Classmates' Revenge

Chapter One-2

Julie had a lot of this, a canvas they all delighted in coloring. Now her bum was even more humongous: swollen up red from spanking and abraded with the purple of bad belt burns. On top lay all that eloquent whip-script decorating her from thighs to t**s. Though she stung all over, the sight of her ordeal’s evidence was so exciting it made the pain a welcome referent. With no sign of any openings, she sighed with a familiar stirring as Carrie rubbed a soothing lotion into all that tender flesh. Watching in the mirrors, Julie dwelled as always on the contrasts they presented.

She was such a stereotypical American blonde, statuesque and beyond voluptuous with big t**s, heroic hips and hair she wore to her shoulder blades. Her eyes were blue as the summer sky and her tanned skin clear and fair. Carrie on the other hand had more than a touch of the tropics to her. Still graced with the fading evidence of her own last turn as the b***h, her native tint had a lovely hint of Amerindian. Also inherited from a Mesoamerican ancestor was that amazing hair.

Where Julie’s plumage was yellow as kernels on a cob and straight as the accompanying silk, Carrie’s black was a light-drinking ink that released this back as iridescence. Thick and full and tapering to her waist, all it required after washing and combing was a single shake. In half an hour it would be dried into majestic, raven-winged waves. With a quick wit to go with her huge dark eyes, lush lips and lively vivacity the minx was as fashion-model beautiful as she was personably magnetic. And oh what a body beyond divine!

Where Julie had to watch what she ate and work out like crazy to keep her thick if shapely mass from collapsing into fat, Carrie stayed several sizes slimmer no matter what she did. And while she too had t**s to create a lifetime of backache, in the place of huge soft swells certain to sag over the years, those boastful bazongas were arrogantly upswept, defying both gravity and the eye while springing back with fierce resilience from the pressure of flesh. Moreover they were kept from circular perfection only by their teardrop opulence, which made them kind of slope outward before sweeping aggressively back up in your face the way they did. Even the n*****s were dramatically noticeable: huge yes, but also dark and naturally conical where Julie’s aureoles lay spread out pale and flat unless deliberately stimulated. Her tiny waist was contrastingly slender too with abruptly flaring hips; Julie’s whole hourglass was deep and well as wide. Then there were those dancer’s legs and that impossibly bulbous butt…

“Have I ever mentioned how much I detest you?”

“Six million, two hundred and thirty-seven times by my count.”

“I’m studying witchcraft so I can evict you from that body and inhabit it for myself.”

“I wondered about all the severed heads in the fridge.”

“And yet you still let me stay here.”

“I’m gaga for hot blondes. Plus I’ve met your stepdad.”

“Now there’s someone I truly detest.”

“And with hideously appropriate cause. What a loathsome boil on the syphilitic dingus of a chimpanzee.” Finished with the lotion, Carrie gave her a slap on the ass.

“Enough dawdling darling. Let’s get ourselves dolled up and dressed to kill. The glittering metropolis of Locklin, Vermont awaits us.”

“Stop it, you’ll give me palpitations!”

They shared another snicker at the provincial old hometown.

In the end Julie settled on a fake-snakeskin dress that clung to her curves yet covered her still rope-furrowed arms and shoulders – and hid all those whip welts. Carrie was as smashing as ever in some eye-bewildering designer number. By quarter after six they were decked out and bejeweled and climbing into her brand new convertible.

A graduation present from Julie’s banished old man, this was as black and gleaming as Carrie’s hair – if not so subtle in the way it sent wicked spears of reflection flying at the eye. Pausing only to wave at the minimal security staff left to guard the premises, they peeled out in high spirits, eager as ever to be three.

It took only minutes to get downtown and Reilly’s was right on Main Street. They were parking in the lot to the rear (no valets alas) when Tara Sinclair’s Kawasaki Ninja purred in behind them. The custom-painted red flame pattern befitted the might of the sleek little bike as much as that motorcycle did its mistress. Though Julie was confidently outgoing and Carrie possessed of her mother’s Columbian passion, Tara was the accelerant that combined them for ignition. She’d been behind their most outrageous escapades, compensating possibly for being the least blessed of the three. Certainly she was the smallest.

Bounding off her bike almost before its engine quit, at five-six she was a third of a foot shorter than Julie and a sixth less than the richest of them. As for money, she would obviously never want for anything. Yet her fortune wasn’t exactly in the same stratospheric category. Nor were her boobs so bountiful – though they were still 34-D’s, firm as peaches and just as sweet.

Regardless, athletic Tara was easily the slimmest of them and on the best terms with her folks. Unwelcome in her own home, anxious about every dessert, Julie would swap places with her too and on those grounds alone. Of course now was not the time for friendly envy. They were a trio again and vivacious Tara was gushing over her spanking new Stingray.

“Cool Corvette girl! Let’s go up in the Green Mountains and whip around some scenic parkways with it. We can take turns with my bike.”

With the helmet off her impish pixie act was infectious. Tara kept her chestnut hair razored up short on the sides and back but had rakish bangs draping half her brow in a way that suited her rather angular, small-featured face perfectly. Uncommon gray eyes gleamed like her smile. Wearing leather shorts and a blindingly white silk blouse (no bra), with boots to just above the knee and an opal in the hollow of her throat she was imbued with all her usual vitality. Her hugs and kisses of greeting were as joyously forthright as ever. As soon as those were dispensed though, she returned her fervency to the car.

A barrage of technical questions ensued. Julie answered the few that she could. Sharing grins with Carrie they entertained colorful exhortations to cruise all the way to Florida for the next spring break, or up to Montreal for a cultural binge. Or wait ‘til the leaves changed…

These might have done that by the time they ate. And Carrie had cars at her disposal worth ten times that ‘vette. At last the alpha girl returned them to the reason for their meeting.

“It’s not that hot anymore. The breeze is nice. Seats on the terrace?”

“Lead the way, Tits.” This was Tara’s bitchy nickname for either of them when feeling outclassed or miffed. “Shake those moneymakers.”

“Shake your own, sister. Somehow I doubt seats are going to be a problem.”

She was right.

It was early yet and Tuesday wasn’t the busiest of nights. As they chattered their way up the flank of the restaurant toward the terrace in front someone inside must have seen them coming. Though there were a few tables still open, a new bit of premium seating right by the street was being hastily laid. Everything was ready by the time they stepped off the sidewalk.

The host bordered on obsequious as he guided them over and pulled out chairs. Everyone knew who they were, even in a town where genetic and financial wealth were both abundant. Their patronage graced his place; an uneasy waiter was already hovering. With other restaurants and bars lining both sides of Main this tree-shaded terrace just became the top spot to see and be seen on the street – not to mention to eat. They ordered cocktails and grabbed up menus.

***

Tara knew she was a jabber-jaw. The others told her so ten times a day. They took particular delight in pointing it out when it was her coin that came up tails, and someone was cramming a gag (or their genitals) into her mouth. That was okay though. There were enough other reasons to love her that this could be overlooked. And really, they had half a year’s gossip to catch up on.

Slurping up margaritas and gobbling down appetizers, the trio did just that. By the time dinner arrived they’d moved on from old lovers, friends and enemies to family. Julie’s stepfather was roundly reviled, along with her mother for preferring the slime to the dad she’d driven away.

They drank to Jimena and her twins, for gifting them this summer without supervision. All three swore to avoid childbirth indefinitely for themselves. A bit wistfully nonetheless, Tara filled them in on Trisha, the kid sister they’d all doted on since being brought home after kindergarten as a day-old baby.

None could believe she was halfway through high school; in scandalized giggles they wondered if she was as naughty as they had been and was better at covering it up or if she really was as innocent as she seemed. The mixed-emotion consensus was the latter. From there the talk turned back to their undying fascination with that early-discovered fetish. The two new English degrees were sniffing dismissively.

“Fifty Shades may have mainstreamed it enough to inspire teens like us,” Tara held forth. “But as a novel it really was dreadful. Where is the modern Marquis de Sade, bringing depth and heft, talent and vision to the subject? Let’s have someone approach kink with a little literary ambition. It’s not just for m**********g to, or for giving daring kids ideas.”

Carrie snorted into her drink.

“I’d settle for some female characters that weren’t entirely submissive. Anne Rice has published some fetish stuff, and her mainstream fiction is more open to adventurousness than most. But these are all rape fantasies at heart. Am I the only one that wants to read about empowered women enacting the revenge of the finer gender?”

“The problem is sss, Apple and the other big retail behemoths,” put in Art History Julie.

“They’ve got a stranglehold on the publishing industry. And whether through simple religious prurience or pressure from international concerns – you know, countries where speech isn’t as supposedly free as it is here – they’re basically forcing writers to self-censor. Anything that breaks a whole slew of taboos can get you either blacklisted or back-listed, which means they adjust their search algorithms and relegate you to hard-to-locate corners of the site.

“I mean Stephen King can publish whatever he likes, the most gruesome s**t imaginable. Just try writing erotica that features rape, pee, or characters under eighteen.”

“Yeah, ‘cause no one ever had s*x before they were eighteen!” Tara pealed forth derisory mirth and the others joined her.

“This country is nuts,” Julie huffed. “The Jesus freaks get more like the Taliban all the time. No wonder you can’t find any good domme-woman stuff. A male being put in his place, or better yet one who embraces being submissive to women is the absolute antithesis to the religious patriarchy. Honestly when have you seen a book or movie portray such things seriously?”

Silence fell as they considered.

“Damn, now I want to hear a femdom story!” Carrie waggled her empty glass at their waiter, who nearly fell over himself going to get her a refill. “A nice raunchy one. Unfortunately we’ve already shared all ours, haven’t we? Tara, make one up – maybe about this guy.”

They fell silent as the waiter hurried back with Carrie’s drink. He noticed the others were still half full and eying him, then meekly retreated.

“What am I, the entertainment?”

“Yeah, jabber-jaw. Play the traveling bard for us.”

“Sorry. Inspiration on demand was never my forte.”

“Then tell us about that guy from Northwestern again,” Carrie pleaded. “We’ve had so little luck with men. He sounded like one of the good ones.”

“He should have been,” sighed Tara. She let her gaze go back to the street, keeping an eye out for people she knew while at the same time seeing that amazingly hot guy from two years ago in Chicago. “It all started at a bar.”

“That’s hardly going to replace ‘once upon a time’.”

“Shut up t**s. You want to hear this story or not?”

“Appy-polly-loggies.” This was classic Clockwork Orange slang, which got an obligatory chuckle. Finally they let her begin.

“So this guy was really hot. I’m getting wet just talking to him…”

Dropping her voice to keep their preferences private, Tara told it all again. She described how Eric straightforwardly admitted to singling her out by reason of her boots, bike and obvious fiery spite. He’d always wanted to be dominated in bed and she seemed perfect for the job. Was she interested? In town for just the weekend, Tara spent nearly all of it in her hotel room with him. Everything they habitually did unto each other she inflicted on this gorgeous guy – all of that and then some. Never had there been anything like it. It was only at the end of this torrid three-day extravaganza that perfect Eric confessed he was getting married soon to a vanilla girl who would be horrified by his predilection. He’d just had to live out the fantasy, learn what he’d be missing out on. He wouldn’t be able to risk even rope burns or bruises after this…