Guilt release
Alucard was on a train. You got on at the last stop. It was
a small station, a couple of platforms and some miserable,
drizzle-scarred concrete. You sit opposite me. You are
clearly an adult, but you're dressed younger. You
nervously tum the pages of a puzzle book, but you don't
seem to be doing any puzzles. I ask you what you.re doing.
You go red oh, nothing, you say. there is a
guilt there: Alucard can feel it. Hide nothing from Alucard,
for he says What have you been doing?he is
soft, menacing, penetrating. You shuffle and stammer
n...nothing You meet the gaze I..I'm
sorry. I knew I couldn't hide it from you. I'm very
very sorry. He is unyielding: you're a very, very
naughty girl. You sniff. Tears fill your eyes. Yes,
I know. ..What are you going to do to me? He grabs your
reluctant wrist, soft and shameful, and leads you along
the swaying corridor to the toilet Oh no,
you say, in soft horror, not that. But into
the toilet you go. Its very cramped, and smells of liquid
soap. The train rattles over the points. The bolt slides
shut. Your hands are on the sink, your head bowed. You know
you deserve it, you knew all along. Up goes your skirt to
reveal those plain knickers, like the ones you wore at school,
or maybe you did wear these back then, when you skipped in
white socks, and cried when you didn't make the toilet
in time and pissed yourself. Down comes the pale hand, his
hard hand.
Down again and again. The train absorbs the noise
of punishment as it echoes around the cubicle. Is
that it? You cry, at last, hopefully, your bottom
red beneath the pants. But no, here he comes again, again
and again. You plead for mercy as you squirm beneath the
blows, but he will not relent: but then, in your guilty pain,
you forget yourself and a damp patch grows in your crotch,
first a trickle, then a flood, in and over your white socks,
and soon the floor receives a yellow pool. You know the penalty.
Down come the knickers. Your legs are spread as wide as space
permits. Down comes the hand, and all for you is pain. yet
in that pain there comes a point at which the squirming,
shameful spanking rises towards and ecstasy in suffering,
and pain and pleasure mingle, join, and, gripping anything
you can hold in to, you thrust your bottom upwards, straining
for release. Back and forth, back and forth, until, shuddering,
juddering, you find the orgasm you were searching for.
As your tremors of delight subside, you realise the hand
is in your cunt, and you wonder how long it has been there.
You smile. But Alucard has flown.