4 comments/ 155557 views/ 21 favorites A Bad Girl Ch. 01 By: Simon J. A Bad Girl Part 1: The Awakening Or: You gotta be cruel to be kind I went to a Catholic girl’s school, where we were under strict orders to dress and behave with exemplary modesty. When our plaid skirts rose above the knees we considered it daring. Nowadays there’s a lot of guff about “letting children express their personalities”, but I think our personalities were well expressed. As in many other environments where uniforms were the order of the day, we expressed our personalities in our dickeys (the abbreviated tie all the girls hated), in our hair ornaments (no more than two plain barrettes were allowed, but the boldest of us wore combs), and in our shoes. I was never the most daring, but I pushed the envelope a little, like we all did. When I was in tenth grade I was sent home to change my shoes by Sister Mary Chang, known to us all as the Dragon Lady. Sister Mary actually took a ruler and measured, determining that my heels were 3/8 of an inch too high for a Grade Ten girl (grade niners were only allowed flats). So when, to my surprise, I graduated in the upper tenth of my class, I found the heady and comparatively permissive atmosphere of a secular college a bit confusing. It was co-ed, for a start, and I didn’t have a lot of experience with boys. My room at college was shared with “Tennis-ball” Turner. People called her “Tennis-ball” for her corn-yellow hair, cut into a boyish bob, or sometimes “T-Ball”. I called her Jacquie, short for her full name, Jacqueline. She was, as she liked to say “fresh off the farm”, and seemed to be intent on getting into as much trouble as the city could offer her. As a “good girl” rooming with a party animal, I naturally got a bit of a reputation for being stuck up. I didn’t know it because I dedicated myself completely to my studies for the first semester. My grades were excellent, but I didn’t seem to meet a lot of friends—at least not a lot of people I wanted to hang around with. Christmas seemed bleak. I hung around the dorm until it was time to go home. At home my mother accused me of “moping”. My father just seemed relieved that I hadn’t turned into some sort of radical, stoned lesbian. I found the whole week stifling, and wondered what I had in common with these two old, boring people. Eventually I left early: I returned to the freedom of being able to do what I chose. Which was exactly nothing. I read and moped some more. True to form, Jacquie showed up at two o’clock in the morning the day classes were due to start. I heard muffled giggling, and the scraping as her key missed the lock several times. Of course she had a boy with her. I vaguely recognized his voice: It was Wayne Williams, a hulking great brute who majored in football. “You sure yer roomie’s not home?” He asked in a drunken rumble. “Let me check.” I heard her say, irritably. Jacquie popped her head into the shared bedroom, and I heard her sigh. I was about to speak up, to tell her that it would be alright if the two of them came in, I’d sleep on the sofa, when she suddenly said under her breath: “Good old Flock, you never let me down, do you, you old stick.” I lay there with my cheeks burning as she went back to the door. I heard her whispering: “No, Wayne. Wayne—stop it (giggle). I’d love to, but I’m really tired. . .We can’t. My roomie’s home and she’s a real tight-ass. She’d have the Resident down on me like a ton of bricks!” That was grossly unfair, and I found myself getting angry. I hadn’t ever reported Jaquie for anything, not when she smoked, not when she brought boys home—not even when I’d found a baggie of pot on the floor. Eventually, Wayne left, sulkily, and I heard Jacquie close the door and let out a long, slow breath. Jacquie slipped into the room, and quietly began to undress in the dark. As she pulled off her sweater she was silhouetted in the moonlight, fine bra-less breasts with big, hard nipples. As the sweater came off she let out a yip, and something shiny flew across and landed on my bed. Without quite knowing why, I caught it. “I’m awake.” I said “Turn on the light.” She was cursing and holding a hand to her ear. “Been awake long?” She asked casually. “Since you and Wayne got here, yeah.” I said. “Oh.” I wondered if she remembered what she’d said. The light clicked on, and in the yellow dim, I saw Jacquie sitting on her bed a few feet away, looking concerned, her tits bare. “What did you mean,” I asked “when you told him I’d report you to the Resident?” “Oh!” she said embarrassedly “I just said that to keep him out. He just wanted to make out, and I wasn’t in the mood.” “That’s a first,” I said grumpily “anyway, why’d you call me an old stick?” Jacquie’s eyes widened, “Oh Flocksie,” she always called me Flocksie, and I hated it. “Don’t get tangled up. It’s okay to be. . .the way you are, I mean it’s. . .” Now I was angry. “What the hell do you mean by that?” I asked. “Well, come on honey. It’s pretty well-known around here that my roomie doesn’t, y’know, get out much.” “Get around much, you mean.” I accused. Now it was her turn to flush. “Jesus you’re an uptight bitch. Y’know,” she said, fishing in the drawer of the nightstand “you oughta smoke a joint occasionally—it’d relax those tense anal muscles of yours.” I was at a loss for words. No-one had said anything like that to me since before I’d graduated high school. I blushed and felt a dull throb of anger. Tennisball contemptuously fished a joint from a baggie, lit it, and inhaled deeply. After a moment she gave me the joint to hold, and turned to open the window between our beds. I took the pot wordlessly, with tears pricking behind my eyelids. She knew damn well I’d never tried it, and had no plans to. As she turned around I angrily stuck the joint in my mouth and sucked it hugely and inexpertly. Once the coughing fit had died away and my eyes stopped streaming, I got nervous. What if I went nuts? I’d heard pot could make you do that. Jacquie was grinning sloppily, her yellow hair drooping into her eyes. She came and sat on the bed and took another hit. She was still topless, and by the bedside light I could see how her big pink nipples crinkled in the cool air from the window. I reached up and brushed the hair away from her eyes; I felt something electric. Maybe it was the pot, or something else. “Here,” I handed her the shiny object—her lost earring “you dropped this.” My fingertips were tingling when she touched my hand to take it. Her hand rested on mine for just a beat too long, it seemed. “Thanks,” she said, looking at me with something like wonder in her eyes. “You’ve got freckles all over, Tennie. . .I wish I had freckles.” I found myself saying in the long silence that followed. I touched the little dots which showered her shoulders. Then I sat up in bed to give her a kiss on the lips, soft and hesitant. I’d never kissed a woman on the lips before. They were soft, and burned like fire against mine. Our tongues touched. “Mmm.” I pulled away and looked at her. “Why’d you stop? It’s okay.” she said. “What . . . I mean, what do we, what are we. . .?” “What do you want to do?” I didn’t know—I felt as though I wanted to own her, take her, control her beautiful body. I’d invade her, violate her, make her do things. . . “I wanna own you. Does that sound silly?” “No. . .” A long pause, and then she gulped out: “I wanna be a slave.” It was a pure appeal, like something she’d been hiding from me all this time. My pussy (which until that night I’d have definitely called a vagina) seemed to have a sweet little cramp when she said that. My breath caught in my throat, and the blood pounded in my head. Pot and lust were suddenly making me dizzy. “If you’re my slave, you do what I say.” I teased her, but I wasn’t really teasing. “Yes. . .Mistress.” Another rush of blood; to my nipples this time. “Stand up.” As she obeyed, I threw off my blankets. Underneath the bedclothes I was wearing a cheap cotton nightshirt that went to my knees. Tennisball eyed me warily, like a dog that starts to growl at you only after you’ve entered the yard. “You’re overdressed,” I said, caressing her shoulders “No. Don’t look at me. Keep your eyes on the floor. Take off your jeans—wait—turn around and take ‘em off.” I don’t know where the feeling came from, where I got that strength. I was the mousiest girl in school, usually. But now I felt drunk with power, watching her skimpy french-cut briefs appear as her denim hit the floor. Her bottom wiggled a little as she reached for the waistband of her panties. “Stop,” I ordered “I like you like that. You look like a proper little. . .slut.” I would never have used that word before, but it was appropriate now. Tennisball was small and lithe, compact and sexy. I put my arms around her and felt inside her panties. She was soaked, and she rubbed her back against my chest. “Are you my slave?” I asked, feeling my face blush as I said it. “Yes, Mistress.” “On your knees.” She wasn’t fast enough, I thought. She needed some correction. I explained this to her. “I think a nice hard spanking will do you good, slave,” I sat on the hard little chair over by the window “Come here.” She stood up and took a hesitant step. I sighed theatrically: “On your knees, you little bitch.” Her eyes were wide as saucers. Blonde head bowed she knelt, then after a second or two she crawled to kneel in front of me. I twirled a finger, indicating that she face away from me. She scurried into position. “Show me your pussy.” She arched her back, and reached around to pull her panties out of the way. Her dark golden pussy hair was neatly trimmed. I would have ordered her to shave it, but I didn’t even know that girls did that. I traced her ass with a finger. She shivered. “I’m going to spank you. Hard.” I said “And you’ll count it, and every time I strike you you’d better thank me for it. Is your pussy wet?” “Yes, Mistress.” “Good. I’ll find something to stuff it with. Stand.” My slave rose from her knees. I pulled her panties down her legs. I could smell her wet cunt. I turned her head with my hand and kissed her. “Do you want to get spanked, slave?” I asked, pulling away from her panting mouth. “Oh, yes Mistress.” She almost smiled. “Tell me what you want.” “Please, Mistress, tie your slave up, make me your total slut. Beat my ass, fuck me hard . . .” “Fuck you with what?” I was totally taken aback. I didn’t have a dick or a vibrator, and didn’t know quite what they were, anyway. I wondered what she had in mind. “In my top drawer, Mistress. I have a dildo.” When I opened the drawer and rummaged around, it was pretty obvious. I bent the silicone dick and let the top spring loose, almost whacking myself in the eye. It looked like a cock, with a head at one end and a pair of balls at the other. “And what do you want me to do with this?” I asked, not quite sure what one could do with a dildo. “Please Mistress, anything you want.” came the correct answer. I took two belts from the drawer, and used one to tie her hands behind her. My skill at knots impressed her as she tugged nervously, trying to find any slack. I had her spread her legs, and slowly worked the rubber cock into her sopping hole. Every so often I’d smack her bottom hard. Eventually the dildo was stuck into Jacquie all the way to its ball-shaped base. “Come, slave; bend over my lap.” I said, sitting on the edge of the chair. Obediently my new slavegirl leaned over. I ran my fingers down the crack of her ass, and in an unexpected moment I invaded her anus with my pinkie. She moaned, and I pulled it out. “Sorry, did that hurt?” I asked, shaken from my Mistress persona. “A little, Mistress. But it felt good.” “Do you want me to do it again?” I asked, half wondering. It must have been uncomfortable for her, but she seemed to be enjoying it. “Yes, Mistress, please put your fingers in my slutty ass! I’m your little bum whore!” Tennie was looking over her shoulder at me over her bound hands, and wiggling her buttocks. Her panties were clinging to one leg, and her face was flushed. She certainly looked like a slut. I began to spank her. When she hadn’t counted after the fifth one, I stopped, and grabbed her by her blonde hair. Forcing her to look straight ahead I hissed in her ear: “Are you enjoying that, bitch?” “Not much, Mistress.” “Well you’d better start counting, otherwise I won’t know when you’ve had the fifty you deserve!” “Yes Mistress. That was five, Mistress.” “Shut up, slut. You count from one again—and don’t you dare lose count.” She moaned aloud as I began to abuse her ass again. After a long, painful time, her ass was glowing red. I dumped her off my lap. She knelt up at my order with some difficulty, since her hands were still bound, then looked at me. I stood up and turned around, pushing my ass into her face. “Kiss me,” I ordered. She hesitated, but then responded beautifully, tonguing my ass cheeks and upper thighs, which were wet with my juice. Then she paused again. Without looking, I reached around behind me, grabbed hold of her hair again, and drove her face into my ass. Her tongue began to lap eagerly at my asshole. The sensation was electric, and I reached down to finger my clit. I came very quickly, with a loud moan. It was unlike anything I’d ever felt. I released my slave’s hair, and turned around. I had to sit on the bed because I was still dizzy. I leaned on my slut’s head again, and mistaking what I wanted, she leaned forward, licking my thighs, up to my still-spasming cunt. I’d never had two orgasms in a row before. Now I shoved Jacquie’s face into my pussy, glorying in her complete subjugation to me. My free hand found the second belt, lying near me on the bed, and I brought it down on her back and her red ass as she ate me out. As I came the second time, I threw her backwards and fell on her. The dildo had fallen from my slave’s cunt, and I snatched it up and drove it in again. I dropped the belt and penetrated her ass with my middle finger, thrusting it in and out. “Oh,” she gasped “I’m yours, your slut, your slave, yourslut, yourslave, yourlittlebitchslutcunt. . .oh. . .oh. . .oh. . .” Her gasps got louder and harder as I made her come, cresting in a shriek as I bit down firmly on her fat pink nipple. Afterwards, I held her in my arms as we lay there, covered in each other’s sweat. I looked at the hot pink marks on her tits and ass, and I knew this was only the beginning. For the remainder of the year, Tennie was my slave. During the daytime, when not in class, she had orders to do her homework (the quality of which improved massively), clean the dorm room, and serve me as commanded. She loved it. Of her own accord she kept herself dressed either as sexily as possible, or not at all when she was serving me. She stopped seeing boys, and although I told her she was allowed out to the bars once a week, she slowly stopped going there too. I nicknamed her piggy, for her greedy appetite for punishment and pleasure, as well as for her fabulously pink nipples. She seemed to glory in it, to need to submit as far as I would let her. Sometimes I’d come home to find her wearing a long leash, which she attached by an even longer chain to my bedpost. I kept her bottom nice and red, and usually whipped her breasts with my belt at least once a week. Eventually we got to a point where she could almost cum before I touched her pussy at all. I was transformed. My grades climbed, partly due to my newfound confidence. Sometimes she’d bring me a packed lunch from home and whisper in my ear: “I need a spanking Mistress.” Or I’d find a note in the lunch saying: “When you get home I’m going to eat you stupid. Signed: slave.” During Easter break Tennie took me home to meet her mother. Her father, I knew, had died several years before. Tennie’s mother was a stern, demanding-looking woman, who thanked me for “setting her daughter straight”, which almost made me break down laughing—if she only knew! Her mother was rich, by my standards, and Tennie and I shared the old gardener’s quarters in much the same hedonistic fashion that we shared our dorm, though perhaps a little less cautiously. One night we’d smoked a little weed, and I’d made her lick my pussy until I came twice (my rule— if I came twice, my slave could cum once). We lay together in the afterglow, when she suddenly said: “I love you, Mistress.” I didn’t reply. Did I love her? I didn’t know. If I did, what did that mean? She seemed to expect some reply. But I hesitated too long. “You know, it’s okay if you don’t love me,” she said, looking away from me “I understand. Maybe this is just a. . .a phase for you. But I’ll be your slave until you send me away, and when that happens, I’ll cry. But I’ll get over it.” “Be quiet, piggy-slut,” I replied “Maybe I’ll never let you go. Ever think of that?” “At your command, Mistress.” she replied obediently, but her eyes said yeah, right. In the end, she was right. Although she wore my collar, and although she presented me with a double-ended dildo and the harness to use in fucking her, although her pussy and ass were open to me day and night, I became nervous. I expected to return home for the summer, and couldn’t see bringing her home to meet my family. Worse yet, I was developing an interest in a boy from my psychology course, and that felt healthier, less wrong, that what Tennie and I were doing. But I was about to learn the hard way that you can’t free a true slavegirl, you can only send her away. She knew before I worked up the nerve to tell her. In fact, I waited until exams were over and we were preparing to go home the very next day. I’d been hedging about allowing her to come out and see me. But deep inside, both of us could see what was coming. “Mistress, please don’t do this.” We were in the room. She was naked except for a pair of stockings and flimsy black panties. “It’s not like I don’t enjoy what we’re doing,” I said truthfully “It’s just not what I want anymore.” “Sure,” she said, beginning to drip tears. She tugged on the leash and went to her knees. “Please, Mistress. I don’t care what you do to me: torture me, beat me, lock me inside all day long, but don’t ask me to go away—because in my heart I’ll still be your slave.” She desperately invited me to date anyone else I liked, to bring home my boyfriends to fuck her. I responded that she wasn’t getting the point. “I love you too, Tennie. But it’s over, and it’s time I sent you away.” There were more tears—mine, mostly. There were angry shouts—hers, mostly. There was a deep pain and bitterness in both of us. But in the end, Jacquie went to spend the night at a friend’s house, and I left before six the next morning. I spent the summer “moping” as my mother kept calling it. I was sick in my heart, I felt lost, but I knew for certain that I didn’t want to be a lesbian dominatrix all my life. I knew it. Eventually the pain faded, and when September came, I felt ready to return to school. On the first day, I saw Jacquie in the hall. She was wearing wooly tights, a grey skirt, and a blue sweater. She had on new glasses, and had curled her hair. She looked pettier, more grown-up; I got wet just looking at her. “Hi” she said as I passed. She sounded curious, but wary. I was happy that she wanted to talk to me, but nervous because of what I felt, and because I could see she clearly felt similar things. Her nipples were standing upright beneath her sweater. “Did you have a good summer?” She asked. Her voice had an odd tremor to it. I mumbled the usual pleasantries, the clenching of my chest and the rush of hot blood to my cunt making me dizzy. After a few awkward moments, she suggested we meet for a drink sometime. I said something vague, and left her standing in the hallway. I was late for class because I stopped at my new dorm room and masturbated frantically. A Bad Girl Ch. 01 My new roommate was Veronica Shore, a snotty classic beauty who dated only frat boys. She was on the fast track to wife-and-mother-hood, and eventually dropped out, possibly pregnant, a year before graduating. I moved out that year, and lived off-campus in a grotty little apartment over a Chinese restaurant until I graduated. Occasionally, I’d see Tennisball Turner, my ex-slave, in the halls or at meetings. She tried to contact me at home a few times, but was clearly hurt that I didn’t respond. I started seeing Mark Uppmann, and got engaged to him. The night before graduation, a group of us from the teaching program went out on the town. There were only three boys going into teaching from our year, so it was very much a “girl’s night out”. I brought Mark, and was astounded when Tennisball turned up as a guest of one of the other boys (I suppose they were men, but I always thought of them as boys). After a number of drinks, I arose from my place near the head of the table to go to the powder room. Tennie, who had carefully sat at the other end, rose unsteadily as well. Our eyes met, and my nipples crinkled up into little hard points. I couldn’t sit down, so I left the table and tried to race for the toilets without looking as though I was running. I had a head start, but Jacquie burst in before I could lock the door. Panting a little, she reached behind her as it swung closed and locked it. “Hang on,” she said, gasping, holding up a hand “You’ve been running away from me for nearly a fucking year. I’ve given up trying to catch you—I just wanted to tell you something.” “What?” I asked, secretly relieved that she was giving up, but oddly . . . was it regretful? In answer, she took my head between her hands and kissed me on the mouth. Now my pussy was soaked. My hands grasped her shoulders and I tore at her sweater. Suddenly the contact was broken. “No!” Jacquie shouted “You can’t have me both ways! Either I’m yours, or I’m fucking not. I told you: I’ve given up trying to hold onto you, so don’t . . . don’t. . .” She doubled over and began to cry. Soon I was holding her, and our tears mixed as we kissed for the last time. “I love you, Mistress.” She breathed. “I know, and I have to hurt you.” I answered. She nodded her head fearfully. “I’m sorry I couldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. I deserve to be punished.” “Are you sure that’s what you want?” I asked, secretly hornier than hell. “Mistress,” she said seriously “I just want to be your slave. To serve you on my knees, and to eat your sweet juicy pussy. But if you don’t want me, I’ll go. Just let me please you, and punish my ass one last time. Then you’ll never see me again.” “Eat me, you little bitch,” I ordered “and make it good, because you’re getting whipped with my belt, no matter how good it is, but I might make it less painful if it’s fantastic.” “Mistress, there’s no way you can hurt me more.” she answered simply. She ducked her head under my short black skirt and began licking her way up my thighs. The time apart hadn’t dulled her sharp little slave tongue, and she was putting it to use as only she could. I felt her fingers move my panties aside, felt her stick a finger into my pussy as her tongue pressed itself to my ass. I came once, almost falling down. I leaned forward and over her, supporting myself on the sink as she squatted, bringing me to the peak of pleasure for a second time only a couple of minutes after the first. I suppose that I knew she was right, and that may be why I beat her so hard. By the time I finished beating her ass, there were little stripes of blood where the belt had abraded her flesh. Once I was done, I left her sobbing on the floor, her panties around one leg, her cunt soaking and red from missed strokes of the belt, her eyes red and weeping, and I walked out. There was a long line-up outside, and from the looks of it, some of them had been listening at the door. I strode angrily past those shocked faces and clear out of the restaurant. I never saw Jaqcueline “Tennisball” Turner again. The next day she wasn’t on the podium with the other graduates from her program, and I learned casually later on that she’d gone home early and received her diploma by mail. Mark and I broke up that afternoon. I gave him back his ring and gave him the usual “It’s not you. . .” speech. I suppose I meant it. But he’d obviously heard a few things on the grapevine, because he seemed almost relieved. That year I got lucky—my hometown high school needed an English/History teacher, and I knew the head of the school board. Soon I was settled in as “Miss Flock”, and began wearing a comfortable, lonely groove in the yellow linoleum of Park West Secondary School. There were a few men over those years, but none seriously. My attraction to women seemed to have dissipated. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of a blond bob, or a head of short, curly blonde hair, and something in me would kind of kick over. But I never went near another woman, and sort of stopped going for men after a while, too. I didn’t escape from my groove until six years later. You can call it fate, destiny, or luck, but I call it surprise: I was about to step on the garden rake in the long green grass of life. A Bad Girl Ch. 02 Ask any teacher what the worst day is, and surprisingly few will remember the first day of work. The rumble in their tummy as they stand before a blackboard for the very first time, alone and without a supervisor seems to fade for them. It has never faded away for me, and I recall it vividly. In my case it was even worse than average. I had come back to my hometown after graduating college; disappointing my parents who had expected me to move out and be a big success "away" somewhere. I explained that I'd come home to "give something back to the community", but it was complete balderdash. What I was really doing was burying myself in my work, trying to avoid admitting something that no-one else knew. In college I had become Mistress to a lithe blond tart named Jacqueline "Tennisball" Turner. In some way, we'd been very much in love. I'd revelled in every whipping or spanking I gave her. She gloried in the loving abuse I heaped on her. But eventually I'd convinced myself that this wasn't what I wanted. I was a "normal" woman, with normal desires. I wanted a husband and kids and. . . .And I wanted Tennie, or piggy, as I'd sometimes called her, crawling to lick a pair of black leather boots with four-inch heels that clung so tightly to my legs that my slave often had to yank them off me while I broke the suction with a shoehorn. I wanted her head bobbing vigorously between my thighs as the little electric shocks of pleasure shot from my clitoris. I wanted to hang her from the ceiling beam of my little house and beat her ass raw for breaking dishes, to set her impossible tasks and punish her for failing at them. But I wanted other things too: the touch of her breath on my neck when I let her sleep in my bed; the soft look in her eyes when she knelt at the foot of that bed with my morning coffee; the contented hum of her when all the happy violence was over, the sweat and sometimes tears dried, and she cuddled into my arms during decompression. And I wanted all of this while leading a June-Cleaver-with-a-career existence? It was too much, and I knew it. But while I sorted all this out I still had rent to pay, first to my parents, then to a landlord, and finally to a mortgage company. I found a job at a high school in town (not the Catholic school I'd attended, but a newer secular school called Park West Secondary). On the first day of classes, I was way too early. Only the school custodian was in the hall as I entered the Old Building (the one built in 1976 was the New Building) and made my way to room 108 West. The classroom was empty, and I unlocked the door but left the light off. Instead I went to the door at the back of the class. In other days it would have been a storage space. The teacher I had replaced, one Mr. Carruthers, had been in the habit of smoking a pipe quietly in there while grading papers, and the room had that lovely "gentleman's club" smell of old leather armchair, shoe polish, and pipe tobacco. It's a smell I've always associated with luxury. There was a little narrow window facing the soccer field, and long shelves of dusty textbooks along the wall with the door in. I put my necessary things into the desk and cupboards, my clipboard, a pack of marking pens, chalk (any teacher will tell you, you bring your own and hoard your supply), and my coffee mug. My coffee mug. It was a present from Tennie. She'd made it herself in some ceramics workshop course. It was well-made, a little clunky. I kept pens in it. On the side, in a slightly wavering script it read "World's greatest Mistress". Tennie loved her little jokes. I wondered where she'd gotten to. After our tearful parting in a restaurant washroom over a year ago, I'd never seen her again. Except in your dreams, fantasies, and fevered imaginings said my traitorous mind. Even now I got wet just thinking of her, and I felt a wild stab of jealousy at the momentary vision that confronted me: Tennisball Turner kneels naked at the left of a chair. Her distinctive blonde bob has been shaved, as has every inch of the rest of her, although her head has still a single long braid, almost a pigtail, rising from the top. Leather in blue and orange decorates each wrist, each ankle, and her throat. Her hands are locked together behind her in a single sleeve, almost elbow-to-elbow. She's bound by several short chains into a painful backward arc in a framework upon which two candles are mounted. The candles are positioned so that every few seconds a big drop of hot wax drips onto each of her breasts. When this happens, sharp moans escape her stretched lips and the reading light suspended on a pole, which is shoved into her mouth, jiggles. A hand slaps her wax-splattered right tit, cracking off a large chunk of cooled red wax. "Be quite still, darling," says the raven-haired Asian in the chair "Mummy's going to beat you in a minute or so, and if the light keeps moving about it'll take me longer to read this chapter," her face hardens and her nostrils flare as she looks down at the helpless slave girl over her glasses "and you wouldn't like that at all." In the tobacco-smelling little office, I checked my watch—fifteen minutes. I closed the door silently. My nipples were hard. I lifted my skirt and rubbed two fingers across my pussy, then touched them to my lips. It reminded me of being kissed by my slave just after she'd eaten me out satisfactorily; a taste like honey and jasmine, with a little hint of bitter lemon rind. I pinched one of my hard nipples through the fabric of my sweater and bra. My clit responded with a tingle. I sat back in the scuffed red leather chair and teased myself, running my finger slowly up my thigh. My mind took me back into the fantasy—only instead of the handsome Asian woman, it was me in the chair. "I don't have long, piggy, so get that tongue of yours to work." In this fantasy her blonde hair is all there, although her pussy has been trimmed to a tiny 'landing strip' of fur. She's wearing nipple clamps hung with two ounces of weight on each side. Her flesh is cruelly marked with red stripes. She displeased me yesterday, although I forget quite what it was. . . Oh but that slutty little tongue of hers! She's really getting into her work. It makes her happy and wet to please me. Not that wetness does her any good. Her cunt is freshly sealed shut, pierced and padlocked only a few weeks ago, and as for her ass—well that's currently occupied by a "triple ripple" butt plug which I've been training her to enjoy. I ease my haunches forward on the chair, presenting myself to her mouth. If her hands weren't locked tightly to her collar she'd be fingering me and I'd have cum already. As it is, her tongue flicks my ass and pussy in that rhythm that pushes me over the edge. . . Voices; Outside; Shit! I stopped flicking my clit as the fire inside me banked, then died down. The window in the office door lit up as someone flicked the switch outside. Composing myself I quickly stood up, tucking my blouse back in, smoothing my rumpled skirt, and pulling up my damp panties. Taking a deep breath I glanced in the mirror on the end of the wall shelves. Slightly flushed, but nothing out of the ordinary for a first-day teacher. I sniffed surreptitiously—I always think that my smell gives me away when I'm horny. Not having deodorant with me, I anxiously sprayed a good bit of a can of "Air-Way Smoke-Out", thoughtfully left by the previous occupant of the room for such emergencies—or maybe not, into the air and walked up and down beneath the hazy cloud. I opened the door and stepped out into room 108 to find a small group of kids slowly getting bigger as students trickled in. These were grade 10's—a particularly tough group for a new teacher. They'd seen it all, and were planning to do most of it; or egg someone else into doing it, possibly on video. Grade 10's are testing adult wings that don't quite fit yet. They're ready to fly on their own, mostly, and resent interference, but you can't quite leave them alone to figure it all out. So you have to be totally available and totally disinterested at the same time. They stared when I came into the room, and I was conscious of the sudden silence. They could tell from my clothes that I wasn't a student, but surely this chick was too. . .what? Too young, too . . . put together, for a teacher. I could almost feel the girls narrowing their eyes as I walked to the big desk up front. I was a bit nonplussed at the attention, especially from male members of the class. After all, I'd spent several hours taking care that my clothes were appropriate for a teacher. They were supposed to be stylish but plain. My heels (a personal conceit—teachers were supposed to wear flats for insurance reasons) were only two inches high. My stockings were plain and dark with a seam up the back; being old-fashioned about underwear I held them up with a garter belt. My skirt was grey and pleated, but respectably knee-length, although it had a disturbing tendency to flare outward a bit. I wore a high-necked blouse with pearl buttons, trimmed with lace at the throat and wrists, with a simple short jacket over all, and my long dark brown hair had been pinned within an inch of its life into a bun. I didn't realise until I was told, much later, how plain dressing can make a woman sexier than sheer stark nakedness. The boys in the class shifted uncomfortably in their seats as I turned around and wrote my name on the board: Miss Flock. I'd expected some whispered comments about my last name, but a girl named Althea Flock either gets used to it or changes her name to Karen Smith. But the question I got asked wasn't quite what I was expecting: "Hey," said a boy in the second row "what do we call you?" "I'm Miss Flock" I told him. He had on jeans that puddled around his ankles, a t-shirt with a big green marijuana leaf on it, and a red ball cap turned sideways. "Nah," he said "what's your first name?" I was a bit stunned, and reacted from pure instinct. "I don't have one as far as you're concerned Mister . .?" "Fisher," he said "Jerry Fisher—but everybody calls me Fish." His mouth was open, and his hair hung over his eyes beneath the brim of his cap. "I'm not everybody, so I'll call you Mister Fisher," I answered "and take off that hat, please." I think it was only surprise that made him do it. People think teachers haven't got ears. Students will talk, even while other teachers are present, and they don't seem to understand how much of what they talk about makes it back to the staff room. During my first year I gained a reputation as a fierce disciplinarian, but a parallel reputation for being fair and for working things through. I didn't hesitate to give detentions, which surprised and appalled a lot of parents and brought me into a lot of conflict both with them and with the school administration. But I stood my ground, sacrificed my time, and gradually the parents came to know me as the teacher who could get the best work out of their kids. Almost all their kids. For my part, I settled into school life like I'd been born to it, and for five years I taught high school English and History. I was satisfied and doing useful work. Eventually I got used to the loneliness too. It wasn't that I didn't get offers. In the first couple of years every straight male teacher (and one I wasn't certain about) and a couple of the gay female ones made me offers. I always felt awkward turning them down. My fling with Tennisball and the discomfort of sharing classes with her after it all came apart (after I broke it apart), or of seeing her around and the misery it brought on, were still pretty fresh to me. I cautiously accepted a few invitations, had second dates with a few men; turned down all the women. It wasn't that I was "denying my gay self" or something. I just didn't feel anything for them. It was that "plain toast, no jam" feeling. Not that I got anything much from dating the few men I spent time with. I took a couple of them home; actually saw one man for several months. We had sex, and it was terrific overall, but eventually the whole relationship came down to sex. There wasn't anything else. So I thanked him and said goodbye. It wasn't quite that simple—I wound up sleeping with him occasionally for nearly a year before I decided it was doing me more harm than good. Once again I said goodbye, and once again he was nice about it. We talked by phone occasionally, but I wasn't very encouraging, and eventually the phone went silent too. I spent a lot of time working out or reading, and slowly got used to being alone. Then something happened that made my tiny flickering flame roar up and consume me. At the beginning of the fifth year I worked at the school, I arrived early, masturbated quickly (it had become something of a habit), and walked into the classroom from my little office, which smelt less like smoke and more like sandalwood nowadays. The new students, a grade 12 History class, were grouped around the room in the usual dribs and drabs. I'd had some of them in prior years. Clearly they'd told their friends about me, because as soon as I arrived there was a bit of a scramble to take seats. I felt the eyes crawling up my legs to my ass, then to my back as I strolled up the row, heels clicking. I deliberately put a slow wiggle in my walk—it would be useless for me to pretend any longer that I didn't enjoy the looks I always got on the first day. At the front of the room, I wrote my name on the board and turned to face them. "Good morning," I began "I'm Miss Flock. It seems like you already know my general rules. I expect you to behave professionally towards me, just as I will towards you. I'm going to get your names from you now." The front row consisted of Jeff McWhirter, a skinny boy in a ratty t-shirt and glasses. I noted the shirt and made a mental check to remind him of the both the school's dress code and my class dress code, which was somewhat stricter. Next to Jeff was Linda Long, who vaguely reminded me of a spaniel puppy. Beside her was Calvin Chung, a thin Chinese boy I guessed was both bright and gay, as was the long scarf he wore. The fourth seat was vacant. Like most teachers and preachers, I hate vacant seats at the front. I looked over the room of blonde and brunette heads to the very back. I caught a glimpse of swirling black hair with a single blue streak, pale bare shoulders, and the distinctive "T" of a g-string visible above the waistband of a pair of "Sho-T" brand jeans (the hot brand for teen no-longer-wannabe-virgins that year). The owner was seated, leaning into the aisle as she rummaged in an oversized canvas book bag. "Excuse me," I said, pointing "Yes, you. What's your name please?" There was a mumble. "I beg your pardon?" I said. "Sue." "Sue who?" I heard a solitary giggle from somewhere. The girl I'd addressed stood up, hips cocked and head tilted in that gesture that makes teenage girls look like 40-year-old hookers. Her g-string arced over her pretty hips under a half-shirt with no bra that I could see. And I was looking. God was I looking! Have you ever heard the expression "wide-on"? It's the female equivalent of a rampaging hard-on. But that was what I was experiencing. Deep in my mind something said Oh-oh. But my little lizard brain was raving Bite her! Catch her! Eat her up! FUCK her! My nipples were hard under my jacket, and I think anyone three feet away could have smelt my arousal. "Sue" was what my mother would have called gammon: short and slim with wavy black hair that hid her face. Later on in the term, when I actually got to see her face, it was pixie-like, freckled and mischievous, and never far from a predatory grin. At the moment she stood with an old, old "fuck you" expression behind that hair. Her eyes sparkled with a happy malevolence. "I'd like you to move up to the front desk, Miss. . ." I groped. She didn't rescue me. In my flustered embarrassment I glanced at the class list before me. It swam into focus, and after what seemed like an eternity but took only a few long seconds (which is plenty long enough if a class thinks you've lost the upper hand) I spotted the name "Castle, Susan". ". . . Castle." I almost gasped. My eyes were swimming, and the blood pounded in my veins. I fought hard for control. I was a professional, damn it! In an effort to regain a measure of self-discipline I looked at her visible panties. "Are you aware of the school dress code, Miss Castle?" Another mumble; more-or-less affirmative. "Speak up please." Another mumble. "I still," I said through gritted teeth "Can't hear you. Shall we try once more for comprehensibility?" "I said yeah!" she nearly shouted "I know the stupid dress code!" "Susan," I said after the shocked pause which followed "I'd like you to take this seat here," I pointed to the fourth seat in the front row "And I'll see you this evening in detention." Her mouth, still largely hidden by hair, dropped open. "What'd I DO?" "You just said you knew the school dress code. Four B's, right? No bellies, no boobs, no backs, no bums. Do I need to explain that you've violated at least three of those?" There was scattered laughter. Susan stared at me with murder in her eyes. Then she flounced dramatically from the back of the room to the front. On the way she made very sure to brush past me closely, sure that I'd step away. But it wasn't the first time a student had tried to physically intimidate me, and I stood firm. Our hands brushed together. Just the briefest of touches; But she looked at me, into my eyes, and in that fraction of a second I felt an electricity pass through me. Oh no, Althea. I told myself sternly, this is poison—the worst and nastiest kind. As abruptly as it came on, the shock receded, and Sue Castle, whom I began to address as Ms. Castle from that day on, flopped into the vacant desk. I regained my composure, and finished calling the roll. Over the first weeks of that year, Susan earned a number of detentions from me for violating the "4-B" dress code. Finally she settled into what became her uniform: Stirrup pants and an oversized sweater á la Marilyn Monroe—a look I thought was outdated, but which somehow made her even more of a sex-pot than her friends who were trying unsuccessfully to emulate teenage pop stars (while still covering the school minimum of flesh). Susan had definitely begun discovering the benefits of being female in a crowd of hormone-crazed teen boys. She got respect from the jocks because she stood up to them, but hung out with the nerds, possibly making her the most popular girl in school. But her marks were atrocious, her conduct disrespectful, and she had serious discipline problems. II wasn't sure she was entirely unaware of the effect she had on me, either. When I told her to wait after class was dismissed she would deliberately stand too close to me, making me feel flustered and hot. And horny. I was continually surprised and somehow angry at that. But damn it!—she was seventeen. Three years over the age of consent but nine years younger than me. And, I thought, she couldn't possibly have any idea of the sort of things that crept into my head when she looked at me so insolently in class: Susan Castle is standing outside my office door. She is wearing a thin, long cotton T-shirt and nothing else, as she has been instructed. Inside the office, I am waiting and wet. I slip the dildo into its harness, and then slide the free end into my pussy with a grunt. I tighten the buckles on the straps which cup my ass and hips. I always love the look of the dildo thrusting up from my crotch. Do men feel like this, I wonder? Apart from the dildo and its harness I am wearing a pair of stockings, a bustier, and opera-length gloves. The room has been prepared. Several candles flicker on the shelves, making my rubber cock cast shadows that would give old Sister Chang from high school nightmares. Hanging from assorted hooks along the wall behind my desk are some toys: A thick strap called a strapple, a piece of bamboo cane, a shiny pair of clamps (nipple or labia—oh no, the clothespins for naughty pussy lips are over there). Satisfied with the arrangements, I call out: "Enter". I cross my arms and stand facing the door with my feet apart. The door swings open of its own accord. Susan enters with an old-fashioned candlestick. Her eyes are big, dark and a little fearful, riveted to the jutting phallus between my thighs. I melt inside, wanting to hold her to me and tell her its all going to be alright, that I'd never really hurt her. But I can't—she needs to know that I am the one in control. Ordered to place the candlestick on the desk, Susan attempts to straighten up. But I have a gloved hand firmly in her hair. I push firmly downward. "You will enter this room only on your knees from now on, slave." Obediently she kneels. I slap her face. "You will answer me with your little mouth," such a tight little rosebud of a mouth—I want to kiss it. I want to pinch her lips with clothespins, I want to bite them "and what I will hear from that dirty little mouth will be 'Yes Mistress'. Have you quite got that?" She almost nods for a minute. But eventually says: "Y-yes Mistress." There's no foreplay. "I'm going to fuck all your holes, right now, just to prove I can; to prove that you're my property. Won't that be nice?" "Yes M—Mmmmph!" as I drive the dildo between her lips. She resists for a moment, and I take a short sash cord from the desk and whip her vigorously. After about ten stripes have blossomed on her back and ass, to the accompaniment of shocked squeals, I feel the dildo fully inserted in her mouth. She's looking up at me from my crotch, inquiringly. I fuck her mouth for a few strokes, then pull out. At my command she turns and presents her behind to me. I order her to put her head to the floor, tossing a textbook down so that she won't risk wood burn. She almost wiggles in pleasure as I drive the first inch of the dildo into her cunt. But I stop almost as soon as I've begun, and she whimpers as I withdraw. "You cum without permission, slut, and I'll whip you sixty times with the cane." I hiss at her. An empty threat. She's never been caned before, and her tender ass would bleed before I gave the tenth stroke. But she doesn't know that. She also doesn't know that I don't know her anywhere near well enough to stop her from cumming if she started. But I rely on her honesty. I grab her ass firmly and spread her cheeks. Her puckered little asshole is porn-star clean, as I specified. Fingering a large dollop of lubricant into her hole, I begin intruding with the dildo. Her whimpering becomes moaning, then crying out. "If you want this to stop, all you need to do is use your safe word, slave." She knows—but I have to be sure. As I seat the dildo inside her to the hilt, I feel the tension relax inside her as she opens up and admits her Mistress. I glory in the trust and triumph, and as the dildo slips in and out of both of us, I smack her ass triumphantly and start to cum. . . . See what I mean? What seventeen-year-old could possibly share that dream? A Bad Girl Ch. 02 Susan settled into her seat, and for the entire term she never once raised her hand. If I called on her she'd either ignore me, looking out the window, or else she'd stare at me blankly. There wasn't much I could do beyond give her another detention. After her first report card, neither of her parents came to parent-teacher night. Since she was in great danger of failing, I took it upon myself to call her listed phone number. Receiving no reply, I attempted to contact her parents at work. At her father's workplace number I was told that Mr. Castle was away at the moment and probably wouldn't be back for several weeks. Her mother's listed employer—the construction firm of Stonewall and Mason—told me that Mrs. Castle no longer worked for them. Intrigued, I pulled her file card at the office—technically a no-no but easily done if one knew the file clerk. There were two listed addresses. The first was in a gated community at the top of the hill forty-five minutes from town. The security guard took my name and number, and then explained that he couldn't let me in, as Mrs. Castle hadn't left my name with him, but I could wait with him if I chose. Meantime, his eyes travelled hungrily up my legs to my neckline, but never got as high as my chin. I tried to give him a withering look, but I think he just thought I was squinting to read his badge number. The second address was on what would normally be called the wrong side of town. It was a once-pretty single-storey wooden house, with a battered picket fence. Weeds and rusty swings languished in the backyard, complimented by more weeds and litter in the front. I would have thought it was an abandoned house except for the man coming out. He wore a faded blue robe, and had a faded handsomeness himself. His feet were bare. He limped and had a thin black cigarette in his mouth and a clinking bag in his hand. He raised his head and no doubt caught me staring from my car, because he waved sardonically, then flipped me the bird. He dumped several bottles into the trash can at the side of the house, and went back in. I heard yelling. I had put the car in gear when a dark mop of hair poked out the door, there was more yelling, and then the door of the house flew open, and Sue crossed the weedy yard at a run. I hammered the gas to the floor, and peeled out. It was guilt, of course. I had a semi-legitimate reason to be there, but at the same time, something told me that I didn't want to be caught lurking around a student's home. But as I drove off, I looked in the rear view mirror. The figure standing on the sidewalk was just a silhouette in the late afternoon sun, its fists balled by its side. But that silhouette looked defeated, angry, hurt and unhappy. And I'm a teacher first. I put on the brakes and reversed toward her. Sue slouched to the driver's side, head down, not meeting my gaze. "He's inside." I was flustered for a moment. "Who's inside, Miss Castle?" "My Dad. That's why you're here, isn't it?" Wasn't it? I suddenly wasn't sure I wanted to talk to Mr. Castle. Moreover, I wasn't sure he'd care, that he'd understand the importance of what I needed to tell him—that the years between his daughter's age and mine were important ones, and that those years could make a difference between his daughter being successful and happy, or . . . or not. But it wasn't her father, or her mother I really needed to talk to. I'd had conversations before with other students, even with Sue—although not with any results that I could see. Perhaps it was worth one last try. Even now I wonder whether I might have already been seeing the little signs of how my life and Sue's were to change. "Get in." I said, swinging open my passenger door. Susan climbed in without asking where we were going. It crossed my mind that I could have been a kidnapper; a rapist; anyone, and she'd still climbed in. Then I almost laughed—goody-two-shoes Miss Flock, with her grey woollen skirts and her plain blouse and glasses—a rapist, and a lesbian rapist at that! But my oh my—did I ever want to be! Here ends this chapter of the Chronicle of Althea Flock. Part III will follow in about thirty days. See you then, Dear Reader. A Bad Girl Ch. 03 Hello again Dear Reader. My apologies. I told you this piece of the story would be available months ago. Unfortunately real life intervened. Fantasy is a much more pleasant way to spend our time, don't you think? For those of you who would like to fill in the rest of the story, please read "A Bad Girl" Chapters 1 & 2. Briefly, Miss Althea Flock, schoolteacher, has already experienced her female dominant side. Upon leaving college she swore off such things. Lately, though, she has found herself dreaming more and more of one particular student. Overstepping her bounds only slightly, she has paid a visit to the girl's home, and now Susan Castle sits in the passenger seat of Miss Flock's car. "Susan," I said "we're going to go have a cup of coffee." She grunted. I looked over at her: Stirrup pants, bare feet, a sweater, and hair like a wet mop. That's my girl, I thought to myself. Did she know how pretty she was, I wondered? "Don't grunt." I said, "It just makes you sound like a pig." Now she consciously snorted like a pig. I was partly angry, but found myself hiding a loud laugh with a smile. "Enough!" I said, after I regained my composure—but I couldn't quite keep the amusement out of my voice "And do up your seat belt." "Okay," she replied, suddenly quiet and pensive. She stayed that way until we reached Barilko's, a doughnut-and-coffee place by the highway. As she hopped out of the car, I noticed that her toes, usually hidden by heavy Doc Martens, were bare, and that the nails were painted pink. This display of gaudy plumage on a bird that was deliberately hidden and drab struck me as a positive sign. Inside I bought two cups of coffee. Sue couldn't decide whether to have a cruller or a cherry stick. "Can I get both?" She asked with a slight plead in her voice. "No," I said "you have to choose." "Please" she appealed, now in full pout mode. "No. Don't ask me again." I said firmly. I had to be firm; she was annoyingly cute when she was sucking up. I was sure scores of boys would have melted on the spot, and that most people would have given her what she wanted. But I'm a teacher first. She stopped her whining almost immediately, and I saw a strange combination of wariness and fascination came into her eyes. "So what are we doing here?" She asked as we made our way to a table. "Should I talk to your parents instead?" "Do what you want." She shrugged, but there was a tone there that I didn't recognize, edgy and cautious. "I want to straighten things out with you—not your mother, and not your father." "Wouldn't work anyway. She's got her own shit goin' on, and he doesn't care." Sue had wedged herself into a corner, facing at ninety degrees from me. I stared at her across the table, and when I thought I had almost made eye contact, as much as she'd allow anyway, I spoke: "First, let's get something straight. I'm Miss Flock, or Miss F. since we're being informal. Because I know you, I'm prepared to call you Sue, or do you prefer Susan?" Shrug. "Very well then Sue . . ." "I'd prefer Susan," She wasn't looking at me, not directly. But her eyes kept cutting back to me "I like the way you say 'Susan'". I think that was when I first felt it. A funny feeling tingled in my belly, and when I caught her eye I spotted something like a ghost of a smile gracing the corners of her typically sullen young mouth. Somewhere beyond my conscious mind part of me knew what she was, and what she wanted. We were here because of choices, choices that she had to make and that I couldn't--would not--allow myself to make for her. I squashed the feeling out of my mind. But it caught me by the throat, and when I spoke again, my voice was husky and quivering. "Susan,"—a little frisson, an unbidden thrill—"The first thing we need to establish is that this is an official meeting. Don't swear at me again," her face fell and her lower lip pooched out "I wanted to talk to you about your performance at school." "What about it?" The sullen little girl was back "I do my homework." "Not true—you don't do it often, and what you do is far inferior to what you're capable of." "If I'm passing, why are you bustin' my chops?" "Because if you keep going the way you are, you won't pass. And personally I don't want either of us to go through another year like this one. I realize this is a busy time for you. I'm sure a lot of things are changing and that some of them are confusing, but the things you do this year are going to either set you up or screw you up—for life." "Oh yeah—and history was soooo important to my plans." She rolled her eyes at me, maddeningly. She ran her tongue around her lips, and then puckered them with an audible 'pop'. "Is it true you went to Catholic school?" The question caught me off guard. "Why yes, yes I did. Why?" "Did the nuns beat you and stuff?" "What do you mean?" "Like, instead of bo-o-o- ring detention, would they, like, lay into your ass with a ruler?" I was angry now. "It's none of your business, but yes... She leaned forward, and her eyes gleamed. "Did they like, spank you bare-tail with a ruler?" "I was caned on the hand," I said icily "Once. For insolence." She sat back, her body language clearly saying 'well that's no fun'. I was angry, but as I fought for control of the conversation I realised three things: I was imagining Sue —Susan — bent over my knee, her stirrup pants down to her ankles. And that my nipples were hard. And that Susan could see my hard nipples—was looking straight at them, in fact. I felt my face flush red. "That doesn't matter. We're here to discuss your future — not my past." "Yeah, yeah." "You can be insolent and fail," I stood up "or you can shut up, listen, and perhaps pass, which will allow you to graduate. Seeing as you seem to be fonder of option 'A' I'll see you in class." "Don't go..." Almost a whisper. But suddenly I found her hand gripping mine "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to be...to be a bitch." Unable to look at her I sat down again. I could hear the tears in her voice. "I'm sorry, Mizz F. I just get these moods, y'know?" "No," I answered "I don't. Tell me about them." "Oh it's just, I dunno," Once again she looked at me from under her fringe of hair "did you ever really like someone, maybe really like another person. But maybe that person didn't know you like them. . ." Her voice trailed off. There was a lump in my throat. We were skirting some of the most dangerous territory a teacher could ever cross. Part of me wanted to hear her confession, but to go that way could only bring trouble. Besides, I wasn't sure how I felt myself—my nipples weren't hard anymore, but I was pretty sure I was wet. And first and foremost, I was a teacher. I feigned ignorance: "Oh Susan—is it boy trouble?" Her disappointment was palpable. "Kinda like that." she admitted. "You're not pregnant or something, are you?" "Oh no Mizz F." she said in a shocked voice "—I'm a virgin!" It was so unexpected. An anonymous sex survey taken at the school had revealed two things: First, almost the entire student population were having sex at least twice a week; and second, 98% percent of teenagers indicated that they were "likely to lie about their level of sexual activity on anonymous questionnaires". But still, I'd had a distinct impression that Susan knew more about sex than many of her classmates, and I found myself wondering why I'd thought that. The smile must have come through in my face. Susan said defensively: "Well I've, y'know, gone there with boys, but I just never wanted one enough to....y'know." "I know, Susan," at the sound of her name in my mouth she wiggled like a puppy, the moment was defused—and I found myself regretting it. I tabled it for later, private study--I'd remember the uncomfortable look in her eyes the next time I masturbated. The rest of the conversation was mostly me lecturing Susan. But I thought we'd had a breakthrough—it had taken a little extra communication and effort, but it had been worth it. We arranged that she would complete her final history project in stages, reporting to me each week how things were going, then she would hand it in before the final exam. If she did sufficiently well, she wouldn't need the final exam, but if she managed to get less than fifty percent on the project (unlikely if she applied herself), she wouldn't need to take the exam, since she couldn't possibly pass without the project. More importantly, somehow I was able to compartmentalize what I felt about Susan, the woman, from what I had to feel for Susan, the student. In class, I was almost able to forget the dire need to possess, to own her. At first, she showed me her work early—before Friday's class, usually. Then it was after class, and sometimes I'd see her scribbling to finish it before showing me that week's progress. Then it was the end of the day, and by stages, she stopped getting me to check her work. I waited until the second week with no report before I confronted her. "Susan," I said as she tried to flee through a crowded doorway one Friday "come here and sit down, please." I pointed to the student desk immediately before my own. Whoever designed those desks knew a thing or two about positions of power. Whoever sat in that student desk would be several inches below my eye-line, looking up to me. Sue crept back reluctantly, hugging her books to her chest. "About that project thing . . ." she said. But I was too taken aback by what was drawn on her binder cover, which she'd set facedown on the desk before her, to pay full attention. It was a heart-shaped design, made of a braided design that looked like woven cord or a braided rope. Inside the heart-shaped loop was drawn a circle with a three-pointed design inside it. Inside that symbol were initials: s.s.c. ♥ M.A.F. My first name is Althea, but I didn't think any of the students knew it. My blood pounded in my head, and my vision swam a little. Again my nipples hardened, and again I found myself warm and flowing. My tongue poked out and touched my lip for a minute—and I realised that she was watching me carefully when her tongue flickered for a moment on the little bump at the centre of her upper lip. Our eyes met. Don't be ridiculous, Althea I told myself "M" probably stands for "Mark", or "Michael". I mean, what else could it be? I made a mental note to see whether Susan had a middle name. "s.s.c."--hmmm. "What . . ." my voice trailed off as I realised that I was staring at her binder, horrified that my question would have been what does that stand for? I'm not stupid, but I was wondering about those extra initials. My curiosity fought for its life, but I succeeded in drowning it. "What have you been doing this past two weeks?" I asked seriously, resisting an unexplainable urge to hug her and cuddle her—to tell her everything would be all right. "I got it finished. . ." she said, as though trying out the phrase. My heart leapt—she'd turned it around. She would graduate! Instantly I felt a deep pang of regret. But she continued: "But I don't have it here. I'll e -- mail it to you." That night I checked my e-mail anxiously, looking for a message from a student with an attachment. I have several accounts, but I only use one for student business. In my non-school home mailbox, with the day's usual detritus, was an e-mail from an individual whose name I didn't recognize. It was from lilslut at a German yahoo address. Since I keep my e-mail addresses pretty private, I wondered who it could be—was it something from a porn site? I would normally delete this sort of unsolicited mail, but there was no attachment, so I opened it: "Whn y're sitng at yer desk, I think abt wht you could do to me—I want 2 b in yr chains, I want 2 b yr dildo puppet, yr fuckslt, yr slave. mak me do evythng drty 4 u, mke me suck yr cunt, kiss yr feet, eat yr ass. . ." It went on for a full page. But there wasn't a single identifying detail. Clearly the culprit either worked with me or was a current or former student—unless it was the janitor, I thought. But teachers get e -- mails from students all the time, often threatening. So into the trash bin it went...then I fished it out again. It couldn't be from Sue, I knew that. She didn't know I even had this e-mail address. But when I read it, I found myself imagining her. She's standing at my desk, her clothes in a pile at her feet. She's looking at me with something like worship in her eyes. Gently, and with emphasis, I flick the tails of the whip. She bends obediently, hands seizing her knees as she exposes her tight ass and her virgin cunt. One end of the dildo goes into my pussy, then on goes the harness. I step closer, reddening her ass with quick cuts of the whip. Then I'm behind her, guiding the rubber cock into her. . . I sighed inwardly. It was time to admit something to myself. If I didn't confront this, I was going to go nuts: I was lusting after a student. And a female student at that!—I was totally hetero . . . Had been, anyway. Besides: a female student younger than myself by ten years! What the hell was I thinking? How much more wrong could it be. Oh, but it was nice to think about, though: She kneels beside my chair, bound into a painful backward curve, her muscles trembling at the effort. Her mouth is plugged with a thick blue candle. The clothespins on her nipples cast jumping shadows, in her ass is a thick, tapered vibrating butt plug, and in her pussy a pair of polished stone eggs. The chains they're attached to puddle beneath her on the floor. "Hold that candle steady," I order "If you keep shifting it around it'll take longer for me to finish this book," my eyes travel over her firm, tight b -- cup tits "and if that happens you can look forward to sleeping in your. . ." "...cage." I breathed aloud. Bitch! What was wrong with me? I'd never had the faintest lesbian impulses before and no kinky ones either. Why did I suddenly find myself wanting to enslave this particular girl? She had little tits with pink nipples, remember?—You called her your little sow. Shock ran through me as I remembered: Tennisball Turner. My lover and slave for over a year of college. My heart ached as I remembered her unswerving devotion, her eagerness to be punished, the piggy grunting noises she made at my command as I pulled and bit at her nipples . . . just like Sue had made in the car. Oh, yes—Susan reminded me of something alright! I wrestled with myself and my conscience for most of the night. Even after I went to bed I tossed and turned, alternating between duty, valour, and love. Finally I got out of bed. Sue reminded me of her Tennisball Turner. They were different--Sue was all dark, where "Tennie" had been blonde. Yet both had that slight "go-to-hell" flash in their eyes; was that why I, a teacher, was dreaming of fucking a student? I had been given a dildo as a joke gift from Tennie—a private gift, marked with the letters "S & M Inc". A name we sometimes used for ourselves in private. She, the slave, was the "s", and I was. . . The initials on Susan's book came back to me: s.s.c.—slave susan castle? M.A.F.—"Mistress" Althea Flock? My nipples crinkled up so hard they hurt! The dildo was double -- ended, designed for a leather harness that slept at the bottom of my drawer. For the first time in years, I pulled it out and fastened it around my waist. I was already wet, and the dildo filled me up nicely. Then I tried to fasten the harness. After a few attempts I realised that the harness wouldn't button because the alignment of the rubber cock was wrong—I had put myself on the receiving end. I pulled the dildo back out, and in a moment of mischief I licked it slowly. The taste of my juices turned me fully on. I inserted the other end of the dildo. With the cock jutting from my crotch at a steep angle, I got the harness fastened. "Get in here, slut!" Mistress F. declared in my head. Naked but for her collar and cuffs, the nameless slut appears at the door. She kneels, as she has been taught to do. When her nose touches the carpet, red stripes are visible across her back and buttocks. The teaching of slaves, as Mistress has often explained, is primarily achieved through negative reinforcement. "Look at this," Mistress says loudly "You were supposed to clean in here." "But Mis -- s -- s -- " The slave bites her tongue, but too late. "Are you daring to talk back to me you little bitch? Kneel up—look at me. Open." The submissive's lips are forced wide by the dildo which Mistress pushes between her teeth. Responding properly, she raises her unbound hands to caress the older woman's ass as she gives a slow blowjob to the firm rubber that she hopes Mistress will open her with tonight. For Sue Castle, slave, is still a virgin. Her pussy, although it's been eaten and whipped, shaved and beaten, has never been opened by a cock or anything else. A tiny gold padlock holds her pierced labia firmly shut. But the slave wants it, wants to offer her virginity to the Mistress. More than anything else. But she knows better than to beg for anything. She is well-trained to Mistress' pleasure. Her ass, on the other hand, is well-opened. Since her confinement here in the house she has been stretched gradually, and can now take a fist (albeit only Mistress' small one) in her bottom. The slave is disappointed when her hands are taken, cuffed, and chained above her. She is winched upward, as the chain above her disappears into the ceiling, until she is standing on her very tip-toes. Mistress places a tight roll of leather between her slut's teeth. "It's likely to be rough tonight." She says gently, softly "scream if you need to." So saying, she positions her "cock" at the entrance to the slave's tight asshole. She explores it with a finger for a moment, thoroughly lubricating the warm silicone flesh with the other hand. Then she penetrates her slave at a slow but steady pace. The slave, gasping and moaning behind the gag, is smoothly stuffed with the rubber dick. Without allowing her to acclimate to her impalement, Mistress F. begins to rock slowly back and forth, feeling the stirring in her own pussy as the other end of the dildo moves slightly with each thrust. After interminable moments, the slave feels her Mistress' orgasm begin to build. The slut flexes her ass-cheeks, deliberately holding the dildo tighter so that it pulls further from Mistress' pussy. The slave might cum this way if Mistress fucked her long enough, but in her ear the slave hears Mistress moaning deeply, sighing the harsh endearments she, the slave, longs for. "You fucking little. . . bitch—once I fuck you. . . you'll lick every inch of this dildo, hrahh!. . . clean. And tomorrow you'll clean this room again. . . When I come. . .home, I'm gonna beat you before I even look. . . uh, to see if you've done it. I'm gonna cum any second, and once I get out of this harness and release you, I'm. . . going to. . . whip you. . .Would you like that, bitch?" The slave, caught close to her own orgasm, can only mew behind her gag. In the real world, my hips bucked as I imagined Sue's perky tits and ass turning red under my whips and in my chains (who was I kidding—I didn't have any chains!). The tiny muscles in my belly began to spasm, and I came furiously, tugging at the dildo in its harness. I slept soundly after that. The next day was a Saturday, and I checked my e-mail for Sue's project. Wonder of wonders—there it was, with a note: Dear Miss F. Please forgive this being late. No explanation. I felt a snap of impatience with the girl. But then I opened the project. It was good—well-written and well-argued. The vocabulary was a bit high-flung, but that's a technique students often use to make an essay sound scholarly. A Bad Girl Ch. 03 I don't know quite what it was that aroused my suspicion. Maybe it was just too good. Perhaps it was the feeling that teachers get when a student has cribbed too much of a book they've researched from. That feeling that the student simply isn't present in the argument. Not only that, but there was a familiarity to it. As read it I found myself repeating snatches of the text before they scrolled into view. My stomach went cold. As with many other schools, mine subscribed to an anti-plagiarism service. I logged in, and uploaded Susan's essay. The machine took a few seconds, but it came back with a clear indication: The paper contained large sections, plagiarized with only a few introduced variations, from a paper stored online at a famous cheat site. Worse yet—I recognised it. It was my own paper, written during my first year of college and long forgotten, even by me. How it had wound up online I'll never know. I wrote to the site's owners, demanding that they withdraw the paper from the site or face legal action. Then I wondered: What to do about Sue? Common school discipline would have called for her suspension for at least ten days, but in Sue's case, as she'd been in so much trouble before, she might get expelled. That would leave her to the tender mercies of Mountainview Remedial, a school that sent out more pregnancies than graduates. Besides, I'd never get to see her again. I tried not to think that, but my hand was already moving for the phone. There were two weeks until Christmas break, then, if she passed History I, she'd be out of my class into History II. She had to have a project in. If she got a "B" or higher on the project, I'd pass her. If not, I'd fail her, but I'd make damn sure she retook my course in someone else's class. I couldn't work objectively while I was staring at her, slumped in the back row, and dreaming of taking her firmly by the hair and raping her ass with a dildo. I called her house and left a message. I was taking a chance, and I knew it. My pussy gushed wetly as I prepared for what was to come. A Bad Girl Ch. 04 Dear Reader: This is the next-to-last instalment of the "Bad Girl" series. This was supposed to be the last, but I wanted it to have a happy ending for all involved. So due to the necessary lengthening, I have broken the Final Chapter into two. Here is the first. My thanks to all of you for your comments, reminders, and occasional "Hey—you fucked up" memos. The next day, a Sunday, was spent in a frenzy of preparation. I made several trips to the school. Things were coming to a head, and I could find neither a way, nor the will, to stop them. Much of my time was spent in a fog, doing things automatically while tantalizing images of the girl with whom I'd become so enamoured flitted across my mind in ever-more graphic detail. By seven o'clock, with the clear winter evening closing in, I was too aroused to think straight. I took ten minutes and masturbated furiously to relieve some of the tension. Such was the state of my arousal that the first tickling of my finger around my dark, trimmed pussy made me wet. I flicked my clitoris hard with a finger and felt the approach of an orgasm in my belly. Pausing, I slipped my hand between my legs, inside of my plain, flowered panties, tracing out my cuntlips and pivoting my hips as the sensations flooded me. I lay back on my bed, placed the soles of my feet together and stretched my pussy wide with my first and third fingers, slowly slipping the second up and down in slow lazy strokes. Behind my closed eyelids my submissive college roommate, Tennisball Turner, did a dance at my command for hundreds of appreciative watchers and then, bending over the edge of the raised dais on which she danced, offered them her ass for punishment and their satisfaction as she stared deep into my eyes . . . while my pet slut Susan knelt in chains between my legs, licking me. The flash of lightning woke me from the near-sleep trance I was in as I climaxed wonderfully. But in spite of having blown my cork, I was still furious, and horny. And worst of all I couldn't do anything about it. Tennisball was a bittersweet memory, and although Susan was all too live, I was her teacher. She was off limits. And yet . . . I had invested considerable effort in my efforts to find an exemption or a loophole in the school rules, and in preparing for this Sunday evening I had turned up one fascinating fact about the regulations governing teacher-student relations. But, I wondered to myself, was one fact enough? I remained tense, and in the car on the way to school I grew angrier: Who the hell did Susan Castle think I was? Not just plagiarising from another student but from me, her teacher! Well I was going to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all! And I couldn't get the image of her soft, wet lips and big, liquid eyes out of my mind. The school was almost dark when I arrived. My headlights' splash picked her out, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette beneath the yellow sodium light, near the school doors, which gave the parking lot what passed for illumination. Pulling into the space beside Susan I cut the engine with a vicious twist of the key and sat there for a moment, getting my temper under control. Susan's hair had undergone another of its frequent colour changes—tonight it was blonde, with her single streak of blue now dyed black. I felt an odd shock of recognition that I couldn't quite place. She wore a white man's shirt and a green-and-white school grad jacket over black stirrup pants and flat black shoes. Through the open jacket the shirt was soaked from an earlier rain and her nipples were hard, outlined behind a black bra in cotton now made almost transparent. But she didn't seem to notice, and I frantically pretended not to, although as she approached the car window and leaned in only a blind man could have missed the display. "I'm here," she announced listlessly "I got your message. Whaddaya want?" The tone of her voice made clear that she knew I'd found out about her plagiarism. I got out of the car, the opening door forcing her to back up against the wall. I leaned in close, plucking the cigarette from her lips and throwing it to the ground. "Put that out," I told her strictly, pointing to the butt as I climbed the stairs, my long raincoat sweeping behind me, and keyed the main door open "and come with me." She hesitated, then squashed the smouldering ember with the toe of her shoe. She followed, trailing me at a distance. I didn't dare look around—I had to assume she'd obey. Using my key to open the great double doors of the school, I experienced the brief feeling of a spider inviting prey into her web. Inside I led the way to my cramped little office at the rear of the history classroom with its atmosphere of chalk dust and jasmine, where I had earlier set a few things up for this evening. Susan paused at the doorway of the class, like a deer catching the hunter's scent. She seemed to realise that once she crossed the threshold, she was in my territory. I knew it too. And I also knew that that was why I must not touch her under any circumstances. Of course she couldn't guess exactly what was in my mind. "Is this, y'know, official?" she asked. "Let's just say this may be your last chance to avoid things becoming official, shall we?" I replied "Wait here, Susan. In three minutes, knock, and wait for permission to enter." I turned on my heel and went into my office, closing the door. Inside I gulped air as my chest constricted. This was so difficult! When I read things like The Story of O, and the famous Beauty books, I'd never dreamed about how hard the dominants in those stories had to work to treat their precious slaves the way they needed to be treated. How often had Sir Stephen resisted the urge to plunder O in order to work on her the painful treatments she both dreaded and needed? How many times had he softened to her cries, relented as she screamed into her gag, longed to gather her in his arms and love her tenderly? Perhaps he hadn't—maybe it was easy for him. But my pussy was on fire and all I wanted was to fling open the office door and kiss Susan deeply and lovingly. And yet . . .I still wanted her to obey my firm commands, to respond to my wishes like a well-trained bitch, and to punish her for failing in that duty. At the same time, I must not fail in my duty toward her, both as her teacher and as . . . whatever she needed me to be to her. As I struggled for control of myself, the knock came, timidly, at the door. It was showtime. I slipped out of my raincoat and hung it on my hatstand. "Enter" I almost-barked. When she entered, I was leaning against the desk, facing away from her. Instead of my customary wool skirt and jacket I wore a bright red dress with sleeves, but which left my shoulders bare. The skirt was indecently tight, highlighting my ass, which was also complimented by my four-inch heels. Beneath the dress I wore no bra, and although she couldn't see them, only the skimpiest of bikini panties. The outfit was highlighted with a pair of crimson stockings, held in place with elastic garters. When I turned around, towering over her, Susan gazed at me like she would eat me up. "What will it take?" I asked. She had stopped, her mouth open, just inside the door, and one shapely buttock, outlined in the mellow light of my study lamp, was propped against the frame. "What'll what take?" she replied dazedly, her eyes fixed on the plunging neckline of my outfit. "What will it take," I said, deliberately taking slow strides on my clicking heels to where she stood, watching her widened eyes rove up and down me "for you to do your work? I've tried talking to you. I've given you detention. Why isn't that enough?" "I dunno." She was looking to my left, through the window into the near-dark sky. "And now, this." I pointed at her essay, whose pages were strewn across my desktop "You insult me not only by plagiarizing, but by stealing my own work!" "I didn't think you'd notice." she said, uncomfortably but listlessly. She looked at me and then ducked her head to stare at the floor. "Oh no?" I put a lot of sneer on it. She stood mute, he shoulders slumped, leaning now against the window frame. "Stand up straight!" I said tersely. She straightened a little. "I've had it with you. With your careful insults, your studied insolence. You don't think there's a good way for me to punish you to get some work out of you?" The word "punish" rolled from my mouth like a lifesaver onto a lover's tongue. I reached behind her and pulled the door shut, standing inches away. "Well things are about to change." I finished. She flinched as the door shut, but she didn't move. Her eyes locked with mine, her lips puckered, and her head came forward. I pulled back, ignoring the heaviness in my belly and the ripe, sharp stink of her arousal. "Do you know what it is that you want?" I asked. "Yes." Her breaths were coming in rapid gasps. Beneath her shirt I could see her ribcage juddering up and down. "Do you want to be punished?" I asked sternly "Look at me!" Her head snapped round and again she tried to come in for a kiss. "STOP THAT!" I yelled. I stepped away and walked a few steps, putting the desk between us and reining in my own desire. I found myself actually getting angry, as well as aroused. "Do you know," I demanded "What the school board does to teachers who fraternize with students?" For a moment there was a little gleam in her eye. Was she thinking it, as I was still half-thinking it to myself? "And what, Miss F., would the PTA have to say about a sluttily-dressed teacher parading in front of a student with definite submissive lesbian tendencies?" Then she lowered her head. "No," she whispered "I'm sorry." "I'm a modern thinker, Susan," I said "But that was out of line. And I can't help thinking that in certain cases, old-fashioned punishments are called for." I opened the desk. Inside were a butt plug, some clothespins, and a special historical artefact. Susan moved forward, into the room, and looked over into the drawer. She looked blank. I pulled the artefact out and slapped it against the desk. At this point, Susan decided to go for broke. She straightened up, took two steps around the desk, and flowed against me in the most sincere kiss I'd ever experienced. I pushed her away, hard. She stumbled a bit and sat down heavily on the floor. She seemed about to get to her feet. A tear glittered at the corner of her eye and her mouth twisted and worked as she looked up at me. "Stay where you are!" I hissed "How dare you? You're a student. I'm a teacher. That is our primary relationship. Do you realise what would happen if we had more than that?" "But no-body'd have to find out!" The words gushed from her "I've loved you since I was put in your class. I want to, to do things for you—with you." "Tell me what you want." I ordered through my teeth, swinging the historical artefact—a standard 12-inch Punishment Strap Leather; Schools for the use of, from one finger. "I want you to take control. Of me. To be my, my . . ." She couldn't quite seem to finish it. "Your what?" I demanded. "My m-m-mistress," She'd clearly rehearsed this to herself "I want to be your slave, your toy. I want you to train me and whip me and . . ." She had run out of words—I suppose her fantasy involved me sweeping her into my arms at this point. She made as if to stand up. I shook my head almost imperceptibly. She stayed where she was, splayed in a sitting position on the wooden floor. I found myself momentarily fascinated by the glimpse of pale flesh I could see through an eye-shaped hole in the leg of her pants. Then I looked away from her, at the floor, so that I wouldn't see her heat, her desperate need and desire. My libido was being flash-fried, but I held tight to the strap and fought it. "Well," I said crushingly "That's not going to happen—not while I'm your teacher." "I'll quit your class!" she said desperately, pleadingly. A tear dribbled down her cheek. Oh it hurt to watch! I almost lost my battle and took her right there. But I gathered the ragged shreds of my self-control. "You don't want to do that—It wouldn't change anything," I said—maybe she knew I was lying. I wasn't certain. "And don't snivel." "But I. . ." "Shut. . .up." I told her. "You know that we can't have a relationship because eventually someone would notice. For example, if I were . . . your Mistress, and you were my slave they would notice that I demanded that you be naked whenever you and I were alone." There was a brief struggle in her eyes, then sudden realisation. My heart climbed into my throat as she nodded, and slowly pulled off her jacket. Off came the shirt. Staying on the floor she wiggled out of the pants. Underneath was a pair of old, comfortable white cotton panties. Part of me was surprised. I'd been half-expecting either no panties at all or a thong. As she unsnapped her bra and peeled it off I continued: "And of course as my slave you'd be required to stay on your knees." I swished the leather strap as I said it "and you'd be punished for every single instance of disobedience." She squirmed onto her knees as I watched, taking a moment to show me her dark pubic hair, puffy pussy lips peeking out from beneath. She knelt up, looking me full in the face, then lowered her hands to her sides and dropped her gaze. Her small tits, about a B cupful, jiggled briefly as she squatted onto her haunches. "Kneel up," I commanded "Hands behind your head." I could have drooled. Her nipples were high and pink, her small breasts, oddly, almost too much of a good thing. I turned and looked at her full on. And I realised what it was about her that had perhaps attracted me to her in the first place. Kneeling, with her armpits exposed and turning to gooseflesh, her nipples out, mouth open and tongue protruding lustily, she looked the spitting image of my sweet college roomie and slave girl, Tennisball Turner. My mouth was dry. I walked around the nude, kneeling subbie. I wished I could touch her. "Now get on all fours." I brandished the strap. "But I. . ." "Am I your Mistress or am I not?" I shouted "Obey me slut, or I'll toss your clothes into the hall and you after them! You keep that mouth of yours shut until I ask you a question. When I give you an order the only syllables I expect to hear from your mouth are 'Yes Mistress" is that understood?" A long pause. "Yes. Yes Mistress." Meekly. Her eyes cast down. I had her. My mind reeled and my cunt gushed. "We cannot touch each other, Susan." I said. "This little episode would be in total violation of the rules of the school district. Those rules specifically forbid any kind of sexual contact between student and teacher. You have no idea what a chance I'm taking even doing this. I will not have it said of me that I coerced a student into an inappropriate relationship, so you will obey me voluntarily or leave, as you wish." "But Mistress I . . ." "However, discipline between teacher and pupil is quite another thing." I paused to let the meaning sink in, "The regulations for student discipline allow for" I smacked my lips "corporeal punishments. You may be surprised to learn that those particular rules were never rescinded in this district." I strutted slowly around behind her. She followed me with her eyes, craning her neck to see me over her shoulder. I swished the strap meaningfully." Standing behind her, I paused again, letting the short strap graze her ass. "Please . . ." she nearly whispered. "This instance of plagiarism has convinced me that you need stronger discipline. So I am about to use the official punishment strap to correct you. This is an instance of a teacher disciplining a naughty girl, nothing more. You will count each stroke. Do you understand?" "Yes, Mistr—Ow!" At the first sounds of "Mistress" I let fly on her ass with the strap. "Did I not just explain that this is a teacher disciplining a student?" I hissed "I will not be your Mistress while I am touching you in any way! That little outburst just cost you an extra five." SMACK! "One, Mist—Mizz Flock." "Call me Miss F." I said, smiling sweetly. After about fifteen good swats, tears started appearing in her eyes again. I told her to stop, but secretly I found myself loving her easy propensity to crying. One day I would drink her tears from a crystal bottle while she writhed under my hand, tied to a St. Andrew's cross. I made her kneel up again. "Now let's set the ground rules here:" I announced "First and foremost, I am your teacher. I will not touch you for as long as you're in this school—but I will never touch you if you fail another course." Her mouth got ready to protest. I gave her a look. "You will be treated as my slave at my convenience, at my home. I will not touch you, and you will not cum unless you have my permission. In fact, you will not play with yourself outside of my presence. You may date, but you will not allow a boy to do more than kiss you. If you choose to let anyone else touch you, our relationship will become simply teacher-and-student again." She was breathing heavily now, looking up from her position, squatting on the floor, her ass slightly pink from her spanking. I could smell her wetness, and I longed to touch her pussy, taste her pouting mouth, have her lick me. But I forced desire aside. "If and when you successfully graduate this spring we will re-evaluate our relationship. Only then, with your total consent and submission, will I engage in any physical, much less sexual, contact with you. Is that understood?" This time the pause was even longer. Then: "Yes, Mistress". "Come to the desk on your knees, and get out the butt plug." I had to show it to her—she'd never seen one before. I instructed her to lubricate it with the packet of Astroglide I'd prepared: "Get it good and wet, girl. Guess where it's going? Now squat facing away from me." Her ass was open to my view as she squatted, looking over her shoulder at me. She looked rude and slutty as she shuffled to get stable; her asshole, pink and willing, almost seeming to wink at me. "Kiss it. Lick it. Now put it in." Slowly, hesitantly, she kissed and licked the silicone surface, then rubbed it with the lube, hunched over and began to slowly insert the tip of the plug into her ass. "I'm preparing you," I said sweetly "because when it's time for you to get fucked I'm going to start with your ass, and I'm going to use the biggest dildo I can find, so you're going to need plenty of stretch." She was grunting through clenched teeth, but she was determined, and eventually the taper of the plug slipped snugly into her anus. I let her get used to the feeling for a few minutes, letting her wait and not addressing her. "Does that feel good to you, you slut?" I asked, smiling. "Yes, my Mistress." she replied, with wonder in her eyes. "Good. Now, slave, tell Mistress what you dream of her doing to you." I was leaning against my desk. As she watched over her shoulder from the corner I hoisted my skirt up and moved my panties aside. I began to finger myself. Susan launched into a fantasy so outrageous that I'd never have conceived it on my own, involving the daily conditions of her servitude to me, and of who would be allowed to do what to her. Meanwhile, at my order, her fingers probed her wet folds and pinched her own nipples cruelly. Wordlessly I tossed the clothespins into the corner. She made a little whining noise as she clamped them on her nipples, and I had to order her to slip the ones on her labia. Then I told her to clip one on her clitoris. A Bad Girl Ch. 04 She'd never heard of the clitoris—that is, she knew the word but wasn't certain what it really meant. I explained it to her, playing with my own, slipping the hood back so that she could see it, standing only inches from her flickering tongue and with my insides aching for orgasm. Inside me, muscles were tensing, clenching, and a small sun was building in my belly. As she put the last clothespin on, her face changed as the pain hit her, and I started to cum. "Oh, my slave, my beauty, you little. . .bitch!" I gasped. She was crying now "I'm so glad you can obey me. . ." then I lost the power of speech as the shockwaves washed over me. Only a minute or so later she gasped and asked for permission to cum. I told her she could cum after she removed the clothespins, and I watched more tears, this time tears of passion as well as pain, spring down her cheeks. I was rearranging my skirt when she cried out loudly and climaxed. I didn't let up on her—I wanted to cuddle her, hold her tight. But I couldn't, so I made her kneel up with her chin on the desk. "You'll wear that butt plug whenever we're alone together. I'll get bigger ones. You know, Susan, I'm really going to be very cruel to you. Even once I'm able to touch you I'll probably only fuck your ass. You might remain a virgin for a very very long time." "I don't care Miss. . .Mistress. I'm so yours." My pussy was wet again. I let her watch while I masturbated a second time, but told her she wasn't allowed to touch herself. I held my sticky fingers under her nose, let her sniff my scent. "One day, slave, you'll taste this with your tongue. But first you have to pass your courses. Did you bring your book bag?" "Yes Miss F." she stood up. "I didn't tell you to get off the floor, slut. You're my slave, and until I release you you'll be mine in private. So when I asked if you brought your book bag, the correct response was 'Yes Mistress'". "Yes, Mistress. I-I brought my book bag." She knelt again. I had her crawl to the corner, her buttocks wiggling invitingly, and fetch the bag, carrying it by the strap in her mouth. "Good. Get out your history books. You are going to write your essay now." She pouted. "If you disobey me in future, a little display like that will cost you two dozen painful swats with the strap. But if you're going to disobey right now, just get out!" She lowered her eyes, and I was physically struck by her beauty. Then she got out her books, opened them, and under my watchful gaze, began to write. I stood and watched the kneeling, naked girl in triumph. It had taken a while, but I'd pulled it off. I knew that under my eye, she would apply herself. And if she applied herself, she'd graduate. And then— But I pushed that thought out of my mind.