4 comments/ 11536 views/ 3 favorites Amanda Pays the Price Ch. 01 By: Inosolan (This story originally appeared under another pseudonym, on another site. At that time, i was planning the different names to be different "brands", with "Inosolan" being relatively light, often comic stories, and the other name being for my nastier excursions into the dark side, as it were. Since then, though, i've decided that i'll just publish everything here as "Inosolan". (All characters are over eighteen. There is some mildly nasty dominance and humiliation and one piece of spectacularly bloody - though not too graphically described - violence. (I hoped - when i originally published this - to write more about Amanda and Peter. Sadly, those tales never materialised. The outlines of the overall series still lurk in the back of my perverted little head, and ... just maybe ... i'll finally write them. (Give me some feedback if you want to see more of Amanda and Peter.) ======================== Amanda Pays the Price, Part 01 ======================== Sitting in a bar. I'm sitting in a bar. I don't remember how long I've been here. I don't remember coming to this bar. I try to remember. I can't. I try to remember why I came here. I can't. I try to remember... I don't remember anything. I don't remember my own name. I don't remember what city this bar is in. I don't remember. I'm scared. I want to jump up, to look around. I want to shout out that I don't know who I am, does anyone know who I am, why I'm here. I can't move. Inside my head, I want to shout, to struggle. I realise that, outwardly, no matter how panicky I am inside my head, I am sitting in a booth, smiling and nodding in response to whatever the man sitting next to me is saying. I don't remember who he is, either. I don't remember anything. What is the matter with me? I am acting as if everything is perfectly normal, as if I know this man, as if we are just a couple out on a date, perhaps, but I can't remember anything. I realise that I cannot hear. Couples are dancing, people are talking -- I should hear the music, the buzz of conversation, the clink and clatter of glasses and bottles on the tables and bar, if nothing else. I hear nothing, not even the surf-like roaring of my own blood circulating that I should hear even if my ears were plugged. I realise that I am not feeling anything; no sense if the bar is warm or cool, no sensation from my back or buttocks where they touch the seat and the back of the booth, no sensation from my clothing on my skin. It's not even as if my body is numb; "numb" is a sensation of sorts. I feel nothing at all. He says something -- at least his lips move -- and I nod, smile, and reply. I do not hear what he has said, nor even what I said in reply. Trapped inside my own head, trying to conceive what is happening, it seems to me that I should be afraid, or at least worried or a bit panicky. After all, even with apparent total amnesia, I know that this is not a normal situation. I am not -- I feel a certain cool detachment, as if what is happening is of no concern to me, as if it is happening to someone else. Suddenly, I realise that the man sitting next to me has placed one arm familiarly and apparently in a friendly manner around me, and though I still neither hear nor feel anything, I know, somehow, that his fingers are resting, lightly but possessively, on my breast, stroking gently. He looks away from me for a moment, glances around the room, where no-one is paying us the slightest attention, off in our corner, then he turns back toward me. He smiles at me, and suddenly I realise that his is not the smile of a lover or even of a friend or casual acquaintance; it is the lazy grin of a big cat as it closes in on helpless prey. His hand closes around my breast, his fingers toying with the nipple, and suddenly feeling returns first to the nipple as it begins to respond to his skillful manipulations, then spreading outward until I have normal sensation in all parts of my body. I try to thrust his hand away, to tell him to stop, but I discover that, though I can feel, I still cannot make a voluntary movement or speak at all. All that I can do is sit there, feeling the sensations of physical arousal beginning in my body as he caresses my breast, toying with the now fully-erect nipple. Sitting there, now that sensation has returned to my body, I become aware that the rather lowcut dress made of some stretchy, clinging fabric is all that I am wearing; no undergarments of any sort, just the dress, which faithfully drapes and reveals every contour of my body. Just the dress, I realise, and thigh-high stockings, held up by an old-fashioned suspender belt. His hand leaves my breast, leaving the erect nipple starkly outlined under the midnight-blue fabric. He puts his hand on my shoulder in a companionable manner, and pulls gently. My body, completely out of my control, leans toward him, looking, I'm sure, as if we have put our heads together to share some secret. And his other hand reaches casually up, and begins to stroke and caress my other breast, bringing that nipple also to full erection, increasing the pleasurable sensations that my body, will I nil I, is experiencing. His hand drops from my breast to gently caress my body; gently teasing and stroking my tummy as the other hand traces patterns on my back and side, occasionally giving a quick stroke or two to my breast if the nipple seems to be losing its stand. Despite my desires, real warmth begins to glow in my body. I feel myself leaning closer to him, turning slightly to give that devilish hand more access. Suddenly, with a surprise that would normally have made me jump nearly out of my skin, his tonguetip licks out and gently caresses my ear; then he nips gently at it with white, even teeth. I hear a soft sigh; then I realise that it is I who sighed. His hand has slipped from my midriff to rest on my hip, stroking gently at it, as his other hand on my shoulder turns me even more toward him. I sense what is coming, and I try to resist -- to no avail. Not only do I not manage to resist his kiss, my traitor body actually desires it. My lips are already parting for him as his lips meet them; his tongue slips easily past them and touches mine. Totally against my will, my tongue moves, slips against his, and they dance between our mouths. The warmth in my belly increases and seems to slip downward a bit. Under his hand, my hips move a bit as I feel myself turning slightly more toward him. His hand slips from my hip to my leg, then slowly strokes to my knee and back. Again, I hear myself sigh a bit, and my traitor knees move a bit apart from each other. Again and yet one more time that hand luxuriously strokes my leg through the thin, clinging fabric of the dress... but on the third time, instead of continuing back to my hip, it suddenly slips through the slit that runs from the ankle-length hem almost to the hip, and comes to rest on my stocking-covered knee. He smiles at me. I feel my face smile back at him, even though inside my head I am raging. How dare he! I would never... Except that perhaps I would -- I realise that, just as much as I have forgotten my name and how I got where I am, I have no idea what my sexual limits or preferences are. The thought takes me aback. Perhaps this man is actually my lover -- or even my husband. Perhaps he has every right to do what he is doing, and it is only this strange fugue-like state that I am in that causes me to resent it. Perhaps... His hand strokes my knee, warm through the silk of the stocking, then begins slowly -- ever so slowly -- to creep up my leg, his fingertips tickling the inside of my thigh as it goes as his other hand continues playing with my nipples and his mouth plays on mine. I begin to feel real heat between my legs; I hear myself give a small, purring moan, as I feel myself lean back a bit in my seat, thrusting my hips forward, and my legs open widely, in an unmistakable lewd invitation. He draws back, smiles again, and then turns his oral attentions again to my ear. But instead of kissing or licking or nibbling at it, he whispers into my ear, as his moving fingers come to the top of my thigh, just grazing the wet warmth with which my mindlessly-yearning body greets him... "I'm going to use you right here in public, you prick-teasing bitch. And you're going to act as if you enjoy every second... you're going to come like a waterfall. People are going to see and hear, and everyone will think it was your idea." His fingers play in my tangled curls, flicking occasionally, gently but possessively at the warm wet lips below and at the erect little nub above. "You're going to wish you'd lived a different life, bitch, because I'm going to make sure that you suffer for every minute of what you've done." As he delivers this bitter tirade, one fingertip slips between the lips of my pussy and strokes deeply with a maddening rhythm. Despite the horror I feel inwardly at what he has said, I can feel my hips roll to the rhythm of his strokes, and as a second finger joins the first and they plunge deeply into my wet cunt, I hear myself groan, feel my hips pumping, and realise that I am in the throes of a small but delicious orgasm that I definitely do not want. My legs clench on his hand, my hips buck, and I can feel a deep flush spreading over my cheeks, neck and the tops of my breasts as a quick bolt of pleasure slams from my cunt through my body. I feel my back arch, pressing my breast and super-erect nipple more firmly into his palm. I hear the moan of my orgasm as his lips again close on mine, keeping me from alerting too many people in the bar of his intent and actions. As my body untenses, as I drop back against the back of the booth, he again whispers in my ear "That was just the beginning, you cunt. You're going to beg me for more and more as if it was what you really wanted. And if I tell you to suck or fuck someone else, you're going to do that, too. "And the best part is, I know that inside you, you don't want to do this, that it will disgust and humiliate you... And even better, that you don't have the faintest idea who I am or why I'm using you like a fuck toy. That you don't even know who you are, or what you did to make me so angry. "And after it's all over, after I've used you in every way that I can think of or do, and strangers have used you as well... then, and only then, I'll let you remember who you are and why. But it will be too late for you then..." Taking my hand, he sets it on his crotch. He has a rigid erection, even through his pants I can tell that his cock is very large, probably the largest I have ever encountered (deep inside, I wonder how I knew that... ) "Stroke that, whore. Get me ready..." and he rams three fingers roughly all the way into my dripping cunt under cover of the table, brutally squeezing and stroking my captive breast, dropping his mouth to the base of my neck, nipping and biting mercilessly at the flesh of my throat, leaving livid bitemarks. As I scream incoherent silent protests inside my head, trying to force my unresponding body to push him away, to fight him, to escape, he begins again, expertly playing my flesh like a concert violinist, bringing me again to the brink -- the brink of an even larger and more devastating orgasm... ======================== Chapter 2 ========================== We continue like that for a time -- he bringing me to unwilling orgasm after orgasm, my hand stroking his cock under the table as if I enjoy it immensely. Finally he pushes me away. With no orders, I sit there, waiting quietly. He says "Now you are going to..." And suddenly I can't hear what he says, but I know that he is giving me orders, telling me what he wants me to do. And I know that I will do whatever it is. Suddenly, I realise that I have stood, that I am walking across the floor towards an empty stool at the bar. The extremely high heels I wear give an extra sway to my ass, shape my legs and cause me to walk slowly and carefully -- in a manner that, I am sure, seems a deliberate provocation to every man there. I see the men in the bar watching me -- all of them, even the ones who have companions of their own -- as I cross the open space. I know that, with each stride I take, I am flashing a view to the tops of my stockings through the slits in the blue dress, that the men are tantalised by the glimpses of white flesh above the silk tops that they believe that they see. I feel my face taking on a smile -- almost a predatory smile, and I realise that I have thrown my shoulders back, thrusting my chest forward, and that I am walking with a deliberate strut, like a strip tease dancer just before she begins to remove her costume. Arriving at the bar, I slip onto one of the empty stools, and gesture to the bartender. He responds immediately, and I order a drink. I realise that I have a small purse in one hand, and I begin to reach into it, to get the money to pay for the drink. But a voice says "No -- let me get that," and I turn and smile to the man on my right who has spoken. He returns the smile, and, when the bartender arrives with my drink, he pays for it, and includes a generous tip for the barman. "You get better service if you tip well on the first round," he says. I smile and sip at my Bloody Mary, waiting for him to make a move. He sits in apparent silent content next to me for a while, as we sip at our drinks. Suddenly he raises his head in a listening way and says "I love this song. Will you dance with me?" I want to say no... but I know I cannot, that I will do whatever the man in the booth has told me to do. So I am not surprised to find myself standing, taking his hand, and walking to the small dance floor. The song has a fairly fast beat, and we dance together, sometimes touching lightly, sometimes not, shaking our hips and shoulders, laughing like a pair of teenagers. I watch from behind the mask of joy that is my face, wondering what I will do next. The song ends. I expect that we will sit back down and talk, but another begins; a slow song, in waltz time. He reaches out to me, and my face smiles again as I step forward into his arms and we begin to slow dance. At first we dance quietly, his hand on my hip, a slight space between us. But gradually, his hand begins to slip from my hip, moving back and down, his fingers gently, as if by accident, coming to rest on the curve of my ass. I want to push this stranger away, run from the dance floor, shout for help. But I do none of those things. I smile up at him, my eyes half-closed in a sultry expression, and I wriggle a bit under his hand. He takes this as a signal that I don't mind, and his fingers begin a gentle caressing motion on the swell of my cheek. I turn a bit, tilt my hip, and his hand slips completely round, now cupping my cheek, squeezing and stroking. He presses a bit; I follow his pressure, moving forward toward him, thrusting my hips forward so that my body touches his, rolling my hips so that my mound gently grinds against his crotch. I can feel his erection; feel it growing larger as I grind my hips against his. His hand is frankly clutching at my ass now, his fingers beginning to explore the valley between my cheeks. I can tell that he has realised that, under the blue dress, I have no panties on. I look up, smile in that sultry, languorous way again, and lick just the tip of my tongue along my pouting lower lip. Moving close, I let my upper body touch his; we are pressed together from shoulders to groin. He glances downward, and I know that he can see my nipples through the clingy material of the dress, beginning to rise. He looks into my eyes again, and I raise my face toward his, lips slightly parted, eyes closing. He accepts the invitation, and his lips meet mine. Still we dance on the dimly-lit floor, surrounded by a few couples, all intent on their own affairs, most engaged in some variant of what we are doing. The song ends; he is about to release me, to step back, when I reach downward, and cover his hand on my ass with my own, smiling at him again. I give one more slow grind of my hips against his -- the closest and hottest yet; it looks as if he may cum in his pants if I do much more of this. Finally stepping back, but still holding his hand in mine, I smile at him again, and say "Come on over here -- there's someone I want you to meet." He looks confused, but follows as I start back toward the table where my tormentor sits. As we walk, I hold his hand tightly, and snuggle up to him; he feels my breast pressing against his arm. We arrive at the table. I turn to my companion, and say "You know, I don't know your name..." "William... ah... Bill," he says, somewhat confusedly. "Bill, I'd like you to meet my boyfriend, Peter," I hear myself say. "Peter told me to invite you to join us, didn't you, Peter?" Smiling in an apparently-friendly fashion, my tormentor agrees that he would like Bill to join us. I turn back to Bill, lean forward and give him a quick peck-on-the-cheek kiss, and then slide into the booth next to Peter, pulling Bill after me, guiding him so that I wind up between the two of them. The seat in the booth is rather narrow, so the three of us are pressed together, hip to hip; I can feel the heat of each man's body against my thighs where my legs touch theirs. "Bill seems a bit confused, Amanda," Peter says. "Why don't you explain what's happening to him?" I turn toward Bill, who does, indeed, seem rather uncertain. As i do, under cover of the long tablecloth that hangs almost to the floor at the front of the table, I casually let my hand fall into his lap. As I begin talking, I also begin to slowly caress and fondle his rock-hard cock through his trousers. "Peter likes to watch, don't you love?" I say, lightly, turning to smile at Peter. "And sometimes, he likes to join in, too." "W... watch?" stammers Bill, his face beginning to redden as his hips begin to move, following the rhythm of my caressing hand. "Likes to watch me playing with other men," I explain, smiling in what I am sure is a somewhat predatory fashion. Inside my head, I begin to realise what may be coming, and again attempt to take control of my own body back. To no avail. "We have a room here in the hotel," I hear my voice saying. "And we came down here to see if I could find a man to my liking at this bar; one to invite upstairs to play with." "Ummm... I... I... couldn't... " Bill manages to choke out, as my hand closes especially tightly around him and begins pumping up and down. His eyes become a bit unfocussed, and he gives a low moan as his cock seems to become even larger in my grasp. "Oh, well, you never know till you try, lover," I purr, leaning forward and suddenly tickling his ear with the tip of my tongue. "I think I can persuade you..." Suddenly, before either Bill or I have fully realised what I am doing, I reach down, grasp my dress and pull the hem up almost to my knees so that I have freedom to move... and slip off the bench, dropping to my knees under the table. I realise that the dim light, the shadows, the out-of-the-way position of our booth and the hanging tablecloth must hide me from view -- or at least, almost do so -- but even so, I am horrified as I realise what my tormentor has in mind for me to do to "persuade" Bill... Indeed, I find myself kneeling between Bill's legs, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to his cock through his pants. Even though he really couldn't have felt the actual kiss, he moans again and his hips move and his cock jumps against my lips. Looking upward at him with an impish, mischievous expression that is so far from what I actually feel, I reach up, and slowly undo his belt and waistband. Once they are loose, I again begin stroking his erection through the material with one hand, as my other reaches up, finds the tab of his zipper, and begins sly-o-o-wly pulling it down its track. Amanda Pays the Price Ch. 01 By this time, his objections have sputtered to an end, and he is just sitting there, staring downward in fascination as I finish with the zipper, and begin playing with his flesh through his tight-stretched jockey shorts. Taking the waistband of the shorts with one hand, I pull them downward, freeing his straining cock from the fabric's too-tight confinement with the other. I pull the waistband downward, finally freeing his erection and large, tight testicles. His shaft springs free, straining upward and outward, ten inches at least in length and thick enough i can't quite close my hand around its thickest part. Blowing on the head, then gently licking the tip as I stroke the hot flesh with one hand, I look upward at him with that same predatory smile and ask "Should I stop, Bill?" He moans incoherently, and I bow my head, almost as if about to pray. I open my mouth, and slowly allow the head of his cock to slip past my lips. I want to stop -- to gag -- to run away -- but I cannot. I continue performing oral sex on this stranger, slowly taking all of his straining erection that I can manage into my mouth, down my throat. I draw back, then slip forward again. I use my tongue to caress the rim of his head, to tickle along his shaft as it slips in and out of my hotly-sucking mouth. I draw back, allowing his dick to slip from my mouth, and, just as he moans in startled protest, I lean a little more forward and begin kissing, sucking at and nipping at his ballsack. Again he moans, and, as my mouth again finds the massive purple head and engulfs it, he places a hand on my head and urges me onward. More and more of his flesh slips between my lips, and I feel the head pressing firmly back into my throat... Finally, my nose touches his tangled pubic hair, and then I begin an equally-slow outstroke until nothing but the head remains between my lips; and in and out, up and down I go, worshipping his flesh, looking for all the world, I'm sure as if I wanted nothing more than to give this near-total stranger a semi-public blowjob. His hips roll from side to side in time with my movements, his hands on my head press me forward, and he moans quietly, almost continuously. Finally I feel his cock begin to swell, to pulse, Frantically, I try to pull back, to avoid what is surely about to happen; but, even if I were able to move of my own will in that manner, by now his hands on the back of my head have taken an iron grip, and he would hold me there, with almost his entire length in my mouth, as his hips begin to pump and he begins to cum. Swallowing frantically, I gulp down all that I can, but some runs out around his shaft, oozing out over my lips, trickling downward in strings over my chin. As he finally finishes twitching, moaning and ejaculating, I allow his shrinking shaft to fall from between my cum-stained lips, draw back and, licking up all that I can from my lips and chin, sucking up what dripped onto my fingers that had clutched him, look up at him and grin. As his semen continues to trickle down my cheeks and chin, I smile upward at him, pump his shrunken shaft a couple of times, and coo seductively "So -- are you going to come upstairs so that I can show you what else I know how to do?" And, as he dazedly nods yes, and I smile again and carefully recover his cum and lipstick stained prick, pulling his shorts into place, carefully closing the zipper and re-buckling his belt, and all of the time I smile and murmur obscene hints as to what perverse delights he can expect in the room upstairs, giving his soft penis a few final strokes, I hear myself crying and screaming in protest inside my own head... ============================= Chapter 3 ============================== All three of us stand up, and I find myself saying that I need to go to the Ladies' room. We begin walking across the room, Peter and myself in the lead, Bill following somewhat dazedly behind. Peter puts an arm 'round me, apparently lovingly, but his fingers clutch painful at my breast, digging in, then viciously pinching and twisting the nipple. The pain is so great that I want to cry out, but all that I can do is smile at him and look adoringly into his eyes. He bends his head toward me, as if to whisper something sweet in my ear. What he whispers is "Oh, very good, slut. So far you've taken advantage of a happily married man who thought he'd never cheat on his wife, and now he thinks you're going to take him upstairs and fuck him silly. You've done so well, I'll give you a clue as to who you are and why this is happening to you -- you're a widow. But now let's change tonight's script a bit..." The restrooms are on a short hallway leading to the emergency exited rom the building; no-one else is there when we arrive. Peter takes a position at the entrance to the hall, looks around and then says casually to me "Coast's clear, luv..." I put a hand on the door handle, begin to push the door open, then turn to Bill, smile mischievously and lewdly, take his hand, and pull him in after me. He begins to protest, but it's too late -- I close the door, and turn the latch so that no-one else can get in. "All alone, lover -- just us, not even Peter," I murmur, pressing against him and kissing and nipping at the line of his throat. Taking his hands, I place them on my waist and say "Lift me up, luv." At first he's confused, but then a gesture from me clears things up a bit, and he boosts me so that I'm sitting on the waist-high counter surrounding the handbasin. He's still stammering out incoherent protests when I raise my left foot high, and rest my heel on his right shoulder. Of course the blue dress falls away completely from that leg, and he sputters to a stop as his eyes travel along the length of gleaming sheer ice-blue stocking to the lacy straps of the suspender belt that holds it up, on upward yet to where the cloth falls and barely hides my mound from view. Bending my knee, I pull him toward me and exert downward pressure on his shoulder. Languorously, I slowly lift the other leg, flex it and point the toe like a dancer, and then place that heel on his other shoulder; as I do, somehow the blue fabric slips aside, revealing my mound. His eyes are drawn helplessly to the auburn curls, to the rounded bulge, and to the wet and open lips and the erect bud of my clitoris. Hooking my feet behind his head, pulling him irresistibly forward and downward, I force him to his knees before me, my legs over his shoulders, his face only inches from my hot and dripping cunt. "Come on, baby -- I did you, you do me, okay?" I purr, pulling him the last bit forward, forcing his face into the hot wetness. For a moment he hesitates, then I feel his tongue give a tentative lick at the wetness on my thigh, and then another at my outer lips... Hating what I'm doing, fighting it helplessly, I give a moan of pleasure, and put my hand on his head, pulling him fully into my burning cunt. "That's it -- lick the little pussy. Make me cum like I made you cum..." I murmur huskily, as his tongue begins to actively caress me; slipping up to my clit and then back down to press in as far as he can manage between the folds. Pleasure shoots through me as he unexpectedly slips a finger into my cunt and pumps me as he licks my clit. My body is so hot and he is so enthusiastic, now that he's started, that it's not long before I find myself clutching his head with both hands, pulling his face into my crotch as I wail in orgasm and pump my hips, grinding my spasming cunt against his hot mouth and tongue. Finally I stop cumming and let go of his head, and drop my left foot to the floor. He starts to get up, and I look down at him and use my right leg over his shoulder to hold him down. "Oh, no, lover -- you're not done yet. Stand up, but stay right where you are..." He stands. With my leg hooked around his waist, I pull him toward me, then reach greedily downward, opening his belt and trousers and pushing down his shorts to free his cock, once more rock hard and at its full ten inches. Grasping the thick thing in a hand that barely manages to encircle it, I use it to pull him forward until its tip touches my cunt lips. Stroking the cock I hold, I look up at him and hear myself murmur "Go ahead -- you know you're going to..." as I again raise my left leg to his waist. He hesitates and I use my legs at his waist to urge him forward until the head of his massive erection slips between the hot lips. It feels so good; even though I do not want to fuck this man, my body wants still more. I twist my hips, moving the head around where it barely penetrates me, and, with a sudden groan that almost sounds like pain, he grabs my hips and, with one sudden thrust, drives all ten inches into my cunt. I feel so full and stretched, and then he begins to move. As he slowly withdraws and then shoves back in, pleasure rings through my body. For now, no matter what I might want or not want or desire of my own will, all I can do is hold on and allow that big shaft to plunge in and out of my hot, throbbing cunt, riding the pleasure toward another incredible orgasm. Suddenly, he withdraws. I whimper in involuntary protest as I feel him slipping from my cunt, then his hands are urging me down from the counter, turning me, bending me, positioning me... and then that cock that is all I can think about in my lust slams back into my drooling cunt from behind, as his hips push against my ass and he shoves every inch home as deeply as he can manage. For a few minutes we are nothing but a cock and a cunt, plunging, driving, grasping, milking. I feel orgasm after orgasm rolling through me, weakening my knees until I am glad of the support of the restroom counter under me that is the only thing keeping me from simply collapsing like a puppet with strings cut. He is about to cum -- I can tell from his moans and the way in which his motion is beginning to become erratic; I can feel that huge cock seeming to swell even more inside me; with a final moan that would sound like pain to anyone who didn't know what caused it, he clutches my hips, pulling me back as he presses his hips forward one more time, burying himself even more deeply than before, and I can feel him beginning to cum... And the door that I had made sure was latched bursts open and a woman comes crashing into the room. "You BASTARD!" she screams at him. In his shock, he jerks backward, even as he begins to cum; even though he is rapidly losing his erection in shock, some white semen spurts through the air, some even splattering on her expensive pants suit. She looks downward at the mess, as if refusing to believe her own eyes, then, with another scream of rage, reaches into her purse and comes out with a gun. "You bastard!" she repeats. "I didn't believe the phone call that said you were here with some slut, but I felt like I had to check. You lousy cheating BASTARD! Well, I've got you and your little honey now, and I'm going to..." Suddenly the gun points toward me, where i am trying frantically to cover myself, to rearrange my clothing. There is a flash and a horrible noise, both cut short, and I feel a terrible pain and I'm falling and i hear three more shots and I fall to the floor and the world is fading away and there is a roaring sound in my ears and then... nothing. And then I sit up. Somehow, everything around me has an unreal, misty feel around the edges. I feel a pain in my chest and look downward and try to scream as I see my dress torn away, my left breast almost blown to pieces and a huge gaping wound in my chest, pumping blood down the front of my dress... And then it stops hurting. The wound closes. My breast is suddenly whole again. My dress is still torn and blood-stained, but I am healed as if I had never been shot. I realise that I am sitting next to something that is lying on the floor; I look and then look away -- it's me! Bloodied and mutilated just as I had seen myself a moment before... but I'm sitting here, healed miraculously... how could that be... I reach up to grasp the counter to raise myself from where I'm sitting on the floor, and my hand passes right through the wood and porcelain of the fixtures. What...?!? Two more silent figures lie next to me, and the entire floor is awash with pools of blood. Not looking at my own body or the other two that lie so still, I manage to stand up, and turn wonderingly toward the door, where I can vaguely hear shouts and pounding as people outside try to find out what happened; somehow, the door is latched on the inside again (still?). I'm still wondering what to do next when Peter sticks his head into the room -- through the solid closed door, I realise. "Time to go home, luv," he grins, reaching out a hand to me. I reach out to him, and I am not surprised when his hand proves to be the only thing that I can touch as if it were solid. He pulls me toward the door. I step easily through the closed door, and then Peter and I stroll casually away through -- literally through, in some cases -- the crowd trying to get into the locked restroom. "Oh, you did so well for your first time out, luv," he says to me with a smirk as we walk toward the street door. "Adultery, sodomy, lust and a double-murder/suicide. You're going to be a wonderful recruiter's assistant..." As we reach the street outside, he again says "Time to go home," and the world, already slightly unreal-seeming, begins to fade around us, as slowly ominous mists seem to gather, until finally I can't see more than a few feet in any direction. Then the mists begin to darken, though they seem shot through with occasional flame in the distance, and I begin to see Shapes moving just beyond true visibility, Shapes that I somehow know would be so horrible if I could see them clearly that my mind might well snap. Heat surges up, and I begin to hear distant cries of agony and horrid laughter. Peter smiles his horrible smile at me and says "Oh -- I owe you another clue. Two years ago a seventeen-year-old boy was executed by lethal injection in Texas after being tried as an adult..." "Welcome home, luv." "Welcome to Hell..."