Beyond Good And Evil

This is intended for adults 18 and over. If you are offended by graphic descriptions of a sexual or violent nature, please do not read or download this. If this is illegal wherever you are reading this, please . . . read on. Remember to have fun and in the end, cum! All characters portrayed are at least 18 years old. (M/F, non-consensual/reluctance, Teen, Bondage, Light S&M)

The writer of this piece does not necessarily condone nor commend rape or non-consensual sex acts. The following piece should be interpreted as a role playing exercise. Please Note: The writer is also more interested in exploring the sexual and emotional relationships between two people, rather than jotting down some boring, asinine erotic story.

This story can be interpreted in any way the reader wishes it to be interpreted; a moral lesson, an intuitive allegory. There are as many interpretations as there are people that populate the earth. It is a story of Dominance and Submissiveness. Of Ignorance and Knowledge. Of Man and Woman. Of Good. Of Evil

Thanks to LadyCibelle for editing!

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"What is done out of love always takes place beyond good and evil."
Friedrich Nietzsche,Beyond Good and Evil, Aphorism 153

Everyone hated him. That's why he was forced to pay so much. Arrogant, alcoholic, often sadistic, always misogynistic – never a good mix in anyone's books. The easy cash in hand nature of the work was often the sole reason she stayed, and the simple disposable income always came in handy.

Mr. James, the man of the house, was not what you'd exactly call obscenely wealthy, but he owned much of the arable land in the area, the only few businesses in the middle of the small township and consequently had a very good stable income. As a result, he could afford to keep Jocelynn as his maid, though she often felt more like a babysitter at times. Not that the James' had any kids – just that Mr. James often needed a lot of looking after when he started drinking, often after his bored wife hit the town every second night or so.

Jocelynn was only employed to do menial work – cooking, cleaning, washing and ironing, that kind of thing – four or five times a week after she finished school, 5 till 9pm. Sure he had his eccentricities. Every now and again he would get her to do some shitty, festy job – scrub the grotty toilet, or clean the garbage cans out – and he always seemed to watch her carefully as she did it. Mr. James was almost always drinking – usually strong whiskey – by around 6ish, which meant he'd be fairly drunk by the time she went home. The last hour or so would be particularly tense as she tried to avoid rubbing him the wrong way, knowing first hand that he usually took his anger out on her. Drunken tirades and verbal abuse were becoming the norm rather than the exception. His drinking made him aggressive and arrogant.

Jocelynn, on the other hand was quite naïve, virginal and innocent. Pious as Christ. She was no supermodel, but she was rather attractive in her own confident way. It was the way she carried herself on eggshells that made men's heads turn. The light, lolloping gait and raised chin, her alert eyes constantly aware and searching. Where Mr. James was tall (over 6') trim and tanned, Jocelynn was diminutive (5'2"), voluptuous and chalk white, with a cheeky dimpled smile and a condensed spattering of dusky freckles across her round, unremarkable nose, rounded cheeks and shoulders. Her hair was dark red, almost maroon, and swept down long and straight to her shoulders, where it, curled slightly at the tips, a sharp contrast to Mr. James' bleached, close cropped style. They did share the same shocking green eyes; but where Jocelynn's were wide, long lashed and inviting – almost mischievous – Mr. James had the cold narrow eyes of a man who had not only seen pain, but was prepared to inflict it on others. Jocelynn's told you everything about her. Her employer's answered to no one.

Tonight she only had to stack the dishwasher and endure Mr. James for another hour and a half before her mother would pick her up and take her home. She was tired, sweaty and irritable. Mr. James – for whatever reason – had stipulated that she wear a maid's uniform; and in this day and age too!

It was a stereotypical maids outfit – a brief black one-piece dress, tight and low cut, edged with frilly lace edging and separate apron; black seamed stockings with garter, and tall gleaming black stilettos. A tiny white bow sat on a black strip of satin that circled her adipose throat, matching perfectly with the ribbon adorning the maids cap on her head, both also edged with the ubiquitous white lace. He had given her a flimsy g-string and bra set – again, lace edged – though she refused to wear them most of the time. She had shown them to her mother, concerned at one stage. She merely smiled. "I worked for him in a very similar outfit years ago," smirking at some distant memory as she looked her daughter up and down. Was it approvingly? Most irritating is that there was something indefinably appealing about the uniform . . .

Now, in Mr. James' kitchen, she roughly shifted the fabric across her bust, pulling it up over her massive breasts again – she hated her almost freakish double D breasts so much in the bodice – always in the bloody way – as the dress had obviously been made for someone smaller. But then, she hated her boobs regardless – she was always getting unwanted attention, and buying brassieres was, to say the least, a bitch. The boning of the bodice cut sharply under her massive chest, making her itch constantly, to say nothing of the skirt – "T'would make a whore blush," as her grandmother would say. Mr. James' shouted taunts snapped her from her thoughts.

"Give us another drink, darling," he slurred. Jocelynn sighed inwardly and grabbed fresh cold can from the fridge for him. One and a half hours, she reminded herself.

Mr. James had his back to Jocelynn as she strode through the broad lounge room door, hurling abuse at his beloved plasma widescreen TV. Jocelynn quietly placed the can at his side and turned on her heel. She heard the sharp crack of the can. "Nuh uh," he barked, "Sit." He indicated to a rotund, fleshy footstool in front of him. "Here, have some."

Jocelynn dreaded what was about to happen. She'd heard the rumor and insinuation. How he turned young girls into women. She'd tried to ignore it. They rarely complained, true, and no one had pressed charges, but it scared her. The unknown. He was well known as a lecherous man, despite being only 49 and unconventionally attractive. However, she'd never seen him so drunk in all the time she'd spent at the house.

The living room was so . . . oppressive. Shaded slender-beamed lighting threw most of the large room in shadow, the TV the prime light source in the room. A long, tall bookshelf sat on the right of the double doors, full of popular classics – Crime and Punishment, Great Expectations, Lolita, complete Shakespeare. Lots of Penguin Editions. All in pristine quality, like they'd come straight from the book store. The only books that appeared to have been read even vaguely was de Sade – well-thumbed and annotated – and American Psycho, still with the book mark only a quarter of the way through. His DVD collection much wider, mainly action, thriller and pornographic. A massive Roy Lichtenstein print hung above the grey stone-look hearth on the left.

He was always with a well-stocked liquor cabinet, though. He became a different person when he drank. With vodka, thankfully, he was usually asleep before he left, dribbling down his front. Beer, on the rare occasion he could stand the taste, made him merry, cheery, almost humorous. Of course, he thought himself the veritable comedian. She hated it when he drank bourbon, like tonight. He turned into the kid who sits around pulling the wings off flies, out of curiosity. Interested in the reaction. But then, that's where Dahmer started . . .

"Drink," he repeated. Jocelynn sank lower and attempted to sink into the stool. She raised the can and sipped apprehensively, squinting at the taste, if only to appease him. A hot flash ran across her temples at the taste of the bourbon. She tried fluttering her eyelids and donned a cutesy smile, hoping her "Bambi" eyes would put him off. It didn't.

"I fucking told you to drink it, you stupid bitch," he shouted, "It would help if you were fuckinggratefulwhen you're offered a treat!" Abruptly incensed, he grabbed the can and tipped the base of it up, emptying the half of the can down her throat. The rest of the syrupy coke mix ran down her chin and neck, soaking her up thrust breasts, and drenching the already sweaty bodice of the uniform. "Jesus fucking Christ," Mr. James exploded, "What the fuck are you doing? Take that shit off."

Jocelynn looked up sharply. "AmIdoing?!" Wide eyed and trembling with realization, "Wait. What?" She choked, "All of it?"

"Everything you got wet," he replied. Too easily.

"But I didn-"

"Everythingyougot wet," he repeated, "Are you gonna fucking argue? Are you being PAID to argue? I told you to drink it," he snarled aggressively, lurching forward in his seat. He made a grab for the cleavage of the dress, knocking her backward off the stool, landing heavily on top of her, straddling her chest. He seemed lost for a moment, hunting, mumbling: "Didn't fuckin' think so . . ." His hands roamed across the bodice of the garment, searching for the fasteners. He forced her arms down to her sides when she struggled, kneeling on them, disabling her completely. "Do you want me to take this out of your fucking pay?" Their eyes met for a dark moment and the elders burned like fire. Jocelynn's gaze veered off vacantly toward the ceiling.

"No." She whimpered. Jocelynn shivered, despite the fact that the heating was turned right up on that chilly night, "What . . . what are you going to do?" She felt helpless; she couldn't believe that this was happening. She was also wondering how she would feel about it in different circumstances. Desire wasn't the right word, but it was the first to spring to mind. She stuttered, "Wh- What's going on? What are you going to do?"

"Oh, not much. Well . . ." He paused, "I'm going to fuck you," he paused, still looking over the bodice, then sneering; "Unless you resist. Then I'll rape you." So matter-of-factly, almost to himself, "And it won't be pretty . . ." He chuckled. An empty, primal snort. Still immobile, Jocelynn started to cry. Not so much at the pain in her arms, or the embarrassment, more just the shock of what was going on; Mr. James remained emotionless, looking almost curious, astride her. All vestiges of arrogance seemed gone.Seemed.

He waited, observing. She grew more hopeful when she saw that he had stopped being so forward. He pressed a thumb against her swollen eyelid, wiping the moisture away. He repeated the action again with the other. She sniffed, "Why are you doing this?" A whimper, "Taking advantage of me? I'll quit. I'll never work here again," her voice rose, trying to sound older than she felt, "I'll go to the police. I'll, I'll . . . I'll hate you forever!"

"Why are you assuming you'll hate it? You might enjoy it," he chuckled, a more optimistic, sophisticated chortle. "I do apologize. I do tend to ramble." He picked up the almost empty can, drained the last dregs from it, and threw it with a series of sharp metallic clangs across the wood panel floor toward the kitchen. Jocelynn stared at the ceiling, wondering how she could avoid this confrontation, without realizing immediately it was a little late. The half can she had been forced to drink, coupled with an empty stomach had made her tipsy already. She wasn't used to alcohol at all.

"Get off me," she sobbed, "It hurts. And . . . it's just . . . weird."

"Christ. Let's not get into a pseudo-philosophical discussion about what constitutes normal, ok?" A throaty laugh. The type of laugh that skillfully conceals the true motive for mirth. "Do you want me to get off you?" A patronizing undertone.

"Please?"

Remaining on top of her, he shifted his knees, letting her arms free. They fluttered awkwardly before coming to rest on his meaty thighs. She squeezed, to regain her bearings in the solid world, suddenly fixated on how solid they seemed. "Wow, do you work out Mr. James?" Suddenly, she was a teenage girl, with teenage girl motives and desires, despite her naiveté. No longer a rape victim. She couldn't ignore the obvious bulge in his trousers.

"Please, call me Chris," he smiled disarmingly, "Not really. When I can be bothered. It struck both of them that this was the first time they'd really spoken on friendly terms, "You know, I rape and murder the odd teenager from time to time. That's about it." Jocelynn ran her fleshy hands up and down his thighs, abruptly looking sheepish, almost guilty. "What is it now?" Chris sneered, changing instantly.

"It just feels wrong. You and me. I mean, you're meant to be inchargeof me.YOU'REsupposed to be looking afterME!"

"You want it. Same as every other fucking woman – bar my wife of course," he laughed again, more to himself. "So you're going to resist?"

"How can I not? You're evil!" The tears started pricking from her doe-like eyes again. Mr. James snorted with derision.

"I'm evil? Big fuckin' claim." He shrugged, "I just call it beinghuman. It's called passion. Sexual desire. Libido. Nature. Your mum has it. Your dad had it. I have it.YOUhave it." He lowered his head close to hers, smirking as she retched at his breath, "Besides, you're powerless. It's not like you, yaw know, have a say in it. I pay for you to work for me, so I can have you. I fuckingownyou now."

"No you don't!" She screamed, "I belong to MYSELF!"

"No, not really. Again, not getting into discussions on free will, determinism and the like, I'm not in the mood for philosophy. Stupid girl," he muttered aloud. Suddenly, with lightning speed her arms were again pinned down, immobile again under his weight. He trailed a sleazy finger down her throat, toward the deep crease of her cleavage, "Must you make it so obvious you're a virgin, huh? By Christ's hairy palms . . . what a sorry state." His hand found the clasps holding the bodice together, leisurely, smilingly snapping them open, one by one, as her huge pale breasts elegantly poured out of the bodice, her pink nipples hardening at the sudden change in temperature.

Jocelynn yelped, struggling to free her hands from beneath his knees, unable to cover her sticky, overflowing mammaries. She felt instantly degraded, like she was being used. And yet, she felt like she was wanted, and something in her liked that. She watched Mr. James' wondrous expression as he stared at her chest. The chest she hated, for the very reason that men couldn't avoid looking at them. But was he right? Did she want it? She was so confused. Desire wasn't the right word, but it was the first that sprang to mind.

Suddenly he was sympathetic again, absurdly adopting a cheery pseudo-British accent, "Look, I think you will enjoy it. Your first time is always best with a knowledgeable fellow, you know?" Jocelynn, regretfully, but out of options, nodded, her employer returning to his all too familiar aggressive tone, "You stop me when you're uncomfortable, ok?" Another nod. "But don't cross me. Do not reject me. Do not step back or I will be forced to take what's mine. You just agreed to this. You don't change." He bobbed his head down to hers, their bourbon breaths mixing more as he kissed her. Suppressing the desire to retch, she was surprised that she liked it, and she closed her eyes and kissed him back lightly, apprehensively.

A flutter of his fingers and all of a sudden her corset was totally agape, her belly now in full view. She punched back at him with her forehead, trying to bite his tongue. Clutching for oxygen. "Don't you DO that!" She screamed, still cynical as to his motives.

"Breathe through your nose. Christ. Do I have to explain everything? For fuck's sakes!" He grabbed her chin, kissing her strongly – not particularly passionately, just strongly. She decided she'd have to go along with it. To surrender to him. She might like it, as he said. Again she kissed him back, trying to figure out why she was happy, wanting to go along with it. This was practically rape. It was so . . . not her. Desire wasn't the right word, but it was the first to spring to mind.

She felt his aggressive, stabbing fingers tearing at the black boyleg cotton panties she wore beneath the skimpy skirt. Nothing else existed in the world at that time. She felt so many things she'd never dreamed of – lust, greed, submission. A billion thoughts – none of which she thought were good – fought and fumbled for space in her already bustling brain. Primal instincts took over and she was in the moment, loving it. She felt so wanted and attractive, half-naked on her boss's living room floor, her hips bucking against his palm. Chris certainly knew what he was doing. The mental image of him caressing his wife in the same way flashed across her thoughts, but disappeared again as he gently rubbed the hood of her clit.

Again she felt short of breath with his weight on top of her and his tongue in her mouth, but she couldn't care. To the contrary. It added to the illegality, the "wrongness" of the act, heightening her already hyper senses and her hammering heart. He broke the kiss, nibbling his way down her neck, nuzzling her collarbones. She felt his spare hand cover hers and move it from her thigh toward his growing bulge.

She was, frankly, shocked – both at his audacity and her naiveté – as she ran her fingers over the pleats of his trousers. She squealed, half-angry as Chris bit at her nipple, half in jest. Jocelynn was suddenly aware of her own sexuality, how much she wanted this to happen. She felt damp under his fingers. Her attention returned to the bulge in his trousers, the silence between them oppressive, stifling. The TV muted and flashing in the corner of her eye.

Chris was still preoccupied with her breasts, so she tugged the zip down roughly, her hands feeling the massive solid mass of his cock, the heat that radiated from his crotch. She slid her hand into the gap, pulling his helmet out sharply . . .

"Fucking careful!" He shouted, "I want to be able to use that again, you slut!" Jocelynn heard nothing. She was mesmerized with the monstrosity she had just unleashed – and his cock too. Curious, but bashfully shy. She'd never seen a penis before, not at full fighting size, anyway. She tugged it towards her, giggling as it sprang back, slapping his abdomen.

She sensed Mr. James' palm a split second before it knocked her head sideways, the sharp slapping sound rang in her ears, her hot stinging cheek bringing her to her senses. "Did you not hear what I fucking said?" He snarled menacingly, then whispering, "I . . . said . . . be . . . careful! If I have to teach you the hard way I fucking will. Stupid bitch. Do you not know how to fucking do anything right? How fucking old are you?

"I'm 19, remember?!" She was yelling, crying, scared all over again; struck at the age difference between them, the size difference. "I . . . really don't know if I can do this, you know . . . you and me . . ." He stared her down.

"I really don't care if you do or do not. It's going to happen. You, you fuckin' . . . lead me on, you shoot me down. Fuckin' prick tease! I'm not fuckin' letting you go anywhere till I get off."

With the full realization of a clairvoyant, Jocelynn reacted. Pushing against him with all her strength, hitting out at him, kicking, biting, screaming, trying to scratch him. Mr. James roughly grabbed her flailing hands and, face contorted with concentration and exertion, held them up above her head. Pinning them to the hardwood floor with his wide flat palm, he slapped her hard across the face once again, more to shock than to harm.