





                       EASY DOES IT

                            by

                       C. Lakewood




Part 1

    "Goddammit!  Fucking tech support is absolutely worthless!"  

    Elaine Zeamer was furious.  She'd just spent over half an hour 
on the phone and gone through three so-called "experts" before 
she found one whose technical skills and proficiency with English 
allowed him to convince her that her PC was irretrievably dead, all 
its major components fried.  She tried to calm herself, but then 
she remembered that her misbegotten ex-husband had insisted on this 
make and model.  And now it was as useless as he had always been.

    She wasn't much of a drinker -- and didn't do drugs at all -- 
and she knew that the only thing that would smooth her out now was 
prolonged masturbation.  Unfortunately, she had gotten into the 
habit of masturbating while surfing the Web (femdom stories in 
particular -- either F/f or F/m), and her access was interrupted 
now.

    Obviously she'd have to get a new PC, but, even in the best 
of times, she had sizeable expenses -- house, car, clothes, gym, 
goddamn a-l-i-m-o-n-y -- and a high school principal's salary, 
while good, was not infinitely stretchable.  But Video Village, 
the big electronics chain, was due to have a sale soon, and she'd 
just have to wait.

    It was Friday evening when the PC died, and she went to bed 
early that night.  She tried and tried, but failed to achieve a 
satisfactory orgasm.  She mentally riffled through fantasy after 
fantasy, in which she dominated and disciplined her wretched ex 
and/or his bimbo girlfriend, but every scenario seemed stale.  She 
was still angry about the PC, and, as well, she missed the rituals 
to which she had become accustomed.  Finally, she did manage to 
cum, but only after she cast herself as the submissive.  It was 
distasteful, but she did get some relief.  

    Saturday was no better -- worse, if anything.  And Sunday was 
a torment of frustration.

    She spent most of Monday attending to school business, with 
occasional longing glances at the PC on her office desk.  But she 
didn't dare use it to cruise porn sites, for she was afraid it 
might harbor spyware that would betray her.  By the end of the 
day, her need having increased exponentially, she finally thought 
of the PC in the outer office, where fifty or more people had 
access to it, at one time or another.

    So, after all the academic staff had left, but well before the 
custodians began work, she stowed her panties and pantyhose in her 
purse, walked softly out to that PC, fired it up, and logged onto 
the Internet.  As she was waiting for the connection to be 
established, she pulled her skirt up and began playing with her 
crotch.  She heaved a contented sigh as her favorite story site 
came up.  It was a bit risky to be masturbating out in public this 
way, but that just added to her excitement.

    She came across a story that captured and held her attention, 
even though it was not quite her usual thing.  It was entitled "A 
Dog's Life" and totally captivated her with its blend of humor and 
heat.

    And, shortly, she had the best orgasm -- not merely of the last 
four days, but certainly of the last several weeks, and probably 
of the entire year.

    Not wanting to push her luck, she straightened her clothes, 
covered her tracks (by clearing her "private data"), logged off, 
and went home.                

		******************************

    She slept soundly that night and woke up wonderfully 
refreshed on Tuesday morning.  After a long, hot shower, 
a leisurely breakfast, and an unusually pleasant drive to 
school, she strolled into the administration offices of 
Emerson Cod High School feeling quite benevolent.

    She collected her mail, smiled at the PC in passing, and let 
herself into her office.

    Her mail was hum-drum, as usual...routine school board notices, 
monthly PTA memos, band schedule, yada-yada, and one 3x5 manila 
envelope with a quaint address label.  ("Dot matrix," she thought.  
"Who uses dot matrix printers any more?  Well, except for our 
computer science classes -- the school's gotta curb costs 
somewhere, after all....") 

    She threw the academic junk mail in the waste basket and 
vaguely noticed that there was no return address on the manila 
envelope before slitting one end and dumping out, onto her 
desktop, two photographs and a printed note....

    "Oh, god!"  

		******************************     

    Milo Fishwater was tallish, tall enough for high school 
basketball, maybe, but his qualifications ended there.  He was 
awkward, unmuscular, and very nearsighted.  So he wound up as 
"manager" for the team -- which meant, basically, that he kept 
roll and picked up wet towels and used jocks.  He loathed the
job; it made him seem like a sad hanger-on, trying to soak up 
some reflected, athletic glory -- whereas he was actually 
doing it only to pad out his college applications and increase 
his chances for financial aid.  And he needed the help.  He 
could be an excellent student -- especially in history, English, 
and philosophy -- but his performance in math, biology, and 
physics was not really of honors quality.  

    Throughout his 7+ semesters of high school, he had usually 
been something of a square peg in a round hole, and he was very 
much looking forward to moving on at last -- graduation was only 
16 weeks off.  His teachers called him "Milo," but nobody his age 
did.  The few that called him anything at all called him "Fish."

    He didn't care for the nickname, but he didn't like his actual 
surname any better.  He often imagined that it had originally been 
the storied name "FitzWalter" (and that he was related to Maid 
Marion), but that some nitwit clerk on Ellis Island had screwed 
it up.  This was not his only fantasy, of course, or even his most 
common one.  Being an 18-year-old dweeb, his primary fantasies were 
sexual, stoked by a steady diet of Internet porn.  

    On that particular Monday, late in the day, Milo had been just 
ambling along, pushing the A/V cart and daydreaming...as usual.  
He was relatively happy, because the basketball season was over, 
and so his job as "manager" had also ended.  He was running late 
because he'd had to finish up copying and cataloguing the season's 
game tapes as his last official managerial act.  So, beginning 
tomorrow, then, he could get back to something he really enjoyed: 
his part-time job at Bo Jackman's camera shop.

    At this time of day, moreover, he found the school very 
pleasant -- dim, quiet, deserted.  He liked the broad, shadowy 
corridors, the Depression-era decoration scheme (with lots of 
real wood and brass instead of plastic and aluminum), the 
reassuringly solid terrazzo floors underfoot....

    Everything was tranquil....

    But not everything was as it should be.  There was a light on 
in admin.  The soft glow through the pebble glass of the upper 
panel of the door was puzzling.  Nobody worked late around here 
any more.  It had been different barely a year and a half ago.  

    He'd liked old Mrs. Pinkley, who'd been principal his first two 
years there.  She'd been good-natured, old-fashioned, and primarily 
interested in academics and good manners.  Then she'd retired and 
been replaced by "The Z" -- a self-absorbed bitch who seemed to 
care only for preppies, jocks, and covering her own ass.

    A naturally suspicious person, he crept up to the door and 
cautiously peered through the big mail slot on general principles.  
His stealth was rewarded, to a stunning extent.  In front of the 
front office PC was The Z, utterly naked from her belly button on 
down, with one hand on the mouse and the other in her cunt, her 
attention riveted on the monitor's screen. 

    Milo eased his camera-phone out of the pliers-pocket on the leg 
of his jeans.  He'd just got it for Christmas, and it was about as 
state-of-the-art as they came.  He was proud of it, though almost 
nobody ever called him except his mother.  Now he was doubly glad 
that it was so sophisticated, as he snaked it through the mail slot 
and took a rapid series of snapshots of his half-naked principal 
finger-fucking herself....

    And then he switched to video. 

		******************************

    The note that Elaine Zeamer received that Tuesday morning, 
which was to so affect her life, was brief and geeky-looking, 
printed in dot-matrix.  It merely told that he had opened an 
e-mail account for her today...viz., 

		Bad_Girl@juiceemail.com 

with the password

		EZisEZ

and that she would get further instructions there.  Failure to 
comply would result in the immediate release of the enclosed 
photos (and other, similar ones) to the Internet...and to 
everyone on the school's mailing list.

    There was one consolation, if it could be believed.  The note 
concluded:

	"I'm not into long-term relationships.  Behave yourself 
	and obey me for 6 months, and I'll let you off the hook."   

    Elaine, absolutely livid, flung her staple-puller across the 
room and winced at the unexpectedly loud clatter.  But it did seem 
to calm her down.  She reviewed her options, muttering curses from 
time to time, and, in the end, concluded she really had no choice.

    She left school early that day, complaining of some unspecified 
illness.  Despite the expense, she knew she couldn't afford not to 
replace her PC immediately.  She eventually found one at a fairly 
reasonable price and managed to get it up and running with a 
minimum of angst (thanks largely to color-coding).

    The first thing she did was to log onto the stipulated 
e-mail account.  She got a couple of messages right away -- 
the usual welcome and spam from the e-mail provider -- but 
had to wait more than an hour before receiving instructions 
from someone whose address was 

		Eyeball@juiceemail.com

    First, it instructed her to immediately join the Whoopee! group 

		http://groups.whoopee.com/group/EZduzit

That was easy enough; she was already familiar with the procedure.  
She noted, in passing, that the group had just been created and 
that she was the second person to join.  "Eyeball," of course, was 
listed as owner.

    Second, the e-mail ordered her to send Eyeball her "vital 
statistics," her "masturbation schedule," and answers to a list 
of intimate questions by return mail.  Grumbling, but beginning to 
be impressed despite herself with his no-nonsense, authoritarian 
attitude (she just wished it were being used on those loathsome 
students of hers), she complied, using the formulae she imagined 
he wanted.  

	To:      Eyeball@juiceemail.com  
        From:    Bad_Girl@juiceemail.com
	Subject: My Statistics & Schedule, Etc.

	Dear Sir,

	I am 34 years old at present. 
	5'9" tall, 139 lbs., 36C-29-38.

	I normally masturbate an average of once a day, 
	on most days.  (More often on week-ends, holidays, 
	and vacations -- perhaps 3 times a day.)

	I am not on the Pill, having had my tubes tied 
	several years ago, when I was still married.  
	(I'm now divorced.)

	I consider myself straight.

	I am rarely -- if ever -- submissive.

	I am not promiscuous and do not at present have a lover.	

	Respectfully,

	Bad Girl
     
    The third thing that the Eyeball had required was somewhat 
more complicated....

		******************************

    She had to make a phone call Wednesday, so she went home for 
lunch to call "Bo's Cameras and Photographic Services."

    "Bo's," said a deep voice on the other end of the line.  Elaine 
wondered momentarily if he might be Eyeball, but quickly decided 
the mystery man would have to be cleverer than that.

    "Um...yes.  I understand you take pictures...well, of a...sort 
of...private nature."

    "Private?"

    "Well, my...um...boyfriend has been o-overseas for a while -- 
and h-he'll be away for some time to come....  So....  So I thought 
he might like to have some photos -- s-sexy photos -- of me, t-to 
keep...um...focused...."

    "Sexy photos?  Tasteful...or raunchy?"

    "Oh, um...r-raun-raunchee...."

    "Sure, no problem.  When you want to come in?"

    "Saturday?  Early afternoon?"

    "Okay....  Let's make it 1 o'clock."

    "Y-yes, that's fine."  Then, remembering Eyeball's 
instructions, she added, "Um...about the cost....  I-I 
can't really afford much...."

    "Oh, I'm sure we can work something out.  Don't worry about 
it.  And the name?"

    (Oh, god!  She wasn't going to tell him her real name, and she 
couldn't think of an alias, except for....)  Could you...um...just 
call me 'Bad Girl'?"

    His laugh was rich and throaty.  "Sure.  Don't be late.  And, 
if you drive, there's a small lot next door to the shop.  Park 
under the sign that says, 'Reserved for Customers of Bo's Cameras,' 
and nobody'll bother your car."

    "Thank you.  Goodbye."

    She was sweating heavily when she hung up.  She changed her 
blouse -- she didn't have enough time to shower (and barely enough 
to masturbate and, at the same time, send Eyeball an e-mail, 
dutifully reporting the appointment for her photo-shoot).  
Normally fastidious about her appearance and personal hygiene, 
she was fidgety the rest of the day. 

    But she got through her afternoon's work largely by rote, 
frequently fantasizing variations on Eyeball's possible 
appearance.  
  
    When she left school for the day, she took a detour past Bo's 
shop.  Though in a blighted neighborhood, it turned out to be only 
marginally seedy, as if the owner had a bit more self-esteem than 
most of the other shop-keepers nearby.

    Of course, the first thing she did when she got home was to 
log onto the Internet and check her mail.  She found that Eyeball 
had curtly acknowledged her note, but also that he had a new duty 
for her: she was to TRIPLE her masturbation rate (starting 
immediately).  And she had to capture her orgasms on a digital 
camera and e-mail him the pics.

    She just hoped Eyeball had been telling the truth about the 
six month limit.  She knew she had no other way out of this mess. 
Though she was nervous about supplying him with additional 
blackmail material, she knew he already had more than enough 
to ruin her....  

    Besides, from the beginning she had been impressed that he 
could use the word "viz." correctly.

    That evening, as she performed to order, she grew angry.  The 
idea of some stranger commanding her to play with herself -- and 
to record it.  Outrageous!  Yet, she had to admit, there was 
something erotic about being dominated by someone she'd never 
even seen....

    She hadn't photographed her noon-time cum, so she masturbated 
three times before going to bed, just to make sure.

    As soon as she turned in that night, she sank into a deep and 
dreamless sleep, from which her alarm awakened her, groggy and 
disoriented, Thursday morning.

		******************************

    Naked, she forced herself to have breakfast -- juice, coffee, 
and a bagel -- before picking up her vibrator.... 

    Later, still stinking of sweat and sex, she dressed for school, 
deliberately skipping a shower again.  In the closed car, with the 
heater on, her smell was pervasive.  She cursed her stupidity in 
not washing...and for being aroused by it all.  The rest of the 
day, she self-consciously tried to stay down-wind of people.  But 
she also masturbated in her office through lunch period.

    Then she realized she'd forgotten her camera, and, since she 
couldn't document the session, knew it wouldn't count.

		******************************

    Friday was more of the same, and she almost literally had to 
stagger through the last few hours of the afternoon doing a routine 
inspection of the equipment in the computer science room, the A/V 
room, shop, and home ec.

    At last it was over, and she could go home -- though she had 
to stop on the way and make some clothing purchases in the Junior 
Department at Sprawl-Mart.    

    That evening, she diddled herself again, and so, by bed-time 
she calculated she'd masturbated to orgasm -- and, on several 
occasions, well beyond orgasm -- eleven times in three days, and 
her cunt was red, swollen, and constantly throbbing.  She shuddered 
at the thought of what Saturday would bring: not only that damned 
photo session, but also having to do "it" nine! times (and nine 
more on Sunday).

    That night, she had a dream, from which she awakened suddenly.  
Afterward, she could remember nothing about it, except that it had 
been...unsettling.  		
 
		******************************

    On Saturday morning, following orders, she carefully shaved 
her cunt bare.  Despite her resentment, it had actually been an 
extremely sensual experience -- what with the tingling shave 
cream before, the touch of the razor and her fingers during, and 
the look afterwards -- by the time she had finished, she was wet, 
very wet, and getting wetter.  Her labia minora had always been 
small and unobtrusive, and now, with a bald cunt, she thought she 
looked like a 12-year-old.  How humiliating!  And what a turn-on!  

    She had been ordered to go braless, but was allowed panties 
(in this case, a thong).  She also wore the rest of the things 
she'd been forced to buy the day before: a tight, thin, pink 
tank-top (two sizes too small) and an off-white mini-skirt so 
short that she blushed at even the thought of being seen in it.  
(She measured it and found the hem was exactly 10" above her knee.  
Since she was not quite 11" from knee to crotch, it did cover the 
important parts, but there wasn't much room to spare.)  A pair of 
thong sandals completed the outfit. 
 
    She didn't dare even look at herself in the mirror, but grabbed 
her keys and some money and headed for the door to the garage.  It 
was time to hurry off to her appointment with the photographer.

    She was grateful for the attached, heated garage.  She was 
dressed for mid-July on the Gulf Coast -- not mid-February in 
the Midwest.  Her panties were already soaked with pussy-juice, 
and she was sure that she squelched audibly when she walked.

    But she made it to the car, started it, turned on the heater, 
and opened the garage door.  The next phase of her servitude was 
about to begin.

		******************************

Part 2

    Elaine paused at the end of the driveway.  She took a deep 
breath, squared her shoulders, and muttered, "Okay...here we go."
She turned right and drove off, headed for the camera shop. 
 
    Half-way there, her resolve began to slip.  How could she 
trust Eyeball to keep his word about the six-month limit?  Of 
course, if he were a graduating senior (which was unlikely -- 
he seemed too sure of himself, too self-possessed)...or a staff 
or faculty member who was leaving before the fall term, then 
maybe it would work out.  (And, in the meantime, maybe she 
should compile a list of suspects and do some detecting.)  

    But six goddam months!  How would she be able to cope?  Well, 
of course she HAD played the submissive from time to time in her 
fantasies, albeit reluctantly, and -- dammit! -- she'd already 
fallen into the distasteful habit of obeying Eyeball's orders....  

    She was suddenly recalled to the here-and-now as she caught 
herself about to turn the wrong way down a one-way street.  

    "God!" she said to herself.  "I hope I don't get stopped, 
dressed this way...and -- oh, shit! -- I don't even have my 
license."

    The rest of the trip was uneventful, even after entering the 
seedy ghetto neighborhood with its cheap bars, boarded-up houses,
abandoned storefronts, frequent vacant lots full of weeds and junk, 
and, right across the street from Bo's, an evil-looking tattoo 
shop.  Glancing at the camera store, she was again struck by how 
much it seemed like a fairly healthy incisor in a mouthful of 
rotten teeth.

    She parked where Bo had told her and sat for a while, 
trembling, reluctant to go on and afraid not to.  Because 
of the cold, there were not many people in sight.  But 
what there were, were definitely not her sort of people 
-- a wino sprawled in an alley, a couple of shivering black 
hookers with blonde hair, a scowling buck in cheap, flashy 
clothes (pimp or pusher?)....

    The car's heater was off, and, as the interior began to cool 
significantly, Elaine shook herself into action.  She left the 
haven of her car (such as it was), scurried around to the front 
of the art deco building, and, without further hesitation, 
proceeded inside.

    The front part of the shop was a small, semi-shabby room, 
divided by a long counter running across its width.  There was 
a bell hanging above the front door, and its ringing summoned 
a tall black man from the back of the shop.  He was youngish 
(30, give or take), had a shaved head, and resembled someone 
who had been a jock in high school or juco, but who had been 
slowly going to seed for the last decade.  

    This was obviously "Bo," and Elaine immediately felt 
superior...yet diffident at the same time.

    "I...um...have a 1 o'clock appointment...."

    "Ah," he said.  "You must be 'Bad Girl.'"

    "Y-yes...sir...."

    "You're right on time.  And I got your e-mail with additional 
instructions."

    ("E-mail?" she thought.  "Oh, shit!  That bastard Eyeball must 
have sent it.  What the fuck were these 'additional instructions'?
Godawful, undoubtedly.  But, steady!  Just act the submissive 'bad 
girl,' and do whatever you have to.")

    "Oh!  Um...yes, sir.  I...I hope it was clear."

    "Absolutely."  He lifted a flap in the counter.  "C'mon into 
the back, and we'll get started.  I'm all set up for you."

    The "studio" in back was a fair-sized, well-lighted room, 
the perimeter lined with heavy drapery of a smooth, matte, 
cream-colored fabric.  The room was sparsely furnished -- a 
predominately dark blue, Bokhara pattern rug in the middle of 
the floor, a couple of cameras on tripods, and, off to the side, 
an elderly roll-top desk and swivel chair. 

    "I like your outfit," Bo said.  "Let's start with some 
photos of you as you are.  Stand there, on the rug."  He 
dimmed the lights around the periphery of the room, fiddled 
with a light meter a bit, and then, with a hand-held camera, 
took a few shots.  

    "Okay, now take off your clothes; you can pile them on 
the chair."

    "Undress?  Here?  Don't you have a private place?"

    "Yes.  Undress.  Here.  I AM going to be photographing 
you naked, remember, so what's the hang-up?  Besides, your 
e-mail said that I was to be boss, right?  I was to tell you 
what to do, and you'd do it, right?"

    ("Crap!" she thought.)  "Yes, s-s-sir.  I'm just a little 
nervous at the prospect, is all."

    He opened the desk and poured half a glass of some murky 
liquid.  He handed her the drink, saying, "Down the hatch." 

    Elaine looked at the glass doubtfully, but then obediently 
chugged it...and was almost overcome by a fit of coughing.  It 
was bitter, acrid.

    "Kill or cure, eh?" Bo grinned.  "Now, get yourself naked."

    Trembling, she obeyed.  ("He is the boss," she kept telling 
herself.  "He is my boss....")

    When she had blown her nose, had stripped, and was again 
standing on the rug, Bo clicked on a CD player.  The room was 
filled with a languorous, powerfully sensual melody....

    Ravel's "Bolero."

    "Put your hands over your head, and move with the music.
I'm the boss, remember?  Listen to it...live it.  Pretend 
your lover's feeling you up.  And now he starts fucking you.  
Every down beat is him pounding into you.  And you push back.
Yes!  Again!  Wriggle...writhe!  Yes!  Yes!  Keep it up!"

    While encouraging her, he was, of course, continuously 
snapping pictures from a variety of angles.

    Elaine found the experience irresistibly arousing, and she 
was breathing hard by the time Bo stood up and said, "Okay, 
take a break.  I have to reload.  Also, you could stand to 
loosen up a tad more."  He poured her another drink (of the 
same stuff as before).  She drank it down while he was putting 
fresh film in the camera.

    This time, there was no coughing -- just a wheeze -- and 
she actually licked her lips afterward.

    ("Bassard's tryin' to get me drunk," she told herself. 
"An' then he'll try to 'do' me.  He IS sorta 'tractive, 
though...in a jungly kinda way....")  

    Having reloaded, he motioned her back to the rug.  "Now, girl, 
get yourself down on all fours.  Imagine your stud wants to fuck 
you doggie-style.  Reach back and spread your butt-cheeks; invite 
him in."  He knelt down behind her.  "Look around here...and gimme 
a 'come-hither' expression.  Yes!  Perfect!"  His camera was 
clicking as rapidly as his patter.  "Now, down on your back, legs 
in the air and s-p-r-e-d!  Yeah!  Play with yourself!  Yes!"

    Elaine was getting hot -- both literally and figuratively.  
She was sweating because of the lights, but also because of 
her growing arousal, and the funky odor rising from her body 
was almost as intoxicating as the two drinks she'd gulped.  
Befuddled by the liquor and by her libido, she didn't notice 
someone else standing in the dark area of the room, likewise 
taking pictures.

    Although his movements were perforce restricted to the shadowy, 
perimeter areas, Milo Fishwater was getting photos of considerably 
higher quality than had been possible with his camera-phone.  
Skilfully alternating between a digital camera and a 35mm one, 
he paused in his movements only long enough to switch on the 
tripod-mounted camcorder that was focused on the blue rug.

    Bo put down his camera and fetched a wooden device from the 
shadows -- a small set of stocks, distressed dark oak, with holes 
for wrists and ankles.  He stroked Elaine's shaven cunt, causing 
her to purr, and then he deftly fitted her into the device.  
("He's done this before...probably often," Milo thought.)  When it 
was locked in place, Elaine lay neatly on her back, bent double, 
with her wrists and ankles securely fastened.

    Belatedly realizing the significance of her position, she 
attempted to close her legs...and failed.  She started to panic.  
"Please," she moaned.  "Please...."

    "'Please'?" Bo said, mockingly.  "Please what?  What do you 
want, Bad Girl?"  He caressed her cunt again and dipped a finger 
deep into its wetness.  He stirred it for a moment, then added 
a second finger.

    As quickly as the panic had risen, it subsided.  Sometimes, 
Elaine thought, dreamily, it was okay not to be in control...to 
just be someone else's plaything...to just follow orders and let 
the other person shoulder all the responsibilities....

    "Please...do it...."

    "Do what, exactly?" Bo teased.

    "Please...please fu-uck me, s-s-sir...."

    "What a slut!" Milo exclaimed silently to himself.  "And she 
had the gall to claim that she was 'not promiscuous.'  The bitch 
rolled over so easy on this one, I've got to up the ante on her 
next adventures...."  But he decided he'd think about that later.  
At the moment, he knew he should concentrate on his photography.  
Still, as he smoothly fed a fresh roll of film into the 35mm, he 
licked his lips in appreciation of what was obviously to come....

    Meanwhile, Bo had stripped naked and squatted down by Elaine, 
who lay there, with stiff nipples, a drooling cunt, and a vacant 
smile on her face.  She seemed mesmerized by the sight of his hard 
cock.  It was large -- though not monstrous -- and dark brown and 
purplish red.  It was so intimidating....  

    And so intriguing.

    Bo dipped his fingers into Elaine's brimming cunt again, pumped 
them in and a few times, and then began playing with her tightly 
puckered asshole.  She sighed at first and wriggled contentedly, 
but, when she finally became aware of what he apparently intended, 
her eyes widened, and she moaned, "Nooo, please!  I-I've never done 
THAT!"  (Milo made a mental note of that.)  "Please fu-uck me in my 
pussy!"

    Bo turned her over, so that she rested primarily on her 
shoulders and knees.  He slapped her up-turned butt sharply, 
twice...and twice again.  "In your CUNT," he corrected.  "With 
my fingers up your ass.  Say it!"

    "Please fuck my c-cunt, sir, with your fingers up my ass!" 
she sniffled.  "And do it bareback...please," she added softly.

    "Of course, 'specially since you ask so nicely...."  

    He crouched down and eased his cock into her.  Elaine bared her 
teeth and hissed.  "It's s-s-so big!"

    "But you like it big, don't you, girl?  You LOVE it big...and 
black."

    "I do....  I love it big a-and bl-black!"

    He skewered her asshole with one thick finger -- and then 
another.  

    "Aaaah!  Oh, god!"

    "You got a nice, tight asshole...but it'll loosen up."  He 
began fucking her slowly, moving his fingers in her ass in 
counter-point.  "C'mon, girl.  Time to really show off now.  
Start humping back....  Let me know how hot you are...how much 
you want it!"

    And she did.

    It was a tribute to Milo's powers of concentration that he 
was able to ignore the demands of his teenage hormones and 
continue taking pictures, despite the throbbing in his groin.
As it was, he easily outlasted Elaine (who started cumming, 
very vocally, almost immediately) and even beat Bo (who prided 
himself on his stamina).  When the black man finally collapsed 
on top of Elaine with a sigh, however, Milo had to dash through 
the curtains to an adjacent washroom, clawing at his zipper as 
he went.

    He made it...but only just.

		****************************** 

    With the resilience of youth, however, Milo recovered quickly.  
He got back to the studio in time to see (and to photograph) 
Elaine obediently licking Bo's cock clean.  When she'd finished 
that task, and Bo was dressing, Milo switched off the camcorder 
and retreated again to the washroom, where he packed up his 35mm 
camera and its film canisters.  By the time he was back to a spot, 
just behind the curtains, where he could see and hear, Bo had 
released Elaine, and they were apparently discussing payment 
arrangements.  He was at the desk, writing something.  (She was 
still naked...and was absentmindedly playing with her cunt.)

    Bo looked up.  "Okay, to recap....  You don't have enough 
cash, and you got no ID, no credit cards, no ATM card, no 
check-book....  But you say you MUST have your pictures tonight." 
He handed her the paper he'd been writing on.  "This is a model's 
release.  I'll stay late and make sure copies of the photos get 
to your e-mail box this evening.  But, if I'm not paid in full 
within a week, all rights to the pictures revert to me, and I'll 
be free to do whatever with 'em."

    "But...but...," she began.

    "Nah-nah-nah-nah.  Don't even start with me.  Those are my 
terms, and I'm not gonna do different.  Take it or leave it --   
my way or the highway."

    "I-I couldn't sign this...not with my real name," she quavered.

    "No, but you could stand on that rug -- naked -- and read 
what's written there while I video tape you.  Not quite as good 
as a signed document, maybe, but, if it's okay for somebody's 
last will....  Well, what's it gonna be?"

    Silently, Elaine slouched over to the blue rug, waited while 
Bo readied the camcorder, then straightened up and cleared her 
throat.  She began reading, in her clear, educated voice, "I, 
under the alias of 'Bad Girl,' hired Mr. Bo Jackman, owner of 
'Bo's Cameras and Photographic Services,' to take XXX-style 
photos of me...."

    Milo stayed long enough to snap a couple more pictures with 
his digital camera, then slipped out the back door and headed 
home.  The 35mm stuff could wait.  He was anxious to inspect the 
digital pictures he'd taken and, later, to collect, crop suitably, 
and post (to the EZduzit Whoopee! group) the photos that "The Z" 
would be sending him.

		******************************

    That night, before turning in, Milo re-visited the EZduzit site 
and was pleased to see that there were already twelve new members.  
He password-protected his bulging files of "EZ pics," and he smiled 
at the long, tentative list of things he'd be subjecting his horny 
principal to -- flashing at the mall, nipple rings, work in a 
topless-bottomless bar....  He'd have to improve on that list, but 
it was pretty sweet for a first draft.  He yawned contentedly.  It 
was a win-win situation for him: either she'd play ball (and go 
through a series of penalties born of his feverish imagination and 
extensive porn-reading), or she'd balk (and he'd start posting 
pictures that did NOT have her face cropped off).

    He logged off, turned out the light, slid into bed, and drifted 
off to sleep, as thoughts of how pleasant the next six months would 
be danced in his head like visions of sugar plums.     
  

