1 comments/ 6970 views/ 7 favorites Music By: LenNeal (This is a continuation of the story, THE EMPTY CHAIRS. For some background see that story.) Barbra got up naked, opened the draperies on the tall windows, and looked into the dark. She wasn't entirely sure where she was; she'd gotten disoriented in the new city, and had needed a place to sleep through the day. She'd found a real estate sign, hopped a garden wall, and let herself into a vacant apartment. There were cameras for security, but they were nothing that concerned her. Halfway through the day a security car had stopped by for a cursory inspection, but that was all. She stretched and stood up on tiptoe, looking at the clothes thrown on the floor. They were baggy and un-stylish. She'd decided on a look of American Backpacker: jeans, t-shirt, hoodie, low sneakers, frayed baseball cap. Cheap underwear and no socks. Logoed backpack. She felt stuck in a bad style, but knew no-one looked at her at all, except for maybe possible pickpockets or purse snatchers. She made her shoulders shrug. It didn't matter, really. One thing did matter, though: she was hungry. Very hungry. And weirdly dissatisfied. "Hm." The sound reverberated around the clean, ready-to-sell room. The furniture looked like rental. Thinking about what to do, Barbra went in the clean bathroom and washed up, showering with no soap, just wiping off grime. She couldn't see herself in mirrors anymore, and had to settle for trying to wipe every part of her face. The toilet sat on the floor, and she regarded it, propping a fist on her hip: she didn't need that machine any more. She actually couldn't remember what it felt like to have to do that. Periods seemed also to have stopped. "Hm." In the kitchen she poked through the drawers and finally turned on the TV, watching some news show about the usual crimes and politics. Frustrated, she got dressed, thought, then hid the backpack in a closet. She could stay in this place for a few nights. She let herself out a back door, and hopped the garden wall into a short stand of woods. An old man wearing an old man cap walked through on a path, led along by an elderly dog on a leash. When she went past the dog did the usual thing and whined and cowered from her. She couldn't pet dogs, cats went berserk in her presence, and her one try at sleeping in a zoo had been an experience: it had made the news in the town where she'd done it. She felt the old man's blood pumping and moaned. "Guhhhh..." Shit, she was hungry. It was also still up in the air what the ethics of all this was. So far she hadn't faced her state, and hadn't really eaten. She'd done some things, really stupid butcher shop things: sucking blood off meat and other embarrassing acts, to stave off the worst of the hunger pains, but that was all. She hadn't felt good for several weeks. Not since the night. She felt, just... incompetent. She felt like she wasn't managing her needs very well. "It's not like I got a manual, or a rule book..." she mumbled. At least money hadn't turned out to be a problem; she simply told people to give her money and they did. She could get people, individuals, to give her things: all she had to do was make eye contact. That had freaked her out at first, but now she just did it without thinking. The same with lodging; cameras couldn't see her, so she just slept anywhere to wait out the daylight. The sun was her enemy, she'd learned that, and she slept during the day, often in empty houses and apartments. She smiled; she refused to sleep in tombs or do the graveyard thing. There was also an issue of whether or not she was dead or what. She didn't feel dead; or un-dead; or anything. She just felt strange and right now, starving. Just fucking starving. The streets led her around, into a warren of little alleys and dirty backs of storefronts. It was not a very safe city, a nasty bastard around every corner, and nowhere for a tourist chick to be at night; but for her, there was no danger. She wasn't nervous or afraid in the least. She'd learned she didn't stay injured: cuts and scrapes healed instantly. People couldn't hurt her, so that wasn't an issue. But she was looking for something, something... manageable? She couldn't articulate it. Irritated, she picked out a neon sign at random and walked into a bar or pub or whatever. The customers looked at her as she entered. It was a dive, filled with rough-looking people. Pulling a fistful of crumpled bills out of the hoodie pocket she ordered a beer, even though she couldn't drink it. The bartender looked at the pile of bills and his eyes bugged out: she'd dumped a shitload of money on the bar without really thinking. It was probably more than what the barkeep made in six months. He picked through the pile carefully, removed a bill, and rang up her purchase. She stuffed the remainder of the pile back in her pocket. The crowd's blood pumped in their bodies, most of it diluted with alcohol. She felt the bartender's body: he was older and not well; his heart was sluggish, struggling. Not even a minute later a guy came up and started talking to her. He was skinny and had an impenetrable accent. Everything he said sounded like 'garble garble garble'. He smelled funny. Barbra tried to think what the smell was, it wasn't a scent or a perfume or even a detergent: it was something in him. There was something wrong with his blood. He was sick. She waved him away without looking at him. He didn't leave. She got annoyed and said, rudely, "Fuck off, shithead. Go away." The man recoiled; he apparently hadn't expected that. He started talking again, leaning in, over her: 'garble garble garble girlie'. Barbra got angry and told him, "What, did I stutter? Get your stinking body away from me. I'm not interested in you." She made eye contact, but the crowd was too distracting, the man was drunk, and it had little effect. She picked up the glass and faked taking a sip; the sensation of the beer almost made her gag. The man stunk, the beer was undrinkable, she was starving, and now she was pissed off and frustrated. She got up and left the place, leaving change on the bar. Several blocks away, Barbra realized she'd been followed. She shook her head in exasperation: she'd been careless with the money and drawn attention to herself. That was dumb. She walked into a dim alleyway and waited. Three people came after her. One was a big guy, another was a smallish dude wearing a ball cap, and the last was a hard-looking woman, with long hair and a leather jacket. They all reeked of thug. On a whim Barbra decided to allow herself to be 'robbed'. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the money, extending it in front of her. She could always get more. "Here. Now leave me alone." It was a fair warning, she felt. The woman walked forward and took the money, smirking. She stuck the money in her pocket, sneered and said, "Smart girl." Barbra got annoyed with the woman, her stomach churning. She snapped, "Fuck you." She could feel blood moving in their bodies. It made her shake. The big guy moved forward and grabbed her shirt. He grinned, a big evil grin, and pawed her breasts through her clothes. The woman laughed. Barbra rolled her eyes. "You can quit that." He didn't stop, and then Barbra lost control of herself. It happened so fast she couldn't keep track of what she was doing, and it was as if another person in her erupted. That person, the other Barbra, exploded. ...and she was someone else, transformed. She felt completely different. She wasn't sure how to handle it. It was all very new. She could sense the blood pounding in the trio, and had a... what should she call it? A craving? A lust? She almost giggled: it was ridiculous. She smiled. Her own smile jarred her. She tried to lick her lips. As soon as she did she jumped in shock: her teeth had changed. Bizarre; she had sharp teeth, canines. This was brand new. She suddenly remembered the pale woman and how her face had changed. She was that. She'd been denying it, but she was. She laughed nervously, trying to get control of herself. She couldn't, and down deep she maybe didn't want to. Then the big man reached out his other hand and touched her face. Barbra recoiled without thinking and slapped his hand away. The man shouted out, and the noise made her jump in her shoes. She looked down at his limb, and it was dangling at a weird angle, his fingers spasming. She'd broken his arm with a simple swat. Barbra laughed, more in shock than anything else, a deep, 'huh-huh!' sound from down in her throat, the kind of laugh people had when they were surprised, not amused. The man staggered back, eyes rolling in total confusion. He looked her over, and Barbra was suddenly able to see inside his mind, and knew the guy thought she'd hit him with a weapon of some kind. The damage was something that would happen with a vicious hit from a baseball bat. Or cricket bat. Barbra examined her emotions, quickly: she didn't feel bad at all. Not even a little bit. She felt nothing about the man's injury or obvious fear. Before, before the change, she would have been appalled at the violence, but now... now the man was nothing and she had no empathy for him at all. She knew why, too: he wasn't like her, and never would be. She stepped forward, extremely excited, and in a sort of test, wound up a balled fist; she hit the man in the chest as hard as she could, not knowing what to expect. She felt his sternum crack and his ribs separate. Right after that she felt his heart stop. His blood pumped a little, and then he fell over like a cut tree, landing on his back without even bending at the waist. Barbra stared down in astonishment. She'd killed him. With one punch. It was absurd, cartoonish, and Barbra laughed uproariously, unable to control it, a jumping, staccato outburst: "Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!" The noise echoed in the alley, then died like the big man. She regarded the body, looking down and tilting her head from side to side. She didn't feel anything bad at all, certainly no guilt, just a sense of finality and a beginning exhilaration. The blood from the other two pounded in her senses, and right then she knew what she wanted, what she needed. She was starving and it was time. It was time. She was going to do what she needed to do. She stepped to the now bug-eyed woman on her right. This time she moved so fast one of her shoes flew off. She snarled, and made a noise like she never believed could come from a human being, much less herself, and ripped the woman's throat out with her teeth without bothering to use her hands. Barbra gulped in the blood, lapping it up like some drunken slob eating slop from a bowl, or like a dog gobbling food... like a starving animal. The taste and sensation was beyond amazing, far past exquisite, and she couldn't control herself at all. She swallowed as rapidly as she could, sucking and biting and licking. The woman shook and shuddered, vibrating, arms thrashing wildly. Barbra didn't bother touching her with her fingers or hands, but she clenched her fists, and felt long claws extend from her fingertips. Blood gushed down her chest, soaking her clothes. She gulped another mouthful, then let go, excess blood slobbering down her chin, and turned to look at the third person, the last man. He had turned and was running away. Barbra heard the dead woman she'd bled out drop behind her as she went to chase the last one. She decided to catch him, and when she moved it was so fast it sucked the oxygen from her lungs: she'd actually moved too fast to breathe. She was on him instantly, and grabbed his hair, her hands shaking from excitement and breathlessness. Not bothering with any finesse or anything special she stabbed into his throat with her long claws, ripped out, and slammed her mouth on his neck, gulping powerfully before getting so full she felt almost sick. Barbra dumped him on the cobblestones, splattering blood across the pavings. The body's neck pumped out, making a large, dark puddle of thick blood. Barbra tried to wipe her mouth off, but she was so coated in blood it just smeared. Her clothes were soaked through all the way down her waist. She felt rivulets of blood inside her jeans, and felt blood soak into her panties, into her womanly crevices; the feeling stimulated her. She was trembling violently. She stood for a few seconds, until her shaking stopped, then headed out of the alley; on her way, she carefully and squarely stepped into a puddle of blood. She noticed her feet were bare: she'd lost her other shoe from the rush to the last man. She laughed quietly, feeling a sense of great accomplishment and the half-drunken sensation of being well fed with an excellent meal. Barbra strolled away into the dark, smiling to herself. She'd done it. As she walked she felt something building in her bottom half, and it increased as she moved her legs: she was, honestly, sexually aroused. And not just a little: a lot. Blood was vibrating in her body and especially in her lower regions. After a very brief bit she felt like she was on fire, and would explode if she didn't do something about it. She finally put a hand in her pocket and touched herself as she walked, unable to stop it, but it didn't help. She was too wound up. Barbra suddenly had the thought, "Is this normal?" She just as suddenly had the thought that she had no precedent for what may or may not be the 'normal' of her present condition, or state of being, or whatever it was she had become. Thinking, she stopped in a doorway; her appearance had to be ghastly to people, and she couldn't see herself in window reflections. She put her hood up. She felt quickly with her tongue; her teeth were gone, retracted? And so were her claws. But she was covered in blood and had no idea how to see herself, to clean it up. "This is going to be a problem," she said, out loud. She shrugged off her hood and looked around; it was chilly, she knew, but the cold didn't bother her at all; she was, if anything, burning up, and really sexually horny. Seriously horny; but she had to clean up, first. She thought. While she was standing in the doorway a man exited a building across the street; he was young and well-dressed, probably a guy out for a night on the town. He wasn't half-bad looking, with dark, tousled hair, some fashionable stubble, and an angular face. He was wearing a suit jacket and a scarf. He looked like a hip musician. Barbra studied him, and stepped out of the doorway slightly. The motion caught the man's eye and he looked. As soon as their eyes met Barbra knew she didn't have to clean herself up. She simply willed the guy to her. It was much stronger than anything she'd done before. She couldn't describe it, would never be able to describe how she did it, but it's what she did. As soon as she could see his eyes she could make him do anything for her, sexually; and she knew what she wanted. He walked across the street to her and said, "Do I know you?" He didn't even look at her blood-covered body. Barbra said, "You're about to." She indicated his building with her head, keeping his eyes locked on hers. "Is anyone else home?" He shook his head, making his hair swish a little. "No." Barbra smiled and said, "Good. Let's go inside." The guy's eyes glazed slightly and he said, quietly, "Okay." She led him by the hand across the street, walking backwards, keeping their eyes together until she was sure he couldn't let go. She told him to throw his phone down the street. Then she willed him to unlock the door and get them inside. Then something weird happened: Barbra couldn't go inside. She couldn't force herself into the man's home. She held onto his hand and thought frantically. She asked, "Are you going to invite me in?" The really strange part was she couldn't will him to ask her. His mind was gone, on that subject, and she realized he was going to actually have to want to invite her inside, of his own free will. She couldn't persuade him. She waited, anxiety and frustration growing while she got more and more sexually aroused. The man shook his head, like he was getting rid of something, then murmured, "Yes. Please come in." She exhaled in frantic relief, and they walked up a flight of steps, Barbra leading. She could see her feet leaving smeared residue on the treads. In the apartment, she willed the guy to take off his clothes. She watched as his nicely-shaped and nicely-sized cock got hard and throbbing. She willed him to turn around in a circle, and she liked his ass and back; he had a decent physique. He had a stupid tattoo on his shoulders, but she didn't mind it. The main room of the apartment had a guitar stand, a futon, a TV. A cheap potted plant. Posters. She decided to name him: 'Music'. Barbra shed her clothes and dropped them in a squishing, flopping pile directly on a fuzzy-looking rug, then grabbed the guy's hair and kissed him. Blood smeared all over his face, and Barbra stopped briefly and licked and kissed some of it off. Then she dumped Music down to sit on a futon, and straddled over him. She heard him gasp and felt him put his hands on her body, tracing the intricate designs in her skin. Music murmured, "You're so beautiful." She didn't bother with foreplay; she was far too wet to need it. She grabbed Music's cock with her hand, put him where she needed him, and slammed down, filling herself. He bucked and gasped. Barbra gauged how rough she could get without causing damage; she had to be careful not to kill him or break his neck or anything. She felt her teeth pop out again, and her claws extend, but she felt no need to, she thought, "Fuck him up." She wanted sex, not blood. She grabbed the sides of his face and gazed directly into his eyes; they were brown and big, with feminine lashes. Barbra knew there was no possibility of Music hurting her; so she said, willed into him, "Fuck me. Hard. As hard as you can." Music did it, energized by her will. He clenched her waist and slammed up into her body, fucking her brutally, with all his human energy. As hard as it was it was barely adequate, and Barbra felt herself get frustrated. She willed him not to come until she let him. She fucked him, feeling his cock slip into her, again, then felt his warm, human hands on her waist, clutching and fucking. He bent her back, into the room, kissed her, and went down on his knees. He held her ass off the floor with his hands and flopped her shoulders on the fuzzy rug. Music grasped her hips and pounded her hard and fast, exhaling with each thrust, swearing under his breath. Barbra kept his eyes fixed on hers while he moaned, "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." She reached up a clawed hand and decided to leave a souvenir: she dug two nails into his shoulder and drew blood. Music shouted out and pressed her down, fucking. He reached out and mauled her breasts, flicking and pinching her inflamed nipples, dragging his hands across her blood-smeared bosom. He moved one hand to her face, grabbing her chin, and clenched her ass with the other, fucking her savagely and cursing. She willed him to use all his strength, and felt his cock pounding in her. She heard herself snarling in an animal outburst. Barbra made herself come: she brought her claw down from Music's shoulder and licked off the blood, openly displaying herself doing it, lapping her tongue around her fingers. She saw a gleam of fear and some other, unknown emotion in his eyes when she did it. It put her over the edge and she orgasmed, hard. She bucked and gasped and screamed, once, loudly, and wrapped her legs around Music's waist. She let go of him with her hands, not trusting herself, and ripped up the rug. When she was done she locked onto his eyes, and willed him to come inside her. Music groaned and gasped, fucking her and bursting out, "Huh! Huh!" shooting come inside her. Music Barbra was shocked by it: she could feel it, the warmth and fluidity; she'd never been able to feel come inside her before. This time she felt her body suck it up; when Music sat back and flipped out of her, his come was gone: her body had absorbed it. Music swayed on the floor, smeared in blood, sweating. Barbra left him there, keeping him trapped for the time being, while she went in the antique bathroom and showered in a clawfoot tub. She watched blood swirl down the drain like the PSYCHO shower scene. She stepped out, dried off, and wiped herself off carefully. She saw woman's stuff in a basket on the top of the toilet. Music had a girlfriend. She shook her head; too bad. She wasn't a part of any of that anymore, although the girlfriend wouldn't see it that way. Thinking, she searched briefly for a bedroom, and found a laundry basket with female clothes in it. They were too big, but she got dressed in them anyway, a skirt, shirt, and jacket. She found a pair of flipflops and slipped her toes onto them. She walked into the main room, and for a while watched Music moan and sway, kneeling on the floor. She looked around in his mind and found his girlfriend; she was named Felicia. Barbra felt a little bad. It wasn't really his fault. Although, the incident at the door, him inviting her inside to fuck her... that hadn't been under her control. He'd made that decision by himself. She decided to be nice anyway, and told him, "This is a dream." She wasn't sure what he could say about the claw injuries, but she knew they didn't look like fingernail scratches. He was on his own with that. Barbra willed Music to clean up and shower, then willed him to collect his clothes and get dressed. She sent him on his way, and watched as he walked down the street, an hour late for a date with Felicia. When he was almost out of sight she let him go and disappeared from his mind. She gathered up the bloody clothes in the rug, sacklike, and trotted down the stairs, back into the chilly streets. A few blocks away she dumped the rug and contents into a dumpster, or tip or whatever they called it here. A few more blocks and she heard police sirens: someone had found the bodies. Barbra walked down the sidewalk, and started swinging her arms, singing a tune under her breath, feeling endless energy. She'd done it; and, she had hours of amazing, lovely darkness to explore in, to gallivant. She could go anywhere, do anything. She thought she might go to a club and do some dancing, she was so exhilarated. She decided to do that, and stopped a well-dressed man who got out of a cab. "Hello," she said, and looked into his eyes. He gave her a wad of cash out of his wallet and walked away. She got into the cab. She knew she didn't appear in the rear-view mirror, so she told the cabbie to look at her. He did it. "Take me to a dance club," she ordered. "A nice one." The cab pulled away, into the sparkling city lights. Barbra felt wonderful. Music There had been a violent storm overnight and I'd been called out for emergency services. A tree had come down on a house and we had to get the people out and put up some temporary coverings on what was left of the roof to prevent what damage we could. Then there were the two trees on the road that we had to get off the road. And it was wet and cold. Fortunately I was in a position that I could sleep in the next day and I swore I wouldn't be out of bed before noon. Typically, the day after the storm was beautiful. The sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky and the temperature was already climbing, promising a nice hot day. I observed all this at the ungodly hour of nine, hours before I wanted to be awake. Why was I awake at nine instead of sleeping the sleep of the valiant and righteous? Well, for a start, the bed seemed to be shaking. The windows were rattling. The whole house seemed to have the nervous jitters. Earthquake, you suggest? I wish. It was, for want of a better name, music. Teeth grinding, nerve rattling, headache generating music. Imagine a full orchestra playing the 1812 overture, with cannons, in your bedroom while you're trying to sleep. It would have been preferable to the soul shattering din I was getting. Quite frankly, if the bass got any louder I think my windows would all have shattered. I was surprised to find they hadn't. "Ah," I thought to myself. "The MacKenzies have gone out, leaving Amanda at home alone." There was no way known Amanda would play music at that volume if her parents were at home. Her father would have walked around putting his foot through every speaker in the house and considered the cost justified. Amanda likes loud music. She has been asked, told, ordered, threatened, to keep the volume down, but she does tend to forget on occasions. Like this morning. If I wanted quiet I'd have to go over there and request it. Don't get me wrong. Amanda is a nice girl apart from this quirk. She's around nineteen, dark haired, brown eyed, reasonable figure, reasonably pretty. And she's not hard of hearing so she doesn't need the music at that volume. I dragged myself out of bed, had a quick shower, threw on some clothes and went next door, feeling justifiably resentful. I rang the doorbell, which was polite, but a bit of a joke. Who could hear it over the music? Checking the door I found it unlocked, opened it, and walked in. The main blast of music seemed to be coming from the front room so I walked on in, intending to turn it off and speak to Amanda when she came running. It turned out I wouldn't have to wait for Amanda as she was already in the front room, doing exercises or something, in time to the music. Amanda had her back to me. From what I could see she was wearing an abbreviated one-piece gym costume that had to have been sewn onto her body, it looked so tight. I mentioned that she had a reasonable figure. I have to amend that. In that outfit she had a damn fine figure. I called out to her but she couldn't hear me. My voice just blended into the raucous cacophony of sound blasting from the speakers. She was definitely going to deafen herself. I was about to walk around in front of her so she could see me, but then she changed her exercise routine or dance or whatever the hell she was doing. Have you ever seem videos of girls twerking? It's sexually stimulating, what with that squatting stance and those hip movements that have their bottoms bouncing happily. That's what Amanda started doing, going into a nice squat and humping away without a partner. It would embarrass her to be caught doing that sort of thing so I didn't walk around to where she could see me. Instead, I moved up behind her and put out my hand, palm up. Timing it right, Amanda twerked her bottom sharply downward just as my hand slid into place, with the result that the slapped her pudenda fairly and squarely onto my hand, which naturally curved to cover all the area. That thin outfit she was wearing let me feel the heat of her right through the material. As you might expect, finding herself slapping her pussy against a man's hand came as something of a shock to her. She promptly lifted up off my hand with a shriek I heard over the music. I should point out that she didn't lift her pussy up off my hand immediately, because my hand followed her upward movement, keeping contact. Contact was only broken when she made a leap forward, landed on the couch, and curled up into a ball. I took the chance to step over to the stereo and hit the off switch, feeling the blessed calm of silence descend. "Morning, Amanda," I said. She stared at me for a moment, slowly letting recognition filter through her stunned mind. "You, you. . ." she stuttered. "My god, I thought I was going to be raped and murdered. This is it, I told myself. I'm dead. And it's just you, you evil pervert. What the hell do you think you're doing?" She might have started with a stutter, but she finished with a furious shriek. "I'll tell you what I'm not doing," I countered. "I'm not home in bed after a hard night out with the emergency services. And do you know why I'm not home in bed? That's right. Your perpetual noise machine." "All you had to do was knock and ask me to turn it down. Have you heard of phones? They let you send messages without even leaving the house." "I did knock," I pointed out. "I did phone. No answer. I stood behind you and yelled your name and you didn't hear me from three paces away. So I touched you to attract your attention." "You call that touching?" "Well, yes. You felt it, didn't you? Why on earth did you have the music that loud? You know you've been asked repeatedly not to use volumes that interfere with the neighbours. You're going to damage your own hearing as well as get in trouble with the law. I could easily file a nuisance complaint about you." "I just like loud music sometimes, and you're changing the subject. You goosed me. You sexually assaulted me." "If you like loud music then I suggest you get some actual music. What was coming out of your speakers was pure noise without a shred of musical meaning. And I didn't goose you. I just held out my hand and you sat on it." "Oh! That is such a lie. You deliberately poked me there knowing how I'd react. You wanted me to think I was going to be attacked. You deliberately tried to scare me. And just because you've got old fashioned taste in music doesn't mean I have." "You worry too much about sex. Too much effort for me to try and rape you. You're just trying to turn the subject away from your excessive noise, and the fact that you have been told about it before. I just feel I'm entitled to sleep after being up all night with emergency work." "Oh, I'm so sorry you can't sleep your life away, but it is daytime. And just what do you mean, too much effort?" "Geez, you do seem to be fixated on sex," I grumbled. I took a couple of quick steps towards her and grabbed her ankles before she could move. With a quick jerk I lifted them high, leaving her sprawled on her back on the couch. "To get anywhere," I pointed out, poking her in a sensitive spot, "I'd have to get past this thing you've got sewn on. As far as I can tell the only way to get it off would be to ask you to wait here while I went and found a pair of scissors." "This thing, as you call it, is a leotard, and they peel off very easily. If anyone tried to cut it they'd owe me for a new one and a good one isn't cheap. And you had no right to poke me there." "Are you asking me to peel it off?" I asked as I released her ankles and stepped back. "Tempting, as I want to spank you, and a spanking is always better on a bare bottom." "Spank me? What for? What did I do? You wouldn't dare." "What did I do?" I mimicked. "The excessive noise thing, remember? You have been warned that there would be consequences if you kept on doing it. And what on earth was that simulated sex dance you were doing?" "You've always implied that the consequences would be deafness, not spankings," she practically snarled back at me. "And it's not a simulated sex dance. It's called twerking. Everyone does it. It's a great slimming exercise for the hips." "Really? Have you ever tried doing it while straddling a boy? I can guarantee he wouldn't be getting slimmer in certain parts of his anatomy." "You're disgusting. The music's off, so feel free to go away." "But we haven't finished discussing the consequences," I pointed out. "You know. Something like that spanking you don't want." "Just what are you getting at?" "Well, you probably can't tell because I smile a lot, but I am really, really cross with you. You've been warned a number of times in the past but it doesn't seem to sink in. So this time there's going to be a penalty. Your parents aren't here to administer one so I guess it's up to me. I'll give you a choice, being a nice chap and all that. You can take off that leotard and I'll put you across my knee and paddle your backside while you squirm about and hope I don't finish off by ravishing you." I put a nice rolling R on the ravishing, raising my eyebrows a couple of times while I did so. "Or," I continued, "you can take off that leotard, push me flat on my back and ravish me, twerking style. I won't resist." "You don't seriously think I'm going to take off my leotard, do you?" I just waited, saying nothing while she glared at me. "And what on earth gave you the idea that I'd sit on you and have sex with you?" She sounded peeved. "Well, there's this," I said, taking her hand and pressing it against me, letting her see that I was ready for her. "It keeps sending me suggestions. Plus you were twerking very enthusiastically and you've got sex on your mind. Right now you're starting to wonder what it would be like to straddle me and take me. Have you ever been on top before, doing all of the running, so to speak, the man just lying there and having to take whatever you dish out, him not being allowed to do anything? You have total control." Her hand closed over me and held me for a moment before she hurriedly snatched it away, blushing. "Just what do you think I am?" she demanded. "Over-dressed, for a start. Both options require the removal of your leotard. Why don't you take it off? With that done you might find it easier to decide which option you want." "Damned if I will." "Spanked if you won't," I calmly replied. "If you don't, I'll have to, and if I have to I'll go right ahead with the spanking and you'll have to hope I leave it at that. So, may I suggest you remove it, now?" She looked mutinous but it was slowly sinking in that I actually meant it. Muttering under her breath she did a little bit of twisting and tugging and the leotard just came sliding off. Damned if I saw how she did it. There didn't seem to be any zips or press seams. Maybe it was just all elasticized material. "Ah, those too," I said, nodding to indicate her bra and panties. Again I was mystified by women's clothing. I hadn't noticed any panty-line under the leotard. The bra straps I'd noticed, so I guess I wasn't completely blind. She gave me a look that should have raised blisters, decided that seeing she'd gone this far she might as well continue, and stripped off her bra and panties. I thought that I'd had an erection earlier, looking at her twerking. I was wrong. NOW I had an erection. She was sensational. I never knew her clothes covered such a fine figure. "So what are you going to do?" I asked, sounding genuinely interested. "Bend over so I can lay a spanking on that lovely tush of yours or push me to the ground and have your wicked way with me?" "I can't decide," she said, casting a disparaging eye at my groin. "What have you got to offer?" That was throwing it back at me. Nothing for it but to drop my trousers and let her see for herself. I suspected that I heard a tiny gasp as I dropped my gear, but you wouldn't know it from her face. "You have possibilities, I suppose," she said, "and I'm allergic to spankings. I suppose I can do something to get you off. It's not as though it's going to be a big job." Bitch, but I am nothing if not self-confident. Besides, her nipples were giving her the lie. They were giving a clear indication of sexual excitement. She sauntered over to me, placing her hands on my shoulders and pressing. I could take a hint. I stretched out on the carpet, while she settled down, straddling me. She didn't just plonk straight down onto my cock but, there again, I never really expected her to. She was straddling me across the lower stomach area, but she would have been feeling my erection pressing between us. I know I could feel her lips kissing it, and they were wet kisses at that. She was starting to breathe hard and was looking rather nervous as she raised herself slightly off me. My erection promptly rose with her, keeping contact, until she was just a little too high. I thought of offering to help her put it into place but decided that wouldn't be in the spirit of things. She was blushing fiercely as she reached between her legs, groping for and finding me. Not a real problem. Hard to miss something as big as I currently was. She lifted her bottom a little higher, and I could feel the head of my cock scraping along against her lips. She wriggled it slightly, seemed to be satisfied, and started to sink slowly down. I could feel myself penetrating her and had to resist the urge to give a nice hard push. Instead I just lay there, sweating and waiting, while she adjusted her position a couple of times, both times causing me to sink a little deeper. Then she was settling down, taking me fully into her. With me fully inside her she just sat for a moment, still blushing, head cocked a little to the side as though considering the matter. What's to consider, I was wondering. Start bouncing, damn it. When the pause went just that little bit too long I spoke up. "I can hum the Hallelujah Chorus if you need music," I offered. The offer was rejected. Perhaps she didn't like religious music or perhaps she thought it inappropriate for what we were doing. Still, she did start moving. She flexed her legs and wriggled her hips and started sliding slowly up and down my pole. She was breathing hard and biting her lips in concentration, bouncing slowly along, getting the feel for what we were doing. Well, for what she was doing, anyway. I was supposed to be the passive partner. She kept it going, nice and slow to start with, but then she was listening to her internal music and moving faster. She must have practised her little dance quite a bit because it wasn't long before she was bouncing along in fine style, using the same motions that I'd seen when I'd first entered the room, but now doing them with me filling a key role. She wasn't the only one breathing hard, either. My hands were practically clawing at the carpet as she slid up and down my shaft, exercising it to my growing torment. I wanted to roll over, taking her under me, and drive incessantly into her until my feelings were relieved. What I did was sweat, swear (silently), and let her do her thing. It was, I figured, a fine way for her to apologise for waking me with her music. I reached up, intending to take hold of her breasts, only to have my hands slapped aside. "No way," she snapped at me. "You said what I want goes. You have to just take what I give you." My silent swearing went up a notch. I should have just spanked and raped her. So much easier on my ego. I gritted my teeth, trying to last for the duration. I couldn't stand it if she was able to milk me dry and still be able to keep going. Whatever internal music was setting her rhythm, she must have decided to change records. She was moving faster, bouncing at a great rate, much to my personal distress. She suddenly slumped forward, lying on me, breasts crushed against me, bottom still franticly bobbing, giving out little wailing noises that were increasing in pitch. She was ripe for her climax and I was ripe for mine. Not that I had any say in the matter. One bounce too many with her passage closed tight around me and I blew my load, jerking involuntarily beneath her while she clung to me, her own climax ripping into her. She lay collapsed on top of me for a while. Not that I was complaining. She felt good. Eventually, however she rolled off with a sigh. Neither of us made any immediate attempt to stand up and get our clothes on. "Next time," I said when I was able to frame a coherent sentence, "I'll just paddle your backside then rape you. So much easier on my nerves." "I'll remember that," Amanda said. "Loud music equals consequences. I get it." I wasn't sure exactly who got it this time but I held my peace. I scrambled back into my clothes and departed. It's hard to retain your dignity when you're pulling on your pants and she's lying there naked and amused, but I managed. I wasn't amused when the music started up again at ten o'clock that night. Why the hell weren't her parents telling her to turn it down? Had they gone deaf? I went around, feeling put upon and gnarly. When I got there the front door was open and Amanda was leaning casually against the door to the front room. She was wearing what appeared to be a set of baby doll pyjamas that had shrunk in the wash. I just brushed straight past her and turned off the music, sighing with relief at the silence. "I think I should tell you that my parents are due home in about five minutes," she said with a smirk. "How much spanking and ravishing can you do in that amount of time?" "Not much," I admitted, walking back to her. "Fortunately, I have a solution." I bent over and scooped her up in a fireman's carry. "I think you'll find," I told her as I strolled back home, "that I will have longer than five minutes once we're inside. You can text your parents a message saying you've gone out unexpectedly and not to wait up for you." To emphasize my point I pulled her pyjama pants down and gave her bare bottom a friendly spank. Hey, it was night-time. No-one was going to see but me. She squealed (quietly) and wriggled (gently). After all, she couldn't risk too much fuss. Someone might notice.