I hate him. Hate hate hate him. Sitting there being paid sixteen times my wage to actively destroy the world, do his job badly, or well depending on which side you take. He disgusts me with his dishonesty, his foolishness, his abhorrent social and feeding habits.
And yet in my anger I become a sliver of sensual quicksilver, dressing each morning for the role of mistress; my crisp white blouse threatening to give way and expose the treacherous flesh beneath, and the accompanying black shirt is only just long enough to conceal the delectable curves of my arse. Bare legs that stretch on and up to meet silky french knickers.
This is all for him and all for me; I bend over to serve his teas and coffees, inviting his ogling; thinking he might just reach out one day and grab a handful in animal lust.
I am careless, I am beautiful. I stand in the corner of the room awaiting instruction, my phone clasped in one hand with the other exposing my cunt. I am taking photos of my pretty cunt to show to people who desire me and he may be watching he may not. His cock may be shifting and pressing against the front of his slacks as he catches the slick pinkness of my inner labia.
“He’s got a trademark.”
Fancy was washing my hair at the time. Her short nails sent shocks through my nervous system every time she lathered; it felt good.
“A trademark. He’s got a way, with a weapon.”
“And you’ll be experiencing it tonight, my love.”
Fancy dunked my head under the cold bathwater without warning.
Note: Everyone in this scenario is an adult well over the age of 18, only experimenting with educational power dynamics.
Six months and whilst our romance still burns, I accept and expect to be pushed. To be punished. To be treated sternly on occasion. And Sir, you oblige.
Sunday School is my favourite. This is where I excel. This is my absolute favourite. Before I button my crisp white blouse – before my Sir I never ironed at all, and blush to think of myself as a slattern – I brush out my hair, parted and plaited, enough to grip. To instruct.
I’m wearing my school uniform, naturally. Actually, it’s your school uniform, your tie in house colours burgundy and gold. And a crest. My school never had a crest.
I have to be ready for 9am lessons. You have a room. I don’t ask how you got it. Two desks and one wall lined with books. At Sunday School, Sir is absent. There is only Sir. It is Sir who calls “Enter.” when I knock and walk primly through the door, clutching books to my chest.
“Good morning, Sir.”
“Miss K. You are late. Over the desk.” You don’t even look up, you only stand and watch me spread myself over it as instructed. This time it’s not the belt but your hand. My knickers are pulled down to mid thigh before I even realise it.
“Repeat after me. ‘Lateness will not be tolerated’,”
“Lateness-” the first smack makes me gasp.
“Will not. Be tolerated.”
I repeated after you. Each time the sting is more pronounced, the ache in my cunt deeper. On the sixth stroke your hand lingers, bringing its own heat. I will not cry.
“Did you do your homework, or am I going to have to invoke further penalties?”
“Let’s go for a walk,” he had said.
“It’s cold.” I protested.
He looked at me evenly.
He laced me into my boots. bare legs, a summer dress that was too small. No bra. No knickers. My breasts threatened to escape. I didn’t protest further. “Go and put on your parka.” he ordered.
I was stood by the front door when he came back, dressed warmly.
“Don’t you look adorable? Let’s go.” He held out his hand and lead me out into the street, and into the car. There were grey clouds gathering in the sky.
“It’s going to rain.” I said, looking out of the window.
“That doesn’t matter.”
We drove for over an hour. Halfway through, as the roads became narrower, the scenery greener, he put his hand on my thigh and pushed the material of my skirt up to my waist, lingering briefly at my cunt.
“You’re wet.” he said approvingly.
Some minutes later, he slowed the car and parked up.
“Here we are. Time for some fresh air.”
I tightened the loops so the bar held my mouth open. Cute with just an air of gormlessness.
“Mouth open at all times.” she’d said, and I wasn’t going to let her down. She appreciated the photo of me, naked with the device secured.
Play did not come easily. My mouth filled with saliva and my cunt gasped and slicked with come but something – the toy between my thigh or the lack of another person there to guide me or the knot of frustration twisting in my chest. I came in spite of myself, subdued and tired.
I relayed this to her, my tongue restrained and my mouth a pool of spit.
“Let it run down your chin and cheek” she instructed.
Being debased turned me on more than touching myself had. Watching saliva cascade from my lips, a bubbling, endless mess created by my obedience.
Anything for her.
She shows me off to her husband. His approval, of my silent, shallow messiness. My even devotion to his wife’s instruction, makes me blush. When she tells me how far his approval reaches – the thickening in his groin, I blush harder still and wish there weren’t the miles between us.
“This, this is unacceptable. You know it’s unacceptable, don’t you? You know the rules.” He yanked the dildo out of me and waved it briefly in front of his lips. Crimson faced, I nodded but wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“I come home from the pub, from a nice afternoon with some friends from work, and find you on your hands and knees fucking yourself without my permission. Riding that big, fleshy dildo and grabbing your tits and moaning like a common slut with the windows open so anyone could hear you.
“I’m sorry, Sir.” I murmured, but he wasn’t listening to me.
“You’d been playing for hours, hadn’t you? Teasing yourself. Look at your cunt. Look at how red and full your lips are. Look at your clit, how red and sore it looks. Look.” He moved forward quickly and pushed down on the back of my neck, forcing me to examine my own arousal, smelling it.
“I left you here, and you said you were going to have a nap. You’re wearing my favourite dress, the blue one with the ruffles, but look at you, with the sleeves pulled down so you can display your breasts.”
His fingers were entwined in my braids and he pulled my head upwards so I had to look into his eyes.
In 2016, I participated in Emmeline’s Team Amazeballs Erotica Exchange – we gave one another a prompt, and she asked me to write something based off Rosetti’s Lady Lilith, which I knew nothing of, instead imagining her as a petulant debutante with a string of music teachers in her wake.
I hope you enjoy this not so little historical tale.
Dahlia adored her music lessons. That precious hour of the day where she was indulged with lyricism and beauty. And the presence of a tall, broad, older gentleman whom she knew her father had chosen precisely because he was almost as old as her grandfather and could not be described by even the kindest soul as handsome.
To Dahlia he was the most exciting part of her lessons. He was the reason she was allowed in the music room, un-chaperoned, for one whole hour. She exploited every single minute.
On music days she woke early but didn’t rise from her bed until almost midday. She would lie in a blissful reverie, and explore the wonders of her own body as if the territory were new to her. Her own large breasts, which came to stiff, perfect peaks. Her own flaring hips and rounded tummy with its sweet fair hair. Fair hair which curved in a path between her legs, becoming coarser and darker until it curled outwards in a shield over her cunt which seemed preternaturally wet and wanting.
The cuffs were her birthday gift, so in a twisted way it was appropriate that the first time they used them was during another person’s birthday party. His father’s.
The first instruction came as she bared the nape of her neck so he could fasten her necklace.
“At 11pm you’ll go to the bathroom, remove your knickers, and give them to me. If I’m busy, you will wait with them in your hands until I take them.”
She nodded, committing this to memory as she turned to face him and straighten his tie.
“And then, when all the guests have gone and we are all alone, we’re going to take off that pretty dress, and cuff you to the bed, and I’m going to eat that wet, desperate cunt of yours.”
She blushed crimson, the first of many pretty blushes that night.
“Yes Sir.” She said in a small voice.
“That’s my girl.” He took her arm and they made their way downstairs.
Of course, he tormented her that evening. Putting his arm around her he would palm that exact spot on her back which made her melt; trace his finger along the creases of her palm and she would try to hold it together in front of his aunts and uncles. Simple, unobtrusive gestures which no one could possibly think were turning her insides to jelly. His mother served kir royale, and he whispered “Who’s my wet little slut?” into his girl’s ear when passing the glasses round.
First Anita adjusted the drapes, casually, naked from a long, hot shower. Out of the corner of her eye the lights from the apartment opposite flickered on as she heard the bedroom door open and shut behind her.
He was there again. But as she came closer to the window to catch a glimpse, the light was extinguished, and her heart fell a little. No audience tonight. She sighed and turned to her husband, standing in the doorway, removing his sweater.
“Ready?” He asked quietly. She nodded, when the doorbell rang.
“I suppose I’ll answer it, you’re hardly dressed appropriately.”
They shared a small smile before Alan turned and headed downstairs to see who it was.
She may be the beauty or the beast
May be the famine or the feast
May turn each day into a heaven or a hell.
-Elvis Costello, She
Sometimes you write the thing. For Amy (and her Catsuit)
I can’t think straight.
I can think in curves though.
In the undulation of hips and the swell of breasts. In the soft security of her belly.