Monotonous errands pay off with a stranger. High Quality Porn

A lesbian story of hurt, heartbreak and healing.

"Now do you know why you're here?"

Jaimee didn't understand then, and she didn't understand now.

"Come on," the man said as she stood up from the commode and washed her hands. "Time for your picture."

Now this was truly weird. Every night at seven p.m., the man took her upstairs to his bedroom, sat her down in a chair before a white sheet strung between the walls of his bedroom and handed her that day's edition of the Washington Post. Then he photographed her with it, nude but with her legs tightly clamped, the paper clutched beside her grinning face. Either that or showing her freshly spanked bottom if that's what she had. Then she e-mailed it to her brother, Allen, which Jaimee just loved, and then to four of her closest male classmates, which Jaimee really loved.

"Why are you doing that?" she had wailed the first time.

'"To show them you're alive."

"To my brother?" she cried shrilly, "and to my friends?" for which she was roundly spanked.

"Don't do that again," the man had warned her as she sat bawling on the floor. "You understand?"

"Yes, sir," she hiccuped, tears pouring down her face. It wasn't the spanking so much that hurt--she'd been spanked before, bare-bottomed before, but not since she was eleven years old and not by a stranger and certainly not in a situation like this--but the damage to her sense of pride. But she had not done it again and she had not been spanked for it again. Not for that, anyway.

Now, preceding him up the stairs for her nightly humiliation before the camera, she tried pleading with him again: "Please don't send it out to any more boys, okay . . . please? Please?"

"You know the agreement."

"Yes, but--"

The man stopped her on the steps and turned her around. Jaimee shivered but kept her eyes level with his. "I'm not being disrespectful," she said. "I'm just asking you not to do it, that's all. If you want me to, I'll apologize for it."

The man didn't spank her for it, but neither she get her wish. Instead, she was lead upstairs and into the man's bedroom, sat down in the chair and given her paper. She sighed and then grinned for the camera. Then she loaded the picture onto the computer and sent it away to this evening's recipients. As always, she wondered how, if she ever got out of this alive, she would ever live this down.

"I'm an expert in Internet traffic," he had told her the first night. He'd tried to explain about bootleg servers in Kazakstan and Ethiopia and some country in the Baltic's called Herzogovena. It sounded like gobbledygook to her but evidently it worked--they could not trace the pictures back to him. . . not even two miles from her house. That was the the worst of it--two miles from her house.

"Are you ever going to let me go?" she suddenly asked. They were on their way down to the kitchen for dinner.

"When I'm done with you, yes."

"What are you doing with me?" she asked with eighteen year old stupidity and innocence.

He stopped her on the stairs. "You honestly don't know?"

She shook her head no, then added: "No, sir."

"Well, you should know," he said and marched her back upstairs again and spanked her the hardest he'd spanked her yet.

* * *

It was three weeks later and Jaimee was resigning herself to her lot. The man no longer tied her to the bed when he left in the morning--unless she was very bad the evening before, or his idea of being very bad--and she was grateful for that. Instead, she spent her days doing schoolwork assignments--yes, schoolwork assignments--equivalent to, if not exactly the same, as what her classmates were doing in school.

The man had set up a small card table against the wall opposite her bed and piled neatly atop it were her textbooks, ring-binders and spiral notebooks.