WaterWay -- Chapter 11
The Reading of Rashad's Record
By: WaterLuv@etzine.com   Copyright 1996, by ET!zine   All rights
reserved

It was Sunday, the traditional day of rest.  It was not a day for
shopping.  During the night, the wind had swung out of the West.
Already this morning, the horizon hung heavy with roiling
thunderheads.  At the darkled junction where the Western sky
rested upon the earth, flashes of lightning were slicing into a
frightened land.

Before the storm could break upon us, we grabbed a communal
shower.

In robes, we ordered breakfast in the room.  As we waited for its
delivery, I busied myself in the kitchen, making coffee.  The
suite was filled with the seductive aroma of Colombian beans
being ground and drip processed in a Melita filter.  Coffee,
pastries, and fresh Florida fruit for breakfast.  We discussed
our plans for the day.  By now, the storm's leading edge, a
jagged line stretched from side to side of the sky, was hard upon
us.  The wind of the squall broke over us, gusting to and fro,
dangerously close to the whirling precursor of a tornado.  Rain
was beginning to pelt our balcony, soon slanting in near
horizontal sheets, driven by the whipping wind.  The thunder was
a continuous roar.  An electrical storm as only South Florida,
pinned between ocean and gulf, can brew them.  Several times as
we ate, the lights flickered.  Once, they went out for the better
part of a minute.

But, as is usually the case with such intense tempests, the
violent part of the assault soon passed.  Still, the sky stayed
dark and brooding.  Rain, gentler now but still insistent,
continued to pour down.  Occasionally, the caliginous sky outside
grew suddenly, brilliantly blue-white, and the air was split by
the crashing roar of another nearby lightning strike.  The line
squall had been but a brutal messenger.  It had issued an
imperious announcement of the stormy day to come.

Today would be a day to stay in -- a perfect day for Jazmand to
share with us Rashad's Record.  I announced my intention to have
her do so.

"It's not very good writing," she protested.  "I'm not like you.
I never wrote anything.  I probably wouldn't have passed Senior
English at FSU if I hadn't flirted with the professor."

I smiled at her self deprecation.  I knew Jazmand to be very
bright, and a gifted communicator.  I was certain her diary would
give us valuable insight into the character of our adversary.

"It's hard to just read it aloud," she went on when I didn't
reply.  "I really didn't write it to share.  It's got a lot of
personal stuff in it."

"Jazmand," I reprimanded, "All good writing is personal.  Mary
and I love you.  We want to know what's in your heart.  And after
all the stuff you've seen us do, what could possibly be in here,"
I continued, waving the diary, "that would embarrass you in front
of us?"

"Umm.  We have done some stuff, haven't we," Jaz admitted, a soft
smile brightening her face.  "Still, I'd feel better if you read
it.

"No!  Jaz, you are going to read it.  And you're going to answer
our questions about it.  If we have to tie you up and punish you
into doing it, we will -- but you are going to read it."

Another flash of smile.  "Could you . . . tie me up and make me
do it?"

I had thought I knew this woman well, but this, I hadn't
expected.  Was she really embarrassed to read this?  Did she need
bondage and discipline to absolve her from guilt of authorship?
Or was she merely making a game of it to heighten the erotic
tension of a rainy day.  I honestly didn't know, but finding out
would certainly provide a divertissement for three lusty souls
shut in by a storm.

"All right, I said.  That sounds like a fine plan to me.  Mary
and I will put you into bondage and MAKE you read your diary to
us.  We might even make you DEMONSTRATE some of the more . . .
Interesting points."

We led Jazmand into the Master bedroom.  There, we slipped her
robe from her shoulders, leaving her nude and facing the bed.
You dressed her in one of the black illusion-silk nightgown-and-
robe sets we had gotten yesterday.  You put on a matching outfit
yourself. -- the black lace framing your neck -- kissed by your
blond hair.  Jazmand's dark hair cascaded seductively around her
lacy gown.  Jazmand's slightly dusky complexion was almost
fragile white next to the black silk.  What a beautiful sight.
Snidely Whiplash would have been beside himself searching for a
length of rope.  So was I.

I dressed in the latex jock, leather chaps, and a fringed, suede-
leather vest.  I donned the leather wrist bands.  Everything in
black.  The look was sufficiently sinister, I thought, admiring
my work in the full-length mirrors covering one wall.

Binding our beauty was a bit more of a challenge.  We would have
to leave her able to read.  She'd need to be comfortable in her
bondage, even if she had to stay immobilized for an extended
period.  Certainly, she should be presented in such a way as to
look both beautiful and vulnerable.  Finally, her bonds shouldn't
interfere with any discipline we might need to administer in the
enforcement of her assignments.  I'd been giving all this thought
as we dressed.

The leather sling seemed the perfect instrument for her torture.
However, before we could use it, it would need to be securely
hung from the overhead.  I made a quick inventory of the bedroom
to see if I could accomplish this without hardware or tools.
Fortunately, the high ceiling had exposed-wood beams.  In one of
these, there was a large eye bolt.  Perhaps there had been a
hammock or hanging plant or some artifact of considerable weight,
now removed.  I thought it would provide a secure mounting, and
decided to give it a test.  Once attached to it, the sling
carried my weight without the slightest complaining.  It would
do.

I attached the chain mount of the sling firmly to the eyebolt.  I
mounted it high enough that, with the bed pushed across the room
and under the sling, there would still be clearance enough
between the sling and bed for one of us.  The sling would hold
Jazmand in a sitting position, legs splayed apart and
immobilized.  It gave firm support to her buttocks, but was open
where her most private parts would rest.  Lying face up on the
relocated bed, we would have full access to her charms.

We moved the bed, making Jazmand's climb into the sling more
feasible.  We helped our lover climb in.  As she sat back into
the sling, we took care to ensure that the material of her
nightgown and robe was clear of all her most tender flesh.  The
silk hung down adding a tent of modesty around her middle.  It
was an alluring touch that begged to be explored.

Soon, we had our charge securely in the sling and swinging,
suspended, above the bed.  We fastened her ankles to the leg
restraints included on the spreader bar at the foot end of the
sling.  I attached wrist restraints to her arms.  They had
bracelets of leather with lengths of light chain attached.  The
other ends of these fetters, I made fast to the heavy chains
suspending the sling.  She would have enough freedom of motion to
read, and to shift positions occasionally for comfort, but not so
much that she could reach her leg restraints or otherwise free
herself from her bonds.

Perfect.

"Jazmand, you look so sexy," you told her.

"Here," I said, handing her the diary.  "Now, you read."

"Yes, Master," Jazmand replied, obviously pleased to be
compelled.  And then she began:

     Saturday, June 18, 1994
     One more day working at the Washington Ave. Dungeon.  I'm
     getting to really like it.  It's more than just a living.
     Good money.  Real good money.  Over $1,600 last week.  Even
     some good times.
     
     Like today.  I met a strange -- I don't know, kind of a
     haunting man.  Rashad Banton.  He's from Jamaica.  I think
     he might be in one of their crime gangs.  I wouldn't want to
     get too close.  But he was really sexy.  It was interesting
     to do a scene with a guy like that.  Not like some of the
     guys that come in.  Real losers.  Guys where I deserve every
     penny I get.  I'm the only girl there now that will play
     subbie.
     
     Even being the only girl that will play bottom, I don't get
     to do it that often.  Most of the customers want a dominant
     girl.  Not many are willing or able to pay the double fee
     for a submissive, even is that's what the want.  It's $500
     an hour to the dungeon for a submissive, and half that is
     mine.  Only $250 for a girl to play domme.
     
     The neat thing is, even with a guy like Rashad, they still
     pay me my full fee.  It doesn't matter if he's sexy enough
     that I'd do it with him for free.  Ha!  Good thing they'll
     never read this diary.
     
     Rashad wanted a submissive, and he wasn't afraid to pay the
     tariff.  We talked over what he wanted to do before the
     scene, and he had some pretty wild ideas.  I think, if I'd
     just gone along with his wish list, he'd have left me
     permanently marked.  Whipping.  Tight bondage.  Bamboo cane.
     
     I told him no way.  I told him he couldn't do anything to me
     that would mark or bruise me for the next customer.  I got
     to be able to work when we finish, I told him.  He
     understood.  "Jammin," he said.  His mix of accented English
     and patois was kind of cute.
     
     For the scene, he bound me tight over the padded whipping
     bench.  I liked that he felt up my bottom before he started
     spanking me.  It got me ready for the punishment.  And he
     kept whispering these sweet nothings about how pretty my ass
     was, how ready for a spanking I looked, how hot he was going
     to make my cheeks, and all this.  Real nice.
     
     Then he hit me.  With his hand.  Slap after slap.  Stinging
     at first.  Then worse.  And he traded in for his belt.
     Heavy Leather.  Really Hard . . . Smack . . . Smack . . .
     Smack . . . Me crying.
     
     I mean crying, no faking.  But he laid off then and started
     rubbing across my burning ass, purring to me about how hot I
     was.  And the fucker puts his hand down in my pussy, and
     comes away saying, "Looke here.  My dawta's all wet."
     
     Well, damnit, I couldn't help it.  I was wet.  What he was
     doing, it was getting me real hot.  It hurt too.  I didn't
     like it, and I didn't want it to stop.  I got the feeling
     right then that this man might take me to that special
     place.  It's real strange.  It's terrifying to go there, but
     once you've been there one time, you know you'll have to
     come back.
     
     Then he's smacking my burning ass with the belt again, and
     now he knew I was getting wet from it.  He knew, so I didn't
     care what he saw.  I was grinding on that whipping bench,
     trying to get my clit down on the leather.  Only he had me
     tied so tight I couldn't.  Just lay there, ass up, and take
     the whipping.  No way to make it stop.  No way to make it
     better.  Just leave it all to him.
     
     Did he know anything about what he was doing to me?  He had
     to see it, but did he care?
     
     Then he stops again, and he's kissing along the small of my
     back.  And he's telling me, "Here, baby, let me lick away
     each mark."  Where was the warden?  Damn.  He's not supposed
     to ever mark me.  Why were they letting him do this?
     
     Then that hand again, down in my snatch, rubbing my juice
     all over me, up over my butt, on the marks.  He juiced up my
     asshole real good.  First just rubbing my cum on it.  Then
     pushing in a finger.  Then out and he gets more juice.  In
     again.  Out and lube.  In again.  Two fingers.  Oh God, it's
     getting real good.  Three fingers.  Fucking into me.  Then
     the belt.  Down on one cheek, then the other.  Making my
     butthole jump on his fingers -- Spank -- Fuck . . . Spank --
     Fuck . . . Left -- Right -- Squish up my ass.
     
     I turned right into jelly.  This submissive feeling just
     washed up into me, on fire in my butt, and I turned to a
     cumming, crying blob of flesh, putty in this man's hands.
     On his hand is more like it.  Three fingers deep, fist
     fucking my ass.  And he was getting off on it like nothing
     I've seen before at the club.  I mean a bulge in his pants
     the size of an elephant's trunk, and he was cuming too.  I
     could see it, that bulge pulsing, pumping.  Then the wet
     spot in front as his cum filled his jeans.
     
     We just stayed like that for a while.  Rashad was telling me
     all these nice things, how sexy I looked and all.  We both
     felt it.  Something special had happened between us.
     
     I didn't start bitching at him till he cut me loose from the
     whipping bench.  Then I let him have it both barrels.  I can
     be a real hell cat when I want to.  He'd marked my butt real
     clear.  How the hell was I going to work?
     
     All he says is, "Yuh fe me ooman.  I dun paid em fo a week a
     yuh time.  Doan work."  The way he says it.  Real Jamaica
     cool.  "Doan Work!"
     
     So I ran in and checked with Felicia.  Sure enough, that
     crazy Jamaican had given them ten grand, and half of it
     mine!  Most money I ever saw at the club.  And that's why
     the warden wasn't around.  Shit, they'd have let the bastard
     kill me for money like that.  They probably hoped that's
     what he'd do.  Me dead and they wouldn't have had to pay the
     split.  Damn.  Some fucking pig-sty place I was working.
     
     I was mad and I was glad.  I mean, here I could've been
     killed . . . But I wasn't.  Instead, I got one of the few
     major orgasms of my B&D pro career.  And a week off.  And
     $5,000 bucks.  And this whacko, sexy hunk, Rashad chasing
     after my tail.  Wanted to fuck me forever.  Said so.  Asked
     could he see me the next day.  I said, "Not unless you go to
     the ice plant.  I'm going to be cooling my ass down there
     for a week."
     
     The bastard just chuckled and said, "Make yuh kinda hot,
     doan I?"
     
     Well, what was the point lying to him about it.  He knew
     what he'd just seen.  There was something magnetic between
     us and I could feel it even now, pulling me into him.  But I
     was scared.  There had been a look in his eyes for a while
     when he was beating me, before he started to finger fuck my
     ass.  He looked wild.  Looked like he might just go on
     forever, harder, more vicious, till he had me half dead or
     worse.  I was scared.
     
     I told him to give me his number, and I might call him
     before I went back to work.  He did.  Acted the perfect
     gentleman.  Thanked me for the best time he'd ever had, and
     bowed out.  As he was leaving, he said, "Do call mi.  Mi a-
     go make it worth yo while."
     
     Tuesday, June 21, 1994
     Third day off today.  I could learn to live like this.  I
     spent the morning shopping.  Had lunch with Maggie in a new
     little seafood place that just opened in Bal Harbor.  I've
     given this guy, Rashad a lot of thought.  He really is
     attractive.  He's also got money.  And he's kinky hot as
     they come.  But reason has won out over all that.  Mama said
     there would be guys like him, and this time I'm going to
     listen to her.
     
     Thursday, June 23, 1994
     I called him today.  I wasn't going to.  I don't even know
     why I did.  I was just walking around in my living room,
     pacing the floor like a caged cat, and then I saw the card
     he'd given me.  Then the number had been called, the phone
     was in my hand, me listening to it ring.  Strange.
     
     When he answered, I felt like a teenage girl -- Yep!, gone
     boy crazy all over again.  We set a date to meet Saturday
     night for dinner.  I don't really have anything to wear if
     he wants to go someplace nice.  It's a good thing I got all
     that money for his little fun.  I'm going to have to go
     shopping.
     
     Friday, June 24, 1994
     Went shopping today.  I got a white fit-and-flare evening
     gown.  It has puffed, full-length sheer sleeves and a curvy,
     sweetheart neckline.  The most dramatic touch, the whole
     back is cut away.  Face it, I know he's an ass man.  If this
     gown doesn't have his eyes dangling out of his head, then I
     don't know men.  I checked out the look, poking my butt at
     the dressing room mirror, clowning around.  Mmm, you sexy
     thing, I thought.  I almost wanted to rape myself, I looked
     so good.
     
     Saturday morning, June 25, 1994
     I took a long bath in those jasmine crystals this morning.
     Started with the water so hot I could barely stand it.
     While I was soaking, I took an enema, just to make sure I'd
     be clean for him if he wants me that way.  The first one
     felt so good that after I was done letting it out, I fixed
     up another bag, got back in the tub, and did it again.
     Thinking of him putting that huge tool of his up there, how
     full I'd feel if it was him and not just hot water.  I
     shaved my legs.  Just luxuriated.  Soaked in the tub.  Added
     more hot water and soaked some more.  I rubbed myself down
     good with that jasmine-scented skin softener.  No perfume.
     Just that skin-wide jasmine fragrance.
     
     I took forever getting dressed.  Tried on five or six
     different combinations of lingerie before I settled in on a
     look I liked.  Chances are he'd be happy with any of the
     looks, so long as I let him peel them off of me.  But I
     wanted to feel sexy inside my own head.  If I feel it, I
     know I'll project it.
     
     And I don't think I'd really felt it since Wilson left me
     three years ago.  I mean, it's one thing to get up to thirty-
     eight, three kids, getting dumpy, PTA committees, then the
     old man takes off after some 18 year old floozy in the
     typing pool.  Sure it hurts, but you know what happened.
     You got hit by that bane that afflicts so many men, terminal
     testosterone poisoning.  But there I was just 23, and Wilson
     leaving me -- not for some sexy teenager -- for another man.
     I'm telling you, diary, that shook my confidence something
     terrible.  Sure it hurt.  But it embarrassed me too.  And
     most of all, it caved in my faith in myself and in love.
     
     Here I am, all gooey inside about a man again.  Fuck Wilson.
     That's what the fairy wants anyway, isn't it?  Fuck him and
     his new boyfriend that left him for some truck driver two
     months after Wilson left me.  Maybe I was wrong ever
     marrying a white man.  Maybe Gloria was right -- they can't
     be trusted.  At least, it's worth a try with Rashad.
     
     Sunday evening, June 26, 1994
     Rashad's gone home now.  Has to go back to Jamaica for a
     couple of weeks.  In a way, I'm glad.  Yes, diary, you know
     it already.  He swept me clean off my feet.  I'm getting all
     drippy down there even thinking about him now, considering
     what I'm going to write.  He gave me a live orchid.  Other
     guys have brought roses, the usual.  He's not the usual.  A
     cymbidium, he said it was.  One of the easiest species
     orchids to grow.  He said he got me that because it was a
     great orchid for first timers.  He raises species orchids as
     a hobby.
     
     But about the man, and what happened, what can I write, dear
     diary?  I've been fucked.  I mean, that man FUCKED me.  No
     beatings this time.  A wonderful dinner, some dancing, and
     then a night of sex beyond anything I've ever dreamed.  His
     cock is even bigger than I'd guessed.  I keep looking at the
     Polaroid he took, and I get all cummy again each time I
     remember how it felt.  Tell me size doesn't make any
     difference.  It may not be everything, but it sure is
     something.
     
     I could feel his cock hitting my cervix when he fucked me.
     It drove me crazy, just knowing I was so full of man meat.
     When he slipped out and pushed into my ass, it was like
     entering heaven itself.  I know lots of girls don't even
     like anal.  Or if they do, they want it real gentle.  I
     started off that way, but not any more.  I like it to hurt a
     little.  The hotter I get, the nearer to the big O, the more
     I want my ass pounded to the brim with a big ramrod.  That's
     the way Rashad likes to fuck me.  Building up his strokes
     till he's slamming his meat soooo deep into my ass.  He's
     the first guy that hit the high end of my poop chute before
     he ran out of cock.  It felt like he was stretching my
     intestines, and I could sense the pressure all up through my
     chest, echoing through my tits.  He just kept on, a little
     bit harder, and a little harder still.  And as his butt
     fucking built up, it was like my tits, clit, pussy, ass,
     mouth, every part of me got all linked up.  Each one was
     firing off cum signals to all the others.
     
At this point, Jazmand broke away from her story.  We were both
lying on the bed, the tent formed by Jazmand's nightgown pulled
aside, gazing at the perfection of her bottom, so fetchingly
displayed in the sling.  She interrupted our reverie with, "I
have a picture of him, you know.  Not the one I showed you the
other day.  The Polaroid he took, that shows that big tool of
his.  Shows my ass being pumped full of him."

"You have it here," I asked.

"Sure do," she replied.  "Wanna see."

Hummm, said with a hint of the tease.  Time for a little decorum
if I want to play Master, I thought.  "Jazmand," I said sternly,
"If this man is going to be using us for target practice with his
Uzi, then don't you be withholding any evidence.  ANYTHING that
might help our cause, you share.  Do you understand?

"Yes, Master."

She hadn't expected a rebuff, caught up as she was in the heat of
reading her own writing.  I decided to soften the blow.  I wanted
above all for her to know how much I cared for her, especially
after hearing how the last white man in her life, Wilson, had
misused her.

"Listen sweetie," I consoled, "You said Rashad's Record was
really personal, and now I see that.  But Mary and I do love you.
We want to know about your past, even the demons that hide in the
shadows of your nightmares.  And we definitely want to know about
Rashad.  Including what every part of him looks like.  Remember,
we're ALL going to have to deal with his big tool all too soon."

"And one more thing," you said, picking up instantly on the
current of my comforting speech.  "Don't you put yourself down as
a writer.  You weren't even trying to write for an audience, but
that work just blew me away.  Wonderful.  You have got hidden
talent, girl."

"More kinds than one," I agreed, glancing back to Jazmand's
exposed sex.

"Thanks, guys," Jaz said, flashing her winsome smile.  "His
picture's in my purse."

<ooooo.jpg>
Rashad's Big Tool Stuffing Jazmand's Ass

Jaz could hear us suck in air as we looked at the torrid action
in the picture.  Our eyes kept darting from the photo of
Jazmand's cock-filled ass to her open backside, hanging just
inches over our heads as we lay on the bed.  I was imagining how
horny looking that scene must have been, her pretty haunches
split by his monster tool.  Him so hot, pumping her with wave
after wave of sloshing cum.

"Jaz, you deserve a treat for this," I said.  I started her sling
swinging gently, then positioned myself where I could tongue her
sex as she swung above me.  You crawled up between my legs and
began to languidly lick my love pole.  Neither of us was putting
our main focus on oral delights.  We wanted more of Jazmand's
story.  Our licking was meant to heighten our response to her
words, not supersede it.  Between slurps I managed to instruct
her, "Now read."

"OK, Let me see where I left off.  Yeah, here it is."  Aside from
little reverberations in her breaths, her voice carried on as if
nothing were going on down at the base of her sling.

     It's not just that he's got a huge dick, or even that he
     knows how to use it.  Sure, those things help.  But there's
     probably plenty of horses on a stud farm with all that going
     for them.  What really got to me, he's good at dirty talk.
     Stuff like, "Come on bitch, suck.  That's it.  Good girl.
     Oooohhhh, that's so good.  Suck it mama, suck till you choke
     it all the way down.  Yeah, mama, make daddy cum.  Suck up
     all that cum.  I've got a big, hot load cooking for you,
     pretty lady.  So sweet, mmmmm -- your mouth sliding on me."
     
     But there were other things . . . things that weren't so
     good.  Like his crime connections.  He didn't say he was a
     drug smuggler.  Of course, I don't expect he would.  That'd
     be pretty stupid.  But he dropped little hints.  Like the
     one about the guy that was giving his family so much
     trouble, and he went to see some friends about it.  He said
     the guy had to go.  Couldn't work around South Florida
     anymore.
     
     I asked him where he went, and he was real vague.  "Away."
     That's all he would say.  "Him and his frens don't badda mi
     no mo."  He wouldn't talk any more about it.  That worried
     me.
     
     Monday, June 27, 1994
     Back at the shack now, mainly playing the domme.  I know how
     to go through the motions.  The Johns think they are getting
     the real thing.  Sometimes it's a little bit of fun,
     switching like that.  Especially when I'm ordering some guy
     around, and inside I know I wish the tables were turned -- I
     was tied up -- he was wielding the whip.  But mostly it's
     just boring.  I can see I'm going to miss that crazy
     Jamaican.
     
     Monday, July 4, 1994
     Watched the fireworks show tonight out over the water.
     Pretty.  Pretty lonely.  So much beauty and grandeur, and no
     one to share it with.  I hope he calls me when he gets back.
     
     Wednesday, July 20, 1994
     He finally called today.  Said there was a little business
     trouble down home, and he just got back to Miami.  We set up
     to see each other this Sunday.  I wanted it to be on a day
     off.  I'm going to make dinner for him, and we can watch a
     movie here.  I think I need to get to know him better.
     Maybe I was too quick in deciding I didn't trust him because
     of that beating scene.  Maybe that's just a kinky side of a
     good man.
     
     He wouldn't say much about the business troubles.  Just more
     hints it was something I shouldn't ask about.  I'm going to
     press him on that when he comes over.  Give him a couple of
     glasses of wine first, play a little Mata Hari with him, and
     find out what makes this guy tick.
     
     Sunday, July 24, 1994
     Another full day of preparing myself for the Mystery
     Jamaican.  Scented bath.  Legs all silky shaved.  Two enemas
     again.  He bores deep.  I don't want him drilling into a
     trash pile back there.  Besides, it makes me feel so sexy
     doing it to get ready to be ass fucked by him.
     
     I made a spicy shrimp dish, salad, rice and ambrosia for
     desert.  Everything but the rice, I did in advance, and
     stored it in the fridge.  The rice cooker took care of the
     final touch, so I didn't have to slave in the kitchen.  I
     could turn my attention to learning the mysteries of this
     man.
     
     He didn't tell me much.  Not even after 3 glasses of wine.
     He dropped a few more hints about him being bad company,
     nobody to fool with.  But, every time I pressed for details,
     he either changed the subject or fell silent.
     
     He did fuck me again, though.  Most guys make love to me,
     and I guess I like their gentle loving.  But Rashad fucks
     me.  He takes what he wants from me and makes me love it,
     beg for it.  He's the consummate tease.
     
     Like tonight, he started with me still dressed -- just
     touching me, running his hands over my breasts, my tummy, my
     ass.  Each inch he touched, he told me poetry about.  Almost
     like he was reading it from some book.  Beautiful words I
     can't remember, but I remember how they made me feel.
     Alive.  Tingling alive to every touch.  Opening up to those
     hands.  Breathing in his scent.  Ready.
     
     And when he KNEW I was ready, panting, my panties soaking
     wet, he started to undress me.  Then he just scooped me up
     like I was a toy, and carried me off to bed.
     
     He fucked me.  Slow this time.  Almost sitting still in my
     pussy.  Touching my cheeks, brushing the hair back from my
     brow.  His finger tips were like some Shiatsu masseur's,
     running through my scalp, along the nape of my neck,
     sweeping away any tension.  He wanted me even more open than
     before.
     
     I opened.  There was this little fear back in me somewhere,
     saying, "How open does he want you?"  If this game went on
     too long, he might open me past the point of no return.  But
     his fingers on my scalp.  His kiss on my lips.  His big,
     twitching cock, wanting me so much, filling every inch of my
     vagina.  No choice.  I opened.
     
     And then he pulled it out, before I could cum.  I was right
     there, ready to give myself over to the feeling of him,
     pressing up into my cervix.  Pain pleasure.  I was pouring
     out that juice that comes out just as I'm ready to explode,
     and he pulled out.
     
     He switched around and put that big, pussy-slick tool right
     to my lips and he just said, "Suck, pretty girl."  Smelling
     my excitement all over him, I sucked.  And he sank his face
     right into my cum-soaked pussy.  He didn't fuck my face.
     Good thing, too.  With a dick that size, he'd have had my
     dinner in his lap if he did.  I had to get used to it.  Take
     it a little bit at a time.  But I like to play right at the
     edge of the gagging.  I like the smell of man when I get my
     mouth down deep on him and my nose is pressed into his pubic
     hair.  I tried to do it with Rashad, but his cock is so fat
     and long, I kept gagging with it at the back of my throat.
     
     Thank God Rashad didn't push it.  If he'd have grabbed the
     back of my head and started thrusting in, things could have
     gotten pretty ugly.  But he just let me find my own pace.
     Just kept talking me through it, dirty sweet nothings.
     After warming up to being his little cock sucker, I could
     get maybe 7 inches into me.  I was holding my throat
     straight like a sword swallower, so it could slide on down.
     Each stroke went a little deeper.  Soon, I'd have him all
     the way.  And he was already spewing precum -- so tasty --
     man in my mouth.  Soon, I'd have him over the edge.
     
     But he pulled out.  He told me I was so hot, every inch of
     me, he couldn't let any part go unfucked.  He rolled me over
     on my tummy and hiked my rear up in the air.  Walked up to
     the edge of the bed, and put that steaming stoker up to my
     ass.  I pushed onto him and had three inches up in me before
     he even started to thrust.  He didn't go easy on my rear.
     Not like he'd done with my pussy.  He pushed into me steady
     till I felt him hit bottom, bringing a gasp of air out of my
     lungs as he slammed home.  That thing is sooooo big.
     
     He kept building up his pace, and his huge tool growing even
     longer, reaching so deep.  I thought he was going to pump me
     full any moment.  I was building to a climax too.  I wanted
     to cum right with him.  But he surprised me.  On one
     backstroke, he pulled clean out.  Oh!  I felt so empty.  He
     pulled my face to him and said, "Clean it.  Take it all,
     princess."
     
     It wasn't all that dirty.  I'd taken two enemas before he
     came over.  But it was spicy enough.  I could smell the
     enema scent along with his cum and my pussy.  Not strong
     enough to gag me, just enough to drive me wild.  Doing this
     for him was so dirty.  It lit a bonfire under my
     submissiveness.  I went ecstatic on that big cock.  And he
     bent over so he could reach my sex, and dug two fingers up
     into my pussy.  This gave him a perfect grip on me so he
     could work the palm of that invading hand on my love button.
     Lord almighty, I went of like a skyrocket.  I got every inch
     of that monster cock into my throat -- twitching and
     pulsing, pumping out his cum into my stomach.  I had to pull
     back so I could taste some of his love cream.  When I got
     that taste, I went over the top again.  Listening to all his
     dirty talk.  He really knows something.
     
     Monday, July 25, 1994
     Dear diary, I can't find words for the feeling of fullness
     when Rashad stuffs that thing up my ass.  Like when grandma
     used to give me those huge enemas on the farm.  She'd been
     giving me enemas ever since I can remember, when I stayed
     with her in the summer.  I was thirteen when grandpa died.
     After that, grandma was lonely.  Maybe that was part of it.
     She had one of those old fashioned 3 quart bags, and she'd
     fill it twice and get most of it in me.  I knew she was
     doing it because she loved me and she thought a good
     cleaning was important for a young girl's health.  I would
     orgasm every time when I got so full feeling, somewhere
     midway through the second bag.  Then she'd let me go to the
     toilet and let it out.  I'm sure she knew it was making me
     climax.  Maybe it was something she needed too.  Grandpa was
     gone, and she couldn't give him orgasms any more.  She
     masturbated to handle her own needs.  I heard her one night
     when I got up late to get some water.  But maybe she needed
     to give feelings to someone else, too.  We never talked
     about it.  Never could have.  But I know she knew.  And
     Rashad knows too -- how he's making me feel.
     
     One thing's bothering me though -- this Jamaican crime
     thing.  He drops these hints that he's some kind of Jamaican
     crime boss.  But he won't follow up on the hint or explain
     what he said -- not even if I ask.  I tried to talk to him
     about what he does for a living.  He wouldn't give me a
     sensible answer.  He made jokes, talked in circles, all
     sorts of ploys.  It was worse than asking a campaigning
     politician about taxes.  I wish I could figure out how I
     feel about this relationship.

I could see that the diary was turning away from the superheated
sex description and into the musings the episode had inspired.
The licking we had been doing, gentle though it was, had us ready
for more, not less.  It seemed a good place to pause in Rashad's
Record, and explore the inner workings of Jazmand in a more
direct manner.  "Jaz.  Beautiful.  You're as good an erotic
writer as I know, darling.  But hold up there.  Mary and I owe
you a thank-you for your reading, and then there's the matter of
discipline for withholding that Polaroid of Rashad fucking you in
the ass.  I think we can handle both issues in one treatment."

That said, I reluctantly slipped from under Jazmand's wet bottom.
I got up and went to the bedroom bureau.  There, I retrieved some
fresh toys to add to our afternoon's play.  You had joined me to
see what new turn things might take.  I moved to you and slipped
your robe from your shoulders.  I knelt and grasped the lacy
fringe at the bottom of your nightgown, then rose, lifting your
skirt over your hips as I came up.  I pulled the soft garment
over your head and folded it across the nearby quilt rack.  I
held before you a black-latex panty.  Projecting from the front
of it was a huge black-rubber dildo, a close equal to Rashad in
size.  In the panty's crotch there was an insert, rubber, molded
to fit you and translate your every thrust with that dildo into
sensations in the root of your sex.  I planted a lingering kiss
on your clitoris as you stepped into the panty, then drew the
garment up to cover the dew I'd left behind.  I slipped the black
silk robe back on your shoulders.  There!  What a sight!

Hand-in-hand, we went back to the bed where Jazmand hung in her
sling.  I made some adjustments.  She had been sitting in a near
upright position.  One at a time I released and refastened the
chains that supported her upper torso.  I positioned her so that
she was now leaning back in an almost horizontal pose.  I
lengthened the straps that supported her head.  Now her head hung
backward, putting her throat in the classic straight-shot
attitude of the sword swallower.

On my knees on the bed, I moved to position just the tip of my
erection at Jazmand's lips.  "Mary," I said, "You give our sweet
Jazmand an ass fucking like she just described.  You be Rashad
for her, dear."

You lubricated the big tool with some KY from the tube at the
side of the bed, then climbed onto the sheets, walking on your
knees, and moved into position.  When you pushed the dildo
between Jazmand's ass cheeks, it didn't seem to meet any
resistance.  It slid right into her as if drawn by some vacuum
inside, needing to be filled.

"Mary," I said, "You fuck her in the ass hard enough to move the
swing, and that will move her mouth on me.  Jazmand, you have to
get butt fucked till the swing's motion alone brings me off, and
I'm going to resist cumming for all I'm worth.  How's that sound
for sweet punishment?"

"Mmmmff!" was all she could say.  Your pushing the didlo into her
had already forced the first several inches of my cock into her
hungry mouth.  Perhaps the ease of entry impelled you.  Whatever
the motivation, you began immediately to pummel into Jazmand's
opened rear, spread wide for you by the bondage sling.  In and
out you drove with a fury, rivulets of sweat forming on your
forehead, cascading down your face and between your heaving
breasts.

It looked to me like my cock was four feet long.  It was ramming
down Jazmand's gullet, through her entrails, and, coming out her
ass, it was skewering your sex.  Jazmand, body run through, was
just sliding up and down on my sensitive flesh pole.

Watching this was a sublime experience.  You, so feminine, yet
this monster cock sticking out, entering the object of your love.
She, open, submissively yielding to you.  Trying to thrash
around, but held by her bonds.  Little yelping sounds -- muffled
by my meat now deep in her throat . . . Feeling her throat
muscles milk my cock . . . Feeling each thrust of the dildo into
her as it echoed through her body . . . Watching all this.

How long can this tension mount?  Maddening . . . No way to hold
. . . Close my eyes . . . No! . . . See . . . See how you're
trembling, legs about to fail . . . Slamming salami up Jazmand's
ass . . . Quivering -- sweat dripping -- cumming.  You're cumming
. . . Fucking dildo's working both ways . . . Smashing that clit
tickler back into your sex every time you bottom out in her
backside . . . Watching her body bob around my spewing cock.
Listen to her.  She's cumming -- gurgling cream in her throat --
sex on fire -- heaving sighs -- raspy breaths -- panting . . .
Too much . . . No, never enough . . . Go on forever . . .
Timeless at last . . . Pour some more in . . . Still more . . .
No, not enough . . . No more to pour . . . Poor me . . . Poor
Mary . . . Poor jazmand!

Rich Jazmand.  Full of love.  Finally open.  Grandma used to open
her, but there were secrets.  Rashad used to do it, but he played
games.  No secrets this time, though.  Now, now we can talk.
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