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Message-ID: <36259asstr$1019646603@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Night Writer <night_writer99NOSPAM@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} {ASSD} Surrendering Sarah {Night Writer}  (nc, Fdom, humil) [13/?]
Date: Wed, 24 Apr 2002 07:10:03 -0400
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                             Surrendering Sarah

                               by Night Writer


                                  Chapter 13



Cold.  Hunger.  Fear.  He had learned to accept two of the three, but 
the cold just seemed to get worse.  Shivering in the dark, Sport sifted 
through the events of the past two months, trying to make sense of it 
all, how everything went wrong, and what he might have done to make it 
right again. Many of his memories were clear, all too clear, but he was 
unable to assemble them into a rational sequence.  Out of context, 
fleeting moments of opportunity from the past only served to frighten 
him, and he retreated from each one, trembling at the likely 
consequences.

It had been cold that day too, when two burly officers dragged him from 
the muck at the bottom of the ditch.  The docks looked so different.  
Daylight had painted over flashing neon and shiny, wet streets with 
drab grays and browns, and burned away the fog that crept and breathed 
about their feet the night before, licking at Sarah's bare thighs with 
a hundred ghostly tongues. 

Bright.  Too bright.

A muddied hand shielded his eyes from the morning light.  Squinting 
through narrow spaces between his fingers, he cringed as face after 
face stared back at him.  Most pointed and snickered, until the growing 
laughter drowned out the cackle of seagulls that circled overhead like 
slow, gray-white vultures.  

A few faces turned away quickly with lips pursed, shaking their heads 
with disgust.  He shuddered as he lowered his eyes over splotches of 
mud, now drying to a thin crust on his skin.  He was naked - worse than 
naked.  He could feel the weight of his erection bounce and pull at him 
as they ushered him to the patrol car.  How?  Why?  The throbbing in 
his head made concentrating difficult.  

Loud.  Too loud.

The policemen were asking him too many questions.  He didn't know what 
they wanted or how to make them stop.  They were pushing him, pulling 
his hand away from his eyes, fastening his wrists together behind his 
back with something cold and hard.  

Once at the station, he tried to explain it all to them.  His head 
ached; he couldn't think straight.  The words came out all wrong and 
the policemen just laughed at his story.  Why wouldn't they listen? Why 
couldn't they understand?  They kept asking the wrong questions.

"So, your wife is having an affair with this biker?"

"How long has she been seeing him?"

"Do you know her lover?"

"Did you plan to kill them both last night?"

"How much did you have to drink?"

No, no, no!  Why couldn't he make them understand?  The metal chair was 
so cold, and they just kept laughing at him, naked, still hard from the 
drugs Rock forced him to take the night before.  A few female officers 
drifted in, anxious to get a look. They snickered as they eyed his 
throbbing erection.  He kept asking for some clothes, anything to cover 
his cock, to keep him warm.  How could they let him sit there naked, 
exposed to anyone passing by the row of windows looking out into the 
busy hallway?  

"Please, help me - some clothes, please - I'm cold - so cold..."

Finally they gave up, threw a blanket over him, and led him to a 
holding cell.  He sat and shivered for hours, dazed and helpless, head 
still bleeding from where the butt of the gun slammed into him.  He 
wished the explosion in his head had been a charging slug of lead, 
tumbling through soft gray-matter.  He had expected that, accepted it, 
finally welcoming the escape from the torture he had grown powerless to 
prevent.  What else did Rock want from them?  He had taken his wife, 
first by force, then willingly, gloating as Sarah begged for the 
biker's huge cock.  Then this - how weak he must have looked to Sarah 
that night, so helpless - he had his chance, he had the gun, only to 
have all hope wrestled away by Shayla's strong arm about his neck, the 
warm metal barrel in his mouth as Rock mocked him, Sarah looking on as 
he sucked the end of the gun at Rock's command - but if it wasn't over, 
what next?...Oh God, what next...
 
"Let's go, Sport.  Your wife's here to take you home."

The words seemed to clear his head, and he stared at the officer, still 
a bit wild-eyed.  Thank God - Sarah was ok - they let her go - they 
could go home now - be together again - try to forget - 

As they rounded the corner and approached the front desk, he recognized 
her voice, a soft mewing mixed with the little-girl whine.  

"He's such a dear, the poor thing.  So understanding, considering what 
he puts himself through.  Oh, Sweetheart, there you are!  I'm so glad 
they found you!  I was worried sick!  Are you ok?"

Stacey ran to him, seizing him with a tight hug.

"No!  No!  No!!!  She's not my wife - she's one of them - get away from 
me - where's Sarah - what have you done with her?"

Stacey watched with her best disappointed look as he backed away 
babbling, refusing to leave with her.

"He gets like this sometimes.  As I was telling you, it's been so 
difficult for him.  He's been impotent for so long.  When he's sober, 
he's agreed to let me go to my friend for my physical needs if I'll 
stay married to him.  It works for a while, until it gets the best of 
him.  Every so often he snaps, goes out and takes God-knows what 
combination of drugs, anything to get him hard.  The sad part is that 
he gets so wrecked, he never comes home to me when he could satisfy me.  
He gets obsessed with finding my friend and me together, and the drugs 
and alcohol send him into the night, driven by a crazed fantasy that 
I'm cruising the city, sleeping with every man I can find.  Of course,
nothing could be further from the truth, officers."

Stacey's wide-eyed stare traveled from one policeman to the next, her
wet lips opened just enough to glisten with anything but innocence.
The policemen stared back, paralyzed by her girlish innuendo.

"Jeeezus..."

"Poor bastard..."

"Well, um, Ma'am, if we could just see some identification, we'll 
release him."

Stacey opened her tiny white purse and presented Sarah's driver's 
license, her picture now neatly covered by Stacey's, blue eyes
gazing coyly from the upper left corner.

When Sport objected a second time, a large blue uniform moved against
him from behind, a wide firm hand heavy on his shoulder.

"Listen buddy, you have a beautiful wife who cares enough about you to 
be here for you.  If I were you, I'd calm down, go home, and sleep it 
off.  Unless of course, you'd like to be our guest for a while..."

Stacey led the way through the double glass doors, her brief cotton 
dress bouncing just enough to show a glimpse of sheer white panties 
from behind.  The roar of the policemen's laughter followed them all 
the way to the curb where Stacey's red Escort waited.  It started on 
the third try, and before pulling into traffic she glanced down where 
the blanket parted, revealing his now-shrunken stub of a penis. He 
caught her looking and tried to cover himself as she shook her head, 
grinning.

"Don't worry Sport.  They say that size isn't everything, right?  
But I'm afraid right about now Sarah couldn't possibly agree."



                                      ***



Stacey dropped him in front of his house.  Sport was as relieved as he 
was surprised that their destination wasn't more sinister.  He slumped 
beside her in the cramped passenger seat, waiting for the worst.  But 
Stacey just sat and fidgeted, tapping the steering wheel lightly to an 
unheard beat that rolled endlessly through her pretty blonde head.

She gave him a minute or two.  She loved indecision in men.  It made 
her feel powerful, in control, and generally reaffirmed her contempt 
for the crude, useless creatures.  After that, they just pissed her 
off.

"If you're waiting to grow a dick, do it on your own time, Sport.  Some 
of us have a life."

He gathered the blanket around him, taking a few seconds to glance up 
and down the block.  His next-door neighbor eyed the car with quick, 
suspicious glances.

"Christ, do I have to spell it out?  GET OUT, you pathetic fuck!"

Sport kicked open the door and fled across his yard, the small blanket 
trailing behind as he ran for the safety of the house.  He could feel 
the warm sun on his skin and the breeze, unexpectedly cool, as it 
rushed between his legs.  He glanced to the side just long enough to 
see Janey, now still and straight as a statue, follow his progress 
through the ankle-high grass.

He never liked Janey.  He liked her even less after she divorced Fred, 
her henpecked husband, and took everything he had, including their 
spacious two-story home.  Now she had money, *and* the body of a woman 
half her age.

It hadn't taken long for Sarah and Sport to learn to avoid 
Janey's attempts to socialize.  Fred would sit quietly, a shell of a 
man, while Janey went on for hours with stories about how inept Fred 
was at this or that, and how their new gardener ogled her when she 
sunbathed in her new bikini, or how her young doctor spent just a bit 
more time than was absolutely necessary examining her breasts.  Then 
came the slow wink, directed at Sarah, as if Fred didn't notice, as she 
touched Sarah's hand, expecting a knowing wink in return.  But Sarah's 
obvious embarrassment didn't faze Janey.  When Sarah declined to 
respond positively to her crude anecdotes, Janey would counter with, 
"Aww, c'mon, Honey, us girls have to stick together, don't we?"

Sarah told him Janey was too insensitive and "flamboyant" to be 
anything more than a pest of a neighbor.  Sport pictured her staked 
across a mound of fire ants while he poured honey over her silicone-
stuffed tits.  More than once, he imagined her screams as vicious, 
frantic swarms of tiny red predators consumed her naked, writhing body.

Then, suddenly, he was falling, somersaulting head over heels in the 
long, soft grass.  He landed sprawled on his back, naked, the blanket 
gone. Caught in a sudden gust of wind, it folded and flapped against 
itself twice, fluttered in an updraft, and finally came to rest at 
Janey's feet.

He looked up to see her eyes wander over his pale body, then settle 
where his dick hung lifelessly between his outstretched legs. It was 
her grin, that sly, crooked grin, that made his head start to throb 
again - pounding, pounding - long after he reached the front door and 
bolted it behind him.



                                           ***



"Hi, Mr. B.  You look beat.  Tough weekend?"

Shannon, his receptionist/secretary beamed her usual wide smile from 
behind her desk.  

"Uh, yeah, kind of, Shannon.  I may be coming down with something, 
maybe a bad cold. I'll be fine."

'Ah, to be twenty-two again,' he mused.  She wore the white sweater 
today, the one with the deep neckline that clung to her like it 
was custom-knitted with every curve in mind.  Shannon was the all-
American girl - tall, blonde and tan, with the eternal enthusiasm of a 
cheerleader.  He was mildly surprised when Sarah had hired her.  She 
wasn't the type a wife would ordinarily trust around her husband.  
After one week he had a new appreciation for Sarah's judge of 
character.  Shannon was never late, handled customers with the utmost 
tact, and showed a flair for numbers and record-keeping.  She kept her 
private life private, and except for the tastefully flattering clothes, 
never made her presence a temptation for him, or any of the other 
employees.  She was the perfect assistant, and provided a daily helping 
of safe, innocent eye-candy to boot.

"Oh, Mr. B., you have a visitor.  She's waiting in your office.  She's 
hot, Mr.B.  Your taste in customers is improving," she teased.

He smiled, trying not to stare at her cleavage, shook his head, and 
went inside.

Shayla was in his chair. She leaned back casually as if she owned the 
office, her long chocolate legs stretching for what seemed like yards 
in front of her.  The brief navy skirt revealed all but six inches of 
muscular thigh, while the matching jacket narrowed at her long 
waist, emphasizing full breasts that rose firm and round into the open 
space above the top button. 

"Well, it's about time Sport.  How do you stay in business if you don't 
arrive early every day to watch the help?"

He froze in the doorway, his feet now lead, his heart a racing time-
bomb.  

"Close the door, Sport.  We have your future to discuss, and Sarah's of 
course."

He sat across from her, in the chair his customers took while listening 
to his terms and prices.  Shayla just smiled, uncrossed and crossed her 
legs, and smiled wider when she caught him glancing up her skirt. 

"Let me explain how our little business meeting will go, Sport.  I do 
the talking, and you shut up and listen.  When I finish, and ask for 
questions, you may speak, but not before.  Follow my instructions, and 
you and your precious Sarah may be together again soon.  Open your 
mouth when you shouldn't, or make trouble of any kind, and, well, 
believe me, there are horrors that neither of you could possibly 
imagine.

"I'm your new business partner."

Sport straightened in his chair, his reflexes raising him a few inches 
off the seat, then nearly bringing him to his feet before Shayla's 
words stopped him.

"Uh-uh-uhhh, Sport.  

She picked up the receiver of his phone, holding it in mid-air on its 
way to her ear.

"Should I make a call?  I could have your darling wife's boob-job 
undone rather hastily.  The doctor is busy these days, but I'm sure 
Rock would love to give it a try.  He's always so eager to play doctor.  
It might get a bit messy though, not to mention what her little titties 
might look like, if she survives. 

Sport collapsed back into the chair, shaking helplessly with fear and 
rage.

"Relax Sport.  It won't be so bad.  Just do as I say.  You may even 
thank me someday.

"Now, I've looked over your books and inventory, and, well, I see 
potential here.  You custom design and manufacture medical appliances 
and equipment - everything from artificial limbs to wheelchairs and 
hospital beds.  Some very clever stuff, too.  And your mail-order 
business is impressive, to say the least.  I think I can be a big help 
here.  Of course, we'll have to trim the inventory some - and I have 
some interesting plans for your machine shop.  

"We'll share your office for the time being.  I like this desk, and the 
chair's nice and comfy, too.  Set up one of those small tray-tables 
where you're sitting.  I'll be doing most of the work anyway, and I 
want to keep an eye on you.  Now I'd like a tour of our building.  Time 
to meet the help."

Sport led her through his office, cringing inside each time he 
introduced Shayla as his new business partner.  The looks of surprise 
and shock on his employees' faces made it even harder.  Later, Shayla 
did her best to win over the men in the shop, then the shipping 
department.  Her suggestive innuendoes and light touches had most of 
them eating out of her hand after only minutes.  Sport saw her making 
mental notes of the few that were disgusted by her behavior, but most 
just stared at her legs and breasts.  

Lunch had arrived by the time they retired to his office.  Shayla had 
ordered the food from a nearby deli.  Sport stared at his small salad 
while Shayla pulled small white boxes of Chinese takeout from a large 
paper bag.

"I'm putting you on a diet, Sport.  I hope you like salads.  From now 
on, I'll be providing all your meals.  And no cheating, or that sweet 
little wife of yours will end up in pieces."

Shayla sat and watched as he picked at the small mound of lettuce 
lightly coated with watery, bland dressing.  She grinned with 
satisfaction, then began to feast, the odor of General's Chicken 
filling the small room.

Sport spent the rest of the day sitting across the room doing 
absolutely nothing as Shayla raided his computer.  She stretched her 
legs often, opening them just enough to make sure he couldn't miss her 
firm, plump labia framed by the longest, smoothest inner thighs he had 
ever seen. As the hours passed, he began to fidget.  The hard chair 
became more uncomfortable.  His hands began to tremble.  By the end of 
the day, increasing nervousness had him jumping at the slightest noise. 

"Sport!" shouted Shayla.

The sudden command nearly shook him out of his chair.

"What are you looking at, Sport?  Answer me!"

She had caught him staring between her open legs, and he stammered 
nervously, afraid of what would come next.

"So, you like my pussy, Sport?  The least you could do is ask to look 
at it.  I might even give you permission."

He just sat there, heart pounding, dreading what was to come.

"Well, go on.  Let me hear you ask, Sport.  Quickly!  I'm easily 
insulted!"

He gulped, licked his parched lips, and slowly got the words out.

"M-may I please look at your pussy?"

She shook her head as she answered, her voice laced with convincing 
disgust.

"It's no wonder Sarah was so eager for a real man.  You beg for what 
other men so easily take.  Come over here."

Sport rose shakily to his feet.  His eyes stayed glued to Shayla's.

"I said get over here, now!"

He crossed the space between them in three rapid steps, stopping at the 
edge of her desk.  She had spread her legs wider, hiking the brief 
skirt about her hips.  He struggled to keep from looking through the 
glass desktop at her magnificent thighs and the parted, shaved lips 
nestled between them.

"Take it out, Sport."

He stared blankly, his heart pounding.

"Your dick, Sport, your dick.  Take it out.  Let me see it."

His hand shook as he lowered the zipper of his slacks and fished the 
limp worm of flesh from its hiding place.  Shayla reached forward and 
gently grasped the head between thumb and fingers, rolling and tugging 
as she watched his reaction.  She lowered her other hand to her crotch, 
first spreading the plump lips with two fingers, then inserting a third 
inside.  Slowly, deliberately, she penetrated herself, with each stroke 
withdrawing just enough to display the glistening juices that coated 
the single long digit.  She smiled as his erection grew.

"You'd love some of this, wouldn't you, Sport?  Your dick says you'd 
sacrifice your precious little Sarah for it.  How do you think she'd 
feel?  You're obviously as easy as she is.  But still, betrayal can be 
the most difficult of life's surprises to accept.  Would she hate you 
for it?  Could she ever erase the pain delivered in an instant, like a 
sudden knife through the heart?" 

His cock responded to her touch, growing longer and harder with each 
careful trace of her long, pearly nails.  He hated himself for the 
betrayal, but found her touch impossible to resist.  His knees shook.  
His trembling hands grasped the edge of the desk.  As he stared at her 
cunt through the glass, he could feel his belt being undone, the slow 
inching of his slacks over his hips, and finally, her invading hands 
around his sac, pulling all of his sex into the cool office air.

"So, the answer to your question Sport, is, yes, you can look at my 
pussy.  Get a good look.  Memorize every detail.  Imagine how tight and 
hot it might feel around your insignificant little prick, and then cum 
in my hand, knowing that Sarah would welcome the same from any man."

He wouldn't.  He couldn't.  He closed his eyes as Shayla's hands milked 
him.  Sarah's face stared back at him in the darkness, black hair 
flowing over delicate, bare shoulders.  Shayla's voice purred in the 
background.

"You're nothing to her now, Sport.  She's had a hundred men better than 
you."

He felt the urgency build in his testicles, then spread slowly through 
his belly and cock.  Sarah's face was replaced with disturbing images - 
her legs wrapped tightly around a biker in their own bedroom, her 
thighs shuddering as her naked body jerked and spasmed in a cage 
suspended over a cheering crowd, and finally, silhouetted by a dying 
bonfire, her small body eagerly rising and falling on Rock's massive 
cock, willingly flaunting her own betrayal...

     "Oh, Rock...it feels so good...so big and hard inside me...
      oh God, you're so huge...sooo good, Rock...so fucking good...
      fuck me, Rock...fuck me harder...you're making me cum, Rock...
      I'm cumming now, Rock. . . "

Shayla's hand tightened around his balls, drawing him closer, forcing 
him to lean forward over the desk.  She circled the head of his cock 
with her fingertip, scraping away the expanding droplet of sticky fluid 
as her nail grazed the sensitive opening.  

"Let her go, Sport.  If she feels anything for you at all, it's 
contempt, or worse, pity.  She's starving for everything you're not.
Cum for me, Sport.  Show me I'm right.  Forget the little slut.  It's 
what she wants.  It's what you want.  Trust me..."

He felt the long, tortured moan rise from deep in his chest, then burst 
from his lips as though it was another man's voice. 

"Nooooo, oh God, nooooo..."

His hips rocked forward.  He could feel the semen surging on its way 
from his belly to where Shayla's fingers stroked his penis, now hard 
and urgent in her exquisite hand.  Behind his clenched eyelids, Sarah's 
face stared back in disbelief. A large tear formed at the corner of her 
eye, then raced over her cheek as a second formed behind it.

Shayla smiled as he delivered the spoonful of cum in her hand, arriving 
in three small spurts.  Three.  She counted them.  Such a small 
offering.  Yet, to Sport, it was much more.  It was his defeat, and the 
betrayal of his love for Sarah, a love that connected them like a 
fraying thread.

He tried to pull away from the edge of the desk, but Shayla snugged the 
fingers of her left hand around his sac, countering with just enough 
resistance to keep him close.  After milking the last drops of semen 
from his cock, she opened her right hand, raising it to offer him a 
better view.

"I see now why you never had children, Sport.  Just look at this tiny 
little puddle of cum.  You do everything in such a small way, don't 
you."

Sport glanced down at the semen she had won from him, now barely 
wetting her open palm.

"What should we do with this, Sport?  Any ideas?"

He knew what was coming, and let his revulsion show as he looked into 
her eyes.

"Mmmm, yes, I thought about that, Sport, but it would be so degrading,
don't you think?  I mean, the homoerotic implications alone are enough 
to send most real men screaming from the room.  On the other hand, it 
could be a valuable learning experience.  Wouldn't you like to know 
what it's like to be on the receiving end for a change?  You may even 
learn to like the taste of it.  Isn't that what men fantasize about - 
that we'll grow savor the taste of your cum so much that we can't get 
enough of it?"

His body shook violently and uncontrollably.  Nausea rose from deep in 
his gut as her hand tightened around his testicles, drawing him closer 
over the desk.  His face was inches from her outstretched hand, close 
enough to see the moist crevices between her fingers, and to smell the 
faint odor of his semen that spread slowly over her palm.

"I sense you're not open to my offer of self-enlightenment, Sport.  I 
should have known.  What were the words that Sarah used to describe 
your sexual prowess to Rock? 'Tediously domestic', I believe.  Although 
'tame', 'dull', and 'unimaginative' also come to mind.  She does tend 
to babble on while she's riding a sturdy cock.  So, consider this your 
first assignment from your new boss. Lick, Sport.  I'll tell you when
to stop."

As his employees' cars filed past the office window at the end 
of their work day, Sport licked, then continued to feast on each of 
Shayla's long, brown fingers, sucking one after another into his mouth 
as she buried her hand between her legs.  Her body stiffened for a 
second as a sudden, quiet sigh escaped her, then relaxed as her full 
lips tightened into a wide smile. The smile became a snicker, then a laugh that
shook her muscular body from wide shoulders to shapely calves, a laugh that echoed
painfully through Sport's throbbing head.

Too loud.....Too loud.....







Previous chapters of Surrendering Sarah, along with other works by Night Writer
can be found at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Night_Writer/www/

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What are all of those funny letters after the titles of stories? And what do they
mean? Find out here: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/code/scfr.htm

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