Achilles Brown spent all night Tuesday developing the photos he 
had taken of Amy Sanders.  Beautiful, hot, oh so great he thought as he 
pulled each one out of solution.  The black dress had been a good choice 
for her--it contrasted nicely with her pale skin.  She was more 
beautiful, sexier, than he had imagined; he only hoped he could make this 
blackmail scheme work:  he wanted her, bad.
	Amy went to sleep that night, her window open as commanded, 
dreading his return that evening.  Thankfully she was not awoken in the 
middle of the night with more demands, and she woke up confused and 
disoriented.  She still didn't know what that snooping rat wanted.  She 
didn't have that much money, and although she would be willing to part 
with all of it, Achilles didn't seem to really want it.  She suspected 
him of having designs on her body--she was slightly revolted by the 
thought--given that he had taken somewhat revealing pictures of her and 
his decree that she wear no pants, only skirts and dresses.  If that was his 
goal, she thought, he could forget it; she would turn herself in before 
she submitted to his advances.  He must know that, she thought, and that 
is what confused her.  What was his game?   Better not to think about it 
now; just wait and watch and see if she could somehow get out from under 
his thumb.
	Wednesday at school, Achilles decided a policy of avoidance was 
best; he didn't want to raise anybodies suspicions, and he certainly 
didn't want to inconvenience Amy, yet.  He had planned their afterschool 
activities last night, and all day they occupied his thoughts.  He had 
big plans for Amy, big plans.  He ran them through his mind time and time 
again, hoping that he could pull them off.  He was glad that Jim had 
offered him use of Ms. Ellsworth, Sara to him now he smiled, since he 
would certainly have to use her to relieve himself, so he wouldn't force 
things with Amy.
	The next day at school, Amy was glad Achilles seemed to be 
avoiding her.  Wearing an ankle length skirt and a bulky sweater, she was 
distracted the entire day, trying to puzzle out Achilles and his 
motivations.  Her friends, though more acquantences than friends, figured 
it was due to her recent breakup with the hunk of the school, and just 
gossiped knowingly about her state of mind.
	Achilles skipped his last period class again that day, and 
prepared his planned reception of Amy deep in the orange groves.  It was 
nothing particularly bad, he thought to himself, but it was quite a 
mindfuck.  He needed to keep her off balance, confused, in order to 
really turn her to him, and this was just the first part of the plan.
	Amy returned home right after school and found, as expected, 
Achilles waiting for her in her room.  She wasn't happy to see him, and 
made that quite clear, pointedly ignoring him until he spoke and held 
something out to her.
	"Here, I thought you might like to see some of these."
	She looked down and took a thick pad of prints from his hand, her 
eyes widening as she saw herself, dressed sexily in her black sheer 
dress, holding myriad poses before the camera.  Like out of some fashion 
magazine, she thought, flipping through them, blushing a little at the 
more provocative poses.  She caught herself as she saw him looking at her 
with a little smile on his face, and resumed her previous cold manner.  
He didn't seem to mind:  his smile broadened as he watched her put the 
photos in the top drawer of her dresser.
	He had hoped she would react positively to the pictures, and by 
the expression on her face, he figured she was.  He watched as she caught 
him smiling at her, and turned the ice on.  He didn't mind; it was time 
to start anyway.
	"Amy, join me outside.  I've arranged a little picnic for us 
among the orange groves."  He said it in his most relaxed tone; he didn't 
want to risk her refusing to go with him.  It was a simple request, but 
he knew if he got her hackles up, even the fear of jail wouldn't make her 
do what he wanted her to.
	A picnic!  She glared at him.  She didn't want to go on a 
picnic with him, didn't want to even be with him.  What was he up to?  
What did he want?  It was all so bizarre, like a waking nightmare.  
Still, it shouldn't be too bad, and he still had those incriminating 
photos.
	"I'll be out in 5 minutes," she responded sharply.
	Achilles just smiled and climbed out the window and waited for 
her at the base of the old oak tree.  She arrived shortly thereafter, 
flipping her kinky, sandy blonde hair out of her eyes, and Achilles began 
to lead her toward the orange groves.
	Halfway there, walking across little used streets and old fields, 
he said, "You know, Amy, I really don't want to inconvenience you too 
much..."
	"Inconvenience me!" she blurted out.  You stupid bastard, she 
thought, "What do you think you're doing?  You come into my life, holding 
something I didn't even know about over my head, and demand money, and 
pictures, and now a picnic!  What else do you have in store in your 
twisted little mind!" she ended, practically shouting at him.
	Achilles was a little bit taken aback by this outburst, but just 
a little.  They had stopped and he stood lucking at her flushed face and 
glaring light blue eyes, her posture one of defience.  Well, he thought 
to himself, here's the first obstacle to overcome.
	"Did you really think you could get away with murder, Amy?" he 
said slowly and strongly, seeing her defiance crumble as her face took on a 
look of aghast horror.
	"I...I...didn't..." she stammered.
	"Shut up!" he said forcefully, making her take a step back and killing 
the denials on her tongue.  She looked down at her feet in consternation 
and confusion.  "Now, Amy, you did something bad, something which you 
should be in jail for right now.  _I_ am the one keeping you from jail, 
_I_ am the one protecting you.  In return all I ask is a little of your 
time.  Isn't that better than being in jail?  Isn't it?" he demanded.
	"Y...yes," she stammered, looking into his eyes.
	He nodded, satisfied, and turned, saying in a calm voice, "Now, 
where were we?...oh yes...."
	Amy walked along after him as he told her how he was going to 
arrange their future meetings (an envelope on her dresser each Friday 
detailing plans for the following week), all her anger gone.  She was 
stunned:  murder?  Was she a murderer?  No, she wasn't, she had only been 
driving the car...god it was so awful, the way he had turned on her.  She 
had always thought of him as a worm, a loser, but he had met her anger 
powerfully, shattering it with his accusation.  She knew he was right, in 
a way.  She was involved in a murder, she was responsible to some 
degree.  Being with him certainly wasn't as bad as being in jail, and if 
that was the only price she had to pay for her actions, she should be happy.
	The calm that had come over him during the confrontation had left 
him, and he was shaking from the reaction.  He tried to hide it, keeping 
his arms against his side and increasing his pace, hoping Amy wouldn't 
see.  She was still following him, so he had won.  He felt exultation as 
the shakes began to wear off:  her first resistance had been crushed.  
From this point on, he thought, she would not challenge him again about 
him forcing her to spend time with him.  He smile broke out on his face 
as he strode into the orange grove, Amy trailing obediently behind him.
	"Help me lay this out," he said as the reached the spot he had 
chosen for the picnic, at the base of a tree among the even rows of 
them.  Together they laid out the clothe and took the food from the 
basket:  fried chicked, greasy and still warm; mashed potatoes with gravy 
still steaming in a thermos; a small, homemade chocolate cake, moist and 
covered thickly with gooey chocolate frosting; and finally a bottle of 
wine, its cork already pulled.
	Unpacking the food, Amy noticed something strange.  "Where's all 
the utensils and glasses and stuff?" she asked.
	"Damn," Achilles cursed, looking up at her from where he was 
kneeling, "I forgot them.  Well, we'll just have to make the best of 
it."  So saying, he motioned her to sit down beside him, not touching, 
but very close nonetheless, and handed her a drumstick.
	She took it daintily, not wanting to get her hands too greasy and 
was surprised when he grabbed it away from her, saying, "No no, that 
won't do.  I can't let you get your hands all dirty.  Let me."  With 
that, he held the drumstick up against her lips.
	At first she drew her head back, confused.  What was he doing?  
She could feed herself fine, even without utensils.  Then it hit her, and 
she groaned inwardly:  he wanted to hand feed her everything, like she 
was some small child.  She thought for a moment about refusing, but 
something in the back of her mind was telling her that she deserved this, 
that through this humiliation she could somehow atone for what she had 
done.  She didn't like these thoughts, didn't believe them, but for now 
they overcame her resistance.
	Carefully, she moved forward toward the drumstick just before her 
lips, and opened her mouth.  She felt the warm, greasy skin of the meat 
against her lips, and she opened her mouth wider, sliding her lips over 
the drumstick until her teeth found purchase in the meat.  She bit down, 
feeling grease come off around her mouth, and pulled her head back, chewing.
	Achilles watched her closely as her lips closed over the meat.  
He felt his penis swell as he watched her--luckily he had worn loose 
pants--and he imagined her mouth closing over his cock.  He kept the 
drumstick near her mouth until she had finished it, making sure her mouth 
became smeared with grease.  He felt a rush of power as she looked at 
him with her pale blue eyes, chewing the last bite, her mouth glistening 
with chicken grease.  He had planned this, to humiliate her by forcing 
her to eat from his hands, and it had worked.  Confident now, he poured a 
generous amount of gravy over the mashed potatoes.
	"Aren't you going to eat?" she asked, licking some of the grease 
from her lips.  She knew what she must look like, and was blushing 
furiously.  This was one of the most embarrassing things that had ever 
happened to her.
	"I'm not hungry," he answered, scooping up some potatoes and 
gravy on his fingers and presenting them to her.
	She knew what he wanted and was committed; she lowered her head 
and used her lips to bring the potatoes into her mouth, where she quickly 
swallowed them.  They felt warm against her lips and face, and she 
glanced up at him when all that was left was the potatoes covering his 
fingers.  He nodded and smiled at her and she took three of his fingers 
into her mouth, sucking the food from them.  She ran her tongue between 
them to make sure she got everything, and then the sucked off the last 
finger.
	As he felt her suck his fingers into the warm cavity of her 
mouth, what felt like and electric jolt traveled from his fingers to his 
groin.  He almost moaned at the sensation of her tongue between his 
fingers, and couldn't take his eyes off her lips as it sucked in his 
finger, cleaning it of food.  It was wild; he had never felt anything 
like it before.
	She pulled her head away when she had finished, and turned to him 
as he reached for a bottle of wine.  She watched as he poured a little 
into the cup of his hand and offer it to her.  There was something so 
degrading about her situation, about being fed like this, that brought 
panic welling up in her gut.  She fought it down as she slurped the wine 
from his hand, and looked at him again.  What was he doing to her?  It 
was like some sensuous dream, with him silently feeding her, her lips and 
mouth tingling from the slick feel of food and the salty taste of his 
skin.  She moved to drink again from his hand two more times, each time 
feeling something warring within her.  Some basic instinct told her to 
run, to escape from this, but her mind told her to stay, forced her to 
remain seated beside him, eating from his hand.  It was terrible, both 
sensual and terrifying.
	Achilles fed her the rest of the food, reveling in the sensations 
her mouth brought to his hands, the power this simple act of feeding 
conveyed to him.  His penis throbbed in his pants as he watched her chew 
the last of the chicken her face greasy and smeared with mashed potatoes 
and chocolate cream.  He reached over with a towlet and wiped her face 
clean; she did not resist, and he wallowed in it, in her sitting docilely 
there, letting her control her, dominate her.  Time for the next step, he 
thought, wiping off her chin.
	"Tell me about yourself," he said, sitting back and opposite her.
	She looked at him for a minute, a frown crinkling her brow, 
"What?" she asked softly.
	"About your plans:  what college you're going to, what you want 
to be, your politics, that type of stuff."
	She didn't understand; she was pretty numb from the feeding, and 
shook her head to clear her senses.  What was this all about?  He wanted 
to know about her?  She didn't know what to do, but what could she do but 
go along with it, just like she had gone along with his other demands.  
She almost felt like crying; she had no control left.
	She began to answer, softly, hesitatingly, but was soon drawn out 
by his questions, by his gentle, inquisitive desire to know.  She 
couldn't look at him--she was still too humiliated by the feeding--but 
she began to talk about herself, where she wanted to go to college, what 
she wanted to be; what teachers she liked, what subjects interested her; 
who she liked, who she didn't and why.  She talked for about forty five 
minutes, prompted throughout by him, always seeming to know what to ask 
to keep a thread alive, before he said, "Let me walk you home."
	That night, back in her room, Amy pondered over what had 
happened.  She thought she had gotten over her part in the crime, but 
some part of her, some deep hidden recess, must still feel guilt.  How 
else could she explain her reaction to Achilles' accusation?  She was 
amazed and ashamed that she had let him hand feed her like some infant, 
and disgusted that she had actually taken his fingers into her mouth.  
And then to tell him all about herself!  It was too horrible.  She wasn't 
really in her right mind--he had taken advantage of a momentary weakness 
of hers.  She was determined it wouldn't happen again.  At least she had 
gained one thing from that afternoon:  she had some idea of what he 
wanted.  He, she decided, wanted her to like him.
	Achilles spent that evening looking at the pictures he had taken 
of Amy, tantalizing himself with the thought of his final conquest.  He 
knew he had caught her offbalance today, bless his luck, and knew what to 
expect now.  There would be a backlash--she would stand up to him, assert 
herself.  Well, he thought, he knew how to handle it when it came:  today 
the kind, gentle, understanding Achilles; tommorrow the hard, mean, 
disciplinariean Achilles.  Carrot and stick, carrot and stick he thought 
as he went to sleep.