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From: Vulgar Argot <gekagekREMOVEALL@CAPShotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Marigold, part 2
Date: Sun, 23 Mar 2003 19:10:03 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Marigold, Part 2
by Vulgar Argot
(NC, MF, Oral)

(Author's Note: This is the sort of erotica I've always wanted to
read, but so rarely see. It is the DS half of BDSM without the bondage
or masochism. It is non-consensual without involving physically
forceful rape. As a warning to the reader, this installment includes
sexual activities, but no actual sex. Those who only want to read
about sex in its rawest form should skip parts one through four.)

Thule drove Marigold home without speaking. After a few minutes of
silence, he reached over and turned on the radio. Loud rock and roll
music blared forth. He turned it down enough to make conversation
possible. But, no conversation came. There were few other cars on the
road and Marigold found it easy to become hypnotised by the dashed
white lines going past. With her eyes focused on the lines, the rest
of the world receded into darkness. She shivered. Thule reached over
and turned on the heat. She half turned to look at him out of the
corner of her eye. She couldn't believe she was in his car. Thule was
one of the dregs. His family was poor. He was poor. His car was at
least fifteen years old and smelled of cigarette smoke. And, while
some people she knew from church had risen above being poor, he seemed
to revel in it. He wore generic blue jeans, probably from Sears. His
shirt was flannel. His hair matched hers for color and nearly for
length. Sensing her eyes on him, he reached up and ran his hand
through it. She smiled, though she couldn't say why.

He pulled up a couple of blocks away from her house. She looked at him
questioningly.

"Fix your hair," he said.

She pulled down the sun visor, "It's a little messy, but..."

"It's JBF hair," he said more emphatically, "If you go inside looking
like that, your parents will know."

"JBF hair?"

"Yeah, like you've just been...Listen, I'm sure that your parents have
had sex at least once. They know what hair looks like after you've
been up to that sort of thing. It's how Maya's parents found out about
us. Fix your hair."

She did as she was told, smoothing her hair until it met with his
satisfaction.

"If I pull up to your front door and let you out, will there be
questions?" he asked.

"I doubt it," she said, "I get rides from other people at the
newspaper sometimes. My parents don't stay up looking out the window
when I stay late."

"Okay," he said and restarted the car.

"Thule?" she said. He looked at her expectantly.

"No," she said, "nothing. I'm sorry. Thank you for the ride home."

He seemed to be considering several possible responses before he said,
"Any time. I'm surprised you don't have your own car."

She shrugged, "My parent's don't think that it's safe for a girl to be
alone in a car."

"But, they let you stay at the school until nine o'clock at night?"

She laughed mirthlessly, "That's different. That's for Harvard. We
fought about it a lot, but I wouldn't budge. I really want to go to
Harvard."

She expected him to say something crude, but he just stopped the car,
"Here you are. I'll see you in school tomorrow."

"Yeah," she said, "Okay." She made no move to get out. He raised an
eyebrow.

With a start, she realized that she was waiting for him to get out and
open the door for her, like Elliot would. Feeling foolish, she undid
her seatbelt and let herself out.

                          ===

Her parents were not waiting at the window when she came in. Her
mother sat, watching some inane reality program on TV. Her stepfather
was in his home office, reading his Bible. As she walked past the open
door, he said, "Marigold, come in here please."

She went in, dutifully, standing with her eyes down as he finished
what he was reading.

"This is very late," he said, "We were expecting a call."

"I'm sorry," she said, "I got so wrapped up in getting the newspaper
ready, I lost track of time."

"Sorry is between you and God," he said sternly, "I expect a phone
call next time. And, I don't expect there to be a next time for a long
time. It's not proper for a young Christian woman to work so hard all
the time. When will you have time for prayer and reflection?"

"I read the Bible verses you assigned me today, sir."

"Yes," he said, "but I'm sure you don't yet understand them." He
looked up, his face showing how merciful he thought he was being, "You
look exhausted. Go get ready for bed. Your Bible study can wait until
tomorrow night."

Gratefully, she went upstairs, slipped out of her clothes and into the
shower. Naked and alone, she closed her eyes, thinking it might be
nice to cry, but no tears came. And, while she may not have much time
for prayer, she did take time for reflection.

Thule was, she remembered in the abstract, beneath her notice. If he
weren't trailing her GPA by 0.004 points, she really wouldn't have
known he existed. She had taken one more advanced placement class than
him senior year, which along with a single A- freshman year, was the
only thing keeping their grades apart. No matter how well she'd done,
he'd been dogging her steps. More infuriatingly, he seemed to do it
effortlessly. He didn't do any extra work, never volunteered for
anything, showed no respect for the teachers, and with few exceptions,
left school as soon as it was over. She could count his
extracurriculars on one hand. On several occasions, she had complained
to teachers who cut him slack because he handed in an assignment late,
citing "work" or some equally ludicrous excuse as the reason.

She had always refused to see their race for grades as a competition.
He was socially invisible, hanging out with misfits from all the
undesireable cliques. His girlfriend, Maya, had been a theatre nerd.
He was always hanging around with the computer and math geeks. A few
of the barely popular had made the mistake of associating too closely
with him over the years, tipping themselves over the edge to
unpopular.

By all rights, she should be an enormous social pariah for having let
him touch her, worse having put his cock in her mouth. The bitter
taste still lingered there. But, strangely, she didn't feel different,
socially, at all. It was as if tonight had happened in an entirely
different world, where there were no consequences for who you let
touch you or how.

Surreptitiously, she turned the shower head to its most forceful
setting and positioned herself under it. She knew it was a sin to
touch herself down there, but she considered this to be a loophole. As
the water pounded away at her, she tried to duplicate the feeling
she'd gotten from Thule's hands on her breasts, stroking and teasing
them, but even with the added stimulation of the pounding water, she
couldn't approximate it. Frustrated, she turned the shower back down
and off.

In her room, dressing for bed, she decided to put the experience aside
for further study later. Standing in the middle of the room in nothing
but a long t-shirt, she impulsively decided to lock her door and wear
nothing else.

She fell asleep with one hand pressed between her thighs, not there
for self-abuse but just there, here other on her chest, still trying
to figure out what Thule had done to make her feel so good.

                          ===

Marigold and Thule had the same classes all morning. But, he took
seemingly no notice of her, focusing on the work and talking with his
usual circle of unacceptable friends. It wasn't until she asked a
question in fourth period AP computer programming that he acknowledged
her existence. The question was a particularly tricky one and the
teacher stared blankly at her when she asked it.

"I can help her with that, Mr. Shaw," he offered.

The teacher, who was in way over his head, nodded his grateful assent,
"Thank you, Bart."

He pulled up a chair next to her. Several of the more socially aware
types in the class turned to watch, but when he started actually
explaining what she'd just asked, they turned away.

He interrupted himself mid-thought, "Come and sit with me today at
lunch?"

She turned abruptly to face him, "What?"

"You heard me," he said.

"I will not," she hissed indignantly.

He shrugged, "Your choice. What you need to remember is that arrays
are stored in contiguous memory, so you can..."

"What do you mean my choice?" she asked, "I can just say no."

He looked her in the face, "You can always say no, and live with the
consequences."

She looked around rapidly to make sure no one was eavesdropping,
"You're a monster," she sputtered.

His shrug was more expansive this time, "Probably. I'm not proud of
myself, treating you like something subhuman, the way you and your
friends have done to me and mine for the last four years."

She was getting angry now, "I never treated anyone as badly as you did
me," she growled.

"Sit with me at lunch," he said, "Or don't. As I said, it's your
choice."

                          ===

She almost didn't do it. It had been easier to strip for him, even
easier to take his cock in her mouth than it was to walk across that
cafeteria to where he sat, eating alone, reading a computer magazine.
When she sat down, he didn't even look up immediately, but went right
on reading. She felt like he was the only one in the whole cafeteria
ignoring her. She started to flush crimson and almost fled before he
looked at her.

"That's a very pretty skirt you're wearing," he said, "You should wear
them more often."

If the skirt had been anything other than ankle-length and loose
fitting, it would have come out as lewd. As it was, it just left her
puzzled.

"All right," she said, "I'm here. What do you want?"

"What do I want?" his eyes flashed dangerously, "I want to have lunch
with my friend." He raised his voice on the last word, just enough for
the nearest eavesdroppers to hear it. But, that was enough.

Stubbornly, she ignored the statement and started eating. He went back
to his magazine.

"You can't just sit there and ignore me," she said desperately,
"Otherwise, why am I sitting here? Talk to me."

He looked up at her, holding her gaze for a long moment, like he would
refuse. Then, he closed the magazine and put it aside, "OK, dear. What
would you like to talk about?"

She searched desperately for something to say, "You sure seem to know
a lot about computers. Where did you learn it all?"

To her surprise, he smiled, "I've had computers at home since I was in
grade school."

"How did you..." she stopped herself.

"How did I afford it?" he asked, enjoying her discomfort, "The first
one was barely more than a toy. I got it from one of those Christmas
charities. I used it for years after no one else was. At fourteen, I
started mowing lawns and shovelling snow and saving every penny I
could get until I could afford a second-hand corporate machine, then a
second one. After that, I knew enough about them that the hobby paid
for itself. Why are you taking AP programming?"

She put down her sandwich, "The same reason I'm taking all of my AP
classes. An A in an AP class counts as 4.3 towards your GPA as opposed
to a 4.1 in a Regent's class."

"It does?" he looked incredulous, "Is that why my GPA is over 4.0?"

She looked horrified, "You didn't know?" But, the grin on his face
told her that she'd been had, "Oh, you're awful."

"You really hate that I'm Salutatorian, don't you?"

"No," she said quickly, "of course not."

"Mari," he said, stretching out the syllables, "do you really think
it's a secret?"

She shrugged, "I don't think I even notice who's number two in the
class. I'm not in competition with anyone but myself."

"You are so full of shit," he said. She grinned broadly at him,
letting him know, he'd been had.

"Oh, my God," he said, "You have a sense of humor."

She leaned in to speak lower, "Why are you making me do this?"

"You're not enjoying our conversation?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

"I would enjoy it more if it were more private," she said, running a
hand through her hair.

His face clouded, "Well," he said, "if you're ashamed of your new
friend, I guess we can meet again in the newspaper office after
school." Before she could interrupt him, he picked up his magazine and
waved her away, "Go sit with your other friends. I have reading to
do."

                          ===

Several times, she tried to approach him during the day, maybe to
apologize, maybe to try to make an excuse not to be there that night.
But, he managed to avoid being anywhere that she could talk to him
privately. Resignedly, she headed down to the newspaper office to
await their next meeting.

When she got there, he was nowhere to be seen, but a few staffers
were. The newspaper wasn't really more than announcements of upcoming
events and announcement of awards won, so most of the time in the
office was spent in socializing.

As soon as she sat at her desk, Brianne cornered her, slinking over to
her desk with malice in her eyes.

"So," she said casually, "I missed you at lunch today. What did you
and the dreg have to talk about?"

This much she had rehearsed for at least, "I needed to ask him about
some stuff we'd covered in AP programming. He helped me in class
today." The lie did not roll easily off of her tongue, even if it was
mostly true.

"Really?" asked Brianne, "You seemed awfully chummy. I hear Elliot was
really pissed when he found out."

Marigold shrugged, "He's really got nothing to be pissed about unless
people have been gossiping and taking things way out of context." She
gave the two gerunds heavy emphasis, "Hey, is your piece on the prom
done yet?"

"I handed it to you yesterday," Brianne said.

"I know," said Marigold, more harshly than necessary, "If you need
help using the spell checker, there are plenty of people here who know
how. I also marked up a few places where it needed to be reworked. Try
to have it done before you leave."

Brianne would have answered, but Marigold turned back to her computer
dismissively. The other girl flounced away. Marigold felt an
unfamiliar surge of power. It was not in her nature to force people to
back down. But, Brianne had really gotten on her nerves. It had been
her damned prom article, clearly written with no thought in about ten
minutes that had kept Marigold in the office so late, trying to make
sense of it. Worse, the girl couldn't spell worth a damn and seemed to
barely know how to construct an article after four years on the
newspaper. Brianne's father ran the local Pennysaver and Brianne was
under the impression that what he and she did passed as journalism.
Somehow, she'd managed to worm her way into Columbia School of
Journalism. Marigold was sure she hadn't written her admissions essay
either. By all rights, she should have been the one washing semen out
of her hair last night.

She chuckled bitterly to herself. Thule would never bother with a
scatterbrained lightweight slut like Brianne. They would have nothing
in common. The very idea....

She quickly clamped down on that line of thought and got back to work.
People began filtering out. There were only a few left when Thule
showed up. He went over to one of the workstations at the wall and
began running a diagnostic. A couple of minutes later, two of the
other remaining people left, so that only she, Brianne, and Thule were
left. She became terrified that he would say something before they
were alone. But, he sat in front of the computer and read a paperback
she couldn't see the title of.

Eventaully, Brianne shut off her computer, walked up to Marigold, and
said loudly, "My prom article is done. I hope you two have fun,"
before skipping out of the room.

Even after she left, Thule just sat reading for what seemed like a
long time. Finally, Marigold got up from her desk, closing and locking
the door of the office.

"Boy," said Thule, "she's a bitch."

Marigold nodded in agreement, "She is, although I'd never be so crude
as to say so."

He put down his book, "Why are you friends with her, then?"

"I'm not," she answered quickly, "We run in the same circles. That's
all."

He swiveled his chair towards her, "Did you sign her yearbook?"

She shrugged, "I sign a lot of yearbooks."

"What did you write?"

She looked annoyed, "I don't know. The usual. Best of luck over the
summer. Can't wait to see you next year. Why?"

He shrugged, "Sounds pretty friendly."

She looked down at him like she would a particularly dense child, "It
doesn't mean anything. It's just...being nice."

"Do you think you're a nice person, Marigold?"

"I...I try to be," she looked uncertain, "not always. Thule, I'm sorry
about today in the cafeteria."

"Sorry," he asked too casually, "in what why? Like repentant, sorry?"

"Yes," she said ernestly, "Like that."

"So, you want to be my friend now? Want everyone to know that we're
friends?" he looked hopeful.

"Sure," she said weakly, "maybe not everything about what we do, but
friends is okay."

He looked her squarely in the eye, "How fucking stupid do you think I
am?"

"I..."

"Come here," he ordered, "Sit in my lap."

"What do you want?" she asked desperately, "Do you want another blow
job? You want to see my breasts again? Will that make you happy?" She
started pulling off her sweatshirt.

"I want," he said evenly, "for you to come here and sit on my lap."

"I can't do this anymore," she said angrily, "Go ahead. Tell them
about my Harvard essay. I'll apply to Yale. It's not the end of the
world."

He looked at her evenly, as if waiting for her to take the statement
back, "It's always your choice," he said finally, "but we're beyond
the Harvard essay now."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Do you think Yale wants people who give blow jobs on school grounds?"

"You have no proof," she exclaimed, wishing it to be true.

But, he reached over to the computer behind him and, with a few mouse
clicks and a few keypresses, a small window came up. The low-quality
image and jerky motions said it was a web-cam feed. Unfortunately, the
feed was not so bad as to hide the fact that the two people were him
and her, they were in the office, and they were replaying the events
of the previous night.

"You recorded me?" she shouted angrily, "You monster." She threw
herself at him, intent on doing him real physical harm. But, at barely
five foot three, she was able to do little against Thule's more than
six foot frame. He caught her wrists, spinning her around and pulling
her into his lap.

"How could you?" she cried, "How could you do this to me?"

He growled in her ear, "I did it because I intend to keep you for a
while. You're going to do what I tell you. But, I'll make you a
promise. If you're a good girl and do what you're told between now and
when you leave for Harvard, you're free. I won't bother you anymore."

In spite of herself, she felt hope well up, "Really? Do you promise?"

He nodded against the back of her hair, "I promise. I'm good for my
promises. I told you yesterday I wouldn't rape you and I didn't, did
I?"

"No," she said, "I guess you didn't....What do you want me to do?"

He loosened his hold on her, "From now until September, you're my
girlfriend. Get rid of Magic Earring Ken. You're going to be my kind
of girlfriend. I am not going to be your kind of boyfriend. Do I need
to be clearer?"

"But..." she twisted to face him.

"What?" he asked harshly.

"My parents will never allow that. They expect me to marry Elliot once
I graduate from Harvard. He's a nice, Christian boy. He'll be a good
husband. Even if I had a good reason to leave him, they'd never let me
out of the house if I were seeing you."

He shrugged, "You'll have to figure something out."

"I can't," she pleaded, "It's just not possible. I promise. I'll meet
you whenever you want, in front of whoever you want, do whatever you
want, but I can't live in my parents' house and do what you ask. And,
I can't leave or they won't pay for Harvard. Please. It's not
possible."

"Hmmmm," he said, "Really not possible?"

"Really," she said, "Please."

"Well," he said thoughtfully, "I don't want to ruin Harvard for
you..."

"Oh, thank you," she exclaimed loudly, wrapping her arms around his
neck. The relief was genuine.

"Hold up," he said, "Here are my conditions...."

She nodded, listening carefully.

"One, you will find some way to spend next weekend with me. I'll pick
you up Friday after school and drop you off Sunday night. Two, you
will make it clear to any and all of our classmates that we are
friends. Three, you can go to the prom with Elliot, but you're leaving
with me. Four, I expect you to arrange a suitable replacement as my
prom date. Don't make it someone you like because I'm going to blow
her off to leave with you. And, five, I want you to wear a prom dress
that doesn't hide your chest. At least once, I want you to see how
beautiful you are."

She thought about it.  Finally, she said, "One will be tricky, but
I'll manage. I have no idea how I'll manage four. If I need your help
getting someone popular to agree to go to the prom with you, will you
help?"

He nodded, "If I can."

She sighed and relaxed against him, "Thule, can I ask another
question?"

He nodded, his face up against the top of her head.

"Do you really think I'm beautiful?"

He laughed, "Do you think I'd blackmail just any girl into being my
girlfriend?"

"No," she said, "It would have to be someone you hated very much. But,
you did not answer my question."

"I think you're one of the most beautiful girls I've ever seen. Even
when you dress to hide your figure, you're beautiful. When you're
naked, I feel like I've leashed a goddess."

She hadn't known before that moment that it was physically possible to
blush over your entire body. But, it felt like she was radiating
enough heat to burn him through both their clothes.

"Are you wearing panties?" he asked.

"Of course," she answered, "What kind of question is that?"

"Take them off," he ordered.

"What? No," she said, "You promised my first time wouldn't be in this
dingy little office."

He took her chin in one hand and turned her to face him, "You may be a
beautiful goddess, but you'd still damned well better do what you're
told without question."

Standing up off of his lap, she complied, hiking up the seeming acres
of material that made up her skirt until she could reach underneath
and pull off her red, lacy panties. She tried to hide them, but he
pulled them out of her hand, "These are quite sexy. What does the
good, Christian boy think of these?"

"No one was supposed to see them," she exclaimed, flushing crimson
again, "They normally stay under my skirt."

He laughed, sliding one hand up under her skirt, stroking the back of
her leg, just below her bottom, "Come on. It didn't occur to you that
I might see them?"

"I..." she remembered that she had changed her underwear at the last
minute today from the unflattering white panties to these rarely worn
red ones, an inappropriate gift from a befuddled older relative, "I
guess I thought you might. Would you have preferred my huge, white
ones?"

He chuckled and drew her closer to him, his hand moving up to cup her
buttock, "I prefer you like this best of all."

She slapped him lightly on the shoulder, "Do you ever stop being a
pervert."

He nodded, "Sure, but you bring it out in me." His other hand slid
underneath her skirt until both gripped her buttocks, kneading them
gently. She let out a little gasp.

"Thule," she whispered, "please don't fuck me tonight, not here. I
will if you want, but I'm begging you."

He smiled, "You're cute when you beg, but in this case, it's totally
unnecessary. I keep my word. You'll keep your much-valued virginity
until next weekend, at least. Today, I'm just going to make you look
forward to losing it."

His words made her feel like such a whore that she almost wept. She'd
always viewed losing her virginity as something she would do for her
husband on their wedding night, to be looked for only for what it
signified, not for itself. She was horrified to realize that she was
not entirely dreading the event. What kind of girl was she, really?

He pulled his hands out from under her skirt and wrapped them around
her, drawing her to him as he rose to meet her. He was so much taller
than her that she had to look up to see his face. When she did, he
leaned down, one hand sliding behind her head. She opened her mouth in
surprise just as their lips met. Unlike Elliot, when he'd been given
the opportunity for such things, he barely used his tongue at all,
preferring to dart it in and out, teasing her tongue and lips. She
determined to bear up under it, but her mood quickly changed from
tolerance to reluctant enjoyment. His hands barely touched her, but
where they did, they seemed to leave hot fingerprints on her flesh.
She fought the pleasure as hard as  she could. At some point, he had
lifted her up onto the conference table, where she was now sitting,
but she couldn't remember when. He lifted her sweatshirt over her
head, fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. She found her traitorous
hands helping him, peeling off the uncomfortable bra as quickly as she
could. She wanted him to rub circulation back into her breasts again
like he had last night. She wrapped her legs around his waist and
leaned back, arching her back. His lips travelled down her throat and
chest, his hands wrapped firmly around her waist.

His mouth covered one nipple. She gasped at it. His tongue teased the
very tip of it. The sensation was so intense for a moment that she
thought she would swoon. He didn't let up, teasing it with his lips,
teeth, and tongue. She moaned, unable to fight it anymore. When had he
laid his shirt across the table for her to lie back on? The warm
flannel tickled her back. She wrapped both arms around his head now,
pressing him against her breast, urging him on. One hand slid from
around her waist, catching and undoing the zipper on her skirt, laying
it out like a blanket beneath her. She realized abstractly that she
was totally naked, but for her knee-high stocking now. It should have
bothered her. But, before it could, he traced a line of kisses down
her belly. His hands gripped her bottom, massaging it powerfully.
Suddenly, he was lifting her up, his chin forcing her legs apart. She
cried out in surprise, doubly so when his warm, wet tongue slipped
inside of her. She started to panic at the pleasure of it. Even as her
ankles locked between his shoulder blades, she tried ineffectually to
push his head away.

Tear rolled freely down her cheeks now, "No, please," she begged,
"It's dirty. It's too...dirty. Don't..."

He either didn't hear or didn't listen, driving his tongue deeper
inside of her, homing in on her clitoris. She writhed then, squirming
and gasping while trying desperately not to lose contact. With his
tongue working her most sensitive spot in the front and his hands
kneading her bottom in the back, she soon lost all awareness of
anything but his hands, his tongue, and what they were doing to her.
She squirmed. She moaned. Soon, she felt a trembling overtake her
entire body, starting where his tongue touched her and working its way
outward. At that moment, she couldn't feel like more of a whore and
she couldn't care less.

"Oh, God!" she cried out, "Oh, Thule. Oh, God."

Still, he did not relent. And the pleasure went on and on, wave after
wave washing over her. Even after he stopped, pulling her into his
lap, naked thighs straddling his legs, breasts mashed against his bare
chest, she shuddered as wave after wave of aftershocks shook her. She
sat in his arms, crying and letting him stroke her hair for a long
time after that. She was supremely aware of his cock straining against
his pants beneath her, embarassingly aware of how much she wanted to
slide it free of his pants and mount it right now.  Fingers trembling,
she reached down, undoing his belt. He stood, letting his pants fall
free. But, before she could make her intentions known, his hand was on
her shoulder, pushing her to her knees. She wanted to protest, but the
moment of insanity passed and she was grateful to have another way
out. She wrapped her mouth around his cock, sucking it as he'd taught
her the previous night. It was easier this time. She licked and sucked
it, making up in enthusiasm what she lacked in technique. After a few
minutes, he grabbed a fistful of her hair, trying to pull her away,
"I'm coming," he gasped.

Not wanting a repeat of the uncontrolled explosion last night, she
refused to be dislodged. Again the hot, bitter liquid burned her mouth
and throat, but she managed to keep most of it inside this time,
dribbling only a little bit down her chin.

He collapsed into the chair, pulling her into his lap. Their naked
groins were less than a foot apart, but his didn't seem particularly
threatening at the moment. She lay her head on his chest and listened
to his heart until it slowed to a normal speed.

Noticing the time, she leapt up from his lap, ran to her desk, and
frantically dialed the phone. After three rings, her stepfather picked
up, "Yes?"

"Sir, it's me," she said, "Marigold. I lost track of time again. I'm
still at the newspaper. We had to do physical layout tonight. I'll be
done real soon."

There was a long paused and then a sigh at the other end of the line,
"Marigold, I thought I made it clear last night that you were not to
stay there so late night after night."

"Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir. Things just ran late and..."

"I still expect you to do your Bible lesson tonight. One day, we can
let it slide, but a good, Christian instruction is essential to the
raising of children."

"Yes, Sir. I'll be there soon, Sir." she said. The other end of the
line went dead.

Thule chuckled, "He sounds like a bit of a hard-ass."

"He's concerned about my upbringing," she said defensively. He's
afraid I'll stop being a good Christian when I leave in September. If
he only knew..." Her voice trailed off as she started crying.

He was up, his arms around her, before she knew he had moved, "What's
the matter?" he asked.

"I'm such a slut," she whispered, "I don't have to go away to be a bad
Christian."

"Hey," said Thule, comfortingly, "come on. You're not a slut. I'm
blackmailing you. Remember?"

She laughed miserably, "I wish it were that easy. But, I liked it.
And, I wanted....no, never mind."

"You wanted what?" he asked, "Tell me, my tethered goddess."

She smiled at the nickname, "I wanted more. I wanted it all. I didn't
want you in my mouth. I wanted you between my legs. Even here, even
now. God knows what I am."

Thule nodded, "Aye. God knows that you're a screwed up chick if you
think you're bad for this. God made sex feel good. He didn't do it
because he wanted us to avoid it. He wants us to fuck. God is a big
fan of fucking."

She chuckled, wiping her eyes, "I don't remember that verse in the
Bible."

"Read Song of Solomon again some time," Thule answered, "you'll find
it between the lines."

(Legal note: This is mine, not yours. Read it. Enjoy it. Print out a
copy if you want to read it in bed. Don't steal it. If I find it
anywhere else than here or in the Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository, it
will not go well for you.)

--Vulgar Argot
  http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/VulgarArgot/index.html
--
"I've been accused of vulgarity. I say that's bullshit."
  --Mel Brooks

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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