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Message-ID: <41443asstr$1048464604@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Vulgar Argot <gekagekREMOVEALL@CAPShotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Marigold, part 3
Date: Sun, 23 Mar 2003 19:10:04 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Marigold, Part 3
by Vulgar Argot
(NC, MF, Oral)

(Author's Note: This is the sort of erotica I've always wanted to
read, but so rarely see. It is the DS half of BDSM without the bondage
or masochism. It is non-consensual without involving physically much
in the way of forceful rape. As a warning to the reader, this
installment includes sexual activities, but no actual sex. Of course,
people who are looking for a quick payoff have probably lost interest
by now.)

Marigold sleepwalked through Bible study with her stepfather that
night. It was one of St. Paul's many letters exhorting one of the
lesser tribes on how to keep their women in line. When Jonas had first
married her mother, more than ten years ago, Marigold had enjoyed the
lessons, three times a week. It was like a secret language that she
and Jonas had just between them. Her mother had never been much more
than a fair-weather Christian before she'd met the ex-seminarian. And,
while she did now attend church every week with them and pepper her
speech with religious references, she never joined them in study,
seemingly content to leave any actual contemplation of the religion to
her husband and daughter.

In the beginning, the readings had mostly been either reflections on
God's grace or exhortations to general good behavior. But, in the last
couple of years, he seemed to get a specific goal in mind. A decade of
marriage had failed to produce the heir he'd left the seminary to
produce. Instead, he focused on moulding Marigold into a good
Christian wife for the man who would inherit Jonas's estate. His verse
selection and interpretation had become increasingly traditional,
sometimes verging on misogyny. But, fortunately, he encouraged debate
and argument, seemed to revel in it. Tonight, though, she just
sleepwalked through the lesson, giving Jonas exactly the
interpretation she knew he would have. If he noticed she was anxious
to get through the message and away, he said nothing and even seemed
rather impressed with her understanding of the passage.

As soon as she found the water temperature to her liking, she turned
the water pressure up as high as it would go and positioned herself
underneath it. Even more than an hour later, she could still feel
where she had been touched and kissed. The excitement was still there
as a low buzz. The water immediately started to arouse her again. She
stepped back and forth, trying to get the right position, but the
angle was wrong and the pleasure wouldn't rise much. Finally,
furtively, she reached down and spread herself open a little until the
water hit her just so. She shuddered at the intensity of it and
flinched away, pulling her hand back as if burned. But, a few seconds
later, she reached down again and felt the water running over her
sensitive clit.

The sensation was intense. She had justified using her hand for
positioning as she, strictly speaking, was not masturbating with it.
But, as the pleasure rose and fell, each time stopping just short of
driving her to orgasm, she discovered that she didn't care. Once she
committed her fingers to the task, she came quickly and intensely, he
whole body quaking with the pleasure of it. She almost fell then, her
knees buckling. Instead, she decided that it would be wiser to sit
down. Adjusting the head again, she sat down, positioning herself
under the stream and stroking her own clit, trying to imitate what
Thule had done with his tongue.

She lost all track of time until a sharp rapping came from the
bathroom door, "Marigold, honey," said Jonas from the other side, "Are
you all right in there? Did you fall asleep?"

She fought to keep her voice steady. Between the pleasure and fear of
discovery, she was unable to keep a quaver out of it, "What? Yeah. I'm
all right. Thank you, Sir."

"Get some sleep," Jonas said, "you promised to be at the bake sale
tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," she called more clearly. Standing on shaky legs, she
wrapped herself in a big, thick towel, stumbled into her bedroom, and
fell into bed, wanting just a minute to rest before she got dressed
for bed.

She woke in the absolute stillness of pre-dawn. Her hair was still wet
and the towel had unwrapped itself, leaving her naked in the
moonlight. Her hand still lay between her thighs, feeling her own
warmth. Before she even awoke, she had begun langorously touching
herself again. Now fully awake, she recoiled, pulling her hand away as
if burned. The pleasure receded quickly into panic. For the first
time, she understood the insidious evil of what she'd been enjoying
and her cheeks burned with the shame of it. When fully aroused, she
was downright wanton. Once they got started, she had wanted Thule to
do what he was doing to her, wanted him to do more. Under the force of
the shower nozzle, she hadn't cared whether what she was doing was
right or wrong, only that it felt good. Jonas had always warned her
that sin could worm its way into an incautious heart, but she'd never
understood it before.

As she dragged a comb through her hair, fighting with knots until
tears rolled down both cheeks, she reflected on her own perfidy. It
wasn't that she had never masturbated before. During the summer when
she was thirteen, she had even flirted with atheism. It had been a
rough time, ameliorated by the fact that Jonas supported her through
it, never yelled or gotten angry, as she thought he would. Even if he
hadn't been able to look at her without getting a pained expression,
he never raised his voice or challenged her decision. Everyone around
her had been understanding, even when she experimented with smoking
and drinking.

It had, she remembered as she dressed for the day, also been when she
had first experimented with sex. She had given in to Elliot's
insistence that they "do stuff," but apparently not been very good at
it. Everything they tried, they tried only once. When she had tried to
show him her prematurely-burgeoning breasts, he'd shielded his eyes
and told her they made her look like a cow. And, no matter what she
had done to his penis, it had remained flaccid and limp. After she had
touched it, he spurned her for weeks. She'd been absolutely miserable,
sure that her life was over. After crying in her room for days on end,
she had informed Jonas that she wanted to go back to church, where she
had seen Elliot again. By the first week of school, Elliot had
declared that they were still boyfriend and girlfriend and that he
intended to marry her. They had never talked about what happened and
Elliot had been a perfect, Christian gentleman ever since.

Comparably, Thule was a savage. Just because he'd forced her to
consent to what he did didn't make it less of a rape, she decided.
Lying in bed, now fully dressed, she entertained fantasies of turning
him in to the police or turning the tables on him, forcing him to do
what she told him, not that the fantasies got very specific as to what
she would tell him to do. Sleep would not come and, soon, dawn tinged
the sky. Giving up on sleep as a hopeless quest, she got up and went
downstairs. Jonas was already there, sitting in his chair and reading
his Bible. He looked up when she came down.

"You're up early, pumpkin," he said, "Couldn't sleep?"

She shook her head in the negative.

"Anything troubling you?"

She considered it for a moment, but knew that Jonas wouldn't
understand. He would demand that Thule be turned over to the police.
He never understood why Harvard was so important to her. College was
meant to make a girl "well-rounded" for married life. It was a subject
they had sparred over for about a year and danced around ever since.

"No," she lied, "I just couldn't sleep. Would you like me to make
breakfast?"

                    ===

Marigold found herself having trouble staying awake during the bake
sale. Despite the cold metal of the folding chair against the backs of
her legs, she cought herself sliding downward several times. When
Jonas offered her a cup of coffee, she accepted and loaded it with
sugar and milk, although she rarely partook.

She came wide awake, though, when she saw Thule's now-familiar form
ambling easily towards her across the parking lot of the super market
in front of which they'd set up. Once she realized that there was no
chance he was angling for the supermarket itself, her breath caught in
her chest. Was he going to expose her in front of Jonas and two
representatives of the Protestant Women's League? Could he be that
cruel?

Before she could speak or decide not to, Jonas said, "Bartholemew,
would you like to buy some cookies?"

"I don't know, Mr. Mercato," Thule answered, smiling, "Do you have any
brownies?"

"With and without nuts," Jonas answered.

Thule considered the offerings, "Hmmm. I think I'll take a half-tray
of the ones without nuts."

The transaction made, Jonas asked, "So, I noticed we still haven't
seen you at church. Still weighing your options?"

"No answers yet," said Thule, "If I do find any answers, what day of
the week do you have services? Is that Thursday?"

"No," said Jonas, "Sundays, Sunday morning." Then, realizing that he
was being put on, he laughed.

Then, Thule turned to Marigold and asked, "By the way, Mari, do you
know if we were expected to read up on pointer math for Monday? I know
it was covered in class, but I wasn't clear if we were going to go
into more depth next week. It's not really on the AP test."

Whatever Marigold's answer, she stammered it out. Thule nodded as if
she'd seen something wise, "OK, thanks. I'll see you in school,
Monday, then. Mr. Mercato, if you have another Wednesday-night Bible
study, let me know. I learned a lot." And, then, he was gone.

Jonas turned to her, "I didn't know you went to school with
Bartholemew."

Her laughter came out a little wan, "I've told you about him before.
He's going to be salutatorian."

A look of realization came over Jonas's face, "Wait. Bartholemew is
the infamous Thule? God's love, Marigold, you make him sound like a
demon, spawned of the pit when you talk about him at school."

"But,"

"Marigold," Jonas said, using his patient voice, "What have I told you
about giving people a chance? Just because Bartholemew's family is
poor, it doesn't mean he's not an outstanding young man. He's got a
lot of ambition and he's a seeker after knowledge. He may not be a
believer, but I expect he'll find his faith eventually. It wouldn't
hurt if you spent some time getting to know him. He could learn from
your example. I do wish he'd cut that hair, though."

Marigold was stunned, "I...uh, yes sir." She couldn't believe that
Jonas was so taken in by Thule or by herself for that matter.

                    ===

By Monday morning, Marigold had formulated a plan. She would do what
Thule asked of her. She had no more of a choice than she had from the
very start. But, she would do no more. And, the next time he forced
himself on her, she would fight the pleasure, remember that she was
being violated, and not play along.

Steeled with her resolve, she grimly ground through Monday morning,
daring him with her mind to try anything, aching for the chance to
prove that she wasn't so easily corrupted. They had all four classes
together, but he never spoke to her. By fourth period, she was
starting to wonder if he'd forgotten their arrangement or lost
interest in it. But, her resolve remained strong. On the lunch line,
he stood four people ahead of her, but didn't look for her, seemingly
engrossed in conversation with two others, a short pimply sophomore
whose name she didn't know and a tall junior girl with oily hair who
was equally anonymous to Marigold. He walked off with them to have
lunch at his usual table. Marigold wondered if he just expected her to
trot after him like a little dog. Well, if he did, he had another
thing coming. After waiting to make sure that he was paying her
absolutely no attention, she assumed her normal lunch company.

The topic of conversation was Brianne's prom dress. The inanity of the
conversation soon lulled her into a near-hypnotic state in which she
watched Thule and his friends across the cafeteria. Whatever they were
talking about, it was much more animated and involved than the
vagaries of taffetta. On top of that, the oily-haired girl seemed to
be touching Thule an awful lot, not intimately, but very frequently.

Maybe that was it. Thule was ignoring her because he'd found someone
else to torment. For some reason, the thought did not give her the
relief she was hoping for and she soon discarded it. After all, who
would want to touch a greasy-haired, gangly, long-limbed, geeky slut
like that, anyway?

It wasn't until she was leaving the cafeteria that Thule caught up
with her, "Did you have a good lunch?" he asked from behind her. She
felt a frisson when he said it, as if there were a warning in his
voice that only she could hear.

"Yes, thank you," she managed to blurt out before fleeing his
presence.

The afternoon was a repeat of the morning. They had all but one class
together. Even when she asked a question in AP programming that she
knew he knew the answer to, he didn't speak up. That evening, she did
her homework in the newspaper office, which she sometimes found more
peaceful than home. She ended up taking a cab home.

Tuesday morning was more of the same. She started to feel like she was
waiting for the other shoe to drop. She wracked her brain for anything
that he might have said that could possibly be construed as an order
that she had failed to carry out. By lunchtime, she was actively
jittery, watching him across the room for any sign that there was
something brewing. She was so engaged that she was unable to even nod
and say, "uh-huh" at the appropriate times.

"Marigold," Brianne said sharply, drawing her out of her reverie,
"Jesus Fucking Christ. What's gotten to you? Are you in love with one
of the geeks or something?"

She knew she had hesitated a second too long, even as she answered,
"No. They just look like they're having a lot more fun over there than
we are."

Brianne wrinkled her nose, "Doesn't look like much fun to me. Just a
bunch of nerds talking about nerd stuff. They're probably playing
Dungeons and Daggers or something."

"That's Dungeons and Dragons," said Dawn, one of the barely popular
girls at the table. Marigold winced at her for falling into such an
obvious trap.

"I guess you'd know," Brianne said snottily. Dawn looked like she
might cry.

"Brianne," said Marigold evenly, "You should really shut up."

"I knew it," said Brianne, almost standing in her excitement, "You are
in love. Which one is it? It's that dreg, Thule, isn't it?"

Marigold ignored the red flush rising in her face, "I am not in love
with anyone," she almost shouted, "but I'm tired of sitting with you,
you....hen. I'm going to see what they're talking about."

So saying, she took her tray and marched over to the table Thule sat
at. Halfway there, she realized with horror that they might not want
her there either. It had become clear over the last couple of days
that, while the geeks and the dregs may not be the most desireable
clique in the school, they clearly had their own social structure and
customs and she was an intruder.

"Excuse me," she said in her clearest voice, "may I join you?"

All conversation at the table had stopped on her approach. Every eye
there watched her now.

"Of course," said Thule, "pull up a chair."

She sat down gratefully. Every eye still watched her. People may not
know exactly what was going on, but they knew something momentus was
changing in the social structure of their little school.

"I didn't mean to interrupt your conversation," she said, smiling
shyly, "Please, continue."

"So, Marigold," asked the pimply-faced young man who's name she didn't
know, "who's your favorite Doctor?"

Marigold looked puzzled at the question, "General practitioner or
specialist?"

The silence that followed the question was even deeper than before.
She knew that, somehow, she had missed the point of the question. The
oily-haired girl answered after a long pause, "They're referring to a
TV show called Dr. Who. The main character was played by several
different actors."

"Oh," said Marigold, her eyes suddenly lighting up, "I only saw that
show once. It was a guy with a scarf."

"One more than I ever saw," offered Thule. The table seemed to relax,
as if some rite of passage had been satisfied. She wondered if she
would do so well on the next one.

"Excuse me," said a voice behind her. She turned. Dawn stood there,
looking scared and nervous, "Could I sit here, please?"

"Of course," said Thule again, "pull up a chair."

Before she did, Dawn looked beseechingly at Marigold, as if asking
permission. Marigold gestured, indicating an empty chair across the
table. Looking grateful, Dawn took it.

The rest of the period went quickly. And, despite the fact that she
only understood about one conversation in three, by the end, she felt
genuinely welcome. The only worrisome thing about the interaction was
that Thule didn't seem to treat her differently from anyone else at
the table and still seemed to be favoring oily hair over everyone.

She decided, before the bell rang, that he was playing games with her,
waiting for her guard to be down before he struck. If her resolve was
to remain strong, she needed to demonstrate to him soon that she
wasn't the slut he thought her to be. It took all of her courage, but
as they filed out, following the dictates of the period-ending bell,
she said to him, "I need to stay late tonight to finish the physical
layout of this week's paper."

He nodded, "Right. It comes out on Wednesday."

"I was just thinking that, if you were staying late, too, I might be
able to get a ride."

Thule shrugged, "I wasn't planning on it. But, I could, if you had any
problems with the computers I needed to look at."

She almost said no before she realized that he was giving her an out.
But, she would actually have to ask him to stay, encourage him to take
advantage of her if she wanted him there. Before she could think too
hard about it, she heard herself saying, "Yeah. The print server is
really slow. I don't want to be there all night." It was true. The
print server was always slow.

"Okay," he said. Then, he added, "See you after school, then." She
said, "See you next period," at the same time.

"Right," he said, "next period." Then, he turned and walked in the
opposite direction. If Marigold didn't know better, she'd say he was
actually flustered.

The rest of the day seemed to drag on forever. She knew that there was
a confrontation coming and it made each minute drag on interminably.
By eighth-period calculus, she was squirming in her seat. Thule stayed
after class, asking the teacher a detailed question. After a moment of
realizing that she was standing and staring, she headed down to the
office. As she walked in, Brianne walked out, an evil smile on her
face.

Normally, the office was close to empty on the days physical layout
had to be done. The process smacked too much of real work for most of
the people who came there for resume fodder. But, she'd always
believed in doing her share of the work. When she entered, the only
person in the office was Elliot. He smiled at her and bent down to
kiss her on the cheek when she came up to him.

"Hey, there," she said, "I thought you had football practice today."

"I do," he said, "I just wanted to stop by and say hi."

She turned on the hot wax machine, "Hi. I haven't seen you much the
last couple of weeks."

"I've been real busy," he said, "I was just talking to Brianne. She
says you've been hanging around with Bart Roemer lately. I don't have
anything to be jealous about, do I?"

She knew that she was going to have to break his heart eventually, but
she couldn't do it now. For just a moment, she thought of saying, "No,
we're not doing anything you've shown any interest in," but she
suppressed the urge.

"No," she said, "of course not. It's just that Jonas thinks I can
bring him back to the church. They used to be in Bible study
together."

"Ahhh," he said, poking the end of her nose gently with his finger, "I
knew it must be something like that. Just be careful, Marigold. He's
not a good influence. And that name he calls himself sounds like it's
demonic or something."

She nodded, mutely, still stunned by the facility with which she found
herself lying.

"Okay," he said, "I'll see you at the game on Saturday."

"No," she said, remembering her promise, "I can't."

"Oh," he asked, "why not?"

She froze. Her mind was a blank. Why wouldn't she be at the football
game on Saturday? Why had she told him? Half the time, he didn't even
notice she wasn't there.

"I....promised my friend, Dawn, that I would come over and help her
study for finals this weekend."

His face fell a little, "Ah, well," he said, "I guess your studies
come first. Harvard requires sacrifices."

She nodded mutely again, wishing she were better at lying on the spot.

It was almost an hour later when Thule showed up. No one else had
shown up in that time except the janitor, who always came in half an
hour after classes ended to clean the office.

She was standing over the light board, lining up an article piece when
he came up behind her, "Take off your panties," he growled.

Relief flooded into her. He didn't sound angry, only predatory as
usual. Reaching down with both hands, she lifted her skirt and
complied. Before she could pocket the panties, he took them out of her
hand.

"So," he whispered in her ear, "what's wrong with the print server?"

Her hands were already moving to comply with what she'd expected him
to ask her to do next when she fully registered the question. Still,
he was looming over her, making it hard to think.

"It's....um," she swallowed, "it's running really slow. It takes like
five minutes to print a page."

He grunted and moved away. When she looked back, he was sitting at the
server.

"There's not much I can do about this. The printer and the print
server are like ten years old. You wouldn't get ten dollars for either
of them anymore. It's a miracle they work at all. I've already
stripped everthing I can off of the system. If it locks up completely,
you have to restart the server and the printer and send the job
through again. For a few hundred dollars, you could add enough RAM to
make them a hell of a lot faster."

She nodded, "Okay. I guess that I should have realized it was
something like that."

"Of course," he said, the menace back in his voice, "We've already had
this exact conversation. So, why did you really want me here tonight?"

"I...needed you to look at the print server," she said, her voice
quavering.

"Oh," he said, "Okay. I should get going, then--unless you needed
something else."

"I," she struggled to think of something to keep him there, without
actually asking him to stay and molest her...so that she could
demonstrate her resolve, "Um, did you ever take the porn off of the
file server? That might be slowing the server down."

"I can if you want," he said, "but, it's not. It's less than two dozen
files."

"What about the Images directory?" she asked, "It's like 80
gigabytes."

He nodded, "It is, but it really is disk images for backup and
recovery purposes, like I said."

"Then, there was no porn on the server until last week?"

He looked up at her, shaking his head in a negative gesture.

"Thule," she said quietly, "I've been meaning to ask. You're always so
meticulous about these servers. I've never seen you leave a file in
the wrong place or fail to secure your own files. Why was there porn
on the server where I could find it?"

He turned the chair to face her, "Do you really want to know the
answer to that?"

She nodded.

"Would you like to sit on my lap while I tell you?"

"Is that an order or a request?"

"When I give you an order, you won't need to ask that question."

"I'd rather stay here, then," she said.

He nodded, "When I first found out that you'd stolen my essay and sent
it to Harvard, I fantasized about using it to discredit you or
blackmail you. But, then, I started to think that maybe you weren't
such a bad person as I thought and I might be a royal bastard for
seriously considering either of those paths. So, when I realized you'd
been nosing around the images folder, trying to get into it, I decided
to test you--to see if you'd have mercy in my situation."

"You set me up?" All the blood had drained from her face.

He nodded, "I set you up. And you demonstrated clearly that, in my
position, you would have no qualms about ruining what I'd worked so
hard for. After that, it was easy for me to punish you for stealing my
essay and all the miserable, little slights that you've been heaping
on me and mine for the last four years. Because I knew you deserved
it."

She fell back on cliches, "No one deserves to be raped." she said, her
voice low.

"You keep talking about rape," he said casually, "I haven't raped you,
haven't held you captive, or restrained you, haven't even taken your
precious virginity yet. You've always been free to go."

Her voice was a little louder now, "It's the same thing and you know
it."

He was up out of his chair in one swift motion, his hands grabbing her
and throwing her down on the conference table. His belt buckle was
cold against her bare belly as he dragged her across the table and
slammed her hard against him. She almost screamed, but he slammed a
hand over her mouth. His other hand was up, under her t-shirt,
sqeezing her breast hard and painfully through her sports bra. He
thrust against her hard, three or four times, the cloth of  his jeans
scraping her roughly. Behind the cloth, he was rock-hard. She felt
tears roll down her cheeks.

And then, he was off of her, standing back a few feet. She looked up,
dazed and dishevelled. She sat up, unsteadily, her whole body shaking,
tears rolling down her cheeks freely now.

"Why did you do that?" she whispered.

His own voice was unsteady, "I'm not raping you, Marigold. I could
have. I could have gotten away with it and, when you looked at me with
such unmitigated glee over the thought of ruining me, I could have
enjoyed it, too. To tell the truth, I'm still tempted to do so. But, I
won't. I promised. I wanted you to see the difference."

This time, she moved quickly, standing up against him and beating her
fists ineffectually on his chest, "You bastard," she yelled, crying
freely, "you scared the hell out of me." He caught her wrists easily,
having a much longer reach. Then, because there was no one else there,
she collapsed against him for comforting. He wrapped his arms around
her, comforting her, planting kisses on top of her head, stroking her
hair, whispering her name to her over and over.

At some point, he picked her up in his arms and carried her back to
his chair, letting her sit in his lap until she had cried herself out.
Even after no more tears came, she sat there a long time, enjoying the
warmth and strength of his arms and wondering if she wasn't officially
the most screwed up person on the planet for doing so.

After a long time, she whispered against his chest, "You're a real
bastard, you know."

"That's not the first time you've told me that," he answered, "but, it
is the last."

"What?" she pushed off against his chest, looking him in the face.

"You are not to call me names again," he said simply, "You will show
the proper respect." There was no mercy in his voice.

She nodded gravely.

"Now," he said, "go clean yourself up. Then, come back here."

She did as she was told. Staring in the mirror, she wondered if he
would still turn her in if she just left. But, even as she asked
herself the question, she knew that it was theoretical. She was going
to see this thing through.

She went back to the office, locking the door behind her. He watched
her.

"Now," he said, "strip. I want to see you completely naked."

"Thule," she asked, keeping her eyes down, "may I finish what I was
doing for the newspaper first? It really does need to be done."

"How much longer will it take?"

"Another half hour," she promised, "I've got everything printed out. I
just need to place it on the pages."

"All right," he said, "but I'm not feeling particularly patient."

She did as she was told, praying that she wouldn't damage any pieces
so badly that she needed to print them again. She managed to get
through it, only affixing two articles in a noticeably crooked manner.
As soon as she could, she turned off the light table and turned back
to him.

"Thule," she said, "I'm ready."

"Good," he said, "strip."

"May I keep on my stockings?" she asked, "The carpets in here are not
very clean."

He scowled at her and she thought he might refuse. But, he nodded. She
did as he asked, standing naked before him.

"Come here," he said, holding out his arms, but not rising. She came
into his arms. Pulling her into his lap, he took her head in both
hands, kissing her deeply and passionately on the mouth. A low moan
escaped her throat before she could stop it. Remebering her resolve,
she clamped down on the pleasure. Despite the fact that he was only
touching her head and her lips, the fight against the pleasure became
harder and harder as he continued.

"Stop fighting it," he growled. She looked at him, surprised.

"I'm doing what you told me to do," she protested, "you can't order me
to enjoy it."

"Of course I can," he snarled, his voice raspy, "Enjoy it, dammit."

He kissed her again, not at all tenderly, his hands roaming freely
over her body now. It was an assault on her senses. Taken by surprise,
she moaned again. He pressed the advantage, stroking her seemingly
everywhere at once. She cried out, outraged by her loss of control. He
lifted her off of him, laying her back on the conference table. His
lips moved down from hers, covering her throat, her shoulderblades,
her breasts. She was moaning uncontrollably now, her hips rising and
falling of their own accord. A small part of her mind told her to stop
being a whore, but it was a tiny part and she gave it no heed. God,
she decided, must be a big fan of fucking. She even reveled in the
blasphemy of it.

And then his lips were trailing down her stomach and she knew where
they were headed. Wrapping her hands around the back of his head, she
pushed it to its destination. He chuckled against her before driving
his tongue savagely into her, finding her no-so-secret spot. Pleasure
hit her not in waves, but in firebursts, exploding in white lights
behind her eyelids. Thule's assault was now matched by one from within
her own, traitorous body. She cried out, again and again, no longer
caring what sound she made. When he pulled his head away, she tried to
hold him there, raw need driving her hands.

He chuckled, "Easy, Mari. You're going to break my nose if you keep
pushing like that."

She blushed crimson, releasing him, and was rewarded with a passionate
kiss that tasted of what she knew must be her own juices. His hand
slid down between her legs, stroking and teasing her, now. She wrapped
her legs around his torso, impaling herself on his fingers, humping up
against them, instinctively. Her arms were wrapped around his neck,
her lips raining little kisses all over his face and head.

When he slid one finger out of her and into her ass, she stiffened up,
her whole body trying to push him out. It was so humiliating. She knew
in the abstract that some people used their asses for such things, but
it struck her as the most depraved thing two people could do. Surely,
Thule didn't want to do that to her. She tried to protest, but he put
a finger to her lips, "No speaking," he said emphatically.

She did as he said, but still struggled against his fingers as they
slid back and forth, one in each hole.

"Relax," he ordered. And, she did, without thinking. His fingers slid
in and out of her quickly. And, before she could tense up again, she
was lost. The pleasure came more intensely now, wave after crashing
wave of it. The world was reduced to those fingers and what they were
doing to her.

She wrapped herself around him, only the very edge of her bottom on
the table now. She whimpered, moaned, and gasped as he drove his
fingers in and out of her again and again, "Please," she begged over
and over again, "Please, Thule, Please,"

"Please what, my little flower?" he asked.

"I don't know," she gasped.

"Please stop?" he suggested.

"No," she shook he head emphatically.

"Please do it harder," he offered, demostrating.

"Ungh," she offered, but shook her head again.

"Please what, then?"

"Please," she whispered, "make love to me."

"Here and now?" he asked.

"Yes," she begged.

"He didn't answer for almost a minute. Finally, his voice came back in
a rasp, "No. Not tonight."

"Please," she begged, "please, make love to me."

His hands were off of her then, "No," he rasped, his voice shaking and
raspy. He sat back down, shaking, "Not tonight. Don't ask again."

She sat up and looked at him. She knew, instinctively, that if she
asked again, he would do what she wanted. His breathing was heavy, his
pupils dilated. He was trembling with the effort of not making love to
her. She felt incredibly powerful at that moment.

She stepped down from the table, walking over to him. She put an arm
around his waist, laid her head on his solar plexus and looked up at
him. He smiled uneasily down at her. Slowly, she dropped to her knees,
undoing his belt. As she undid his zipper, his cock practically lunged
out at her, pushing through his briefs. She pulled those down, too,
taking his cock fully into her mouth, licking and sucking it. He back
arched and his body spasmed. From the very start, it was a fight for
him not to come instantly in her mouth. She reveled in having driven
him to such a state, now teasing and licking the cock.

The fight was lost soon. Thick, bitter seed shot into her mouth and
throat. She licked his cock clean and swallowed it all. Then, she lay
her face against his now semi-soft cock, looking up at him and
smiling.

He lifted her to her feet, crushing her against him. She reveled in
his arms, nuzzling deeper against him. When she felt his body start to
shudder, she thought he was crying, but it was only deep, silent
laughter. They stood that way for a long time, neither of them moving.

The silence of the ride home this time was one of empathy, not unease.
Marigold was loathe to break it, even for practical matters.

"So," she asked, "What should I pack for this weekend?"

He laughed, "What makes you think I'm going to let you put any clothes
on this weekend?"

"Well," she shrugged, "it would certainly make packing easier." Then,
she lowered her head, "Dear Lord, sometimes I really am shameless."

He took her chin and held her head up, "You have nothing to be ashamed
of."

"I begged you to make love to me and you turned me down," she said,
"If you knew how badly I wanted it, you'd know why I should be
ashamed."

"If you knew how close I came to giving you exactly what you wanted,
you'd know you have nothing to be ashamed of," he answered her,
deliberately missing her meaning.

"So," she asked, "no clothes, then?"

"Actually," he said, "We have dinner reservations for Saturday night,
someplace where you'll want to dress up. And, you'll probably want a
swimsuit. I've got a couple of things I have to do while
we're...during the weekend...and you'll have some time to yourself."

"Where are you taking me?" she asked.

"Too many questions, Marigold."

They drove the rest of the way in silence. It wasn't until they were
right outside of her house that she asked, "Thule, can I ask you to do
something for me?"

"You can ask," he said.

"Call me your little flower again?"

"Good night, my little flower," he said, "I'll see you tomorrow in
school."

(Legal note: This is mine, not yours. Read it. Enjoy it. Print out a
copy if you want to read it in bed. Don't steal it. If I find it
anywhere else than here or in the Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository, it
will not go well for you.)
--Vulgar Argot
  http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/VulgarArgot/index.html
--
"I've been accused of vulgarity. I say that's bullshit."
  --Mel Brooks

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