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From: "H. Jekyll" <h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Fallen Angel by H. Jekyll (MF, D/s, mc, cheat, oral, anal, tort)
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Date: Sat, 14 Mar 2015 00:10:02 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Fallen Angel assm.rtf" begin>



   ----------------

   Fallen Angel



   by H.  Jekyll



   MF, D/s, mc, cheat, oral, anal, tort, vampirism



   * * * * *



   Copyright 2015 by H.  Jekyll.  All rights are reserved.  Do
   not read this if you are either under the legal age to
   read sexually explicit stories, or you live where it is
   illegal to read such stories.

   The only reason to post on-line is the ability to meet
   interesting people.  Please write with criticism, praise,
   or conversation: h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com

   H.  Jekyll story archives:

   Alt Sex Stories Text Repository
   (http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/h_jekyll/)
   The authors' archives at StoriesonLine
   (http://storiesonline.net/home.php)
   The authors' archives at Literotica
   (http://www.literotica.com)

(NOTE: In this story parentheses mark some of a character's
   thoughts)

   * * * * *


   Fallen Angel


   It begins with a rumor.  More than that.  It's gossip.
   Juicy gossip.  A true story of how an administrative
   specialist may be fired, with plenty of details that
   violate the university's privacy policy.  Karen knows
   about it because the whistleblower came to her -- both
   before and after reporting the thing to Human Resources,
   which has called a disciplinary hearing.  Now she's
   telling Miriam.  It's the normal passing of confidential
   information in organizations.

   "You can't tell anyone, Miriam.  Promise me!  I'd be in no
   end of trouble." Karen is enjoying this.  Miriam is
   actually the third person she's told, and she's excited.
   Sexed up so much she wants to touch herself.  More so each
   time she tells it.

   "You know I won't.  But...  Georgia Witherspoon?  In
   Kiplinger Hall?  With a door open?  (Georgia?) During the
   day?  Was she crazy?  I mean, they go to our church!  How
   could she actually do that?  What could have possessed
   her?  Who was the man?"

   Karen lets Miriam ask all her questions.  After all, Karen
   Is in charge and will drop the dirtiest dirt on her own
   schedule.

   "Well, *he* possessed her!" Karen giggles.  "A new guy in
   Languages, in *Greek* of all things," Karen gives Miriam
   a look and giggles again.  "I don't know him personally
   but I know he's tall.  And dark.  And handsome."

   Miriam ignores the editorial part.  "Are you sure?"

   Now comes the good stuff.

   "Donna Kraft saw it.  The door was open.  Just a crack,
   Donna said.  But she could see Georgia was completely
   naked.  Giving him oral sex." She emphasizes the words
   'completely' and 'oral', savoring them, almost pleasuring
   them.  Then, *sotto voce*: "All.  The.  Way." She seems to
   have this thing for making lists of three.

   Miriam exhales.  "Oh Lord."

   "Donna was pretty shaken up about it." (I wish I'd been
   there.  Oh God I want to play!  How soon can I get Al
   alone?)

   "Oh Lord." There is a pause.  "Donna's sure of
   everything?"

   "Miriam!"

   "I know.  I know.  I know.  I'm sorry.  It's just that, well
   it seems so...implausible." (Georgia?)

   "Donna told me HR had her write it out.  And sign it.  And
   they swore her to secrecy."

   Miriam exhales again, a long, slow release of air.  "Oh
   Lord!" If you say three 'oh Lords,' isn't one likely to
   appear?  "At our school?  Completely naked?  In a department
   office?"

   "Donna didn't say he was.  Nephilim.  That's his name.  I
   don't know that he was naked.  Just his you-know-what.  But
   Georgia was, yes.  Absolutely buck naked in the psych
   admin office.  She was kneeling in front of him and really
   doing it.  Donna said when Georgia saw her she yelled and
   tried to cover up."

   (I thought I knew her).  Miriam now knows she doesn't know
   anything at all.  She wants to know everything.

   "It gets even better.  Afterward Georgia came to Donna and
   tried to get her to not to tell anyone.  If she hadn't
   lied, Donna says she might not have."

   "How did she lie?"

   "She said he made her do it, but Donna saw enough, and it
   wasn't like that at all."

   "Poor Georgia.  I mean...losing your job over...something
   like....  And poor Frank.  And their kids!  Does he know?"

   "I don't see how he could keep from finding out, not if
   they fire her."

   "Oh Lord!  It's terrible."

   It's fabulous, Karen thinks.  "He'd be the only one not in
   on it.  How could people keep a secret like that?" (I bet
   poor Frank could use some consoling.)

   "What will happen to Nephilim?"

   "Well, he's a prof and she didn't work under him -- no pun
   intended." Miriam ignores the jollity again.  "I imagine
   he'll get a letter of reprimand or something.  I don't
   know.  Maybe he won't get tenure."

   * * * * *

   Round and round it goes.  Miriam has closed the office
   door for lunch, so she can have a sandwich, but she isn't
   hungry anymore.  One bite of her sandwich is gone.  The
   rest sits beside a cup of pens and pencils and a bottle
   of hand lotion, right in front of her desktop screen,
   none of which are in her world now.  She thinks of
   Georgia, can't get rid of the image.  Georgia sucking on
   a man, not even her husband, but some strange man.
   Georgia losing her job.  (She's my friend.  Not close but
   close enough.)

   She imagines the scene when Frank finds out.  Will someone
   else tell him first, or will Georgia have to break the
   news?  She can't just say she lost her job for no reason.
   (How can she tell him?  "Honey, I have a little
   confession.  I gave a blow job to a new professor and got
   caught.") Miriam tries to imagine the look on Frank's
   face.  (It will kill him!  It will completely destroy
   them!) A loving young couple with two toddlers.

   Maybe not so loving.  (He can't let her stay after that!)
   Georgia sings in the chorus and Frank teaches a Sunday
   School class.  Miriam recalls what a beautiful singing
   voice she has, and has a quick image of her in a purple
   and gold gown, holding her hymnal, but the image becomes
   Georgia slipping off the gown to give suck.  Some strange
   man with a swollen cock.  (They've always seemed so happy.
   Will would die if I did something like that.  I wouldn't
   be able to face him.)

   Miriam's mind keeps going back to the act, and her mind's
   eye is sharp.  There's the door, cracked open, and Donna
   is peering in.  Georgia is on the floor, naked and
   brazenly feeding on a dark man with dark eyes and a dark
   penis.  Georgia's vulva, covered with rich, dark fur,
   peeks out from between her thighs.  (Can I ask Donna?  No!)
   Then there's the penis itself, swinging upward from the
   man's lower belly, dark like the rest of him and purpleheaded.
   Where did those details come from?  She steers her
   mind away.

   (It's so unfair!  The man always gets away with things.
   The woman pays the price!) She hears the echo of Karen's
   words -- "All.  The.  Way." -- hears the smirk in the voice,
   and the image of what Georgia will pay the price for pops
   up again.  All.  The.  Way.  Karen is so snarky!

   (Could it be a game -- like ours?) Will and Miriam
   sometimes play naughty games when they can get the
   house alone.  The best is where Miriam is Will's
   prisoner.  He yells and cracks his belt on tables and
   chairs and makes her do things.  He's had her kneel, naked,
   and hold his erect cock in her mouth while he leaned over
   and spanked her bottom with his belt, hard enough to sting.
   Once he stopped to check if she was okay, and she said,
   "Please don't hit me again -- harder," and they broke up
   laughing, which ended the game.

   So, yes, Miriam knows what kneeling before him with his
   helmet in your mouth is like, and that it can be hot.
   But this isn't a game, and it's not between spouses.
   And it's going to end not with heated-up intercourse
   but with a money shot.  How does Miriam know this?

   Now her mind tricks her and Miriam sees the scene from
   close in, from Georgia's view, not Donna's, so she's
   looking down the shaft at the man's fuzz.  And then
   somehow the scene shifts yet again.  Now Miriam is inside
   Georgia.  It just happens.  She slips inside.  She
   couldn't explain the how or when of it, but she feels
   what Georgia feels and does what Georgia does.  She feels
   the head of his penis, big and meaty, and tastes him,
   and smells him.  Oh, the smell of him!  And his little
   slit, seeping silk.  She knows Georgia is excited because it
   becomes her own excitement, as is the breathing, the
   swallowing, the achy vibration around her pudendum that
   is so strong if she just touches herself it'll set her off.

   (This is too much!  Stop it!) But when she tries to turn
   it off the camera in her head spins around and she can
   see it's herself with the penis plugged into her mouth,
   one hand curled around the base of the cock, the other
   caressing his scrotum, her clothes on the floor, her back
   chilled by the breeze sifting through the doorway.

   Miriam looks to the door, her own door.  She hurries over,
   locks it, and turns out the light.  Back to her desk she
   unsnaps and unzips her pants and reaches inside to push
   two fingers down across her bud.  She's so high she
   doesn't even try to stop herself.  She's on the verge,
   so charged she can't stand it, then she's inside
   Georgia again, and she feels the man's hands on her head.
   She's moving her fingers as fast as she can.  He's humping
   her mouth.  The cock starts to pulsate.  It shoots a jet
   onto her face before he pushes it into her mouth, then
   there's another, and another, and Miriam does come.  Lord,
   does she.

   The spurts give way to a flow, then to a seep, and all of
   it shatters Miriam, who is drinking it like milkshake.
   There's a super close-up of her mouth, lips pulling away
   from that beautiful penis with its lovely blue veins, her
   mouth overflowing with the taste, her lips still joined
   to the slit by a slender, glistening thread, milky fluid
   on her nose and chin.

   Miriam snaps her head to one side, then the other.  Both
   hands are inside her slacks, inside the waistband of her
   panties, her fingers diddling inside the folds of her
   labia, still in high orgasm.  Her breathing is out of
   control and the room is filled with tiny, black stars
   that form and drift downward and disappear.  She hunches
   at her desk, her hands between her legs, just pressing
   now, the partly-eaten sandwich and cup of pens and
   pencils and lotion all sitting unnoticed to the side.  It
   takes a minute, two, three, before she pulls her hands
   out and stares at them.

   (What just happened?  What happened?  What happened?  My
   God!  My God!)

   Not her God.  Maybe her Lord.

   It is another few moments before the knock comes at the door.

   * * * * *

   Miriam knows who it will be.  She doesn't but she does.

   "Just a minute." She's shoving her blouse into her pants,
   pulling them all the way up, closing and fastening them,
   trying to act composed.  She's anything but composed.

   Okay, open the door.

   Yes.  Him.  He's as she'd imagined, but taller, bigger,
   like a defensive end.  Dark.  Olive.  Black eyes.  Black,
   wavy hair.  An afternoon shadow.  A seducer.

   "Hello.  I'm Amon Nephilim." His hand is out.  Miriam has
   to take it, and when she does a spark tingles up her hand
   to her arm, up her arm to her body, through her breasts
   and hits right where her hands had been.  He holds her
   hand and says, "Call me Amon." What an odd name.  "I
   need...," and he stops.  He pulls her hand close to his
   face and sniffs.  And grins.

   "Well, I know what *you've* been doing!"

   Miriam yelps.  She manages to bite it off, though anyone
   walking down the hall would have heard it and wondered
   what had happened.  What would she tell them?  She jerks
   her hand away.  Both of them go behind her back.  "I...I
   don't know what you mean!" She can't keep her voice
   from quavering.  Her face is hot, itchy with heat, then
   her neck, all the way down to the tops of her breasts.

   She thinks she may cry.  She will, but not just yet.
   Somehow in all of this she thinks his name is odd.

   That's the scene: Miriam lost, her seducer towering,
   looking down at her, relaxed, smooth, knowing,
   authoritative.  There's no leer.  Nothing flirty.  He's
   simply in control.  He speaks again, smoothly in a
   baritone.

   "It's nothing to be ashamed of, Ms. ..."

   "Price.  Miriam Price." She latches onto the answer.  Maybe
   it will turn the conversation away.  No it won't.

   "Miriam.  Yes.  Sister of Moses, who found water on the
   desert.  A prophetess too.  Well!" He smiles a warm smile.
   His eyes look into hers from far away.  "You've found
   water in yourself, Miriam.  Can you also divine the
   future?"

   Miriam doesn't know what to answer.  Yes, she can
   foretell.  Not every detail, but yes.

   "You don't have to be ashamed, Miriam.  Only...," and
   oddly-named Amon Nephilim takes a half step in, "you
   shouldn't do that to yourself.  It should be done
   *to* you."

   No, no, no, no!  Miriam can't breathe, not because of
   sexual excitement but because she's terrified.  There's
   just a little, shallow nothing of air.  She sways, or
   begins to, and Amon Nephilim takes another step, close
   enough now that he can put his hands on her waist, one to
   each side, perhaps to steady her.  God they're big, and
   strong, and she realizes how easily he could pull her all the
   way in.  Their faces are only inches apart.  She is afflicted
   with an image of him on top of her, the feel of a
   phallus she can knows she can recognize pushing into her.
   It would feel so good.

   No!  She is a statue of herself.

   "I'd get down there for you, Miriam." (You read my mind?)
   "I'd help you find your sweet water.  But not too fast.  Oh
   I wouldn't wander in the wilderness for forty years." Amon
   Nephilim laughs.  It's a warm laugh that goes with his warm
   smile.  It would melt her on a January morning.  His eyes
   are beautiful.  "But I'd begin with your breasts."

   Miriam is a little mouse waiting for the snake to strike.

   "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" She looks down at her
   breasts.  That much she can do, and what she sees frightens
   her more.  Her breasts are almost touching him, shielded only by
   brassier and blouse.  "We both want me not just to covet
   my neighbor's wife, but to take her.  Don't we?  To take
   your breasts."

   Miriam swallows.

   And now his hands are rising, lazily, in no particular
   hurry, up to breast level, half cupped.  He's so tall
   that's only to his stomach.

   "They're calling me." He's been in the office all of two
   minutes.

   His hands are at breast level, coming in now, and finally
   she raises hers to stop him and finds a voice:

   "Don't!"

   "Hush.  This is what you want."

   Her voice was desperate.  His is as smooth and assured
   as though he were calming a toddler.  When she heard
   it her hands stopped three-quarters up, almost
   there, and his now go right between them.  They push
   against her front, the hollows of his palms right on her
   nipples, push them in so firmly she almost steps
   backwards, then eases the pressure.

   She makes a tiny little cry down in her throat.  Her eyes
   fill.  He moves his palms in circles over her tips until
   they swell and began to ache and push back against the
   cups of her brassiere.  The sensation goes straight into
   her chest and downward, all the way down, while her hands
   float in the air.

   "Please.  No." Just a wheedling little voice.  She doesn't
   want her eyes to spill but doesn't know what to do.

   "We'll go further now." He is still caressing her nips.
   Oh they ache!  They had never throbbed like that.  Yes,
   once, when she'd first breast-fed her daughter.  What a
   sweet pain.  They must be bulbous by now because they
   press so hard against bra and blouse, rolling under his
   hands.  She closes her eyes at the sensation.  Don't!  She
   opens her eyes wide, stares at him, at his hands, at the
   door.  The door.  The door is still open.

   "Please.  They'll catch us!" (That's not what I meant to
   say!)

   He ignores her words.  "Your breasts need to be naked."

   Miriam finally begins crying.  She can't control herself.
   Something has happened.  She doesn't understand but knows she
   can't make herself stop it, so she cries.  Tears squeeze
   through her lids and run down her cheeks and mouth and
   chin.  She's gulping air, sobbing, and her hands still
   dangle helplessly off the ends of her wrists.  Shame and
   desire creep upon her.

   (You're so easy, you little slut, you willing little play
   toy.) Where did that thought come from?

   She whimpers: "Please." A tiny sound.

   He ignores her again, or perhaps he doesn't.  "Your blouse
   and bra.  Take them off." That voice.

   Miriam does as she is told.  She circles her hands around
   his, which are still caressing her, his fingers now
   squeezing her nipples through the cloth, wipes each eye
   with three fingers, moves them to her top button, and
   undoes it.  Then the second one.  She is awkward, trying to
   work between Amon Nephilim's hands.  Concentrating on the
   buttons, she has almost stopped crying, so that is all
   gasps and snarfs, more like a child's tears than a
   woman's.  She shifts her hands in circles to bring them up
   from under his and loosens the remaining buttons: three,
   four, five, six.  When all are undone she pleads again:
   "But they'll catch us." Still that wheedling voice.

   "You're not finished, Miriam."

   She pulls the tail of the blouse out of her slacks.  He is
   squeezing, pinching.  She can't stand the ache and
   thinks it might help if he pinched harder.  (What's
   happening?) She undoes the wrist buttons, the left one,
   then the right.  (What am I doing?) She sees her tears on
   his hands.  She stops for a moment when a paroxysm shivers
   her shoulders, but he withdraws his hands to give her
   room and she grasps the front of the blouse to pull it
   off.  It takes her a moment.  She pulls her arms out and it
   drops to the floor, inside out.

   All that's left is her black underwire brassier, black
   and silver embroidered patterns on a solid black
   background, that Will had bought at Victoria's Secret for
   her birthday.  She takes two huge breaths to control
   herself.  It is time to make it end, for Will, but she
   can't anymore look Amon Nephilim in the eyes, to tell
   him.

   "Now the bra.  It's what you want."

   Yes.  No.  Yes.  (You can't understand, Will.)

   The bra fastens in front.  The fastener is easy, slide the
   hook and let go.  Will loves to do it himself.  But Miriam
   holds the eye and the hook for a moment, willing herself
   to stop, then drops both ends and her breasts come
   tumbling.

   They fall and bounce and jiggle.  Her nipples are
   swollen.  Miriam is both afraid of what Nephilim is going
   to require, and consumed by fear he won't like them.
   Nephilim, though, caresses both bosoms with the backs of
   his fingers, kneads, them, rolls her nipples between
   thumbs and forefingers, and finally cups them from
   underneath to lift them.

   As Miriam watches and feels his hands playing with her
   she get goose bumps all the way up.  A few tears drop
   from her face onto her breasts, more onto his hands.  A
   rivulet runs down her front.

   * * * * *

   For the first time, Nephilim pays attention to Miriam's
   crying.  He lets go of her breasts, lets them drop like a
   child's forgotten toy, and takes her face in his hands.

   "There, there.  You're just afraid of what you want.  You've
   always wanted this.  You know that, don't you?  So don't cry,
   but sing." There's a line from Genesis: Sing ye to the
   Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously.

   He holds her face still and puts his mouth to her chin.
   She thinks he may kiss her but that's not his purpose.  He
   moves his mouth upwards, to the right, gathering and
   sucking away tears, up her cheek, taking more water, to
   her eye, and cleans her eye with his lips: cheekbone,
   eyebrow, lid.  An animal cleaning its young.  He lingers on
   her eye.  Hot breaths pouring over her face.  She moans a
   moan she doesn't hear.  Then -- over the bridge of her nose
   to her left eye.  Cleaning her eye, breathing lovely
   breaths on her face, and then down her cheek to her chin,
   to her lips, where he finally feasts on her mouth and she
   feasts back.

   When Nephilim finally releases her face.  Miriam is no
   longer afraid of what she wants.  Something flickered and
   the world changed.  She's in a place far away, a place
   from which no one returns, holy of holies.  Her Lord can
   make her think of scripture again: Entreat me not to
   leave thee, or to return from following after thee.

   * * * * *

   "Miriam has water, and she has fruit." Nephilim's words
   are beautiful.  Everything about him is beautiful.  Miriam
   again feels herself sucking him and wants it to happen,
   but he will direct her.  He takes both breasts again, and
   squeezes them.  "Overripe.  Washed with rain.  Full of
   juice, ready for me to pluck and to suck the juice."

   He twists them to make them hurt.  Miriam closes her eyes
   and brings her hands to her face.  "Oh, Amon, don't hurt
   me.  Please don't." He bends and brings the breasts to his
   mouth.  He licks the tears from her right breast, then
   fastens his mouth to the nipple.  Miriam puts her hands on
   his head to hold him tight, kisses his head, smells his hair.

   But then.

   Something is piercing her.  What is he doing?  Is there a
   needle or a nail or something?  Something is sticking into
   her.

   "Oh!" It's a cry of pain, but Miriam doesn't pull back.
   She can't stand the pain but it travels the same road as
   everything else.  "Please, Amon!" He shifts his head and
   the piercing is at another spot.  "Oh God!  Please!"

   He goes to the other breast and repeats whatever he is
   doing, and after she stiffens she pulls him to her.  (Not
   my will but thine be done.) He's going deeper, trading sides,
   left, right, left, and Miriam is pouring into him.  Each bite
   makes her body go rigid and pulls tremors from her swollen
   puss, to her face, and out her mouth.  She forces herself to
   hold his face to her teat because it is so glorious.  She
   pushes harder against him, pulls away, pushes.  He sucks
   from her and she loses all her moisture.  Her eyes go dry
   and so is her mouth.  She can't even swallow.  Her strength
   drains away.  Miriam becomes weaker and dryer and blissful.

   * * * * *

   Nephilim is standing over her.  When did he finish?
   How long did he suckle?  For Miriam: no time.  Forever.
   Miriam would be covered in a fine sweat but her skin is
   almost dusty.  Her mouth is bone.  Her eyes are filled with
   grit.  She has no strength at all: it seeped away sweetly.
   If she looked in a mirror she would see she is ghastly
   white and her breasts hang almost flat on her chest.  She
   has to hold Nephilim to keep from sinking to the floor.

   There is blood on Nephilim's lips.  Miriam frowns, touches
   his mouth and stares at her fingertips.  She looks down.
   There are punctures on her nipples and areolae, all over.
   More punctures are spread over the white, red, inflamed.
   Miriam begins to slide.  Nephilim is larger and stronger,
   or is it that she is so weak?  Thirsty.  Dry.  She is gone,
   except for her nipples and her vulva and a faint vibration,
   something humming from below.

   He smiles down at her, moves fingers around and around
   her tattered nips, then licks the blood.  Next her
   fingertips.  He moves them to his mouth, sucks her fingers
   deeply.  She yearns to drink his saliva.  He bends to kiss
   her, and when they kiss she tastes her blood on his mouth
   and he lets her swallow.  Her knees finally give way.

   "Don't fall just yet, love." She tries to stay upright.
   "You need to finish with your clothes." He brushes the
   straps of her brassier, which had hung from her
   shoulders, and it falls.  "Now the rest."

   If Miriam could fall to the floor along with her bra it
   would be so much easier, but he won't let her.

   "I'm so tired, Amon."

   "There, there."

   She leans back, half against her desk, and works her
   slacks and panties.  When they drop she smells herself.

   "Now my pants.  Open them."

   It is the beautiful penis from her vision, erect, curving.
   Miriam puts her hands to Nephilim's abdomen and now she
   does sink to the floor, until she is kneeling.  She can't
   hold herself up anymore.  She leans against his thigh, her
   left arm around his leg, and with her right hand she
   strokes his erection softly, petting it.  She pulls it to
   her mouth to drink it and to keep from sinking all the way.
   She needs it, but he won't let her have it.

   "That's not what we're doing, love."

   "Please." All.  The.  Way.  She's empty and needs filling.
   She's desperate for him.

   "I've had enough of that for now."

   "I want to, Amon.  I'll be so sweet to you."

   "I know you will, but it's not what we're doing."

   He slaps her face.  It is out of the blue.  Sharp on her left
   cheek.  Her head jerks with it and she squeaks.  He slaps
   her other cheek.  Another squeak.  The world flickers
   again.  (Oh my love, my love.) There are white stars
   that float every direction.  "You'll do what I say,
   won't you?" Miriam blinks and nods.  Of course she will.
   (My love.  My Amon.) "What we're going to do is less a
   drawing of water from the well and more of an injection
   into the fundament.  More like fracking."

   "Amon."

   "Now tell me you want me to fuck your ass."

   "Please Amon.  My ass."

   "Say the word."

   "Amon."

   "Say it.  Ask me sweetly."

   "Amon.  Please.  Fuck my ass.  Please do me."

   "Of course I will.  Anything for Miriam."

   He lifts her by her underarms, all the way up.  He nuzzles
   her face, then turns her around and tosses her to the
   desk, where "Oh!" she falls like a doll: arms, legs,
   head going different directions.  She's trying to grab
   something, anything to keep from sliding, but she needn't
   bother.  He comes up behind her and puts his front to her
   rear, which holds her still.  She's on top of the
   sandwich, and a pencil point from the cup is sticking her
   breast.  Nephilim pumps some lotion from the bottle to his
   fingers and puts the cold stuff to her ass.

   "This will make it easier."

   One finger, then another, then a third, all slide into
   her, and she groans.

   "Such a lovely sound.  A mewling Miriam moan.  A
   lamentation or a sigh?  I want more of those, but
   you're not allowed to scream."

   With that he circles her anus three times with the head
   of his penis and pushes in.  Just a bit, opening Miriam
   nicely, just a tease so she will think she can take it
   easily, holding for a moment until he says "Now," when
   he pushes all the way into her and his hips crack
   against her bum.

   Miriam doesn't scream, but she does mew.  Nephilim holds
   himself in.  She's so full.  He's too much, too large!  Is
   she tearing back there?  Is she bleeding?  He pulls out
   slowly, slowly, until only the beautiful head is still
   inside her and she's only panting.

   He pushes in again.  All.  The.  Way.  Another moan, a
   little louder.  She can't help herself.  Another fuck.
   Miriam reaches back to push at Nephilim's cock.  "No we
   don't!  This is your body, which is given to me." He
   slaps her hand away and pushes in again, no rush, and
   at the same time he twists her clitoris like he had
   her nipples and recites a different kind of poetry:

   "Hey diddle diddle, your cunt I will fiddle, you cow, I
   want you to moan."

   She does, and he continues, and Miriam's moans change
   from lamentations, from "ohh" to "Ahh!  Ahh!  Ahh!" In all
   the world there's only Amon stretching her, his hand at
   her front, fingers twisting her nub around, and he takes
   her back up to where she was before, so high she might
   fall, which she does.  She bleats it to the world but is
   too weak to more than twitch.  Nephilim finishes by
   grabbing her hips in both hands and pushing faster, to
   ejaculate, grunting, not poetic at all.

   And, yes, she feels his cream.  It's not just some spurt.
   It's a torrent rushing up through her ass, like rain on
   the desert, flooding the arroyos, spreading from
   Miriam's ass to her bowels and then to all her parts.  Her
   eyes become wet again.  Her mouth isn't dry anymore.  Her
   breasts swell, and something is seeping from her nipples.
   Something is flowering with a slight smell of dung.  And
   yet, when he finally finishes and pulls out she's parched.
   It wasn't enough.  It will never be enough.

   Miriam collapses.

   Nephilim leans down and picks up her panties, pulls back
   his foreskin and rubs the panties around his prick for
   a minute, then drops them by her head.  They are stained
   brown and red.  He pulls up his underwear, tucks in his shirt,
   buttons and zips his slacks, and fastens his belt while she
   gazes up at her love.

   "Amon." She gazes up at him, all honeyed above, floating,
   though down below she's pulling with what little energy she
   has to close her ass.

   He ignores her.

   "Amon."

   He leans down again, and smiles, but this time it's cruel.

   "Tata for now.  You'd best get dressed.  This shit, pun
   intended, would be hard to explain." He points to her
   panties.

   What?

   "Amon." She shakes her head.  "No.  Don't leave.  You said
   I'm your Miriam."

   Another leer.  He's a gargoyle.  "No, I don't think so."

   "But you said..."

   "What I said?  What did I say?  What do I say?  Oh right!  This
   is what I say." He holds his hand out, palm upward, like
   a bad actor in a melodrama.  "My little whore, you're
   such a queer, to come from fucking in the rear." He winks
   at her.

   See it happen.  Miriam's hand rising to her mouth, her
   eyes this wide against her dead pale face.  If you see it
   you know she understands nothing, and you know why.  She
   can't let herself understand anything.  But finally, she
   has to fill the void:

   "When will I see you again?"

   "If I want you I'll call." He turns and walks away.

   "Please, Amon.  Take me with you.  I'll do anything you want!"

   "I know, dearie." His steps reverberate down the hall.

   *****

   It isn't over for Miriam.

   She hears steps from the other end of the hall.  Quick!
   She pushes against the floor, pulls on the desk, gets to
   her feet, and staggers to the door.  She almost falls.  She
   closes the door and latches it.  (Please don't come here.)
   She leans against the door, totally out of gas, trying to
   breathe quietly, and listens as the steps get close,
   closer, pause, and pass by.

   She finds herself sitting at her desk chair, though she
   doesn't remember how she got there.  Get dressed, Miriam.  Her
   pants are first.  Not her panties.  Her nipples are covered
   in blood again.  She wads tissues into the cups of her bra,
   but when she tries to fasten it her nipples hurt so much
   that she has to stop.  Hold your breath.  Pull.  Slide the
   fastener.  Breathe.  It takes three tries.

   Next, her blouse.  Her shoes.  Miriam gathers more tissues.
   She leans to pick up her panties, and grunts when her
   breasts shift inside her bra.  Breathe.  Wrap the panties
   in layers of tissue.  Shove them deep into your purse.
   Stop to catch your breath.  Let your heart slow down.
   Breathe.

   One more thing.  Miriam brings up the on-line Faculty
   Directory.  She finds Amon Nephilim's office number and
   writes it down.

   When she can, she totters to the door again, hitting
   the desk, a chair, a floor lamp, a filing cabinet.  The
   lamp falls and she leaves it.  Unlock the door.  Open
   it.  She leans against the frame and feels the
   world spin and thinks.  Finally she steps into the hall
   and locks the door behind her.

   End.


   
<1st attachment end>


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