The Twighlight Zone Ch. 04

Before you go any further: this is another episode in the Twighlight Zone series, all of which are connected (loosely) to a store by the same name. Each story is somewhat of a standalone; while characters from one episode may appear in other episodes, don't expect storyline continuation from one episode to the next. If you really like characters, let me know and I may develop them in a further story.

As an author and an artist, there have been times that I have looked back on a piece of work and seen something so alien to my current thought that I wondered who it was that really created the item in question.

This story is one of those times.

I have no idea what muse guided my hands across the keyboard, or where many of the things in "The Art Critic" came from, and therefore have no reasons or excuses. This story pretty much touches on a hell of a lot of fetishes out there: bondage, consensual/reluctant/non-consensual sex, anal/vaginal and oral sex (mostly between men and women), toys and masturbation, mind control, latex and leather, tickling, caning, body modification, forced adultery, a little CBT, cuckoldry, transexual and transgender scenes, and a whole lot of Female Dominance (in capital letters, since that is the overall theme). Add to that a very sarcastic victim, and you get the fourth in the Twighlight Zone series.

If none of that is your thing, don't bother reading further.

I've done a major rewrite in order to close some plot holes and correct some missteps, as well as correct a lot of grammatical problems. I am sure I missed a few, so your patience and understanding is welcomed. In addition, I added a bit here and there were it was called for.

In all, it is the story of a man thrown into a situation out of his control, and with each step forward that he takes to get out, he slips two backward into debauchery. All the while, he has to deal with what is happening to his personality, his body, and to his relationship with his wife. I can only hope you enjoy.

The Twighlight Zone, Chapter Four, by Seurat

'The Art Critic'

Wednesday, May 8th.

THWOCK! The racquetball hit high and wide right on the front wall. A hard shot to return, but not impossible. I lunged for the return and put away the kill into the corner. My point, giving me the second game. "Nice shot" said my opponent, a Ms. Tara Worthington. She was cute, sexy, and dressed in spandex shorts and a loose fitting T-shirt. I had noticed she wasn't wearing any bra during the first game, and that realization was probably why I lost. It made the second game a close one, but I had squeaked out a win. In point of fact she was almost as good as me, but she had a way of twisting and arching for shots that distracted me to no end, and definitely gave her an edge that compensated for my lead in ability.

I don't know if you have ever played racquetball, but it can be very tiring. Third games are always the worst for me, even though they only go to eleven. By the time I get that far, I don't have a whole lot of directional power left. Power, yes. Direction, no. I just hoped I could hit the ball into a corner where she couldn't return it. The first few serves went off the way I wanted. Strong, fast, and so powerful that when I hit the ball, my stroke lifted me off the ground. By the time I lost the serve I was up 5-0. Her first serve was an ace, and not because it was fast. Just before she hit the ball she bent over, and the spandex (or rather what was in the spandex) distracted me. On the next serve she wiggled a little and it had the desired effect: another ace. I may be married, but I'm not dead, and I was really beginning to notice her body.

By this time she knew exactly what effect she was having on me and my game. She was constantly wiggling a little, or smiling, or licking her lips. By the time I returned a serve she was up 9-5. She was so surprised that I made a return that she stood there and watched as I took the serve back.

At this point, the muscles in my legs and arms were so tired they were quivering. I am not an athlete, nor am I a young college man. A night of racquetball was pretty much my exercise for the week, and the game tonight was more strenuous than I expected. If I could keep the power going, I might just pull off a win. The first serve was fast and low, and her return was short. Same with the second. 7-9. I gave her a lob and she was caught off guard. Two more power shots and I was up 10-9, a point away from victory. She returned my next shot and we volleyed for a while before she put it away. Just like me she tried to put away the next two serves. They were screwy back corner lobs, but I returned one for a kill and we were tied 10-10.

I stood in the sever area, trying to catch my breath. "Ready?"

"Hot, wet, and ready, yes" she replied. I bounced the ball and brought the racquet around just as her words hit me. The ball went high off the front, and she slammed it high for a wall hugger on the far side. I sprinted across in a valiant attempt to catch it on the rebound, and only succeeded in slamming into the wall. "Sorry, but I couldn't resist. If you want the serve over, I understand." I shook my head to decline the offer. Tied 10-10, a point away.

She bounced the ball a few times as she walked to the lines. She turned around, looked at me, and made a show of giving the ball a squeeze. "Ready for me?" I would've swore the temperature on the court went up 10 degrees. I nodded.

The ball moved so fast off the front wall that I didn't even see it coming. I should have, because it was aimed straight at me, and it caught me between the legs. I dropped to the ground and folded into the fetal position. No return made it her point, her game, and her match. I didn't really care. I tried to uncurl my body and congratulate her, and decided instead to wait for a minute or two. Or five. Maybe even for the next presidential election. I was in no hurry.

Now, I've caught it in the crotch before, and always unexpectedly. No sane man takes it in the crotch on purpose. Usually, I recover fairly fast. A direct shot is painful, but it isn't like getting kicked in the crotch. Normally, this is a point of impact pain. Unless, of course, you're playing with a prick-tease and you have a hard-on straining against your shorts, because then getting hit then is like falling onto the bar of your bicycle. It hurts real bad, and you wonder if the pain will ever go away.

She waited until I started to get up before she asked if I was okay, and if I wanted to get some coffee or tea afterwards. At least I think that was when she asked me, as I was a little preoccupied. I agreed, and searched around for my goggles and glasses, both of which came off when I hit the ground. I could soon see again. Rather, I should say that things came in to focus again; I still had little stars of pain dancing in front of my eyes.

A little background before we go too far here. My name is Alan O'Neill, and I'm a critic for a local newspaper. I do everything from the rare restaurant opening to whether or not the latest vampire flick is any good. I specialize in art shows, and I had met Tara the night before at a show at the University. In fact, it was her show. We talked a little, and came on the subject of sports. That was how we ended up playing tonight.

When I first met her I thought she was attractive. She was short, for my tastes, about five-four, maybe five-five. Long curly black hair framed a delicate face with blue eyes, small nose and full lips. Her body was nice; not nice like when your wife gives you exercise equipment for Christmas and you didn't think you needed it, but nice like what you say when you get caught by the same wife watching Kelly LeBrock in a movie you hate and she asks you if you think LeBrock has a sexy body and you tell her it's just...nice. Let me just say it was athletic and firm...some parts so firm that I wasn't sure they were all natural. I didn't really care. To top it off, she had a definite hint of an English accent, something that I had always liked in a person.

I wasn't going to be hitting on her. I am what they call happily married, and am also what they call a dog. I talk a good show, and always figured there was nothing wrong with looking as long as I didn't touch. It doesn't matter where you got your appetite, as long as you always ate at home.

As my mind came out of the haze of pain, I realized I had not only agreed to tea at her place, but to give her a ride home. She had evidently taken a cab to our match.

* * * * * * * * * *

I pulled up outside the gym in my sensible little two door, and let her in. I could tell she had not showered either, and her scent quickly filled the car, or at least that was the way it seemed. I was getting thoughts that a married man shouldn't be getting. "Everything okay?" she asked, "I mean, you got hit pretty hard. I hope everything works okay."

I decided to let that one slip by. I am no Don Juan, by anybody's standards, but I know a pass when I hear one. I had to keep my mind on the goal: a little info on a locally showing artist, nothing more. I was not about to ruin my marriage for a piece of ass.

"Yeah, nothing that's never happened before." It was true. When you play racquetball, you take your life and genitals and pretty much hope they don't get it by the ball, let alone a racquet or an elbow. She gave me directions to one of the nicer areas of the town, where rows of large brownstones lined the streets. Hers was like the others there, a one-car garage and basement entrance off the street, and a short flight of stairs led up to the main entry.

I parked in the drive and we headed up to the huge cherrywood and leaded glass front door. Inside was a tastefully decorated, if sparse, living room and dining area with a kitchen in back. Pieces of modern art and sculpture decorated the room. I've noticed that in my years of dealing with artists. Either their domiciles are a blank canvas, waiting to be painted, or they are crammed with clutter. True artists don't quibble about style when they decorate; they throw together everything they like, and let critics be damned.

"Any particular type of tea?" she asked, walking across the room to the kitchen.

"No, as long as it's hot." I looked around. "Nice place you have here."

Her voice rang from the kitchen. "Thanks. It used to be my father's. He had made some good investments a few years back, and when he retired to Florida, I got this place. I'm still remodeling some parts, but it'll be done to my tastes soon. Would you like honey in your tea?" I yelled back 'yes', and she returned to the living room, where I still stood, admiring the art. Force of habit, I guess. "Have a seat."

I took the mug of tea, sat down on an overstuffed leather chair, and had another look around. "Most of this stuff your work?" It all seemed pretty eclectic, but the was some undercurrent that tied them all together. I figured it was the artist.

"Oh no. I just like to dabble in a little sculpture. This is actually my private collection. Mostly unknowns, but maybe someday they'll be worth what I paid for them."

"You live here, and support starving artists? Dad must have made some really good investments. Wish I could get into art that way."

"I'm sure you'll really get into art someday. I do have a day job. I'm a computer-technochemist for Baum-Dietrich Technologies. I have to have some way to relax."

"Computer-technochemist?" I was in way over my head on this one. "Just what does a computer-technochemist do?"

"Right now, we're developing synthetic nerve actuators. Sort of a replacement skin, which could be regulated through the use of micro-computers." She could tell she was losing me fast, and I could tell she was on the way to change the subject. She looked at me for a moment, then asked, "more tea?"

Taking a quick look at the clock, I saw that I had plenty of time to get home before my wife. "Sure. Do you mind if I ask you some more questions, for my story? I'd like to get a good background on you for the article."

The next move was pure textbook slapstick, though I probably couldn't prove it. As she stood to get the teapot, her knee hit the table and her mug of tea was knocked into the air. As if in slow motion I watched it come right at me, dousing my left thigh and crotch with hot tea. Where my pain had previously settled to a dull roar, it now went off the 'scalding' scale.

"Shit! I'm really sorry." She grabbed her sweat towel and rushed over as I tried in vain to dry of with some tissues from the table. She began to towel of my thigh and, before I could stop her, she began wiping my crotch too. Despite it's recent abuses, my cock sprang to life at her touch. "Seems more got wet than I first thought."

I grabbed her hand and pushed it away. "Please! I'm married, if you hadn't noticed." I showed her the gold band on my finger. It may sound feeble to you, but I was married, and didn't want to forget. I said it as much for her benefit as my own.

"I didn't mean anything. Really. Why don't you run upstairs and shower off, while I wash your clothes. Unless you want to explain to your wife why your privates are covered in honey-tea. Upstairs, through the bedroom. Should be plenty of towels." I got up and climbed up the spiral stairs. "Better hurry. You don't want to have any stains there, do you?" My pace picked up.

I couldn't believe how quickly my evening had gone downhill. What started as a 'get to know you better for an article' had become a 'I am about to get naked in some strangers apartment after my genitals have been abused twice'.

I quick-stepped it back through the bedroom and into the bathroom, taking a quick look at the four-poster bed decorated with gossamer scarves and the other furnishings as I passed by. Once in the bathroom, I turned on the water and stripped out my clothes. My thigh and crotch were a bright red from the tea, but were starting to cool a bit. I put my glasses and wedding ring on the vanity (not everybody's is tight on their finger, and I didn't want to lose it down her drain), hopped under the hot spray and pulled the curtain shut. After a few moments I heard the door open, and a slight noise as my clothes were picked up. The door shut again. I finished the shower quickly. The water helped a lot in calming the pain. An ice pack later would be even better.

I reached out of the shower and grabbed a towel, and looked around as I dried myself off. The whole room was done in maroon and white, down to the soap in the dish and the toothbrush. The room felt a little odd, especially after the mashed together decorating I had seen downstairs. I toweled off my hair, put my glasses back on, and wrapped the towel around my waist and made a roll-over knot. Turning off the light, I stepped out into the bedroom.

There was a chair in one corner of the room with an odd looking terry-cloth robe lying across it. I say strange because it looked too bulky to be just a robe. As it was not there when I went into the bathroom, I figured it was for me and would do for me a lot better than just a towel. I undid the towel, letting it drop to the floor, and put on the robe. The lining of the robe was cotton; it was snug around my arms (probably wasn't used to arms larger then Tara's) and cinched it tight around my waist. The robe was cut high for a woman, and rode even higher on me, nearly exposing my genitals. I vowed not to sit down while wearing it.

"Guess that robe isn't quite big enough for you," she said from the bedroom doorway. I probably turned red enough to heat water. She walked over to me, her body swaying the way I had noticed in the court, and I could feel myself starting to get hard. "We should really find something a little more appropriately sized for you." She stood in front of me an smiled. "I always did like that robe. You didn't pull the sleeves down far enough, though. It can be a little tricky if you aren't used to these kind of robes, I must say. Here, let me show you." She stepped behind me. "Cross your arms in front of you." I did as she asked, and felt her hands run up the sleeves a little, her left up my right, and vice-versa. The cotton lining stopped about halfway up my forearm, and by the time she reached them, she was giving me a tight hug from behind. I looked down to see my now stiff prick sticking out from the folds of the robe. This situation was getting decidedly uncomfortable. And it certainly wasn't going in a direction I wanted it to go.

I felt her grab the ends of the sleeves and start to slide them down my forearm. With a suddenness that caught me completely unaware, Tara brought her knee up to the center of my back and pulled hard on the sleeves, and I heard some snaps pop. The sleeves slipped over my hands, and she somehow connected them behind me, effectively straight-jacketing me. Tara grabbed my shoulder as I started to protest and spun me around, throwing me off balance. With a smile of contempt she pushed my off-kilter body backwards, which caused me to fall on the bed.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!?!"

She looked at me and laughed. "I figured we would have a little fun. Looks like you were figuring on it, too. The flesh seems willing enough." With that she grabbed my cock, "Is the spirit just as willing?"

"I told you, I'm married! Now let me out of this thing!"

"If you really were happily married, you wouldn't have come back to my house. And you certainly wouldn't have such a big erection. Now move back onto the bed, before I make you do it myself." I felt her fingernails jab into my flesh, and decided that, at the moment, I should probably go along with her.

I slid back on the bed so that my head was on the pillows. She got on the bed on walked over (on her knees) until she was straddling me, the earthy smell of her body preceding her. She looked me in the face, smiled, then looked at my crotch. She then leaned over and began kissing my neck, then my chest where it was exposed, then moved downward, finally stopped short just before reaching head of my cock. My head flopped back in frustration. Seeing her chance, she quickly moved up so that her knees were on the outsides of my arms, and sat back on my chest. "Now, I'm going to go change, and I don't want you to go anywhere. Promise you won't move?" I nodded. We both knew it was a lie.

"For some reason, I don't believe you. But I do know how to help you keep your promise." She reached below my crotch and under my ass, and pulled up another strap, this one about a half inch in width, and I felt a tug on the back of the robe. Tara pulled it up through my ass cheeks tightly, so that it felt like I had a wedgie. With her left hand she lifted my cock and balls up, and with her right wound the strap tightly twice around the base of my genitals. The strap then went back under itself and up to my crossed arms, which it circled twice, and was tied off on the headboard.

She walked around to the foot of the bed and pulled a scarf from under the bed and looped it around my left ankle, drawing the loop tight. I panicked and tried to get out, but realized that any attempt to escape might mean serious injury to my manhood. She stretched out the scarf, tying it to an unseen anchor at the bottom corner of the bed. She then did the same with my right ankle.

"Now, I'm going to change into something a little more appropriate. Don't go anywhere. Like you would."

With that she walked out of the room, and I heard her as she walked down the stairs. Even though I had come out of the shower only a few minutes ago, I was really starting to sweat. Remember what I said about my day going downhill? Well, that road had just ended at a cliff, and I couldn't seem to brake. What to do? Struggle and try to get loose? Not likely. Scream for help? Who would hear, anyway? I could feel my heart trying to break out of my chest. All I could do was lie here and wait. I lifted my head and looked briefly at my fully erect cock. "Traitor," I said, and flopped my head back down.