Dear Diary 1977 : Homecoming - Vol 2
Copyright© 2026 by Emily Wendling
Chapter 13
Fiction Story: Chapter 13 - 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
The locker room was thick with a smell of sweat, sex, and fear. It clung to the tiled walls and the cold metal lockers, a palpable entity that filled the space. Kristy lay limp on the unforgiving bench, a vessel emptied and then refilled with a potent brew of agony and lingering ecstasy. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths, each one a laborious effort. Her body was a canvas of abuse, her skin flushed and marked, her pussy a gaping, throbbing ruin of red, swollen flesh. The cuffs on her wrists were a constant, biting reminder of her complete and utter helplessness. Her mind was a fog, a white noise of sensory overload, unable to form a coherent thought beyond the next shuddering breath.
Jennifer rose slowly from her kneeling position, her movements fluid and powerful. Her face, glistening with a thick sheen of Kristy’s fluids and her own saliva, was a mask of dark satisfaction. The beautiful woman remained kneeling for a moment longer, her amber eyes fixed on the sight before her, a look of clinical appraisal in their depths. Then, she too stood, her movements as graceful as a panther’s. They stood on either side of the bench, looking down at their handiwork, two predators admiring their fallen prey.
Their eyes met across Kristy’s horizontal body. The air crackled with an unspoken understanding, a shared thrill in their dominance. Jennifer leaned forward, her hands braced on the bench. The beautiful woman mirrored her movement from the other side. Their faces came together, hovering just inches above Kristy’s body.
The kiss was not gentle. It was a confrontation. Jennifer, driven by a raw, animalistic hunger, initiated it. Her mouth crashed against the beautiful woman’s, her tongue forcing its way past her lips. It was a deep, possessive kiss, a transfer of power and taste. She was sharing the spoils of their feast, forcing the other woman to taste Kristy on her tongue. The beautiful woman, for a moment, was passive, allowing Jennifer’s assault. Then, she responded. Her own tongue, agile and precise, met Jennifer’s, not to fight, but to engage in a sensual, intricate dance. She was tasting Jennifer, tasting Kristy on Jennifer, analyzing the complex flavors. The kiss was a wet, messy, deeply intimate act of shared conquest. Their lips parted, their tongues dueled, and soft, guttural sounds of pleasure escaped their throats. It was a performance as much as it was a passion, a display designed for the one audience member who could not escape.
Kristy, her vision swaying, watched them through a fog. The sight of them kissing so passionately above her. It was a final, profound humiliation. She was the source of their desire, the reason for their passion, yet she was nothing more than the surface on which they enacted it. A single, hot tear escaped from the corner of her eye and traced a path through the sweat on her temple. The kiss broke with a soft, wet sound. They pulled back, their lips swollen and glistening. Three strands of saliva connected them for a moment before breaking. They looked at each other, their chests heaving, a silent pact sealed.
Jennifer straightened up, her expression coarsening. Her gaze swept across the locker room, her eyes sharp and calculating. They landed on a gym bag leaning against a row of lockers. A slow, predatory smile spread across her face. Without a word, she strode over to it, her bare feet silent on the cool tiles. She unzipped the bag and rummaged inside for a moment before pulling out her prize.
It was a flogger.
It was a wicked-looking thing, crafted from dozens of thin, black leather strands, each about eighteen inches long, all attached to a solid, braided handle. It was well-used, the leather soft and supple, promising a flexible, stinging impact rather than a dull, heavy thud. Jennifer swung it experimentally through the air, and it made a soft, sinister whistling sound, a sound that cut through the fog in Kristy’s mind like a shard of ice.
Panic, cold and absolute, seized Kristy. The lingering haze of pleasure evaporated, replaced by a primal, animal terror. Her eyes widened, fixed on the black tendrils of the flogger. She understood, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, what Jennifer intended to do with it. She intended to use it on her. On her already abused, hypersensitive, gaping pussy.
“No,” Kristy whispered, the word a dry, pathetic puff of air.
Jennifer turned back to the bench, the flogger dangling casually from her wrist. Her smile was gone, replaced by a look of cold, intense focus. She took a step closer.
“No! Jennifer, please! Don’t!” The words tore from Kristy’s throat, her voice cracking with desperation. She began to struggle in earnest, pulling against the cuffs with all her might. The metal bit deeper into her wrists, sending sharp pains up her arms, but she barely noticed. Her legs, which had been limp, began to kick and thrash wildly. She had to close them, to protect herself, to shield that most vulnerable part of her from the looming horror. Her panic was a physical force, a frantic, desperate energy.
Jennifer woke up suddenly in a cold sweat, a scream beginning to form in her throat. She sat up in bed, trembling uncontrollably and whimpering, her heart pounding loudly as she recalled the ugly nightmare that had tormented her sleep. She shivered in relief as she realized that she was safely at home in her bed.
The first sensation was not sight or sound but heat. It was a suffocating, wet blanket that pressed down on her, stealing the air from her lungs and weighing her limbs to the mattress. Jennifer surfaced from the depths of sleep with a gasp, her body arching off the sweat-soaked sheets as if breaking the surface of a deep, dark lake. Her heart hammered against her ribs with a frantic, violent rhythm, a drumbeat of pure panic in the quiet of her bedroom. Her breath came in ragged, shallow pulls, each one burning in her throat. The air in the room was cool, but her skin was on fire, slick with a feverish perspiration that plastered her hair to her temples and neck in damp, dark tendrils.
Sweat clung to her skin in a thin, dripping layer. It soaked the back of her shirt. It dampened the blanket beneath her. Her hair stuck to her forehead. Her palms were slick. The room was bright. That was the first thing she registered. Not moonlight. Not shadows. Sunlight. Soft, early morning sunlight spilled across the floorboards in warm, golden bands. The curtains glowed faintly where the sun touched them. The jasmine vine outside was lit from behind. Its leaves were edged in pale yellow. The air was still cool. But the night had passed. The world had moved on. She had not.
Her breath came fast and uneven. It caught in her throat. She pushed herself upright too quickly. Her muscles were tight and trembling. Her hands shook when she braced them against the mattress. Her jaw ached from clenching. She scanned the room again. The movement was sharp and instinctive. Her gaze flicked to the corners. To the dresser. To the window. To the door. She did not know what she was looking for. She only knew she needed to make sure. Make sure she was here. Make sure she was awake. Make sure the dream was still not happening around her.
The sunlight made everything look harmless. It was familiar. It was ordinary. The bookshelf stood exactly where it always had. The stuffed rabbit sat on the dresser. Its ribbon was still tied neatly around its neck. The wooden walls glowed softly in the morning light. The jasmine scent drifted through the open window. It was sweet and calm. Nothing was wrong. But her body did not believe it.
A profound ache settled deep within her pelvic muscles, a dull, resonant throb that spoke of intense exertion. It was a feeling of complete satisfaction, of a release so total it bordered on collapse. Her thighs were pressed tightly together, and she could feel a slickness there that was distinctly different from the sweat on her stomach or arms. It was thicker, warmer, more intimate. She felt utterly displaced, a consciousness thrust into a body that had been living a separate, more visceral life while she was away.
Her hands were her first point of contact with this new reality. She brought her right hand up from where it lay tangled in the sheets beside her hip. Her fingers were stiff and curled slightly, as if they had been gripping something tightly. She pressed the palm to her forehead, feeling the clammy, cool skin there. Then she lowered it, intending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. As her hand passed beneath her nose, she stopped. A scent clung to her fingers, a scent that was not her own. It was musky and sharp, a complex aroma of salt and something deeply organic, unmistakably the scent of an aroused woman.
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