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Porterville High - Chapter 1.3
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Porterville High
Chapter 1.3
Achilles Brown spent all night Tuesday developing the
photos he had taken of Amy Sanders. Beautiful, hot, oh so
great he thought as he pulled each one out of solution. The
black dress had been a good choice for her--it contrasted
nicely with her pale skin. She was more beautiful, sexier,
than he had imagined; he only hoped he could make this
blackmail scheme work: he wanted her, bad.
Amy went to sleep that night, her window open as
commanded, dreading his return that evening. Thankfully
she was not awaken in the middle of the night with more
demands, and she woke up confused and disoriented. She
still didn't know what that snooping rat wanted. She didn't
have that much money, and although she would be willing to
part with all of it, Achilles didn't seem to really want it. She
suspected him of having designs on her body--she was
slightly revolted by the thought--given that he had taken
somewhat revealing pictures of her and his decree that she
wear no pants, only skirts and dresses. If that was his goal,
she thought, he could forget it; she would turn herself in
before she submitted to his advances. He must know that,
she thought, and that is what confused her. What was his
game? Better not to think about it now; just wait and watch
and see if she could somehow get out from under his
thumb.
Wednesday at school, Achilles decided a policy of
avoidance was best; he didn't want to raise anybodies
suspicions, and he certainly didn't want to inconvenience
Amy, yet. He had planned their after-school activities last
night, and all day they occupied his thoughts. He had big
plans for Amy, big plans. He ran them through his mind time
and time again, hoping that he could pull them off. He was
glad that Jim had offered him use of Ms. Ellsworth, Sara to
him now he smiled, since he would certainly have to use her
to relieve himself, so he wouldn't force things with Amy.
The next day at school, Amy was glad Achilles seemed
to be avoiding her. Wearing an ankle length skirt and a
bulky sweater, she was distracted the entire day, trying to
puzzle out Achilles and his motivations. Her friends, though
more acquaintances than friends, figured it was due to her
recent breakup with the hunk of the school, and just
gossiped knowingly about her state of mind.
Achilles skipped his last period class again that day,
and prepared his planned reception of Amy deep in the
orange groves. It was nothing particularly bad, he thought
to himself, but it was quite a mindfuck. He needed to keep
her off balance, confused, in order to really turn her to him,
and this was just the first part of the plan.
Amy returned home right after school and found, as
expected, Achilles waiting for her in her room. She wasn't
happy to see him, and made that quite clear, pointedly
ignoring him until he spoke and held something out to her.
"Here, I thought you might like to see some of these."
She looked down and took a thick pad of prints from
his hand, her eyes widening as she saw herself, dressed
sexily in her black sheer dress, holding myriad poses before
the camera. Like out of some fashion magazine, she
thought, flipping through them, blushing a little at the more
provocative poses. She caught herself as she saw him
looking at her with a little smile on his face, and resumed her
previous cold manner. He didn't seem to mind: his smile
broadened as he watched her put the photos in the top
drawer of her dresser.
He had hoped she would react positively to the
pictures, and by the expression on her face, he figured she
was. He watched as she caught him smiling at her, and
turned the ice on. He didn't mind; it was time to start
anyway.
"Amy, join me outside. I've arranged a little picnic for
us among the orange groves." He said it in his most relaxed
tone; he didn't want to risk her refusing to go with him. It
was a simple request, but he knew if he got her hackles up,
even the fear of jail wouldn't make her do what he wanted
her to.
A picnic! She glared at him. She didn't want to go on a
picnic with him, didn't want to even be with him. What was
he up to? What did he want? It was all so bizarre, like a
waking nightmare. Still, it shouldn't be too bad, and he still
had those incriminating photos."I'll be out in 5 minutes," she
responded sharply.
Achilles just smiled and climbed out the window and
waited for her at the base of the old oak tree. She arrived
shortly thereafter, flipping her kinky, sandy blonde hair out
of her eyes, and Achilles began to lead her toward the
orange groves.
Halfway there, walking across little used streets and old
fields, he said, "You know, Amy, I really don't want to
inconvenience you too much..."
"Inconvenience me!" she blurted out. You stupid
bastard, she thought, "What do you think you're doing?
You come into my life, holding something I didn't even know
about over my head, and demand money, and pictures, and
now a picnic! What else do you have in store in your twisted
little mind!" she ended, practically shouting at him.
Achilles was a little bit taken aback by this outburst, but
just a little. They had stopped and he stood lucking at her
flushed face and glaring light blue eyes, her posture one of
defiance. Well, he thought to himself, here's the first
obstacle to overcome.
"Did you really think you could get away with murder,
Amy?" he said slowly and strongly, seeing her defiance
crumble as her face took on a look of aghast horror.
I... I... didn't..." she stammered.
"Shut up!" he said forcefully, making her take a step
back and killing the denials on her tongue. She looked
down at her feet in consternation and confusion. "Now,
Amy, you did something bad, something which you should
be in jail for right now. _I_ am the one keeping you from jail,
_I_ am the one protecting you. In return all I ask is a little of
your time. Isn't that better than being in jail? Isn't it?" he
demanded.
"Y... yes," she stammered, looking into his eyes.
He nodded, satisfied, and turned, saying in a calm
voice, "Now, where were we?... oh yes..."
Amy walked along after him as he told her how he was
going to arrange their future meetings (an envelope on her
dresser each Friday detailing plans for the following week),
all her anger gone. She was stunned: murder? Was she a
murderer? No, she wasn't, she had only been driving the
car... god it was so awful, the way he had turned on her. She
had always thought of him as a worm, a loser, but he had met
her anger powerfully, shattering it with his accusation. She
knew he was right, in a way. She was involved in a murder,
she was responsible to some degree. Being with him
certainly wasn't as bad as being in jail, and if that was the
only price she had to pay for her actions, she should be
happy.
The calm that had come over him during the
confrontation had left him, and he was shaking from the
reaction. He tried to hide it, keeping his arms against his
side and increasing his pace, hoping Amy wouldn't see.
She was still following him, so he had won. He felt exultation
as the shakes began to wear off: her first resistance had
been crushed. From this point on, he thought, she would
not challenge him again about him forcing her to spend time
with him. He smile broke out on his face as he strode into
the orange grove, Amy trailing obediently behind him.
"Help me lay this out," he said as the reached the spot
he had chosen for the picnic, at the base of a tree among the
even rows of them. Together they laid out the clothe and
took the food from the basket: fried chicken, greasy and still
warm; mashed potatoes with gravy still steaming in a
thermos; a small, homemade chocolate cake, moist and
covered thickly with gooey chocolate frosting; and finally a
bottle of wine, its cork already pulled.
Unpacking the food, Amy noticed something strange.
"Where's all the utensils and glasses and stuff?" she asked.
"Damn," Achilles cursed, looking up at her from where
he was kneeling, "I forgot them. Well, we'll just have to make
the best of it." So saying, he motioned her to sit down
beside him, not touching, but very close nonetheless, and
handed her a drumstick.
She took it daintily, not wanting to get her hands too
greasy and was surprised when he grabbed it away from
her, saying, "No no, that won't do. I can't let you get your
hands all dirty. Let me." With that, he held the drumstick up
against her lips.
At first she drew her head back, confused. What was
he doing? She could feed herself fine, even without
utensils. Then it hit her, and she groaned inwardly: he
wanted to hand feed her everything, like she was some
small child. She thought for a moment about refusing, but
something in the back of her mind was telling her that she
deserved this, that through this humiliation she could
somehow atone for what she had done. She didn't like
these thoughts, didn't believe them, but for now they
overcame her resistance.
Carefully, she moved forward toward the drumstick just
before her lips, and opened her mouth. She felt the warm,
greasy skin of the meat against her lips, and she opened her
mouth wider, sliding her lips over the drumstick until her
teeth found purchase in the meat. She bit down, feeling
grease come off around her mouth, and pulled her head
back, chewing.Achilles watched her closely as her lips
closed over the meat. He felt his penis swell as he watched
her--luckily he had worn loose pants--and he imagined her
mouth closing over his cock. He kept the drumstick near
her mouth until she had finished it, making sure her mouth
became smeared with grease. He felt a rush of power as she
looked at him with her pale blue eyes, chewing the last bite,
her mouth glistening with chicken grease. He had planned
this, to humiliate her by forcing her to eat from his hands,
and it had worked. Confident now, he poured a generous
amount of gravy over the mashed potatoes.
"Aren't you going to eat?" she asked, licking some of
the grease from her lips. She knew what she must look like,
and was blushing furiously. This was one of the most
embarrassing things that had ever happened to her.
"I'm not hungry," he answered, scooping up some
potatoes and gravy on his fingers and presenting them to
her.
She knew what he wanted and was committed; she
lowered her head and used her lips to bring the potatoes
into her mouth, where she quickly swallowed them. They
felt warm against her lips and face, and she glanced up at
him when all that was left was the potatoes covering his
fingers. He nodded and smiled at her and she took three of
his fingers into her mouth, sucking the food from them. She
ran her tongue between them to make sure she got
everything, and then the sucked off the last finger.
As he felt her suck his fingers into the warm cavity of
her mouth, what felt like and electric jolt traveled from his
fingers to his groin. He almost moaned at the sensation of
her tongue between his fingers, and couldn't take his eyes
off her lips as it sucked in his finger, cleaning it of food. It
was wild; he had never felt anything like it before.
She pulled her head away when she had finished, and
turned to him as he reached for a bottle of wine. She
watched as he poured a little into the cup of his hand and
offer it to her. There was something so degrading about her
situation, about being fed like this, that brought panic
wheeling up in her gut. She fought it down as she slurped
the wine from his hand, and looked at him again. What was
he doing to her? It was like some sensuous dream, with him
silently feeding her, her lips and mouth tingling from the
slick feel of food and the salty taste of his skin. She moved
to drink again from his hand two more times, each time
feeling something warring within her. Some basic instinct
told her to run, to escape from this, but her mind told her to
stay, forced her to remain seated beside him, eating from his
hand. It was terrible, both sensual and terrifying.
Achilles fed her the rest of the food, reveling in the
sensations her mouth brought to his hands, the power this
simple act of feeding conveyed to him. His penis throbbed
in his pants as he watched her chew the last of the chicken
her face greasy and smeared with mashed potatoes and
chocolate cream. He reached over with a toilette and wiped
her face clean; she did not resist, and he wallowed in it, in
her sitting docilely there, letting her control her, dominate
her. Time for the next step, he thought, wiping off her chin.
"Tell me about yourself," he said, sitting back and
opposite her.
She looked at him for a minute, a frown crinkling her
brow, "What?" she asked softly."About your plans: what
college you're going to, what you want to be, your politics,
that type of stuff."
She didn't understand; she was pretty numb from the
feeding, and shook her head to clear her senses. What was
this all about? He wanted to know about her? She didn't
know what to do, but what could she do but go along with it,
just like she had gone along with his other demands. She
almost felt like crying; she had no control left.
She began to answer, softly, hesitatingly, but was soon
drawn out by his questions, by his gentle, inquisitive desire
to know. She couldn't look at him--she was still too
humiliated by the feeding--but she began to talk about
herself, where she wanted to go to college, what she wanted
to be; what teachers she liked, what subjects interested her;
who she liked, who she didn't and why. She talked for about
forty five minutes, prompted throughout by him, always
seeming to know what to ask to keep a thread alive, before
he said, "Let me walk you home."That night, back in her
room, Amy pondered over what had happened. She thought
she had gotten over her part in the crime, but some part of
her, some deep hidden recess, must still feel guilt. How else
could she explain her reaction to Achilles' accusation? She
was amazed and ashamed that she had let him hand feed
her like some infant, and disgusted that she had actually
taken his fingers into her mouth. And then to tell him all
about herself! It was too horrible. She wasn't really in her
right mind--he had taken advantage of a momentary
weakness of hers. She was determined it wouldn't happen
again. At least she had gained one thing from that
afternoon: she had some idea of what he wanted. He, she
decided, wanted her to like him.
Achilles spent that evening looking at the pictures he
had taken of Amy, tantalizing himself with the thought of his
final conquest. He knew he had caught her off-balance
today, bless his luck, and knew what to expect now. There
would be a backlash--she would stand up to him, assert
herself. Well, he thought, he knew how to handle it when it
came: today the kind, gentle, understanding Achilles;
tomorrow the hard, mean, disciplinarian Achilles. Carrot and
stick, carrot and stick he thought as he went to sleep.
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