Chapter 8: Finger-Fucking Good

When Mr. and Mrs. Pettibone arrived home on Sunday evening, they found their house pretty much as Sharon had left it after no less than five sessions of extraordinary self-abuse. On the livingroom sofa was a stain, a splotch, the size of a watermelon. In the kitchen was the odor of clit juice. Those two rooms, in fact, smelled like a French whore house after six weeks of defilement. The refrigerator door was open, the food stank. The t.v. was on and blaring, as was the new stereo system. The throw rugs were disheveled and tossed here and there on furniture.

As for their bedroom, Mr. and Mrs. Pettibone couldn't believe their eyes. They discovered their daughter Sharon sprawled out nude with a dildo still vibrating, laying by her side. From her twat leaked a trickle of juice, and in her left hand was a puddle of melted lime jello. The sheets to her left were stained with chocolate pudding. The phone was off the hook and the bedspread was tossed halfway out the window. Sharon was half-conscious. "Hi Mom, hi Dad," she mumbled, and she flicked the machine off. "I guess I fell asleep."

The next morning Mr. Pettibone escorted his daughter to a clinical psychologist who gave Sharon both a physical and mental examination. He found nothing wrong with her physically, but he was rather concerned about her sexual attitudes and fantasies: "I don't quite understand," said Dr. Rooker, "how it is that you are so interested in masturbating yourself, Ms. Pettibone."

"Either that or getting it for real," said young Sharon as she buttoned her blouse. She didn't blush. "I mean really, Doctor Rooker, what would you have me do? I'm a young horny adolescent and I like jacking myself off. I don't know any boys that I really like, and I kind of enjoy sex a lot. So I lay back in bed or in the bathroom and I get myself hot and bothered. It's fun. I like to use my fingers on my clit. It gives me thrills and chills. You know what I mean? It makes me so damn fucking hot that I can't tell you about it. You know what I'm saying? I like men. I like the idea of getting hot and getting laid. But I don't have any boyfriends. I don't know any young men from school who I would like to suck and fuck with. So I masturbate. Is that so sick?"

Dr. Rooker could think of nothing to say. Except, he did tell Mr. Pettibone that Sharon was going through a stage, that she would be able to act a little more normally in a few months or a year, that for right now it wouldn't be too wise to come down hard on her. For that advice and diagnosis Mr. Pettibone refused to pay. He took his daughter home and made her undress in front of him. "You may have talked that Dr. Rooker into thinking you're normal, but you haven't convinced me." He brandished his leather belt. "Lay down across my knee, young lady, and take what you have coming to you."

"Oh, Daddy," she moaned, secretly enjoying the idea, "do I have to?"

"It's for your own good," he said, trying not to eyeball his daughter's supremely luscious chest. "If I don't give you a good licking," he added, "you'll grow up thinking that masturbation is alright. I don't want you to be one of those perverted young women who become models for pornographers. Now lay down across my knee."

She smiled and wondered what it would be like to be a model for a pornographer. Then she laid down across her father's knee, her titties hanging low, her ass cheeks spreading wide. "Oh, Daddy," she begged in as sweet a voice as possible, "don't strap me too hard. Please? PLEASE? Don't hit me too hard with that piece of leather. It might hurt--OH, please, no, oh.

She felt the sting of his punishing strokes at her ass cheeks. He spared her nothing. He whipped her solidly with the leather belt. He left neat red welts on her ass cheeks, and even though it hurt her, even though he beat her body mercilessly, Sharon couldn't help but think that her father didn't really want to do that and that she really didn't mind having it done. It made her pussy leak just to be nude with her father in her parents' bedroom. When it was over, with tears in her eyes, she followed her father's orders to say "I will not jack myself off ever again." He made her say it fifty times before he let her up off his knee. She noticed as she left the room that his cock muscle was tumescent and bulging in his trousers. She wondered as she locked herself in her bedroom if her father was going to jack off now.

That night, when she was going to sleep, Sharon heard her mother coming down the hallway. She opened the door so that Mrs. Pettibone could come in and say good night. Sharon's mother didn't think that her daughter deserved such a terrible punishment, but she also believed that the father of the household was boss. And that's why she was of no assistance during the strapping. "Good night, darling," said Mrs. Pettibone. "You'll feel better in the morning."

"Yes, Mother," said Sharon who was laying on her belly in bed. She had the sheets pulled up around her neck as she lay face down. A moment later her father showed up at the door. "Now you know what kind of trouble masturbation can get you into, Sharon. I expect you'll not do any more of it." He shut the door behind him as he left his daughter alone in her bedroom. Debby, her sister, was still out with one of her boyfriends.

Sharon lay quite still in the darkness. No one knew that secretly she had a finger up between her twat lips. Even as her mother and father spoke to her she'd been fiddling with her clitoris. "I don't care what they say," she mumbled to herself, "I happen to like playing with my meaty little clit button and I'm going to continue to do so until I find a man who can do better. I feel that strongly about it." And she continued to swab at her clit with her index finger. "Oh, God," she moaned, "it feels so nice." She reached out over the edge of the bed.

Even though her father had confiscated what tools and photos he could find, Sharon still harbored, in her secret hiding place between the two mattresses on which she slept, a storehouse of sex appliances. There, right under the place where she was sprawled out, were several cock tease tools, cunt device rubbers, etc. She had just the thing she needed right now. It was a sculpted pecker the size of a shoe. The head of it was thick and made to order for belly masturbating. It was to be used specifically when the woman laid on her stomach.

Sharon lifted the thing out from between the mattresses and stroked it down along the backs of her legs. She slipped it into her clit container from the back, as it was meant to be applied. The cock device worked its way slowly into her pussy. It was self-lubricating and therefore among the easiest of all the tools to use. "Oh, Jesus," she grunted to herself as the tool slid toward home, "I can't believe that they honestly thought I wouldn't play with myself anymore." She rubbed the mechanical pecker into her cunt. "My gushing gash will be the proof of who's right and who's wrong about this issue!"

She rocked her hips up and down, and thereby took on more and more of the synthetic penis. She got most of it into her pussy. Then she began to juice. Along with the secretion of her naturally pleasant smelling ooze came the sensation of other- worldliness. And from then on, she felt like she was in heaven, a celestial spirit floating about the universe like a space-baby made to fly the night skies and vacuums. She worked her way into an hallucinatory state of zesty lust. "Mmmm, good," she hummed. "This shall be nice!"

She let her mind drift. Her imagination brought up the image of an erotically stimulating male parading before her. He was in chains and his wrists were manacled behind his back. He was chained around the naked waist to the man in front of him as well as to the man behind him. They were lined up for an elephant walk, all of them nude, all of them brought to her attention to make her hot and sexy. She was some sort of queen and these were her subjects, some of them willing, some of them slaves. She picked out one with big strong muscles, shiney skin, keen eyes. "That one," she said. "Bring him to me.

He was undone, let free, and he bowed down before her. "I am your sex slave," he said simply. "What can I do for you, Sharon Pettibone?"