The Porcelain Doll

Susan placed her hand on the girl's hip, gently, trying to soothe away the obvious apprehension she knew Robin was feeling. "You have cute buns," she whispered.

Robin laughed. "You're sure getting a good look at them."

"Do you mind?"

"No," said Robin. "I told you, I'm game for anything." She was still holding her ass cheeks open and felt extremely vulnerable.

"So am I," whispered Susan, leaning forward and planting a light kiss on Robin's left ass cheek. "Mmm, that feels good," sighed Robin.

"It's going to feel a whole lot better in a few minutes, baby-doll," whispered Susan as she use the tip of her tongue to knead the yielding flesh beneath her wandering lips.

Robin shivered at the touch. "Wow! What a nice feeling!"

"Move your hands honey, let me do it for you," husked Susan.

No sooner had Robin moved her hands away from her ass than her new lover had used her thumbs to open her right back up, perhaps even wider than before. Slowly and deliberately, she worked her lips and tongue into the groove, coming ever closer to the tiny, crinkled nubbin she longed for. Certainly Robin knew what was about to happen, something that she had never had done to her, but she didn't mind. She yearned for attention and was getting it, even if it were a little "kinky."

Robin closed her eyes, perhaps a little in shame, as she felt the wet tip of Susan's tongue glide briefly across the nether opening. She gasped at the first touch. "Easy, babe, just let it happen," said Susan in a soft, pleasant voice.

"I don't mind, it feels nice.... so nice."

Susan pried the cheeks even further apart to give her better access to Robin's anus, then kissed it lovingly, evoking yet another long sigh from her new friend. Emboldened by the obvious pleasure she was giving, she began circling the "O" with the tip of her tongue, interspersing the rim job with soft, light kisses.

"Oh, don't stop. I like that!" cried Robin, her loins on fire with cravings for something new and different--and wonderful!

Susan delved right in, working her tongue slowly into the tight crevice, then using a quick pistoning movement that drove Robin into maddening delirium. The more Robin became excited, the more Susan tried to drive her tongue home.

While Robin received the first anal arousal of her life, she moved her left hand between her legs and found her clitoris hot to the touch. As soon as she touched it she knew she would soon get off. She raised one leg slightly and dipped a finger into her dripping honeypot, then drew the warm moisture across her clitoral hood while the tongue in her asshole gave her sensations she had never even dreamed of.

When Robin came, she screamed out, as if in pain. Susan knew what had happened but still continued rimming her friend's anal button. Robin came down slowly.

"Unbelievable," she said softly.

Susan smiled. "There's more."

"I don't know if I can take any more," sighed Robin.

"I want to tie you up and blindfold you. Do you trust me?"

Robin thought for a moment. "If it's anything like what you just did, I'm game for anything."

"It's the thrill of a lifetime, sweetheart," said Susan.

The headlines the next day sent shivers down Janice Fitzgerald's spine--

COLLEGE GIRL FOUND DEAD

Janice didn't have to read the story. She knew that the girl's name would be Robin Wilson. She knew she would have to see Dr. Rogers quickly.

Detective Sergeant Anthony Fusco had never worked a murder case in his career as odd as those of Gregory Eugene Watson and Robin Wilson. Although certain aspects of each case were not similar, the evidence was overwhelming--one person or persons had to have committed both crimes. On the bathroom mirror in each of their homes were the same chilling words, written in bright red lipstick--"Please stop me before there are others."

The pressure on Fusco to find the killer was tremendous. Press coverage was rampant. People were locking their doors, afraid to venture onto the street by night or day. Captain Daniel O'Connor, Fusco's superior, was beside himself. "Tony, this fucking idiot has killed two people. Do you have any ideas?"

"Outside of the fact that the m.o. is the same, the only thing we have is that a light blue station wagon was seen near the scene of both crimes. That isn't exactly a lot to go on, is it, boss?"

"No latents at all?"

"Nothing positive on any of the prints we picked up. I can't even get a match on the same print at both places. I even poured plaster all over the damn ground hoping for a match on shoe prints. Nothing. Not a fucking thing. I know it was the same killer on both jobs, but that's about all I know."

"The chief calls me twice an hour. The mayor is after my ass, Tony. He calls me 'Danny Boy' and that burns my Irish ass. We need this thing solved quickly. I've never seen pressure like this. "Cap, I've got my best detectives working day and night. There are extra black and whites out there. We've got most of the squad on overtime. I'm doing everything I possibly can. We'll get the bastard, but leg work ain't gonna cut it. We're gonna need help on this one."

"Maybe that ain't enough, dammit! I want you to concentrate on flushing this guy out. I want every blue station wagon stopped, the driver questioned, i.d.'s taken, Bureau checks run on every swinging Richard who's old enough to hold his schwantz in his hand."

Detective Fusco turned and began moving out of the room, looking back over his shoulder only long enough to mutter, "Cap, we've been doing that for two damn weeks. Got any more bright ideas?"

"Susan, may I speak with you?" asked the doctor.

"Yes."

"There is something you want to tell me isn't there?"

"NO! NO!" she shook her head violently, her body trembling.

"Is there something you don't want Janice to know?"

There was a long, pregnant pause. She tossed her head from side to side. "No, please don't ask. I can't tell you!"

"You must tell me, Susan. How else can I help you."

"You can't help. No one can help. It's inside me!" Her breathing was labored now. Sweat poured from her forehead.

"TELL ME, BETH!" shouted the doctor.

Susan took more deep, prolonged breaths. "She's inside me, she doesn't want to talk to you!" she cried.

"Who's inside you, Susan? Is Janice inside you?"

"NO! NO! She doesn't want to talk right now."

"I must talk to her, Susan. I must talk to her!"

Doctor Rogers thought he was going to lose the apparently bewildered woman. There was another agonizingly long silence. He waited. "Susan, are you still there?"

There was a painful grimace on her face. "No," she replied.

"Who are you?"

She grimaced again. "I'm....I'm Phyllis. Phyllis Fitzgerald. I live inside Susan. She's never told anyone about me."

The doctor's brow was furrowed. This was amazing. A completely different personality was emerging. He could sense it. "I... I want to help you, Phyllis. Do you know who I am?"

"You're Doctor Rogers."

"Yes, that's right. I want you to trust me, Phyllis. You have a secret, don't you?"

"Yes... No... Don't ask. I don't want Janice to know."

"Why don't you want Janice to know?"

"If she finds out, she will kill herself," cried Phyllis.

"Then I promise I won't tell her. I swear I won't. But you must confide in me or I can't help you."

Phyllis raised her hands to her face, and were it not for the instant action of the doctor, would have scratched her skin to shreds. The doctor held her hands in place. "Tell me, Phyllis! What is your secret?"

Phyllis took several deep breaths. There was a big part of her that was crying out for help, and another part that feared the truth. "You must promise you won't tell Janice," she whimpered.

The doctor's response was soothing, to the point. "I am a doctor of medicine, Phyllis. I am sworn by oath not to reveal my patient's problems to anyone else. You must trust me if you want me to help you. Do you want me to help you, Phyllis?"

'Yes."

He held her hands in his, gaining her confidence. "Tell me, Phyllis?"

"I know the man in the blue station wagon," she blurted.

"You mean the man who was seen in the area of a couple of the murders, is that correct, Phyllis?"

"Yes."

"Do you know his name, Phyllis?"

"Only his first name--Harvey. I knew him at ten years ago when we were both in high school."

"He remembered you from way back then, didn't he?" Dr. Rogers began to realize that, under hypnosis, Phyllis might be able to provide enough information to identify the man suspected of three murders.

"Yes."

"Phyllis, if I were to show you a picture of him, maybe from your high school yearbook, do you think you could point him out?"

"I don't know. I think so. I mean there can't be very many Harvey's in the yearbook anyway." "Will you talk to me later, Phyllis? After I get the yearbook?"

She tossed her head from side to side, as if she were experiencing a painful headache. "I don't like to come out. I've said too much already."

"I just want to talk to you one more time, Phyllis. Just once more. Please promise me."

Phyllis took a long, deep breath. "All right. Once more."

There was a long pause, followed by the tortured woman sitting in front of Dr. Rogers snapping her head back sharply. "Phyllis?" asked the doctor.

"No, this is Susan. Phyllis doesn't want to talk anymore. Please, my head hurts terribly!"

The doctor took Susan out of her hypnotic trance slowly. As Janice emerged, sweat continued to glisten across her brow. She felt extremely tired, and the pounding inside her head matched every beat of her heart.

Dr. Rogers contacted Detective Fusco by phone shortly after Janice left. "Sergeant, I think I may have an important clue in the murders you are investigating. I have a patient, who, under hypnosis, may be able to identify the man in the blue station wagon you've been looking for. Can you do me a favor?"

Fusco did not seem to be phased by the revelation. He had sifted through thousands of leads without success. This was just another one. "What is it?"

"I need a high school yearbook--1960--from Englewood, New Jersey. We don't have a lot a time. I do know this--there is be a man named Harvey in that book, probably a senior, who may be the driver of that station wagon."

"Do you think this is more than some crazy woman's imagination, doc, I mean, Englewood is a few hours away and...."

"Please try to get it. I really think this is important, Sergeant."

Sergeant Fusco brought the yearbook to the doctor's office the following evening. "I've looked through the book," he said with a tone of frustration in his voice. "There is only one senior with the first name of Harvey. I don't know why I brought the book back with me, though."

"Why's that?"

"Do you see the black border around his picture?"

Dr. Rogers looked down at the black and white yearbook, his eyes widening in disbelief. The words above Harvey G. Wilkerson's picture said it all. "IN MEMORIUM" Just below the picture was the simple inscription after his name--"1942-1960. Harvey, we miss you."

"Damn. What about the juniors?" asked the stunned doctor.

"There are 126 juniors and 159 sophomores in the book. Would you believe that the only one named Harvey was the senior who bought the farm in 1960?"

Dr. Rogers shook his head. "I don't know what to believe now. Can you leave the book with me?"

"Of course. By the way, can you give me the patient's name?"

The doctor laughed. "Have you ever heard of the Hypocrites Oath, Sergeant?"

"Hey, this is a murder case!"

"Hey, my patient is not a suspect."

"But she may have some information. You already said that."

"Give me one week, Sergeant. If I can't work it out, I'll let you talk to her."

"One week. You got it. Good luck." He closed the door loudly behind him. Dr. Rogers thought he heard the Sergeant whistling as he walked down the hallway toward the elevator.

CHAPTER 4 Susan Visits Frederick

Frederick Oliver Matthews was a happy-go-lucky kind of guy. Divorced. Father of two girls who lived with his ex. Usually paid his child support on time. He worked as a switchman for railroad. At 46, his graying hair and slight paunch gave away his middle years. An inveterate Pittsburgh Steeler fan who played the ponies twice a year, his life was as dull as dishwater until a woman named Susan came along. How she turned his life around!

Susan seemed to bring out the worst in everyone. She had a special knack of sizing up her prey quickly. Fred was easy to decipher. The little worm craved discipline, and Susan knew all forms of correction. It was not without this purpose in mind that, on the night of May 17, 1990, she left her house dressed completely in black, right down to her sheer, lacy underwear and semi-transparent silken stockings.

She normally drove on her night out, but tonight she walked. It was dark, but a three-quarter's moon lit her way. The walk to Fred's house was no more than 15 minutes, and she moved brusquely, looking over her shoulder from time to time to make sure she wasn't being followed. Coming to the corner of Evergreen Street and Willow Way, she turned onto Willow Way, then came to an abrupt halt. She couldn't believe her eyes! There he was, standing next to the light blue station wagon, smoking a cigarette. She was standing not ten feet from him.

"Good evening, Phyllis," said the tall, hulking figure.

Susan was frozen in her tracks. "My name is Susan," she blurted.

He took a long puff from the cigarette and smiled. One of his teeth had a gold cap. Even in the moonlight, she could tell he needed a shave. "You don't remember me, do you, Phyllis?"

"Look, mister, the name is 'Susan', like I told you."

His laugh was almost sinister. "Your name was Janice in 1960. But I knew you as 'Phyllis'. Let's see, that was way back in Englewood, New Jersey wasn't it baby?"

Deep in the recesses of her mind there was an instantaneous flash-back to a nightmare of ghastly proportions. It disappeared immediately, as if the memory cells were rebelling against it. Susan's heart was beating a mile a minute. This man was confusing her now. "Please, what do you want?"

He coughed, deep from within his bronchial tubes, then spit on the ground. "Yep, Janice Fitzgerald. Pretty Janice. But when we played our little games, you liked to be called Phyllis. Do you remember my whips, Phyllis? And the things I put inside you. I taught you an awful lot, didn't I, bitch?"

She started to walk past this man she thought was a stranger. And probably a killer, stalking her. Why didn't he grab her, now, while he had the chance? As she walked further, she glanced back over the shoulder. He stood against the car, smiling. She quickened her pace. Only when she was at a safe distance did she hear him shout, "Hey, Phyllis, you little bitch, do you want your ass filled again?"

Susan started running now, as fast as her legs would carry her. She pounded on Fred's door. When he opened it, he sensed her fear. Her face was as pale as the moon. "What is it, Susan?" "That man, there, in the car!"

Fred looked down the street. Both ways. "What car, babe?"

Susan turned her head in the direction of the man and the station wagon. She had to look twice. The street was empty. She hadn't heard the sound of his car, but, for sure, he was gone.

"Fred, there was a man. He talked to me. I.... please, let's go in the house."

She made sure he locked and bolted the door. She felt clammy. Two drinks soothed her, but questions nagged her mind. Should she call the police? No, not a good idea. It might be difficult to explain what she was doing in this neighborhood, dressed to the nines in a jet-black dress, walking alone at night, with a killer on the loose. Besides, that was, by now, a half hour ago, and Fred looked so pathetic, the putrid wimp. He needed a lesson, and Susan knew just how to teach him.

"Freddie?"

He looked at her, his eyes widening. He knew that "Freddie" was a derisive term she used when she liked to torment him. He gulped, lowering his head. "Y-Yes, Mistress."

"Stand up, Freddie. Right here--in front of me."

Fred stood. The twinge in his loins was familiar to him. His heart began to breath rapidly. She was seated on the sofa, legs crossed, her dress half-way up her thigh, a lot of sheer black stocking visible along the side of her skirt. She had kicked off her heels. Her stockinged feet looked so good to him.

"Unzip your fly, Freddie," she ordered. He looked at her furtively, then used his fingers to obey. "Good boy," she husked. "Now take it out and show me."

"Please, Mistress...this is embarrassing," he half-whimpered.

"Take it out, you mule!"

He reached inside his unzipped pants, pulled the underpants to the side, then pulled his semi- erect cock out, holding it in his palm.

"Oh, it's so cute, Freddie! I like to see it before it gets really hard. Put your hands behind your back."

He felt silly, standing there in front of this woman, his cock hanging over the 'V' of his unzipped fly, his hands clasped behind his back. Her eyes were glued to his member. "I'll betcha I can make it real hard for you, Freddie," she teased.

He gulped again.

She reached inside her pocketbook and took out the multi-stranded, short whip that he was all too familiar with. His eyes widened again. Just the sight of the whip caused his cock to spasm. Oh, how he needed its relief! She smiled wickedly. "Drop your trousers," she commanded, then watched him open his belt buckle, unbutton the button, and let his pants slide down his legs to the floor. His cock, hardening even more, stuck out obscenely from the side of is undershorts.

Susan twirled the short strands of the whip in the air several times, still smiling. "Is this what Freddie needs?"

He looked at her, a false pleading in his eyes. "Please. I still hurt from the last time," he said honestly. "Maybe not so hard this time."

"I don't think that's your decision to make, Freddie. Now turn around and take your punishment like a man."

This time his gulp was quite noticeable. He turned, awkwardly, with his pants still circling his feet, getting in the way, and his undershorts serving as one last bastion between himself and Susan's biting whip. He felt his cock spasm reflexively.

"Pull your shorts down, Freddie," commanded Susan.

He reached his thumbs into the back of his underpants and quickly drew them over his hairy ass. Indeed, there were slight red marks left on the flesh of the white buns, but they were pleasant reminders to him of what she had done before days before.

"Do you want to play with yourself while I do it?" she asked in a seductive tone.

"Yes, Mistress," he whimpered.

"Hold onto to it real tight, baby. I'm going to take you for a little ride."

He grasped his half-hard member, squeezing it in the palm of his hand. Without being asked, he bent over at the waist, as far as he could without falling over, offering himself to her mercy even as he stroked his growing erection.

"Please don't hurt me," he lied.

Susan arose from the couch and moved next to Fred, looking down at the proffered ass cheeks. Using her fingernails, she roamed the hairy skin in slow, concentric circles, sending a chill up her victim's spine.

"Such a lovely ass," she whispered.

She moved her fingernails up and down each cheek, from the top of the ass to the back of his thighs, slowly, several times, listening to his low moans. She moved her hand between his slightly spread legs, using the fingernail of her middle finger to gently tease the area between his balls and his asshole. If he were a woman, she would have plunged the finger into a wet vagina, but this was a man. He had no vagina. But he did have something almost as good.

She took her hand away for a brief moment and put her middle finger into her mouth, coating it with a thin layer of her saliva which would serve nicely as a lubricant. She moved her glistening finger back between his legs. He felt the wetness against his tight anus. His cry of "NO! NOT THERE!" mingled with the pleasure/pain of Susan's digit being eased into his rectum. He gasped out loud and lunged slightly forward, almost losing his balance.