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Taking Chances

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Chapter Five (Part 2/3)


I started toward the window, but hands grab my elbows from behind, stopping me cold. Paul.

"Hey! Hey!" Hank was shouting at the top of his lungs. He continued to do this until, I guess, he felt he had the attention of enough of the undergrads outside. "Hey, we've got a girl up here," he said, speaking at the slightly slower pace one uses when shouting and trying to be understood. "She bet against us yesterday. We just fucked her!" I could hear shouts, laughs, woo-hoos coming from the crowd below. "Here!" Hank shouted, and I saw my clothes leave his hands, fly outward into thin air, and then drop from my sight.

I tried to break Paul’s grip, my head plunging forward, my legs flying up. Of course, it was useless and too late anyway: my clothes were already falling to the ground.

"God damn you!" I started.

"Now, what do you say, Stan?" Paul/Ollie said. "She doesn't seem to be focused at all on what's important."

"I'd say not, Ollie," Hank/Stan answered. "Why, if I were her, I think I'd be hot-footing it down there right now while I could still get my clothes back."

"Why, those were my thoughts exactly, Stan," Paul/Ollie returned with perfect timing.

Paul released my arms. I realized Hank was right. I wanted to curse them out, to hurl invective at them, to call them every vile, obscene name I knew. Instead, I grabbed my clutch purse, opened the door, and ran nude out into the hallway.

I found the stairs and bolted downward. Some of the kids were coming back in from the party outside and I passed two or three or four of them on every set of stairs. My boobs were bouncing and jiggling.

Most laughed at me, some just stared; some had comments like, “Hey, shake those things around there, mama!” The overall effect of the shouts and laughter and my pounding feet on the stairs was to announce my imminent arrival to the next set of stairs, and, when I reached the last set, to the lobby inside the building entrance.

I bolted through the foyer and out the doors. I had not noticed where the boys' room window was in relation to the entrance. A large group of kids was outside the entry and as I stopped, trying to get my bearings, figuring out which way to go, the kids started laughing, pointing.

One girl looked right at me and commented, "Hey, you must be the one that got fucked.”

“Serves you right for betting against us," said another girl.

Well. So much for the solidarity of the sisterhood.

I stood there for precious seconds naked and in the sunlight, laughing kids all around me. I finally figured out the solution and looked up, scanning the uppermost windows. Hank and Paul would never miss this, and I was right. Right away I saw their heads sticking out a window on the top floor to the right of the entrance. I started running to a point below them, hoping, praying my clothes were still there.

I arrived at a knot of a dozen or so kids in my way just short of the spot I needed to reach. I looked to see which way was the best to get around, coming to a stop five feet in front of them. Then a misery and humiliation I had not yet even imagined thrust itself on me.

"Ms. Charles?" a coed standing in front of me asked, amazement in her voice. "Oh, my God," she announced to everyone nearby, "that's my Chem Instructor, Ms. Charles!"

The comments then came fast and furious, overlapping, but every mortifying observation clear to my ears.

A girl's voice: "You're right, that's Ms. Charles!"

Another girl's voice: "Holy shit! Is that cum all over her face?"

A boy's voice: "Look at that bush!"

A boy's voice: "Great cans!"

Another girl's voice: "God it is! Her face is covered with cum!"

I had to push through them to get to the point I wanted to reach. When I got to the spot under the boys' window the ground was bare of clothing. I knew all the kids in the group had turned to watch me. There was a line of hip-high bushes, like a little hedge, running the length of the building with several feet of space between them and the side of the building. I bent over this hoping that something had dropped behind and could still be recovered. Just my tee would be a godsend. Other than a useless-to-me, weather-stained gym sock caught in the branches of the bushes there was nothing. But as I was bent over I could hear disembodied comments again.

A girl's voice, "Look at how wet her pussy is!"

Another girl's voice, patiently explaining, "She's not wet. That's cum."

A boy's voice, "Man, she musta got fucked bad."

Another girl's voice, "Oh, God, look! It's running down her legs!"

I had not considered that my pounding run down the stairs would have made a great deal of the boys' two loads leak out. Now that I’d heard the comment I could feel the cool breeze on my legs, cooler where they were wet with cum: on the insides and backs of my thighs, on my right leg almost down to my knee. Just then I felt another plop of cum escape from my vagina.

That was it. I took off running toward my distant car. Actually, I was at best jogging, slowed by the need to be careful of my bare feet. As I trotted along, I felt the skin on my face pulled tighter, like when the face pack at the spa begins to dry and set: Paul's cum congealing in the cool fall air.

Several times I found myself having to pass little groups of kids walking along the path in the opposite direction. I covered my face to hide my identity and jogged on, but every comment about my ass, my bush, my tits, every peal of uproarious laughter, I can still clearly remember, even hear in my memory, today. It was the longest, slowest two-hundred-yard jog of my life.

I opened my car and tumbled in, started the engine, and then my head collapsed against the steering wheel. Sobs wracked my body, heavy and uncontrollable, trying to cry out of me the private and public humiliations I had just suffered.

All over a bet I couldn't lose.
 
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I hope this doesn't overload folks for today but I thought perhaps I'd just post up the last little bit of wrap up for Robert. No 'good parts', sorry to say.


Chapter Five (Part 3/3)


So that’s my story, at least what you would likely consider the interesting parts. No regrettable consequences came from my cum-drenched public nudity. Most of the undergrads outside the dorm didn’t know me. Most never saw me. No, that’s not right. I suppose they all saw me as I jogged to my car, but almost all saw nothing more than some naked woman’s bare ass as she ran toward the music building. Only a relative few saw me: my bush, my tits, my cum-covered face.

Stories floated around campus for a while, but this was in the days before ubiquitous cell phones with camera lens. With no pictures the stories were impossible to prove. At least no one ever suggested to me that I was the subject of those rumors, but just in case I had my answer ready: “Excuse me? You think I did what? I'm sure I've got the number right here for the campus sexual harassment hotline.”

Just undergrads and their rumors. Even by the end of that school year it had become an event that fell into the category of unverifiable campus myth. The myth about some Science teacher (or in some tellings English, or Music, or History, or Sociology) who once ran nude (or in just her underwear? or topless?), from the dorm to the music building (or was it the music building to the library? or the pool to the campus apartments?). It would be interesting to know how now, nine years later, the myth has morphed and twisted in the intervening years.

The two coeds who had recognized me by face and name in that last knot of kids were in my Monday morning Chem section. They usually sat in the back, but the following morning, and for the rest of the semester, they were right up front with their smiles, giggles, snickers, and whispers. It took a couple classes, but I learned to ignore them, and to grade their tests and papers with the severity of Genghis Khan.

I eventually married Patrick. I think I mentioned earlier that I finally told him about this bet after we were married for a couple of years. He sympathized with me but later (much later) finally told me the truth: that he found the story hot. For years now it’s been a running joke between us: how I had been asking him again and again at the end of that ill-fated game, “But the other team is going to win, right?” How I had barfed up my hotdogs exactly at our school's moment of shining triumph.

Paul and Hank - I’m sure Stan and Ollie had been right on Tuesday in their surmise that come Sunday evening blue balls would be the least of their worries - were working in my lab for another month or so until the end of the semester. When I saw them next on Tuesday I was Roberta again, but Paul and Hank never let me forget that I had willingly, if reluctantly, stripped before them, showed off my birthday suit for them, got on my hands and knees for them, submitted to having my mouth and pussy fucked by them; that they had publicly humiliated me.

I did sit them down on that first Tuesday. I told them I had apologized to them on Sunday, obviously, to make my experience, my ordeal at their mercy, hopefully a little less unbearable. I told them I wanted to apologize to them again, without an unpaid bet hanging over my head, for my earlier behavior. I told them I was sorry and realized what I had done was wrong and cruel. I told them I hoped I was doing better.

I had an objection to bring to their attention: how they had forced me to run naked in public. That had not been part of the bet.

"Sure it was, Roberta," Paul said. "You like to quote people. What we said was, 'When we get done with that the bet is paid and you can leave and go get your clothes.' Maybe you weren't paying enough attention."

It sounded pretty weasley to me. Then again, I realized that no one asking me directly about this event meant that the boys never bragged about what happened in their room that afternoon, never confirmed any rumors to anyone. So, I decided to just call it even.

I wrote a moment ago that Paul and Hank never let me forget for the rest of the semester what I had endured at their hands over my lost, sure-thing bet. Actually, that’s not really accurate. They themselves, Paul and Hank, did not ever again say a single word to me about the bet or my payoff.

But Stan and Ollie sure had a lot to say about it.



# # # #END # # # #
 
BEThalia said:
I hope this doesn't overload folks for today but I thought perhaps I'd just post up the last little bit of wrap up for Robert. No 'good parts', sorry to say.


Chapter Five (Part 3/3)


So that’s my story, at least what you would likely consider the interesting parts. No regrettable consequences came from my cum-drenched public nudity. Most of the undergrads outside the dorm didn’t know me. Most never saw me. No, that’s not right. I suppose they all saw me as I jogged to my car, but almost all saw nothing more than some naked woman’s bare ass as she ran toward the music building. Only a relative few saw me: my bush, my tits, my cum-covered face.

Stories floated around campus for a while, but this was in the days before ubiquitous cell phones with camera lens. With no pictures the stories were impossible to prove. At least no one ever suggested to me that I was the subject of those rumors, but just in case I had my answer ready: “Excuse me? You think I did what? I'm sure I've got the number right here for the campus sexual harassment hotline.”

Just undergrads and their rumors. Even by the end of that school year it had become an event that fell into the category of unverifiable campus myth. The myth about some Science teacher (or in some tellings English, or Music, or History, or Sociology) who once ran nude (or in just her underwear? or topless?), from the dorm to the music building (or was it the music building to the library? or the pool to the campus apartments?). It would be interesting to know how now, nine years later, the myth has morphed and twisted in the intervening years.

The two coeds who had recognized me by face and name in that last knot of kids were in my Monday morning Chem section. They usually sat in the back, but the following morning, and for the rest of the semester, they were right up front with their smiles, giggles, snickers, and whispers. It took a couple classes, but I learned to ignore them, and to grade their tests and papers with the severity of Genghis Khan.

I eventually married Patrick. I think I mentioned earlier that I finally told him about this bet after we were married for a couple of years. He sympathized with me but later (much later) finally told me the truth: that he found the story hot. For years now it’s been a running joke between us: how I had been asking him again and again at the end of that ill-fated game, “But the other team is going to win, right?” How I had barfed up my hotdogs exactly at our school's moment of shining triumph.

Paul and Hank - I’m sure Stan and Ollie had been right on Tuesday in their surmise that come Sunday evening blue balls would be the least of their worries - were working in my lab for another month or so until the end of the semester. When I saw them next on Tuesday I was Roberta again, but Paul and Hank never let me forget that I had willingly, if reluctantly, stripped before them, showed off my birthday suit for them, got on my hands and knees for them, submitted to having my mouth and pussy fucked by them; that they had publicly humiliated me.

I did sit them down on that first Tuesday. I told them I had apologized to them on Sunday, obviously, to make my experience, my ordeal at their mercy, hopefully a little less unbearable. I told them I wanted to apologize to them again, without an unpaid bet hanging over my head, for my earlier behavior. I told them I was sorry and realized what I had done was wrong and cruel. I told them I hoped I was doing better.

I had an objection to bring to their attention: how they had forced me to run naked in public. That had not been part of the bet.

"Sure it was, Roberta," Paul said. "You like to quote people. What we said was, 'When we get done with that the bet is paid and you can leave and go get your clothes.' Maybe you weren't paying enough attention."

It sounded pretty weasley to me. Then again, I realized that no one asking me directly about this event meant that the boys never bragged about what happened in their room that afternoon, never confirmed any rumors to anyone. So, I decided to just call it even.

I wrote a moment ago that Paul and Hank never let me forget for the rest of the semester what I had endured at their hands over my lost, sure-thing bet. Actually, that’s not really accurate. They themselves, Paul and Hank, did not ever again say a single word to me about the bet or my payoff.

But Stan and Ollie sure had a lot to say about it.



# # # #END # # # #
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Wonderfully done :Laie_22mini:

Imagine if they met again 20 years later and, through some reason or other, found themselves in a not dissimilar situation - just a thought ;)
 
Fossy said:
Imagine if they met again 20 years later and, through some reason or other, found themselves in a not dissimilar situation - just a thought
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OR

Imagine if Roberta had a niece named Danielle who was a student years later at her old alma mater.

And imagine if Dani somehow came to learn of her beloved aunt's terrible and humiliating experience from years past.

Further imagine if Dani decided (for undoubtedly deep and complex reasons within her own psyche) to arrange an experience to present to her aunt in which she wins such a bet, resulting in triumph and relief.

But Dani couldn't put just any couple of innocent boys through so humiliating a loss, so imagine she determines to find the worst date rape predator scum on campus and cons them into such a game, a game which she could win or lose - resulting either in entertainment, the application of punishment to some creeps, and the hoped for result to present to her aunt, or resulting in her, like her aunt, having to submit to paying off a terrible and humiliating bet to a couple of sexual beasts of prey.

Now, would that make for a cool little tale?
 
BEThalia said:
OR

Imagine if Roberta had a niece named Danielle who was a student years later at her old alma mater.

And imagine if Dani somehow came to learn of her beloved aunt's terrible and humiliating experience from years past.

Further imagine if Dani decided (for undoubtedly deep and complex reasons within her own psyche) to arrange an experience to present to her aunt in which she wins such a bet, resulting in triumph and relief.

But Dani couldn't put just any couple of innocent boys through so humiliating a loss, so imagine she determines to find the worst date rape predator scum on campus and cons them into such a game, a game which she could win or lose - resulting either in entertainment, the application of punishment to some creeps, and the hoped for result to present to her aunt, or resulting in her, like her aunt, having to submit to paying off a terrible and humiliating bet to a couple of sexual beasts of prey.

Now, would that make for a cool little tale?
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Very much so ...
 

Taking Chances - Volume Three: Dani's Bet​

If you read Volume One: Ellen's Bet you may recall how Ellen was drawn to a framed photograph on the wall of Roberta and Patrick's bedroom. It was of a much younger Roberta and her two nieces - a teen, Emily, and a preteen, Danielle. The younger girl is the Dani of this story. This is the blurb about this story from the Other Stories In thumbnails at the end of all the books.

Volume Three - Dani's Bet: Dani is Roberta's younger niece. She is an academically gifted, sexually late-blooming college senior at Roberta's alma mater. In this novella of nine chapters and about 36,000 words Dani finds a way to satisfy her budding sexual curiosity: she discovers a way to learn the sexual secrets of others. Eventually, she comes upon the knowledge of her Aunt Roberta's humiliations from years before and determines to do something to make it right and give her aunt the vicarious thrill and catharsis of having won her bet with her lab assistants (Volume Two: Roberta's Bet). But to do this she must lure two campus date-rape predators into a supremely dangerous wager. Will she emerge victorious and unscathed, or go down to humiliating defeat, as had Roberta?
 
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Chapter One (Part 1 of 3)


Have you ever found out something about someone and that knowledge made you feel funny? I felt that way at the beginning, but really it wasn’t long at all until I got over it.

My name is Danielle. Call me Dani. I am a senior at a small liberal arts college in the South. I recently found out something about someone to whom I am very close.

I don’t want to tell you about that person and what I learned right now. I would rather tell you why learning that thing was significant to me: why my antennae were out, sniffing out things to learn. I think it’s an interesting story, and I hope you will end up agreeing.

I am twenty-two and was something of a late bloomer, sexually speaking. Through high school I never had a boyfriend, never even went on a date. I cannot say the prospect of having a boyfriend, of dating, was at all attractive, not with the way I so often held my girlfriends' hands and let them cry on my shoulder over boy stuff.

I turned eighteen in the last months of high school, but I never had sex of any kind until I was here at college freshman year. I didn’t even get around to it until spring semester.

Now, you might think it was a church thing, or a morality thing, or a what-would-Jesus-do thing. Maybe you think I was a kid whose mom drilled into her from the time she could understand words that she should not have sex until she was married, or at least an adult. Well, I wasn’t that kid, and my mom wasn’t that mom. She just made sure I knew what I needed to know. My big sister Emily looked after me too: made sure I knew about my body and sex. She also told me the most hilarious stories that helped me learn a thing or two, but those don’t really come up until later.

No, it was not any of those things. I just wasn’t interested in sex. That's all.

I was slow in developing. I did not have my first period until I was almost sixteen. It is something called 'constitutional delay.’ The late onset to menstruation, that is. It just happens sometimes. One doctor told my mom and me that a girl's body must have a particular amount of fat on it before puberty can occur. That would definitely leave me out: I was thin all through my childhood, although I filled out a bit when I finally bloomed, so to speak.

I am sure you are aware that there are A-cup bras. Well, there are also AA-cup bras. No, it‘s a real bra size, not just another name for a tee shirt. Well, that's me.

My studies were of paramount importance to me, and with no boyfriend I had plenty of time to study. I’m really smart. In high school, I was the girl who, when the teacher would stand there and hand out the papers - not moving around to hand them individually to students but standing over at the side of the room and having them go from hand to hand to their owners - whenever my paper would pass through your hand you would see an A on it. Always. Every paper. Every test. Every quiz and pop quiz, and project, and book report, and assignment, and mid-term exam, and final exam. Whatever name they called it I always got an A.

Well, almost. You might think I would have graduated as the valedictorian of my class, but I was the salutatorian. Second place for those of you not too up on academic nomenclature. In horse racing it’s called 'place.' I got a final grade of A-minus in a Creative Writing class I’d had to take junior year. I got the A-minus because I got only a B+ on the big fiction writing assignment that made up half the grade. Which was way less than the story was worth. Well, I’ll let you be the judge. It was about how they built a gigantic telescope in the far side of the Moon. Because of the telescope’s size and the fact that it didn’t have to look through Earth’s atmosphere it could see way farther than any telescope before it. And the big payoff was at the end when the first astronomer to look through the telescope goes crazy when he sees right past the end of the Universe and sees God! I know! Right? Only a B+? I got robbed!

Well, anyway, that was the only time in high school I ever got an assignment back with a grade of less than A on it. Boy, was I ever surprised! So, it was ‘bye-bye valedictorian.’ Not that getting only salutatorian bothered me at all. I just love to learn, and math and science are my specialties.

I could even have graduated early. But I wanted to stay for all four years. I was honest enough with myself to know I was not socially ready to be off on my own. And there were just so many classes I wanted to take before I left. I am at college now on a full academic scholarship, and I finally settled on a major when I was a sophomore: Astronomy is my focus, no pun intended.

Okay. Well, back to the part about learning things about people. Being very smart I am also very curious. One thing I became curious about when I was thirteen was whether my mom had any Victoria's Secret underwear, like in the catalogs that occasionally showed up in the mail. So, alone in the house one day, I went to my parents’ room and began to carefully look in mom’s dresser drawers. I knew I could not get things out of place or she would know someone had been snooping. If that happened, we - my older sister Emily and I - would be the recipients of some words. We would not get yelled at. Mom never did that. She would just 'remind' us about the importance of respecting other peoples' privacy.

I found some underwear that was black and some red. Even without holding it up I could tell you could see right through it. But there was something under the underwear, just peeking out. Holding the underwear in place, I pulled the object out from the bottom of the drawer.

I was sure it was called a ‘dildo,’ but it was different than what I had expected one of those would look like. It was long and rounded and thin, like it was made for a vagina, but at the base was another branch, much shorter than the main part, that curved up in the same direction. I put everything back, but I was having a difficult time understanding the object I had found, or at least understanding the extra branch.

Imagining, I could understand how the larger shaft would go into a woman's vagina, but of what use was the other branch? Wouldn't it get in the way? I thought about this hard, so hard and so long, in fact, that I got only an A-minus on my seventh grade Honors Math final exam.
 
Chapter One (Part 2 of 3)


Finally, I could simply not stand anymore not knowing. I went to see my sister Emily, six years older, nineteen and sophisticated in a way I thought I could never be. This was just at the end of my school year, but Emily had finished her academic year, at a small liberal arts college in the South, a few weeks previous and was home for the summer. I found her in her room.

"Hey, Ems," I said.

"What's up, squirt?"

"Um, hey, I've got a question for you." I felt a funny feeling in my tummy, like I was taking a chance. "If you had, like, a dildo, and it had an extra branch on it. What would that extra branch be for?"

"Hmmmm," she let out, looking at me with half-closed eyes and smiling just a little. "It looks as if someone hasn’t been respecting mom's privacy."

I was relieved. I knew by asking the question I was admitting to snooping, but her answer reassured me that I was not the only daughter who had engaged in that activity.

"Any ideas?" she asked.

In all my analysis of the question the only answer that made even a little sense was that the extra branch would rub your clitoris, but it did not really seem to me to be very good for that purpose. I was sure the extra branch would be way too long for that. I told Emily this. Emily shook her head, and I got that surprised feeling I used to get when I was that age on the rare occasions I got the answer to a question wrong. She looked at me again and put up her hand in a shape that suggested she was holding the device in question upright, gripping it from below. Then she slowly and deliberately turned her hand one hundred and eighty degrees.

My eyes, I think, opened wide and I am reasonably sure my nose wrinkled. Emily laughed. At that point in my life, and for years after, I could not imagine why someone would want to put that device, or anything, into her vagina, much less something else at the same time up her butt.

"Why would someone want to do that?" I asked Emily. "Wouldn't it hurt?"

"It doesn't hurt when I use one," Emily said. Again, I think my eyes widened. "I've got one of my own. You just need to use some slippery lube stuff on it before. Let me know if you want to give mine a try."

I thanked her for the information and the offer, but, like I said, actually using one was of no interest to me. I just wanted to satisfy my academic curiosity, just as I would if I saw some strange, formerly unknown, appendage growing off a cactus. This was one of those times I mentioned at the beginning: I now knew something secret about mom that gave me a funny feeling. You know, that feeling I eventually got over.

One of the reasons I began to get over that feeling was because, as I considered what I had learned, I realized wearing see-through underwear or using a strange device to give herself pleasure did not change who she was. Mom could wear those clothes and use those things and she could still love me, and still be a wonderful, loving mother and person. Somehow knowing that information about mom gave me a thrill: a sliding feeling in my stomach that I liked very well.

I wondered what kinds of secrets other people had, and how I could find out what they were. I never had the opportunity to pursue that curiosity in those years, though. Actually, no, I shouldn’t put it that way. I did have the opportunity as it turns out; I just didn’t have the imagination to know how to follow through to satisfy my curiosity.

It was not long after all this happened that I started baby-sitting.

After a few months I took on a specialty: I decided to focus on infants and toddlers. Most of the girls I knew who baby-sat did not want to sit very young kids, mostly because they did not want to change diapers. I, on the other hand, discovered quickly that I did not want to be around six- or eight-year-olds for an entire evening. They were loud, always wanted things, would not go to bed, and when they did were up half a dozen times bothering me. I could not get any homework done.

The first time I baby-sat an infant, though, she was asleep before nine o'clock. I did not mind the one diaper I had to change, although to be honest it was a pee diaper, not a poopy one. My homework was what filled my attention all evening, not a seven-year-old wanting ice cream and throwing a fit because mom and dad had said no before they’d left.

I made good money baby-sitting. Very good money. I was one of the few girls around who liked and chose to sit infants and toddlers. I took the Red Cross first aid and CPR courses through the advanced level, including the special class on care for very young children. I could command a premium rate, and I did. And if I didn’t get a tip on top of it you would never see me again.

I think I mentioned I am on my fourth year of a full-ride academic scholarship. I have paid all my incidental expenses for all four years with baby-sitting money, both from my adolescent years and earned over the last few years here. And I’ll have a large chunk left. Paying for grad school won’t be a problem. Like my Aunt Roberta I’m planning to stay here for my post-grad program. The school’s offer is great: no tuition, a housing subsidy, and pay for being a TA.

My list of clients grew. I always had a job for Friday and Saturday nights, and usually had it booked two weeks in advance. I typically turned down at least one job, and sometimes two or three, for every job I worked. Sometimes I had a booking for Sunday evening also, and the occasional weeknight.

The community in which I lived as a teen was perfect for a sitter. There were many large businesses in the area: the sort of companies and jobs people relocate for, far from extended family. So, I had no free competition from grandma or an auntie.

When I got to college freshman year, I decided to just keep on baby-sitting to earn extra money. It was something I knew. So, I go off to my baby-sitting now while all my friends work at the cafeteria or at the grocery store or take other typical undergrad jobs. There is just as much demand here for someone who prefers to sit infants and toddlers as at home. I make better money on fewer hours and less work than any of my friends. Essentially, I get paid to do my homework.

This is also a great place to baby-sit. Married students usually cannot afford me, but there are plenty of administrators, faculty, and staff who need my services: all people who are here mostly for professional reasons, extended family far away. They like having someone associated with the college perform this service for them.

There is also the headquarters of a large international concern in town. As in my hometown, a concern like that is stuffed with people who have relocated for their job and are far from the grandmothers and aunties and sisters and cousins who might perform the service. Like in high school, the early sleep time of infants gives me plenty of hours to work on studies.
 
Chapter One (Part 3 of 3)


Freshman year, soon after I started baby-sitting here, I took a job for my church’s pastor and his wife one Saturday night. I became affiliated with this church because it was the local parish of the denomination my family always attended. Truthfully, I don’t have much in the way of religious beliefs but, especially here at college, I like the social aspects of being part of a church community. It’s also a great place to cultivate sitting clients.

On this night, the infant girl I was sitting was off to sleep well before nine, likely out for the count at least until her parents got home and I was off the hook. After she was asleep, I completed all the studies and homework I had for that evening, finishing much earlier than I had expected. I cast about for something to occupy me. I am not in the habit of watching much television, but I can usually turn on Nova and be interested. So that is what I did, hoping for something about astronomy.

The show was about the desert area of the southwestern United States. It seemed like it might be interesting, but that's just me. The opening shots of the program showed tall, saguaro cacti, their arms branching toward the sky. For some crazy reason having to do with how the human brain is put together, the images brought to my mind my mother's dildo, the one I had asked Emily about all those years before. I remembered how the extra branch near the bottom had reminded me of a cactus. Before my mind even knew what I was doing, my hand had picked up the remote and switched off the television.

If my mom had one of those devices with a cactus-arm-like branch.....

I felt again that wiggly feeling in my tummy: the thrilling reaction to the concept of learning other peoples' secrets that had lain dormant in me the last five years. I crept silently into the master bedroom, although stealth was hardly necessary. I put on as many lights as I could. The infant I was sitting was asleep in her crib in one corner. She did not even stir.

I began to open dresser drawers. I felt gently into and between the clothing items, being careful not to move anything out of position, pressing down on the top of them to detect items hidden beneath.

I found some see-through underwear, but nothing in the way of sex toys. I was about to go back to the living room but caught sight of the night tables on either side of the bed. I walked up to one and opened the drawer. I saw a collection of about half a dozen molded dildos, although none had that extra branch. They were of different colors, and some were thinner and some thicker, some rippled, some with short, soft and bendable spikes up their length, some anatomically correct.

This was fall of freshman year. I was still a virgin, and those objects did not stir sexual feelings. The craving to satisfy sexual curiosity and desire would not hit me for about another six months. When it hit it was like getting run over by a train. I closed the drawer and opened the hinged door underneath. There was in the cabinet what I first thought was a belt. Then I realized it was much too wide, about two or three inches, and much too short, about sixteen or eighteen inches, to be a belt. This puzzled me, and I closed the door.

As I approached the other night table I saw, mostly hidden behind the headboard, a cane. I had never seen either of them walk with a support, and this one seemed much too thin to hold much weight. I forgot about it as I opened the hinged door. Inside I found what I knew were handcuffs, and there were leather cuffs attached to chains and some other items that seemed right to bind a person.

I closed the door and opened the drawer above. There I found nothing but a few thumb drives. That struck me as an odd place to have thumb drives, which I associated with a desk or workspace.

Now, wouldn't it be nice to be able to truthfully write, ‘Without any command from my conscious mind my hand reached out and picked up one of the drives,’ but that would be entirely dishonest: my mind was in perfect control of my hand, and I felt that amazing thrill run through my body.

I made sure all the night table doors and drawers were shut except the drawer from which I had taken the thumb drive. I turned off all the lights with the exception of the lamp on the night table with the thumb drives, and I left the door to the hallway open. A minute later I was sitting in the living room, my laptop where it belongs: in my lap. I put the thumb drive in the USB port and a moment later a window opened containing files with dates on them.

I saw that the dates seemed about three or four weeks apart. I clicked on one, and when the file opened I saw the bedroom I had just left. I saw our pastor, Jerry, in slacks, a shirt, and slippers cross the camera's view toward the bedroom door. Involuntarily, I looked up half expecting to see Jerry walk into the hallway. A few moments later he slowly reappeared, struggling with something. Gradually, I saw he was pulling Toni, his wife, toward the bed. She wore a knee length nightie and was resisting as best as she could. He had her tightly by her wrists and his strength was too much for her.

"Oh, no!" Toni was saying through sniffles. "No, please, Jerry, I'm sorry. I swear I'll be good. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Jerry finally had her to the side of the bed and threw her on it, and Toni began to cry and wail. She was on her front and Jerry got on her back, taking her arms one by one and buckling the leather cuffs I had seen earlier around her wrists. Toni's legs were kicking. She was still crying, and the word "no, no, no" continued to come from her mouth, soon more of a moan than words.

When Jerry was done with her wrists he moved down her body, lifted her midsection, and stuffed pillows under her hips. This left her bottom way up in the air. Jerry reversed himself, sat on the backs of her thighs and buckled her ankles into leather cuffs. Then he stood. I saw Toni pull at her restraints but neither her hands nor her feet moved more than a few inches.

Jerry opened the door on one of the night tables and took out of it that short, too-wide belt I had seen earlier. It came from the nightstand on the camera side of the room. Toni's face was turned in that direction. Since her initial outburst she had sunk into miserable apathy. When she saw the wide belt in Jerry's hand her eyes flew open and her misery and fear were reignited, were again of the active and demonstrative kind. She stared at the object, clearly terrified.

Toni again began futile pulling on the restraints. "Oh, God, no, Jerry! Please, please don't! Oh, my God, not the strap!" Jerry ignored her entreaties, put the belt on the bed and began pulling her nightie up. It went to mid-thigh, then to just below Toni's bottom, then in shock I watched as it went past her bottom to her waist, baring her.

"God, no, not on my bare ass, Jerry!" Toni pleaded. "Not on my bare ass. Please, it will hurt too much. Oh, God, no!" Again, Jerry ignored her, continuing to pull up Toni's nightie until she was bare from her heels to her shoulders.

Through all of Toni’s fearful remonstrances Jerry maintained a stony, ominous silence. He picked up the belt and slapped his palm a couple times with it. Toni was beyond words, just letting out a continuous terrified sound from deep inside her. Then Jerry brought the belt down on Toni's bottom. I could see her buttocks ripple and a wide pink stripe appear. Toni jumped, pulled at the cuffs and chains holding her, and let out a short shriek of pain. Again, the belt came down on her bottom, eliciting the same reaction.

I watched, terrified, but also mesmerized. I knew Toni fairly well, taught a kids' Sunday school class with her. I had no idea Jerry punished her like this. As the belt rose and fell again and again, I wondered what she could possibly have done to deserve so extreme, so painful, so terrible a punishment.

I had that feeling I had mentioned at the beginning, of knowing things about people: knowledge that makes you uncomfortable. My pastor: a cruel wife-beater, mercilessly making poor and completely defenseless Toni suffer; and Toni: a pathetic, pitiable and weak battered woman

I continued to watch, listening to Toni's pleas, her cries, her hysterics. I thought, I never want to know about anything like this again! I knew that this experience would stop me forever from snooping. I did not want to know this: that my pastor beats his wife, makes her cry and plead and beg him to stop. That he makes her suffer.

I went on watching struggling Toni and her reddening and stricken bottom. Then her crying and entreaties, her moans and shrieks of pain, suddenly stopped. She became completely still and silent. It was as if she had suddenly died. But then I heard her voice.

"God damn it, Jerry!" I heard Toni say. She was turning her head, trying to look around at him. I heard her normal speaking voice, the one she used in the Sunday school class when talking about the loaves and fishes and the Sermon on the Mount. Now disenchantment and frustration were in her voice. I could clearly hear that she was deeply disappointed with Jerry.

"God damn it!" Toni said again. "Can't you swing that strap any harder than that? I can hardly feel the damn thing!"
 
For Ellen and Roberta I posted the entire smashwords published file on the respective threads. So while I was at it I thought I'd post the Dani cover here. Never hurts to have a face to go with a name (even though, since I got the cover image off shutterstock, it would be a rather colossal coincidence if this young model's name just happened to be Danielle). She looks perhaps like a Margaret to me
 

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Chapter Two (Part 1 of 3)


Now that I had seen the man behind the curtain in Jerry and Toni’s little drama, I would only one more time ever have that feeling I told you about: feeling funny about knowing secret things about people. I mean, you just never know, do you?

When Jerry was done with Toni’s bottom - or when Toni had finally been satisfied with what Jerry had given her - Jerry moved to take off his pants. Soon he was naked, his cock hard and red. I watched as he mounted her, she still restrained to the bed. She moved her punished, heavily welted ass up to meet his cock.

I continued to watch, but in a distracted way, paying little attention. I occasionally looked at what was visible of Toni’s bottom, beet red and crossed with straight welts from that cane I had wondered about. It was an unbelievable mess. ‘Ouch’ didn’t begin to say it.

But from the time Toni had admonished Jerry about not punishing her bottom hard enough, and Jerry had started swinging with real authority, she had dropped the dramatic pretense of the victim. After that, the only sounds I had heard from her were moans and little cries of delight.

Then I heard the garage door opener start. I clicked the file closed, pulled the thumb drive from my computer, an adrenaline jolt causing my heart to race. I dashed to the bedroom, and placed the thumb drive back in the drawer, in the exact position I had memorized when I’d picked it up. I shut off the lamp and closed the drawer softly so as not to knock the thumbs out of position. I left the bedroom door half open and was walking down the hall when Jerry and Toni came through the door from the garage, giggling about something.

“I just came from checking on her, and she’s fast asleep,” I said in a hushed voice, and I put a finger to my mouth, signing for them to be quiet.

Every Sunday after service much of the congregation assembles in the church hall for refreshments and conversation. Toni always likes to sit at a table engaging in dialogue with those nearby. She’ll sometimes sit for over an hour socializing. But one Sunday morning a couple weeks later I noticed – and continue to notice to this day about once a month - that she didn’t do that: she remained standing at the table and would then walk around the hall greeting people, never sitting.

I caught her attention, pulled out a chair and said, “Toni, you must be tired from that class we had today. Why don’t you sit and talk a while?”

“Oh, thanks, Dani,” she said. “You’re such a sweetheart. But I think I’ll go see if they need any help in the kitchen.”

I know. Shame on me.



* * * * * * * *



Everywhere I baby-sit I explore. Many places are of no or little interest: no toys to find, or just the sort of quite mundane ones that I find all the time; ditto with the porn, although porn is only of academic interest to me: do they have it? General porn? Or specialty stuff?

I know the places to look: toys and porn in a dresser drawer, in a box under the bed, or on a shelf in the bedroom closet. I usually find storage devices with personal videos maybe in a dresser drawer, but more often somewhere in the night table, occasionally in one of the cubbies on an elaborate headboard. It is only a decided minority of couples who keep a visual record of their activities. I, of course, soon learn which couples do so, and I am always available for them, especially the ones who are into something interesting. It goes without saying that my definition of the word ‘interesting’ has broadened considerably as I have been exposed through my activities to an ever-wider array of kinky enthusiasms.

I have gotten smarter about how I get images. I have never again sat in the living room with a thumb in the USB or a DVD in the drive. No, if I find images then the storage device is in my computer just long enough to transfer the files, and then it goes back where it belongs. No storage devices have ever had any security measures whatever.

Sometimes, I watch the shows there, but over time I have come to favor just taking them with me on my laptop and watching at my leisure in my dorm room, or now at the residence I share with three housemates. I never share any videos with anyone.

Is what I’m doing wrong? I’ve spent some time examining that question and have come to a conclusion. Yes, it is wrong: it’s copyright infringement. I am making a copy of a video, the copyright to which is clearly owned by the couple, so I’m definitely infringing their copyright. Other than that, I can’t see anything wrong. Maybe there is something else wrong with it I just can’t see. Maybe I’m like one of those essentially good, but in some ways flawed, characters you might read about in a story.

I never keep anything on my computer past the first viewing, and I use file shredder software to make sure my deletes are thorough and permanent. Whenever I open a file and it seems the couple is preparing to just make love I might watch for a little while, not particularly interested. More often I just close the file, delete it, shred it.

I’m not interested in that. Every couple makes love. Who cares? The scenes I look for, the knowledge that gives me a kick in my pants, is that which a couple could never make public, and the public would never surmise. Everybody assumes that Jerry and Toni make love: they’re married; they have a baby. But no one knows that Toni wants Jerry to turn her bottom into hamburger once a month or so: that it is an immense turn-on for her.

So, between a minority of couples keeping a visual record, and some of them involved in just the ordinary lovemaking activities I’m not interested in watching, it becomes a treat to find an interesting scene. Sometimes I’ll find two or three in a month, but then sometimes nothing new for three or four months straight. Those who keep a visual record of their fetish activities tend to be faithful about it, and have many files, sometimes stretching back years. Even now I have not yet been through all of Jerry and Toni's episodes.

I can always count on sitting for couples like Jerry and Toni and being able to explore files I have not seen before. Those clients are at the top of my list for bookings. I’ll cancel another job to sit for them. If the cancelled client complains, I extend my sincere apologies, but I always think, Well, get into bondage and discipline, make some videos, and then call me! It’s a balancing act: I also must take some fresh clients regularly to try to find new couples who engage in kinky activities and record them.

As I think I mentioned, I am a senior now, still baby-sitting and looking for new videos from new couples or delving further back into the older files of couples I’ve worked for over the years.
 
Chapter Two (Part 2 of 3)


I sit for this couple from time to time. He’s the women’s soccer team coach. When I opened one of their files for the first time, I saw someone standing immediately in front of the camera lens, unfocused and obscuring the view. As the person got the camera adjusted, they slowly stepped back, and I could begin to see the tiny apron of a French maid’s uniform. I thought how it would be interesting to watch this little secret: her serving him as a French maid, and I wondered in what direction they might take the scene. However, after another couple steps back I could see very hairy arms and then the soccer coach in fishnet stockings, four-inch heels, and with a wig of long blonde hair. He was scolded severely on many occasions during the evening by his wife who had beautiful Mediterranean features and thick dark hair. He spent numerous sessions over his wife’s knees, for various errors and omissions both real and imagined, his panties and tights pulled down, getting his bottom thrashed by a hardwood paddle until it was deep scarlet and he was wailing real tears. Then he spent a long session with his head buried between his wife legs, her hands on his head, using his face and mouth to take herself through two dramatically prolonged orgasms.

Another of their videos I found disturbing, which by then - second semester sophomore year - was a good, long stretch for me. The scene involved the wife - I’d learned from previous videos that her name was Helen - in one of the varsity women’s soccer squad uniforms, knee socks and cleats included, and a number 23 on it written in Sharpie. She was tied on all fours on the coffee table. This time it was she wearing the blonde wig. The coach forced his cock into her mouth. After some minutes holding her head still and fucking her mouth he moved to her rear. The coach yanked down her shorts and underwear and roughly inserted himself into her vagina. He fucked her hard for some minutes while she - her mouth now unoccupied - made pleading sounds. I thought they were just noises but then came to understand there were words in some Scandinavian language. The coach disengaged with her vagina and began to push into her ass. Her pleading sounds and words became more panicked and her features more distressed. After taking his pleasure for some long while the coach withdrew his cock and, with a few strokes, was ejaculating on her ass.

That was a Saturday night. Like always I had quickly put the video out of my mind. But late Tuesday afternoon I waltzed into my Multivariable and Vector Calculus class to be greeted with a ‘hi’ from Aina Saari, an exchange student from Finland. My stomach took a queasy roll. She was in her soccer uniform, as she always was since her practice was right after the class. Her long, blonde tresses were in pigtails. There was no missing the big number 23 on her back. I had not put it all together before.

Fuck! What was expected of me? I did not know, but in practical terms I couldn’t do anything. If I sent the file to Aina, it would track back to me. At least I assumed it would. I had not the remotest clue how to bounce a file off a thousand servers all over the world to hide its source: one of the standard spy movie tropes. And did I really want to trouble her with that knowledge anyway? What good would it do her? Send it to someone in the athletic department or university hierarchy? Same result: me answering a lot of pointed questions. And that would only be the start. I finally just caved. I rationalized that if the coach was cleaning out his pipes in this way with the wife then what was the harm to Aina? But I understood - having seen the two videos - that clearly there was some intricate quid pro quo between the coach and his missus. That understanding seemed like a step forward for someone like me who had always been rather stunted in her understanding of social and interpersonal matters.

But I had to admit that Helen had gone the extra mile to learn that ‘Help me!’ in Finnish was Auta minua! ‘Stop’ was Lopettaa! and ‘Don’t rape me’ was Älä raiskaa minua!



* * * * * * * *



Near the end of one semester I made an appointment to see my academic advisor, Vicki, to decide on future courses. Just as we finished she asked if I was available to sit her ten-month-old twins the following weekend. I told her I was and scheduled the job, not sure if I would work for her again after this first time. We would just have to see what we could see.

She shot to the top of my client list when I opened a file and saw her in the middle of her living room - at a point about three feet in front of where I was sitting - naked, her arms stretched above her. The camera panned up her body, starting with her feet. She was stretched so high only the fronts of her feet, from the ball of the foot to her toes, were on the floor. Next were her calves, muscles flexing. Her thighs came into view, also with muscles working hard to relieve the uncomfortable position she was in.

I could not see her pubes at all: she had on a boxy device there held on by a harness. As the camera rose, I saw she was getting an obvious belly. And I saw that twins can definitely leave stretch marks. I noted that her belly button was an outey.

Vicki’s breasts are large and getting a definite sag, with wide dark brown areolae. The camera continued to travel upward, showing her neck and then lingering on her face. At first her eyes were closed, breath flaring her nostrils, her upper teeth biting into her lower lip, her cheeks deeply flushed.

Since the video started, I had heard a low-key buzzing sound I have heard on many other videos. Then the buzzing increased in intensity and Vicki’s eyes flew open and rolled up, her breath now coming from her wide-open mouth.

The camera continued to pan up, revealing her arms, and came to rest on her hands. They were tied securely with many coils of rope, the skin of her hands a dark red in comparison with her pale forearms. She was grabbing the rope that must have gone up to some hook in the ceiling, holding her upright and stretched. My gaze went up to the ceiling where a hole in the sheetrock had been filled with spackle. It was obvious, but only if you knew where to look.

The camera moved around to her back and panned down her body, and it also got much lower. After passing Vicki’s dimpled bottom the camera revealed that the harness not only held the boxy object to her front, but it also held a dildo most of the way into her vagina. I could not know exactly how long it was, but an inch or two were outside her and it was wider than any I had ever seen. It stretched her vaginal opening tight around it.

After the camera had lingered there a while Vicki’s bottom began moving back and forth as much as was possible, and the backs of her thighs shimmied. The camera traveled back up and around front to her face, which was to the ceiling now, eyes closed. I heard the buzzing increase again, and then again immediately. Vicki let out a squeal, her cheeks blowing, her breath chuffing in and out. There was one last increase in the intensity of the buzzing, and then she was calling out the name of one of her deities.

I didn’t know she was an adherent of the Hindu faith.

The camera pulled back to show her from the top of her head to mid-thigh. She gyrated her body, and she pushed her hips forward, trying to make firmer contact with the vibe. Her boobs bounced and swayed. It was obvious she was coming, long wails of pleasure sounding from her. She paused only briefly to take in air and then continued howling as the orgasm ripped through her body. Then she calmed down, her head lolled forward, and she was thanking the deity that had paid her a visit. Then she just silently hung from the rope exhausted.
 
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