(This story originally appeared under another pseudonym, on another site. At that time, i was planning the different names to be different "brands", with "Inosolan" being relatively light, often comic stories, and the other name being for my nastier excursions into the dark side, as it were. Since then, though, i've decided that i'll just publish everything here as "Inosolan".
(All characters are over eighteen. There is some mildly nasty dominance and humiliation and one piece of spectacularly bloody - though not too graphically described - violence.
(I hoped - when i originally published this - to write more about Amanda and Peter. Sadly, those tales never materialised. The outlines of the overall series still lurk in the back of my perverted little head, and ... just maybe ... i'll finally write them.
(Give me some feedback if you want to see more of Amanda and Peter.)
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Amanda Pays the Price, Part 01
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Sitting in a bar.
I'm sitting in a bar.
I don't remember how long I've been here.
I don't remember coming to this bar.
I try to remember. I can't.
I try to remember why I came here. I can't.
I try to remember...
I don't remember anything.
I don't remember my own name. I don't remember what city this bar is in.
I don't remember.
I'm scared. I want to jump up, to look around. I want to shout out that I don't know who I am, does anyone know who I am, why I'm here.
I can't move. Inside my head, I want to shout, to struggle. I realise that, outwardly, no matter how panicky I am inside my head, I am sitting in a booth, smiling and nodding in response to whatever the man sitting next to me is saying.
I don't remember who he is, either.
I don't remember anything.
What is the matter with me?
I am acting as if everything is perfectly normal, as if I know this man, as if we are just a couple out on a date, perhaps, but I can't remember anything.
I realise that I cannot hear. Couples are dancing, people are talking -- I should hear the music, the buzz of conversation, the clink and clatter of glasses and bottles on the tables and bar, if nothing else. I hear nothing, not even the surf-like roaring of my own blood circulating that I should hear even if my ears were plugged.
I realise that I am not feeling anything; no sense if the bar is warm or cool, no sensation from my back or buttocks where they touch the seat and the back of the booth, no sensation from my clothing on my skin.
It's not even as if my body is numb; "numb" is a sensation of sorts. I feel nothing at all.
He says something -- at least his lips move -- and I nod, smile, and reply.
I do not hear what he has said, nor even what I said in reply.
Trapped inside my own head, trying to conceive what is happening, it seems to me that I should be afraid, or at least worried or a bit panicky. After all, even with apparent total amnesia, I know that this is not a normal situation.
I am not -- I feel a certain cool detachment, as if what is happening is of no concern to me, as if it is happening to someone else.
Suddenly, I realise that the man sitting next to me has placed one arm familiarly and apparently in a friendly manner around me, and though I still neither hear nor feel anything, I know, somehow, that his fingers are resting, lightly but possessively, on my breast, stroking gently.
He looks away from me for a moment, glances around the room, where no-one is paying us the slightest attention, off in our corner, then he turns back toward me.
He smiles at me, and suddenly I realise that his is not the smile of a lover or even of a friend or casual acquaintance; it is the lazy grin of a big cat as it closes in on helpless prey.
His hand closes around my breast, his fingers toying with the nipple, and suddenly feeling returns first to the nipple as it begins to respond to his skillful manipulations, then spreading outward until I have normal sensation in all parts of my body.
I try to thrust his hand away, to tell him to stop, but I discover that, though I can feel, I still cannot make a voluntary movement or speak at all. All that I can do is sit there, feeling the sensations of physical arousal beginning in my body as he caresses my breast, toying with the now fully-erect nipple.
Sitting there, now that sensation has returned to my body, I become aware that the rather lowcut dress made of some stretchy, clinging fabric is all that I am wearing; no undergarments of any sort, just the dress, which faithfully drapes and reveals every contour of my body. Just the dress, I realise, and thigh-high stockings, held up by an old-fashioned suspender belt.
His hand leaves my breast, leaving the erect nipple starkly outlined under the midnight-blue fabric. He puts his hand on my shoulder in a companionable manner, and pulls gently. My body, completely out of my control, leans toward him, looking, I'm sure, as if we have put our heads together to share some secret.
And his other hand reaches casually up, and begins to stroke and caress my other breast, bringing that nipple also to full erection, increasing the pleasurable sensations that my body, will I nil I, is experiencing.
His hand drops from my breast to gently caress my body; gently teasing and stroking my tummy as the other hand traces patterns on my back and side, occasionally giving a quick stroke or two to my breast if the nipple seems to be losing its stand.
Despite my desires, real warmth begins to glow in my body. I feel myself leaning closer to him, turning slightly to give that devilish hand more access.
Suddenly, with a surprise that would normally have made me jump nearly out of my skin, his tonguetip licks out and gently caresses my ear; then he nips gently at it with white, even teeth.
I hear a soft sigh; then I realise that it is I who sighed.
His hand has slipped from my midriff to rest on my hip, stroking gently at it, as his other hand on my shoulder turns me even more toward him.
I sense what is coming, and I try to resist -- to no avail. Not only do I not manage to resist his kiss, my traitor body actually desires it. My lips are already parting for him as his lips meet them; his tongue slips easily past them and touches mine. Totally against my will, my tongue moves, slips against his, and they dance between our mouths. The warmth in my belly increases and seems to slip downward a bit.
Under his hand, my hips move a bit as I feel myself turning slightly more toward him.
His hand slips from my hip to my leg, then slowly strokes to my knee and back. Again, I hear myself sigh a bit, and my traitor knees move a bit apart from each other.
Again and yet one more time that hand luxuriously strokes my leg through the thin, clinging fabric of the dress... but on the third time, instead of continuing back to my hip, it suddenly slips through the slit that runs from the ankle-length hem almost to the hip, and comes to rest on my stocking-covered knee.
He smiles at me. I feel my face smile back at him, even though inside my head I am raging. How dare he! I would never... Except that perhaps I would -- I realise that, just as much as I have forgotten my name and how I got where I am, I have no idea what my sexual limits or preferences are. The thought takes me aback. Perhaps this man is actually my lover -- or even my husband. Perhaps he has every right to do what he is doing, and it is only this strange fugue-like state that I am in that causes me to resent it. Perhaps...
His hand strokes my knee, warm through the silk of the stocking, then begins slowly -- ever so slowly -- to creep up my leg, his fingertips tickling the inside of my thigh as it goes as his other hand continues playing with my nipples and his mouth plays on mine. I begin to feel real heat between my legs; I hear myself give a small, purring moan, as I feel myself lean back a bit in my seat, thrusting my hips forward, and my legs open widely, in an unmistakable lewd invitation.
He draws back, smiles again, and then turns his oral attentions again to my ear.
But instead of kissing or licking or nibbling at it, he whispers into my ear, as his moving fingers come to the top of my thigh, just grazing the wet warmth with which my mindlessly-yearning body greets him...
"I'm going to use you right here in public, you prick-teasing bitch. And you're going to act as if you enjoy every second... you're going to come like a waterfall. People are going to see and hear, and everyone will think it was your idea."
His fingers play in my tangled curls, flicking occasionally, gently but possessively at the warm wet lips below and at the erect little nub above.
"You're going to wish you'd lived a different life, bitch, because I'm going to make sure that you suffer for every minute of what you've done."
As he delivers this bitter tirade, one fingertip slips between the lips of my pussy and strokes deeply with a maddening rhythm. Despite the horror I feel inwardly at what he has said, I can feel my hips roll to the rhythm of his strokes, and as a second finger joins the first and they plunge deeply into my wet cunt, I hear myself groan, feel my hips pumping, and realise that I am in the throes of a small but delicious orgasm that I definitely do not want.
My legs clench on his hand, my hips buck, and I can feel a deep flush spreading over my cheeks, neck and the tops of my breasts as a quick bolt of pleasure slams from my cunt through my body. I feel my back arch, pressing my breast and super-erect nipple more firmly into his palm. I hear the moan of my orgasm as his lips again close on mine, keeping me from alerting too many people in the bar of his intent and actions.
As my body untenses, as I drop back against the back of the booth, he again whispers in my ear "That was just the beginning, you cunt. You're going to beg me for more and more as if it was what you really wanted. And if I tell you to suck or fuck someone else, you're going to do that, too.
"And the best part is, I know that inside you, you don't want to do this, that it will disgust and humiliate you... And even better, that you don't have the faintest idea who I am or why I'm using you like a fuck toy. That you don't even know who you are, or what you did to make me so angry.
