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Message-ID: <38539asstr$1033341002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: juliancoreto@operamail.com (Julian Coreto)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 29 Sep 2002 19:16:36 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Alan, Chapter 15
Date: Sun, 29 Sep 2002 19:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Can you get e-mail from a dead person?  Looking at his inbox Alan concluded
that you could.

   It was just shy of two weeks since he had learned of the death (maybe?)
of his mentor, Dr.  Jean-Pierre Massimo, and receiving his ring in the
mail. Jack had sent him a message through the ring, or, perhaps was using
the ring to communicate from another plane of existence.  All he knew was
that Massimo's Seed, his earthly manifestation of heavenly power, was
within the silver band Alan now wore on his left middle finger.

   The e-mail read:

   Alan,

   Please go to the savings bank on the northeast corner of 80th Street and
York Avenue, in the Yorkville section of Manhattan.  I have a safety
deposit box there in your name.  The branch manager has a key waiting for
you, and with your powers, have him give it to you.  Inside the box you
will find compact discs which contain about one-third of my research, as
well as all of the information (not much, regretfully) I have managed to
glean about our opponents.  The information you will find on the discs will
lead you to the rest of my research.

   Buy a laptop computer.  It should have no Ethernet or other networking
capabilities.  The data on the discs should never be uploaded to a computer
which can be connected to an internet connection or even a simple telephone
line.

   Further instructions will be in the materials you get from the bank.

   Jack

   * * *

   Following the instructions which he read off the card, which had been
scotch-taped to the outside of the package in the safe-deposit box, Alan
took it unopened to an office in midtown Manhattan, the same office he had
went to to procure his fake I.D.  that he used for his trip to Atlantic
City.  The office belonged to a middle aged lawyer named Wilkins, a solo
practitioner.

   As he sat in the office's anteroom waiting for Wilkins to appear Alan
studied his surroundings; the office consisted of four rooms, including
this anteroom where the matronly secretary sat behind a polished oak desk.
Three rooms were arrayed behind her.  The middle room was a conference
room, a large oblong table dominating its center, the walls lined with
bookshelves groaning under the weight of volumes of New York Code and
Federal Registers.  The attorney's office was on the left of the conference
room, its door closed at this time.  The other door was locked; where the
doorknob usually would have been was a rather sophisticated piece of
electronics, a complex lock with a reinforced keypad, plus a hand and
fingertip scanner.  Unlike the doors to the other rooms, this one looked to
be made of heavy-duty steel.

   Wilkins ushered him into his office, the East River and the United
Nations visible from the window.  "Please sit down, Mr.  Sutherland.  This
whole thing is a complete shock to me.  If it wasn't for all of the work
Dr. Massimo's death has caused, I fear these past few weeks would have
found me staggered from the shock of it all." Alan (in the guise of his
alter ego, Carl Sutherland) nodded, and the lawyer continued.  "Dr.
Massimo was my only client, the only client I have ever had.  He hired me
straight out of law school and set me up in this office, so my grief is not
just professional, but personal as well.

   Alan offered his condolences, which were accepted graciously.

   "Once I received official confirmation of his death from the British
authorities I broke the seals on several envelopes Dr.  Massimo had left
for me in the event of his death.  Most of his estate will be transferred
to his son in Geneva, but some of it will go to you, particularly certain
items in his person collection of artifacts, as well as all of his field
research notes, and most of his papers, too.  One of the subsidiaries of
his personal corporation, Cyaxares LLC., will now be under your control.
Dr.  Massimo instructed that upon his death all shares in it shall be
transferred to you."

   Wilkins placed the first document back into a folder and grabbed another
off his desk and removed a second set of instructions.  "The office on the
opposite side of the conference room was Dr.  Massimo's personal space for
when he was working in New York.  It is now yours." Wilkins handed over yet
another envelope to Alan, and Alan noted that this one had remained sealed,
and was addressed to him.  "Instructions for getting past the security
door," Wilkins informed him.

   "Thank you.  Is there anything else you need to tell me?"

   "No sir, that is all," Wilkins told him, but Alan could sense by the
tone in his voice he wanted to say something else; he scanned him briefly.

   "Are you sure?" Alan asked him, and understanding the nervousness on the
lawyer's face.

   "Ah, well, uh, not to be indelicate at this sad point, and I know we
don't really know each other so well, but, um, I was wondering if you were
going to continue to, ah, retain the services of this firm for all of your
legal needs."

   Alan agreed and saw Mr.  Wilkins relax visibly.  He had the lawyer send
his secretary out to lunch; he wanted the anteroom clear when he tried the
door of Jack's office.  Alan entered the code contained in the letter on
the keypad.  A small screen appeared in the middle of the apparatus, a
small metal panel sliding away to reveal it.  Alan spent the next half hour
or so answering multiple-choice questions by pressing on the keys of the
keypad.

   Jack had written a program to authenticate him, the questions asking for
information only Alan, as a Vessel of a Seed would know the answers to.
When the computer in the door was satisfied that it was really Alan
Marshall standing before it Alan was prompted to flatten his hand up
against the sensor so his palm- and fingerprints could be recorded.  The
machine also asked for a new access code, and a voice print.

   Alan thought he as done, but the machine also asked for a "danger" code,
a false password which would delay the opening of the door of the office by
ten seconds, while small explosive charges in the computers detonated,
obliterating the stored data on the hard drives, and incendiaries similarly
caused all of the files in the file cabinets to go up in smoke then
triggered halogen fire extinguishers mounted in the ceiling.

   At long last, Alan gained access to the office.  A windowless space,
with a lacquered wooden table in the center, the tabletop half taken up by
a large computer monitor; one wall was lined end to end with black metal
file cabinets, heavy duty-looking ones, made of the same thick steel as the
door, each also sporting miniature versions of the same locking mechanism.
The other walls were covered with maps and diagrams made on Massimo's
expeditions; most were yellowed, and some even had frayed edges.  Alan
rested the steel case he had that morning removed from the bank in
Yorkville next to the monitor; he examined it closely for the first time;
not wanting to attract too much attention in the bank, he had merely placed
it in a canvas zip-up bag and left.  There were no hinges, no releases to
press to pop it open.  He knew it wasn't a solid block of steel, not only
by its weight, but also because he could feel the box's contents shift
within, and anyhow, hadn't Massimo's e-mail message tell him that there
were computer discs inside?  Running his fingers over the whole of it Alan
was confused; just as he was going to give up and start looking at the
computer in front of him, he heard that voice.

   "Don't try to open it with your hands.  It only opens at the command of
the Seed's Vessel."

   "Jack?"

   "I am here," the disembodied voice uttered.

   "Is there some specific command that I need to use to open the box?"

   "No, just will it open, and it will be."

   Alan looked at the box, and in less than a second he heard a pop.  The
top of the box was raised and slightly askew, and he took the lid off
completely and set it to the side.  Inside were the discs as promised, and
he examined the jewel cases, reading the labels and putting them back in
order.  Satisfied he was organized now, Alan replaced them in the box,
refit the lid to the top, and locked it using his power.  He took a cab to
a large chain electronics store, and bought a laptop using the credit card
with the name Carl Sutherland, his Atlantic City alias.  By the time he
returned to Wilkins's office the secretary was gone for the day, and the
lawyer's office door was shut.  Deciding it was safer to leave the original
discs behind the impressively secure office door, Alan transferred all of
their data to his new laptop, filed the disks in one of the cabinets, then
placed his computer into the now empty steel box, and put the box in his
canvas bag.  Exiting the building, he hailed a cab and told the driver he
wanted to go to Grand Central Station; he had a nagging feeling, impossible
to pin down, that he was being watched.

   * * *

   "Four to One, We have a visual.  Out." His partner picked up the
telephoto and shot off as many pictures he could before the mark got into
the taxi.

   "Copy zat, I see him," a heavily accented voice said, his voice
distorted by the speaker of the radio.  "Remember your instructions.  You
and Eight are to follow him, and no more.  Surveillance only.  Repeat,
repeat, do not approach too close.  Out."

   "That's affirm.  Four to One, I copy instructions.  Out." He put the car
in drive, and pulled out to follow the cab his target had just hailed.  He
didn't know why he was following this man.  All he did know was that he had
spent the last two weeks sitting in a parked car on Forty-sixth street
between Second and Third, waiting for the signal for whom to follow.  Seven
hundred dollars a day he was getting paid for this; nice work, if you can
get it.  The agent he knew only as "One" had spent the last two weeks
working as an elevator operator in this office building, waiting for the
mark, whoever he was, to enter the office on the twenty-sixth floor.  Once
he was identified it was his job, "Agent Four," to follow the mark home,
and set up surveillance there.  "Easy," he thought to himself, counting his
money in his head.

   "He's getting out," Eight said.  "Look, up there." The cab had stopped,
and the dome light on its roof was lit, indicating a now vacant cab.  Two
pulled to the curb, twenty yards behind it, and Three jumped out, following
the mark into the station.

   Grand Central Station was teeming with people, this being start of rush
hour.  Three followed the mark, figuring that he would head for the ticket
windows, but instead he followed him straight to the platforms.  Must have
bought a round trip ticket, indicating he lived in the suburbs.  He relayed
this information over the radio.

   "Shit!  Where in fuck did he go?" Agent Eight swore to himself.  Just as
the mark neared the north side of the station a great group of people came
streaming out of an arched passageway, interspersing themselves between him
and the mark.

   "Eight to Four, I LOST HIM," he said frantically into his radio, trying
his best to keep his voice down.  "I'VE LOST THE MARK!"

   "Find him, now," the voice answered back, not Four, but One.

   Eight searched all of the platforms, and walked through all of the
trains idling on the platforms.  He knew he had about a fifty-fifty chance;
about half of the trains would pull out before he had a chance to search
them.

   Twenty minutes later it was all over.  He had failed.  He reported in.

   "Return to base for debrief.  Out."

   Ten minutes later he was at the base, which by coincidence was only a
few blocks north of the station, in a non-descript office building on
Lexington Avenue.  His fellow stalkers on the pursuit team were already
there when he and Four came in together.  Three was not looking forward to
this, but One could not have been more understanding or calm.

   "I never really expected to track him down zo fast.  Who knew if he vas
even going to show his face at the lawyer's?  Ve've made good progress.
Starting in the morning ve'll deploy one team at the lawyer's, and two
teams at the station.  Ve'll spot him again, and next time we vont lose
him."

   One dismissed his team.  The photos would be ready tonight.  The next
day he'll start sending teams of agents to all of the towns which are
serviced by Metro-North, and have them shown around.  A train conductor, a
station worker, someone has to know where he was from.  One of his men had
bribed the manager of the computer store, so at least he had a name, "Carl
Sutherland," but a database search hadn't turned up any address other than
c/o Stanley Wilkins Esq.  P.C.  The data team on the other side of the
Atlantic would be tasked to investigate further.

   He opened his laptop and wrote his report.  That done, he started the
encryption program; this program took a long time to do its business,
encoding his text with such complexity that the fastest code breaking
computer in the world would need at least a month to unscramble it.  He
leaned back in his chair and relaxed, his left hand absently playing with
his necklace.

   The necklace consisted of a thin chain looped through a hook on the top
of a small silver sphere.  The silver was very pure, his boss had informed
him, and he must under no circumstances remove it while on the mission.
Duplicates of his necklace were worn by all of the members of the pursuit
team, and they were under similar instructions, forbidden to remove them
until the end of the mission.

   * * *

   Alan found a seat.  It was still early in rush hour, and the cars were
less than half full.  Plus, he had reached the station just as the inbound
train had pulled in, and he had almost fifteen minutes before the
turnaround.  Sitting there quietly reading his newspaper he still had that
feeling in the back of his mind, a feeling of being watched, or even
chased. He tried scanning all of the minds in his vicinity, but nothing
jumped out.  He lowered his antennae, and went back to reading.  Had anyone
been following him, his transformation from thirtyish Carl Sutherland to
teenaged Alan Marshall would have surely thrown them off his trail.

   "Guess who?" a familiar and singsong feminine voice called.  Kate had
snuck up behind him and covered his eyes with her hands.

   "Hi Kate."

   "Spoilsport," she pouted, coming around from the row of seats behind his
and settling in next to him.  "I wanted you to guess!" she mock-whined.
"What were you doing in Manhattan?"

   "I, uh, came in to have lunch with my dad.  Went computer shopping
after." Well, the latter was true.

   "Cool," she said idly.

   "Why are you taking the train?  I thought you drove in."

   "Car's in the shop.  Busted fuel pump.  Bummer."

   "Sorry," he replied, genuine concern in his voice.  Kate loved that car.
Once she started college she would probably be experiencing withdrawal
symptoms from not driving it.

   The train pulled out, right on schedule, picking up speed in the tunnel.
Kate leaned over towards him, resting her head on his shoulder, her
fragrant black hair tickling his nose.  Alan rested his right hand against
her thigh, feeling her warmth trough the fabric of her knee-length denim
skirt.  She sighed contentedly.

   Alan closed his eyes, unleashing his mind to delve within her thoughts.
She was thinking about the night of the spring break party, when she and
Alan had fucked in the garden as the party continued around them.

   The train slowed and then stopped in Harlem.  A few more people got on,
but soon they were back at full speed.  Kate looked down the center aisle;
a businessman was exiting the bathroom and heading back to his seat.

   "Come on," she whispered to him, sitting up straight and taking his hand
in hers.

   "What?" he answered, a puzzled look on his face.  He knew what she was
thinking, but decided to play the innocent.

   "The bathroom," she said slyly, "I need to go to the bathroom."

   "So?  I'm not stopping you," he replied, a small smile creeping across
his face, letting her know he was on to her.

   "I want you to come with me, to the bathroom," she said as she pulled
him up off the seat.  Fifteen seconds later they were inside, the door
locked.  Though the cars of the commuter train were well air conditioned
the bathrooms lacked a/c vents, and the warmth in the small chamber was
instantly uncomfortable; Kate began pulling at her clothes.

   She reached to his waist and pulled his shirt out of his chinos, her
hands busily exploring his chest and back as he leaned in to kiss her,
sucking her tongue from between her lips and into his mouth.  She growled
softly, dropping her hands to his belt buckle and unfastening it.  He
wriggled out of his pants letting them fall into a bunch around his ankles,
and her hands attached themselves to his groin, rubbing his cock through
the thin material of his underpants.

   He turned her around so that she faced the mirror.  One of his hands
went to take down his shorts, and the other stole under her skirt, his
thumb hooking the waistband of her panties.  Her flesh was warm and
quivering at his touch.

   This was one of the parts she liked the best, when Alan took down her
panties.  It made her feel so, so--her mind rolled around, looking for the
right word--so "taken." Once she felt the panties bunched around her ankles
she lifted up and stepped out of them, then reached forward, putting her
hands on each side of the small sink, bracing herself.

   Once she was situated Alan took her smooth firm ass in his hand,
caressing the silky flesh as she tried to stifle her moans.  He dipped
lower, his fingertips dancing across her rapidly moistening slit.

   "Hrmph, yeah!" she panted through her clenched teeth.  "Touch me, touch
me like that.  " He gently explored her folds as she arched her back,
pressing her ass into his hands.  She gasped again as he slowly inserted a
finger up her, and contracted her muscles, bearing down to squeeze the
invader with her tight vaginal walls.  She was about to come; Alan knew the
signs well.  Right before her climax he withdrew.

   Kate growled at the loss of stimulation.  She felt like a balloon about
to pop from being over inflated, but just as she was about to explode the
air began to be released from the valve.  It was maddening, though she
didn't have long to wait.  Just as she thought she was about to lose her
mind she felt the head of Alan's prick at her pussy.  She pushed back at
him, hoping to trap the tip of it in her cunt, knowing it was a long shot.
He slowly ran the head up and down her sopping labia, and she shook and
trembled in desire and anticipation.  Alan kept at this longer than usual,
thoroughly soaking his erection with her juicy secretions; the wait was
excruciating to her; Kate's trembling accelerated, and he could actually
hear her teeth chattering as he sent her into a frenzy.

   She gathered herself as best she could under the circumstances, trying
to get composed enough the speak, to plead with him to spear her with his
cock.  Even if he had not been able to read her mind Alan would have known
what she wanted.  He saw in her eyes, which were glassy and expectant with
arousal, her pupils extremely dilated, begging him to penetrate her.

   "Here you go, baby," he whispered as he simultaneously pressed his dick
into her steaming channel and leaned over her to place his mouth directly
at her ear.

   "Hrmph, oooooh yesssssssss!" she hissed back at him, thrusting her ass
against his groin as he sunk into her to the hilt.  She knew she had to
keep the noise level down, protected as they were only by the flimsy walls
of the lavatory.  As he began to pump in and out of her she tensed,
clenching her jaw shut, breathing deeply through her nose, and
concentrating on staying quiet.  Is seemed to be easier if she kept her
eyes open, and she stared into the mirror.  The image of herself being
fucked by Alan was an amazing turn-on.  The strangled look on her features,
contrasted with his calm visage was dizzying to behold.

   "Oh God," she squeaked as she felt him probe at her anus.  Upon his
penetration she came like a freight train, or more fittingly in this case,
a commuter train, biting down on the side of her hand to squelch her
screams.  She managed to keep quiet, but at the expense of some nasty
looking bite marks on her palm and the back of her hand.  Alan was matching
the pace of his fucking to that of his finger moving in and out of her ass.

   "You're teasing me, aren't you?" she said quietly.

   Alan looked up into the mirror, amused by the smirk on her face.  "What
are you talking about, Katie?  I'm not teasing you, I'm fucking you."

   She grunted as Alan speeded his attack at her provocation.  "Do you know
how long it's ugh ugh been since you put that great big dick of yours up my
tight little ass?" She punctuated the question by jiggling said ass.
"Before the goddamned prom."

   Alan hadn't thought about it.  "Really?  Has it been that long?" He and
Kate had been taking it easy of late, well, easy for them.  He didn't
really dominate her all that much since the night in the hotel room; Kate
had broken down and confided in him that she was at her core an unhappy
person.  Alan knew from scanning her mind that she was seeing a therapist,
but since she hadn't mentioned it to him he hadn't asked her any questions
about it.  Peering into her mind now he saw that she missed being used,
being dominated.  She didn't quite want to go back to how it was, with her
being a sex slave, calling him, "Master," and all that, but she liked it
when he took control of her.

   "Yeah, that long," she moaned.  Alan slowed his pace and began plumbing
her deeper, and she shuddered in reaction.

   "Hmmm.  So what are you trying to tell me?"

   "F-f-fuck.  Eeeergh!  My!  Ugh!  Assssssssss!"

   "Well, since this is your show, I guess I will," he replied as he
withdrew from her sopping pussy.  Needing no further lubrication he placed
the head of his dick at her rear entrance and slowly entered her tightest
passage.

   "Harder, faster, yes," she huffed while he took his time penetrating.
She gasped feeling at once his prick bottoming out in her ass and one of
his hands on her pussy, fingertips playing across her painfully erect clit,
and then moaned as she felt him pull out a bit, then fuck back into her.
She began to rhythmically contract and relax her sphincter, sometimes
holding his cock so tight she could actually feel the blood flow pulse
through his cock.

   Kate began to buck wildly, her herky-jerky motions checked only by her
need to keep tight hold to the sides of the small basin.  Stifling her
desire to scream out at the top of her lungs when she climaxed, she let out
huge gasps of air, her head shooting back, her long black hair whipping
against his face.  "Come in me!" she demanded, worried that if he continued
to fuck her ass she would pass out.  "Come in me, Alan, come in my tight
ass!" The tight passage was still spasming wildly around his dick, and he
obliged, blasting a prodigious amount into her rectum; Kate relaxed and
sighed contentedly.  His penis softened and slipped out of her, and she
stood upright, pressing her back into his chest, slowly massaging herself
against him.  He felt that she was a bit unsteady on her feet, so he
wrapped his arms around her middle to stabilize her.

   A few minutes later they were back at their seats, a few stations from
home.  Kate called her mom on her cell phone to let her know she didn't
need a ride home, that Alan would give her a lift.

   "So, what are you doing tonight?" she asked.

   "Going to the movies with Pauline."

   "What are you seeing?"

   "No idea.  I always let her pick.  She's got better taste in movies than
me.  What're you doing?"

   "I have to be back in the city at 6:30 in the morning.  I'll watch a
little TV and turn in early."

   "Do you like your work at the center?"

   "It's challenging.  You know, 'There but for the grace of God go I,' and
all that.  Almost all of the girls there are abuse survivors, and they all
have these dead eyes, like they've seen hell, or worse.  It's very
depressing, but I try to help anyway I can."

   "Why do you go in so early?"

   "I work in the kitchens, supervising the girls who prepare breakfast.
Sometimes I can even get one or two of them to open up and talk while we're
working.  I think their defenses aren't so high in the early morning
because they're tired.  That's why I volunteered for breakfast."

   Alan got a flashback from prom night.  "You're a good person," he said
in all earnestness as he put his arm around her shoulders.  Kate looked up
and beamed at him.

   * * *

   "Nothing?" he asked incredulously.  "No one in any station recognized
him from the photograph?"

   Agents had spent the last two weeks scouring all of the stations, and
nothing had turned up.  Agent One dreaded making this report to his boss, a
man unkind to failure.  If it were up to him he would take the lawyer and
interrogate him, but his instructions were to the contrary.  A team of
agents had broken into the lawyer's office, but found nothing much of
interest, though they weren't able to penetrate one of the offices within.
The only thing they had found was an appointment calendar on the
receptionist's desk with that name, Carl Sutherland, entered for the time
the mark had shown up.  A more thorough search on the name revealed little;
the only address listed was the office itself, and the credit report showed
lots of cash, but no hints as to its source.

   He decided to reduce the size of his team; two sets of agents sitting on
the office building, and three sets deployed at Grand Central Station in
shifts.  If the trail picked up again he could always rehire the rest.

   * * *

   "Dude, your mom's on the phone.  Again."

   Alan took the receiver from his roommate and had a brief conversation
with his mother, centering on whether he had enough pairs of boxer shorts
and socks.  Mom had just been shopping and bought him some more, and wanted
to know if she could come down into the city and drop them off, and perhaps
take him to lunch.  She worried about him not getting enough to eat.  Alan
agreed, and he and his mom agreed on a day early next week.  He hung up and
turned to his smirking roommate.

   "She's my mom.  She worries about me," he sheepishly explained.

   "Yeah, my mom worries about me too, but you don't see her calling every
day, do ya?" Soren shot back.

   "Hey, for my mom it's a local call, so quit yer bellyaching.  You're
just worried that she's tying up the phone and your girlfriend wont get
through." Soren threw a pillow at him, but it was a glancing blow, and
failed to draw blood.

   It was a few weeks into the semester, about a month after he came to
campus (the first week was taken up by orientation).  Alan was having a
blast; for the first time in his life he didn't have a curfew, didn't have
to tell his parents where and with whom he was going out.  It was freeing.

   Unlike many--or perhaps most--college freshman, he actually liked his
roommate.  Classes were tough, but exciting.  College was a whole different
way of learning, mostly by its rhythms.  Instead of having every class
every day like in high school, his college courses met two, or in some
cases three, times a week.  Most of the material covered was not spoon-fed
by teachers, but assigned as reading.

   The biggest shock came in the last week.  On his first essay for his
English composition class, a class for some obscure reason known here as
"Logic and Rhetoric," he had received a C.  Never in his life had a gotten
a C on a paper!  Sure, a B here or there, but this was unprecedented.  The
TA had office hours in a few minutes and Alan planned on seeing her and
asking her what the problem was.

   The campus was swarming with students as he walked along College Walk,
the pedestrian path with bisected the grounds.  His destination was
Philosophy Hall, on the eastern edge of school, easily identified by a cast
of Rodin's Thinker out front.  His progress was slowed by recent friends
coming up and chatting.  Mike and Autumn from his biology section stopped
him, and they made plans to get together for a study session.

   The TA was using an unused seminar room to meet with students; she had
no office of her own.  A hand-lettered sign taped to the door read "Miranda
Gorman," and listed her office hours.  "It's always a pain, giving back the
first assignments," Miranda, the TA told him with a sigh as he took a seat
across from her.

   "How so?" he asked her.

   "All you young geniuses," she started, a mocking tone heavy on her
voice, "Aren't used to getting bad or average marks.  Why, I'll bet you've
never gotten a grade less than an A in your whole life, and you're puzzled
at--" she glanced at her grade book and found Alan's line in it "-- at why
I gave you a C.  Huh?  Am I right?"

   "Well," he replied softly, "I can't lie to you; I did get some B's on
some written assignments in high school, but those were lab reports for
Chemistry and Physics.  But I've never gotten less than an A on English or
History papers, and I was editor in chief of the school newspaper"

   Miranda's eyes twinkled a bit at his admission.  The past four freshmen
had claimed they'd never received less than an A on anything, ever.  "Hmm,
an honest man.  Where's Diogenes when I need him?" she joked, assuming that
the boy sitting across from her wouldn't get the reference.

   "I don't know," he rejoindered, "Getting his lantern serviced?  It is
nearing the end of the month." Miranda broke up in surprised laughter.
They got down to business.  Alan pulled out his paper and she reread it
quickly.  The problem turned out to be his newspaper experience.  A
reporter tends to write in discrete paragraphs, so that if an editor
decides to make cuts, whole graphs could be excised without compromising
the readability of the piece as a whole.  Miranda impressed upon him the
need to make his writing more flowing, paragraphs which built upon one
another to form one big mountain, rather than a chain of small hills.  He
thanked her as he stood to leave, making a small joke which she found very
funny.

   As she stood to walk him out he gave her a once-over, and she him.
There were no other kids in the hallway waiting to meet with her, so they
walked out the main door of Philosophy Hall together, and then walked down
the gargantuan steps of Low Library towards College Walk.

   "Do you have classes tomorrow?" Miranda asked coyly as they neared the
gates on the Broadway side of campus.

   "No, I lucked out.  No Friday classes," he told her.  As he answered he
looked at her, and though it was hard to read the expression on her face in
the twilight of the hour Alan had other ways of reading her.  When he
peered into her mind he was almost shocked by the images running through
them.  Almost.

   * * *

   A few hours later, back at her apartment.

   Alan and Miranda had met a bunch of her friends at a bar and grill of
Broadway, sharing finger food and a few pitchers of beer.  It was your
typical grad student outing, consisting of quaffing intoxicants and
complaining about faculty advisors.  Alan didn't add much to the
conversation, but held his own.

   Silently they had walked together to Miranda's building, a small walk-up
on Claremont Avenue.  She invited him up.

   He accepted.

   He knew what he was in for, and was looking forward to it.  Miranda
thought she was going to surprise him, so he decided to play along and not
burst her balloon.  She led him into her second floor apartment, a small
two bedroom, the kitchen table groaning under the weight of papers to
correct, books and journals, and research notes.  The couch was covered
with junk, so she cleared space enough for the two of them and beckoned him
to sit next to her.

   "You seem--I don't know--older than a freshman," she said quietly as she
ran her fingers through his hair.

   "Older?"

   "Yeah," she half said, half sighed.  "You kept up tonight.  The
conversations in the bar." She leaned forward and kissed him softly on his
lips, and he returned the gesture, his hands coming around her, lifting her
blouse slowly upwards.  She batted his hands away.  "Slow down," she
hissed, "You're not in high school anymore.  Let's take our time." She
looked deeply in his eyes, and they sparkled at him.

   She kissed him again, and Alan, after waiting what he deemed to be a
requisite amount of time, started to lift of her blouse again.  Again, she
swatted at his busy hands.  "I get it," Miranda chuckled, "You're ready."
She stood and took him by the hand and led him into what he assumed to be
her bedroom, but once inside yet again she rebuffed his attempt to remove
her top.  "Patience," she counseled, her forefinger stroking his lips.  She
guided him to the bed, and gently laid him down upon it, then straddled his
waist and bent over to lock her lips to his again.  This time it was her
hands lifting up his shirt, and he allowed her to remove it.  Now stripped
to the waist she attacked his nipples with her mouth and teeth, gently
nibbling on them, pleased by his soft groans she received in reaction.
Keeping his mind focused on his nipples she took one of his wrists in her
hand and brought it up over his head so that his hands were hanging off
over the end of the futon pad.  Working quickly she attached it to the
restraint installed to the top of the frame, and a few seconds later both
wrists were bound.

   "What are you doing?" he asked.

   "Quiet," she half-barked at him.  "Do as I say and you'll have a good
time.  Don't do as I say and you wont.  Got it?  I'm in charge, and don't
you forget it," she snarled.  Her eyes were shiny with arousal as she
surveyed him prostrate on her bed.  She went to her closet and took some
things out of it, not letting him see what she was getting, and then
disappeared into the bathroom.

   She was a different person when she emerged five minutes later.  Gone
were the khaki pants, Doc Martens and flannel shirt she had before.  Now
she stood before him as a bitch goddess in heat.  Her leather boots were
thigh-high and stiff, black and polished to a high gloss.  Her panties were
black and leather, though matte, softer looking than the boots.  The bra
holding her generous bust was of the same material as the panties, with
holes cut in the cups to allow the nipples to peek through.  Her face was
almost as shockingly different as her change in attire.  Her pale skin was
even whiter than before, heavily masked by make up, and her lips were
painted a great vivid scarlet.  Her wavy light auburn hair, which she had
worn loose earlier in the evening, was pulled back into a severe bun, held
in place by a clip.

   "Oh my god," Alan gasped in feigned surprise, aware of her plans for
this encounter as far back as she did, from the time the left office hours
together.

   The first thing she did was to take off his pants and underwear,
shooting an appreciative glance at his large and rapidly expanding
erection. "Nice," she remarked as if evaluating a piece of meat at the
butcher's shop.  Holding his cock with her fingertips she raked her nails
up and sown the length until it reached full hardness.  "Very nice."

   She moved up his body walking on he knees and placed her crotch in his
face.  Alan could smell her excitement through the heavy materiel of her
leather panties.  She reached under herself and popped the snaps at the
crotch of her panties and jammed her pussy into his mouth.  "Lick it," she
hissed, "Lick it good, and if you make me come, maybe I'll let you come."

   He attacked her pussy with his lips and tongue, his task made a bit
awkward by the restraints on his wrists.  Miranda began to thrash lightly
against his head, small mutterings and moans escaping past her lacquered
lips.  "The kid's not bad," she thought to herself as her arousal
accelerated.  "Not bad at all," as her gasps became audible.  He was
concentrating on her clit, and the sensations were electrifying.  She was
about to orgasm and her upper body shook in arousal, her nipples pointy
through the openings in her bra.  She screamed, her cry echoing off the
walls of the room.  Unable to keep upright her body fell forward, her hands
flat against the wall in front of her to hold herself off of him.

   "What a find!" she said under her breath after her gasping subsided.
She lifted herself off his face and collapsed on the mattress next to him.

   "Are you gonna release me now?"

   "Maybe soon," she said, a smile on her lips.  She gently took his cock
with her fingers again, teasing him anew with her nails.

   * * *

   The front door of the apartment opened with a squeak.

   "Randa?  You home?  You'll never guess who I saw tonight!  Randa?"

   "Who was it?" Miranda answered calmly from her bedroom through the
half-opened door.

   "That fucking creep, Steve Ganske.  He tried hitting on me ag--" Laura
Drayton froze in the doorway, seeing her roommate, her part-time Mistress,
geared up in her dominatrix outfit.  On the bed next to her was a guy she'd
never seen before, sporting the largest penis she'd ever seen.  Laura
lowered her eyes respectfully.  "I'm sorry, Mistress Randa.  I'll shut the
door behind me," she said reverently.

   "No.  Go to your room.  Prepare yourself and come back immediately."

   "Now we're in for some fun," Miranda said slyly to the bound freshman
chained to her bed.  "Hmmm," she said languidly, one hand idly tracing
patterns on his bare chest, the other still stimulating his manhood with
her nails, "I wonder what my little teenager would like now." She
considered the cock in her hand.  "Make that not so little." An evil look
came across her face.  "Would you like me to, I don't know, suck your
cock?"

   "Yessssss," he whispered as she tightened her grip over his erection,
the nails digging in slightly.

   "I didn't say you could talk!" she barked.  "Let's try again.  Would you
like me to suck your cock?"

   He nodded.

   "Pity for you.  I don't suck cock."

   The door to the bedroom opened and Miranda's roommate reentered.  Laura
was wearing nothing more than stockings, a garter belt, and nipple clips;
in addition to a dog collar, a blindfold hung loosely around her neck,
waiting for her mistress to blind and bind her.

   Miranda gestured to the door, and the shivering girl standing in it.
"Like I said before, I don't suck cock.  That's her job," she said
wickedly. To Laura, "Come here, cocksucker, and show this boy how you suck
a nice cock.  This is Laura, my cocksucker," she explained with an even
voice after turning to face him again.

   Alan thought he heard Laura moan, but couldn't be sure; his pulse was
beating in his ears, his eyes fixed on his dominatrix teaching assistant.
Once Laura had knelt on the bed Miranda look her by the ears and steered
her towards his groaning erection.  Laura quickly engulfed the helmet.
Alan groaned in response; her tongue was a frenzy against his hardness.
Miranda ordered him to be silent, and he quieted down.

   "That's right baby.  Suck him.  Suck him hard.  Suck him good.  Yeah.
He's got a nice cock, doesn't he, baby?"

   Laura nodded, half his dick swallowed down; Alan almost moaned again,
but thought better of it.

   "Suck his cock until he comes.  He's going to come down your slutty
throat, and you're gonna swallow it all.  You'll do that, wont you baby?
You swallow all of his man cream for me, yes?" Laura nodded again, even
more of him filling her throat.

   "Don't miss a drop.  Ooh yeah, that looks so nasty, your nose buried in
his pubes.  Good job.  Good job, baby.  Swallow it all when he comes or
I'll punish you.  Yeah, suck it like that.  Swallow all his nasty man come,
his boy come, and then keep sucking him.  Get him hard again.  Get him hard
again so he can fuck your Mistress.  Do it, baby, do it for me, do it for
me, do it for me, do it for me."

   Alan, with his power to control his own orgasm, could have let this go
on all night, and her was tempted to draw it out as Miranda continued her
filthy litany of command and encouragement.  But all good thing must come
to an end, so he spewed into Laura's mouth, keeping the volume of his
ejaculate low to spare Laura any punishment.  Laura pulled her mouth off of
him and opened wide, showing Miranda her come, apparently a tradition
between the two of them, and then made an over-dramatic show of swallowing
it down before taking him in her mouth again, to make him hard for her
mistress.  Alan quickly regained his erection, surprising both women.

   Miranda pulled Laura off of him by her hair, marched Laura over to the
corner of the room attaching her collar to a chain and covered her eyes
with the blindfold, returned to the bed and then straddled him.  "You're
gonna be a good boy now, aren't you?  You're gonna make me come, yes?" She
half-groaned as he lowered herself slowly onto his dick, small gasps
escaping her mouth; she had never been with a man so large.  Alan decided
to toy with her, and using his powers blocked her ability to orgasm.  Up
and down, up and down she stroked herself onto him, her excitement boiling,
but for some reason she didn't understand, not boiling over.  "Fuck!" she
moaned, frantic with sexual excitement but unable to climax.

   "What's wrong, Miranda?" he asked her, the evil grin now spreading
across *his* face.

   "Mistress!  Call me M-mistress!" she barked back as best she was able
through the haze of lust enveloping her.  Sweat was pouring down her face,
down her neck and over her bust, soaking the leather of her bra.  Whenever
he thrust up at her small droplets of perspiration dripped off her
diamond-hard nipples and landed on his abdomen.

   "No, I will not," he shot back with a harsh tone in his voice.

   She slowed her bouncing, both because her mounting fatigue and the shock
at this boy's defiance.

   "Listen to me, son," she whispered through half-clenched teeth, "I
thought I laid out the rules after I strapped you down.  I'm in charge
here. Now shut up and f-fuck me" There was a horny weariness to her voice.

   "You're in charge?  Then why can't you come?  Huh?" Alan brought his
hands up and grabbed her breasts through her bra, squeezing them roughly,
her nipples pressing insistently into the palms of his hands.

   "How, <gasp> did you do that," she shrieked, her eyes fixated on his
unbound wrists as she ground her crotch into his.

   "Magic," he snarled back, rolling her over and off of him and getting on
top, then slamming his cock fully into her.  Miranda screamed incoherently.
He strapped her in to the restraints attached to the bed's frame; she was
too week with exhaustion to resist.

   "What are y-you g-g-gonna do to me," she asked fearfully.

   "I'm going to fuck you," he said simply.  "I'm gonna fuck you to within
an inch of your life, and then I'm gonna come in your mouth," he explained
as he sunk his cock into her steaming and juice depths.  And I'm gonna make
you come so hard your toes are gonna curl up."

   She groaned deafeningly loud.  "NO!" Alan stopped his attack, just the
head of his dick resting inside the entrance of her pussy.

   "No?  You don't want that?" He gave her another inch, feeling her walls
contract against his invader.

   "No," she insisted, her mind a fury of contradictions.  He was in
control, and she didn't like it, but what he was doing to her was so
powerfully erotic the excitement was insanely arousing.  She could feel it,
her juices dripping out of her womanhood to her ass and then onto the
sheets.

   "No?  You want me to pull out?  You want me to get dressed and leave?
Or do you want me to fuck your tight little pussy and then come in your
slut mouth?" he taunted her writhing form as he slowly pronged her with an
inch of his cock, slowly pushing and drawing out, feeling her rubbery pussy
lips grasping his shaft in an attempt to keep him from escaping her warm
depths.

   She couldn't think straight, and the loss of control was terrifying to
her, a Mistress, a person who tried her best always to stay in control.
"No," she grunted not knowing if she said that so he would continue or
cease fucking her.  She was out of her mind with lust.

   Alan took that to mean that she wanted him to stop, and he pulled out of
her, an obscene slurping noise resulting as her gash gave up his cock.  He
walked over to the corner where Laura was cowering and trembling and took
off her blindfold.  She looked up at him, her vision dominated by the sight
of his twitching erection, covered in her Mistress's secretions.  It looked
delicious to her and a drop of drool escaped from the corner of her mouth.
This man--this boy--standing before her had dominated her Mistress, her
dominatrix.  He stared at her, saying nothing, and she moved her head as
far forward as her chain would allow, licking the glowing pink head of his
penis.  "Yummy!" Laura thought.  He took a small step towards her and she
took his tool in her hand, rubbing it against her face and licking the
shaft.

   "Are you ready?"

   Laura didn't understand the question.  She shrugged and continued to
nuzzle his dick, her long blond hair tickling his most sensitive organ.

   He pulled back and then knelt in front of her so their faces were level.
"Are you ready?  To help me?"

   Her pale blue eyes shimmered, wide as pools, and she slowly nodded her
assent.  He reached behind her neck and released her from the collar, also
detaching it from the chain.  After disconnecting the nipple clips he led
her over to the futon, so they were in sight of the quivering Miranda, and
stood her in front of him leaning forward so that his chin was lightly
resting on her left shoulder, then whispered his instructions in her ear.
Her eyes went wide with shock and arousal.  He left the room, leaving the
door open behind him as he made his way to the refrigerator for a drink.

   "What are you doing?" Miranda croaked loud enough for him to hear in the
next room.  "No, slave, stop, don't do that.  I am your Mistress, damnit!
Let me go, please." Alan downed half a bottle of water before coming back
in, and he saw that Laura had followed his directions perfectly.  Miranda
was naked on the bed.  No bitch-goddess boots, no leather bra and panties,
only the collar, the slave collar, the collar she had used to restrain
Laura.  The blonde graduate student sat at attention in a straight-backed
chair facing the bed, her hands crossed demurely over her naked crotch.

   "Please Alan, please let me up.  I'll fuck you.  I'll I'll I'll I'll
even let you--" she paused, the thought almost sickening her, "--come in my
mouth, please?"

   "I don't know, Miranda.  Laura here has been most cooperative, unlike
some people I know, unlike some people in this very room, as a matter of
fact," he retorted, toying with her.  "I think Laura deserves a little
attention, don't you?  Watch carefully what I do for her, because if you're
a good girl I'll let you have some too." He winked at Laura as he said
this, and she began trembling again at the thought of things to come.

   He motioned for her to stand, and took her place on the seat, then
pulled her quaking body onto his lap, his hard cock resting against her
ass. For the first time he stopped to take her in; she had a fantastic
body, all curves, petite and very soft.  He'd be surprised if she had ever
seen the inside of a gym.  There was no stringiness to her muscles, nary a
right angle on her entire body.  She was the essence of femininity.  Her
breasts were medium-size and beautifully shaped, capped by nipples so pale
pink they almost matched her skin tone; a light dusting of freckles went
from the bridge of her nose to the top of her bosom.  Alan had his arms
around her waist and his fingers in her mound, one teasing her clit, the
other stroking her lips, occasionally running through the neatly trimmed
patch of yellow pubic hair which crowned her vagina.  Once she was
sufficiently wet he would lift her and set her down on his dick, and that
time was soon approaching.

   Miranda looked up from the bed, her eyes wide and her jaw slack, taking
in the sublimely erotic scene in front of her, wishing her hands were free,
so badly did she want to play with herself.  At least they hadn't
blindfolded her, though that was of small comfort in her current situation.

   * * *

   Laura was a squeaker.  She let loose a loud one when he penetrated her,
groaning deeply as the whole of him made it way up her tiny pussy, a
passage never nearly stretched so much before.  As he bottomed out she
squeaked again, and yet more once he started lifting and dropping her, his
hands firm on her fleshy hips.

   "Yessss!" Laura gasped out.  "Fuck me like that, yes!" Alan realized
this was the first time she had said anything since shortly after entering
the apartment.

   "Looks good, don't it?" Alan said, addressing the bound Miranda on the
bed.  Miranda licked her lips and nodded.  Watching Laura orgasm on the end
of his gargantuan dick was one of the most thrilling sights she had ever
seen, and judging by her roommate's moans she sure sounded like she was
having the time of her life, and she wanted some of that for herself; the
throbbing in her pussy was telling her so.

   Before Miranda knew what was happening the pair had shifted.  He was
doing her from behind now, Laura face hanging a few inches above her own.
Suddenly Laura dropped her head down and attacked Miranda's mouth with her
own, and Miranda eagerly reciprocated, her horniness overcoming her fear
over the loss of control, her tongue busily exploring her roommate's
gasping mouth.  Alan reached forward and cupped Laura's forehead, drawing
her away from her bound lover.

   "Tell her," he ordered Laura curtly.  "Tell her this is the best fucking
you've ever had.  Tell her how it feels."

   "Oh God yes!  So good.  So hard!  So long!  So big in my tight little
pussy.  The best!  The best!  The best!  The best!  The best!" she chanted
mindlessly, her face a mask of unadulterated pleasure and lust.  Miranda
felt the flow from her pussy increase.

   "Oh my GOD!  It's happening!  AGAIN!" the blonde submissive screeched as
she exploded anew in an orgasm of epic proportions, collapsing half on the
bed, half on her chained roommate, a cheek pressed into Miranda's own
heaving tit.  Alan kept pumping into her, and in less then two minutes she
exploded again, but less frenzied this time, as she was nearing the end of
her stamina.  As he pulled his still hard cock, shiny and dripping with
Laura's juices from her hot channel, the small girl have a last moan and
passed out, her body limp against Miranda's.

   Alan lifted her up and carried her to her room, ignoring the crazed look
Miranda was shooting at him as they left.  After gently depositing her on
her bed and pulling up the comforter to cover her, he quickly swallowed
down the rest of the bottled water on the way in to Miranda's bedroom.

   "So, what did you think of that?" he asked her sneeringly.

   "Please," she huffed.  "Pleeeease."

   "What do you want?  What do you want me to do?" he asked back, a mock
innocence in his voice.

   "Do that to me.  Please," she pleaded.

   "Fuck you?"

   "Yesssss.  I need it.  Please.  I want you.  I w-w-w-want to c-come like
that.  Like sh-sh-she did."

   "You'll be a good girl?"

   "Anything.  Anything, p-please," she whined.

   "You'll suck my cock?  Drink my come?"

   "Yes!" she answered without the slightest hesitation.

   He walked to the head of the bed and fiddled with her cuffs, releasing
her from her bonds.  He laid down on the mattress, and pushed her upright.
"Show me.  Show me how GOOD GIRL sucks cock."

   She attacked him with her mouth, licking the underside with the flat of
her soft tongue.  She had absolutely no experience in this; growing up she
had simply refused, and as a Mistress she had slaves for this task.  She
improvised, mixing kissing and licking and sucking into an opera of lust.

   He tapped her on her shoulder and she understood, taking the head back
into her mouth, waiting expectantly for it to explode.  She needed not to
wait long, and to her surprise she savored the taste of him.  He flipped
her onto her back, spread her legs and knelt between them.  Amazingly he
hadn't lost a whit of his hardness, and she gasped aloud when the head of
his prick came to rest on the lips of her drooling pussy, nestling itself
against the soft auburn curls which covered her pubis.

   "Beg."

   This was a game she had often played with Laura, so she knew what to do.
"Fuck me, please, fuck me.  I want to feel it in me, please.  I'll be a
good girl, a good little girl, I promise, but please fuck me now.  Fuck me.
Fuck me.  Fuck me.  Fuck me.  Fuck meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee," she howled as he
filled her at last, her entreaties degenerating into incoherent grunting as
he hammered in and out.  Her entire body shook violently as he gave it to
her, her head bouncing off the pillow, her arms and legs flailing about.
Less than a minute after penetration she climaxed, her tight wet pussy
grasping strongly at its invader, a shower of juices flowing briskly from
her pussy, drenching his shaft and trickling off of his swinging balls.

   "Come in me," she begged.  "Shoot your juice in my pussy, my good-girl
pussy," she squealed.  "I have to feel it!"

   Groaning himself, he came into her spasming channel, collapsing forward,
covering her body with his own.  She embraced him, her arms coming around
his back, her legs encircling his sweaty ass.

   "So good.  So fucking good," she muttered mostly to herself as she
drifted off into her dreams.

   * * *

   The following Wednesday in class Miranda handed back the next batch of
essays to her students.  Alan flipped through the paper, excited that the
comments were all positive.  The grade however brought him up short.

   D- Please see me at my regularly scheduled office hours, this Thursday,
5:30 to 7.

   There was a smiley face under the grade.

   Next Chapter: The pursuers close in.

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