There they are again, she thought. My breasts. Getting in the way.

Chrissy Dallatore straightened up slightly and the 15 boys sitting arrayed before her in desks shifted with her, with some exchanging wolfish grins and whispered jokes. Her loose v-necked sweater had opened just enough to flash a little cleavage as she bent over, and her history lesson was once again grounded by teenage hormones.

Little was a very relative term. Her breasts measured as 38-D, huge on her tiny frame, and though she covered them with loose blouses and sweatshirts, it seemed a neverending game at Fieldings Academy among some of the more licentious boys to see just how they could get her to inadvertently flash them. Fucking tits, she thought with equal measures of self-disgust and pity.

Of course she had heard of the nicknames. Mrs. Tits. BC -- for big chest, she supposed. Christina Cleavage. She found herself gripping tighter in frustration one of the string of pearls she habitually wore around her neck. It was never Chrissy’s idea to get implants. They had been foisted upon her 18 years ago by her first boyfriend, Ken. A large, abusive lout of an older man, he had paid for them himself a year after her daughter had been born, just as Chrissy turned 18, legal age in her state, as part of his insidious but relentless and ultimately successful effort to break her down. Her mother dead and her father frightening to her, she acquiesced to Ken’s suggestions gradually, over months, in equal parts to get her freedom from a terrible homelife and his approval. Now the dead, sagging weight of them at age 36 caused her regular shoulder and back pain and made bathing suits impossible in the heat of San Robles, a small town on the Texas panhandle she and her 16-year-old daughter had recently moved to as part of her latest attempt to renew herself.

Chrissy stood up straight and stared blankly at the students before her until their self-consciousness finally created silence.

“We’ll take a five-minute break,” she said tonelessly.

The class relaxed as she turned her back and walked to her desk and resumed grading papers. A few of the boys grinned and two high-fived, a gesture she saw but chose to ignore. Score one for ignorance, she thought. She ran her fingers idly through her bobbed blonde hair as her mind irresistibly flashed back to another scene, more than a decade old, of another high-five she saw from the corner of her eye, except this little celebration wasn’t as hidden. This celebration came as Chrissy felt the pressure of the hand pressing down on the back of her head and the head of a cock slipping into her throat as the three boys around her in the convertible laughed and cheered. Her shirt was open, her panties and skirt down around her ankles, and her lips were tightening as the boys laughed. One of them sprayed beer from a bottle onto the back of her blouse, causing her skin to chill and her nipples to harden even more, as another reached from the front seat to guide his hand along her ass, which even then was dangerously overdeveloped for such a young girl. Still another hand snapped her bra strap across her back and she knew that sooner or later, like her panties, that piece of clothing would come off, and be gone like a trophy to one of the boys for whom she had waited patiently on the sidewalk before her home that night.

“Keep sucking,” one of the boys said, and she ran her lips along his shaft. That settled him, like it usually did. When he finally came, he pulled her head away from his crotch and sprayed her face, causing more laughter, before making her lick him clean and start over again on his replacement in the back seat. And so it went all night until, she suspected, she had earned the money Ken kept from her.

Just a whore, she thought bleakly, looking down at the papers she began to grade. A useless whore, even before Ken found me. At the time, she thought it sexy, dangerous, and made her cool. Chrissy also knew how much it turned her on, even then. She rubbed her legs together quickly, her pulse quickening with that queer longing she always felt, and just as suddenly regained self-control. I am not that person any more, she declared firmly to herself, and I never will be again.

“Unless you gentlemen want more homework,” she called out to the class crossly, “you had better settle down.”

With that came another classroom wide plunge into silence and a grim sort of satisfaction. Find your power center, she recalled her psychologist telling her, that place deep within you from which all good things flow. Find that, remember that, and no one can ever harm you again. She pulled her shoulders back in pride, suddenly not caring whether they caused her breasts to thrust outward. I am the boss here, she thought.

In her own case, her power center was her daughter, Danica. Just having turned 16, Danica was naturally beautiful in every way her mother was not: wide, soft lips, inviting smile, and natural 34-D breasts. She was even about three inches taller than her mother, with long legs and an impish nature that belied her mother’s solemnity. Her pride, her joy, Danica was to her mother the greatest cause for going back to school at age 22, finishing at age 25 with a teaching degree, and finally years later setting aside the lucrative but degrading life as a sex worker in Los Angeles.

Chrissy was pretty sure that Ken was Danica's father. He always said so, and the timing was right. Danica attended the academy as a relatively rare female student. There were about three girls for every 10 boys at Fieldings, but she seemed to be well-respected as an athlete -- she was a swimmer -- and student. Having a mother on the faculty, even as its most junior member, probably helped too, Chrissy thought with a smile.

At least Danica can feel secure, her mother thought. One year of probation, one more year as junior faculty, a review board examination and letters of recommendation from three faculty members separated Chrissy from that security. The tension of the school was constant, pervasive, and at times Chrissy wondered whether high academic standards and moneyed students and patrons were the only reason for it. She knew well from her time on the street that secrets wove their way like tendrils through everyday existence, that the things that often appeared normal were often deviant, and that which looked deviant could be shockingly normal. She wondered if she would ever feel at home anywhere.

Chrissy hated to admit it, but the wealth and aristocracy of the place sometimes excited her. It reminded her of all the things she had spent her life trying to achieve, and sometimes she found herself accepting the latent snobbishness, the curious detachment and the secret smiles sent her way by the richest and even youngest members of the school’s inner cliques without complaint. Sometimes she wondered if she deserved them. For who was she, really? That’s why she made sure that teachers whom she felt knew her well enough to call her by her first name called her Christina, never Chrissy. Chrissy was a name from her past, like the character she once was who so often found herself naked in back seats or bedrooms, kneeling and holding up her breasts like offerings to be cum or spat upon, lost in the weird haze of the moment that overcame her whenever she saw the looks in their eyes.

Her breasts again. Chrissy decided then and there to determine whether the small raise she would get during Christmas break would be enough to allow her to pay for the surgery that would rid her of those implants, the last reminders of the life she had left behind.

The tiny house on Fieldings’ campus that the school had given Chrissy and her daughter underscored, to her eyes anyway, just how tenuous a position she had on the faculty.

It was a tiny four-room place on the far rear corner of the square-shaped rolling campus with a copse of trees and a clearly manmade hump-like hill keeping it hidden from view of the rest of the campus. It was accessible by a tiny stone path and had an unfinished stone basement, a triangle-shaped attic that reeked of dust, had almost no lights and an inverted v for a roof, and it was kitty-corner on the half-acre property to the campus dog kennel, with a high wooden fence painted gray wrapped around both buildings like a stockade. It was given to new faculty members as both a savings – her rent was minimal – an excuse for her below-average salary and, she was sure, as both a message and incentive to her that she had to do better to survive at the private academy for boys. Her living quarters’ furnishings were obviously plain hand-me-downs or garage sale pickups collected at random, unmatching, strictly for utility.

The kennel, it had been explained to her, rather unapologetically she thought, was the occasional home of some of the richer students’ and patrons’ pets whenever their parents visited, and part of her job as untenured faculty was to care for the pets whenever any were in residence. That was why she was carrying a large bag of dog food to a trough where two dogs, an English mastiff and a german shepherd, quietly awaited their dinner.

“Here you go, boys,” she said, pouring the food in the feeding room, a far corner of the three-room kennel. It figures, she thought wryly when she first saw the place. Young dogs rate for three rooms at Fieldings. Young, single, and female teacher plus daughter rates for four. It was all part of the subtle air of patronization that seemed to hover over Fieldings and her role in it, one that she resented, accepted and resolved to overcome in equal measure.

The dogs had commenced to their meal and were eating quietly when Chrissy heard a click and saw one of the dogs, the mastiff, look up and perk an ear toward the front door. She wondered, is someone there?

“Hello?” she called out. “I’m back here.”

A minute passed as she held herself still, dry dog food in hand, and listened. More? A rustling sound? She heard a gentle bang, wood on wood, and a creaking sound, and decided that the shutter to one of the front windows had come loose again. With a sigh, Chrissy put the dog food back into its cupboard and, noticing that the dog had gone back to eating, closed and locked the cupboard door. She grabbed the neatly coiled hose near the sink and refreshed the dogs’ water bowls, careful not to leak too much water onto the sloped cement floor. She reached down and cleared the drain of a few odd clumps of dog hair, made a mental note that the dogs were beginning to smell ripe – does dog bathing count toward tenure? she wondered – and wrapped the hose back around its stand and shut off the water.

Making sure the dogs’ kennel doors were open, she walked to the doorway, turned off the light, said, “goodnight, boys,” to the dogs and closed the door behind her. A second later, the light in the small hallway connecting the kennels to the other two maintenance rooms went out, with every other light in the house. Chrissy wondered whether a fuse had been blown.

“Shit!” she said, fumbling her way through the room.

The main maintenance room, which was next, connected to a short front hallway and front door. It had a long wooden bench bolted into the floor at both ends. The bench ran running down the center of the room and several banks of lockers lined the walls – for maintenance workers, she had always supposed. Chrissy felt her way with her right hand along the bench quietly in the pitch dark, bent over slightly as she edged toward the door.

She had made it about halfway to the door when she felt a hand clamp on her right wrist with painful sureness and roll it suddenly, pitching her forward so that her left shin banged painfully into the side of the bench before she landed on her chest. With her arm pinned behind her, she struggled and screamed until another hand clamped over her face and two flashlights shone on her face blindingly. She looked around wildly and kicked, trying too to bite the hand crushing down on her mouth, as her captors – there must be several, though she couldn’t see any details in her terror – quickly jerked her hands behind her back and one grabbed her hair and yanked it hard to get her attention.

“Stop it!” she heard one voice say. “Stop struggling or we twist off an arm!”

She immediately stopped. Her breath came in painfully fast gasps around the hand clamped over her mouth as she stared wildly into the darkness and flashlights that strobed as their bearers swung them wildly, the beams silhouetting the bodies that held her down. She felt herself lifted and deposited on her back and began squealing and struggling again until a fist – probably from the hand that had bruised her lips -- crashed into her abdomen just hard enough to cause her to gasp and groan audibly. Someone held down her legs as another person – a man, she knew – flashed the light straight into her eyes blinding her as her hands were bound together by handcuffs under the bench plank.

The click of the handcuffs and the sharp pain of them digging into her wrists immediately caused her to stop struggling and crying out.

“Good,” came the voice. “You are learning.”

“Please,” she said. “What do you want?”

“You know what we want,” the voice replied, and for a minute she thought the voice was that of a teen or young man trying to sound older.

She felt the first of many tears fall from her eyes as she fought to control her trembling. Her sweater was jerked up over her breasts and instinctively she sat still. She felt a leather hood tug down hard over her hairline. She lifted her head to let it slip over the back of her head down to her neck where it hung tightly. She gasped and cried out helplessly, realizing that its eyelets were taped over and that only two small nostril holes and a tight mouthhole allowed her to breathe.

“No, no no” she said until an abrupt slap to the side of her head caused her to shut up.

Her tears fell silently, then, as the several people around her began to laugh and relax. They knew she was going nowhere. She tried to remember what time it was. Eight? Eight thirty? Nine p.m.? Where is Danica? She thought. Then she remembered. Danica was sleeping over a friend’s.

“My daughter,” she began to say.

“We know where your daughter is,” another voice answered. “She will be safe if you cooperate.”

Chrissy felt her skirt lifted and tugged awkwardly until it gave way and her thick buttocks bounced down on the bench.

“You can be here a really long time,” yet another muffled voice said, “or a very short time. Which do you want?”

She felt her underwear getting tugged down her legs and let it pass beyond her ankles. Someone took off her heeled shoes and through the small mouthhole she felt something pressing gently but persistently.

“Mmmmm. Mmmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm,” she said as the finger slowly but persistently teased her lips and brushed against her front teeth.

She was careful not to bite it as she firmly clenched her teeth. The finger withdrew and the explosion of a sharp slap to the side of her head caused her to gasp and breathe hard.

“Whore. Lookit those tits,” some voice said and by now she had guessed that she had a half-dozen captors with her. Bunched around her neck, her sweater was carefully rolled over head and held her elbows bunched tightly but not uncomfortably together. Something snipped her bra away and she gasped as she felt her nipples stiffen in the cool air.

“No, no. Please,” she whispered and half-flinched. When no blow came, she continued. “It doesn’t have to be this way. I will let you, if you don’t hurt me.”

“Are you a whore?”

She said nothing.

A head slap. She kept quiet.

“Are you a whore?”

She kept silent. The second slap was harder, a warning.

“Yes,” she said.

"You have been one, haven't you?"

She felt one hand, and then another, pinch, pull and tease her nipples for several minutes. She clenched her eyes tightly and said nothing until the hand play stopped.

Then a finger reappeared at her lips. This time she did nothing as the finger slowly pried at her lips. She opened her mouth, and her teeth and accepted it like a cock.

“Your lips,” another voice said rather wonderingly. She couldn’t recognize the voice.

“Surgery,” she answered, feeling even more humiliation. “Enhanced.”

She heard several snickers not quite fully suppressed as a hand teased her left nipple.

“Why?”

“My boyfriend,” she answered shamefully. “He insisted. It was for my work. I was a ... model.”

More snickers and then someone slapped one of her breasts, making it bounce.

“These too?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

Laughter and the sound of hands slapping together. High-fives? She wondered.

A voice, very close to her ear, whispering. “We aren’t going to have any trouble with you, are we?”

“No,” she said.

“You know what you are.”

“Yes,” she said. “Your whore.”

She felt a hand grip her left ankle and raise it until her knee was bent over her abdomen. Another hand did the same to her right ankle. Her cunt gaped as hands played across it.

“Please,” she said. “Gently.”

She sat stoically as the first cock plunged into her hard. She was dry and that caused her to flinch and groan as he pistoned into her. He pumped a half-dozen times before coming with a groan. She knew there were a half dozen males around her now and wondered if it would be like this with every one of them. She heard whispering and muffled laughter and the scraping of metal folding chairs being taken down from the walls and sat upon.

The cum from the third rapist had, she supposed, lubricated her enough so that she felt the almost-pleasant tugging and tapping on her clitoris. By now someone had unbound her hand and she instinctively knew why, bringing her fingers around a cock and starting the gentle caressing that he knew he wanted. Suddenly she was no longer a teacher but again became a twentysomething performing for her boyfriend in his apartment or in a film. She tried to imagine the film crew and male actors around her like it was just another day on a set.

She closed her eyes behind the hood and gently turned so that she was on all fours. The men around her seemed to expect this. They stopped.

“Up the ass,” she said, her voice trembling. “I want it up the ass. Please. Fuck me.”

Strong adult hands gripped her haunches and drove into her as she shook and wailed. She noticed the buzzing of the overhead fluorescent lights and thought she heard camera clicking as she flexed her ass cheeks in time with the cock punching into her. First her one hand, and then the other, grabbed, pinched and rolled her breasts as she arched her back. She felt a knee pressing against her forehead and she instinctively probed downward, finding a leather shoe and licking it lovingly through the small hole in her hood until she came, explosively, for the first time.

Soon she found a collar snapped around her neck and, in that daze she had known since her boyfriend’s first lost weekend with her of sex, humiliation, punishment and, most of all, training, she allowed herself to be led on hand and knee into the dog washroom where she was again fucked by several of her attackers and licked their shoes. All the while, she came explosively and repeatedly, even as they urinated on her.

It was the sex that she had matured with – hard, mechanical, fast and equally punishing and exhilarating. Chrissy found herself in the cloudy world of only her body, her sensations, and the slavish devotion she felt to the stimuli that blocked every rational thought and wracked her every nerve ending with tortured bliss. In that place, blinded by the hood, she found herself guided only by her feelings and their words, doing everything the anonymous voices demanded and repeating the cruel self-degrading things her boyfriend had always liked to hear her say.

"Daddy, daddy, please daddy. Give me more. Let me be your little fuckdoll."

They had taken her back to that hard wooden bench and all sated themselves several times with their blinded, mumbling victim when she felt a stinging sensation on her buttock, like a needle. When she came to, it was hours later, she was cold, and the gray light of day was beginning to flood the horizon. Chrissy cried a few tears rather mechanically before slowly bringing herself to her feet and searching for what remained of her clothes. Her hood was gone and her hair was mashed flat for having worn it.

Half dressed and disdainfully shedding the collar, she dragged herself back to her house. Chrissy knew she should call the police, but she showered first, letting water as cold as she could stand wash over her as she furiously scrubbed herself clean of the night’s wastes. Throwing on her white terrycloth bathrobe, she walked into the kitchen to the phone hanging on the wall and had grabbed the receiver when she noticed an envelope on the kitchen table.

In it, she saw a picture – a photograph of herself, age 23, dancing on a pole in a strip joint in Los Angeles. That jolted her awake more than the shower as she almost fell into a kitchen chair. With the picture, there was a small, neatly typed note.

“We know who you are, who you have been, and what you are now, for us,” it read. “Who else needs to know?”

Beneath it was a strange symbol: like a bullseye but with a small dot in the lower right quadrant. She found herself gasping for a few seconds, her hand to her heart, and she somehow knew she had learned Fieldings Academy’s inmost secret, the reason behind the slight smiles and subtle contempt.

­

“Mom, are you all right?”

Chrissy awoke to find Danica leaning over her. Chrissy’s first response was to start and then pull the sheets over her body in fear that Dani would notice the bruises from the attack the night before.

“I’m OK, honey,” Chrissy answered, feeling startled.

“The school called. It’s almost 8 a.m., you know. I told them you were ill and wouldn’t be coming to school today,” said Danica as she turned on her heel and strode away. “I am going to be late myself if I don’t get moving.”

“Oh no! I’ll be in today! I’m just feeling …”

Chrissy heard the front door slam and knew her audience was gone. Immediately she fell to checking herself out. Her vagina was puffy and bruised, like her rectum, and her breasts were finger-marked heavily. Her thick lush lips felt bruised but when she looked at the hand mirror she kept on the table alongside her bed she noticed only a slight swelling that nobody else would probably be able to detect.

Her stomach whirled as if with nausea as Chrissy relived in her mind a few horrible moments from the attack. She vaguely remembered snickering as she recalled the pounding of thighs against her buttocks and her pussy spasmed briefly and got wet.

Tears started to come to her eyes. It never goes away, she thought. It’s like programming. I will never change. Instantly she wondered who else knew what had happened to her. Did Dani suspect? Her heart fluttered anxiously at the thought. Chrissy had worked hard to keep her professional life as a sex worker and prostitute in the past with her daughter or secret whenever glimmers of it resurfaced.

Occasionally Chrissy bumped into old clients in LA when her daughter was a toddler or young girl and it had always been embarrassing.

It was, she suspected, a kind of craving, like for ice cream. The desire to be wanton, slutty, to shove her tits and cunt at the world and get fucked hard for it was like a drug. To walk down the street and draw men’s attention, to see other women react with subtle jealousies or contempt, was a thrill, a power that brought with it danger, high risk, reward and always, she realized, guilt and punishment. It was a stress-reliever and an escape, like all sex. For years after she left the business she loved to occasionally go to the beach in a bikini and see people stare. She loved to watch young men get flustered and erect. It could be activated by the simplest things: Spraying perfume on her neck. Catching her own reflection in a window. It happened pretty much every time she put lipstick on her lips, especially a hot pink or slutty blood red color. It was a feeling that always passed quickly. She found ways to exorcise the demon: One-night stands. Quick porn engagements. She had an agent she could call who could get her in a movie inside 12 hours for an orgy scene; longer if the sex was specialized. Sometimes random encounters worked.

Once, during a particularly stressful time, she had seen a mailman walking his route and invited him into her car to escape a thunderstorm. She had been slightly drenched herself and wasn’t wearing a bra. When his stares at her breasts became too much, she found herself pulling them out of her shirt and jerking him off through his pants with one hand as she diddled herself with the other. She wryly promised him a repeat performance the next time there was a thunderstorm in L.A.

Now Chrissy had a whole bunch of new problems to contend with. Who had attacked her? Why? Was this the end? What was next for her? How could she stop them and protect herself? And what did the symbol mean?

Chrissy found herself rushing to the bathroom and vomiting into the toilet for several minutes, her oversized implanted breasts bouncing as she ran and then slapping against the hard and cold porcelain rim as she bent over. She heaved for several minutes, then sat down hard on the floor panting.

Showering and dressing were automatic. Her clothes for school she had laid out the before she went to feed the dogs the night before. Soon she found herself on auto pilot walking the campus to her building and classroom.

Days passed and the terror of the attack seemed to recede. People noticed her own reticence but didn’t question it. Oddly, she felt not more stares and attention sent her way but less, as if after the attack people were less interested in her. It wasn’t as if anyone knew, precisely; it was more that her increasingly dulled, numbed sense of herself thanks to the attack translated into a lack of tension around her. Sometimes as she graded papers or sat quietly at her desk she found herself recalling specific moments from the attack: her nipple being bitten or the plunge of a cock against her clit or the grip of the handcuffs on her wrists. She remembered lifting her thighs and opening herself to her attackers, a rote response, as were some of the things she said and the sighs and groans she made as they fucked her hard.

Her first post-attack insight into Fieldings came during a classroom lesson. A 19-year-old post-grad student sitting in the center of the back row of three desks jammed closely together had asked her a question and as she bent over his desk next to him to answer it she saw the symbol again, that strange bullseye with the marked right quadrant. She froze immediately. It was on a small paper near his book, written in handwriting she didn’t recognize as his. She stared at him shocked but he continued impassively, pointing to a passage in the textbook and asking her a question. His eyes were friendly and warm, his voice betraying nothing unusual.

She began to answer a question when she felt it: A hand slipping quickly between her thighs and under her short skirt. She could tell immediately that it wasn’t his; his hands were right in front of her on the book, as he continued to huddle close to her and listen. The hand slipped down her thigh and was gone. She looked around furtively and saw no one paying attention to her. The grope felt almost like someone had brushed past her casually. She walked quickly to her desk and sat down as the students continued their bookwork, looking up suddenly to see if any were paying her any special mind. None were.

Chrissy walked to the back row again and looked to see the paper with the symbol written on it. It was gone!

“What happened to the paper that was here?” she asked the student, Billy Richards.

“You mean that?” he said, pointing to a scrap of paper on the floor.

Chrissy bent over straight and quick to grab the paper, inadvertently flashing the boys a quick glimpse of her panties.

“Is this yours?” she said, almost angrily.

“No, ma’am,” he said. “That was on my desk when I got here.”

His eyes were blank and she could see immediately that the red handwriting under the symbol was not Richards’ and that he was writing with a black pen. She stared at him until his eyes shifted back down to his book.

She folded the paper and carried it back to her desk. When the students left, she looked at it again and saw a notation:

6:30 p.m. Theater.

 

­The theater department was empty this time of year, late summer a few weeks before the semester really started. It was dark and sounds echoed in the cavernous, ancient auditorium as she walked down the main aisle to the stage. Only a few emergency lights and aisle lights lit the way.

“Hello?” Chrissy called. “Is anyone here?”

She held the crumpled small paper in her hand. She didn’t like the idea of being blackmailed over her past as a prostitute and sex worker in porn movies. All of the movies, she was convinced, were gone: They were always private productions or assembled by producers for very limited distribution. Chrissy never pretended to be an actress or a model, though she did have pretty looks. Her hair was dark blonde with light streaks through it and about shoulder length. Her cheekbones were full and somewhat wide – almost overripe, she thought, around a nose that was straight and slightly pointed. She was tall, too, for a woman, almost 5-10. Her waist was somewhat tapered but always too full to be an anorexic-like model and her buttocks were large and ripe, though not too finely tapered. During the worst of her relationship with her abusive, and much older, first boyfriend the movies almost always featured anal sex, and he always insisted that her face be hidden from view or in low lighting as she blew her fellow actors. Her thighs were thin and long, her legs almost too skinny.

That was why, she always thought, that he insisted on the breast enhancement surgeries she underwent. He thought her breasts – 34B’s at the time – would be a fine attraction if they were larger, something that would put her over the top and into the big time as a porn actress. “You need the tits, baby,” he would tell her, yanking down the halter top he liked her to wear so that her nipples stuck out above its top line. “Tits are what really draw the guys … and the girls.”

Her nipples were long, almost freakishly so, and pointy, so when the enhancement process was finished the implants looked pretty natural. She was young then, in her 20s, and her wide bluish green eyes regarded him with something like love, then. He was tall and imposing and had, she would recall longingly for years afterwards, a huge cock – his stick, he called it.

Chrissy stopped herself angrily. She kept thinking about him when she should be thinking about what she was up against. Was the note real? Was it from the men who had attacked her? Who were they? What was their plan for her?

“Hello?” she called out again.

She searched the backstage area very cautiously, armed with a flashlight and a small can of pepper spray she always kept in her purse. No one would be attacking her this time. The clock read 5:57 p.m. She arrived early in hope of hiding out quietly and surprising anyone who showed up. She had her cellular telephone ready to record anything said that could be incriminating.

She laid down on the floor between rows of seats in the far right corner of the auditorium and waited.

No one came.

The clock ticked by slowly. 6:30 p.m. 7. Then 8. It was 9 p.m. before Chrissy, feeling utterly foolish, slowly rose from the dusty floor and, with a sigh, walked back up the main aisle. She looked over her shoulder at the darkened stage one last time as she pushed through the door into the lobby and almost bumped into someone. She jumped back suddenly, alarmed, until she saw it was Mr. August Fieldings himself.

“Oh my God! Fuck!” she yelled. Her purse fell from her hand onto the floor, leaking some of its contents. “Oh, lord, sir, I am so sorry. You startled me so!”
An older, aristocratic man in his 60s, Fieldings wore a tweed suit and had small oval glasses that gave him a vaguely academic air. Chrissy didn’t recognize the two 20ish men standing with him. Both had close-cropped hair and thick muscular necks. The three of them stared impassively as Chrissy immediately fell to a knee and started gathering the things that had fallen from her purse.

“I can’t imagine what happened,” she said, her words tumbling from her mouth. “I fell asleep in there. I was there to… meet someone and I must have lost track of the time. Do you know what time it is?”

The men continued to stare and Chrissy found that they had effectively blocked her way forward. A chill rose through her, and not from any cold floor.

“I wonder why no one awoke me,” she babbled on, gathering the last of the spilled items. She looked furtively for the pepper spray but couldn’t see it in the half-darkness of the lobby. “I have had a lot of work lately to do getting used to everything and I haven’t slept terribly well. I am afraid I am rather insomniac in this weather.”

Slowly her eyes rose until they settled upon a medallion Fieldings had revealed by parting his suit coat. It was a bullseye with a dot in the lower left corner. Chrissy found herself almost paralyzed at the sight of it, so much so that she didn’t protest when one of the younger men gently took her purse from her and threw it behind him. Her eyes rose to Fieldings’ face with a kind of hypnotized terror as the two men gently grabbed her arms and held them apart.

Smiling almost apologetically, Fieldings approached her and, with a tut-tutting sound of disapproval, slowly unbuttoned Chrissy’s white blouse until her neck to her navel was revealed. He gazed rather mournfully at Chrissy’s large heaving breasts for a full minute before he spoke.

“Academia is such a waste on you,” he said. “You were meant for things so much more interesting, weren’t you?”

Chrissy gasped as Fielding slid one bra cup aside and pinched her nipple, watching it slowly harden as the first of several tears slipped from Chrissy’s cheek. Fieldings gently daubed at one with a finger and slipped the finger between Chrissy’s enlarged lips.

“You will come with us,” Fieldings said.

He turned and walked toward the sidewalk as a dark van pulled up to the curb. His two assistants steered Chrissy’s semi-struggling form to a sliding door that opened as they approached and pulled her into the van so that she sat in the center of the first seat behind the driver’s compartment, her legs spread obscenely and her skirt riding high. The van had pulled away from the curb and gotten on Route 24 as the man behind her seat, the one who had opened the sliding door, cruelly forced a ballgag into Chrissy’s mouth. Chrissy’s trembling and uncontrollable crying began to crescendo as the man to her right tore at her skirt as the man to her left snipped at her bra with a pen knife, each moving with practiced skill. Her panties came off next and she began to wail until the man to her left placed his palm against her cunt with a slapping sound.

Then she quieted.

Her hands were cuffed to poles apparently built for the purpose of holding prisoners like her and she kept staring pathetically at Fieldings, who swiveled the front passenger seat and stared at her almost mournfully. She started at mewed a second as her garters and hose were pulled down around her ankles and the man on her right began to slather oil on her body.

“You wish to know,” Fieldings began, “what this is all about, don’t you? A terrible burning desire to know why this is happening to you. Why you.”

Chrissy nodded, drool from her gag falling into her cleavage, as the men cuffed her ankles to small o-rings built into the floor, leaving her arms and legs stretched almost equally apart. She felt the hands of the man seated behind her begin to rub the oil into her breasts, warming her as his lips began to brush against her neck, as the man to her left gently ran the oil with a finger into her cunt lips. The oil seemed equally warming and sexually exciting to her skin and she wondered why.

“We know things about you, and about your daughter too,” Fieldings said, causing Chrissy’s eyes to widen farther. “Oh, yes, your daughter is one fine specimen. She is quite prized by some of the faculty, and many of the older teens on campus, for her … appetites. Her mother will find it quite surprising how much more …adult young ladies like her can be, and how much the younger generation can teach the old.”

Rage burst from Chrissy as she tried to scream through the gag and attack Fieldings. For several minutes she flailed uselessly against her restraints until she felt the man behind her press a needle to her skin. She passed out.