ACTION AND REACTION

                            by

                       C. Lakewood




    Monica Rowan was not a happy woman.

    That was pretty common for her, an assistant professor at 
Central State, but these days she was even less happy than 
normal.  The entire spring semester had not gone well.  It 
was, for example, a continual annoyance that her classes 
contained the usual pretentious witlings and the inevitable 
dull lumps, but few ordinarily tolerable students.  

    At mid-term, she had been dumped by Brian, her long-time 
boyfriend.  He wasn't counted as much of a loss -- she 
considered him practically as useless as her ex-husband -- 
but she was particularly irked at being the dumpee rather 
than the dumper. 

    Not long afterward, she had learned that she was again being 
denied tenure-track status and was merely being offered another 
one-year contract...

    Which she reluctantly accepted (her attempts at finding a job 
elsewhere having come to nothing).

		******************************

    But the ill-favored semester had finally come to an end...an 
appropriate end.  She'd worked hard the last weekend computing 
final grades, and then her PC had apparently succumbed to a virus, 
so she'd had to do everything over again...by hand...from scratch. 
She had managed to get the grades in by the deadline -- just -- 
but was infuriated to learn that Oberjean Botts had been handed 
full tenure -- for her vacuous and undisciplined courses in black 
history and culture (including "Conversational Ebonics").

    So it was that she spent Wednesday night and all day Thursday 
in a blind rage, which, by Friday, had slid into a depression.  
So she turned to the best remedy she had available....

    She went shopping.

    She drifted through half a dozen antique/collectible shops 
(most of them spelled "shoppes"), but it wasn't helping.  She 
was still in a funk when she ventured into a little store that 
specialized in Middle Eastern imports.  It was crammed with 
stuff -- mainly gaudy, tourist-quality junk -- but she had 
occasionally found something worthwhile, and the prices usually 
were not too bad.  Even so, she didn't like the place.  It was 
dimly-lit and seedy, and smelled of garlic, decay, incense, and 
B.O.  But the main reason she disliked it was the proprietor, 
Hassan Afoor, an oily mongrel, 50 or so, rather shorter and 
much heavier than she was.  He oozed sweat and lechery.

    On this occasion, however, Hassan was nowhere to be seen,
and the shop was being run by a young man, 18-19 or so, probably 
some relative.  He seemed to be primarily concerned with two vapid 
20-somethings who were shopping for body jewelry -- and giggling 
a lot -- adding to Monica's annoyance.

    She managed to get the boy's attention and asked him about a 
display of exotic daggers (one of which, she thought, might do as 
a letter-opener).  But they turned out to be too expensive.  As 
she was turning away, she noticed an open shipping carton that 
held a number of small items.

    "What's that?" she asked.

    The boy shrugged.  "New arrivals, ma'am.  But Mr. Afoor has not 
had a chance to look them over and assign prices.  Perhaps next 
week...or the week after...."  And he hurried back to the gigglers.

    "Typical of the breed," Monica muttered to herself, stirring 
the contents of the box with not much more than idle curiosity.  
"And typical of their wares...junk...."  Then she spied it: a 
necklace of carved amber beads with a green jade pendant.  It 
was not particularly beautiful, but it was old, she knew, and 
rare.  

    And worth money....

    And that damned Afoor was sure to know it, too. 

    She didn't think about it...didn't rationalize it...just acted 
on instinct.  A quick, sidelong glance and another into the big 
mirror along the back wall told her that she was unobserved, and 
the necklace slid noiselessly into the open mouth of her handbag.

    She swept up her bag, waved vaguely, and exited.  A smooth 
job, executed flawlessly.  It was exhilarating.  And there was 
a lesson there, she thought: she was getting what she deserved, 
because she'd had nerve enough to reach out and take it.   

    Rounding the corner, she headed for the parking lot at the rear 
of the building.  Her adrenaline was pumping and her depression 
dissipating when, a few steps farther, she almost literally ran 
into "that damned Afoor."

    The fat man's expression was cold and smug, supremely 
self-satisfied.  A recollection flashed across Monica's mind....

    Jabba the Hutt.    

    She attempted to step around him, but he moved his bulk faster 
than she'd expected and pinned her against the building.  

    "I believe you have something of mine in your purse, madam," 
he hissed.

    She denied it, of course, but he merely ignored her bluster.

    "Ah, here is my nephew, Hamid," he said, as the young clerk 
bustled up.  "Unless you want a public scene, madam, you will 
come with us back inside."

    She went.

		******************************

    They re-entered the building through the metal rear door, Afoor 
continuing to ignore Monica's protests as he led the way down a 
dingy corridor and into his even more dingy office.  It smelled 
worse than the sales room had.  After one look at the big one-way 
glass (showing the shop just beyond) and the setup of cameras, TV, 
and VCR, Monica fell silent, wondering how she was going to escape 
from this mess.

    Afoor gestured toward the equipment, sat down behind his desk, 
and went through Monica's purse, lifting out the necklace and her 
wallet.  He studied her ID for a moment, then leaned back and 
steepled his fingers.  

    "So," he said.  "I think you would prefer that the police -- 
and your school -- not learn you are a thief.  Yes?"

    "This is just a big mistake.  I'm NOT a...."

    "It IS a mistake...and you made it, thinking you could steal 
from me.  And you ARE a thief.  I have the proof.  Confess!"

    "Well, I suppose you could interpret...."

    "I will not bandy words with you, madam.  Keep denying your 
guilt, and I'll phone the police...and then the university.  
Confess, and your dirty little secret may remain a secret.  Yes?"

    "Y-yes...."

    "Then you will do as I say.  If you prove truly repentant, the 
law and your employer need never learn of your crime."  He shoved 
a pen and a sheet of paper toward her.  "First, write out your 
confession...in specific detail."  

    He disapproved her first attempt, but accepted the second, had 
her sign it, and put it away in his lap drawer.

    "Second, I want payment for the necklace.  Let us say, two 
thousand dollars...."

    ("Ridiculous," she thought.  "But...anything to get this over 
with.")

    She wrote a check and handed it to him with a scowl.

    He studied it, nodded, used a rubber stamp on the back, and 
scribbled something underneath the imprint.  Waddling over to the 
wall, he rapped on the one-way glass and summoned the young Hamid, 
whom he sent off to the bank to deposit the check.

    "Very well," he said.  "That should compensate me.  But...you 
still must be punished."

    "But...," she began.

    He waggled a finger at her.  "But...nothing.  You will simply 
do as I say, or you will face the consequences."

    "I-I want to cooperate, of course...." 

    "Then cease this continual...'waffling,' I think the word is.  
For the rest of the summer, you will work three hours a day, six 
days a week, as my cleaning woman."

    Monica recoiled.  "No!  I...."

    "Very well, then, FOUR hours a day." 

    "You...you...."

    He shrugged and reached for the phone.  "This is boring.  If 
you don't change your attitude, there is no point in going on...."

    "Wait!"  She didn't think he was bluffing, and, in any case, 
she knew she didn't dare call.  "I-I'll...I'll behave...sir."   

    Afoor nodded.  "So.  You will begin your service immediately.  
Please undress; I have a uniform for you."

    She took a deep breath.  ("The dirty old bastard!" she thought.  
"Well, I don't have a choice...now....  But just wait till I get 
clear of this -- I'll get back at him.  I don't know how, yet, but 
I will.")

    Savoring her thoughts of revenge, Monica slowly stripped down 
to bra and panties.  Pausing, she looked up.   

    Afoor gestured impatiently.  "All your clothes," he said. 

    As she bared her breasts, he nodded appreciatively, but, when 
she lowered her panties, he scowled.  "That hair is not good...a 
collector of filth, a breeding ground for disease.  Get rid of it 
before tomorrow.  Now, bend over the desk."

    Confused, she obeyed.  He moved to her side and held her down 
with his left hand in the middle of her back while, with his right 
hand, he roughly invaded her cunt.  Paralyzed with surprise and 
indignation, she suffered the probe with only a few token whimpers.

    "You seem not to have any other stolen goods hidden...but you 
are unnaturally dry.  A real woman is always wet and ready.  Or 
perhaps you have ideas above your station...you think yourself a 
superior being, too good for mundane rules."

    "No...."

    "Address me respectfully; say 'sir.'"

    Through gritted teeth, she managed to say, "I'm sorry, sir."

    "I do not think you are sincere."  He swept up her clothes and 
tossed them into an old armoire.  "In my country, arrogant, 
perverse, and unmannerly women are caned regularly to teach them 
how to behave."  He fetched a three foot rattan cane from the 
wardrobe and locked the door.

    "C-caned?  I've never been CANED!  And I'm a grown woman."  She 
protested, but still remained in position, draped over the desk.      

    "Age is no impediment in the punishment of females.  The 
instrument does vary, however."  He cut the cane through the 
air twice.  "Now, you will spread your legs wider and raise 
your bottom higher.  Show me that you are truly penitent and 
welcome this opportunity to atone.  You ARE truly penitent, 
are you not?"

    "Yes, sir."  She gripped the far edge of the desk tightly and 
obeyed, mortified as she imagined how she was displaying herself.

    When the cane fell, she was surprised that, instead of the 
vividly painful cut that she was expecting, there was a series 
of rapid, very light strokes from the top of her buttocks to about 
mid-thigh.  This staccato flurry was not immediately very painful, 
but gradually she was almost overcome by a stinging-itching-burning 
sensation....  

    (Oh, god!  It's turning me on!  Aroused by a spanking from that 
loathsome creature....  Unbelievable!)

    He paused then and thrust his thick fingers deep into her 
cunt again.  "NOW you are properly wet...as you should be in 
my presence.  If I ever find you dry again, I shall punish you 
for your arrogance...at least a full dozen from the cane.  And, 
to give you a taste of what that would be like...."

    (He actually thinks I'd keep myself excited...for him....)

    The cane whistled through the air and -- thwaaaack! -- landed 
savagely on her upturned bottom.

    Any thought of rebellion vanished as the blow scorched her 
butt.  With a strangled cry, she tried to rise, but he pressed 
down firmly on her back and, half a minute later, delivered her 
second "taste" of the cane.

    Writhing and wriggling under the third lash, she had a moment 
of clarity in which she envisioned what hell "a full dozen" would 
be...and knew that she would make sure to be always just as wet as 
Mr. Afoor wanted.

    After the third stroke, he laid the cane on the desk and began 
to finger her bottom.  If anything, it caused her to writhe more, 
as her arousal built.  

    She was bent over and helpless for several minutes, until she 
finally looked back at him and whimpered, "Please, s-sir...."

    "Very well," he grunted, and she heard the unmistakable sound 
of a zipper descending.  He stepped between her straddled legs.

    ("I didn't mean THAT," she thought.  "At least, I don't think 
I did.")

    He pushed something big and blunt against her wet, puffy 
cunt-lips.  "No, please," she said hurriedly.  I-I'm not on 
birth control."

    "Comme çi, comme ça," he shrugged.  Prying her crimson buttocks 
wide apart, he spit into her gaping asshole and slithered in his 
dripping prick. 

    It didn't take long.  Caning a woman always had a profound 
effect on him -- especially a white woman -- and Monica was hot 
and tight and squirmy.  It took only a few strokes before he was 
spewing his load deep into her bowels, officially ending her anal 
virginity.  

    ("More than a dozen lovers AND an actual husband...and the 
first to butt-fuck me is this fat Levantine bastard," was her 
first thought.  "I wonder if he's clean," was her second.  "God!  
A few more strokes, and I would have cum, too," was her third -- 
but she quickly dismissed that idea as just too hideous.)

    He paused, relishing the moment, then pulled out and, telling 
her to hold her position, waddled into an adjoining washroom to 
clean off his dick.  

    Monica, meanwhile, failed to repress a fart and shuddered as 
she felt something trying to ooze from her ravaged asshole.

    Presently, Afoor returned, sat down at his desk, folded his 
hands over his substantial paunch, and began gazing through 
slitted eyes at Monica's face, which was teary and crimson.  
He enjoyed the view.  

    "Look at me, girl," he ordered.  Reluctantly, she raised her 
eyes, and he was even more pleased to perceive that she was just 
on the edge of an orgasm.  Mentally, he was constructing a profile 
of this woman, and she was proving a most interesting subject.  

    He was content to watch the subtle play of emotions across her 
face -- humiliation, disgust, self-pity...as well as several of 
the Deadly Sins: pride, anger, and, yes, even lust.  As he read her 
face, so too could he read her mind, and he was finding there much 
that he could exploit in future.

    The time passed pleasantly enough -- for him -- until there was 
a knock on the door, and Hamid entered, back from the bank.  He and 
Afoor gibbered at each other for a bit, then the latter gestured at 
Monica, and Hamid, smirking, dropped his trousers and stepped up 
behind her.  "On your toes, girl.  Get your bottom higher, so as 
not to inconvenience my nephew."  He emphasized his words by toying 
with the cane.

    She hastily obeyed.

    Hamid grinned, twitched his hips, and went down the same path 
his uncle had blazed.  He wasn't quite as big as Afoor, but she 
felt it, anyway, and Hamid's control was exceptional; the second 
butt-fucking of her life was exquisitely protracted.  And every 
nuance was reflected in Monica's face -- much to Afoor's 
satisfaction.

    ("God!  They're sub-human," she thought.  "No morals, no 
class....  Shit!  They might just as well be Barbary apes!") 

    As Hamid pounded away, her breathing became ragged, and she 
began grunting in time with his relentless piston-strokes: 
"Ungh...ungh...ungh...ungh...."  She closed her eyes and lowered 
her forehead to the desk top, as if to try shutting out what was 
happening.  But Afoor wasn't going to allow that.  "Look at me, 
girl," he rasped.  She raised her head and saw he was fingering 
the cane.  "Do you like this?  Is it...stimulating?  Do not lie, 
for I will know if you orgasm...."

    At that moment, Hamid reached down and began diddling her cunt.

    "It-it h-hurt-urts," she quavered.

    "That is not what I asked," Afoor persisted, grasping the cane.  

    "YES!  It's awful, but it's also...exciting.  And that's the 
truth."

    "I believe you."

    (He noted, smugly, the look that flickered across Monica's face 
when she gave up the fight and orgasmed....and when, moments later, 
she orgasmed again, just as Hamid shot his wad.)

    "You can have two minutes to rest and reflect," Afoor said.  
Then you must get to work.  Incidentally, in future, you will 
give yourself an enema each morning before you come to work....  
Yes?"

    "Y-yes, sir."

    He fetched a garment from the wardrobe and tossed it to her.  
It was a sleeveless smock made of some coarse, loosely-woven, 
brownish-grey cloth.  Mechanically, she put it on and found that 
it had been made for someone somewhat heavier but a good deal 
shorter than her 5'6" and 132 pounds.  It fit well enough through 
the body, but ended well above mid-thigh.

    The uniform for her summer job. 

		******************************          

    Monica spent the next four hours working.  And, because Afoor 
checked up on her -- often and unexpectedly -- she worked hard.  
She cleared a storeroom by dragging countless bags of ancient 
trash out to the dumpster.  She scrubbed the two washrooms -- 
which might have been called the "Augean Stables" -- until they 
glistened.  And she mopped the now-empty storeroom and the grimy 
corridor leading to Afoor's office.

    Her last duty of the day involved giving Afoor and Hamid long, 
enthusiastic blow jobs.  Afterward, she'd waited, kneeling, with 
head bowed, outwardly submissive, until Afoor dismissed her.  
Though she'd expected to get back her own clothes, she was 
disappointed.  Besides an old and very worn pair of flip-flops, 
all she got was her purse.  Afoor casually told her to wear her 
uniform back and forth from now on -- and to take a bus hereafter 
instead of driving.  He also warned her that she'd have to improve 
her "oral skills" (or else!) and reminded her about getting rid of 
the pubic hair and coming to work with a clean bowel.  Then he sent 
her on her way.

		****************************** 

    She drove home almost in a trance, unwilling to think about her 
predicament for fear of suddenly losing control of herself...and 
her car.  Inside her house, she immediately took off the loathsome 
smock, flung it to the floor, and hurried to the bathroom, where 
she brushed her teeth and took a long, long shower.  She could feel 
the welts on her ass, but avoided looking at them in the mirror.

    Afterward, wrapped in an over-sized terry robe, she fixed a 
stiff drink and masturbated until she fell asleep.

		******************************
  
    The following morning, with only a momentary defiant thought, 
she dutifully shaved her crotch, gave herself an enema, donned 
her short, crude "uniform," and took the bus to work.  During 
the trip, she tried at first to ignore the leering stares and 
condescending glances of her lower-class fellow passengers until 
she realized she could utilize the public humiliation and proceeded 
to fantasize breathlessly, so to be "properly wet" for Mr. Afoor. 
 
    At the shop, naked and bent over the desk, she got a simple 
"warm-up" from the cane before her double butt-fucking.  She 
sweated through her chores and finished the day's work by giving 
her master a lavish blow job.  He complimented her on having 
improved -- causing her first to blush with pleasure and then 
to tremble with rage.

    And, with minor variations, that's the way the summer went.  He 
did have to cane her hard (but with clinical precision, of course) 
when he discovered pubic stubble.  But she did not offend again.  
She also went onto the Pill, so he started fucking her cunt rather 
more often than he did her asshole.  Hamid tried it once, but 
otherwise remained faithful to his first love.

		******************************

    After twelve weeks as cleaning woman and resident slut, Monica 
was deemed to have atoned and allowed to go back to a life that 
now seemed far more pleasant than it had prior to the summer...and 
she got to keep her "uniform."  She did not, however, get the $2000 
back...or the necklace...or the holograph confession.  If she'd 
been honest with herself (which she almost never was), she might 
have admitted that she had deserved what she'd gotten -- not all 
of it, maybe, but most of it.  Instead, she indulged in marathon 
masturbation sessions and endless schemes for revenge.  Things 
change, but people rarely do.

		******************************

    Monica was headed for her first class on the first day of the 
fall semester, and she was feeling better and better with each step 
she took.  The accustomed clack-clack of her heels on the familiar 
vinyl flooring, the comforting perfection of her designer suit, the 
remembered sensuousness of her silk blouse and frilly lingerie....  
Ah, lingerie!  (Unfortunately, she was still constantly wet -- a 
difficult habit to break -- so she had to wear a super-absorbent 
panty-shield and change it several times a day.)  But, when she 
walked into the lecture room, she did so with something like her 
old swagger.  The awfulness of the summer was fading, and she was 
actually looking forward to the new semester.  Of course, her life 
had been regulated by school calendars as far back as she could 
remember, so it was perhaps natural that, unlike most people, she 
should have regarded fall as the season of beginnings, of 
homecoming, of hope -- and spring as the time of endings, of 
farewells, of disappointment and loss.  

    This time, she was hoping that at least a few of these 
so-called students wouldn't be absolutely infuriating.

    She dropped the manila folder with her notes onto the lectern 
and turned, smiling, to survey the class....

    And saw Hamid grinning at her from the front row.  

    She felt her asshole involuntarily pucker as he began asking 
about her office hours.