Jenny's Couch, Book 5 Chapter 28

Karen didn't measure how long she sat naked in the corner of the cell, curled up in a ball of abject misery with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees and her head down. There was only the buzz and harsh white light from the fluorescent. It had a flicker that she could see even through her closed eyelids and after a while her head began to ache from it. She was sitting in a cold puddle of her rapists' semen but she was afraid to move. If only she held absolutely still, maybe when she opened her eyes this nightmare would be over...

She was startled out of a semidoze by a "clack-clack!" She looked up and a slit in the bottom of the door was just closing. There was a tray on the floor in front of it. Karen's belly cramped and she realized she was ravenous. She uncurled herself slowly, painfully, and crawled across the cold concrete floor. On the tray was a small bowl of runny oatmeal and a glass of water. There were no utensils. The oatmeal was cold and sour, the water tepid. She drank them both down and if anything she felt hungrier than before. She felt an urgent need to urinate and, looking blankly around the cell for a toilet and not finding one, realized that she was supposed to use the bucket. Grimacing with disgust, she did. Then she used the harsh, pulpy paper to wipe herself, and some more of it to clean the disgusting goo from her butt and to wipe it up from the floor. Then she went back to the corner, curled up and wept quietly.

After a time she was all out of tears. Slowly one hand rubbed across her breasts, and then stole downward, brushing over her belly. Her fingertips tapped lightly at her mound and then curled over it. Her breath hitched as she gently rubbed her index finger across her clitoris. She gasped as she encountered the still-painful burn, but began masturbating regardless, carefully using thumb and fingers to stroke and gently tug on the swelling nub. She began to lubricate and soon was massaging syrupy white cream into her clit as her breathing sped and deepened. She lifted her head and laid it back against the wall, letting the familiar rising pleasure and heat take her away from her awful reality. She teased herself, smoothing a finger up and down her inner labia, pressing just enough to separate but not to penetrate, not yet. She groaned softly, almost silently in her throat and without intending she began to writhe slowly, pressing her heating quim against the dirty floor. She felt the first tickle of a climax as her clit throbbed beneath her fingers. It was coming, it was coming, she was close...

Clack-clack! went the door. Karen jerked, breathless, a fresh spike of terror spearing her at the noise, but it was just the slot in the door opening again. An unseen hand pulled her empty tray out and the slot slammed closed again. Karen put her hand, wet and slimy with her secretions, against her breast and felt her racing heart. She gulped and fought to control her breathing. Relief was a physical wave of warm and cold pouring down her body.

But before Karen could return to her self-pleasuring she was jolted again, this time by the sound of the bolt being shot back and she scrambled to her feet as the door swung slowly open. She cowered back into the corner of the room, unconsciously trying to make herself as small as possible. She pressed one arm against her breasts and covered her weeping clam with her other hand. Her heart was pounding and she had a sudden overwhelming urge to pee.

Pastor Fustein stepped through the door. There was someone else behind him in the corridor that Karen couldn't see clearly. "Hello Karen," Fustein said, pleasantly enough. He stepped into the center of the room, surveying it as if there were more to see than bare walls. "I hope you haven't been too uncomfortable. I'm sorry that your disobedience made this your introduction to our little family here." Karen could think of nothing to say. She was used to being undressed in front of strangers but before this man she felt truly naked, exposed, vulnerable. Fear prickled behind her eyes and it was all she could do to hold back more tears. "I would like to put this behind us and have you join our community, would you like that?" He nodded as he spoke, and Karen felt her head bobbing in response.

Karen's voice emerged in a croak. "Please don't hurt me. I'll be good." She sounded to herself like a scared little toddler, not the bold, sexy teenaged whore she wanted to be.

Pastor Fustein smiled. No doubt he meant it to be friendly and welcoming but to Karen it looked like a shark trying to be on his best behavior. "Nobody wants to hurt you, Karen. We may have to discipline you, but it's for your own good, to bring you back into the community of our Lord. You understand that, don't you?"

Beneath her fear and anguish, Karen felt a stab of anger that she dared not express. Was being raped and tortured by your deacons for my own good? Was it for my own good you left me crying in a puddle of my own piss? But all she could manage was another submissive nod of her head.

"I'm so happy you feel that way," the pastor said. "Will you pray with me now? We'll pray for guidance, and then I'll get you some clothing and a proper meal and take you over to the girls' dorm where you can make some new friends. Won't that be nice?" Again, all Karen could do was nod. She was so hungry her knees were trembling. She felt like she could agree to anything if only they would give her something to eat.

Pastor Fustein stepped close to Karen. She couldn't help it, she flinched and tried to shrink back further but she was already squeezed into the corner of the cell as small as she could make herself. But he only put his hands on her bare shoulders and gently urged her to step forward. His eyes were locked on hers. Karen had a fleeting thought that he must be working very hard not to look at her naked body but she found his gaze almost mesmerizing. His eyes were very dark. She found she couldn't look away. The pastor took two steps backward so they were in the center of the room and then he gently turned the two of them around so Karen was facing away from the door. "Let's pray together, Karen," he said. He let go of her shoulders and gently took her hands in his, prying them away from her futile attempt to cover her nakedness. If he noticed that the hand that had been covering her crotch was sticky he made no comment. He didn't close his eyes to pray, but instead his gaze continued boring into her. Karen couldn't deny that she felt something as he began to speak, some upwelling within her. She wanted to please this man and she wanted to please him by coming to God with him.

"Father, we just want to thank You for bringing Karen to us in her time of need. All of us are sinners, Father, and fall short of Your commandments and yet You extend Your grace to us even so." He rambled on like that for a time, the standard Christian prayers that Karen had heard all of her short life, but there was something compelling about Pastor Fustein even though she had heard the same words thousands of times before. When she heard him speak her name it gave her a small jolt as if she had half been in a trance. "And now Karen comes to us, Father, in the grip of a terrible sin, defiling her body that should be a temple to You." The pastor's voice sped up, the leisurely cadence of rote prayer giving way to something faster and rougher. "Karen has succumbed to a demonic presence that has forced her to become a prostitute, Lord, to sell her body to uncounted men and let them pollute her with their seed, over and over and over and over again, Lord." His eyes seemed to glow now and his face started to flush. "Swimming in filth, Lord, taking a devil's baptism in the the corrupted semen of unbelievers, her heart turned black and her most precious flower rotten and stinking, help us crush her Lord, crush the evil out of her and return her to such grace as she can still find despite being a filthy, disgusting whore..."

"Stop!" Karen jumped back and clapped her hands over her ears. She couldn't help herself. She knew this was all subterfuge, she knew she had a mission and at the same time she knew this was her punishment for - she couldn't let herself think about it, couldn't let her mind's eye conjure the very last view of her wife as she pulled the triggerSTOP she screamed inside her head, she knew all of that but her pride rebelled, sinful or not, her pride and her faith wouldn't let her abuse her gift like that, the personal gift that her God had given her, the gift of pleasure to keep and pleasure to share.

Her interruption had shocked the pastor into silence and in that moment Karen realized she was making a grave mistake but she couldn't stop herself. "It's not a sin," she said quietly. "It's not a demon. God made me. God made all of us. But God made me a whore. You can't know what it's like, it's hard, it's so hard, but I do what God asks of me, I try so hard, and some days if I'm lucky I get to see Him, He comes to me, He touches me all over, my whore cunt gets hot so hot, and then God touches it and I..."

Karen was outside herself, watching herself make this terrible mistake and unable to stop, realizing that she had begun to stroke herself as she talked, gentle caresses that quickly turned into frantic masturbation, squeezing and tugging her clitoris as it swelled and stood up, frantically strumming her fingers across her labia as she lubricated to spread the juices all around until her clit and her smooth, hairless vulva glistened in the harsh fluorescent light, feeling the terrible wonderful incandescent pleasure rise within her, welling up it seemed from her toes to fill her body until with a cry she exploded. Her eyes rolled back in her head and just as she had said she was filled with the spirit of the Lord, felt Him touching her everywhere as the pleasure blasted from her whore cunt and filled her from head to toe, fingertip to fingertip and every single square inch of her skin in between.

Panting, her heart thundering and sweat prickling on her bare skin, Karen came back to herself, opened her eyes and as her vision swam back into focus, met Pastor Fustein's horrified stare. There was a wide spatter of wetness down the center of his white shirt. The heavy gold cross around his neck was marred with a splash of white foam. His black pants were tented, straining the placket open to show the zipper and a separate, smaller patch of liquid darkening the fabric at the peak of the tent. And there was a new scent in the cell but one totally familiar to Karen, the heavy perfume of her arousal.

The pastor's mouth worked but no words came out. He took a step backwards, raising his hand as if to ward off a blow. "Wait," Karen stammered out, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean..." but the pastor fled, giving her as wide a berth as possible as he bolted from the cell. Karen jumped as the door slammed behind her. As the sexual flush faded she felt the crushing weight of fear settle onto her and she began to appreciate the magnitude of her error. The strength went out of her limbs and she collapsed onto the cold floor. She hid her face in her hands, smearing cunt cream from her hand across her cheek and forehead, and sobbed.

Hours crept by. Karen had no way to track the time except by the strengthening of her hunger pangs and thirst, and the growing terror as she imagined what lay in store for her. She couldn't stay still, pacing back and forth in agitation, but then she became irrationally afraid of being caught by surprise when her cell door opened and she sat on the concrete slab, curling up in the corner, knees up, one arm wrapped around them, her other hand busy at her crotch. Even masturbation didn't soothe her. She would close her eyes, concentrate on the pleasure her fingers coaxed from her clitoris, feel the sting as her thumb passed over the fresh burn on the tender flesh, listen to the slick sounds as she penetrated herself, smell her pungent scent curling around her nostrils - but then the fear of not being ready when the door opened would overwhelm her and her eyes would fly open and her pleasure would recede. At the last she was crying not from terror, but tears of frustration as she was unable to climax no matter how vigorously she flogged herself.

Finally, when she thought she might start screaming or banging her head against the wall or she didn't know what, Karen heard the key rattling in the door. She jerked her hand away from her weeping snatch, wiping it guiltily on the concrete. She looked up and her terror grew as the door pushed open and Pastor Fustein entered, but not alone. One, two, three deacons entered the cell behind him. Four men were a crowd in the tiny cell and they loomed over Karen. She futilely tried to cover her bare body from their hungry eyes. Fresh tears coursed down her face and she began pleading incoherently, begging them not to hurt her.

Pastor Fustein went to one knee before her. "Karen, it's alright, don't be scared," he said in a voice that he no doubt thought was compassionate. He gripped her shoulders and stroked her upper arms, gently chafing her trembling flesh. "Karen, look at me," he commanded softly, using one hand to carefully brush her tangled hair away from her face. Karen gulped and sniffled, trying to control herself. She licked salt off her upper lip and whispered, "Please don't hurt me."

"No one wants to hurt you, Karen. It's just we've never had a case like yours here. We didn't know what to do, I can admit that to you. Do you know where I've been for the last four hours? Do you?" Realizing it wasn't a rhetorical question, Karen shook her head. "In a staff meeting. I called all our clergy and educators and deacons together and we strategized how to help you. But first we want you to have something to eat, you must be starving. Then we'll introduce you to all the staff, and then we'll take you to the dorm and I'm sure you'll make lots of new friends. Is that okay?"

Karen couldn't believe what she was hearing. She was sure it was some kind of trick, that as soon as she relaxed or let the deacons close in she would be shocked, or beaten, or raped again. But there was nothing she could do. She was one thirteen-year-old child, naked, far from home, without her sister or her parents or anyone that loved her. There was only Lilah and only Lilah's promise that it would only be seven days, but how could a child, even one as...different...as Lilah, how could she promise that?

So, her muscles cramping from the tension and the fear, Karen slowly unfolded her coltish limbs and pushed herself to her feet. A wave of dizziness rolled over her and the cold concrete seemed to tilt under her bare soles. Pastor Fustein put his arm around her shoulders and held her until the dizziness passed. And then he led her out of the cell that she had begun to fear she would never leave.

The old man was not manning the desk in the entryway. There was someone else, younger, but dressed the same, wearing the same heavy gold cross that they all did. He nodded to the pastor. One of the deacons went to the door and when the desk man pushed a button and there was a buzz, pushed it open. Afternoon sunlight flooded in. Karen blinked in the the bright natural light, closed her eyes and inhaled deeply the smell of grass and damp earth. A breeze blew in, caressing her bare skin and her nipples erected. She saw one of the deacons notice and she blushed up to the roots of her hair and back to her ears.

With his arm still around her shoulders, the pastor guided her out the door. He was gentle but Karen noticed the way the three deacons took up positions one in front of them and two behind, and she could feel their eyes on her. As she stepped back onto the gravel path she had been hustled along - was it only last night? - the rocks again cut into the soft uncallused soles of her feet but Karen was so happy to be out of the cell that she welcomed the pain. Her body came alive to all the sensations of open air, the scents of grass, damp earth, perfume of wildflowers. An astringent, piny note was carried on the breeze from groves of evergreens dotted around the field inside the fence. She felt the warmth of sunlight on her face, her belly, her breasts, and especially her nipples and clitoris which heated and felt heavy and swollen with blood. She felt the cooling of the breeze against her secretions drying on her mons, her labia, her inner thighs.

The pastor guided her towards the building marked Administration. This building had normal looking windows and a regular door but otherwise looked no friendlier than the rest of the complex with the same featureless concrete construction. But as she stepped inside, Karen' bare feet felt the softness of carpeting. There were a few deacons at desks, some of whom looked up and then stared at the sight of a pretty naked girl being escorted inside. Karen felt herself blushing, but then she caught the scent of food and her mouth watered and her hunger pangs returned so fiercely she clutched her stomach. She was brought through a doorway into a large conference room. There was a single long table with chairs and more chairs around the perimeter of the room. There was a whiteboard and a video monitor on one wall. But Karen had eyes only for one thing: a tray set in front of a chair at a middle seat on the table. She was led to the seat and Pastor Fustein gently pushed her down into it. "Eat up," he said not unkindly, "While we gather the staff for introductions."

Karen's tray held a large bowl full of some kind of stew, bits of meat and potato in a tomatoey sauce, a small plate of plain macaroni, and a glass of lemonade. The stew was hot but she was so hungry she burned her mouth shoveling it in, taking gulps of the cool lemonade in between. Before long the tray was empty and Karen was delicately wiping her mouth on the napkin provided. A deacon, she didn't see who, asked if she'd like more and she nodded eagerly.

She was midway through her third bowl of the stew, head down and concentrating on shoveling it in as fast as she could, when she felt a hand on her bare shoulder. She looked up with the spoon still in her mouth and it was Pastor Fustein. And then she saw that the room was now crowded. Every seat at the conference table was taken as were all the chairs around the perimeter of the conference room, and there were some people standing behind them as well. All men, Karen saw, and all dressed in what she guessed was the uniform here, black pants, white shirt (short-sleeved for the deacons and long-sleeved for more senior people like the Pastor) and a large, heavy gold cross on a neck chain.

"Hello, everyone," the Pastor addressed the room at large, "Thank you for coming and thanks especially to those of you for whom this is off-shift. This is an unusual meeting because we have an unusual new guest. Stand up, Karen." The pastor's hand went from her shoulder to grip her bicep and pulled her up out of her chair, then guided her back to stand against the whiteboard. There were gasps from the audience, many of whom hadn't realized as she was sitting hunched over her food with her long straight blond hair spilling forward, that she was quite without clothing. Karen felt herself blushing yet again as she looked back, her gaze darting from one man to another as she tallied the total number of them. In some of their eyes she saw puzzlement; in others, disgust; but in many, lust. And Karen knew what to do. Her mind fell back into the comfort of her training. She felt her skin heating, felt her breathing quicken and felt the prickle of arousal stiffen her nipples and pulse in her clitoris. She unconsciously spread her stance, the better to display the first fresh trickle of dew shining on her thin inner labia.

"As you can see, Karen is quite excited to be with us today," the pastor said, bringing some chuckles from around the room. "Those of you who have read her intake form know that Karen claims to have been selling herself to men, adult men, men like all of us, for at least two years, since she was just eleven and in elementary school, and I have no reason to disbelieve her. This beautiful creature of God has been a prostitute since before she became a woman. Though she prefers another word for it, don't you, Karen?" The pastor looked at her encouragingly.

With her belly full and believing that she was now on familiar ground Karen's arousal overcame her fear. "The word is 'whore'," she announced boldly. "I'm a whore!" Some of the men actually physically drew back in disgust but Karen took careful note of some others who leaned forward avidly or who seemed to suddenly have sweat on their upper lips or foreheads.

"Thank you, my dear," the Pastor said. "Karen confessed to me earlier that not only is she a whore, but that she believes God made her so, that God wants her to be a prostitute and even though it is a sin, God wants her to have sex outside of the bonds of holy matrimony." Now there was muttering amongst the audience as some of the deacons found this quite shocking. The pastor held up a hand. "We are not here to debate this with our young guest. Nor are we going to punish her for her extraordinary beliefs. Punishment was the first resort when she arrived yesterday and it proved futile. I don't hold it against the staff involved as they were following protocol, but Karen presents an extraordinary case and it requires an extraordinary response.

"To start with, I want you all to understand just how important Karen's beliefs are to her. You can no doubt see that she is now sexually aroused. She is a thirteen-year-old girl, she is completely naked and she is being required to display herself before a roomful of godly men. Please think - and I apologize for even mentioning it - but please imagine how your own daughters or young sisters would react in this situation. Of course they would be terrified and mortified and would hide behind whatever was available to shield their nakedness from us. Compare that with our self-described whore." And the pastor turned to Karen. "Go ahead, dear, it's quite all right. I promise this is not a trick. Please behave just as you wish."

"You...you want me to...to masturbate?" Karen half-whispered to the man. "Right here?" Pastor Fustein only smiled and nodded encouragingly. Despite her inner alarm bells ringing at this complete change of attitude from her captors, Karen couldn't resist the growing tension in her body. She closed her eyes and put her head back against the whiteboard. She cupped her breasts, pinching her swollen nipples, as red and firm as fresh cherries, gently between thumbs and forefingers. Her lips curved up in a smile and "Mmmmmmmmm," came from deep in her throat as first one hand and then the other trailed down her belly, her abdomen, and one curled over her smooth mons while the other slid down the crease between thigh and vulva. She gasped as she curled two fingers and slid them effortlessly between her moistened labia and into her vagina. The thumb and first two fingers of her other hand grasped her clitoris and gently uncurled it against the tension of its scar tissue, pulling it out to its full nearly unbelievable size and then she squeezed and rubbed it as it swelled and darkened with blood. "Oooh," she moaned softly. "I'm a whore. Look at my whore cunt. Look at how juicy it is. It's ready to be fucked." Her heart was pounding and she could feel her pulse in her temples, her throat, and her heating clit. Her voice went high and breathy. "I want to be fucked so bad. I want your cocks. I want all of your cocks. I want to fuck you so bad. Please fuck me, fuck me hard, fuck my whore cunt, fuck me fuck me fuckmefuckmeFUCKMEEEEEE!"

Karen's voice rose to a screech as an orgasm slammed into her. After the pain and terror and trauma of the past day it was one of the strongest she had ever felt. Her legs gave out and as she fell to her knees a stream of ejaculate squirted so forcefully from her swollen labia that it arced glittering through the air and splashed down onto her tray, into her half-finished bowl of stew and her glass of lemonade. "Ohhh, Godddd," she fell forward onto her hands, letting her head droop down. Her thin shoulderblades stood out taut against the fair, flawless skin of her back. "Thank you, God," she said with a voice gone weak and hoarse. "Thank you for making me a whore." And she stayed on the carpet with her head down and her long blonde hair a tangled cloud around her, sweat dripping off her bare body as she fought to catch her breath.

As Karen came back to herself and the roaring of her blood in her ears receded, she realized the pastor was still speaking. "...quite a challenge she presents to our pledge to return our young charges to the ways of the Lord. Fortunately, technology has provided what I believe will be the solution. Pastor Guilfoyle, if you will...?" As Pastor Fustian bent and helped Karen back to her feet, another man in a long-sleeved white shirt came to the front of the conference room, carrying a small plastic case. As Fustian guided Karen to stand at the table, the new man pushed aside her tray, now redolent with Karen's perfume. The still steaming-hot stew carried the heavy, pungent aroma throughout the room. Karen blushed with pleasure at the thought that every man in the room could now smell her cunt.

Pastor Guilfoyle snapped the case open and withdrew what it took Karen a moment to recognize as a patent leather collar, not quite an inch wide and colored in barber-pole red and white stripes. A long ribbon trailed from it, colored similarly. Pastor Fustein swept Karen's tangled hair out of her face and gathered it behind her neck and before she realized what was happening, Guilfoyle had fastened the collar around her neck. "Not too tight, is it?" he asked solicitously and Karen shook her head, bemused. He adjusted it so the ribbon and the buckle were both at the nape of her neck. Karen felt cool metal studs on the inside of the collar against her throat. It was not unpleasant. She felt as much as heard a "snick" of metal clicking together and Guilfoyle said brightly, "There, locked," which set off the first tiny alarm bell in Karen's still sex-befuddled mind. He straightened the ribbon so it ran right down her spine and lay lightly between her buttocks. But then he reached between her legs and brought it up and around, not pressing it into her slit but rather to the side, along the crease of her thigh. He pulled it up as far as her navel. "Too long," he muttered, dropped it and fiddled with something at the back of the collar. Then he reached between her legs and tugged on the ribbon which had now been shortened so that it reached just to the top of her slit. Looking down, Karen saw there was something like a tiny little bag or coin purse at the end of the ribbon.

Karen jumped when she felt Pastor Guilfoyle's touch in her most intimate area. "What are you doing?" she yelped and went to push his hand away. But Pastor Fustein had stepped behind her and gripped her wrists in his hands, holding her arms down at her sides and slightly behind her, just enough to pull her shoulders back and push her perky breasts up slightly. What Guilfoyle was doing was stretching Karen's clitoris out of its curl just as she had done a few moments ago. He slipped the little bag over the end of it and then pulled a drawstring tight, not so tight as to pinch but tight enough so the bag was firmly attached to Karen's pleasure bud. She felt cool metal warming against the nerve-dense nub inside the little bag. Guilfoyle released her and her clit returned to its normal shape, the ridge of scar tissue on the underside making it curl around itself so with the little bag it resembled nothing so much as a large popcorn shrimp wearing a cloche hat. Fustein released Karen's wrists before she got agitated enough to struggle and laid his arm across her shoulders. The fabric of his shirt felt rough against her bare skin.

"Thank you, Pastor Guilfoyle," Fustein said. "And now, Karen, I know from your actions as well as your intake form how much you enjoy your sexual arousal. So if you are really the whore that you say God made you, you should be happy to repeat your wanton performance for my staff." As he spoke, he drew a single finger down Karen's back. She shivered at the contact and almost groaned aloud as his finger slipped between her asscheeks and stopped just short of tickling her anus.

Despite the bizarre turn the day had taken, Karen felt the dark urge rising and the butterflies roiling her stomach again. She stepped back to lean against the whiteboard, turned her feet out and bent at the knees slightly to place herself even more obscenely on display to the roomful of adult men. She gripped her vulva with both hands and used her fingers to gently pull it open, exposing her inner labia thickened with blood and flowered open and the darker pink opening between them. She slid the first three fingers of her right hand inside while her thumb flicked back and forth against the underside of her clitoris. She let her eyes drift closed, bit her lip and did groan aloud this time as her fingers stretched her and she let the pleasure from the tension and friction radiate out through her body. Cream squelched out around her digits as she plunged them repeatedly in and out. She began to pant and felt the sweat running down her temples as the first tickles of a powerful climax trembled in her belly. She envisioned it as a dark wave rising up far over her head, pausing, and then starting to crash down...there was a hum, a smell of ozone, and a pain in her clitoris as if she'd been stung by a bee. Karen yelped and literally jumped, her feet leaving the floor. She stood panting, feeling as if she had just stepped off a ledge she hadn't known was there. Her cunt was still dripping, her heart pounding and her breath coming in gasps, her nipples achingly stiff - but the dark wave of orgasm had receded as if the tide had gone out all at once.

Looking around in confusion, Karen blinked. Without thought her fingers resumed their rhythmic plumbing of her overheated passage and she blushed as the wet sounds were plainly audible in the room. She looked out at her audience and realized that all these men were here for one reason: to see her, naked, pleasuring herself and being on display like that boosted her arousal to the next level. She began to moan as cream dripped down the insides of her thighs and the sexual flush spread across her chest. The heat grew inside her and she felt her asscheeks clench as it began to crest...

..."YOW!" she squawked as the hum and the ozone smell and the painful bite seized her clitoris again, stinging harder this time, hard enough to make her bend and cup her privates protectively. She was left panting and gulping air, felt sweat prickling her scalp. Again her incipient climax had vanished with the sudden, unexpected sting to her throbbing, swollen pleasure knob.

Confused and somehow angered at this betrayal of her own body, Karen began strumming her clit furiously, almost beating it back and forth. She was on the edge of what felt like the most explosive orgasm of her life and she tried to yank it out of her body by main force. And just as her knees began to tremble and her vagina clench and her entire body focused on the heat about to burst from the very tip of the throbbing bud, "EEEEEEEEE!" she cried as the most powerful sting yet stabbed at her. She had a brief flash of that horrible moment two Christmases past when she had looked down at the blood welling from the jagged wound a splinter had torn in her clitoris, and the world went grey.

Karen was on her knees with no memory of falling. She drew a sobbing breath. Her body felt limp and weak. She tried to push herself up but her arms trembled so violently that she collapsed face-first onto the carpet. There was a deep, pulsing ache in her clitoris that went all the way back inside her. Her entire body tingled with the frustration of her most powerful impulse. The roaring in her ears subsided just in time to hear Paster Fustein say, "Aversion therapy has a well-documented history of success in all sorts of contexts."