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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: step.txt (MF, exh, inc, reluc, spank, bd)
Authors name: Marcia R. Hooper (marciar26@aol.com)
Story title : Stephanie Chronicles, The
--------------------------------------------------------
Copyright 2003. As the author, I claim all rights under
international copyright laws. This work is not intended
for sale, but please feel free to post this story to
other archives or newsgroups, keeping the header and text
intact. Revision to the text (such as the basis for
another story) is acceptable as long as the original
author is given credit and the resulting story is
distributed free of charge. Any commercial use of this
work is expressly forbidden without the written
permission of the author.
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The Stephanie Chronicles (MF, exh, inc, reluc, spank, bd)
by Marcia R. Hooper (marciar26@aol.com)
***
Five short stories about 18 year old Stephanie and her
older brother Jeremy and their adventures in sexual
domination--the domination of Stephanie, of course.
Includes the previously posted short story "Riding in
Cars with Toys." 21 pages long in all.
***
This is a work of fiction and is not meant to portray any
person living or dead, nor any known situation. This
story contains themes of incest and sexual domination. It
is meant for adults only and is not to be read by
person's under the age of 18, or the legal age in the
county/state/country in which the reader resides.
If you would like a Microsoft Word version of this story
(a much better read), please contact me at
MarciaR26@aol.com.
I also have a website on AOL which has all of my other
stories. The address is:
http://hometown.aol.com/marciar26/myhomepage/index.html
Note to the reader:
I had originally intended these stories to be separately
posted, so there is a bit of repetition from one to the
other as far as Stepahanie's desciption goes. But I
couldn't separate out that part of the story without
affecting the rest, so you'll just have to bear with it.
Also, these stories deal quite graphically with the
sexual dominination of Stephanie by her older brother,
and may be upsetting to some readers, especially those
females who may have undergone similar experiences. If
you are upset or offended this, please accept my
apologies. Probably, I shouldn't have written them at
all.
THE STEPHANIE CHRONICLES
by Marcia R. Hooper
(MarciaR26@aol.com)
HOLDING PATTERN
Wednesday, October 19, 2005, 3:15 PM
In the Michelson House
In the Michelson's Kitchen
Stephanie Michelson tromped in the front door, tromped
across the living room toward the stairway on her way up
to her bedroom, then tromped to a stop when her brother
called her name. She stood staring toward the out of
sight-kitchen door, cautious irritation on her face.
"What?" she called back.
"Come in here!"
Worry supplanted the irritation. "Why?"
"Because I said so!" he yelled.
She scurried off toward the kitchen.
Six days past of her eighteenth birthday, Stephanie was a
slightly built redhead, five-feet seven inches tall and
one-hundred and fifteen sopping wet pounds. She had hazel
eyes (at the moment filled with trepidation), a spray of
freckles across her face just beginning to fade with the
advent of school, a thinly-lipped but very wide mouth,
and dimples in both of her cheeks. She was a moderately
pretty girl, but devoid of her blue and red school
blazer, her blue and red pleated skirt (which her brother
just loved to flip up in the back, exposing her panties )
and knee high socks and into the jeans and t-shirt she
wished to put on, she could easily have passed for a
perfect, eleven-year old tomboy.
She stood in the kitchen doorway, backpack over her
shoulder, a three ring binder with the Dawson's Creek
gang smiling brightly across the cover and a math
textbook that she and her friend Trisha were studying on
the way home on the bus, clutched across her chest. She
tried not to squirm as though she had to go pee, which
unfortunately for Stephanie, she did.
"Get in here," her brother said. He stood at the kitchen
counter, finishing up what looked like a bologna, cheese,
lettuce and tomato sandwich. (At least it wasn't sardines
smothered in hot sauce, Stephanie thought. She hated the
smell of sardines.)
"Why?"
"Because I told you to, that's why."
Oh, God, he's in a bad mood.
"No I'm not," he countered.
"What?"
"In a bad mood."
"I didn't say you were," she said, continuing to fidget.
In a bad mood, her brother was capable of anything. Well
. . . Jeremy and Stephanie-anything, anyway.
A jumbo-size plastic cup filled to the brim with water
sat on the counter beside his plate. Just looking at it
made Stephanie squirm. "I need--" to go pee, she started
to say, before her brother cut her off.
"Here," he said. "Drink this."
She blinked in confusion. "What?"
Moving the cup of water to the edge of the counter--
carefully, so as not to spill a single drop--he said:
"The water. Drink it."
It was then that Stephanie saw the empty tumbler sitting
beside the milk jug on the counter and knew the water
was, and always had been, for her.
Oh, God, she thought. What have I done now?
"Why?" she asked cautiously.
Her brother sighed. "Because I want you too, that's why."
"But I already need to pee," she complained.
"That's good."
Then she understood. He wanted her to have to pee. He
wanted her to have to pee really bad.
"What did I do, Jeremy?" she asked, pleadingly. "Have I--
"
"Nothing."
"Then what--"
Her brother turned around and she knew something else: he
was worse than in a bad mood.
"What if I say no," she suddenly said.
"Then I spank you. Really hard. New Years Day kind of
hard"
So simply said, yet so devastatingly received. She began
to back away, whining, "Noooo, Jeremy, nooooo."
Jeremy followed her with the water in his hand. "A
spanking or drink the water, Stephanie. One or the
other."
"Mom'll be home soon," she tried desperately. "Julianne
too."
"Mom won't be home until six o'clock. Julianne's off at a
swim meet." Which of course was true, so Jeremy had her
alone for hours.
She thought about just whirling around and dashing for
the stairs. Jeremy was fast, but sometimes she beat him.
And with that big cup of water in his hand . . .
"Try it and see what happens," he warned. She'd get
blistered and drink the water.
Resignedly trading the water for her two books, she
placed the lip of the cup to her mouth and began to
drink.
"All at once," Jeremy said. "Don't stop."
Stephanie's eyes opened wide.
"Not 'all at once.' You can stop to breath."
Stephanie stopped halfway through, gasping for breath.
She wiped her mouth where a trickle had escaped the right
corner, and then her chin. Then she returned the cup to
her lips.
"Good," Jeremy said, when she had upended the cup and
tried to give it back. "Fill it again."
"Oh, please," she begged. "I already--"
"Just do it, okay?"
Like a good little Nike girl, she did. This time, when
she finished, Jeremy accepted the cup.
"Oh God," she complained, holding her tummy.
"Hurt?"
"You try drinking two big glasses of water."
"That's good," he said, patting her behind.
"Stop that."
Ignoring her, he said, "Move you hand."
Moving her hand revealed a quite bulged-out abdomen. She
really had to pee.
"Just think how you'll feel in ten minutes," he said.
Stephanie groaned.
Taking her by the hand, he lead her to the middle of the
kitchen floor. "Stand right there," he said and she
didn't have to ask why. For sitting on one the chairs
beneath the little round dinette table was a folded up
square of plastic. Picking it up and shaking it out, he
gave it to Stephanie to put down.
"You are such a pervert," she said, misunderstanding
completely.
He tweaked her nose. Then he lifted the rear of her
skirt, lowered the back of her panties to the tops of her
thighs and spanked her once really hard on each of her
cheeks. She jumped twice and squealed his name.
"Say it again," he threatened.
She quickly shook her head. When Jeremy spanked her like
this, really hard, not sexual as he usually did,
Stephanie got scared.
In a little girl's voice--more of a peep, really--she
said: "What did I do, Jeremy? Really?"
"Nothing, I said."
"Jeremy. . .please?"
He shook his head. Sometimes, she just never found out.
Beginning to cry, she tried the only option she thought
remained. "I'll do it," she said, indicating she'd get
down on her knees, "right here if you want."
Jeremy shook his head again and Stephanie knew that
whatever she had done, it was a really serious blunder.
Jeremy never refused that.
"I'm sorry," she burbled helplessly. "Please, Jeremy?
Please?"
And that, not a gambit but a sincerely frightened
apology, did the trick.
Visibly relaxing, Jeremy took her hand and kissed her
gently on the cheek. "It's okay," he said. "I forgive
you. Do you still need to pee?"
"I do," she said in relief, drying her eyes and smiling
bravely. "Really bad."
"That's good," he said for the third and final time,
"because you've been really bad."
Making her remove everything she had on: school uniform,
underwear, earrings, bracelet, barrettes in her hair, the
rings on three of her fingers . . . everything, save the
thin gold ankle bracelet he had given her himself and
that she never took off, no matter what . . . he then put
her over his knee and spanked her bare-bottomed, kicking
and pleading and crying out as two full glasses of water
built up in her already bursting, aching bladder. And
although it wasn't the spanking she would have received
had her apology not been accepted, it certainly was the
most memorable.
And yes, he did let her go pee. Eventually.
ENEMAZATION
Saturday, November 5, 2005, 10:15 PM
In the Michelson House
In Mrs. Michelson's Bedroom
Stephanie looked back over her shoulder and pleaded with
her brother: "Can I go now? Please?"
Jeremy shook his head. He lay propped against the pillows
on their parent's bed, remote in one hand, a bottle of
Heineken in the other. He was half-watching The Agency on
CBS, and half-watching his sister. Except for the Nike
crew socks on his feet, he was completely naked. And
except for the thin gold bracelet around her left ankle,
the twin brown plastic barrettes holding back her hair
and the slender white plastic enema tube protruding from
her rear end, Stephanie was naked as well.
"Jeremy, please!" she begged. "I have to go! I have to go
now!"
Jeremy shook his head. "In a minute," he said, watching
both the chick planting the time bomb beneath the
Ambassador's car, and the ticking time bomb of his
sister's ass. He motioned for her to turn around. Letting
out a frustrated moan, Stephanie went back to inspecting
the carpet.
A slightly built redhead, twenty four days beyond her
eighteenth birthday, Stephanie was five-feet seven inches
tall, one-hundred and fifteen soaking wet-pounds, and
totally miserable. She had boyishly narrow hips and an
even more boyish chest. Standing erect, her breasts were
little more than wishful thinking with nipples. Bent over
as she was now (though bent over was not an apt
description for a girl in her position), she mustered
more breast size than at any other time. At least she
could feel them.
An alarmingly deep rumble sounded low in her gut and her
bowels cramped painfully--everything inside her cramped--
and she wailed: "Jeremy!"
"Just wait."
"I can't wait!" she screeched in near panic. "It hurts!"
The slender plastic tube, despite her most desperate
efforts to hold it inside, was pushing resolutely out of
her anus. Forbidden to move anything at all--turning her
head earlier might get her paddled later on--she could
not reach back and grab it. She was stuck in the same
degrading and mortifying position as Jeremy had first put
her in fifteen minutes before: hands and forearms
clutching her calves, her rear end in the air and her
forehead down on her knees. If anything could have
embarrassed her more, Stephanie could not imagine it.
Except, perhaps, for spraying her mother's bedroom.
A pair of bath-size cotton towels lay beneath her, end to
end. They covered the distance from her forehead to her
toenails, with maybe two feet stuck out beyond. Once the
enema tube popped loose . . .
Oh, God . . . and she was leaking!
"Jeremy!"
"Keep still," he commanded. He was no longer on the bed,
but down beside her on the floor. He took her left hand
and guided it back to the plastic tube, placing it
between her fingertips. "Here," he said. "Grip it on the
end."
Slowly, miserably, holding the tube where it joined the
rubber hose, she slid the shaft back inside.
"I hate you!" she hissed.
"No you don't."
"I damned so do!" she swore.
"What your language."
Stephanie wasn't thinking about her language. Her only
thought was the terrible cramp in her belly and the
sensation of eight slender but very rigid inches of
plastic up her rear. It didn't stop until her fingertips
touched her anus.
"Ohhhhh, God," she moaned. "Jeremy . . .please?"
Jeremy massaged her shoulders. "It's good for you, babe.
Hold it in."
She chanced further punishment and raised her head. She
looked desperately at the bathroom door, then desperately
back at her brother.
"I hurt!" she moaned. "I really hurt bad." Jeremy had a
gallon of enema inside her. Warm, soapy-water enema. And
not all of it had gone in.
"Please, Jeremy? Pretty please?"
He massaged the small of her back. "The sheet said to
hold it in as long as you can."
"Jeremy!" she whimpered, "It's been an hour!"
"Five minutes," he said checking his watch. "You can
handle that."
The misery in her eyes said that five minutes with a
loadful of water up your behind was five minutes less
than eternity.
There was another loud roar from her belly and water--
colored more like strongly made iced tea than water from
you know where--sprayed out around the tube. She wailed
in humiliation.
"It's okay," Jeremy said, gripping her shoulders. "It
went down on the towel."
Her voice came out a choked cry. "When you said we were
gonna do this--"
"Going to do this," he corrected.
"Going to do this!" she screamed. "I though you meant one
or two of those little green boxes! Not this!"
The green bottles she referred to--Fleet Disposable
Enemas--were what she had taken before. Two bottles
usually did the trick. But this . . . this was getting a
whole fucking case of Fleet Enemas.
"Where did you find this thing?" she wailed. "In
somebody's torture chamber?"
Jeremy laughed. "I'm starting my own, don't you know."
Then, "Really, I found it in a medical supply house over
in Rockville."
The monstrosity, hanging from the four-bladed fan in the
middle of her parent's bedroom ceiling, was an immense
red bag with a thick red rubber hose that disappeared out
of sight behind her. She looked at him in distress.
"When I told him it was for my little sister, he showed
me the largest one they had. Of course I bought it."
"Oh, Jeremy," she groaned.
"Think I'm kidding?"
Stephanie knew that he wasn't. Jeremy never kidded. "Did
you gave him my name and address too?" she mumbled
caustically.
"I gave him mine," he told her. "Which does the same
thing."
"You didn't! Please say that you didn't!"
Jeremy only grinned.
"Oh God," she keened in a low mewling voice. This was so
potentially bad she couldn't quite grasp it. If he knew
her address, and her approximate age, then someone
driving by in a car or standing down on the corner might
actually know who she was . . . and what she did with her
brother. How was that for scary?
"You didn't," she keened again.
Not bothering to answer, Jeremy removed her fingers from
the end of the tube and returned them to their previous
position. Then he sat back to watch as the slender white
tube began an inch-by-agonizing-inch slide out of her
bottom.
"What exactly turns you on about this?" she bawled. The
excitement factor here escaped her completely. It was
different for guys, she knew--some guys as least. But
from what she knew of girls and sexually-administered
enemas, they fell into the same category as girls and
anal sex . . .boys loved it to do it . . . girls just got
fucked in the ass.
Only, that was not quite true. As Stephanie well knew.
"What am I going to do when it shoots out all over the
place behind me?" she blubbered. She was in such pain.
"Clean it up," Jeremy said.
"Jeremy!"
And then suddenly, accompanied by a rocket blast of
molten liquid, the tip flew out of her bottom and
Stephanie went shrieking and scrambling across the
intervening distance to the bathroom door and the toilet,
knowing full well there was no stopping this torrent now.
. . save one. Plugging herself with the middle finger of
her right hand, she crawl-scramble-waddled the remaining
distance one-handed, tears burning her eyes and her
brother's laughter burning her ears.
"I hate you you fucking bastard!" she screamed as a
titanic explosion within in her caused pandemonium in the
toilet: "I hate you so much!"
But of course, she didn't.
RIDING IN CARS WITH TOYS
Wednesday, November 15, 2005, 9:45 PM
In the Michelson's Volvo Wagon
Route 28 & Quince Orchard Rd.
Stephanie turned and looked at her brother. "Where are
you going?"
They were supposed to be heading home, not north
(Stephanie guessed it was north) up Route 28.
"For some ice cream," Jeremy said, allaying her fears. . .
somewhat.
"There's ice cream up here?" Then she said, "Oh, yeah,"
remembering that her brother was right. She pointed
forward through the windshield. "Around the corner, in
the shopping center with the Giant." The she grinned and
made an untypically gleeful teenage noise and for a
moment it looked like she'd actually clap her hands;
Jeremy grinned at this unexpected excitement. If she
remembered it was November fifteenth and cold as hell
outside, it didn't show.
One month and two days past her eighteenth birthday, the
hazel-eyed, freckle-faced teenager was the youngest child
of Allen and Irene Michelson. Jeremy was the oldest with
Julianne right in the middle. Julianne was twenty-one.
Slightly built, with a figure best not described in
sexual terms (seeing herself nude in the mirror still
made Stephanie cringe), she had shoulder-length auburn
hair--up tonight in a scrunchie atop her head--a wide,
white smile, and smile-crinkles in both of her cheeks.
Five feet seven inches tall and one-hundred and fifteen
pounds--probably a pound or two lighter, after
gymnastics--she looked pretty much your typical, soon to
be graduated high school senior.
Only there was nothing typical about this twelfth-grader
at all.
Pulling into the Giant Food parking lot, Jeremy swung
left, following a Ford Mustang with three teenage girls.
When the girls went straight ahead, Jeremy reluctantly
turned right, pulling up before the Baskin-Robbins store.
As he moved the shift lever into Park, Stephanie grinned
at his obvious lust-filled thoughts.
Little did she know.
"Can I get a banana split?" she pleaded. "Please, pretty
please?"
Jeremy shook his head, then countered by saying, "You can
have anything you want."
This unlikely offer was offset by the tone in his voice
and Stephanie found her exuberance just slightly
diminished and her watchfulness slightly increased.
Cutting him a sideways glance as they got out of the car,
she got a sudden chill, clutching her arms across her red
down-vest.
Inside the store, Jeremy's mood brightened. He stood
reading the menu board, long enough for Stephanie to
realize she was being teased.
"Quit it!" she exclaimed, shoving him with both her
gloved hands.
"I'll make you wear that thing," he warned.
"I haven't even got it yet!" she contradicted. But when
the gawky teenage clerk (was he actually checking her
out?) handed her the Banana Wagon Special Split, her eyes
bugged out. She looked from Jeremy to the clerk.
"Wow!" she said.
"Wow," Jeremy repeated. They ate at a table where the
clerk checked her out.
* * *
Crossing the parking lot back toward the car, smoke
billowing from both their mouths, Stephanie warned: "Stop
it!" Her face was red and embarrassment tickled her
underarms, making them want to itch. She could smell
herself from the hour's worth of running, tumbling and
jumping around the Quince Orchard High School gymnasium
and didn't want her smell getting any worse.
"He liked you! He thought you were cute."
"He was a geek!" she responded, vehemently, which of
course, was all she attracted.
"Aw, come on! He was not!"
"He was too, Mr.Smarty-pants!" She stood at the Volvo's
side, arms crossed defiantly over her chest. "Let me in,"
she demanded. "I'm freezing to death!"
Jeremy let myself in first, then reached across and
pulled up her lock. She got in and slammed the door shut.
Jeremy only smirked, which only made her madder.
"Buckle up," he said, starting the engine.
Her arms remained defiantly crossed.
Placing the shift lever in reverse, he floored the gas
and with a screech of burning rubber, the Volvo rocketed
backwards. Stephanie screeched herself and grabbed the
dashboard and the arm rest beside her just in time, then
she hurriedly snapped her belt.
"Jeremy!"
Jeremy floored the gas again and the Volvo leaped
forward, trailing smoke and pilled little balls of tire
rubber behind.
"I'm telling mom!" she yelled and hit him on the arm.
He laughed and hit her back--though not as hard, not to
make her arm ache like she had with him--then he dug his
fingers into her side and she squealed and doubled up.
"Jeremy! Stop!"
Jeremy didn't stop but only dug his fingers in deeper. A
full-fledged battle to see who could make the other
suffer worse broke out and she thought that, because she
had two free hands to his one, that possibly, just
possibly, she might win out. Then Stephanie realized they
were still headed north.
"Jeremy?" She didn't like the secretive, she-finally-
noticed-look on his face.
"I thought we'd take the long way home," he said.
"What long way home?"
"You'll see."
Stephanie sunk down in her seat. "Okay? What's going on?"
Giving her a fake-wounded, What? Me? look, he explained:
"We're playing a little game."
"What game?" she said sullenly. Jeremy had all kinds of
games.
"A game called: Count the Cars."
"What kind of game is that?" she asked, although she
thought she knew.
"The kind where you take off some of your clothes for
every ten cars passed."
Stephanie shivered inside her vest. She sunk even lower
in the seat. Working herself into the corner formed by
the seat back and the passenger-side door, she repeated:
"What kind of game is that?"
Jeremy looked straight ahead. Was he counting? How long
had he been counting?
"No fair!" she yelled. "You can't do that!"
Jeremy looked at her in honest miscomprehension. "Oh," he
said, finally getting her drift. "No, not yet." A moment
later a cop car passed and then he said: "Now!"
"Jeremy!"
"We have to start somewhere."
"No we don't!" she yelled. Taking her clothes off? In the
car? Where anyone could see?
"Don't worry," he said, reading her thoughts. "Check 'em
out as they go by. See if you can see anything inside."
Stephanie was checking them out . . . already there'd
been four. And headlights followed headlights down the
opposite side of the road for as far as she could see.
How many could she count? Fifteen? Twenty? Thirty, maybe?
"Jeremy! You must be crazy!"
Laughing, Jeremy ticked off the next four cars on the
fingers of his right hand, making nine.
"No!" she repeated, slapping his hand away. And when the
tenth car in line--actually a very large truck--zipped by
in the opposite direction, she shrunk, folded-arm into
the corner.
"Forget it," she said. "I won't. And that's all there is
to it."
Jeremy said nothing; he only drove.
After passing another eight cars, they approached the
intersection with Seneca Road--and got caught by the
light.
"See!" she said, righteously. "I told you so!"
Under the fluorescent lighting of the stores to their
left, and the Texaco station across the street, Stephanie
felt practically spotlighted.
Jeremy, hands on the wheel, gave an indulgent grin.
"Bastard," she mumbled, poking out her lower lip.
Jeremy laughed.
At the intersection of Route 28 and Route 118, they
caught another light, this time, with no one around.
Waiting patiently for the light to change, Jeremy said:
"We start for real now, okay? On the next car?"
"You're asking me?" she asked.
His shrug could have meant yes or no.
"Mom'll wonder where we are," she complained, as a
vehicle pulled up behind them. "It's getting late."
"I told her we'd be late."
Stephanie crunched her mouth. "This is bullshit," she
whispered hotly. "And no, I don't care if you do!"
meaning he could bitch about her cursing all he wished.
She would gladly accept a spanking.
The light changed but Jeremy remained where he was. The
car behind them finally honked, then laid on the horn.
Knowing he wouldn't move until she said either yes or no,
Stephanie finally yelled: "All right, okay? I will!"
Jeremy drove on.
* * *
"I'm cold," she said. In fact, she was shivering.
She clutched the blue spandex top in her lap, down to her
white brassiere and the blue knit pants of her outfit.
Gooseflesh pimpled her torso and arms. "Turn on the heat,
at least!" she demanded.
Jeremy turned on the heat.
They were in the real boonies now, Stephanie thought. She
had no idea exactly where--in Iraq for all she knew--but
the traffic had drastically thinned. Two or three minutes
had gone by without a single car; the bad news was that
her count was now up to eight.
"What if no more pass?" she said. "Before we get to this
. . . this . . . whatever-it-is-road?"
The cut-off point--there had to be cut-off point or he
could very well go play with his ya-ya--was White Ground
Road.
Where the hell was White Ground Road?
"Out by Poolesville," he had said. "Or rather, the
turnoff for Poolesville."
Fine, except where the hell was Poolesville? And what
then? Is it like, surprise, Stephie! You get to strip off
the rest (considering there was any "rest"), or did she
get to reclaim them?
He had only shaken his head.
"You win," he said.
"I win?" She hadn't expected that.
"I play by the rules. And that's rule number one."
"Yeah, well," she said uncertainly. Easy to say when you
make all the rules.
And yet somehow . . . was she disappointed by this?
Steph, for God's sake! What are you thinking?
They rounded a bend and headed down a long incline. A
road sign flashed by on her right and Stephanie read: To
Edward's Ferry. Again . . . where was Edward's Ferry?
Then she saw headlights reflected off the undersides of
the power lines to her left, and then she saw the cars.
Four of them, right in a row. Then a couple of others,
close behind.
"Oh no," she moaned, preparing to remove her pants. And
what after that? My panties? My bra?
"Can I count my shoes and socks?" she suddenly asked.
Jeremy looked pained. "If you want."
Of course, I want, you pig!
The first of the group went by--her car number nine--and
thumbing beneath the waistband of her pants, Stephanie
waited for number ten. The vehicle flashed by.
Bye, bye gym pants, she thought, sliding them down and
off her hips. Her panties tried to accompany them (white
panties, as revealed in the thin moonlight, or maybe a
light blue) and she had to fight them back with one hand
while she removed her pants with the other. Even so, they
were more off her fanny than on.
"You should just loose them," her brother suggested. "It
won't be long now."
Feeling a sudden cramp in her belly--was that five more
cars coming up the hill behind the others?--she groaned,
"Come on! This is not right!"
In short order, she found herself down to one. She
prepared to remove her left shoe.
"Shoes and socks count as one," Jeremy said.
"What! You never said--"
"I never got the chance," he said. "You sprang it on me
too late."
"I didn't spring anything on you, Jeremy! They're your
rules!"
"I should have told you," he conceded.
"You're damned sure right!"
Another pair of headlights appeared around a curve, and
then a second pair, and then a solitary headlamp behind
that. Stephanie wondered if somehow that counted as two,
another of his frigging rules.
"Stop worrying," Jeremy said. "We're almost there."
"Please!" she gasped thankfully.
Counting off the remaining cars, she ended up with a one-
count against her pair of socks. There was nothing more
in sight.
"What happens when we get to this road?" she demanded.
"I told you," he said. "Wait till we get there."
"I want to know now! You'll probably make up all kinds of
shit when we get there!"
That's when he dug in his back pocket and came out with a
crumpled, folded-up sheet of paper.
"What's this?"
"The rules."
"The rules?" He had written down the rules?
Leaning left into better moonlight, and unfolding the
sheet, Stephanie tried to read.
"Want the light on?" he offered.
"No!"
The page held a dozen, numbered handwritten rules, some
of which she could read, and some that she couldn't. It
took holding the paper practically to her nose before she
got them all.
Jeremy hadn't lied . . . shoes and socks really did count
as one.
"I can put them back on?" she said, reading Rule Number
Nine. That was too good to be true.
"If we get there and you're not naked already," he said.
"Where's the road? Where is the frigging road?"
Jeremy laughed, and told her to go back to reading. Which
she did, until . . .
"You're kidding?"
"Nope."
She read, half to herself, half-aloud: "Once on White
Ground Road, dressed or undressed, naked or not, you WILL
put back on your clothes (capital letters emphasizing the
"will" for some reason), and once dressed again, the game
really begins.
"White Ground Road runs five miles or so from Route 28
over to the town of Boyds (Yes, I know you don't know
where that is)--" She stopped and gave him her stuck-out
tongue. "--with almost no houses and NO lights at all. It
follows alongside a creek most of the way, and where it
crosses the creek about a mile and three-quarters down,
the road branches off and turns left. Schaeffer Road's to
the right. I know you know where that is."
She looked up, both to blink at the oncoming headlights--
three pair of them, she realized, bunched closely
together--and to comment on Schaeffer Road.
"That's where Kirsten Gepner lives."
Kirsten was her best friend at the Montessori School, to
whom she had confessed some of her problems. Not much,
just enough to make Kirsten explode: "He's such a sicko!"
as disgust pinched her features like a good suck on a
lemon. "And you're sick for letting him do it, Steph!"
Yet, she remained Stephanie's closest friend at the all-
girls preparatory school (the Clit-lick Academy, Jeremy
liked to call it) and her best all-around friend in
general.
"That's right near the park," she said.
The park--Black Hills Regional Park--was where she had
spent many playful hours cavorting with the others kids
on the absolutely rav play-lot above the lake. It was
also where Jeremy had taken her for a hike their first
time off together, and--to her utter amazement and total
disbelief--had removed all her clothing. Correction, had
let her remove all her clothing. She was how old then?
Staring at the passing trees, not seeing the cars that
passed, not counting, not reacting to anything at all
until Jeremy slowed the car, did she finally look up.
Ahead on the right was a boarded up old gas station. The
road sign beyond it read: White Ground Road.
"Thank Goodness," she sighed. She worked back on her
spandex pants and top as Jeremy made the turn, then put
on her shoes.
"Finish reading the list," he said. He reached up and
flipped the map light switch on her side of the rear view
mirror.
"Just before getting to Schaeffer Road," she intoned,
"we'll cross the bridge over the creek. The bridge is the
second cut-off. If at any time we pass a car after
turning onto White Ground Road from Route 28, you will
immediately remove your outer clothes and throw them out
the window!"
The italics were all hers.
"Jeremy!"
"Better hurry," he said. "Lights are coming up."
Sure enough, somewhere behind a turn in the road,
Stephanie saw the clear illumination of headlights. She
hurried on.
"If a SECOND car passes before we reach the bridge--" her
voice was breathless and near to panic "--you will
immediately remove your brassiere and panties and chuck
them out the window as well."
"Oh, no," she moaned. "You've got to be kidding . . ."
"Read!" Jeremy ordered.
The approaching car--actually a very large pick-up truck,
Stephanie discerned--was almost upon them now.
"If a THIRD car passes you will turn on the inside
lights, roll down your window and stick yourself out
right to the waist, like that girl did in, "The Sure
Thing." Then, if no further vehicles pass, you may get
back in at the bridge. You will not however, be required
to remain outside if other cars pass by. Instead, you
will sit down nice and calmly and prim and buckle up in
your seat belt and pretend not to be naked. The inside
light WILL remain on, but only the passenger-side map
light. If the people going by see you naked, well that's
too bad."
The pick-up truck roared by.
"Out of them," Jeremy said.
"But--"
"Now, Stephanie!"
Stephanie reacted to the snapped command the way she
would react to a drill sergeant. Releasing her seat belt
and flipping it back against the door with a loud thunk!
she hurried out of both her gym pants and her top. She
threw them out of the window, clear of the car, hoping
they made it off the pavement. Then she raised the window
again, panting, scared and already freezing cold.
"Read!" he said.
"If another car passes before we hit the bridge, it gets
the same treatment: you sitting placidly by in your seat.
Once past the bridge, we'll turn left, and then Phase Two
begins."
"Phase Two?" she said in a tiny squeak. "Okay, okay!
Don't have a conniption!"
"If you're still dressed," she read on, "you'll stay that
way. If not, you'll get dressed again with clothes I
brought in the back of the car. You'll have the pleasure
of going outside to get them yourself.
"If we pass a another (FIRST) car before we reach the
third cut-off--that's Bucklodge Lane, about a mile or so
farther down--you will immediately undress and throw your
clothes out the window again. Ditto the chest out the
window routine. If a SECOND car passes by (which is
admittedly unlikely, because I've scouted this road
before and it's very deserted this time of night,) you'll
sit down and buckle yourself up until the car goes by.
Then . . . well, then you get a nice little surprise."
"What surprise?" she demanded, then, "Okay, okay!" as he
raised his flattened right hand and held it before her
face. That threat, she understood.
"If we pass a THIRD car before reaching Bucklodge Lane
. . . well, don't worry about that, because I know that
won't happen. That puts us at the cut-off point and Phase
Three."
Stephanie don't want to hear about Phase Three, much less
read it aloud.
"If you're still in one piece, meaning having all your
clothes on, we'll go straight ahead and you're off Scott-
free. If you're naked and sitting on your cute little
butt looking prim and proper, you can redress . . . but
only after we pass through Boyds. If you're naked and
enjoying your little toy, however, then we'll turn left
onto Bucklodge Lane and let you enjoy it a little
longer."
She wanted badly to know about this toy.
"Halfway to Route 117, Bucklodge Lane takes a hard
ninety, then another hard ninety to the left. At this
dog-leg is a big farm with a lot of bright spotlights,
but you don't have to worry about that, because we won't
be stopping there."
That was as much as Stephanie got out before a long, wide
car like a Cadillac shot by. She yelped--how could she
not have seen it?--then dropped the page of rules beside
her on the seat and said bye-bye to her underwear.
Reaching up behind her (Jeremy preferred the front-
closing types of bra, but in her size (training-bra size,
he teased) they were difficult to fit) she released the
snap and the bra came off, revealing her miniature
breasts. (Pancakes with nipples, Jeremy once had called
them, sending her crying to her bedroom.) Jeremy was
staring but she didn't look up.
Pulling the straps off her shoulders, she dropped the bra
into Jeremy's right hand (was he really cutting off the
tag with a penknife? 32AA! she wanted to scream), and
then lowered the window. The bra and panties went winging
through the night and then she was on her knees, grasping
the door frame and the the edge of the roof in her hands
and climbing out into the frigid air. She immediately
screamed.
"Jeremyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyoooooooooowwwwwwwwwwww!"
Air as frigid as a howling winter storm ripped at her
skin. Hair whipped back from her face and slapped in the
slipstream like a tattering flag, a big long strand of it
somehow caught on the upstream side of her nose and
ending up in her mouth. Her entire upper body exploded in
gooseflesh and--Oh my God, no! Don't you do that!---she
suddenly, desperately needed to go pee. Then the strand
of hair worked itself loose and whipsawed across her
cheek and she jerked, amazed at the pain. Then her
nipples began to shriek and then her breasts and her
ribcage and arms, and then she was yodeling: "Jeremy,
please! LET ME BACK IN!"
Only Jeremy didn't let her back in. He kept her clamped
in place against the door panel with his right hand as
she screamed and squealed and caterwauled and banged her
fists on the roof and door. She stayed that way until
they had crossed the bridge and only then, rattling like
a tree in an earthquake, she was released and allowed to
tumble back inside. On the seat, curled into a fetal
position and clutching her knees, her teeth-chattering
ruled the air.
* * *
"I hate you," she said.
They stood outside the car on the side of the road, maybe
fifty feet past the bridge. Stephanie was naked and
shaking; Jeremy only laughed.
"You bastard. Why don't you just kill me, okay?"
Instead, her took her across his knee and paddled her
behind really good. Or would have, she thought, if they
hadn't seen lights.
"Oh no. Jeremy--"
She was past hysterics now, but there was still plenty of
stress in her voice . . . and some plain raw fear. Big
older brother or not, muscle-bound oaf or not, brown-belt
in karate or not, she did not want to be caught outside
naked.
Jeremy quickly opened the trunk.
"This is summer stuff!" she cried, pulling out a red,
button-down sleeveless top and a blue denim skirt. And
where were her panties? Her bra?
"It'll do," he said, hurriedly shutting the lid. "Go!"
Shaking with a continuous, throbbing ache, Stephanie
scuttled back to her driver's side door and got in. She
shoved her arms into the top, closed the door with her
right elbow, tried to get her buttons done up. She
couldn't do it.
"Come on!" Jeremy said, watching the rear view mirror.
"He's getting closer!"
"Just go then!" she cried, or would have cried, had her
jaw muscles worked. Instead, they insisted on banging her
teeth together.
"Not until you're ready!"
"I'll never be ready!" she wailed. "I can't even get them
buttoned!"
"Then put on your skirt, dammit! Never mind, you don't
need your skirt. Just turn around!"
With experienced fingers, he buttoned her right up.
Behind them, bearing right onto Schaeffer Road and toward
the home of Kirsten Gepner, the headlights of the car
disappeared.
"Thank, God," she said, for maybe the millionth time.
Starting the engine, Jeremy said: "Back to your reading.
We're running out of time."
"That's my fault?" she shot back. Then, truculently:
"Where are my bra and panties?"
"Back on the road," he said.
As Stephanie got herself into the denim skirt, zipped it
and smoothed it out, Jeremy put the car in gear and began
to drive.
"Finish reading the instructions," he said.
She retrieved the paper with a groan, reread the part
about the dogleg, and went on. "About a quarter mile past
the farm, I've hidden another set of clothes . . ." She
stopped reading and looked up. "There's no more in the
car?"
Jeremy shook his head. She looked down at her button-down
shirt and skirt. "I'm not throwing these out," she said.
"You are too."
"I am not."
"Wanna bet?"
Stephanie went back to her reading.
". . . which again, you get the privilege of retrieving.
Around the front of the car, in the high beams, standing
with your arms extended out from your sides like a
ballerina. . . Jeremy! Pirouetting? Prettily? For God's
sakes, that's--"
He raised his hand again and grumbling, she continued.
". . .which you'll perform six times. Then, scampering up
the hill on your bare little feet, you'll retrieve the
bag I left there behind the bush and come back down . . .
for another six pirouettes! Then you will perform an act
on your hands and knees before the car, the exact nature
of which you'll discover only when--and if--we get
there!"
"This is bullshit!" she cried, slapping down the paper on
her thigh. "This is--"
"Watch it!"
"--mother-fucking bullshit!"
Yanking the paper out of her hand, he stopped the car and
finished reading himself: "And that's about it. Once back
in the car, you'll resume riding your little toy--"
Stephanie jerked noticeably at the word "riding." "--
staying with it through any other cars that pass by. At
Route 117 you'll get dressed again (we won't pitch away
any more of your clothes, I promise), or sit naked beside
me while I drive you home. Through the boonies, of
course. Your choice. THE END.
"P.S. Did I forgot to mention that another set of
clothes--panties and bra included--is stashed the other
side of Boyds? So that you don't have to ride home nude?
That's assuming, of course, that we stay off Bucklodge
Lane. Good luck, Steph!"
"Great!" she exploded. "I just love this riding around
naked shit! What if somebody sees me, Jeremy?"
"Worry about that," he said, "when it comes to that."
This side of the bridge the road was narrow, twisty and
spooky as hell--but at least no vehicles had passed. When
they drove beneath a set of overhead transmission lines,
Stephanie heard the buzzing of electricity, even through
the closed windows of the car.
Jeremy said: "Halfway there."
"Good," she replied, no hint of a taunt in her voice. She
was not taunting fate.
They rounded another bend and Stephanie saw in the woods-
-or swore she saw--the ghost-like form of a deer. Did you
see that? she was about to ask when, through the trees
ahead, winking on and off like a pair of strobing lights,
the dread-inducing specter of headlights.
"Oh, no," she moaned. "Please . . ."
"You see those up ahead?"
Of course I see them! she wanted to scream. She wanted to
yank open the door and leap out. She wanted to climb over
the seat and hide in the rear foot well. She wanted--and
this was how desperate she was not to take off her
clothes again and experience that frigid air--get down in
Jeremy's foot well, open his pants and--
"W-what?" she stammered.
"I said do you see there's a second pair?"
Stephanie bolted upright in her seat, heart suddenly
trip-hammering, fingernails digging into her palms.
"No," she denied. "No, no, no!"
Jerking sideways on the seat, she yelled: "You said no
more cars would come! You said you had scouted this road
and--" she gave a small breathless gasp as a third sets
of headlights appeared. "Jeremy! They're coming!"
Jeremy seemed almost as shocked as she. Staring at the
three sets of headlights flickering in the trees, he
contended: "I never said that! I never said--"
"You said . . . you told me not to worry, Steph! Said
nothing to worry about, Steph! Not to worry because you
had it all checked out and the road was clear! Well there
it is!" she shrieked, seemingly unaware of her fracturing
language. She struck both hands on the seat in fury. "Now
I have to die in the freezing cold window again!"
"Easy, easy, easy!" he said, laughing at her faux pas.
Stephanie, unaware of her language problem, only got
madder.
"Do something!" she screamed.
"All right! All right! The window is out! Stay in your
seat! But the instant the first car goes by--"
But Stephanie was way out front. Whipping off the seat
belt as the first car passed, she yanked the shirt up and
over her head, thumbed the button to roll down the
window, then pitched the shirt out. It flailed like a
shotgun-blasted duck in the wind and either she didn't
care that it got sucked into the jetstream behind the
car, landing square in the middle of the road, or she was
too rattled to know.
Twisting and pushing off the seat, she then tore the
skirt off her hips and down around her knees, then down
to mid-calf where she tugged one leg free and then the
other; the skirt hit the slipstream too. Then, yanking
the seat belt back across her chest, she was just in time
to end up hands-clasped in her lap as the second vehicle
went by. She had followed his instructions exactly. . .
to the T.
"Jesus," Jeremy uttered.
Stephanie felt rather awed herself. Until she felt
stunned and terrified as the third vehicle passed by--a
road-hogging four-wheel drive pick-up--and found herself
locked eye-to-eye with the driver.
"Jeremy!" she squealed as Jeremy locked his eyes on the
mirror. She didn't need a mirror to see the flash of the
brakes. The red reflected throughout the Volvo's
interior. She turned her head to witness the pick-up
truck coming nearly to halt . . . and saw the twisted-up
lump of her thrown-away skirt--dead smack in the pick-
up's headlights
"Jeremy . . ."
"It's okay," he said, his voice taut with fear. "He's
going on."
Stephanie, breathless and weak, was not so sure. The
truck was moving slowly forward, all right, but only
closer to her skirt. Oh, God, she thought. Is that my
blouse out there, too?
"Go, Jeremy! Go, Jeremy, please!"
Stepping hard on the accelerator, Jeremy got the Volvo up
to a suicidal rate of speed. Stephanie held on for dear
life, bouncing off the seat as the Volvo hit a bump, then
slamming sideways into her door as it skewed around a
corner.
"Jeremy stop!" she shrieked. Then: "Slow down! Slow down
before you kill us!"
Jeremy let off the gas and the Volvo slowly began to
decelerate. Rounding another bad turn, the tires only
squealed this time, rather than try to lift off the
pavement. Soon they were down to a more reasonable thirty
miles an hour.
"Jesus," they both whispered at once.
Stephanie, white-faced and shaking, hauled off and
punched him on the arm. "You bastard! You trying to kill
us! What is the matter with you!"
Jeremy laughed and rubbed his arm. "It's okay," he said.
"I forgive you."
"You forgive me?"
He laughed at her indignation. "Relax. We're almost
there."
"Almost where?" she demanded, looking back over her
shoulder. She waited for headlights. She waited with the
fear of rape. Angrily, she said: "I just threw away my
favorite sleeveless blouse!"
Only that wasn't quite true. She thought that perhaps
somebody else might have it now. Probably her skirt as
well. And if that person drove far enough, kept a
vigilant enough eye, probably her brassiere and panties.
Maybe even her gym top and pants.
"What?" she said, realizing he had spoken.
"I said it's toy time."
Glowering, she looked from Jeremy to the road ahead, and
from the road to the approaching, reflective sign.
"Bucklodge Lane," she read. "You've got to be kidding."
"A rule's a rule."
"Jeremy!"
"I know you'll enjoy it," he said. "I swear."
She shook her head in disgust. "Jesus Christ! Where?"
"Here," he said, lifting his right hand.
Stephanie stared dumbly at it for a moment, the not-
quite-round knob of the shifter-stick, button poking out
the top, squarish and about one inch tall that, when
depressed, released the shifter from park. Then she
understood.
Looking at her brother with her mouth hung open and her
eyes big as plates, she clutched the handle of the door
with her right hand and the edge of the seat with her
left as he turned the Volvo wagon left onto Bucklodge
Lane.
Smiling gently, turning on the overhead light so that she
could more easily see to mount her little toy, Jeremy
said: "All yours, babe. Climb aboard."
STUNG
Saturday, April 22, 2006, 10:45 PM
In the Michelson Home
In Mrs. Michelson's Bedroom
Happy Birthday, Stephanie thought.
Twisting around, she looked at her rear end in the
bathroom mirror. It stung. No . . . stung was what your
wrist did when your mother smacked it for being bad.
Stung was what you felt when you stepped bare-footed on a
bee. This felt more like being the main target at a bee-
sting convention.
She wanted to touch it but couldn't. She wanted to run
wailing to her bedroom and throw herself on her bed but
couldn't do that either. In fact, she couldn't do
anything at the moment but stand there looking back over
her shoulder and fighting not to cry. Or to cry too
loudly.
"Shut up in there!" her brother commanded.
Stephanie cringed. Her chest took a mighty hitch upward,
then held still as she held her breath. Then, shaking
everywhere but on the flats of her feet, she let it back
out again.
"Yes, Jeremy," she said.
Stephanie Nicole Michelson, six months and nine days past
her eighteenth birthday (today was Jeremy's birthday, not
hers), hazel-eyed, freckled across her cheeks and nose
and everywhere else that her bathing suit didn't hide--in
the summertime at least--was a slightly-built girl with
shoulder-length auburn hair, currently very disheveled.
One hundred and fifteen pounds soaking wet out of the
shower, she stood five-feet seven inches tall, had narrow
hips and an even narrower waist, and no breasts at all.
Well, let's say ghosts of breast supporting her small
pink nipples.
"You going pee or not?" Jeremy demanded.
"Yes, Jeremy," she said.
Hurriedly lifting the toilet lid and squatting low over
the seat--she couldn't sit down, oh no, not that!--she
went pee standing up. The handprints plastered across her
bottom were etched right into her skin--from the feel of
it, maybe to the bone itself--and forbade her sitting
down on anything.
She finished peeing, wiped herself, flushed the toilet
and put her hand out to turn out the light. She
hesitated, observing the brilliant red colors of her ass.
Jeremy had outdone himself tonight.
"Get in here," Jeremy grouched. "Before you get it
again."
Stephanie turned out the light and hurried back toward
the bed. Her walk was decidedly spank-hampered, her
movements stick-like and awkward.
"Stop right there," Jeremy commanded.
Stephanie halted.
"Put you hands on top of your head."
Stephanie put her hands on her head.
They were in their parents bedroom on the upstairs floor,
the lights out, the only illumination coming in through
the drawn bedroom curtains--oh yes, always drawn--and
from the flickering screen of the TV.
Naked like herself, Jeremy lay propped on her parent's
bed against the pillows, the remote in his hand. Unlike
herself, there was nothing underdeveloped about his
physique. His chest was thick and heavily-muscled, as
were his biceps and his legs. Where Stephanie had but a
wisp of scarlet hair gracing her loins, Jeremy's pubic
hair was thick, black and curly. And though Stephanie's
most obvious sign of womanhood--her breasts--were
prepubescent-sized amusements, the thing between Jeremy's
legs was long, thick and scarily-swollen.
As Stephanie's aching jaw muscles could attest.
"Turn around," Jeremy said.
Stephanie turned around.
"Nice paint job," he teased. "Does it hurt?"
Of course it hurts you dick! she didn't say. "It hurts.
You know it hurts. Why'd you spank me so hard?"
Jeremy laughed. "Come on over here and sit down."
Stephanie turned around, waiting for permission to lower
her arms. When she got it, she crossed to the bed and lay
down beside him on her side.
She reddened at his smirky grin.
"It really hurts," she repeated.
"Let me see."
Scrunching her face, Stephanie turned onto her belly. She
expected either to be playfully whacked, or outright
spanked again, but got neither. What Jeremy did do, was
spread her thighs.
Okay, she thought. Here we go.
Only that didn't happen either. Instead, Jeremy ran his
hand gently down her back--almost lovingly, her startled
mind realized, and stopped at that small divot at the
base of her spine. Only his fingertips touched.
"Get some cream and I'll put it on you," he offered.
Trying to conceal her shock--she didn't do that very well
either, she feared--Stephanie looked at her brother over
her shoulder, then slid sideways off the bed and crossed
the room to her mother's vanity.
God, it hurt so to walk!
Picking through the various squeeze-tubes and pump-
bottles scattered across the counter along with her
mother's cosmetics, hairbrushes and perfumes, she settled
on her mom's old standby--Vaseline Intensive Care with
Aloe-vera. Returning to the bed, she ducked and squealed
halfway across as Jeremy switched on the lights.
"Jeremy! Don't!"
Jeremy laughed.
Even on her hands and knees, if anyone was watching from
any of the rear windows in the Toliver's house, naked
little Stephanie and her bright red butt could be seen.
There was no doubting that. There was also no doubting
that Cary Toliver, one year older than Stephanie but
still in her twelfth grade class, had seen her naked. He
had intimated as much. (And not so teasingly, either.)
So, probably had his younger brother Joe, because lately
she had taken to peeking through the blinds in her
darkened bedroom only to find binoculars peeking right
back at her from one of the equally darkened bedrooms of
the boys. Sometimes she saw two pairs of binoculars
looking, one either end of the house. At times like those
she wondered if they shared data on her, like bird
watchers or something. Not a nice thought to consider.
But what she really didn't want to consider--and here was
a terrifying thought--was what if one of them came
equipped with a camera? She shuddered violently at that
thought.
"Jeremy, please . . ." she begged.
"Jeremy, please . . ." he mimicked.
Gathering courage to look out, Stephanie saw lights on in
each of the Toliver's four rear windows. Oh, thank God,
she thought. Lighted windows meant parents about and no
boys with pointed binoculars. She crawled the rest of the
way to the bed, climbed onto it and into relative safety
beside her brother. Only her lower half, the half
comprising her buttocks and legs, could be seen. And
Jeremy's erection, of course.
"On your stomach," Jeremy instructed, holding out his
hand for the bottle of Vaseline.
Stephanie lay flat on her tummy. She grasped two handfuls
of comforter because Aloe-vera or not, cool, healing
lotion or not, this would hurt like hell.
"Yeow!" she squealed. "Ow, Jeremy, OWWWW!"
Jeremy laughed. "Jesus, Steph! I'm only pouring it out!"
To her horror, twisting back to look over her shoulder,
Stephanie saw this was true. Ropey figure-eighths of
yellow lotion covered only half of her ass.
"Oh God," she moaned. "Please!"
Holding the bottle with one hand, pumping it with
another, Jeremy continued his figure-eighths.
How am I going to sit down tomorrow when I hurt this bad?
The answer, of course, was that she would not. She might
never, ever sit down again.
Gritting her teeth and crunching her eyes as Jeremy's
hand first touched, then slowly worked her wounded
bottom, Stephanie began to relax. And as that hand worked
her bottom really good, it slowly rose up in the air,
working itself into the desired position. Once there,
both it and every other part of her body begged not for
Jeremy to stop, but only for him to please hurry up and
do it.
Five minutes later, she got her wish. And as Stephanie
totally stopped caring about stinging bottoms, open
bedroom windows or just about anything else in the world,
she couldn't know that in the right rear corner window of
the Toliver house across the fence--Cary Toliver's now
darkened bedroom window--there began the slow, rhythmic
movement of huge glass eyes.
TRAIL BLAZING
Monday, July 10, 2006, 11:45 AM
On the Appalachian Trail
Just North of the Pennsylvania State Line
Stephanie Michelson turned to her brother and said: "What
are you doing?"
Jeremy had her by the tail of her shirt, had brought her
to a stop. His grin, barely-there, just starting to curl
the corners of his lips, set her heart to pounding.
"Jeremy no," she said, looking up and down the trail.
Though dressed in typical hiker's gear--baseball cap, a
white tee shirt, khaki shorts and brand new hiking boots-
-Stephanie looked out of place. She was a slight girl
with shoulder length auburn hair, parted down the middle
and held back either side by a pair of barrettes. She was
eighteen years old, three months shy of her nineteenth
birthday. One-hundred and fifteen pounds soaking wet, she
stood just under five-feet eight inches tall, had narrow
hips and an even narrower waist . . . and no breasts at
all. Well, no breasts under the baggy white tee shirt
until Jeremy pulled it tight against her chest. Then you
could see the outline of her brasierre and the soft
hiccups of her breasts. And, since she wore a moderately
shear brassiere under the shirt--her brother's choice,
not her's--the more visible bumps of her small pink
nipples.
Trust me, her nipples were small and pink.
They were halfway up a moderately steep hill on the
Appalachian Trail, that Maine to Georgia leg-buster, of
which so many folks had lied about hiking end to end.
Where they currently were, thirty miles north of the
Pennsylvania state line, was pretty deserted, as pretty-
deserted stretches of the trail goes. They had seen no
one in an hour.
"Jeremy, no," she repeated. "Please?"
His grin only grew wider.
"Please?"
He released her shirt and her breasts disappeared back
into its baggy embrace. But not for long.
Looking forlornly up and down the path, she sighed and
asked: "How much?"
Jeremy didn't answer. That either meant she was being
teased, or was not worth an answer. She prayed the former
were true. "Jeremy, please," she tried one more time.
"Take it off."
Shrugging out of her backpack, she set it on the ground,
then lay it on its back so it couldn't roll away. Then,
with her mouth set in a wide, thin line, she grasped the
bottom of her tee shirt and yanked it upward. It
dislodging her ball cap and left her in her white, semi-
transparent bra. Her arms came down, crisscrossing across
her middle, the ball cap precariously sideways on her
disheveled hair.
"What if somebody comes?" she complained.
"You go in the woods."
"What if I don't see them in time?"
"Better hope you do."
Why couldn't mom and dad be along, she didn't say. They,
of course, were back at camp, some five miles to the
south. "This is bullshit!" she hissed.
Jeremy cocked his head.
"Sorry," she muttered. She had never been spanked in the
woods and wished it to stay that way. Neither, however,
had she ever undressed in one.
"How far do I have to go?" she demanded.
"As far as I tell you," Jeremy said.
Different from what people might think who stumbled upon
Jeremy and his sister's little secret, Jeremy seldom
spanked or otherwise punished Stephanie for her mouth.
Other than for cursing. For that she was spanked quite
often, twice just the week before . . . but that's
another story. When she did get spanked, however, it was
always bare-bottomed across his knee and more often than
not, completely naked. (Although just lately, Jeremy had
discovered that spanking Stephanie in her school uniform,
her pleated skirt pulled up and her panties pulled down,
did serious injury to her pride.) She herself, Jeremy
constantly informed her, was her own worst enemy.
Pulling one hand out of her shirt, and then the other,
she folded it neatly and lay it atop her backpack. Her
nipples were hardened nicely and poked through the front
of her bra. Gooseflesh had erupted on her upper arms and
chest. Jeremy had also gotten an erection, she observed,
showing clearly through his shorts. Stephanie could not
possibly have missed it and of course, was not supposed
to.
"Not that," she begged. "Please, Jeremy. not that . . ."
Gooseflesh again erupted on her forearms and chest and
she rubbed at it convulsively. "Please?"
Jeremy shook his head.
"Does that mean no?" she begged. Please let it mean no.
I'll suck you if you want me to, she almost said. Just
let it mean no.
Jeremy rolled his eyes, signaling that yes, she was his
dumb little sister and no, they would not have sex.
Stephanie sighed, grateful, at least for that. Yes, at
least for that. She reached up behind her, then changed
her mind and unbuckled her belt instead.
On the trail before her, Jeremy hitched his pack, hooking
his thumbs beneath the straps. That was a clear
indication, she knew, that he meant to keep his word.
When Jeremy gave his word, he usually kept it. Usually.
But not always, did she want him to keep it.
Releasing the button at the top of her fly, she unzipped
herself, then lowered her shorts to her knees. She
stepped out of them , one leg at a time, folding them
neatly as she had folded her shirt, then laying them atop
the backpack. She reseated her Baltimore Orioles cap--her
father's team not hers--and stood patiently waiting.
"Nice outfit, sis."
She looked baby-cute in her size 32AA white brassiere and
pink panties with white and yellow hearts.
"Thank you," she said.
Slipping her thumbs beneath her waistband--she removed
them again when Jeremy shook his head--she reached up
behind her and unsnapped her bra. (For the life of her,
she could not comprehend why her prepubescent-sized
breasts turned him on. Seeing herself naked in the
bathroom mirror made her want to cry. She swore she
looked eleven.)
She had a perfect view down to the bottom the hill, but
her brother was distracted and watching her instead of up
the path. Bringing her bra straps around the front, she
paused momentarily to look back over her shoulder then,
satisfied they were alone, let the bra fall forward into
her palms, where it dangled. Her nipples ached badly and
itched intensely; she wanted to rub them. From the way
her brother stared, she might have been some big-boobied
Hooter's girl instead of an eighteen year old fraud. But
seeing his eyes narrow and his pupils dilate made own
breathing grow harder.
"Stop it," she whispered. "You're embarrassing me."
This broke her brother's trance. Taking a step forward,
he then took it back. If possible, his erection was
larger.
Larger than what? her dazed mind wondered. A football? A
dirigible?
Breathing very slowly now, she dangled the semi-
transparent bra over her folded shorts and let it go.
Then, thumbs beneath her waistband again, she slid her
panties down and removed them as well, putting them with
the rest of her clothes by her left foot. Completely
naked now except for the baseball cap, the Nike Swoosh
watch on her left wrist and the ankle bracelet on her
left foot which her brother couldn't see but knew was
there--and of course her hiking boots--she stood there
and waited.
"Don't freak," Jeremy said. "But somebody's coming."
Stephanie, of course, did freak. Spinning violently
around, tripping over her own two feet and ending up flat
on her can, slay-legged, reared back on her elbows in
best Hustler gatefold fashion, she found herself eye to
eye with the fourteen, mouths-gaping-to-the-middle-of-
their-belts members of Scout Troop 691.
STIR FRIED
Thursday, July 20, 2006, 10:15 PM
In the Michelson House
In Mrs. Michelson's Bedroom
Stephanie Michelson turned to her brother and said: "Can
I please take this off now?"
Jeremy shook his head.
"Please?"
"Stand still," he said. "Before I swat you."
I've already been swatted, she almost said. "Jeremy! This
hurts!"
Jeremy stood up. Of course it hurts, his expression said.
That's the whole point.
"You move, and I'll tan your little fanny."
Stephanie groaned. Her fanny already was tanned.
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 23