Letter from Collimore Plains

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of incest or incest content.

*****

Dear Shoeblossom

I've been wanting to tell the love story of my life for such a long time, but this week was so hectic.

My abusive stepfather came to visit, and Severance asked him if he'd show her how to administer a good ass-whipping with the buckle end of a leather belt.

I balked for a moment when she told me to strip in front of them, but Severance has a method of getting her way.

It's true, I told Severance in confidence about these painful memories of my stepdad, but she doesn't respect that much. My stepdad was happy to oblige Severance's request.

He still has one hell of a grip on that belt, and left some welts. I was aroused by the pain and humiliation, which they both thought was kind of funny.

Severance and Step-Pop spent the week of his visit whipping me and fucking each other.

I'd hoped to show Step-Pop the sights of Collimore Plains, tourist stuff (We have a great Cornhusk Museum).

But instead I was kept naked in a closet for most of his stay, except when I was at work.

Now, bruised and contrite, I am just back from driving Step-Pop to the airport and can tell this fascinating story of Severance and I.

It's weird, Step-Pop was unfaithful, he didn't pay child support but I never knew he was a bisexual until he forced me to give him head in the front seat of my car in the parking lot of Collimore Plain USAir.

But back to the story.

For years I used my academic position to get a lot of play from girls in school. I wasn't much of an athlete, and I was pimple-ridden and kind of spindly, but useful.

I tutored cheerleaders, and enjoyed typing up a coed's paper while she sucked me off under the desk.

Then came my days as an instructor, when, of course I could get an enticing but dim pupil to drop by my office for "negotiation" about a bad grade.

Then I became extremely distracted one day when I read a quiet student's essay in my English 101 class.

She talked about what she did for a living, and it turned out she was some sort of dominatrix!

The description of her machinations on some poor bastard's nipples with a pair of needle nose pliers I found absolutely captivating.

And Severance was really easy on the eyes. Long, curly permed acid blonde hair, clear, vanilla skin...the kind of bored eyes.

The way she fluttered her eyelashes at me...God.

And those full lips. And her tits were snug and usually bulging out of her little tank tops..

Severance was mildly surprised when I asked her to come to my office.

I adjusted my comb over and for me, was wearing a fairly attractive golf shirt.

It's difficult being undernourished with skinny arms and legs, but having an inconsistent pot belly, but I did the best I could to compensate.

Three pm sharp she comes in. The appointment, of course, was at two-thirty.

But it didn't matter. I would bitch out any other student that did this.

They had to come in and beg for extensions and I was a bit of a bastard.

I'd go on about how I didn't feel I was so tough a grader, how just because Collimore Agricultural & Mechanical Institute wasn't Harvard, it should still have strict standards.

The guys would bribe me, or wash my car and we know what the girls would do!

But somehow when I saw this woman, I was utterly robbed of power.

The day that Severance came to see me, she was wearing the cutest little frock with big polka dots, white ones against a black border. Very Early Sixties.

She regarded me balefully as she popped her gum.

"I-I wanted to tell you that I found your composition so fascinating, the one about what you did for a living?"

"Oh, yeah, the 'What Is My Occupation' thing. You liked mine better than the idiot next to me who wrote about puttin' sticks in the popsicles at the Creamery? No shit, Sherlock."

Severance casually crossed her long legs and reviewed her crimson nails.

I was getting very aroused looking at her, and hoped I didn't telegraph how horny I was.

"I-I was thinking for your term paper you could elaborate more? It's so compelling, Miss DeCuccinelli, your uh, career."

"You can call me Severance. Okay I call you Louis?" She still hadn't looked up from her glorious talons.

I could picture her claws raking my desperate erection, maybe slapping my scrotum as well.

"My uh, classmates--" here her voice dripped with scorn--"call you doctor, an' sometimes professor. But you are a whaddya call it, adjunct. You don't have one of those Ph bee deals."

"Y-yes I am still working on my doctorate." I smiled shakily.

"Breindel, he's Dean here, he told me about you."

"Mr. Breindel is the provost. You know him?"

"You could say that. Last night MISTER Breindel cleaned all forty-two pairs of my shoes with his tongue."

Severance took a pack of Camels out of her purse and shook one loose. Unfiltered Camels. Who smokes those anymore?

"So, you let us think you're a doctor of what, writing?" Severance snorted. "You waited on me and my girlfriends the other day at Starbucks. So you ain't full time here."

I blushed. I didn't realize students drove that far out to get their lattes. I had chosen my part time gig with care.

Severance giggled. "I remember when your manager, what is he, twenty? He screamed at you 'cause you didn't clean the john right?"

Smirking, she lit the cigarette. "I'd make you lick out my toilet with your tongue, you lazy, pretentious crock of shit. You'd clean that son of a bitch."

I pictured myself with my head stuck in the commode, Severance's hand on my neck, licking the bowl out. I shifted, as my erection was about to burst out of my trousers.

Thank God, the desk was between us.

I smiled mirthlessly.

"I don't know why you didn't give me a better grade on my uh, book report."

"Well, I think you missed the point in 'Catcher in the Rye'. Holden Caulfield's angst--"

"The fuck I did. He's a little bitch. I loved it when Harold Caulfield yelled at the bellboy-pimp and then the pimp kicked his ass right in front of his whore."

Severance lit her cigarette and blew a smoke ring showily.

"If I'd been the skirt though, I woulda beaten Howard Caulfield's ass myself, kicked him inna balls when he said he wouldn't give me ten bucks instead of five. And that's way too cheap anyhow."

"Salinger wrote it in 1946--"

"Yeah? My Aunt Eulalie, worked out of the Bronx then, charged a yard and a half but that might have been a deal for the whole fleet, the Nimitz, right? She was glad they all got back not torpedoed. We're a patriotic family."

"Well, times were different then, Holden Caulfield was limited by patriarchal morality, hetero normative--"

"I give a fuck? The whore was too easy on Henry Caulfield. Make him blow the bellboy, why not?"

Severance inhaled and blew smoke out of her nostrils. She looked like the world's sexiest chimney.

As she inhaled again, her cleavage swelled and I wanted to fall to my knees and beg to kiss her nipples, poking through the thin material.

"It's obvious literature has an impact on you, Severance. This story--"

Severance laughed mirthlessly. "Limp-dicked idiot. Sends for a pross and then can't bang her? No lead in his pencil?"

Desperate to change the subject, I asked her again about the term paper.

"Normally, I have students do something on James Baldwin or perhaps one of Shakespeare's--"

"No, that was crappy too. Shakespeare? Strictly amateur."

"Sh-Shakespeare is an amateur?"

"Everyone's offing themselves. Romeo, Juliet? Olive Oyl?"

"Olive Oyl?"

"Yeah, Olive Oyl's going to marry Hamlet, who's a limp-dicked freak too, and then she knocks herself off."

"Olive Oyl was in the Popeye comic."

"No." Severance looked at me shrewdly. "That's the sequel. Graphic novel, whatever.

In Popeye, Olive doesn't kill herself, 'cause Popeye is a real man. She has an anorexia thing, but anyways--" Severance coughed. "Kind of codependent like my social worker used to say."

"Scholars debate over whether Ophelia actually committed suicide--" but I knew I was losing ground.

"Whatever. Loser women, wimpy guys. Fuck books. I'd rather watch Honey Boo Boo."

My mind flashed with images of Severance watching Honey Boo Boo, her legs propped on my naked back. What was wrong with me? My therapist would claim displacement, wouldn't he?

"Clearly at this point, you find literature somewhat stultifying.

I think my suggestion about writing about your career, a spirited commentary on that would be more pertinent. You can go into detail, you know.

I assure you there will be confidentiality. The 'Story of O' by Pauline Reage--"

"You're a weirdo, ain't you, Louis?" Severance flicked the smoldering butt expertly into my wastebasket.

I used my shoe to put it out before the sprinklers went on, and of course got my ankle caught in the can, which Severance also thought was hilarious.

"A-A weirdo?"

"Yeah. You want to read about me torturing guys, don't you? I bet you sniff your wife's panties from the laundry bag."

"I-I'm not married."

"Like that's a surprise."

It's been nearly four years now.

We had a glorious wedding. (I was forced to blow the groomsmen, all friends of Severance's, but I choose not to revisit that memory.)

Severance persuaded the Provost to give me a full time position, and of course she still has her home business.

Literature makes for strange bedfellows...