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A Whipping

By: anneslutpet



It was a Thursday, close to the end of the week, the night all the lawyers went to the bar for a drink and to unwind. The support staff didn't go to the same place, it was only for the lawyers. Anne had planned to go and was changing in the bathroom, there were still two hours to go but she was not in the mood to start something else and wanted to primp. She had brought a short leather skirt of forest green and a wife beater in a pale lime green. She knew she looked hot and hoped she would get some attention from one of the senior partners.

She heard a buzz on her phone and hurried out to answer it. To her surprise it was Eric, He was someone she had been with a year ago but had found him too aggressive, too dominant, the things He made her feel scared her and she called it off before she went to the next step. She found herself speaking in a low, attentive voice, nodding to everything he said. As he spoke she slid her hands up under the leather skirt and slid her panties down to the floor and kicked them away. 

Her eyes grew wide as the door opened and she heard his voice in her ear and at the door, he stood there, a tall, mocha coloured black man, slightly over six feet, dark, brooding eyes and full, sensual lips. He closed the door and walked toward her, his dark expressive eyes never leaving her. He glanced down and saw the thong lying on the floor, smiling, he spoke, "good girl, now go and lock the door." Her knees quivering, heart pounding, not understanding why she had this deep, insatiable need to obey, she moved quickly to the door and snapped the lock on. Turning, she went back to him, He didn't say a word, just looked down at her, a small, dark haired woman with eyes as blue as the ocean in the sunshine, her ivory cheeks were flushed with scarlet. She knew what was expected of her and sank to her knees, thighs spread wide as the scrap of leather rode up over her ass. He kicked her thighs wider with one leather boot then went to sit behind her desk.

"Well Anne, it seems you have been avoiding me, I've been patient, you would agree? I've waited a year for you to realize what you are and who you belong to. My patience is at an end. Today I'm going to show you two things that you need and then I am going to mark you as mine. Do you understand?" She knelt there, eyes brimming with fear and something else, something she had known in the back of her mind, the feeling that she was going to finally realize what she has been missing for so long.

"Stand up, take off your skirt and go lean over your desk, your legs spread wide, I want to be able to see your cunt lips and clit. Hold on to the edge of the desk and remain quiet, If I hear anything I will have to gag you, understand?" Her voice barely above a whisper, she rose, walking on wobbly knees to the desk and leaning over the cherry wood. 

"Yes Eric, I understand." He smiled tenderly at her, "it's Eric now, in an hour it will be something else."

Tense, her body wired, she waited, not knowing what was going to happen. Her dark eyes closed and she bit softly down on her full lower lip. Without warning she heard a whistling sound and knew something had happened, she felt a curious lack of anything for a brief moment then a burning, aching pain unlike anything she had ever felt before ripped across her right ass cheek. She screamed, the sound out of her mouth before she realized it. He stopped, still, the silence deafening, "Anne, we don't want anyone to come in and see you do we?" 

"N...n..no" she whimpered, the words barely out of her lips when the whip struck again, two fast, harsh blows one after the other across her left cheek, then back against her right. The whip began to sing through the air, her ass burning, ivory cheeks quickly turning crimson, her face ashen with pain. She gasped for breath, the whip stopping as he moved close and began to stroke her cheeks with a large hand, slowly, gently, the flesh hot in his hand. Without warning two of his large, long fingers slid down and moved along the slit between her cunt lips. 

He laughed, moving the fingers in front of her, "Why are you so wet pet? Did you enjoy that?" He slid the wet fingers into his mouth and tasted her. She watched, shame burning her cheeks, at some point the pain had turned into pleasure mixed with the pain and shame, she tried to move her eyes from him but couldn't. 

He moved behind her, the sound of his zipper opening and his pants falling to the floor echoing in her ears. He reached out, running a long middle finger from the tip of her cunt to her tight asshole, he spoke thoughtfully, "Should I fuck your sweet pussy or tight ass my pet?" This was it, this was the defining moment, she could stand, regain her wits, her dignity, her freedom, or she could submit, she could say the words that have been in her head for a year, she could admit what she was, what she needed, the haughty lawyer, the woman who thinks she is too good to go to a bar with her secretary, she could tell him what he knows she wants, that she is his, she is his slut, his pet, his slave.

Tears pour down her face, her voice cracks, she sighs, the words out before she has thought them through. "You will fuck me where you please, you are my Master." 

He nodded, saying nothing, his long finger stroking between her swollen cunt lips over and over, coating his finger with hot wet slut juice. He coated her asshole with the liquid from her fuck hole then slid the length of his cock along the smooth wet slit, moving back and forth, smothering his cock with her cream. Then, without warning, he moves the dark meat and positions the bulbous head at the opening of her pucker. With a grunt, he pushes, holding her hips, pushing the thick head through her spinchter, ignoring her whimpers, knowing he will be the first to fuck this virgin hole. He leans down, kissing the hollow at the base of her spine then slams the cock home, his heavy balls resting on the red cheeks of her ass.

Her hands grip the desk, her body slammed back and forth as he drives his cock in and out of her narrow fuckhole, opening her, using her, showing her he knows what she is, what she needs, who she belongs to.

A Whipping, Delivered with Love



There is no reason to mince words. You know that, by accepting my invitation, you have agreed to the terms specified in that invitation. Namely, for the next few hours, whenever I tell you to, you are to present your body to be whipped. I have purposely not told you what sort of whip I will use on you or where I will apply it, but, from past experience, you know that I will make you suffer even though I will cause you no permanent harm. You also know that I will administer your whipping in a manner that is calculated to give you pleasure in spite of, and partly because of, the pain you are experiencing. 

I lead you into my living room, where I have moved most of the furniture aside to create a circular arena. Without my having to tell you, you immediately take off the pretty summer dress in which you arrived. Because you are wearing nothing underneath, when your dress drops to the floor you are left standing before me in only your shoes. As always, I take pleasure in having you expose your well-toned but curvaceous body to me. Although you are trying to hide it, I can see that you are trembling, and I am sure that your trembling is caused by fear of the unknown rather than the temperature of my warm apartment. I tell you to remove your shoes, and, to emphasize your vulnerability, I also tell you to take off the few pieces of jewelery that you have on.

When you are completely nude, I have you kneel, spread you legs, and bend your torso backward until your shoulders rest on the carpet. Having had you assume this position before, I know that it is difficult for you. I also know that it presents your body in all its glory: your generous breasts are drawn high up on your chest so that they look like two cushions adorned with decorative large pink buttons, your belly is taut but retains its feminine roundness, and your vulva is brought into prominence between your invitingly soft upper thighs. 

Standing with a foot on either side of your head, I show you the whip that I am going to use. It is a multi-thonged cat-o-nine tails. The tails are about a foot long and are made of a soft suede leather. My first blow is directed along the centerline of your bowed torso. I have carefully aimed it so that the main impact will be just below your navel and the tips of the tails will strike directly along the crease between your labia. You shudder but make no move to protect yourself. In rapid succession, I apply the whip to the same region, each time making certain that the tails visit the cleft between your splayed legs.

Not wanting your contorted position to become the paramount source of your discomfort, I tell you to change your pose so that you are lying flat on your back with your legs bent and your hands grasping your ankles to hold your legs apart. You know full that this position presents to me and my whip the tender flesh at the tops of your inner thighs. Before striking, I give you time to think about the implications of what you are doing. When I strike, I aim the blow at the lovely soft pads of flesh which your position makes exquisitely available to me. Systematically, I alternate sides so that the livid pink color that your inner thighs are acquiring will be evenly spread. It takes me five minutes to produce the desired effect. Although none of my blows is severe, but keeping yourself available for them requires enormous discipline, and you have tears streaming down your face well before I am done.

After helping you to your feet, I lead you to the back of a large armchair and have lean over the top and fold your body so that your tummy rests on top of the chair, your legs are straight, and your vulva stares at me like an eye that has been perversely mounted between the cheeks of your buttock. I run my hands over your buttock, savoring the luxury of your soft skin that is stretched over them. I then delve into the tunnel between and am pleased to find that the whip has opened your labia and caused their inner folds to be bathed in secretions. Stepping back, I bring the whip down on the backs of your legs. My blows are slighter harder than the ones that I delivered to your front, and your have to grip the arms of the chair to keep yourself from moving to avoid them. Lest you begin to associate the spankings you received as a child with the very different purpose for which you are exposing your backside now, I refrain from hitting your buttock. As a result, when I finish whipping the backs of your legs, the contrast between their ruddy color and the virgin white of your buttock is dramatic. 

Laying the whip aside, I lower my pants, grasp you by the hips, and, without warning, plunge my engorged penis into your vagina. You respond by rising onto your toes and shifting your hips to draw me further inside your body. When my penis reaches your cervix, I release your hips and transfer my hands to your pendulous breasts. Using them as handles, I pull you out of the chair and hug your back to my front. Locked together as we are, my penis is mashed against your vaginal walls, causing sharp but erotically potent pain for both of us. This pain makes our coupling more intense but delays our climax. Thus, several agonized but divine minutes pass before we achieve orgasm.

When I leave your body, you collapse against my chest. I carry you into the bathroom and deposit you on the toilet seat while I run a hot bath for you. After stirring some bath oil into the water, I deposit your limp body into the steamy, fragrant brew that I have prepared for it. You close your eyes and luxuriate in the comfort that your body is receiving. Unable to resist the temptation of exploring the regions that my whip has given new color, I lean over the side of the tub and trace the red line that starts just below your navel and terminates in your crotch. Without opening your eyes, you languorously shift your position to make your body more available for to my soothing hands. I share with you my pleasure in the varying shades that I encounter when I lift your legs to expose the last region that my whip visited.

After satisfying my curiosity, I leave you to soak up the healing warmth. Half an hour later, I return and lift you out of the tub so that I can dry you and sprinkle a coat of powder on your multi-colored pelt. I then carry you into the bedroom and place you on the bed. You have not opened your eyes since your bath began, and I appreciate your need for time to recover from the rigors of your morning experiences. Thus, I cover your warm body, pull down the shades, and leave you to recuperate on your own.

I return an hour later to find you awake and smiling. You are examining your mottled body and seem to be enjoying what you find. Sitting by your side, I ask if you have had enough or if you want to continue. I warn you that, if we continue, your breast will be my next target. After serious refection, you say that, in spite of your reservations, you want to continue. To date, your breasts have been the recipient of adoration, and you want to learn their potential as a source of erotic suffering. 

Doubtful if you fully appreciate the consequences of your decision, I have you rise from your downy couch and follow me into the living room. At the center of the make-shift arena, I have placed a simple, straight-back chair. Solidly hitched to the center of its seat is a plastic dildo that curves forward in a way that will apply constant pressure to whatever sheath it is embedded in. While you lower yourself onto the dildo, I explain that its primary purpose is to anchor you in place rather than to provide you pleasure. For obvious reasons, when you complete your impalement, you sit bolt upright posture with perfect posture.

I tell you that the whipping of your breasts will have two phases. In the first phase I will use a smaller and lighter version of the cat-o-nine tails on them. During that phase, I require that you cup your hands under your breasts and lift them toward me to make visible your complicity in their persecution. After I have reddened them so that their color is indistinguishable from that of your dark pink aereolae and nipples, I will switch to a gentler but no less trying method of tormenting them. However, during the second phase, your hands will be tied behind your back, relieving you of the responsibility of keeping your breasts presented for the punishment they are receiving.

There is fear written all over your face, but you bravely move your hands to their prescribed post and raise your breasts. Standing on your right side, I introduce the proffered orb on that side to the little whip that has been specifically designed for the application that I am making of it. Aimed directly at the nipple, the thongs splay out across and momentarily cling to the soft flesh of your succulent breast. You gasp at the impact but do not lower your breast. I strike that breast three more times before moving to even the score on your left side. Though cloudy with tears, your eyes have a defiant look of pride, pride that is confirmed by your continuing to proffer your breasts in the event that this phase is not at its conclusion.

I keep you in doubt for several seconds while I survey my handiwork. As I had hoped, your breast have the same dark pink color as the backs of your legs. Ironically, my prediction about your aereolae and nipples becoming less visible proves to have been wrong. Instead, your aereolae too have become darker and continue to assert their distinction. At the same time, your nipples have swelled and command recognition with a defiance equal to that in the expression on your face. I marvel at and am humbled by your fortitude.

After your breathing has returned to normal, I resume my duties as your tormentor. Stepping behind the chair, I remove your hands from your breasts and bring them to the back of the chair. After crossing your wrists, I tie them together. I then move back to your front and show you the devices that I will use to complete your breasts' education. They look quite innocent, a little like a child's toy, but looks are deceiving. When I hold them up, you see that they are made out of strings which are attached via spindles to handles. The strings, which are about a eighth of an inch in diameter, are made out of cotton, and each string has a knot tied at its end. I demonstrate how they work by spinning them so that the strings fan out and twirl on the spindles like miniature propellers. I can see that you now understand the insidious torment those propellers are designed to give so tender a target as the female breast.

Not wanting to prolong your anxiety, I set to work. At first I concentrate on your erect nipples, holding the handles far enough from your breasts that only your nipples feel the kiss of the strings. Proceeding in steps calculated to maximize your torment, I slowly move my hands forward so that the impact covers more and more territory. The strings themselves do little more than cause an sharp itching sensation. However, the knots land with sufficient force that each string gives you a jolt when it strikes your reddened globes. For a time, you are able to maintain a semblance of composure, but the cumulative effect of hundreds of tiny impacts inevitably wears you down. After several minutes, you are twisting in your chair and begging for mercy. I relent only after I am convinced that you have had the full lesson for which you came. 

To my surprise, there is a large damp spot surrounding the dildo when I lift you out of the chair. Seeing that your ordeal was not one of unmitigated suffering, I ask you whether you want it continued in a manner that will give you more conventional and complete sexual gratification. Wiping away the tears from your eyes, you whisper that you would. I lead you back to the chair on which I whipped your legs and have you take the same position over its back, only this time I position you so that your hips are supported by the top of the chair and your feet are left dangling a couple of inches from the floor. As a consequence, you are now presenting me with a unimpeded access to your vulva. Armed with the little whip that I used on your breasts, I apply its tails in a steady tattoo to your labia. As they open to make your clitoris available, I direct my aim at that excruciatingly sensitive morsel. Your excitement builds with each blow, and after a couple of minutes your much-deserved reward arrives.



A Whipping For The Professor



"I'm sorry I missed the test, Professor. Please let me take a makeup."

"You know my policy on makeup tests, Laura. If you won't bother to come to class to take a test, I'm not going to waste my valuable time giving you a makeup test."

"But Professor, I'm working two part-time jobs to pay my tuition. I was so exhausted from work that I didn't hear the alarm go off."

"You want this very badly, don't you Laura?"

"Yes, Professor. Please give me a break. I need this course to get my degree."

"Very well, Laura. Be at my house promptly at eight this evening and I will give you a makeup test. Here is the address."

I was working on a degree in Business Administration at a State university in the Midwest. Professor Blake was my Statistics professor. He was a handsome man in his early forties with wavy black hair, a sparkling smile, and a British accent that he had picked up while a student at Oxford.

I was twenty at the time. My parents were hard-working farmers who barely eked out enough to support themselves let alone put a daughter through college. Nevertheless, I was determined to be the first in my family to earn a college degree. My high school grades had been good enough to garner a few minor scholarships, but they didn't get me very far. To make up the difference, I worked my ass off waiting tables and cleaning offices. I was breaking under the strain and would not have lasted much longer if it had not been for Professor Blake.

I think I should describe myself before I continue. At the time, I was a tiny thing no more than five foot two and a hundred and five pounds. I must have been pretty because all through high school the boys chased me like a pack of hounds after a fox. My long blond hair fell past my shoulder blades. Blessed with straight, even teeth, I considered my smile to be my best asset. My tits nicely filled out a 36C cup. My friends reproached me about my long stride, a byproduct of my hectic schedule. If you still can't picture me, visualize teen-age witch Melissa Joan Hart and you will be very close.

I arrived at Professor Blake's two-story brick townhouse promptly at eight and was ushered in by a handsome matron in her forties. "Well, he certainly knows how to pick them," she said, as she looked me up and down. "I'm his wife Marsha, dear. I'm sure that you are going to find this very strange, but, if you go along with it, I assure you that you will be rewarded."

Things were not going the way I expected. I assumed from the moment that Professor Blake offered to give me the makeup exam at his house that I would have to have sex with him, and I was prepared to do so, but I had not expected to be met at the door by his wife. My heart raced at the possibility of a threesome. Marsha was my mother's age, but, unlike my mother, her looks had not been ravaged by years of hard work on a farm. She was a fine-looking woman with a voluptuous figure. I had never been with a woman, but I was eager to try. If it came down to it, Marsha would be a good place to start.

The saucy matron led me down a narrow staircase to the basement. I was flabbergasted by what I saw there. The spacious room had been outfitted as a torture chamber. Whips, paddles and canes hung from hooks on the walls. Other hideous instruments were arranged neatly on tables. My eyes widened at the sight of clamps, masks, gags, shackles, and other diabolical instruments. I spun on my heel and headed back up the stairs.

"Wait, these aren't for you, dear," Marsha said. "They are for him. Please come back. You will have the time of your life."

I paused for a moment and pondered my situation. I desperately needed that makeup test. It was a big part of my grade. If I didn't take it, I would fail the course, and then I might as well pack my bags and go back to the farm. I would marry some hick and end up like my mother, an old woman before her time. I turned and went back down the stairs.

Professor Blake was waiting in the shadows. He came toward me with something in his hand. As a country girl, I had done my share of horseback riding. I immediately recognized it as a riding crop. He handed it to me and said, "Thank you for coming, Mistress. I am not worthy of you but I beg you to make me so. Please punish me for being such a swine."

The professor dropped his pants and bent over a table. I stood for a long time and stared in disbelief at his girlish ass. "Beat him, child," Marsha said. "Put a glow on those sallow ass-cheeks. Trust me, it will make you feel good."

I could not help but giggle as I gave his ass a playful tap. Marsha laughed derisively. "Do you call that a stroke? Lay into him, dear. Mark his ass. A blow that doesn't leave a mark is not a blow." I gave him another stroke that was hard enough to make his cheek quiver. "That's more like it, dear," Marsha said. "But it should be twice as hard."

I put all of my strength into the next stroke. Marsha was right; it did feel good! The professor let out a ghostly groan and came up on his tiptoes. "BRAVA!" Marsha shouted. "Now you're getting the idea, dear." I gave him another, and another, and another. The wetness of my pussy correlated directly with the redness of his ass. I was getting turned on!

I got a shock when I glanced over at Marsha and saw that she had shed her clothes. "I think it's time we all got naked," she said. "My husband is yours to do with as you see fit. Beat him and humiliate him. Give or withhold sex from him. I have beaten him so many times that it no longer gives him pleasure. He needs fresh doms from time to time. I can see that you have the makings of a good one. One word of advice - never call him by his name or title. Scum, pig and worm are appropriate, but I'm sure you can think of others."

Marsha was a bit on the stocky side but still a very tasty dish. Her big, round tits rode high on her chest. She could have lost a few pounds around the waist, but that minor defect did little to mar her beauty. Her cunt was adorned with a full bush of black hair.

"GET YOUR CLOTHES OFF, YOU WORM!" I shouted. I could not suppress a giddy laugh. My outburst had had a touch of authenticity. I was no longer quite faking it. Marsha rushed forward to help me undress. "I'll have you fitted out like a proper dom in no time," she said. Her hands were all over me as my nubile body was exposed. I stopped competing with her and let her strip me.

The Professor stood naked before me with his head bowed. He had a superb body. His broad, muscular chest was covered with a thick carpet of hair that thinned across his belly and thickened again in the pubic region. An enormous cock nine inches in length stuck out from the pubic bush. I had never seen such a magnificent fucker. The head was the size of the apples that I had picked from the trees back on the farm. My cunt was not deep enough to take it all - no cunt was - but what fun it would be to try!

Marsha cinched a black girdle around my narrow waist to make it even narrower. The garment accented my full tits and the flare of my hips. Glossy black knee-high boots completed my outfit. I stood in front of a mirror and admired myself. For the first time in my life, I felt in control of my destiny.

"You are the best yet," Marsha said. "You'll make a superb dominatrix. I made an excellent living beating men, and you will, too, if you choose to do so. Your training will begin now. You have everything you need. Enjoy yourself, darling." She kissed me directly on the lips. It wasn't like any kiss I had had from men. It was soft and warm. Our tongues touched briefly before I pulled away. There was no doubt in my mind that Marsha would be my first lesbian lover.

Marsha pressed a button on the wall and a rope with two manacles hanging from it descended from the ceiling. "I suggest you string him up first," Marsha said. "That's always a good place to start." I ordered my slave to stand beneath the rope. As I placed the manacles on his wrists, his enormous cock brushed my belly. I took the fat member in my hand and rubbed the wet tip up and down my slit and across my swollen clit. "Oh, thank you, Mistress," he whimpered. That earned him a slap across the face. "You will not speak unless spoken to, slave. Do you understand?"

I fetched a set of nipple clamps from the table and tried to attach them to his nipples. Nothing turns me off faster than small nipples on a man, so I was pleased to see that his were as big as my own. "You have to get them hard first, dear," Marsha said. "Let me show you how." She picked up the riding crop that I had used earlier and gently stroked the leather tip up and down across her husband's nipple. She suddenly drew the crop back and landed a stinging blow directly on the nipple. She repeated that several times until her husband's nipple had swollen to an inch in length. I quickly placed the clamp on the brown nub and screwed it down until he sucked in his breath and gritted his teeth. I took the crop from Marsha and tortured the other nipple the way she had shown me. The professor's manly chest was soon adorned with two steel clamps connected by a slender chain.

I cinched a dog collar around his neck and a smaller collar around his cock and balls. I roughly shoved a red ballgag into his mouth and tightened the straps at the back. "May I suggest leg weights, dear?" Marsha said. "They will keep him from flailing about to ease the pain of the whipping." I strapped the twenty-pound weights to his ankles and pressed the red "ON" button on the wall. The Professor hung suspended a foot above the floor, totally at my mercy.

I took Marsha's hand and led her in front of her husband. We kissed and fondled each other's breasts and pussies for a few minutes. My slave's cock throbbed as he watched. I took a cat-of-nine-tails whip from a hook in the wall and took aim on my slave's ass. Because of the leg weights stretching his body, he wasn't able to dodge the blow. A shudder ran up his body and a loud groan somehow managed to get around the gag. I whipped the Professor's back and ass until it was decorated with thin red stripes from his shoulders to his knees. Marsha sat with a smile on her face and masturbated with her fingers as she watched me beat her husband.

When I was too tired to continue the beating, I lowered the Professor to the floor and ordered him to stretch out. "If you try to touch me you will regret it, worm," I said. I squatted over him and slowly impaled myself on his enormous cock. "BRAVA! BRAVA! Now you are getting the idea, dearest," Marsha said. "When you make use of his cock he must never be in charge. You must always dominate him."

The Professor's enormous cock stretched my cunt like it had never been stretched before. As I smothered the thick fucker with my flesh, I considered the possibility of a normal sexual relationship with the handsome man. It would have been wonderful to have him above me, fucking me the way men were meant to fuck women. But that wasn't what he wanted. I had to concentrate on my goal of passing his course. I fucked him until I was on the verge of an orgasm, then stopped. I feared that if I lost my horny edge, I wouldn't be able to carry on.

I had my eye on a sinister device near one wall that I recognized as a set of stocks. There were actually two sets, one for the neck and wrists, and the other for the ankles. A thick wooden dowel at the top of two posts served to keep the victim bent forward at a ninety-degree angle. I soon had the Professor securely in bondage.

As I picked up a strap-on dildo from the table, Marsha hurried forward. "That's an excellent choice, dear. Let me help you with that. It can be a little tricky to put on. Do you see the rubber spikes on the base? They will make every nerve in your beautiful pussy come alive. Now hold it in place and I will tighten the straps." I held the base of the dildo to my clitoral region as Marsha cinched the straps down.

After thoroughly greasing the dildo, I approached the Professor and said, "Now, it's my turn to fuck you, slave." Marsha spread her husband's ass-cheeks to expose his wrinkled hole. I placed the plum-sized bulb against it and applied pressure. I watched with fascination as the tiny opening stretched to accommodate the fake cock. "Oh, Mistress, please stop. It hurts." That little outburst earned him a stinging slap on his ass-cheek. "Pay no attention to him, dear," Marsha said. "He will soon be begging you not to stop."

I didn't stop pushing until the entire dildo disappeared into his gut. Marsha was right. As I pumped the rubber cock in and out, my slave groaned and said, "Oh, yes, Mistress, fuck me harder. It feels wonderful." Each time the bastard opened his mouth, I gave his ass a hard spank. The round cheeks were soon as red as beets.

"You know something, worm? I've changed my mind about that makeup test. I've decided that I don't want to take it after all. Instead, you are going to save us both a lot of trouble and give me an "A". Is that clear?"

"Oh, yes, Mistress, whatever you say. Just don't stop fucking me." Just as Marsha had promised, the tiny rubber spikes on the base of the dildo were digging into the most sensitive spot on my body. Each time I drove into the pig, I had a mini-orgasm. Then finally, after several hundred thrusts, I had the big one. It was so intense that the only way I could stay on my feet was to bend forward until my tits flattened against the Professor's striped back.

I left the Professor in the stocks and curled up with his comely wife on a blanket directly in front of him. Watching us kiss and fondle with no way to join in must have been the sweetest torture. "Sometimes when he gets fucked he shoots his load without any stimulation of his cock, but so far he has managed to hold it in," Marsha said. "When he does go off, it will be a messy one."

After a brief rest, my enthusiasm for what I was doing returned with a vengeance. I spotted a low stool along one wall next to a bed, and above it a pair of manacles hanging from a hook set in the wall. I released the professor from the stocks and ordered him onto the stool. Standing on a chair, I strapped the manacles to his wrist. I gave the stool a yank and the professor was left dangling with his enormous cock throbbing in front of him. I used the cat to stripe his chest and belly, and then tied a cord around his nuts.

Marsha must have been reading my mind. She came toward me with a fresh dildo strapped to her pussy. I lay on the bed, spread my legs and invited her to partake of the honey that trickled from my honey pot. Her long tongue snaked out and squirmed its way into my fuck-hole. She licked every inch of my pussy. A combination of sucks and licks on the clit sent me over the edge. As I came, I yanked the cord attached to the Professor's balls. He and I moaned together but for different reasons.

Marsha mounted me and drove the rubber dick into me. She speared me again and again as deftly as any man ever had. I yanked the Professor's balls each time I came. As he watched his wife and I cum together, he let out a long groan and released his pent-up load. Without any stimulus to his cock, the masochist launched the most spectacular cum-shot that I had ever seen. My God, it was a deluge! Spurt after spurt rained down on us. In mid-orgasm, I was too befuddled to count the spurts, but there must have been at least a dozen.

That ended my first session as a dominatrix. The Professor gave me an "A" for the makeup test that I never took. He insisted that I show up for the rest of his tests so no one would get suspicious, but, no matter what my real grade was, I always got an "A" in exchange for an S&M session.

I soon acquired a taste for wielding a whip. Although Marsha was no longer in the business, she still had connections in certain circles. She put me in touch with the right people and allowed me to use her torture chamber to "entertain" them. You would be surprised to learn how much some men will pay to be whipped by a beautiful young woman. My grades improved as soon as I gave up my grueling, low-paying jobs. I eventually graduated with a degree in Business Administration, and, thanks to the kinky professor and his wife, a new career. I make far more money as a dominatrix than I would have ever made in business.