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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Archive name: phs04.txt (mf,blkmale,humil)
Authors name: Wiley06
Story title : Portervill High: The Picnic
Part 4 of 11 parts
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© 1998 This work is copyrighted to the author. No
changes may be made to this story, and the author
information must remain intact. This work may be
copied freely for non-profit purposes only.
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Porterville High: The Picnic
Part 1.3
By Wiley06
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 awoken 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 anybody's
suspicions, and he certainly didn't want to incon-
venience 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 knowing-
ly 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 some-
thing 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 incrimi-
nating 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 looking 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 over-
come.
"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 keep-
ing 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 power-
fully, 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 con-
frontation 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, home-
made 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 re-
fusing, 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 po-
tatoes 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
she 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 welling 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 towlett 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, inqui-
sitive 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 advan-
tage of a momentary weakness of hers. She was deter-
mined 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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