I'm sure that by now you're sick and tired of all these smug
little notices authors of S&M and non-consentual sex stories have
been putting at the top of their files. But just in case you
aren't, here's another one:




                  WARNING!  WARNING!  WARNING!

         THIS STORY CONTAINS S&M AND NON-CONSENTUAL SEX
        IF YOU DON"T LIKE THIS SHIT, THEN DON'T READ IT!

                         END OF WARNING                           Nola38.txt

                       "The Cheerleaders"
                          By Curt Strap

                            PROLOGUE

     At age eight, in a patch of yellow clay surrounded by tall
grass, Curt was playing with matches. He was holding the flame
against the feet of his toy soldiers pretending he was making them
confess their secrets.
     When his mother came up behind him and yelled at him and
started beating him with the strap, it totally surprised him, so
that at first he didn't even cry. Then he started to wail as she
kept swinging the strap, yelling something about destroying
expensive toys. She dragged him by the arm and hit him as the same
time, pulling him up the steps to his bedroom, the strap attacking
his buttocks and legs. She threw him onto his bed and rolled him
over on his belly. She pulled down his jeans and underpants and
spanked him for a long time with her bare hand. The tears kept
coming after she went down the stairs and left him alone.
     He cried for a long time, even after his buttocks stopped
hurting, but finally his tears stopped. Gradually he started to
feel better. 
     He put his hand on his belly button. It felt warm and tickly,
and he tickled inside his belly button with his finger and it felt
real funny. He rubbed his stomach and looked at it. He reached
lower and touched down there. It felt all tingly too, more tingly
than his belly button, and he rubbed it and touched it all over and
it started to feel good. He began rubbing harder and harder, and
the good feeling got stronger and stronger until he couldn't sand
it and it felt better than anything he had ever felt and he almost
got dizzy and couldn't get his breath finally, when the whole room
spun and he was too weak to do it anymore. He lay on his back
feeling weak and funny. As if someone had just stopped tickling him
to death.
     Then he saw his mother standing in the doorway. Her face was
red and angry, somehow worse than just angry, like she couldn't
move or talk or anything or someone was choking her to death. When
she started yelling he couldn't move either and it was like his
dreams when the monsters came out of the closet and he was unable
to run or yell or cry. She kept yelling and he couldn't pull his
pants up or even move and he was more scared of his mother than he
was of the monsters. He knew she was going to beat him again and he
had never seen the disgusted look on her face before.
     "You are a dirty, disgusting little boy!"
     She pounced on him, turning him over, twisting his arms behind
him and slapping his bare buttocks. It hurt and it hurt more with
each smack until the pain blurred together in one solid hurt. She
kept whacking, panting and yelling. "Don't touch yourself there
ever again! You hear me?" emphasizing each word with a slap.
     He cried hard, the sobs hurting when they choked out, the hot
tears burning a path down his cheeks and soaking into the pillow.
                              * * *
     At age ten, his cousin Jenny sometimes came to babysit. Jenny
was twelve. The older boys liked to whistle at her or make noises
as she walked by, because she had shapely long legs and voluptuous
buttocks and prematurely large breasts that stuck way out thrusting
the outline of their nipples against the thin fabric of the t-
shirts she wore purposely to attract the boys' attention. 
     Every time she showed up to babysit, she brought her
schoolbooks for homework. Always in between the notebooks were sexy
magazines that she looked at rather than study.
     The boy knew that these magazines contained pictures of naked
men and women. He had peeked at them and the pictured had excited
him to the point where he wanted to do the thing that felt good.
Sometimes he gave in and did it secretly in the bathroom even
though he knew what would happen if his mother found out. He always
felt guilty and ugly and mean afterward.
     While he was playing or doing his own homework on the floor,
Jenny would sit at the dining table sipping Coke and munching
potato chips and looking at her dirty magazines. Sometimes she
would get a funny glazed look in her eyes. The boy wished he could
get hold of those magazines and have them for himself to examine
thoroughly from cover to cover for as long as it pleased him.
     He always liked to peek at her long white legs sprawled out
under the table, her shorts tightened to the curvature of her
buttocks.
     One she looked in his direction and caught him looking and
they both got embarrassed. But she didn't tell his mother.
                              * * *
     The next time she came to babysit he tried hard not to look at
her but he couldn't drive the excitement out of his mind. When she
arrived she was wearing a long loose dress. His head turned
involuntarily to look at Jenny. Her eyes met his. She had a very
strange expression on her face. He thought she would yell at him
but she didn't.
     "What's the matter?" he asked finally.
     "N..nothing," she replied. But in the silence that followed he
became sure that something was bothering her.
     "You know you mother told me to give you a bath tonight," she
said at last. "And since it's your bedtime now, it's also time for
you to have your bath. Before your mother comes home."
     "You never gave me my bath before. I can do it myself."
     "She told me to make sure you do it right."
     "I never heard her tell you that."
     "What's the matter?" Jenny teased. "Are you ashamed to let a
girl see you nude?"
     The idea both excited and embarrassed him. In a way, he wanted
her to see his nakedness because then something might happen though
he didn't know exactly what. Jenny had a strange look in her eyes
and his whole skin felt tight with the awareness that they were on
the verge of doing something terribly naughty.
     She came toward him and placed her hand on his shoulder. "I'll
start the bath water," she said. "You go to your room and get
undressed."
     While taking his clothes off the anticipation of whatever was
going to happen built inside him to a fever pitch. Feeling the cool
air of the hallway caressing his bare skin, he pranced into the
bathroom as if no one were waiting for him there. He was surprised
and excited to see that she had removed the long dress and was
wearing tight shorts and a skimpy halter top. Without speaking, she
watched him lower his slender body into the tub. His pubic area was
still almost hairless. The girl looked at his genitals. He felt a
current between them and his heard was pounding, his temples
throbbing.
     She took the bar of soap and rubbed her wet palms together to
make lather. She began soaping his chest, her fingers massaging
with strong circular motions, setting him on fire. She was kneeling
beside the tub, her face and neck perspiring, and the neckline of
her top allowed him to see glimpses of almost all of her breasts
except for the nipples.
     "We have to get everything clean," she said, and reached under
the water to rub a soapy hand over his genitals.
     He leaned back in the tub and tried not to think of where she
was touching him. She went from soaping it to just holding it. Then
she cupped her hand around his balls, and he could feel that her
fingers were no longer very soapy. She looked him in the eyes,
making sure he didn't mind what she was doing. It was standing up
and she was moving her thumb and fingers back and forth on it,
squeezing it, experimenting with the way it looked and felt. The
wild feeling was welling up inside him till he felt the pleasurable
sensations that would make him explode.
     Then, a recurring nightmare. His mother was suddenly before
him, shattering his moment of delicious pleasure. She burst into
the bathroom, flinging open the door so hard that it banged against
the wall. Her face was a mask of rage and triumph.
     "Well, Jenny! So this is how you act when you think no one
will catch you. I saw your filthy magazines downstairs. Well, I'll
teach you what happens to sinners in this house!"
     She made the boy get out of the bathtub and dry himself but
ordered him not to dress. Then she pushed Jenny ahead of her into
her bedroom and, threatening to tell the girl's mother if she did
not obey, ordered her to remover her shorts and panties and top and
lie face down on the bed. The boy was ordered to stand naked in the
corner and learn a lesson while his mother beat Jenny with the
strap.
     The naked girl screamed with each blow, her round full
buttocks writhing and leaping and turning bright red, her sex in
plain view between her legs, squirming and peeping from between the
bare white thighs. Again and again the strap cut the air and
cracked savagely against bare flesh; the girl yelling and writhing
in torment; her buttocks welted.
     The boy began to perspire heavily. His heartbeat ran wild and
his brain throbbed. There was a tight dry sensation in his throat.
His eyes remained riveted to the frightening yet stimulating
spectacle.
     Jenny had stopped yelling and was not whimpering and moaning,
her face wet with tears. She no longer writhed so ferociously, but
merely wriggled and undulated, almost erotically. The boy knew she
had moved beyond the initial stages of pain to a point where all
the hurts blended together as he experienced when he was spanked.
He had an urge to take the strap from his mother and aid in beating
the girl. This would show that he agreed with his mother that
sinners must be punished for their sins. But he didn't dare follow
his impulse. The fear that next the strap would be turned on him
was too strong...
     Later, when Jenny was pushed out of the house crying, he was
sent to his room. In the middle of the night he tossed and turned
fitfully, tortured by strange dreams.
     But thereafter, for him sexual arousal was linked with pain
and the memory of lacerated buttocks and twitching vaginas under
the screaming agony of the strap.
                             * * * 
     At age eleven, he liked to play school as long as he got to be
the teacher. Two neighbour girls, sisters aged eight and ten,
became his playmates. When they failed tests he gave, he had to
spank them. He liked to make his tests very difficult so he got to
do the spanking often.
     The older girl was tall and skinny. It was not much fun to
punish her; he would simply spank her over her clothes, without
enthusiasm. But the younger girl was cute and plump; her full,
fleshy buttocks were intensely fascinating, reminding him of the
time his mother had used the strap on Jenny.
     One day, the eight-year-old obeyed when he told her to take
down her panties; he felt deep pleasure while paddling her with his
hand on her bare resilient flesh. This act was repeated many times
when the three children played. The tall, skinny sister would watch
while he punished the younger, better looking one.
     Once, after he spanked the younger girl, she let him see her
genitals, turning around coyly and showing off, giggling. Not to be
outdone, the older sister took down her panties and showed hers.
When they dared him to show his, he obliged. They touched and
examined his stiff penis with great interest. 
     Incited by the older sister, he made the younger girl strip
completely naked. Then he began spanking her again, much harder
this time. The girl bawled and screamed hysterically. The older
girl just smiled.
                              * * *
     Through his teenage years, his urge to punish girls was almost
completely unsatisfied. He furtively collected books and magazines
with stories and pictures of spanking and whipping. He was
interested in the tortures of the Inquisition. He collected photos
of female buttocks. He even risked pinching women who inadvertently
rubbed against him in crowds.
     He had recurring dreams of dozens of nude women crouched on
all fours like animals, in chains, at his mercy. He beat and
lacerated their buttocks with knotted whips. In bed at night he
often tossed and turned, waking up in a cold sweat, remembering
images of himself attacking women, whipping their buttocks and
bellies, torturing their breasts. In his subconscious mind, as he
slept, visions of rape and torture were common. When awake, he
regarded these obsessive fantasies with horror and dismay and felt
ashamed and guilty.
                              * * *

     At age eighteen, he tried intercourse with a prostitute for
the first time. She was a well-built, attractive girl but he was
worried and nervous. She worked on him with her hands, lips and
tongue but nothing could produce an erection.
     "Maybe you'd like to spank me?" she suggested finally. 
     He was startled, wondering if maybe something about him had
telegraphed his fantasies.
     She lay down across the bed, giving him an enticing view of
her wriggling naked buttocks which were very firm and pale. He sat
up and stared, fascinated, until sexual excitement welled up inside
him. He hit her with his hand.
     "You can spank me harder," she encouraged. "Do it as hard as
you want to, as long as you only use your hand."
     He laid into her, hitting her so hard it stung his palm and
her buttocks turned rosy red. She squirmed and moaned, adding to
his excitement. By the time he had administered a couple of dozen
strokes, he had a throbbing erection. He rolled the girl over and
shoved himself into her and had intercourse with a powerful orgasm.
     After that he regularly visited prostitutes who would let him
spank them. But, after awhile, merely spanking failed to arouse him
sufficiently. While spanking naked flesh, he had to imagine himself
doing worse things like hanging them by their thumbs and biting
into them with a spiked whip. He didn't tell them what was going on
in his mind. He continued spanking until he was ready and anxious
to penetrate them with his organ, punishing them. 
     He loved to pin the girls under him, crushing them with his
body, wedging himself between their soft vulnerable thighs, making
them writhe and scream with each thrust of his cruel weapon in a
delicious agony of pleasure and pain.
                              * * *
     At age fifty, he was six feet tall and weighed over three
hundred pounds with a disgusting huge beer belly. His hair and
beard were coarse and filthy, his teeth were broken and rotting,
his greyish complexion erupting in pimples. 
     His peverted urges still plagued him.                            Chapter 1

     On a bright afternoon in mid-September, twelve cheerleaders in
full uniform; short blue skirts and matching panties and tunics
that exposed their bellies, silver batons, and white knee-high
boots; posed for photographs on the steps of the school.
     The girls were keyed-up, their chatter frequently erupting
into laughter or mischievous giggles. They were making a chore out
of having their pictures taken. The photographer sweated profusely
behind the portrait camera mounted on a tripod, his head and
shoulders enshrouded by a heavy black focusing cloth that had
become damp and sticky from his own perspiration.
     The photographer was aware that he did not look his best this
afternoon. His clothes were rumpled and his reddish hair was a mess
from sweating behind the camera. 
     Standing a few feet away from the camera was Nola Augustine,
age 37, the instructor and choreographer for the cheerleaders. She
was supervising the girls.
     "Ready," she asked as the photographer ducked out from under
the black cloth and used the back of his hand to wipe perspiration
from his freckled forehead.
     Most of the girls were settled by three or four were still
clowning. One of the mis-behavers, Tashia Augustine, Nola's
daughter, a pretty blonde used the end of her baton to goose the
girl in front of her as she was kneeling down. Tashia straightened
and acted innocent as Lisa jumped and shrieked, exaggerating her
own reaction.
     Lisa spun around in mock anger and yelled "Tashia Augustine!
You cut that out!" and grinned.
     Tashia replied coyly; everybody aware she was lying and
therefore giggling. "It wasn't me, it was Jenny."
     Tashia, Jenny and Lisa were close friends, together in
everything including mischief. Jenny, a tall blonde, one of the
most beautiful of the cheerleaders went along with the gag by
delivering a plea of innocence.
     "Me? I didn't do anything. I was minding my own business.
Honest. Ms. Augustine, I'm falsely accused."
     The formation was broken now as the cheerleaders who had been
obediently holding the pose got up and began complaining and
rubbing cramped arm and leg muscles.
     The photographer gave Nola a look that did not hide his
dismay. It pissed him off. The little bitches needed discipline.
     "Now, girls!" Nola looked directly at Tashia and Lisa. I'm
sure you don't want to be sweltering in the sun all afternoon and
neither do I. Fun is fun, but there's a limit. And you're making
the photographer all hot and bothered." She smirked at the man.
     This brought another whoop of laughter from the cheerleaders.
The photographer grimaced uncomfortably, embarrassed by their
laughter. Nola waited for a near quiet, before continuing.
     "Let's get this over with and get on with the practice."
     After Nola's speech, the cheerleaders sobered and began to
pose properly. Nola moved through their ranks, repositioning some
girls slightly and improving the group pose. At last she stepped
back behind the photographer and the camera, saying, "We're finally
ready, Now smile, girls and try to show how proud you are to be
cheerleaders."
     Under the cloth the photographer triggered the shutter for the
official picture. During the setup he had managed to take quite a
few strategic shots of panties, breasts and buttocks.
                              * * *
     The cheerleaders were practising on the field under Nola
Augustine's supervision. They had changed out of their uniforms.
Most of the girls wore shorts and halters, their lithe bodies
tanned. Nola Augustine wore a yellow sunsuit that complemented her
blond hair and blue eyes; she was an attractive woman who seemed
the fulfilment of the promise implicit in the blossoming beauty of
the girls she taught. 
     The cheerleaders were rehearsing a dance and baton routine.
Nola appraised their performance from the sidelines. They were not
doing all that well and she was going to tell them so.
     Hight up in the bleachers facing the field, a gross obese man
sat by himself taking a video tape of the rehearsal. On the bench
beside him was an open case containing unused tape. His left eye
was squinted shut, his shoulders hunched, his clothes grubby as he
filmed the practice.
     He got an overall shot of the entire formation then zoomed in
and focused on the cheerleaders. He zoomed in further and singled
out each girl for individual close-ups. The cheerleaders continued
to dance and do routine stunts with their batons while he kept
rolling off footage for later viewing.
     A loud coarse voice jolted his concentration.
     "All that ripe young pussy down their gets a guy going, don't
it?"
     Curt clicked the camera off and pulled it away from his face.
A stranger was sitting beside him, a dirty, middle-aged wino,
grinning and winking lewdly.
     "Thought I'd get up her and ask for a peek through your
cameras. Bet you can zoom in pretty tight with that, get a good
close-up of their asses."
     Curt eyed the man with interest. He was holding up a green
bottle in a brown bag, the bottleneck shiny with saliva. He was
unshaven, his hair greasy, his clothes stained and stinking of
sweat and urine. 
     "You were so hung up on all those legs and tits and young
asses down there, you didn't even see me coming." Guzzling, the
wino pulled the bottleneck out of his mouth with a sucking sound
and used the back of his hand to wipe the dribbles from his
stubbled chin. 
     "Showing off like that, those cuties deserve a good bare ass
spanking!" the man smirked at Curt. Then he let out a sarcastic
laugh and took a sloppy drink from the bottle, not bothering to
wipe his mouth.
     Curt scribbled a number on the back of a business card. "Give
me a call Friday night. Maybe we can sit and watch the video and
talk about some things that may be of mutual interest!"
      The drunk turned the card over and mouthed the words. Curt's
Photography. All types of photos taken. Passport photos in five
minutes.                            Chapter 2

     Sex is just a state of mind, Nola thought. Nothing more,
nothing less. A pleasant and yet painful state of mind. In fact,
more painful than pleasant.
     Who needs sex? Certainly not me, she thought. She was driving
home on Friday evening after treating herself to a steak in a local
restaurant, celebrating the end of another boring week of school.
     When she was a teenager, she had been hurt so badly in her
romantic endeavours that she wondered if she had a stamp on her
forehead telling guys to hurt her. From bitter experience, she knew
how easy it was for a woman to delude herself into thinking she had
found the right man, to enter into a bad relationship believing
that the power of love and understanding could make it into
something meaningful. All too often the ones who seemed to need
love and understanding the most were the ones least willing to
reciprocate. They fed off her energy and concern until the she was
as dead and empty as insects hanging in a spider's web.
     Nola did not want to be dead inside. She tried not to feel
dead inside. But she didn't want to be hurt again either. She now
looked at men as mere playthings to satisfy her ego. She did the
dumping and the hurting. 
     The light changed and she eased her big car through the
intersection. The sky was getting dark early; it was going to rain,
as the weather report had predicted.
     I'm a mature woman, she thought. I sure fixed that bastard
after the divorce. My only regret was I didn't dump that brat
Tashia on him as well. She gets in the way all the time; like
getting me involved in that stupid cheerleader thing.  
     I'll simply enjoy life without making something more out of
it, without making myself vulnerable. I'll do the hurting from now
on. Besides, sex between consenting adults is no longer frowned
upon, even by school boards. But what about between an adult and a
teenage boy? Well fuck them all. She was the principal with tenure
and a huge salary. Not that she needed the money; her ex-husband
was forced to provide everything; the beautiful expensive house and
all the rare antique furniture, the jaguar she was driving, over a
million in cash and investments and two grand a month for the brat.
     As Nola drove through the business district, heading toward
her house in the rich part of town, it started raining, a heavy
rain that looked like it would last all evening. She switched on
the windshield wipers, feeling good about the rain because it would
make staying home more palatable. The rain was making her decision
for her; maybe she could even work herself into a mood for some
teasing. It was coming down so hard that the sky was prematurely
dark, and she found that she needed to turn on the headlights.
     She didn't give a shit about the kid and she would not allow
herself to, she told herself. It was purely a matter of self-
discipline. Purely a state of mind. She learned that lesson from
her marriage. She would tease him until something better came along
then she would crush him like the stupid slug he was.
     As she drove the car through the security gate she smiled.                            Chapter 3

     In his darkened basement Curt set up the VCR to treat himself
and the wino to a viewing of the videos he had taken of the
cheerleader's practices.
     The man appeared so timid that Curt was worried about using
him but during the past several days his body odours had ripened
and that fit his plan. The man's complexion was blotchy like the
underbelly of rotting fish. He had the red watery eyes and broken-
veined nose of the long-term alcoholic. He didn't have any teeth.
His hair was filthy and matted. His gross belly hung over his belt
in greasy folds. His fat fat chest looked like an old hag with
hanging bra-less tits.
     Responding to the vile odour, Curt backed away from the man,
pinching both nostrils shut but then he assumed a friendly
expression, thinking to himself that he would have to get the
basement fumigated after they were finished. 
     "What's your name?" he inquired softly, forcing himself to
hold eye contact with the foul degenerate.
     "Jeremy," the man slurred.
     "I'll bet a man like you does pretty well with the women."
     At first, the drunk was surprised at the compliment. But he
recovered and smiled slyly, saying, "Well, I've been known to have
a little special fun with them. You know, spanking and stuff?" 
     Curt smiled, agreeing, and his tone got conspiratorial. "I'll
bet you have an enormous big cock, don't you, Jeremy?"
     Jeremy's pale, ravaged countenance cracked into a leering
grin. "You wanna see it?" he asked teasingly.
     "Maybe you'll get a chance to pull it out and use it later!"
     The wino stared, perplexed, unable to fathom why Curt would
say a thing like that. Then Jeremy's mouth widened, his eyes
darting wildly around the room and back to Curt, a sick smile
spreading over his face.
     Curt pressed the play button and the video started on the
fifty inch television screen.
     They saw the Augustine girl going through her lewd suggestive
routine. Her glossy, short-cropped sandy hair, tiny curved nose,
trim shapely body; all were beautiful to them. Her breasts were
small but uptilted, adequately filling her skimpy halter; even when
she wasn't smiling her lips usually were slightly parted,
especially when she was absorbed in something exciting like
dancing, giving a hint of a smile and making her seem vulnerable.
Her eyes were blue, her complexion clear, her demeanor self-
confident and enthusiastic. Long-legged, she danced in quick steps,
sure and graceful, her lithe firm buttocks undulating suggestively
under the soft cotton shorts. 
     They were overwhelmed with the sickening realization that all
the cheerleaders were young teases. They tormented and tantalized,
flaunting themselves disgustingly, making Curt remember his
mother's righteous wrath against such scandalous behaviour. 
     They were contaminated by wicked desire to exhibit their
flesh, giving Curt no choice but to punish the girls most severely.
Under the masks of sweetness and innocence they were vile inside. 
     The camera panned from Tashia to Nola Augustine, trapping her
in its probing, lens. She was doing a dance routine so the girls
could see the right way to shake their young bodies. The camera
zoomed in on Nola's flashing, taunting smile, long trim legs,
heaving bare belly, bouncing nipples under the teasing fabric of
her flimsy t-shirt, and surging buttocks under the short-shorts.
Her long auburn hair flew wildly hiding then revealing her clear
blue eyes and the hint of freckles across her cheeks.
     Then there was another shot of the girls, in a chorus line,
kicking their legs high, their breasts bouncing, their cute asses
writhing, emulating their teacher. 
     She, Curt realized, was the true agent of evil, corrupting
these young innocent girls by teaching them tempting mischief.
Well, the witch would pay for her evil deeds. She would pay with
her tantalising body. She would lick the balls and the ass crack of
that disgusting, smelly bum sitting beside him, after she was
suitably chastised, of course. 
     The tape gave him the inspiration he needed. It made sense, of
course. First the pupil, then the teacher. Watching Nola on the
huge TV screen in his basement, Curt was filled with a sense of
destiny and righteousness. He reached down and felt his erection
strong and throbbing and knew it was the sword of punishment.
     The wino stared at the erotic images flashing into his
diseased brain, intensely absorbed in the cheerleaders' sensuous
movements. He sat on the edge of the chair, his groin on fire, his
entire being alert and receptive, strangely excited like a bolt of
electricity was creeping slowly through the veins of his body.                            Chapter 4

     Jason couldn't find the two boys that had been with him in the
park. Somewhat guiltily, he was relieved to be free of them. His
thoughts turned to Nola, despite his efforts to the contrary. He
berated himself for being infatuated with the school principal.
     Jason wandered past the area where a music show was taking
place. He leaned on the rail to watch. He turned away suddenly,
aware as he turned that someone was standing next to him by the
railing.
     "Hello, Jason,"
     It was Nola. She was wearing blue jeans and a blue halter. He
was too caught up in her beauty and the sheer embarrassment and
excitement of being alone with her. Well, almost alone; the rest of
the people in the amusement park didn't count. Unrealistic hopes
that maybe somehow she could be interested in him were fanned to
life by the magic of her presence. At the same time, he could never
forget the last time he told her that he liked her and he could not
look at her without reliving the hurt and humiliation he had felt
when she had laughed at him.
     "I'm sorry for laughing at you," she told him.
     He didn't want her pity. He wanted her.
     They looked at each other in silence, each knowing the danger
of being together.
     "Want to walk with me? Someplace where we can be alone?" Nola
asked.
     "Sure...okay," Jason replied, swallowing his embarrassment,
feeling confused and tongue-tied, hardly daring to believe that she
really wanted to be with him.
      He found himself walking side by side with Nola, experiencing
a warm glow. 
     Beyond the picnic area, a path led up a high grassy hill and
through a thickly wooded are on the far side. Nola put her hand in
Jason's, leading the way with her long stride up the path.
     He was surprised to find no one around when they got to the
summit. They stood holding hands.
     Nola suddenly let out a whoop and flung out her arms, spinning
around until she plopped down on the carpet of grass. Lying flat on
her back, breasts uptilted, she sighed deeply and stared up at the
spectacular sky. Jason watched her, enjoying the look of her and
the feel of being with her, not sure of how he should behave. The
fact that they were alone in this setting unnerved him. He felt
pressured to make sexual advanced toward her, but he lacked the
skill and confidence. She rolled over on her side, propping herself
up on an elbow, her auburn hair glossy in the sun.
     "Come her, Jason, give me your hand. Relax and enjoy yourself.
Don't act so nervous."
     Jason sat beside Nola and took her hand. They looked into each
other's faces. She smiled. He was afraid for a moment that her
smile had a trace of mockery. 
     He did not know what to say; she seemed to be controlling him
somehow, manipulating his emotions, more than he felt any woman
ought to.
     He wanted to kiss her but still he felt pushed. Then she
pulled him down on top of her, squirming beneath him, arousing him,
her arm locked behind his head, making the contact last. Suddenly
she pushed him away harshly with both arms, rolling out from under
him, burying her face in her hands. "I can't do it!" she laughed.
     She had her back turned toward him. He stared at her,
confused, not knowing what she was doing to him or why. 
     "You're too easy," she said spitefully.
     She was looking up at him directly now, meeting his confusion
with her level gaze, still sitting crosslegged in the grass. He got
to his feet, not having any idea what to say or think and turned
away from her so she wouldn't see the strain in his face.
     "Look, little boy, leave me alone," she said with malice.
     Jason listened to her rejection, dumbstruck, his emotions in
turmoil. The skin of his face was stretched taut with anguish.                             Chapter 5

     It was a sunny Saturday afternoon after cheerleader practice
when Tashia slipped through the security date. She had a bundle of
sweatclothes under her left arm and carried her baton in her right
hand. 
     She was upset. Her mother hadn't shown up today so the senior
girl led the practice and Jody didn't care much for Tashia or her
mother. She wanted revenge and Tashia could be ruthless when she
felt she was abused. 
     "I should have threw my baton at her," she said loudly.
     She was heard not only by herself but by someone inside the
half-darkened house, flattened against the living-room wall not far
from the front door. In one hand he had a grey canvas bag
containing handcuffs, rope and tape. He was wearing surgical
gloves, faded denim jacket and jeans, dirty white sneakers and a
nylon-stocking mask.
     Realizing that Tashia must be about to enter the house, the
pervert made his way quickly and silently to her bedroom, slid his
bag under the bed to hide it and got inside the closet, pulling the
door almost shut and obscuring his presence amongst the hanging
clothes. In the closet with the door ajar, the lurking man waited
for his prey.
     Tashia unlocked the front door and entered the house. On the
dining-room table Tashia found a note. She laid her baton down on
the table and picked the note up to read it.

     Dear Tashia,

     I went visiting.

          Mom

     Still lurking in the bedroom closet, the man was aroused
sexually by the sounds of the girl in the house. He peeled back one
of his surgical gloves and ran his finger along the police club,
testing its hardness with a caress that was thrillingly sensual.
     Now, getting ready for the girl, hungering for her, he rolled
the glove back down over his palm and wrist and waited, his rising
lust making him impatient.
     Tashia was eating in the kitchen. She had taken out the cold
chicken and had poured herself a tall glass of milk to go with a
drumstick. She didn't sit down to eat but stood at the counter by
the window looking out into the back yard. She thought of going
outside to catch an hour or so of sun and decided to change into
her bathing suit immediately. 
     She pranced into her bedroom, kicking off her shoes. She got
undressed quickly, then looked at her reflection in a full-length
mirror, turning this way and that to assess her attractive figure.
     The pervert watched from the closet. His fingers tightened on
the club, which seemed to throb like his other instrument of
punishment and pleasure.
     In a mad frenzy, he leapt out of the closet, pouncing on the
girl from behind, cutting her scream short by clamping his gloved
hand over her mouth and forcing her, struggling, down onto the bed.
With the club at her throat, her eyes bulged wildly, seeming to
scream silently. He wished he could let her scream but he didn't
dare; that could come with the games later. He wanted to hear and
feel her fear of him, but if her let her scream he might get
caught. He hoped he wouldn't have to knock her unconscious. He
desired to have her writhing in fear beneath his huge bulk even if
she could not scream while he was punishing her.
     Tashia was in shock. The sound of the pants zipper seemed to
fill the room. Then came a searing pain as something probed,
probed, and drove hotly into her between her legs. The wet,
slippery rubber glove was not so tight on her lips and teeth now
but still she emitted only muffled whimpers.
     The rapist had her impaled, looking down with great excitement
at the gush of blood that came in the wake of his stabbing
penetration, proving his strong, powerful mastery over this young
tease who had tempted him into committing sin with her. But he
wasn't really committing any sin, he was only punishing her the way
his mother punished him. 
     The girl bucked and heaved as the sexual assault continued,
the rapist like a demented animal, satisfying his cravings on the
helpless girl, who was unable to deal with the terror of what was
happening. 
     The rapist grunted and shuddered uncontrollably as his
emission spurted into the girl. He collapsed his weight onto her
for long seconds, forgetting to keep his hand clamped over her
mouth, but when he looked up, startled, he saw that she was not
going to yell for help. He was safe to do with her as he pleased.
But at the same time he was angry with himself.
     He got off the girl, looking down with pleasure at the
bloodstains and her messy thighs and wiped his cock on a piece of
cloth before he zipped up his pants. He clutched the club, raising
it, staring down at his victim. The club was hard, more dependable
than his other weapon.
     Tashia was deep in shock, lacking the will or ability to cry
out. Sensing this, the man knew he needn't bother to tape her mouth
before ministering to her with the club. When he raised the club,
only her eyes reacted, with a wild flicker. He struck her chest
then lightly tapped the side of her head. Then in a sudden burst of
anger, he clubbed her stomach.
     Curt bent and groped under the bed, grabbing his bag, hefting
it onto the bed to unzip it. He dropped his club into the bottom of
the bag. He cuffed the girls hands behind her back and roped her
ankles together before stuffing the foul semen and blood stained
cloth into her mouth. He taped the cloth firmly in place. Then he
peeled off his surgical gloves and put them into the bag. He
removed his mask that was so damp with perspiration and sour with
the smell of his saliva that he found it distasteful. He grinned as
he pulled it over the girl's head and secured it with more tape
around her neck.
     After checking himself out in the mirror, he picked up the
girl, threw her over his shoulder, picked up his bag and left the
room.
     Several blocks for the scene of the rape, Curt unlocked his
van and put away his captive and his bag. He slammed the rear door
shut, unlocked the door on the drivers's side, got behind the wheel
and turned a key in the ignition. While the motor warmed up, he
fiddled with the air-conditioning controls. The cold air felt
refreshing, drying his perspiration.
     He thought back over what he had done, how smoothly it had
gone. When he hadn't been wearing his surgical gloves, he had used
his handkerchief to make sure that fingerprints would never be a
problem. Entering and leaving the mansion without being seen had
been a cinch, almost simple. A gate in a high fence gave access to
the back yard from a patch of woods directly behind the property,
and as usual, the key was hidden under a rock near the gate. They
never learned, he thought. Beyond the wooded area was a seldom used
softball field and a rutted, weed-grown dirt road. Even if kids had
been playing on the field, which they hadn't been when he had cut
through there, it would have been an easy matter to skirt around
the edge of the outfield unnoticed, keeping under the cover of the
trees and tall weeds, to eventually get to the van parked
strategically in a cul-de-sac off the dirt road.
     He was pleased that he had done all this successfully. He was
sure he had not been seen. The girl had been too easy to take. This
girl was a slut. All the cheerleaders were sluts, under their
facade of coy innocence, and she was no exception. She knew she
deserved to be punished so she hadn't even tried to put up much of
a struggle. Her day of reckoning had come and she had wilted under
her fear of the inevitable. His instruments of just punishment had
made her cower and tremble.
     He had never had sex for his own gratification, his own
selfish needs, but only as a way of punishing those who tempted him
with their silent lurking animal cravings.
     He was not perverted.                            Chapter 6

     Nola felt very pleased with herself. She enjoyed humiliating
the boy who was so infatuated with her and she intended to play
these silly little games every time she was given the opportunity
by some stupid male pig who was hot to get into her pants. It was
almost as good as the time that Curt has pestered her for a date.
She had led him along for weeks before telling him that he was a
disgusting foul fat pig who should be wallowing in the muck.
     She left the park, crossed the street and turned into the
almost empty parking lot. A horn tooted and a black van pulled over
next to her Jaguar. She stopped and looked at the driver. It was
the photographer who had taken the portrait of the cheerleaders.
     "Ms. Augustine!" he yelled. "When do you want the proofs?"
     Nola started to answer but, too late, saw that the passenger
in the front seat of the van, partially concealed by the shadows,
was Curt. The door of the van quickly came open and Curt jumped out
followed by the driver. The rear doors of the van opened and a
horrid smelly man staggered out.
     Nola dropped her purse and backed up, getting ready to flee.
But then she saw the gun, a big black pistol being tugged out into
the open from under the photographer's wide leather belt. He waved
the weapon menacingly at Nola, his face twisted in a sneer.
     He prodded Nola with the revolver, jamming it into the woman's
belly and she backed up and climbed into the rear of the van. The
photographer and the stinking hulk piled in behind her. Curt picked
up Nola's purse from where it had fallen on the ground, tossed it
into the back of the vehicle and slammed and locked the doors. He
moved quickly around the side and hopped into the cab and the van
lurched out, peeling rubber.
     Speed. Nola thought. Speed and drive crazy, calling attention
to yourselves. Maybe the stupid cops will get on your trail.
     The woman struggled to think clearly, to stop herself from
panicking. Maybe someone had seen the kidnapping from inside on of
the brick homes and was right now phoning the police. No, it was
too much to hope for. Besides, if they sensed the cops closing in,
these rats might take pleasure in killing their prisoners.
     Nola had to assume that nobody was going to save her except
herself. She had to talk her way out of this and to escape if
possible. Sitting on the carpeted floor of the van, she had no view
of the outside; she couldn't tell where they were going. But after
a few turns, it seemed that the van had gained access to a stretch
of open highway. The speed increased and remained fairly steady.
     The photographer, looking at Nola, saw nothing but fear and
anxiety in her pretty face. That image helped him to tolerate the
horrible stench emitting from Jeremy filthy body.
     Curt was absorbed in his driving, a fiercely determined look
on his face. He had to open the window so that the rancid odour
didn't make him puke. He had the presence of mind to know that the
police might be on the lookout for the van if someone saw them take
Nola so he kept to seldom travelled back routes that led to the
farm belonging to the photographer's deceased uncle.
     Peering right and left, looking for the turn off, he braked
suddenly and backed up to read a sign he had nearly missed: Orange
Farm, was painted crudely on a warped, weathered slab nailed to a
tree. A dirt road nearly hidden by tall weeks and low-hanging
foliage had its entrance between the tree with the sign on the left
and a rusted broken down barbed wire fence on the right.
     The tires squealed and the van lurched and skidded, swerving
off the main highway onto something more bumpy. It sounded and felt
like badly rutted gravel. Nola listened and tried to sense where
they might be but being a captive and not being able to see had
disoriented her and she was unable to guess her location.
     Curt nosed the van onto the dirt road. It was narrow and
rutted, nearly swallowed up by the weeds; obviously it was rarely
used, the kind of place Curt and his cohorts chose for a place to
inflict their horror. Curt drove slowly, his adrenalin pumping,
looking for the farmhouse. Although he knew it was there, it was a
shock when he found it. He spotted it back in a clearing, nearly
hidden by a cluster of maple trees. He parked in front.
     The cab doors opened and Curt jumped out, came around and
opened the rear doors. Nola saw that they were in a grassy area
surrounded by trees and tall weeds; a very secluded spot. Probably
no one within earshot of a cry for help.
     Leering, Curt yelled. "Everybody out!"
     They all piled out of the van, the photographer still holding
the revolver on Nola. All of them took a deep breath trying to
clear their lungs of the putrid smell. Jeremy didn't notice.
     "This young woman has exceptionally fine tits, wouldn't you
say?" Curt laughed.
     "Yeah," the photographer agreed. "Splendid legs and ass, too!
But what exactly do you have in mind, now that we got her?"
     Curt laughed uproariously and slapped the man on the shoulder.
"First we give her a little taste of the strap then we gang-bang
the bitch; fuck her up the ass and make her blow Jeremy!"
     Nola almost threw up at the mention of sex with the foul
smelling man. That scared her more than the pain they promised.
     The man wobbled up to Nola. The stench nauseated her. She
almost passed out. Curt and the photographer leered at her.
     Nola trembled. "Please don't touch me," she said weakly. But
Jeremy merely grinned, his eyes alive with lust. He untied her
halter and cast it aside, revealing her breasts, the pink nipples
erect from terror rather than erotic excitement. "Ahh...beautiful,"
Jeremy sighed and began feeling and squeezing the ripe mounds of
flesh, pinching the nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, his
stiffening penis pulsing and throbbing urgently against the dirty
cloth of his trousers. Nola whimpered softly and began to cry.
Tears flooded her cheeks and fell on her breasts and Jeremy's rough
caressing hands. 
     Nola couldn't hold it any longer. She began gagging then
vomited repeatedly in such hard painful spasms that she thought she
would rupture herself, but she didn't care. The stench was over
powering. When the vomiting was over she stared vacantly into the
space ahead of her as the photographer prodded her with the gun.
She plodded, one foot ahead of the other, one dazed step at a time,
toward the farmhouse and...                            Chapter 7

     The farm house was an old building covered in unpainted grey
clapboard. Inside was one large room containing a roll-out bed, a
shabby wooden table with four mismatched chairs and an ugly,
banged-up, two burner gas stove. There were two empty rooms up some
rotting stairs and a root cellar beneath a trapdoor beside the
stove.

                        (To be Continued)        Listing of the NOLA series as of 17 April 1994. 

If you have any suggested titles and scenarios let me know.

Nola1.txt      "The Beginning" (Nola's introduction to S&M) 
Nola2.txt      "The Chief of Police" (Nola on a Turkish Island)
Nola3.txt      "The Augustines" (family's introduction to S&M)
Nola4.txt      "The Reverend" 
Nola5.txt      "The Island" (Inspired by Mister Phil)
Nola6.txt      "Nola's Children"
Nola7.txt      "The Rape Photographer"
Nola8.txt      "The Porn Producers"
Nola9.txt      "The Nurse" (torture by Viet Cong,incomplete,ideas?)
Nola10.txt     "The Children At Play" AKA Children.zip 
Nola11.txt     "The Game" AKA Sarah.zip
Nola12.txt     "The Doctor" (limited distribution)
Nola13.txt     "The Farm" (limited distribution)
Nola14.txt     "The Model"
Nola15.txt     "Un-titled" (incomplete)
Nola16.txt     "Blackmailing Nola"
Nola17.txt     "The Spy"
Nola18.txt     "The Tudor" AKA Simone.zip
Nola19.txt     "The Inquisition" AKA Inquis.zip (Nola in 1492)
Nola20.txt     "The Cottage" (incomplete)
Nola21.txt     "The Convent"
Nola22.txt     "The Cop" (incomplete)
Nola23.txt     "The Reporter"
Nola24.txt     "The Musician"
Nola25A.txt    "Nola and Tashia" (Nola humiliated by daughter) or
Nola25B.txt    "Nola and Jeremy" (Nola humiliated by son)(same sty)
               (The wonders of Wordperfect's search & replace)
Nola26.txt     "The Prison Matron" (limited distribution)
Nola27.txt     "The Complex"
Nola28.txt     "The Cruise" (includes Pamela1.zip to chap 7)
Nola29.txt     "The Scout Troop"
Nola30.txt     "Tashia"
Nola31.txt     "The Exhibitionist"
Nola32.txt     "The Asylum" (limited distribution)
Nola33.txt     "The Cellar"
Nola35.txt     "The Businesswoman" (Caught in a double-cross)
Nola36.txt     Un-named as of today
Nola37.txt     Un-named as of today
Nola38.txt     "The Cheerleaders"
Nola39.txt     "The Terrorist"
Nola40.txt     "The Indians" (inspired by Mister Phil)

Curt Strap