Anything For Georgetown (part five, Monica is realizing what she's getting into)
Monica wants to get into Georgetown. The new guidance counselor wants to help--HIS way.
After Monica had left, Houlihan got up from his chair and changed into his sweats. He always brought an entire change of exercise clothes to work every day. He’d put himself in a precarious situation, but among the faculty and administration, Monica O’Toole caused mixed reactions. She was one of their brighter students, but her reputation baffled and even ashamed them. It was known that she was picking on Brenda Hartley; Brenda seethed under the verbal jabs, but hadn’t gone to school authorities in a direct way. She had written that note—the pictures had come from a set her own brother had purchased, and she had made copies and slid them and her note under the door. It was a little like a suicidal person’s cry for help—trying to kill one’s self in a half assed way in order to be saved. She hoped the note would blow the whistle on the blonde slut who made her life so miserable.
Houlihan wouldn’t be satisfied with just spanking and tickling Monica. He’d heard bits and pieces from students, heard Monica’s history from those who’d talk about it, and he wanted to make her suffer. Yes, the thrill of punishing her by giving her the kinky attention the boys didn’t want to give was exciting enough, but Monica was unaware that Houlihan would spread the word that she was to be on her best behavior. No picking on other students. No problems. As the afternoon waned, he realized he needed to contact Monica’s teachers and tell them to keep him posted on her grades. And to make some extra credit work mandatory. He also needed to chat with Brenda. He felt sorry for her. He suspected she wrote the nasty note out of spite, but he wouldn’t let on that he thought it was her. Like himself, Brenda was a victim of a woman. His little sister had gotten it all. Brenda was smart in her own right, and would get those scholarships, but she’d need them in order to get into college to land a career. It’s possible she could land a husband, but he didn’t sense that would happen. Brenda didn’t have any street smarts, it was all book smarts. She would have a rude awakening some day. But Houlihan wanted her to know that if she wanted to tell Monica how she felt about her, she should do just that—and it would be okay. He jotted down his reminders on his calendar, then stepped out for his late afternoon coffee. He’d call one of his Georgetown contacts, and then he’d go home. It was the weekend. He was excited. He took the pictures of Monica with him. The paddle and feather he left in the drawer.
Monday rolled around, and Houlihan decided he’d speak to Brenda that day, if he could. He also sent a note to her via her second to last class of the day. She showed up after school let out.
The difference between her and Monica was night and day. Brenda had a sullen, broad face and was on the chunky side. While Monica looked like a grown woman, Brenda looked like she was still in the awkward phase of adolescence … and would remain there until her mid-forties, when she would start looking old. The braces would come off, of course, but Houlihan fervently hoped Brenda was aiming for a lucrative career. She’d be no one’s trophy wife.
“I understand you’ve been having trouble with Monica,” he said. “This is my first fall here, but I’ve been trying to get a handle on the senior class and perhaps straighten out any problems before they escalate.”
Brenda shook her head. “Monica has been a problem ever since she’s been here. We went to middle school together, and it actually started then. She’s always been a little slut. No one says much about it because she gets good grades. There’s a double standard, because there was another girl in middle school, Kaley Hutchinson, and she did all sorts of things with the boys and they always got on her case … but she didn’t do well in school. She was smart, but she just didn’t like school. She was only good in one or two subjects. She skipped a lot of school too.”
“So what does Monica say to you? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Brenda looked away. “Just … mean things. Like I’ll always be fat and never have a boyfriend or get married. Boys have teased me all through school. I don’t look like anyone else. I don’t think like anyone else. And sometimes I think I’ll never belong, anywhere.”
Houlihan sat back. The usual teenage thoughts, that is, if you weren’t one of the chosen. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t dare say that life was sometimes like high school, that it was
who you knew, and what you looked like and joining the clubs even if you didn’t want to join just so you could make contacts that might help you out later on.
“You have excellent grades. I’m sure you’ll do well wherever you decide to go to school. You just have one more year.”
“Yeah, but Monica has always been on my case. Always. I feel like a little nothing next to her, and even feeling superior to her doesn’t work because if you’re not a slut, you’re not popular with boys. And it’s not like they like me in the first place, and I’m smart enough to know that even sleeping with them won’t make them like me. They’ll just end up using
She was probably right about that. He’d known a few girls like Brenda, unattractive but they slept with boys anyway, and it didn’t help their popularity. They just became known as the girls who were so desperate, they’d do anything.
“Why don’t you stand up to Monica? Tell her exactly how you feel?”
Brenda looked puzzled. “You mean, tell her that she’s a total slut? And she’s just … disgusting?”
“She does that to you, doesn’t she? Doesn’t she say mean things to you?”
“Well, yeah. But the thing is, I don’t know why
.” Brenda was close to tears now. She tried to block Monica out of her head, but sometimes her image came into her mind every time she saw a commercial with a pretty blonde girl in it, or saw one in a magazine, or a movie.
“Tell her to back off. Or else,” said Houlihan. “Sometimes people need to learn how their words and actions affect others.” He nearly laughed. He’d made a pact with a teenage girl to get her into her first choice college if she played spank and tickle with him. He was one to talk! “Tell her she can do that kind of behavior after
she gets to college, but not before. Tell her being a slut is not what the admissions staff at Georgetown considers a quality extra-curricular activity.”
“Uh … okay. Is that where she wants to go? I hardly ever talk to her, so I don’t know anything about her college choices.”
“Yes, she definitely wants to go there. She’ll do anything to go there.” Watch it Houlihan
, he thought. “Yes, tell her she better get her act together. And that means leaving you alone.”
Brenda smiled. “Thanks, Mr. Houlihan. I guess I … well, I don’t stand up for myself a lot. No one ever told me to. Not even my parents. They pretty much just tell me to take things as they come, and if they’re bad, they’ll get better.”
“That’s true,” he responded, but you’re allowed to speak up. And we’re trying to get a handle on the bullying situation. It’s been a problem in schools for decades, but it’s only been recently that it’s come to light how harmful it can be. But I meant what I said. If Monica says anything, you come back with something. And let me know if she keeps bothering you.”
“I will. Thank you.” With that, Brenda left the room.
Houlihan suspected Brenda wrote that note. So he had done a little investigating. He consulted with Brenda’s advanced placement literature class. Most everything the students wrote was on computers, but Mrs. Eileen Foelber was of the old school and insisted that certain assignments be written by hand. He consulted with her and borrowed an essay Brenda had written. He compared the writing with that of the note. There was remarkable similarity, particularly with the dotting of the I’s. The photos could have come from anywhere, but he assumed that Brenda’s brother Blake had purchased a set and that she’d copied them for evidence. Blake was in the junior class, and while perusing last year’s yearbook, Houlihan gathered that he was as outgoing as his sister was reticent; he was a ladies’ man while she was a wallflower. He’d have to involve Blake in this, he assumed. He wanted someone to tell him if Monica slipped back into her old ways. He wanted to know if she accepted any more offers for private parties. After she got into Georgetown, then he could consummate what would undoubtedly become a warped affair. But before that, no. If the question of punishment did ever come up, he would say they agreed on this. Not that that would help him, but it was better than admitting that he’d been porking her since day one.
Houlihan hoped Brenda would take the hint and go after Monica. And if Monica retaliated, he fully intended to haul her in and let her have it. This would be the toughest time of Monica’s school career. She’d learn that life wasn’t fair, and that getting into the college of her choice wasn’t up to mom or dad, or even her SAT scores or grades or the college essay or behaving. Getting into college would require receiving a taste of her own medicine.
* * *
School went on that fall, like usual, except students noticed a quieter Monica O’Toole. She still stood proudly in front of the girls’ locker room mirror and admired her body, singing the chorus from “Don’cha,” and occasionally bumping and grinding as she sang, but the more public displays—like descending the main stairway in a thin t-shirt—had stopped. Some of the boys asked why.
“I don’t feel like it,” she snapped. She couldn’t very well explain she was going to give it up for Georgetown. “I’ve been doing that for the last three years. Get over it.”
It was difficult to do that. Monica was almost like a little porn queen, flaunting her body because it looked good and she felt good, not because she was forced into it. It was that very attitude that caused a sensation in her Contemporary Issues class. She boldly said if women wanted to work in the porn industry, they should be able to. That earned her a trip to the junior class counselor’s office almost a year ago.
She studied like mad, putting her energy into schoolwork. She couldn’t let her grades dip. However, that nerdy Brenda was making more and more caustic remarks. Once, when they were studying how water could carve craters and change the shape of rocks, Brenda remarked that the Grand Canyon had nothing on the size of Monica’s vagina, what with all the action it had seen. Monica was hurt, and snapped back, “Well, at least my vagina’s seen action, unlike yours.” Brenda had said at least hers wouldn’t be dragging the floor at the age of twenty five, and perhaps Monica could rest hers if she started using her mouth instead? It was sure big enough. The group of girls around Brenda had burst into laughter and the boys who were watching, snickered.
Monica wasn’t used to this. She understood that she had agreed to be punished by Houlihan, but by doing so, she realized she would lose a bit of power by backing down. Houlihan said he didn’t want any trouble from her. In a disquieting way, it dawned on her that maybe she had given up a little more than she realized.
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Copyright © Janet Turner never had any luck with men. She knew it from first grade, when she had to ask one of her male classmates to chase her out on the playground. The other boys chased the girls around, but no one chased Janet around. So she asked a boy, Danny Sprinkle, to chase her. He did—for about a minute. Then he went back to chasing some other girl.
The next boy she set eyes on was Vernon Lindemulder, when she was a sophomore in high school. She had bought him a copy of “Lord of the Flies” and a Hot Wheels Corvette. He wasn't into her either. Looking back, Janet wondered why she even bothered pursuing him. Her buck teeth stuck out of her mouth. Her huge frizzy hair had earned her the name of “Medusa” from a sixth grade classmate. Four years later, her hair was bushier than ever.
The first time she was asked out was when she was in college. Her first date, at the age of 21. Janet knew there was something wrong with her. It was a combination of looks, and (lack of) confidence, and just being scared of men. Throughout her school career, she put up with bullying. Six years spent in college and she went out with guys maybe a dozen times. Her first date dumped her because she wouldn't fuck on the first, second or third date. The other guy she dated was poor. Plus, he wore leather fingerless gloves all the time. He wore a leather jacket for the entire time they dated. He smelled like a chili dog. And she wasn't attracted to him either.
Janet wondered what was wrong with her. She wondered for decades, but as her birthday approached in December, she was literally a 40 year old virgin. Only a few years before, she discovered that the Homedics vibrator could be used for places the manufacturer didn't exactly recommend. Janet didn't care. Self-exploration had made her realize just what exactly turned her on. It was spanking and tickling. She could do that to herself, of course, but what would it be like to be at the mercy of someone doing that to her?
She went online in hopes that she could find someone to indulge her fantasies. Janet didn't want anyone to come to her house. It was a mess. Nor was she really even looking for a relationship. All she wanted was someone to spank and tickle her. Even if she had to pay the guy, she'd be fine with that. It wouldn't have been so humiliating if she were wealthy. But somehow, even if the world didn't end, she couldn't see herself in the future as some dowager paying money for a date. There was something incredibly sad about that, somehow.
She joined a fetish website, and found someone who lived near her hometown, who was looking for someone to tickle. She didn't really want him to come to her house, so the guy she met online suggested they meet at the swinger's club. She was shocked to realize that in her ultra-conservative town there was a place where people could play sexually, but felt comfortable that one actually existed. They wouldn't have to deal with her messy house and cluttered bedroom.
She picked out a nice leather paddle at the local adult novelty store. The feathers she bought at the craft store. She wanted to make sure her stuff was fresh and clean when she took them to the club.
Janet realized this was not normal behavior for her. But rumors of the world ending were circulating, and with all that was going on, she wouldn't have been surprised if it did. But what if it didn't? It would have been one more year of virginity, of loneliness, of wondering what the hell was wrong with her. Fuck it. She was going to the club. She'd met a guy, and he was cool with what she wanted him to do (and was actually quite excited about it) and she was going to get an outfit together and do her makeup and hair. She brought condoms, just in case. The thought of getting tickled and spanked was way more exciting than having sex, but if the guy was willing (and he probably would be) why not?
December 14 would be a date Janet would never forget. The shooting in Connecticut terrified and depressed her. She briefly wondered if she should cancel tonight. Screw it, she thought. She was tired of living scared all the time. Scared of men, scared of life, scared of feeling like a failure.
She showed up at the club on time. Actually, she was a bit early. She was dressed head to toe in black: black push up bra (and Janet was surprised at how big her breasts looked) black lace briefs that thankfully covered her stomach, black stockings, black jeans, and a black halter top. Some lace up boots with a little bit of a heel completed her look. She told Xavier what she'd be wearing, but probably a lot of other women would be wearing black too. He told her to meet him near the front door. She parked herself on a black velour loveseat. She had tucked a paperback book in her jacket, along with her paddle and feathers. She took the book out and started reading. Xavier would find her.
About 10 minutes later, Xavier walked in. He had described himself as having dark hair and dark eyes, which was a plus. Janet was only really attracted to dark haired, dark eyed, Caucasian men, and Xavier had a intense, almost dangerous look. Perfect for what she wanted done to her.
After the usual pleasantries, Xavier took her on a tour of the club. There were a few rooms with just beds in them, alcoves with handcuffs attached to the walls, and several wooden crosses with metal cuffs that locked down on where the person's wrists and ankles would be. It was still early, and the club wasn't crowded.
“Let's go to one of the bedrooms,” Xavier said. He took Janet's hand and led her to the furthest cubicle.
“I've wanted to do this for a long time,” said Xavier. “I brought some rope, so I can tie you up.”
Janet was nervous and excited at the same time. She took off her boots, halter top and jeans.
“I've got a plan,” Xavier said. “Get on the bed, on all fours. I'm going to spank you first, to warm you up.”
Janet knelt on the bed. The paddle and feathers were out on the bed, and Xavier picked up the paddle and gently smacked Janet on her behind. He varied his technique, with firm flicks of the wrist, then light taps, then a hard spank. Janet's bottom was stinging just a bit. Already, she was wet.
“Now, we're getting rid of the panties,” said Xavier. Slowly, he pulled her lace panties down over her bottom, down her thighs and pulled them to her ankles. He unhooked her stockings from the garter belt and peeled them down as well. Now, her round pink bottom was on display. “Round two,” said Xavier.
He smacked her bottom, firmly, this time. He chose different spots to spank, so Janet never knew what part would be hit next. The hits didn't hurt, but they had some heat to them. “A few minutes of this, Janet, and then we'll bring out the feathers,” Xavier said.
Janet's heart was beating a bit faster. Her bottom felt warm, and a bit tender. The smacks were coming more rapidly, and Janet could feel herself getting even more wet. Abruptly, the spanking stopped. “Don't look back,” said Xavier. “Eyes forward.” His voice was stern. She wondered what was going on.
Suddenly, Xavier grabbed her ankles and she felt a soft rope pushing them together. Xavier straddled Janet's legs from behind, and rubbed the small of her back. He unhooked her bra and pulled her hair, straightening her up. “Here's the deal: you keep your arms up, like a good girl, while I tickle you. Each time you squirm, I'll spank you.”
“Okay,” whispered Janet. She could feel Xavier's breath on her neck, and his erection pressing against her bottom. Xavier had a feather in each hand, and he started with her wrists and worked his way down. Janet's breathing got faster. Slowly, the feathers worked their way down to her armpits. Janet gritted her teeth. This was oh so excruciating, and so very hot at the same time. A drop of moisture was between her legs, and Janet wished she could brush it away, because it tickled like mad. Xavier moved the feathers from her armpits and traced slow circles around her breasts. Must not move, thought Janet, must not move. She broke out into a sweat. “Good girl, Janet,” whispered Xavier. He moved the feathers just below her armpits and traced slow circles. Then, a sharp stroke downward. Janet shrieked and flinched.
“Oh, bad girl, Janet. Bend over.”
Janet did. Xavier smacked her bottom firmly several times. “Now, we begin again. Resume the position.”
Janet straightened up again with her arms over her head. This time, Xavier started with her bare feet. Janet was not expecting this at all, especially when Xavier knelt on her calves. He gently stroked the soles of her feet from big toe to heel. He twirled the tip of the feather to make small circles. “Oh, please stop,” said Janet.
“What? You're asking me to stop?” Xavier grabbed the paddle and spanked her. “Now, lay down on your back.” He moved off her, and Janet lay on her back. Xavier got more rope and tied Janet's wrists together, then strung the rope to a rail on the headboard. He took both feathers and started at her neck this time. Straddling her, he stroked her breasts with the feathers, circling them slower and slower, higher and higher until he reached her nipples. He took the quills and flicked them over her erect nipples. “Ummm,” Janet said.
Xavier made lazy ovals over her rib cage, and over her stomach. Janet twitched. “Bad girl, but you're not going to get spanked anymore. I'm going to tickle you, and tickle you, and if you want me to stop, you're going to have to let me fuck you,” Xavier said.
“Please,” said Janet.
“No,” said Xavier. He continued to stroke down her stomach to her thighs. It was slow, and it was leisurely, and the random patterns were a continual surprise, and Janet was very, very wet. Xavier leaned back and tickled her feet, then her knees. Janet moaned. This was so very, very hot. Xavier reached up to her breasts again, slowly tracing lazy ovals while he stroked her thighs, then her knees. Janet moaned and strained against the ropes. Xavier brushed the feather tips against the bottoms of her breasts, then made a zigzagging line down her ribcage on both sides. The light touch was insanely erotic. Xavier was straddling her, and she felt powerless.
“Janet, my darling, I can go all night. Can you? Because I have no problem at all tickling you slowly, and intensely and persistently.” He brought both feathers down her ribcage in a sudden stroke. She bucked the best she could. With the ropes and Xavier's weight, she barely moved, but she felt like she pulled a muscle.
“I'm not sure if I'm ready,” said Janet. “I'm actually a bit afraid.”
“Oh sweetheart, I think you're ready,” said Xavier. He put a feather down and gently reached between her legs. He stroked her slowly, gently flicking his fingers back and forth. “You are so wet, and I am very, very hard. I like tickling you. And I told you, the only way I'll stop is if you let me fuck you. I can go all night, but I think you'll eventually give in. I'll prove it to you.”
He gently rolled Janet over on her stomach, and reached for the paddle. He spanked her again, firmly, then took a feather and made leisurely circles on her bottom. Then, he smacked her bottom again, and traced slow, straight lines down her thighs. After a few minutes of this, he resumed spanking her, but gently stroked her between her legs. “I wish I had a vibrator,” whispered Xavier. “You'd be screaming right now.”
Janet was bathed in sweat now. The ropes around her ankles were tight, and kept her legs just far enough apart to make her feel vulnerable. His fingers gently pinched the wet flesh in a rhythmic way, and Janet was about out of her mind. Xavier was right. If she had brought her vibrator, she would be screaming right now. But since she didn't have it, she wouldn't have a release, and she was so close. Xavier turned her on her back again, and had the feathers in his hand. He started from her ears this time, and she twitched and squirmed and squealed again as he made his mad, slow circles all over; on her hips, knees, stomach, rib cage, thighs, breasts and feet.
“Okay, okay,” Janet said. “I can't stand it anymore.”
“Does that mean I can fuck you?” whispered Xavier.
“Yes, I can't take it anymore.”
Xavier untied her feet, then untied her wrists. “Don't worry, I brought condoms.”
“So did I,” said Janet.
“I promise I'll go slow,” he said.
“I don't have a hymen,” said Janet. “I lost that years ago, when I was taking horseback riding lessons.”
Xavier laughed. “I'm really hard, but I would like some stimulation. Touch me gently; touch my thighs first, then touch my cock. Do it with really light touches.”
Janet stroked her fingers over Xavier's thighs, then gently stroked his testicles, and moved up to his penis, tracing circles around the head.
“Oh yeah,” moaned Xavier. “That's good.”
Janet had only been touching him for a few seconds when he pushed her wrists away. “That's enough.”
He grabbed her thighs and spread her legs far apart. “You want to spread them as far as you can,” he said. Janet spread them, and wished she were a little more flexible. Xavier rolled a condom on, and moved closer. He eased himself in. “It's very tight,” he said. “Just how I like it.”
He moved in slowly, a little bit at a time. This was torture for him, her flesh was tight and wet and hot, but he restrained himself. He eased in, and eventually, he got there. “I'm all the way in; how does it feel?”
“It doesn't hurt?”
“Not really,” said Janet.
Xavier started thrusting slowly. He fingered her clitoris delicately. Janet was aware of the sensation of the thrusting and the touching; the two different sensations were incredibly distracting and exciting. Xavier's hot flesh and his tickling were building something in her. She felt like she was heading towards a cliff; her muscles were being tormented the way they hadn't been with the vibrator. This was a man who was tormenting and teasing her, and she was at his mercy. She had control over the vibrator, but she had no control over Xavier, and in a way, that was the most exciting feeling of all. He thrust and thrust and thrust, and kept tickling the hot wetness between her legs faster and faster, and she finally came. Shortly thereafter, Xavier came, and Janet thought his climax felt like a heartbeat in the center of her.
They lay there in bed, together.
“Now, I can die happy,” said Janet.
“You really believe the end of the world shit?” asked Xavier.
“Well who knows?”
“'Cause I bet it won't.”
“Okay, so if it doesn't, you get to tickle me again.”
Later, they walked around the club and had a few drinks (non-alcoholic) and watched some of the other activities in the club. After about an hour, they decided to leave, separately.
“Remember, if the world doesn't end, we're getting together again,” said Xavier.
The following Friday, Janet was online. The clock struck midnight. Nothing happened. No gunshots, no flashes of lightning. There was a musical blip, and she saw that Xavier was instant messaging her.
“See? What did I tell you? Meet me at the club tonight, 8 p.m. sharp. Bring your feathers and the paddle.”
“Will do,” Janet wrote back.
She smiled as she got offline. Before she went to bed, she got her vibrator and tossed it into her purse and added an extension cord. She wondered just how exactly Xavier would use the vibrator on her, and how many orgasms she'd have. The world hadn't ended, but hers had just begun.
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