There is a house on Yale Street in the University neighborhood that's known to the people who hang around there as the Green House for the brilliant hue that someone chose to paint it some time ago. Probably it was once home to a respectable family, but you would barely know it from the look of the house now. The green paint chips from the carved wooden columns that hold up the front porch. Through the windows, half-opaque from the dust, you might just see that the walls are covered with posters of obscure bands, and that the couches and chairs around the room all show pieces of wooden frame through frayed upholstery.
And if you look closely enough, you might just see a small, lithe, naked woman in her mid-30s kneeling on the frayed beige carpet, one arm over the sagging middle of the plaid couch facing the television.
She's the only one in the room, and she's been kneeling there long enough that her smooth, white shins are marked by the pile of the carpet and the crumbs of marijuana that have fallen between them. She has a name, but no one's used it for awhile. She knows when they're talking to her, though: cunt, slit, hole, or sometimes they just call her girl. Somehow that last one stings more than the rest to a woman that was, until recently, the Gwendolyn T. Anderson Professor of Creative Nonfiction.
She rouses herself as the front door burst open and Brian, a slender man of about twenty with a short red beard that covers his face from cheek to Adam’s apple, stumbles in the house. Brian slams the door, and wanders into the kitchen. She perks up and watches him as he goes in the kitchen. He emerges a moment later with a bottle of cheap beer, then comes and falls on the couch by the slave.
The couch protests loudly, and seems on the verge of collapsing, but it's more resilient than it looks.
With one hand Brian points a remote control at the television and turns it on. The speakers emit the sounds of a hardcore porn video that the slave girl knows as well as she once knew the works of Foucault. With the other hand Brian fumbles open the front of his skinny jeans, revealing a narrow, kinked, circumcised cock already half-erect.
Though he never looked at her, the slave knows what Brian expects, and leans over his lap. She wraps her mouth around the center and begins sliding up and down its length, engulfing the tip in the back of her throat as it grows.
He leans further back, stretching the foot out under the ratty coffee table. Surreptitiously she straddles his leg, and lowers her crotch as she sucks on him. He does not look at her at all. He stares over her head to an image of another woman moaning in pleasure as she is gang-fucked by countless men.
She brings her crotch in contact with the top of his shoe, and pleasure shoots up her body a she nestles her bud against his laces. She presses down as hard as she dares, distracting the boy by taking the tip of his cock deep in her throat.
He's nearly done, so to make him last longer she licks his balls, and up the sides of his shaft. He hasn't complained, so she presses her full weight against the sharp length of his shin.
It's not enough. He's going to come in her mouth, then forget about her. She continues to tease him, but he's lost patience. He pushes her head down on the shaft again, still never looking.
She brings her arm up, as if to grasp the lower part of the member. But she swings it wide, and "accidentally" spills the beer all over his shirt. He jumps up, and looks down angrily.
"You stupid little slut," he says.
Her heart speeds up. This is a very dangerous game. He's not especially big, but he's a lot bigger than she is. He could easily hurt her for real.
But he's looking at her now.
"Oops," she says, looking at his cock, which is still erect in spite of his anger.
"You fucking did that on purpose," he says.
"Please," she says, not denying it all. "Don't punish me too badly."
It's not entirely an invitation; she really is a bit scared. He grabs her hair and raises his hand. There's nothing stopping him from knocking the living hell out of her.
Instead, he throws her over the arm of the couch. She hears him pulling his belt through the loops of his pants. This is what she wanted, but it doesn't mean she's not still scared. He's not playing a game. This is really going to hurt.
Still, she grinds her crotch against the frayed fabric of the arm of the sofa.
The first stroke doesn't hit square, so it barely stings, but that just throws her off guard. The next time the belt comes down it hits just her left cheek, hurting twice as much in that spot as if he'd spanked her across her whole ass. She shoves her face into the cushion to cover her yelp. He's got his target now; he keeps hitting it in the same place. She wants to tell him to move around, hit her in different places. But she's in no position to say anything.
She can't see what it looks like, she just feels the pain knifing up the inside of her body. It will be very bruised; it might bleed. It's too much; she tries to twist away, but he keeps focused.
"You think this is a game, you little slut? You're think you can fuck with me and I'll play your little game?"
But he slows down. He's looking at her ass moving like that, looking at how wet this is making her cunt. She can feel his eyes on it. Her legs are closed against the assault of the belt. He shoves a knee between them, but she would have opened them anyway.
"Is this what you wanted? My dick? I'll give you my dick."
His full weight comes down, filling her with his cock. Her pelvis is ground painfully into the barely-cushioned wood of the chair arm, her face shoved even harder into the cushion by his hand. The bruise on her ass flowers in fresh pain as he presses against it. The couch protests fearfully as he thrusts into her again and again. She prays it doesn't fall apart.
She's not going to come, no way he will last that long. But just for a moment she's shut out from reality the way she needs. Pleasure and pain are arguing down in her lizard brain somewhere, drowning out who she is for a moment. It's not long enough.
He pulls out and comes all across her back, up to her hair. Then he's gone. She could get up now, but she doesn't. In her mind she can look down on herself and see what she's become, bent over a couch, one cheek of her ass bruised and purple, her back decorated with the come of a boy young enough to have been a student in her class. Somewhere inside her is the woman she used to be, seeing this.
And yet it was the woman she used to be who began down this path. And since then, every step has been her choice. Her mind drifts back. She remembers how she went from being Professor Lauren Mitchell to being the sex toy of the Green House.
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