Story: "Science Project" by Erotales (nc, extreme bd, Mf) This is a work entirely of fiction. It shouldn't be read by anybody under 18 or taken seriously by anyone who does read it. Send comments to Erotales@aol.com. SCIENCE PROJECT She couldn't feel her knees at the moment, pressed hard onto the hard surface of the table. They were numb, tired of the constant pressure. She actually wished they still hurt. It would have made it a little easier for her to maintain her position if she were more aware of all her body parts. Mentally, yes, she was pretty damned aware of her body, if not so much physically. And she was getting plenty of other distress signals from other nerve endings. Why did they bother, sending her those "move me, stretch me, relieve me!" messages, didn't they understand how pointless it was? And how relatively unimportant it was, compared with what was coming? She tugged again lightly, carefully on her wrists, imprisoned together in those snug leather bands padlocked together, resting against the small of her back. As if she hadn't tried a hundred times to free them, over these hours. She stopped moving suddenly as her tense right thigh muscle threatened to cramp again; tried to clear her mind and relax the muscle until the tension eased slightly, knowing it would come back again. She closed her eyes and sighed in frustration, the tears flowing again. It took an effort not to moan -- she knew not to make any unnecessary noises, knew what they would lead to. And she couldn't let herself cry, knowing her nose might plug up with snot and deny entrance to the air that couldn't make it through her gag-filled mouth. The threat of suffocation was one of the least of her worries. Might even be a blessing; she'd have to think that over. Her naked body shivered despite the warmth of the room, despite the beads of sweat trickling down her thighs, her sides, flowing up her back. She couldn't see much in the dim light, but she knew what she looked like, thanks to that little polaroid shot her captor had helpfully shown her, then laid on the table right in front of her eyes, where she'd see it again when the room brightened. She hadn't wanted to look at it, but her eyes had been drawn to it as if she were regarding a life- threatening wound. She saw herself balanced on her widely spread knees and the side of her face only on the tabletop, her butt thrust up in the air, her ankles crossed and held together by wide leather cuffs similar to the ones holding her wrists behind her, a short chain running from the ankle cuffs to the back of the chain fastened tightly around her waist, holding her heels nearly at her buttocks. Most of the chains, especially the important ones, nearly hidden from that particular camera view, shot from behind her and to her left. For the hundredth time she eased her weight carefully onto her forehead and then down onto the other side of her face, the change in position giving something of a relief. She didn't like doing it -- every time she moved like that she felt the danger of sliding forward, unsure she could stop herself or push herself back in time. How long? What time was it? As much as her body ached and demanded freedom, she was afraid of time passing, afraid of the approach of daybreak and what it would bring. What time was it now? 3 am? Somewhere around there, probably. Why? Why me? She knew there was no answer to that -- Shit Happens had always been her motto. But to have this happen, and all a mistake. A terrible mistake. The tears started up again. She couldn't bear that thought. She felt, in her exhaustion, sleep starting to creep up on her, fought it away. How she could be sleepy, scared as she was, she didn't know, but she definitely didn't want it. It would make the time pass faster, which she wanted to avoid -- and then only if she ever woke up from it, which she knew was unlikely. She rolled her weight onto her forehead again, ready to try the other side again for a few minutes. As she shifted she felt the chain tighten slightly around her neck and sucked in her breath in near panic -- careful, just wriggle back a little, push off with your forehead to shift your weight back, let your head slide back just a couple of inches -- there, that's it. She concentrated on breathing evenly as her heart pounded. The chain was slack again, more or less. Enough, anyway. So many chains. She could feel them but couldn't move her head enough to see them. She tried to picture them again, visualize exactly how they were holding her, still convinced she might somehow figure a way out of them. Were they really inescapable, or did it just seem that way? Couldn't there be some way out she hadn't thought of? Let's see: there were, to begin with, the tight circles of chain hugging each lower thigh just above the bend of her knee. Padlocked to each was a chain running to the back corners of the table, behind her, and fastened to each table leg, holding her knees apart. She not only couldn't close her knees up, she couldn't move them forward either, and certainly didn't want to move them backward. Couldn't move her knees at all, really, unless she wanted to spread them wider, and she thought she'd pass on that. That wasn't really the problem though. Not as much as the other two chains attached to those same circles of linked metal around her thighs. Each of these ran along the tabletop, under her tummy that hovered at least a foot off the table, between her breasts that just brushed the table's surface, until they ran through a small metal ring, circled her neck, and ended padlocked to that same ring. A simple metal choke collar, enforcing her present posture of a tall tripod on the table. She couldn't get her head and shoulders any farther from her knees than they were, not if she wanted to keep breathing. To prevent her rocking back on her knees to kneel upright, another pair of choke-collars ran from her neck to the front of the table where they were attached by padlocks to each of the front table legs. And one final choker ran along her back to her cuffed wrists. A short chain then ran from her wrists to the circle of chain around her waist. She could let her hands rest there in the small of her back, but try to reach anything with them? Nothing doing. She couldn't reach that silly little balloon, for example. The one bobbing at the end of a rod about a foot long, the first three inches or so of it buried in her rectum. She couldn't expell the rod: a thin chain ran through a tiny hole in it, where her anus gripped the rod; the chain ran *tight* through her crotch, attached to the front and back of the chain around her waist with padlocks. She could feel the rod inside her constantly, but the pain wasn't that important, as long as she didn't make noise. Not important in comparison with the fast approaching humiliation it represented. The damned balloon had a happy face on it! How could anybody keep from laughing at her, no matter how sympathetic they wanted to try to be? The sound echoed in her ears as if it had already happened. Or would they be hit with helpless giggles when they saw the gag? Not tape, not cloth, not a ball. Everything had to add something to her shame, of course, but. . . thinking about it drove her to another weak, careful attempt to wriggle her wrists free of the leather cuffs, as fruitless as all the previous tries. Where had he found this thing? A penis gag, extremely realistic, down to the hair-covered balls at the far end. It filled her mouth completely, squashed her tongue down. Its wrinkled rubbery firmness was just like the texture she imagined a real penis to have -- she'd never had one in her mouth, never really had wanted to, but she felt she knew now what it would be like. It was one more unremoveable adornment: at the point where it entered her mouth, a chain passed through a hole in it and circled her head, a padlock behind her head closing the loop, the gag held firmly in place. Like the rod in her rectum, it wasn't really a problem now (again, as long as she kept quiet!), but it was another humiliating thing she couldn't get rid of. They're going to find me this way! God, please let there be some way out. She imagined her students, all snug in their beds dead to the world at this hour. Or were they still partying? Did teenagers ever actually go to bed? She could make out familiar shapes in the small room, the few lights burning near the building throwing a dim illumination through the room's one window. At some point the window would begin to brighten, the room graying, then filling with colors of daylight. She'd know then there were just a couple of hours left. Not wanting to, she played last night's events back in her head. Could she have done anything differently? She wasn't sure. She felt positive she hadn't left the building unlocked; he must have got in some other way. Through a window? Who knows, maybe he'd got in during the daytime and waited, watching to see if she'd come. She'd only needed to pick up an answer key! She was only going to be in the building a few minutes. She'd been grading papers at home, and remembered her annoyance and frustration realizing she'd left a grading key to one set of papers in her classroom. Wait till morning? Oh, if only she had! If only she'd said forget about it, it can wait. But the papers were for her first period class, and she only lived five minutes from the school, and she wanted to get it over with. She'd always thought her determination to get things done was a virtue; if only she'd been a born procrastinator, she'd be safe at home now. No use thinking that, he'd only have waited for some other night anyway. She'd been quickly scoring the tests at her desk: no point taking the papers home and bringing them right back in the morning. It went quickly in the quiet of the deserted building. She was dismayed at the number of F's, knowing she'd have some parent conferences on her hands when the mid-term grades came out. She shuddered at the thought of another series of crying-mom sessions. She sighed and put the papers in her desk drawer and got ready to leave. The man had been quiet in the hallway. The first hint of his presence had been the squeak of her classroom door opening. She'd thought it was a fellow teacher at first; by the time she could see his face, he was already waggling the gun at her, telling her not to talk if she preferred her skin without holes. He walked further into the room, carrying a gym bag, while her heart worked overtime for no extra pay. She had peed in her panties, not wanting to beieve this was happening but knowing it was. [Omogod, peeing! There was something she wished she hadn't thought about just now.] Waving the gun, he said, "Let's go into that workroom." A door in the back of the classroom led to the small room that was her private domain in her very public job, full of books, mostly unread (who had time with everything else?), science project materials, some in boxes, some strewn on the countertop also littered with spare computer parts -- computers didn't last long, the kids were hard on the equipment. A big work table in the middle, about six feet by three, taking up half the available floor space. As he drew closer in the workroom, she could see he wasn't a figure to strike fear into anyone -- not without the gun, anyway. A smallish, thin man in his twenties, wearing thick glasses. Even without the triteness of a pocket protector he still had "nerd" written all over him. He'd squeezed past her, keeping the gun trained on her, and swept the contents of the table onto the floor, changing her stream of whispered "Please don't hurt me"s to a shouted, "Oh don't!" -- a science project from earlier in the month hit the floor with a clatter. "Sit on the table and take off your clothes. All of them." She'd been hoping, somehow, he just wanted money -- the thought nearly made her giggle in retrospect: what idiot who wanted money would mug a teacher for it? But the certainty he was going to rape her, a fear her mind had throttled in an attempt to get her through the first few minutes of this, came back full force. The feeling of wanting to scream was hard to fight against, but she knew that, even in the unlikely event there was anybody to hear her, they couldn't possibly be close enough to help her in time. She'd only be getting them shot in return for their Good Samaritan act. It was even harder picturing him as a rapist than as a mugger. She had a mental image of what she'd expect a rapist to look like, and there was almost no overlap between that image and this small, slightly scared- looking geek in front of her. She studied him closely, trying to keep her mind off the fact she was stripping naked in front of a stranger. He didn't look like a violent type, and before unhooking her bra she needed to convince herself it was futile to try to jump him. Watching his hand on the gun convinced her: it trembled slightly, but never for a moment pointed away from her. Her own fingers shook more than his as she reluctantly forced herself to release the bra snaps and let the straps down her arms. She froze up for a moment before going the final step; she saw his jaw set as he pushed the gun closer, and she hurried to pull her wet panties down and off. Thinking back now, she wished he had raped her. She thought that was something she could get over. As she sat naked on the table, shivering despite the room's late-Spring warmth, he reached into the gym bag, bringing out her first hint that the ordeal was going in a different direction: four leather bands, which he ordered her to strap onto her wrists and ankles. Each had D-shaped metal rings at various places around their circumference, and they fastened like watchbands, except for the metal loop that protruded through the leather once they were buckled. He gave her four padlocks to put through the loops. She thought about just pretending to lock them, but he was watching too closely. He brought out that -- awful -- gag next, and a smile began to twitch the corners of his lips as he watched her fill her mouth with it, under his orders, and pull the chain tight so that the ends of it met behind her head, held there by the padlock he pulled out of the bag. It had made a clinking sound that told her there were lots more things still in that bag. He pulled out two more padlocks. "Lock your ankles together with one, and then your wrists behind your back with the other." She let him drop the padlocks into her numb hands, and stared at them, immobilized by indecision and fear. She had felt she could handle it up to now, could live with the prospect of being raped -- as long as there was some possibility she could fight back. The instant she closed the lock holding the handcuffs together, she knew her chances of escape, already slim enough, would be altogether gone. She sat unmoving, staring at the locks in her hand, until she heard the click of the gun's hammer being pulled back. Blinking back blinding tears and moaning, she reached down without looking and thrust one of the padlocks between the rings protruding from the ankle cuffs. Closing her eyes and sending up a silent prayer, "Please let this get over with soon, please don't let it hurt too much," she fumbled with the other lock, trying to get it through the loops on her wrist cuffs, finally opening her eyes and twisting her body to get her wrists in view so she could see what she was doing, at last she got the padlock closed, a brief feeling of success at accomplishing a difficult job immediately washed away by an overwhelming knowledge that she was altogether, totally sunk. He started pulling chains and more padlocks out of the bag, made her squirm onto her stomach on the table and started arranging her in her present position. She nearly hyperventilated as he fastened the choke chains, helplessly hmmmmmming in protest as he explained how immobile she needed to be to stay alive. Then he backed off, inspecting his work. She could see his body shaking as a triumphant grin spread across his face. If she had been terrified before, it was just a warmup to what came next. Nothing she'd been imagining had prepared her for it. "You don't remember me, do you?" She stared at him, searching for something familiar, anything, not wanting to anger him. A former student? There had been so many. But he looked too old for one of hers. "Think back. Ten years. One of your eighth-grade science classes." Ten *years*? She hadn't been here ten years ago, she was still in college. She mumbled helplessly against the degrading gag, trying to say he must be confused, there was some mistake. "Think about it, Miss Straley." Ohgodohgodohgod! He thought she was Shelly Straley! They did look a little bit alike -- Shelly was older, but take ten years off her.... Oh God he wanted to do this to HER! She nearly choked herself, trying to free herself, trying to speak around the gag, spit it out, tell him she wasn't Shelly, dammit, her name was Laura Burton and she'd never met him in her life. She *had* to be able to talk to him. He was doing this to her because he thought she was somebody else! Who was this guy? He must barely know Shelly if he couldn't pick her out of a faculty line-up; why would he want to do this to her? She watched him squinting at her out of those thick glasses. The guy could barely see! "My Dad was in the military, and we just moved into town that April. I hated all the moving around, always being the new kid. They put me in your science class. "You told me the whole class had science projects due Friday -- this was Tuesday. You told me I didn't have to do it, I could be excused, but... God, I wanted so much to fit in. To be part of the class, part of the school, to really impress the teacher... that was the biggest part of it, Miss Straley. I wanted to impress you. "I did that damned science project. I bet you'll remember it now, Miss Straley. 'Building a Better Mouse Trap.' I thought that'd be really funny, THE generic science project. It was that cage on little wheels, noise-activated. It would hear a mouse squeaking a steer towards it. It would get close to the mouse, the mouse would smell the cheese -- then the sound-sensors on the inside would slam the cage closed when the mouse entered. I always loved those sound-activated switches -- you could do magical things with them. I really think that's going to be the wave of the future, Miss Straley. You remember it now, don't you?" She had given up trying to talk, to wriggle free: it was hopeless. She debated between truthfully shaking her head or nodding agreement with him, decided agreeing was the safer course, for now. Maybe after his speech was over he'd take the gag out. Was he still going to rape her? She was less sure about it now. "I brought it in on Friday. I was so excited I just about peed my pants when I came into the room with it and put it with everybody else's. I couldn't wait for the chance to show how it worked, to hear all the congratulations. Well, I got my chance. And you got this real serious look on your face. You asked me to step out in the hallway. "You told me the rule was every science project had to be done by the student alone, they were real strict about that. I kept telling you I *did* do it myself, nobody helped me. You never believed me. You said you might be willing to give me a C on it, but I couldn't enter it in the Science Fair. "You just have no idea what that did to me, Miss Straley. Military kids are always unsure of themselves, you know. Always new, always outsiders. I -- I ... Shit, the depressions, the shrinks. They wanted to put me away for awhile. Dad wouldn't hear of it. He..." He broke off, apparently realizing he was rambling. He fixed his myopic gaze on her. "I had a hard enough time believing in myself before that, but you... I could just never get myself to try that hard again. Knowing I wouldn't be accepted. Wouldn't be believed. My dad got transferred again by the next Fall. Another school, another adjustment. I was a miserable bust at the new school -- all the new schools. I tried college but I dropped out. I've been clerking in an electronics store for years. For an asshole who treats me like dirt." God, she thought, if I could just get this gag out! He's got to figure out I'm the wrong person. Whatever his problems are they started long before Shelly Straley. Everybody's got to blame somebody for their problems, and he picked her out. She didn't do anything to him... and *I*, I never met the guy before! This can't be happening! She started struggling to get loose again, mmmmmming frantically into the gag, praying he'd take it out and let her get this all straightened out. "I'm going home now. And this," he waved the gun, "It isn't for you, really. It's for me. You might live through tonight, but I won't. It really does me good to see you squirming there. It means a lot... You see, Miss Straley, you're my science project for this year. I'll never find out what everybody thinks of it, but that doesn't matter, really. I just want you to know one thing, Miss Straley." He bent towards her and said slowly, "I did it all myself. It took a long time, planning and building, but I played by the rules. Do you believe me?" She didn't have to guess what answer would save her life this time. She nodded, miserably, her head rubbing against the top of the table. "It's not all assembled quite yet, there's a couple more pieces. And stop all that noise. I want you to be quiet as a mouse, now. I mean it." He pointed the gun again. "I don't want to hear another sound out of you until I've left the building. Not a peep." In case somebody was around, she guessed. She was pretty sure nobody was. I don't understand what he means, she thought. Is he going to let me go or not? What does he mean about me being his science project? He reached into the bag again, but -- not for keys. Her eyes widened as he pulled out a rod with a balloon at the end. He drew his fingers across his lips. "Absolutely not a sound, from now on." His voice got quieter as he spoke, sinking to a whisper at the end. He seemed to flip a switch on end of the rod, and she almost screamed as she felt him tapping the area between her buttocks. He glared once more, gesturing one more time with the gun. Her heart raced. Oh God, what now? Her whole body tensed as he pushed the rod slowly into her rectum. She closed her eyes and drew rapid breaths through her nose as he fiddled with the chain that would hold it in place, drawing it tight through her crotch, securing the two ends to the chain around her waist. He pulled one last thing out of the bag. She had a quick sight of a small silvery egg-shape, before it was out of sight behind her. She nearly screamed again as she felt his fingers parting her labia, but she held off, not only because of the danger but because of the pointlessness of objecting. The silver egg slid into her vagina. If she hadn't been fighting gravity she could have let it drop out later, but with her butt up in the air like that it was hopeless. That was when he took the polaroid shot. He laid it on the table in front of her, bent down and whispered softly, "Just wanted you to know what you look like." Standing there while she looked at her image in horror, he reached down and slipped a finger into her mouth. She felt, rather than heard, a tiny click. He straightened, breathed a sigh of relief, and picked up the gun and the gym bag. He spent a moment gathering all her clothes and putting them in the bag, leaving her nothing in the room to cover herself with. With a tight smile and a little wave, he turned out the light, backed out of the workroom and closed the door softly. He's gone, he's gone, oh God he's gone. I'll wait ten minutes, he's got to be out of the building, then I'll start screaming for all I'm worth. She waited, every slight sound in the empty building making her twitch. After she felt ten minutes had to be up, she counted to a hundred just to be safe. Then -- well, it couldn't be called screaming, exactly, it was a little too muffled for that -- she put all her energy into a loud hmmmmmm, pulling with all her strength against the wrist cuffs, careful not to pull them down her back and risk choking. Immediately her body convulsed unexpectedly, and in the aftershock she could feel a wild humming between her legs -- a vibrator! That egg in her vagina was shaking, pulsating, taking her breath away. She had used vibrators before, but this one was like a wild beast, beyond her control, sending waves radiating through her body that awoke a raging, pure erotic need, an intense arousal that went beyond anything she'd experienced. And the penis gag in her mouth, it was wriggling now, as if it, too, had come alive, and she could taste -- oh God no! -- a sticky liquid coming out of the head, near the back of her throat. Semen? Something a lot like it, anyway, and she desperately swallowed as well as she could, not easy with the gag filling her mouth, to keep from choking on it. The sudden convulsion came again, and she identified it this time: it was coming from her buttocks, her rectum -- that rod must be generating electric shocks! In near panic she tried everything she could to get loose, feeling the chain closing around her throat as she slid too far forward, her loudest scream yet trying to tear its way out of her throat. The vibrator inside her was continuing to send out waves of excitement, and her hips moved on their own. She felt like she did when she masturbated, getting closer, closer... she was conscious of sucking eagerly on the penis gag, swallowing semen, her lips slipping back and forth on the shaft, the gag itself somehow mechanized under its "skin," obscenely undulating, so alive! She felt she was going to come at any moment... No! Please don't let me come, if I lose control I know these chains are going to choke me. The shock in her rectum convulsed her body again, just as she was managing to back up a little and loosen the choker. How had this started, he wasn't even here, it's like magic... Magic, yes! The sound! It started when I made noise. It's all--- yes, he'd told me -- sound activated. I've got to be quiet. With every ounce of concentration she made herself stop moaning, not knowing whether it would help. Would the things turn off? She waited an ageless time, probably two minutes. The rectal shocks were the hardest to ignore, she nearly screamed each time her body jerked, the intervals about 15 seconds. The vaginal vibration was continuous, and she couldn't stop her hips from moving, feeling herself drawing closer to orgasm, while the gag still undulated and seeped fluids, forcing her to continue her sucking motions as she swallowed. But finally... the electric rod seemed to miss a turn, it should have zapped me by now, shouldn't it? The vibrator stopped about ten seconds later, and shortly after that, the penis. Oh God. She carefully wriggled her head and shoulders a few inches back, finally taking the tension out of the collar. She concentrated on getting breath back into her lungs, quickly and above all, quietly. She felt completely spent: sweat bathed her body, beads of it rolling down every slanted surface. Her hips still felt twitchy from the stimulation, but without the continued internal vibration she was no longer approaching orgasm. I think if those things get started again, I'll be dead. I've got to get out of here before morning! I can't still be here when the kids get here! She gasped involuntarily at the thought, then froze, not knowing immediately whether she had made enough noise to start up all the machinery again. She held her breath for several seconds, waiting for the first shock, but felt nothing. I've got to get out, but I can't get free of the chains, can't even put any strength into the effort or I'll choke myself, can't call out for help or I'll orgasm myself to death. She could only identify one hope: somehow, during the night, someone might come into the building, come close to her hallway. She'd have to make a lot of noise to be heard through the closed workroom door, with the door to the classroom probably closed too, and if it was a false alarm, or the person couldn't hear her, then she was in BIG trouble. But she couldn't think of anything else. She guessed it might be 11 p.m. now, based on the time she'd arrived. It was possible one of the teachers might show up, for the same reason she had. Please, let somebody come! Just one person, she could stand it if only one person saw her, an adult, a colleague, someone who would help her get free and stay quiet about it. A woman, please... she thought that would be better, not one of the men. She began the process of simply getting through. It must have been about a couple of hours later, she thought -- 1 a.m.? She heard a far, far distant sound: the muffled slam of a door. Her body tensed. She wished she could tell where it was; she might be able to figure out whose classroom it was. Was somebody walking this way? She suddenly thought: what if it's *him*? Coming back. Would he come back to watch her torment? Watch her quiver, come, choke? He could be coming back just to get her to make a noise, watch what happened when she did. But if it was somebody who could save her, and she just let them go... Her brain seemed to be overheating with indecision: make noise or not? Either choice could save her or backfire. Which will it be? She knew she could never, ever forgive herself missing a chance to get free. She had to do it. But not unless she had just a little more evidence she might be heard. She stopped breathing, tried to quiet her pounding heart, listening for the slightest sound. There! Was that a footstep? To her hypertense mind, it sounded like one. Here goes. She put everything she had into a brainbusting HMMMMMMMMMMM. Before she could gather her breath for another try, she felt the shock, her whole body responding with a giant twitch. The vibrating egg started radiating heat and cold in waves from deep inside her, the gag started its obscene dance in her mouth, oozing fluids she tried quickly to swallow. As before her hips started a rhythmic tensing, her buttocks clenching, and she could feel her excitement rise. She sucked madly on the gag, her lips making the surface slick, her teeth biting it, her tongue underneath caressing it, moaning as she swallowed the spurting liquid at the back of her throat. She could feel her orgasm approaching fast, an onrushing freight train. She remembered the whole point was to make noise, to be heard, but she knew her breathy grunts of sexual arousal probably weren't going to do the job. Her entire body jerked with each shock from the rod, and she felt she couldn't get enough air in her lungs fast enough -- and she felt herself sliding slowly forward along the table, the chain drawing tighter around her throat. STOP! I've got to stop this now. Quiet OW!! Another shock. Just don't make a sound. Don't moan, try not to rock, hold your hips still OW!! She concentrated all her efforts into wriggling back again, letting the chain loosen, trying to slow her gyrating hips, just be quiet, totally quiet. OW!! knowing it could be life or death, she suffered three more shocks in silence, and then, mercifully, one after another, the gadgets stopped. She drew great lungfuls of air, her heart trying to pound its way out of her chest, savoring the feeling of quiet in her vagina, the penis gag subsiding, the wonderful absence of zaps in her rectum. A cloud of gloom descended as her heartbeat and respiration wound down to normal. She knew what would happen in about seven hours. She knew the night would pass slowly, but the longer it took the better she liked it. All she could do now was try to find a way to get -- no, "comfortable" was out of the question, but at least she wanted to minimize the strain and the ache of tightening muscles, of joints bearing weight they weren't meant to. She tried to let fifteen minutes or so go by before working on turning her face the other way, shifting her weight from one shoulder to the other. The difficulty at first was that the table had been getting so slick with her sweat -- her knees kept wanting to slide outward, her face and shoulder forward. She strained to stiffen her body, wriggling back to a safe position periodically. Gradually the surface of the table started drying, giving her a little more friction to work with. * * * After a couple of hours she was beginning to find it almost impossible to keep her eyes open. She didn't realize her consciousness had started to slip away until the closing collar suddenly forced its way into her awareness. With a start that she recognized to her horror as sudden awakening -- she'd been *so* afraid of falling asleep -- she gave an involuntary squeak and started working on pulling back. The gag came to life in her mouth, and she tensed waiting for the shock. But apparently the squeak had been too soft, only the gag had "heard" it. With disgust she swallowed the semen -- she wasn't sure it was that, but she assumed it was, couldn't help thinking of it that way -- wondering how much of the stuff there was. It was a long shaft, and the balls at the far end were probably full of the stuff for all she knew. More than enough of it to last the night, at the rate she was going. The shaft shimmied in waves moving from the far end to the front, obviously designed for realistic effect while pumping. By itself it didn't have that arousing effect it had when it worked in concert with the vaginal vibrator, but she couldn't help moving her lips in sucking motions along the shaft; she had to do that to swallow. Within a few minutes, in the absence of further noises, it subsided. She tried to think how she could keep awake. The room was not only warm but also muggy by now, she had been awake for -- what, 21 hours, the last five or so under continuous emotional tension and physical strain. She strained her ears for footsteps, doors opening or closing, any sounds at all. The dead silence enfolded her -- as if she needed another clue to her body that she ought to be sleeping now. There weren't even any traffic noises now. She thought she could make out, barely, the whirr of the electric clock on the other side of the wall, in the classroom. Time, everything was about time now. She jerked again, aware for the second time of coming out of sleep. At least she hadn't slid forward this time, but she wasn't going to count on her luck holding indefinitely. She discovered, trying to wriggle her fingers, that they were asleep -- lucky fingers -- and spent several minutes moving her wrists around, trying to get circulation back, eventually succeeding. She tried to fix on objects in the room, dim outlines in the darkness, tried to remind herself of the story of each, when she had used it, what she was doing then, giving herself a small mental shake every time she sensed the blankness coming on. ... a pain gripping her neck. She felt breathless, tried to gasp air into her lungs, couldn't. Disoriented, she couldn't quite grasp the situation. Asleep! I did it, I went completely out. God, back up, back up! She waggled her buttocks quickly from side to side, pushing hard against the surface of the table with the side of her face, trying to shift her weight back towards her knees. Come on, come on! Finally she found the right leverage and felt her head sliding back along the table, the chain still gripping her throat tightly but starting to loosen. She finally sucked in a great lungful of air, and the weight of all the fears of the night fell on her. Mental alarms jangled telling her not to cry, to pull herslf together, but nothing could stop the sob tearing its way out of her throat. An instant later the great full-body twitch from a rectal shock ran through her, and from deep inside her she felt the the little silver egg going nuts, its vibrations penetrating every part of her body, but mostly there, right there, invading that private space and making her so aware of herself, her nakedness, her wanting to touch herself, put her finger inside herself. The gag had started its own obscene exploration of her mouth, and she swallowed and sucked, swallowed and sucked, as the rod shocked her again. Her hips shifted, wriggled, slowly at first but gradually faster, and the voice in her mind telling her to stop moaning seemed so far away, so faint. Her wrists writhed in frustration in their cuffs, so close to her crotch where she wanted them to rub herself, explore herself... even that thought started dying out, all higher level brain functions shutting down in a gush of pure feeling. Almost there, almost there... A convulsion swept through her that had nothing to do with the rod in her rectum, an orgasm more powerful than any she had experienced, waves of heat crashing outward from between her legs setting every set of muscles in battle against each other, as a series of muffled cries escaped from the back of her throat that would have brought any number of people from adjoining hallways if there had been anybody there. She nearly choked on the semen still flowing out of the gag, and desperately started swallowing, but the explosion inside her went on: her thighs quivering with tension, her back arching, her body straightening at the hips, and the chain quickly closing around her throat again, somehow intensifying the orgasm still further as she tried to suck in air and failed, feeling still another shock from her rectum. Slowly the spasms began to play themselves out, the energy coursing through her body diminishing, letting go its hold on her. A buzzing in her ears wasn't coming from the vibrator: she knew she was close to fainting from lack of air, that she'd never wake up if she did. She desperately repeated her efforts from a few minutes earlier, the chain loosening again as she slid her head back on the now very slick surface. She had to swallow the semen that had collected before she could drag in a long, deep lungful to keep herself conscious. More exhausted than she had ever been, she stared blankly at the counter to her left, her mind with barely enough remaining presence to tell her to be quiet at all costs, don't moan, don't cry, don't make the tiniest sound, ignore the humming inside, the maddening periodic shocks. She lay quietly, sucking on the gag until it fell quiet, and the rod and vibrator shut themselves down. Her mind felt vague, fuzzy. She had been staring at the back cover of an old textbook for several minutes before it sank in that she could read it. There were shapes all around her that had been invisible to her all through the night, now easily picked out in shades of gray in the dim light from the window. The sun was coming up! Her heart suddenly raced, as she drew ragged deep breaths through her nose. No, oh no, oh please God no, the night has gone by and it's daylight and it's going to happen. It must be about six o'clock: she had two hours left. Wait! Be methodical this time! I've got to try *everything*, there has to be a way. She started with her wrists, trying every combination of twists and turns she could come up with. Break the padlock? It was probably one of those they shot with a gun on TV and it stayed locked, but it was worth a try. There were four her fingers could reach -- the ones holding each cuff buckle, the one between the cuffs, and the one holding the chain to the cuffs that ran to her neck. She felt the hopeless knowledge that jerking as hard as she could was out of the question, it was one of the many ways of choking herself. Pulling her hands *up* her back was no better: that pulled on the chain that circled her waist, increasing the tension in the one that ran through her crotch, wiggling the rod in her rectum, and it hurt like hell. How long must he have planned this, thinking of everything -- even her full strength probably couldn't get her free of the chains, but she had no way to use her full strength anyway. She could only tug tentatively, feebly, on any of her restraints without hurting or endangering herself uselessly. She tried as well as she could, though, positioning her hands carefully on her back and jerking quickly outward, a safe enough move but not effective. Ankles? Wriggle them, get one free. Each knee: tensing her thigh muscles trying to pull it towards her, jerking as forcefully as she dared. With every failed effort she felt herself closer to crying, wanting to scream and barely able to stop herself. Moving more randomly now, less methodical, angrily, grunting with effort -- and the gag started shimmying again, shooting its little pulses of semen into the back of her throat. Disgusted, nearly exploding in anger and shame, she sucked hopelessly. The room had been brightening continually during her efforts, colors filling the forms of familiar objects. She could easily see the polaroid, and she looked intensely at it, praying it could show her something her addled brain had overlooked, while thinking, this is exactly how they'll see me. The gag stopped again, starved for noise for the time being. She continued looking at the polaroid, suddenly realizing the still picture didn't do justice to the situation. It didn't show the gyrations she would be unable to stop going through if -- when -- the mechanical curses that owned her body started doing their tricks again. She closed her eyes, almost unable to breathe, waves of nausea washing over her. (God, if she threw up now -- no, don't think about it.) The need to pee was starting to build up! It hadn't been a problem so far, but the body's going to keep up its standard practices no matter how much trouble they'll cause. The idea of peeing in her present position was just unthinkable to her. How long before I get out of this? Think past the horror now and just concentrate on getting free. Nobody could free her just by being there: everything was locked, with no key. They'd need tools somebody would have to go get -- GOD!!! Somehow every pathway her thoughts went down uncovered something still worse about her situation. She wanted to come up with things that hadn't occurred to her, but *useful* things, come on! But the students, the kids, that was the main thing. Dozens of junior high kids, her own students and more from outside as the word spread, were going to see. See what this picture showed. Live, in the flesh. So to speak. Wait, maybe... what if. What if. Her mind spun furiously. They don't *have* to find me, she thought. They'd know something was wrong, I'd be missing at the start of class, but would they look in here? Maybe, maybe not. It's my private space, and kids sometimes have business here but know not to come in uninvited. And if a few minutes went by and nobody emerged, wouldn't that mean nobody was in here? Somebody would go down the the main office, they'd call my home, get no answer, probably send in the librarian to run the class and round up a substitute for the rest of the day in case I didn't come in. And none of those people would have a reason to come back here, there's nothing here they need, and it's MY room. I've got to be found sometime, but if I can get to the end of the day -- nine hours from now! -- the kids will be gone, the custodians will start their appointed rounds, and one of *them* will find me. I could live with that -- if I can make it that long. Nine hours. Well, I've been here eight already, and I've learned a few of the survival skills of the situation. She felt the tension starting to flow out of her body. At the same time the feeling of exhaustion seemed to recede, an excitement of purpose taking its place. This could work! I'll make it work. I've got to be absolutely quiet, and it *can* work. Behind the excitement lay a thought she couldn't quite seem to identify. It lay just out of her mental reach, as if her mind were as immobilized as her body. She could only perceive the barest outlines of the thought, enough to know that it consisted of something she was overlooking -- but what?? Her excitement built higher: she knew some part of her mind was trying desperately to tell her something. It had to be a means of getting free -- what else could be that important? She had often had this same feeling in college, when she was stuck on a class assignment and some part of her brain knew the answer. She knew from experience she should try to relax and let it come: that had often worked, though it wasn't foolproof. Settle down, she told herself. It's going to be a long day, but you'll be out of here at the end of it with just minor humiliation. Just wait it out, and if the missing thought comes, fine, it'll be over sooner, and if not... the vagrant thought seemed to draw closer to the surface at this point, screaming incoherently at her as if it were gagged itself. She forced herself to stop reaching for it again. Thinking about staying here through the entire day led her to realize how hungry she was -- she'd been awake all night (well, nearly) and now had missed breakfast. And thirsty... if she could just have a glass of water somehow. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the feeling of just how helpless she was, to have no means of meeting such basic human needs. She could get through till dinnertime without food, but she just had to drink something. Though, really, she wasn't as thirsty as she felt she ought to be: she'd lost *so* much fluid during the night, she really should be in an agony of thirst, it seemed to her... no, not that! The SEMEN? Was that what was keeping her hydrated? It didn't seem she had had that much. It really wouldn't take a lot, though, would it? She sighted crosseyed down the shaft. It had long since become obvious that the "balls" were full of the stuff, and probably a lot of the shaft too: there seemed to be room for at least a pint of the liquid, if it filled the available space. Surely more than enough to last the rest of the time she was here. But to drink it voluntarily? She fought with her revulsion, knowing that as the day went on she *had* to drink something. She knew the problem was getting the gag started without setting off the other gadgets. She'd done it before: a soft enough sound in her mouth would do it, but she wasn't sure how much margin for error she had: a sound too soft wouldn't be enough, but too loud... well, she'd nearly died the last time she'd gotten the vibrator inside her going. But she might also die in the next nine hours without fluids, considering what she'd lost already. The time to experiment with it was now, not after the room beyond the door filled with kids. Her heart started thundering again: it had definitely been working hard tonight, she'd have to remember to do something nice for it later. Tentatively, shaking with anxiety, she made a soft little sighing sound. No response, so she tried one a little louder. Her body twitched as an over-sensitive nerve near her anus fired for no reason -- it was probably as scared as she was. She waited for her breathing to get back near normal, knowing she'd have to try one just a little louder still, positive now she was approaching the threshold of response of either the rod or the vibrator, if not both -- it didn't matter, she knew as soon as one went off she'd set off the other. She started the sigh, held it back for a moment feeling she was shaking too badly to control it, knowing if this one didn't work she'd never be able to make herself try a louder one. She closed her eyes finally and tried the one last sigh. The gag jumped in her mouth, and the ends of her lips curled upward at the edges with satisfaction. She had to swallow quickly then, and after so much practice instantly fell into the rhythm of sucking and swallowing. Especially since she was doing it voluntarily, and it was in fact the one single thing in the world she had any control over at all, it felt very calming, as if she was a baby nursing at her mother's breast. Even though the sucking wasn't producing the flow of fluid, and was a byproduct of the efforts she had to go through to swallow, it still felt as if she were making it happen. She sucked for several minutes, the sticky, syrupy, weird tasting liquid taking the edge off her thirst, while the gag did its obscene gyrating dance in her mouth, until the absence of further sounds finally shut it down. For just those few minutes she was able to forget the coming hours. It was fully light now, and there was a glare from just below the windowsill that told her the sun would be directly on her in another ten minutes or so. With the room fully illuminated and the blinds pulled up, she realized for the first time how lucky she was to be on the second floor: nobody passing by could look in. The tension that had abated started to build up again: the first arrival of cars in the parking lot below brought home to her how close the moment she was dreading was. Like the patter of rain building up from a sprinkle to a steady beat, she became aware of sounds inside the building: doors opening, faint footsteps, distant snatches of conversation. She pictured her colleagues opening up their rooms, putting their briefcases next to their desks, and suddenly was overcome by the bizarrely guilty thought that she hadn't gotten all her lesson plans done for the day. There was still a part of her mind not yet understanding that, no matter how this came out, she definitely wasn't going to be teaching any classes today. The sun showed a sliver of itself over the windowsill now. It had been light for about an hour; it had to be about 7. An hour left. She felt the warmth on her thigh as the sunlight hit it. With a sinking feeling she realized that at around 8, the time of greatest danger of discovery, the room would be brightly lit and she, in particular, would be spotlighted in dazzling light. The chill from this image competed with the growing warmth as the sun picked out and highlighted a gradually larger area of her bare skin. The boisterous, laughing, mostly higher-pitched voices of students began to build up now the same way the faculty sounds had. That elusive thought that had stayed tauntingly at the edge of her mind came back in full force. It *had* to be trying to tell her a way out of this. She reached desperately for the thought, but it shied away again, maddeningly. She knew she had to stop trying to get it, needed to get her mind on something else. That was easy enough: the forefront of her mind was occupied with those student voices, now, ratcheting up a tension in her that she knew would approach an explosion soon. If I can just make it through first period, she thought, I'll feel like I'll be okay. Two hours from now, less, it'll be over. I'll tell myself I can relax then. If I can get through one period there's no reason I can't get through all of them. She felt a sudden chill at the thought that the voices might turn on the machinery. She could try to control the sounds she was making, but had no control over anybody else's. She stiffened as a particularly rowdy laugh came to her through the window. She waited for the pain, but nothing came. It must not be loud enough, she thought in relief. The outside sounds -- her brain probably magnified them because she knew how far away they were, but it had actually taken some pretty loud noises, right there in the room, to turn on the sound-sensitive switches. Even sounds in the room sometimes weren't enough: a medium hummm she made with her voice turned on the gag, because it was right there in her mouth, but hadn't been enough to wake up the other monsters. Even voices from the classroom, beyond the closed door to the workroom, might not do it. She hoped. She prayed. That other thought was back again. She knew her plan to wait out the day wasn't foolproof, and that part of her that knew how to get free seemed to clamor louder for her attention when her thoughts turned in that direction. What *was* it? What was she missing? If she could just get free she could avoid the tension, the dangers, of waiting here all through the long hours worrying about discovery. If she could only find out what it was. Her eyes darted around the room for the thousandth time, at first avoiding the polaroid but then examining it with the same intensity. The answer could be there. She quailed again as she looked at it, so conscious of what anybody would see when they came in here. If that person was a custodian, nearly alone in the building after the school day was over, the number of people who would ever see her like this would be at a minimum. But an entire classroom full of adolescents? With hundreds more in classrooms all up and down the hallway? God, God, God, please no. If I know how to get out of this, please let me figure out what it is. She started to shiver when the building doors were opened to the kids, at 7:30. She could hear the lockers banging, kids talking in the hallway: the moment she dreaded was getting so close now, after such a long night. Once more she tried to get free, feebly twisting her wrists in the cuffs, trying to move her knees in any direction, feeling close to crying again. She moaned slightly as she heard her own classroom door open, and the gag started up again, scaring her. She sucked on it as it did its familiar wriggling, conscious how shocked the students would be to know what the teacher was doing just on the other side of that closed door. She had alternated facing different directions all through the night, and now went through the strain of switching one more time, pressing the side of her head hard onto the table's surface, letting her weight rest on her forehead for a moment while rolling it, gently easing down onto the other side of her face, now looking toward the room's door. She wanted to know the instant somebody opened it. She hadn't turned while the gag was going before, and while she was turning the semen flowed towards her mouth, but had nowhere to go, with her lips making a tight seal around the shaft. She ended up with an extra-large gob of it to swallow once she was done. The sticky slickness of it coated her lips, now, disgusting her, not feeling like saliva. She knew it must be glistening visibly, and felt a little stream of it succeed in escaping her mouth and flow slowly down the side of her cheek. A few more students now came in; conversations were starting. She closed her eyes and repeated the thought that was becoming her mantra: they won't come in, they'll go down to the office and the office will have the librarian baby-sit for an hour. I'll be fine here. As she did it that nagging feeling came back once more. The gag had turned off again. Another fifteen minutes and she could relax, really. Once the librarian was here and the class got going everything would be under control. It had to be getting close now. The classroom seemed full. She heard a voice not far from the door: "Where is she? She'd usually be here by now. It sucks if we've got a sub." Her concerns about the noise level appeared answered: there wasn't a much noisier place than a junior high classroom just before a class starts, but the closed door muffled it reasonably well: at least it brought it down below the threshold of the switches. The tension that had been building up began to recede once more. Must be very close now, she thought. It's probably not more than a minute or two till the bell (she stiffened) SHIT Omigod Omigod that's it that's what my brain's been trying to tell me Omigod Omigod it wasn't anything about getting free it was trying to remind me ABOUT THE BELL... **BRRRRRRRRINGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!** Instantly everything came alive inside her: she gasped as she felt the first shock galvanizing every muscle in her body outward from her rectum, the whirring mania of the little silver egg generating its frenzies between her legs, the gag doing its orgasm dance in her mouth. The self-preservation center in her brain sent out furious messages to hold on, stay quiet, don't make a sound PLEASE, but the switchboard wasn't manned for receiving orders from that site, and she listened in horror as a loud moan came out of her muffled throat. Her insides turned to water as the door opened, and the faces of Kevin Battey and Sheila Wood, from the seats nearest the back, were framed in the doorway. That instant seemed to freeze, every detail burned into her memory: the consciousness of being naked, balanced on the tripod of her knees and head with bare backside up in the air and pointed towards the door, with that ridiculous balloon flying from it, her buttocks clenching, her hips moving, her thighs tightening in rhythm, her mouth giving an active blowjob to a disconnected penis... Sheila's hands raised to her mouth, Kevin with his jaw dropping open. Time started back up, at last, though in slow motion. A wave of heat started from her face and spread to her whole body. Her mind battled with the tumult of excitement and shame as she heard Sheila saying "Oh.... my..... God!!!" And in the most active end of her body, her bladder gave up its increasingly difficult burden. She moaned helplessly as a stream of urine spattered onto the table between her knees. That seemed to finally free time from the syrup it was stuck in. She heard the sound of desks being bumped and chairs overturning, and a rush of feet. More faces appeared in the doorway, expressing various degrees of shock and, in many cases, youthful hormones starting up. The ones with the best view started giggling, trying to stifle it but succeeding only partially. "How could..." / "Stop pushing, lemme see..." / "Look, look at her mouth..." / "Ewww, gross..." / "Miss Burton, you okay..." / "Oh right, she sure looks okay, doesn't she asshole?"... From the back, frantic cries of "What is it? What's going on?" Her long night was over. A long, LONG morning was just beginning. ###
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