The pain was like sleeping under a barbed wire blanket. Now, even thinking of leaving was a betrayal, but what was I supposed to do? Get trampled to death? My brain screamed: "Run, bitch, just stand up and run." But could I really go? I was a moron in love. Four, five, six, and some more minutes passed. I sighed. Even with closed eyes I could see Alice's killer eyes begging for me to stay. But no, It was time to disappear. My Moby Dick, this captain will find you again, I swear.
I was about to go when the door opened and Helen came out carrying a cheap plastic stool, handcuffs and red paint. Then walked from my feet to my face to place the stool on the ground. I gazed to the right, fuck, one of the stool's leg was over my hand. Humming, she plummeted on the stool's face. My hand was impaled while the tiny thing fought to not break under the woman's weight. I bit the inside of my lips; they were shaking.
"Ahhh, how nice," she moaned, her shoes resting on my throat, "with all the work at the supermarket I almost never get a chance to enjoy a day."
She grabbed the red paint and painted her sole. Then pointed at my belly. Over and over she stomped me, and my skin made a drum sound after every hit. It burned like a bad sunburn. The paint could have been blood.
"God Helen, you are getting old." She said stretching her back. "What I would give to still be young like the Alice girl, but not death-brain, give me the body, keep her pink pea away from me." And prepared her leg for a second round and continued. As a kick boxing bag I could only hope that she would not try my face. Even the hits to the balls had to be called lucky.
And after counting to 100 she cleaned the sweat from her front and stood up to get the handcuffs. First, she handcuffed my feet, then sat on my lap to do my hands. Her legs were apart. I had each shoe touching an ear. The paint got all over her expensive looking dress, but she barely noticed. "There, a job well done," she congratulated herself, but then stopped for a moment, closed her eyes, and smiled. The palms of her hands touched my chest before she started to massage her breast. "No, Helen, control yourself," she said slapping her cheek. "What? Are you going to fuck him here? Imagine what people would say if they saw Helen McNeal giving Peeping Toms a show." But her ass grinded my dick going side to side. She was trying to force it inside. When she stopped her voice got low, like a whisper: "How many years have I waited my husband to just grab me, throw me on the bed, and have his way with me? And you, you feel so real, yeah, fuck Alice, you are my toy now."
When Helen entered, Jill and Alice could barely believed. What had happened? Why was she covered in paint? But Helen smiled and told them that the bloody "no boys allowed" mat was ready.
"Let me lend you something, accompany me to my bedroom. Alice, in the meanwhile, be a dear and receive any new guests."
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