyes watered, tears mixing with the drool, streaming down my face as I was face fucked into oblivion, the sound of my gagging and screaming the only music in the dark room. The assault was so intense, so overwhelming, that my body began to rebel. It was not just saliva. It was a physical expulsion of fluids triggered by the sheer thickness of the intrusion. I gagged, a convulsive heave that had no escape route, and it came out in a thick, clear stream of mucus.
Caution: This Fiction Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Slavery Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Paranormal Incest Father Daughter BDSM DomSub MaleDom Humiliation Light Bond Rough Sadistic Spanking Torture White Male White Female Anal Sex Oral Sex Voyeurism
And then it was over. The basement dissolved the way dreams did when your body finally decided it had had enough. It was not gradually. It was not gently, but all at once. It was like a hand wiping condensation from a mirror. Kristy, her father, the stone walls, the swinging bulb, the cold basement all gone. Jennifer surfaced into realization with a sharp inhale, her hand clutching at sheets that were damp with sweat, her heart doing the particular frantic thing it did when the body woke before the mind had finished processing what the mind had just been through. She lay there for a long moment in the dark, breathing, waiting for the pieces of herself to reassemble.
Just a dream. The words arrived with the automatic. It was almost insulting ease of something her brain kept on standby for exactly these occasions. She pressed her palm flat against her sternum and felt her heartbeat gradually slow beneath it, felt the sweat cooling on her skin, felt the specific, ordinary weight of her own body against the mattress. It was real. It was solid. She repeated the words until the rest of her started to believe them. Just a dream. The basement wasn’t real. The door wasn’t real. She was awake. She was certain of it. However, she was wrong.
The fog arrived without warning, seeping in at the edges of the room the way smoke did under a closed door. It was slow at first, almost imperceptible, and then everywhere at once. The ceiling above her softened. The walls lost their corners. She blinked and the act of blinking felt strange, too deliberate, like something she was doing manually rather than something her body simply did on its own. She tried to sit up, and the room tilted in that slow, unhurried way that had nothing to do with the effort of moving and everything to do with the fact that the room was no longer entirely committed to being a room.
A dizziness that wasn’t quite dizziness. It felt like it was being caught between two frequencies. However, it was not fully present either. Her signal was cutting in and out of something she didn’t have a name for. She thought, very clearly and very calmly, in the last moment before the fog took the thought away. I am not awake. And then she was somewhere else.
The smell hit her before anything else happened. Damp towels and industrial soap and the faint, inexplicable ghost of chlorine that had always seeped over from the aquatics center next door through the ventilation system that nobody had ever bothered to fix. Jennifer knew that smell the way she knew her own heartbeat. It was not from memory but from somewhere deeper than memory. It was some place in the body that stored certain things without being asked to, that kept them safe and whole long after the mind had moved on to other business.
The University of Virginia women’s locker room. Exact and entire and impossibly, heartbreakingly real. It was all there. The long rows of olive green metal lockers running the length of the room in two facing banks, their paint chipped at the corners where a thousand athletic bags had been swung against them over the years with the casual violence of people who had somewhere more important to be.
Combination locks hanging open on the permanently claimed ones, left unlocked between sessions out of the comfortable assumption that nobody here took what wasn’t theirs. The floor beneath her feet was the same. The pale grey and perpetually slightly damp, cold enough to make you walk on the balls of your toes in an unconscious, reflexive hurry. She was doing it now without having decided to.
The long wooden benches between the locker rows were scarred with years of use. Their surfaces soft and darkened in the middle where countless athletes had sat to pull on spikes and tape ankles and have the quiet, focused conversations that only happened in that particular pre-competition silence. When adrenaline made everyone either very loud or very still and there was no middle ground. You always knew which kind of person you were by which way you went. Jennifer had always gone still. She had forgotten that about herself until just now.
The showers were running somewhere behind the tiled wall at the far end, their sound a constant low percussion beneath everything else, hollow and cathedral-like the way shower rooms always were. Someone had left a bottle of Herbal Essences on the nearest bench, its green cap open, and the smell of it cut through everything else with a precision that made Jennifer’s chest ache. The smell of that specific green-apple sweetness that she hadn’t smelled in years and that now, here, in this impossible place, was so present and so exact that it felt less like a memory and more like a wound.
On the wall above the lockers the cork bulletin board still held its curling layer of meet schedules and sign-up sheets, and the photograph of last season’s relay team was still pinned at the crooked angle that had bothered her every single time she’d walked past it. A pair of forgotten track spikes hung by their laces from a locker handle near the end of the row, swinging faintly in some draft she couldn’t locate, their metal tips catching the fluorescent light in small periodic flashes.
She had been so fast here. She had been so certain. She had been a version of herself that moved through the world like she had a right to it, like the ground would hold, like the next thing was always going to be as good as the last thing or better. She hadn’t known that was what she was, then. She had taken it completely for granted. She was still standing there, inside that particular grief, when she heard it.
A sound from behind the far row of lockers. It was subtle enough that someone not paying attention would have missed it entirely. A shift of weight. The soft compression of the wooden bench takes on the specific pressure of a body. She moved toward it the way she always moved toward things she both needed and dreaded knowing. Slowly, and without stopping, her footsteps quiet on the damp concrete.
She came around the end of the locker row. And there was her friend Kristy. The cold wood of the bench pressed against Kristy’s naked spine. It was a stark contrast to the humid air of the room. Her arms were strained behind her, the sharp bite of the steel cuffs digging into her wrists as they locked her to the bench’s support structure. Kristy Blair was utterly immobilized, a sacrifice laid out on an altar of polished wood and unforgiving iron. Her legs, however, were free, draped over the sides of the bench, her feet barely brushing the floor. This freedom was no mercy. It was a calculated vulnerability, leaving her most intimate core completely exposed to the two women who stood over her.
Jennifer was the first to move. She was all predatory grace. Her body was lean and corded with muscle. She knelt between Kristy’s splayed thighs. Jennifer Meininger’s piercing ice blue eyes were pools of hunger that devoured the sight before her. Beside her, the other woman remained standing for a moment, a figure of breathtaking, almost ethereal beauty. Her face was a perfect oval. They were framed by waves of dark hair, and her eyes, a startling shade of amber, held a chilling, analytical curiosity. She was a collector of rare experiences, and Kristy was her latest, most fascinating specimen.
“She’s perfect,” Jennifer breathed.
Jennifer’s voice was a low rumble that vibrated through Kristy’s bones. She leaned in, not with a kiss, but with an open-mouthed inhale, as if she could taste Kristy’s scent from the air alone.
“And she smells delicious.” Jennier said.
The beautiful woman finally knelt, mirroring Jennifer’s position.
“Let’s see if she tastes as good as she smells,” she said.
The woman’s voice was softer, but somehow more menacing than Jennifer’s raw hunger. The first touch was a shock. Jennifer’s tongue, hot and wet, laved a broad, possessive stripe over Kristy’s outer folds. A shudder wracked Kristy’s body, a traitorous response of pleasure that she tried to suppress. Then came the pain. Jennifer’s teeth followed, sharp incisors scraping delicately but with unmistakable intent against the sensitive flesh. Kristy cried out, a sharp, startled sound that was equal parts pleasure and protest. Her hips thrashed violently, but there was nowhere to go. The beautiful woman watched Kristy’s face, a faint, cruel smile playing on her lips.
“Your friend likes that,” she observed.
The woman leaned in herself. Her touch was different. It was precise and almost clinical. She used the very tip of her tongue to trace the intricate folds, mapping Kristy’s anatomy with terrifying accuracy. Then, she too, used her teeth. A gentle, deliberate nip right on the edge of Kristy’s inner labia, just enough to send a jolt of sharp, exquisite pain through her. Kristy’s moan was a broken thing.
“Please stop,” Kristy gasped.
The word was torn from her throat. She didn’t know if she was begging them to stop or to continue. The lines were already blurring into a haze of overwhelming sensation.
“Don’t listen to her,” Jennifer said.
Misunderstanding or, more likely, ignoring the plea.