Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories From: an109288@anon.penet.fi (Kid Dynamite) Date: Thu, 16 May 1996 17:18:59 UTC Subject: Sally's Surrender Sally's Surrender I wasn't exactly thrilled when my stepfather announced that we'd be moving. I was used to my life. It was comfortable. It wasn't perfect, of course. There is precious little to do out in cow country, Ohio. That's where I did most of my growing up. On a farm, in Ohio. I didn't mind it. But, it could be monotonous. That was my main complaint. Part of the problem might have been that I lived a very sheltered life. Home schooling can be kind of isolating. But that was how Mom and Jack wanted things. I'm sure that I have had a better education than many of the kids I happened to run into. Public school sounded like a nightmare compared with home. Mom and Jack liked home schooling for a number of reasons. They got to pick what I learned. And it let them raise me just the way they wanted to. I guess you might say that Mom and Jack figured very prominently in my upbringing. They were really all that I had, since we didn't go into town very often. And we didn't have TV. Mom and Jack were very strict about certain things. Respect, for instance. And obedience. I had always been taught that when Jack or Mom said "jump", I said "how high?" I was really disappointed when I found out that we were moving. Angry, and sad. I felt like the rug had gotten pulled out from under me. Jack said that he wanted me to go to this private school just outside of the town we were moving to. I didn't know what to expect. I liked home school. It was a known quantity. I knew that I didn't want to go to public school, but wasn't sure about this private school. I was scared. I hadn't really experienced much of life. I didn't have too many friends. I had never had a boyfriend. Heck, I didn't even know too many boys. I had never been kissed, or been on a date, or even gone to a dance. You're probably shaking your head, saying "No way." But it's true. The funny thing is, you can't really miss something until you know what it is. I was content with my little slice of life. Mom and Jack taught me to be happy with what you get. I was doing my best. They told me what to do, and I did it. The main thing was that moving was a big change. I liked things the way they were. It made me scared, and mad. I so much wanted to tell Jack off. I complained to Mom, and she told me that I should be grateful that we had someone like Jack to take care of us, and that now that he was my father and her husband, his wishes were the rule in our house. The standard stuff that I already knew. Sometimes I really wondered what Mom saw in him. Why had she married him? It wasn't like we were desperate for money, or anything. Mom had always been quiet about it, but we were pretty well off. Maybe even rich. Mom just never acted like it. Maybe there was more to Jack, but he had always seemed a little bit scary to me. Too intense. A couple of days before we were going to move, Jack was going to the grocery store, and I went along, because I needed tampons, and there was "no fucking way" Jack would buy them himself. I wasn't too talkative. Actually, I was sulking. Both because I would rather be home watching TV, and because of the whole move thing. Jack seemed oblivious. We were listening to the radio, and a really cool song was on, and Jack got a dirty look on his face, and changed the channel. I fumed. A couple of seconds later, he changed it again. We drove on, and he kept switching the station, over and over. It was driving me nuts. Finally, I lost my cool. "Jack, quit changing the channel!" I snapped. Jack had a hard look. A look that went right through me. It said, without words "You're nothing. I'm a man - your stepfather - far superior to you. You're a woman - weak and emotional. You need me to tell you what to do. Now shut up and obey me." He used this look on Mom and I. To this day, I cringe thinking of it. The words had tumbled out of my mouth, and I instantly regretted them. His head swiveled around and the look crept into his face. It made him look so harsh and unforgiving. So angry. It didn't help that as he looked at me, he leaned towards me, menacingly. Jack was a big guy. Really big. And strong. One time, when he was really pissed, I had seen him punch a hole in the wall, out in the garage. His huge hand just pistoned through the drywall like it wasn't there. His powerful 6'6" frame filled the cabin of the pickup, and as he glared at me, I could see the tendons in his neck sticking out. But I was past it, and I kept going, despite the shiver of fear that he gave me. "Can't you just pick one station?!" My voice was wavering with emotion. I don't even remember what I said after that. I was nearly hysterical, I think. I was on automatic pilot, and all of my grief about moving was spilling out. But it wasn't until the end of my tirade that I actually mentioned moving. I don't know why. I sobbed, "Why are we moving? I don't want to move!" I was close to tears, but couldn't stop myself. I told him that he was mean, and couldn't understand what it meant to me to be leaving. I said that if he were my real father he wouldn't be making me do this. That did it. I had crossed a line that I had never crossed with my stepfather. I heard a strangled growl of anger from Jack. The truck swerved off of the road with a squeal, and slewed onto the gravel shoulder. Jack's face was beet red, and his teeth were clenched so tight I thought they might break. He leaned over me, breathing hard, his enormous hands clenching and unclenching. His face was terrible. He roared at me, spit flying from his lips, "You will never speak to me that way again, Sally! You are going to go with us, and you will enroll in your new school, and you will like it!" I started to cry. "You will obey me, young woman! I won't tolerate your whining or complaining, or your questioning me! You don't understand that this move is for your own good! It isn't your place to make these decisions!" He was in a black rage, and it frightened me how angry he was. I was crying, sobbing, my head in my hands, shaking. Eventually he stopped yelling, and pulled back onto the road. Still snuffling, I snuck a glance at him. His jaw was working, and his face was still wearing the look. He was seething. We got to the grocery store, and as we got out of the car, he growled through his clenched teeth, "Sally, I'll punish you for this outburst when we get home." Dread settled into my stomach, knotting it up. We didn't say a single word in the store. We walked up and down the aisles, and I watched him, hoping to see his anger abate. It didn't. He didn't even look at me, but I could tell from his face how pissed he was. I was in deep shit. I was thankful that I didn't have to stand in line with him at the checkout counter. I plopped down my box of tampons and stared at the floor. I knew I must be getting a look from the cashier - my makeup was probably a smear. I didn't much care, though. All I could think of was what had happened in the car. In retrospect, I'm kind of surprised that I even blew up at all. Especially to Jack. I very, very rarely had talked back to him. I guess I learned my lesson early with him that you didn't cross him. The payback was pure hell. Also, well, I guess I didn't realize it then, but I know now that part of my problem was just with men, period. I've always had trouble standing up to them. Saying my mind to a man has always been hard. I somehow have trouble with it. Like they're not going to care. Or that they know better. Or that they think I'm dumb, which I'm not. Especially with men that are older than me. I know I'm not the only person in the world with this problem. I know for a fact my mother is the same way. And my friend Alicia says she feels the same twinge of self-doubt around older men. I also suppose that I was taught to do as I'm told. Especially when it came to men. Especially when it came to my stepfather. But the same thing applied to teachers, police, you name it. I was taught to follow the rules. And I did. It wasn't as if I never had disagreements with Jack or Mom. I just usually didn't let my feelings out. Occasionally, I did, but nine times out of ten, I regretted it. Whenever I talked back, or didn't do what I was told, it seemed to come back to haunt me, sooner or later. To be honest, there's a certain ease with being like I am. It's simple. Rebels have to worry about what's going to happen when they get caught. I don't. Now you might understand the dread and fear that I felt as I waited for us to return home, and for my punishment. I had gone against the grain, and I was going to pay for it. But, I was still torn both ways. On the one hand, the last thing I wanted to do was move away. On the other hand, it was the decision that Jack had made, and it wasn't really my place to question it, or to disagree. The knot in the pit of my stomach tightened as we neared home, and the tension in the air between Jack and I grew. He stormed in the door, and immediately began yelling for Mom. I ran upstairs, nearly in tears. He slammed the door to their bedroom, downstairs, and they were yelling. He sounded more pissed than I've ever heard him. I knew what was coming next. Mom's angry voice shot up the stairs, "Sally, get down here! Right now!" I held back my tears, and came downstairs, staring at the floor. I followed her into their bedroom. That's where they always punished me. Jack was sitting in his chair, his face livid. He lectured me about respecting my elders, honoring my father and mother, and about obeying. The lecture was finally over. That meant my spanking was about to begin. I started to cry. Mom got up from the bed, and pulled down my jeans, and told me to step out of them. I did. She spun me around to face their bed, and gave my shoulders a push down towards it. This was part of the drill, too. I bent over at the waist, half-lying on the bed, still crying. This was how they always spanked me. But, I wasn't prepared for Mom to grab my underwear and pull it down around my ankles. I hadn't been spanked bare-bottom since I could remember. The last time had been back in grade school when I had lost my raffle tickets. I lay there, the whole bottom half of my body naked, except for my socks, sobbing hysterically. "Twenty," Jack said. "Twenty? Nooo." I sobbed out. I was crying really hard. I hadn't been spanked more than a few strokes in a long time. Twenty was a lot. A whole lot. Mom began spanking me. I don't know why Jack never did the spankings. He always just sat in the chair at the end of the bed, counting how many times Mom smacked my butt. I suppose it was because if he had spanked me, I probably wouldn't be able to sit down for a week. As it was, Mom gave me the spanking of my life. It hurt like hell. I was crying out of control when she was done. I lay there, crying on their bed, sobbing, until the fire in my bottom had subsided a little bit. Then Jack told me to go to my room. My whole body was shaking with my crying. I got up and grabbed my underwear and jeans. I looked at Jack, letting him see how much I was crying and hurting, hoping that he felt like shit for punishing me. It wasn't until I got up to my room that I realized that he'd been looking at me, too. At his eighteen year old stepdaughter, naked from the waist down. And he hadn't been looking at my face, either. I crawled into bed, my butt stinging and aching badly, angry and hurt and now embarrassed, too. It wasn't the first time that Jack had looked at me. I had caught him leering before. But, you never really want to admit to yourself consciously what's going on. It's like the thought is too gross to actually make it to the front of your head. But as I lay there, crying, I knew that he'd been looking at me. That way. As he had those times before. But just now, he'd seen me naked - really naked - from the front - and there was no denying what I'd seen on his face. To my already chaotic emotions, it added a feeling of embarrassment and shame, and even more resentment for Jack. Despite myself, I got a little thrill from it, too. I cried into my pillow, knowing that I had been wrong to go off on him in the truck. I knew that they had good reasons for moving, and that I shouldn't have been making it any harder on them. Their decision was probably the right one, in the end. Believe it or not, I was sorry, and not just because I'd been punished. * * * On the third ring, he picked up. "Jack? It's Connie," I said, listening intently, trying to hear if he was alone in his office. "Hi, hon. I can't really talk now." He wasn't. Damn. "Ok, well, I just wanted to let you know that Sally's gone for the afternoon." Jack's tone was still guarded, but it switched up a notch with his obvious excitement. "Oh! Great. That should work out just fine. Are you sure?" "Yes, I'm sure. She said she was going to the library, and then to the market for me. We've got at least two hours." I bit a fingernail, suddenly nervous. On the brink. "Fantastic, honey. You're gonna love this, I know." "Jack, I'm not sure about this." My heart was pounding, just thinking about it. My stomach fluttered with growing nervousness, and yet, excitement. "Connie, don't worry," was all he said. "I don't know Jack. What if - " He interrupted, brusquely. "Connie, listen to me. You are going to do this. You want to. You told me yourself. Now cut out the crap, ok?" Then he hung up. I sat there for a minute, still holding the phone, as the butterflies in my stomach fluttered around. I wondered what Jack had in store for me. Jack always seemed to have sex on his mind. It had been that way since the moment I'd met him. I guess it was one of the things that attracted me to him. He seemed so driven, so intense. Sometimes just the fire in his eyes could set me off. When Andy had died, I had felt like a part of me died, too. The grief subsided, but life didn't seem to return to me. I felt like a visitor in my own mind. An alien in my own body. Then I met Jack. His fire brought me back. There was only one word for Jack - lusty. His desire for me had filled me up, and rekindled my own flames. He was the only person I'd met who lived every moment of his life on his own terms. His lust for sex was part of his lust for life. I'd done things with Jack that I never thought I was capable of. Things that I never thought I would want. He was a sexual predator, and I was his prey. He was ruthless with me, crushing my resistance through force of will, and by stoking my body's own desires. His kinks never ceased to shock me, but I knew now that I was helpless to resist them. He would command me, and I found myself not only participating, but reveling in them. One of Jack's kinks was "swinging". We had been doing it for a few years. But Jack had grown more and more restless with our old club. The faces were always the same. The games were boring. I fully understood his need for swinging, and I guess my enthusiasm for it never matched his. So, I could hardly understand it when it became apparent that it wasn't enough for him. It was frustrating. I don't know how, but Jack had heard of something special. The "Society of Silk". It was apparently a unique club. Whether it was a swingers club, or something else, I didn't really know. Jack had told me that after we'd moved, we would join it. Deep down, I suspected that it was the real reason we had moved. I went upstairs and found the key to our toybox. Really, though, it was Jack's toybox. There was no denying it. He tried to get me to take the same interest in collecting and using the stuff he kept inside it, but I had never been able to do it. So, it remained his. Opening it, I felt a touch of sadness at the money, time and effort that he spent on it, and also like an intruder. The toybox wasn't a box at all. No, we had grown out of first a duffle bag, and then a box. We had graduated to a whole mahogany wardrobe, full of stuff. It was always locked, but I was haunted by the possibility that someday someone, maybe Sally, would find it open, and see its contents. Then they'd know about me. About Jack. About our secrets. About the things I did. Inside was a handwritten note from Jack. His scrawl was barely legible on the raggedy-edged spiral notebook paper, but I made out my instructions. They left me breathless. Once again, I was playing one of Jack's games, and I shivered with anticipation and dread. Apparently I would be meeting someone from Jack's new "Society of Silk". It didn't say whom, only that this was an introduction, and a test to prove that we were serious. I was already tingling. * * * It was a hot, sticky August night. The kind that closes in on you, bit by bit, irresistible. Mom and Dad were downstairs watching the TV too loud, and I couldn't sleep. It was just too damn hot. I tossed and turned, but the pillow seemed to radiate a heat of its own. Eventually, I gave up trying to sleep, and turned on the light. I had an idea. I had this book. A trashy book. Well, more than that, really. It was downright nasty. I found it in the library, in the romance section. I had no idea how it got there, but I had happened across it, breezed through the first couple of pages, and I was hooked. There was no way I was going to pass it up. After I read it a couple of times, I knew that I wanted to keep it. I had never read anything like it before, and when I was reading it, it gave me that feeling. So, I told the library that I'd lost it. The librarian hadn't seemed too upset. "Don't worry, honey," she said. "Happens all the time." She gave me a kind of affectionate pat on the hand, and let me off without even the fine. The book was mine. I pulled the book from its hiding place on the bookshelf, tucked behind the dictionary. I lay back down on my stomach, and began reading. Before long, I had begun to forget the heat. I felt that feeling growing inside me. I pulled down my pajama bottoms and lay under the sheet wearing only my underwear and the pajama top. I was still reading slowly, savoring it. Soon I slipped my hand down the front of my underwear, and started touching. The feeling grew. I was beginning to get to a steamy part. I wanted the feeling more and more. I bunched the crotch of my underwear up, and pulled up on the waistband. The bunched-up part began to slide upward. The pressure was was making that feeling grow more insistent. In the book, the unconscious heroine was getting "saved" by the dark, mysterious, and apparently quite horny hero. It was pretty raunchy. I started pressing my body, especially my crotch, downwards onto the sheet. Then, using my toes and elbows for leverage, I started sliding up and down a few inches at a time. It made my underwear slip upwards. Inwards, too. I was flipping the pages faster and faster, and that feeling was beginning to engulf me. I pulled my hand out of my underwear, and slipped it beneath my pajama top. I was so involved that I didn't notice that the TV had been turned off. Or that my parents had already come upstairs. Jack knocked on the door to my bedroom, and walked in. Mom was right behind him. Shit! My heart froze. Thank God I was underneath the sheet, and face down! In a flash, I stuffed the book under my pillow, trying to make it look like I was fluffing up the pillow. Jack and Mom hadn't said goodnight to me together in a long time. Why did they have to pick tonight? Mom smiled, and walked up next to the bed. Jack grunted out a "Pretty hot, huh?" I smiled, putting on a good, show, hoping that they'd just make a quick exit. "Yeah, it's like an oven up here." Smiling, Mom squeezed my foot through the sheet. "Maybe next year we'll have air conditioning, Sally." Jack leaned over the bed, and started opening up the window. "In the meantime, we have a little natural air conditioning." As he struggled with the uncooperative window, he jostled my pillow, and out fell the book. Fuck! My heart stopped again. It seemed like time stopped, too. He leaned down, and scooped it up. He started handing it to me. I saw it in slow motion. He looked at the cover. Disapproval flashed across his face. He opened it. Of course, it fell open to the most well-worn section. The really, really raunchy section. He began reading. My mouth went dry. He seemed stunned. He looked at me, and jabbed a finger into the book. "What is this garbage!?" I was speechless. He looked back into the book, and read for a moment longer. His face grew redder and angrier by the second. "What in Hell is this?!" he thundered. He handed the book to Mom, and bellowed at me again. "I asked you a question, Sally! What the Hell is this piece of garbage?!" I was in deep, deep trouble. Probably worse trouble than I'd ever been in, in my whole life. I instantly regretted ever having laid eyes on the damn book. I looked down at the sheets in remorse, unable to say a word. Jack got very, very quiet. Mom started reading, and after a couple of seconds, gave a little gasp, and covered her mouth with her hand. Jack turned to Mom, his voice suddenly quiet, but deadly. "I told you, Connie." Mom looked at me, her eyes wounded and accusing. "Sally, what is this?" "Mom, it's nothing, it's just a library book." She shook her head, as if in disbelief, and looked at the book like it was a dead fish. Jack said again, "I told you Connie. I knew it. Turn over and look at us when we're speaking to you, Sally!" I suddenly felt completely exposed. I was half naked under the thin sheet, and I had the kind of wedgie only a woman can get. But, I managed to flip over without letting the sheet fall off of me. Thank God. Jack looked at me, his eyes flashing with fury. "What have you been doing, Sally? What have you been doing with this book?!" I shot a quick glance at Mom, desperate for some support, but she was looking at me like I was some kind of alien. "Nothing, Dad, I told you," The second the word 'dad' came out of my mouth, I knew it sounded like an ass-kiss. Hell, it was. Jack opened his mouth to say something, but Mom beat him to the punch. "I don't believe you. If you were doing 'nothing', why did you try to hide this from us?" Jack offered his huge hand to me. I looked at him, confused. His face was still a mask of anger, but he gesture was like he was making up. I put my hand on his. The next thing that happened will go down as one of the worst moments of my life. He pulled my hand up to his face, and smelled my fingers. My jaw dropped. I'd been touching myself with - ! He breathed deep, and then announced, "I knew it." Please let me die, I thought. Mom realized what he was doing, or maybe what I had done, and gave a little cry, like she'd been hurt. Her face was crumbling. She turned towards me, her face breaking up like shards. "Sally, you haven't - you didn't." It was less a question than a statement. "Hell, yes, she has been! Goddamnit, Connie, smell her fingers." I tried to pull my hand away, but he held on tight. I was looking at Mom, hoping, hoping that she'd stand up for me. Hoping that she'd give me a way out. She seemed broken. Jack held up my hand for her, and she sniffed my fingers, her face falling apart. There was a flicker of hope, though. "I don't know, Jack. I don't know. It doesn't smell like... " Her voice trailed off, leaving the words unspoken. But they still hung in the air, which was crackling with tension. Jack's face contorted with fury. His first few words were like staccato rifle shots. "God - damn - it, Connie, I know that smell! And so do you. I told you she was plenty old enough. You kept saying that she's too young. Well, Goddamnit, seems like she's old enough, now!" Mom shook her head, looking back and forth from his face to mine. "Connie, if you don't believe it, smell her!" He jabbed his finger at me, pointing. Mom gasped. "Jack!" "That's IT!" Jack exploded. "DO IT NOW!" Mom's resistance crumbled. I watched in horror as she pulled my sheet down to my feet with a clean jerk. The pajama-bottom-less lower half of my body was exposed. My obscene wedgie, too. I really would have been better off if I hadn't done that with my underwear. It had slid - up, and between, quite snugly. The effect had been electrifying just moments before, but I felt a wave of nausea hit me as I looked at myself. Jack and Mom just stared, stunned, their jaws slack. Jack was the first to speak. The growled, through his clenched teeth. "Smell it, Connie." The words seemed to set Mom into motion like a robot. She woodenly leaned over, her nose a couple of inches from my underwear- parted crotch. She sniffed, and then stood up. Jack hissed, "I told you! She's not mature enough, huh? Not old enough, huh? She's still just a girl, huh, Connie?" He dropped my hand. "Stand up, Sally!" he was livid. I felt the muscles in my face flex suddenly, as I swallowed. I swung my naked legs off the bed, and stood up. "I want to see just how much of a child Sally is, Connie," Jack said. "Take off your pajamas," He snarled. "And, that, too," as he pointed at my underwear. "Mom," I pleaded, looking at her. But my voice felt so small, and now she just looked angry, too. "Shut up, Sally," she said. The words were like a slap. "He has a right to know. He's your father." Step-father, I said in my head. Step-father. I hesitated, my hands shaking. Mom commanded, "Now, Sally! Jack asked you to do something!" I unbuttoned my pajama top, but I stopped when I got to the last button. I couldn't help it. I was eighteen years old. Nobody, but nobody, had seen me like this. Least of all Jack. I closed my eyes and pulled the top open. Then I pulled it off, and let it fall to the floor. Then I slid my hands down my sides, under the waistband of my underwear. I pushed my hands and the waistband out, away from my body, and pulled down. The crotch stayed wedged where it was as I pulled down, until my hands got to my knees. Then the crotch pulled free. I stepped out of it. As I did, Jack said, "Give it to me." I held my twisted and bunched-up underwear out to him, not daring to look up. He took it, and I covered my chest with one hand, and my crotch with the other. I stared at the floor. "They're wet. Soaking." I heard Jack sniff them. "I knew it, Connie." I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. "Put your hands down, Goddamnit!" Jack snarled. I did. There was a long, long moment. I stared at the floor. They were staring at me. It seemed like minutes passed. There wasn't a sound, except the pounding of my heart in my own ears. I realized that I'd been holding my breath, and I suddenly gasped for air, trying to be quiet. But I couldn't control my breathing. I felt strangled. I gasped again and again, struggling to catch my breath. Finally, Jack said, "Turn around." I did. There was another long pause. Jack picked up my pajama top. He walked to the end of the bed, and pulled the matching bottoms from under the sheet. He slowly walked to the door. His big feet sounded so loud. I snuck a look up at him. He was standing in the doorway, looking back at me, his face furious. He was holding my pajamas in one hand, and my white undies were balled up in his other fist. He turned and walked out. Mom followed him, shutting my door behind her. I burst into tears. * * * "Allison Pierce, please. I have a private room reserved." The maitre d' looked up at me indifferently. God, these yuppie places were awful. He led me through the main dining room, which was nearly full. The delicate clink of silverware and glasses mixed with a murmur of conversation, the trill of laughter, and some subtle chamber music. It was too perfect. Still, it was policy to conduct initial interviews in a public place. And we couldn't use the same restaurant too often, so a member had recommended this place. It was fine, really. Just not my style. The reserved room was quiet, shadowy, and intimate. Just right. I ordered a glass of wine, and waited. There had only been one other case like theirs. Mark and Antonia had dropped out of a clear blue sky, much like these two. Eventually I decided that they were Society material, and we had accepted them. My judgment of their character had been 100% correct, and they had quickly become a very valuable and interesting part of the Society. The man had contacted us through the usual means, and they had already passed the first test. Or, at least the woman had. From Alec's report, and the video, the stranger's wife had proven that they were already well acquainted with the activities the Society existed to support. "Delicious," Alec had said. Yet, I was hesitant about these unknowns, as I had been with Mark and Antonia. There were few people like us, and we tended to gravitate to one another. The circle was really quite small, and everyone knew nearly everyone, from coast to coast. So, it was with justified, but, of course, hidden suspicion that I greeted Jack and Connie. I had to admit, they were a striking couple. He was a big man, powerfully built, like what one imagines a John Henry would look like. She was petite, and beautiful. I appraised their clothes, their carriage, their demeanor, and their faces as they approached. We made introductions, and they sat down. Now much closer, my appraisal became more subtle, more focused. She was made up exquisitely, and obviously had endeavored to enhance her eyes. The effect was not lost on me. She had accented her natural beauty and mannerisms quite well. Her eyes flashed, dark and inviting. Her sidelong and shy glances were enticing. I was impressed with her show. She was also dressed appropriately. The statement her black dress made was the right mix of understated revelation. The kind that made the beholder think they were seeing more than they were. The kind of dress that didn't stand out too much, but did invite further interest. We ordered drinks, and I sized up the man. His physical presence was arresting. He seemed to fill up a larger volume of space than he physically occupied. He projected a field around him. A circle of intimidation. It wasn't attributable solely to his stature. His bearing bespoke unassailable confidence. A total assuredness. Our eyes locked briefly, and I wasn't surprised to find him appraising me, as well. In him I saw drive and intensity. Perhaps something more, as well. He was attractive, too. In a rugged, cut-from-stone way. I imagined him being a rough lover, perhaps even brutal. It was clear that her wore the pants. More than that. Connie was quite obviously submissive, and Jack her dominant. The drinks arrived, and our waiter departed, leaving us in peace. "It's nice to meet you, Jack," I said. He smiled at me. "And it's nice to see you, again, Connie. Face to face." I emphasized 'again'. The first time I had seen Connie, it had been on videotape. She had been wearing considerably less then she was this evening. And, quite contrary to her charming, demure manner at the moment, she had been engaged in some activities that one could only describe as very "base". The kind that I delighted in as Mistress. Her eyes fluttered wide, and she drew a small, surprised breath as she realized the implications of my greeting. I could almost see the thoughts forming in her mind: 'Again.' That means she saw before, when I was - ! "Oh!" she said, a bit surprised. A tiny blush crept into her face. Evidently Jack hadn't told her that her first "performance" for the Society had been videotaped. Interesting. "It's nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Pierce," she said, her eyes flashing from mine to her husband's. I smiled, not acknowledging my observation, as I told her "Please, Connie, call me Allison." Dinner went well. By mutual, unspoken agreement, we avoided any direct discussion of the Society. Instead, I interviewed them, as subtly as I knew how, wringing as much information from them as I could. I learned about his job, their daughter, her first husband's death, how they met, a bit about their political views, their previous association with a swingers club, and more. Throughout, I was constantly reassessing my mental picture of them both, and of their relationship. My initial impression of power dynamic between them seemed to be correct. He held the power in their relationship. She obeyed him. Evidently they had tried to instill similar values into their daughter, through home schooling, their rural isolation, and what I sense was a Draconian strictness. Whether this lifestyle and upbringing was consciously chosen, or not, I couldn't yet say. They were an interesting couple. I didn't reject them out of hand. In fact, I sensed my own strong attraction to Jack, and believed that some of our members would feel the same way. Connie was lovely creature, as well, although I didn't really find her personally attractive. Too petite for me. And I didn't particularly care for brunettes. During our conversation, I had gently probed her, trying to elicit more from her. I was worried that she was one-dimensional, and I was rewarded with the spark of something more beginning to light in her eyes, but I felt her holding back in the presence of Jack. It was easy to see why. Jack was commanding. His air of self- confidence was almost too much. It set off a small alarm in my head. He might be reckless. Self-doubt was not always a bad thing. It made one careful. I felt sure that Jack possessed little in the way of self-doubt. The question of his ability to be circumspect thus came to my mind. There was also another issue. It was obvious that Jack was motivating their request to join the Society. Connie was along for the ride, as it were. At least, that's what I gleaned initially. If it were true, it might well have been grounds to refuse to admit them. So, we concluded dinner with a round of liqueurs. Naturally, I picked up the tab. "I've enjoyed meeting you both very much," I said. Jack grinned back at me. "Me too." Connie only smiled and nodded at me, twirling the stem of her glass. I explained that it was uncommon for strangers to ask to become one of us, and people with interests like ours generally knew one another. It was a small world. "So, I hope you'll understand that I would like to move forward slowly," I told Jack. He nodded, his big hands folded carefully on the table, revealing his Rolex. "First, I'll need to check your references, of course. And I'll discuss things with some of my advisors in the Society. We'll contact you shortly." Jack broke into a small smile of triumph. Connie seemed relieved. "I must warn you, though. There will probably be a period of, well, testing. You have to understand that we know nothing about you. We want, as I'm sure you do, to have a compatible match. We may ask you to do some things, so we can get to know you better. So we can see if we think that your interests match ours." So we can see what your limits are, too. So we can find out just if, and where, you'll fit in. So we can see if you're reckless, Jack. So we can see if you have too many doubts, Connie. Marriages break over things like this, and broken hearts often want revenge. The Society would have none of that. * * * I needed money. There are just some things you have to have, these days, especially when your name was James Pierce, III. Naturally, these things cost money. Usually a whole hell of a lot of money. First off, there was the car. A brand new Saab, loaded with all of the bells and whistles. Why not a BMW? Too trendy - too yuppie. Why not a jag? Too stuffy. Nope, for me, it was the Saab. Two of them. And a Land Rover, for the winter. Then, of course, there was the "house". The Pit. Do you know what a decent 5 bedroom with 3 car garage, hot tub, pool, 5 acres, a few out-buildings, and a lake view costs these days? And you couldn't possibly furnish such a house for less than a quarter million. The Pit. The Money Pit. They just didn't make "real" houses like this anymore. You could buy one that looked like it, but it wasn't the same. It was new. Cheap. And they always built them in the shittiest locations. No, you had to find one of these babies on your own. Find some rich old bird who was about to kick, and buy it off of her. That's what we did. But what a fucking piece of shit! The place leaked. The plumbing had given out - twice! There was the maintenance for the grounds. The new roof for the carriage house. The list went on and on. Then there was the club membership. Insurance. The house staff's salary. And I had to show up at the right restaurants and stores at least once in a while. Gotta be able to piss with the big boys if you want to play ball, eh? Of course, there was also that fucking monstrous joke my wife called her group of "friends". The Society. Bunch of fucking intellectual bullshitters who wanted to make a simple fuck into something it's not. Christ, that Society was costing us! What was the bottom line? Bills. Lots and lots of 'em. Mountains of paper with lots of dollar figures printed in mass quantities and shipped directly to my door. Well, to the accountant's door, anyhow. He tells me about them, so I know that there are mountains of them. For this, I will always despise my accountant. "James," he said, leaning over his desk and choking me with his coffee breath. "James, you have to start trimming." He gave me a list of things to consider "trimming." The house was on the top of the list. Bastard. He asked me to come back with "At least five of the things on the list, ready to be trimmed." James Pierce didn't "trim". The little fuck just didn't know that. No, I wasn't going to trim a goddamn thing. I just needed to fatten up accounts receivable for the little bean-counter. Then maybe I'd go ahead and buy that boat. That's what I thought for awhile. I ignored the accountant's whining, and pretended it was business as usual. I stopped returning his phone calls. A couple of months went by, and I assumed all was well. Then I got a letter from him. I was about to default on the mortgage. I had never had this problem before. You don't become VP of Sales and Marketing of Universal Chemical by trimming. You do it by dragging in huge massive gigantic sales figures, kicking and screaming. Even if you have to resort to dirty tricks on the competition. I was good at this. So why had this year been so bleak? Why had BCT's orders been so low? BCT had always been Universal's biggest customer. Their orders were so enormous that they literally made the company. 47% of gross sales were from BCT. Some years BCT ordered in two or three huge chunks, and others, there were a dozen or so small orders through the year, and one whopping one at the end. That was how this year had been shaping up. Except that there was no whopper in sight. No whopper meant - well, it meant a lot of bad things. Universal would post a massive loss. My commission would be pitiful. My bonus would probably be laughable, too. I would lose more face than I could imagine. I might even get "re-engineered" out the goddamn door. No whopper meant I was definitely going to lose the house. I wasn't about to let this happen. I sat on the couch in the trophy room, watching the fire die. The whiskey was good. I heard the Saab pulling up the driveway, the gravel crunching under its tires. Allison was finally getting in. I heard her gun it too hard for 2nd gear, and the sound of flying gravel. "Christ, still can't drive it," I muttered to myself. She had probably fucked a dozen guys at one of those goddamn meetings. She didn't even say hello, just went upstairs to bed. I poured again, and put another log on the fire. * * * It got worse every year. It was as if Dean Pierce knew exactly how to make my life hell. First there was the change in the uniform policy. The students now had to wear those pleated plaid skirts with hems 4 inches above their knees. It was ridiculous! It was obscene! And Pierce had insisted on it, claiming that times had changed, and that the Academy must change with them. It was a "modern age," she'd said, and "the girls will love it". Baloney! Of course they'll love it! But this wasn't bloody MTV, was it? It was a school! The worst part of it was that she was enforcing the new rule ruthlessly. She actually had spot inspections of uniforms, and would carry around a ruler to check their length. As if that wasn't bad enough, the old rule about black socks had been abolished. Now, the students had to wear either black knee socks that reached above their hemline, or something called "thigh highs". Needless to say, the young women of the Academy being what they were - rebellious teenage rule benders (if not outright rule breakers) - there wasn't a day that I wasn't treated to a wholly unasked-for glimpse of nubile white thighs. Those damn short black and red plaid skirts were notorious for riding up as they bent over their lockers, blowing up in the wind, and falling open or to the side at the slightest provocation. Why, in the first two weeks of this semester alone, I had seen creamy thighs at least a dozen times, and on four occasions had been witness to the appearance of panties! (Three white cotton, and one flower-print nylon pair.) The tease value had gone off the scale. Now, instead of constant exposure to lean, lithe, nude legs, and an occasional temptation to peek for the odd up-the-skirt look, I was constantly reminded that just an inch or two above their skirts, I could see their bare legs, and more, if I was lucky. It was terrible. Finally, there were the blouses. Gone were the days of safe, knit-cotton and polyester oxford shirts. Alas. Now they were wearing these short-sleeve scoop-neck pullovers. Black. If a student were to wear a bra even a shade different than jet black, it was instantly apparent. It was if they weren't even wearing blouses at all. Even from the front, under the jittering fluorescent lights, I could make out the outline of their bras. Blast! I had constantly waged a war with myself during my tenure at the Academy. A war of temptation and virtue. A war of longing and righteousness. I had always had a thing for ripe young women. For glimpses into their budding sexuality, and for stolen looks at their firm, young, taught, bodies. I feared that I was doomed. I despaired that I would give in to temptation. If temptation vanquished virtue, the consequences could be enormous. I didn't trust myself to be able to recover from even the slightest slide down the slope of sin. I feared that I would plunge headlong into the pit, forgetting all else. My job, my career, my reputation. All could be lost. To make matters worse, I had a new assignment. I was teaching senior art. It was a one-on-one class, as were most senior-year classes. The Academy was very small, and very selective. This was wonderful for both students and teachers. Except in certain situations. Such as mine. Was it me, or did most of the eighteen-year olds of this day and age have the voluptuous physical maturity of a woman of at least twenty? Worst of all, there was this transfer student. Sally Thompson. She was my Lolita. She was barely eighteen, but as I've noted, a very well developed young woman. Stunning, actually. She was on the tall side, and had straight, blonde hair, which she usually wore up, in a girlish ponytail. Her eyes were deep blue, and she had a cute, innocent face. Schoolgirlish was the only appropriate word. She was very gentle, soft spoken, and demure. Her voice bespoke sweetness, innocence, and above all, trust. It was this implicit trust, this simple naivete, which was Sally's most prominent feature. Her suggestibility was demonstrated perfectly during one of our recent classes. The senior art instructor is given a fair degree of latitude, as are the teachers of most senior classes. Our goal at the Academy is deliver a unique education of the finest quality. Something that is a rarity in today's world of standardized tests. It was with this in mind that I began our art curriculum with drawing. Nudes. There was the small matter of securing the consent of her parents, which was not a problem. They didn't even call to talk to me, as many parents did. So I hired a nude model. Sally seemed quite a bit embarrassed, at first, but by the fourth week of instruction, she had overcome all of her initial discomfort. She and I would both draw, using the model. I would then critique her work, and compare it with mine. It so happened that one particular afternoon, the model had called in sick. My mind whirred with perverse possibilities, involving my curvaceous young student, but I quickly quelled my thoughts. I contented myself with asking Sally to model for me for a while, and then I would model for her. Clothed, of course. She readily agreed, and we began. Some minutes into her session, I dropped my charcoal, and stooped to pick it up. My back caught with a loud and painful "crack". I regained my composure, and stood up, muttering thankfully to myself that I'd "been closer" to not being able to stand. When I looked up, I nearly died of shock. When I had stooped down, Sally had been turned three-quarters view away from me, her hands on her hips. This was a pose which I believed she'd have little difficulty maintaining for a few minutes, and which was easy to draw. But when I looked up, she had bent over completely at the waist. Her hands were still on her hips, and her blond ponytail hung over her head like a mane. Worst of all, her short skirt had ridden high up her rear end, revealing not only the strong, lightly-tanned tops of her thighs, above her black knee socks, but also a good three inches of her buttocks. She was wearing a pair of white cotton briefs, which were most likely the "bikini" or "french bikini" or "high cut" variety, because the strip of cloth that ran between her buttocks was rather narrow, and had ridden up a bit. I sputtered, dumbstruck, unable to tear my eyes away. I could make out how narrowly and tightly her panties covered her crotch. I could see quite clearly the outline her bulging mons and labia made against the thin white cloth. I could even see a few wispy blonde public hairs. I felt wild desire surge through me, and my John Thomas snapped to attention. Well, he began to wake up, anyhow. I finally found my tongue. "Sally! Sally!" was all I could manage, though. Still bent nearly double, she looked at me, upside down. "Yes, Mr. Howard?" "I - you needn't bend over so. I - that is, um, I believe it's time for us to switch." She straightened up, and bouncing down from the platform, gave me a bright grin. Completely ingenuous. Still baffled and stunned, I took up my pose. She remarked, "I guess you changed your mind about wanting me to 'bend over'?" Bend over? No - "been closer"! She had misunderstood my muttering for a request to bend over. Her tone spoke volumes. In it, I heard more than just her words. It hit me. Sally's suggestibility, that is. Her tone told me, "I thought there was something a bit odd about you asking me to bend over for you. After all, I know that you'll be looking right at my behind." But she had gone ahead and done it, anyhow. Something clicked, and it wasn't my back. The last few weeks with Sally had been full of tiny hints about her, but I hadn't been able to put them all together, until now. She was so careful about rules, and about authority figures... I smiled back at her question. "Yes, perhaps next time, dear. Besides, we're running out of time for today." "Dirty old man," I thought to myself with glee. * * * I really liked drawing. It was one of the many things that I had come to look forward to at my new school. The Academy was like a breath of fresh air. It was fun, and exciting, and I loved it. My art teacher, Mr. Howard, was an older guy. I say older, but really he wasn't old-old. Older than Mom and Jack, but he wasn't really old. I'd guess you'd call him middle aged. Anyhow, I drawing had become one of my favorite subjects. There was something peaceful and soothing about it. It was like you had to learn a new way of looking through your eyes. Mr. Howard said that I was good at it, too. It was one of the two classes that I had one-on-one with my teacher. The other was piano, with Mrs. Wolford. But I liked art much better. Mr. Howard was really nice, and very patient. He said that I was learning very quickly, and that I was a natural. So, I was thrilled when he asked if I was interested in doing some extra drawing. "I think you'd benefit from more in-depth sessions," he said. "An hour just isn't long enough, usually. By the time you're getting warmed up, the bell rings." It was true. Sometimes I could hardly believe that an hour had passed when I was drawing. I got so absorbed in it. He asked if Friday would be good. On Friday, art was my last class of the day, and so he proposed that we just extend the class into the afternoon. "But," he added, "you'd better check with your parents, since Friday is the start of long weekend, and everyone will be clearing out as soon as the last bell rings." I asked how long we would draw, and he said, "As long as you want. You can call your parents for a ride home, if you'd like, or I can give you a lift." I asked Mom about it when I got home from school, and she said she didn't mind, but that I should ask Jack. I did, and I think he hardly even heard me. Too busy watching football. Friday rolled around, and I was really looking forward to art class. The day dragged on, and finally I made it up to the art studio, ready to become the next Picasso. Mr. Howard seemed glad to see me, as he always did. "Ready for some serious art?" He asked, joking. I made a show of rubbing my hands together, and pretending to crack my knuckles, like a pianist limbering up. We spent the hour drawing with the model. Time flew. Before I knew it, the last bell of the day was ringing. Mr. Howard smiled at me, "Today, we don't have to stop!" "This is great, Mr. Howard. I really appreciate you taking this time." He patted my shoulder. "Of course, Sally, of course." The model had to leave. Mr. Howard explained that he couldn't afford to pay during our extra sessions, because it wasn't in the budget. "Anyhow," he said, "I think we need a little break. It's too noisy with everyone rushing out to get home for the weekend, anyway. I'm going to my office for a few minutes. Why don't we meet back here in half an hour, after things have calmed down. Then we'll get down to business." It was just as well. I went to my locker, and organized my stuff. The halls emptied out quickly, and the janitor started making his rounds. By the time I walked back up to the third floor, and into the art wing, the place was deserted. Mr. Howard was waiting for me. He smiled as I walked in. "Why don't you just put your books and jacket over here? Now, Sally, I was thinking that what we need to get is some good light. The light in the main studio, here, is all wrong at this time of day." He was walking towards the back of the studio. I followed him, and went out through the back door of the studio, and rounded the corner. There was a locked door, and the back staircase, leading down. He fished a set of keys from his pocket. "I think this room has a window facing west. It should be perfect." He opened the door. It was some sort of art supply room. It was small, and cluttered with all sorts of stuff. There was an old brown sofa, cans of paint and gesso, and rolls of canvas. It was a mess, and a bit dusty. Near the window, I could see that he'd set up an easel, with paper and charcoal. He ushered me in, and closed the door behind us. "See, the light is much better in here at this time of day." He gestured to the window. The view was nice. This room was on the back corner of the main school building, and it looked down over the soccer field, and into the forest beyond it. The sun was beginning to sink towards the horizon. "Now, Sally, I've been thinking. I was thinking that we don't have a model, and that his could be a problem. But then it occurred to me. You and I can model for each other, like we did the day she was sick, right?" "Yes, Mr. Howard, that would be great." "I was also thinking, that perhaps this was for the best. Because, as an artist, you have to have a connection to your model. Your connection to your subject will always show in your work. So, it occurred to me that this was a unique opportunity for you to develop a special connection to the model." He looked at me, expectantly. "Oh, I see, Mr. Howard. By modeling myself, I'm putting myself in the model's shoes. So the next time I'm drawing a model, I have a real connection to my subject." He nodded, beaming. "Exactly." He modeled for me, first. The light was streaming through the window, and I felt like an artist. I could feel my creative energy. I fleetingly pictured myself as a famous artist. I liked the picture. It seemed like only a few moments had passed, before Mr. Howard cleared his throat to get my attention. "I'm sorry, dear, but my legs and back just aren't what they used to be. Do you mind terribly if we switch?" I didn't mind at all! So, we switched. He moved the easel away from the window, closer to where I was standing. "Mr. Howard, how should I model?" I looked around the room, which was cluttered with junk. The sofa looked like it had seen better days. "Um, let's see." He frowned, looking around for something. "There's really nothing for you to sit on, is there." "No, not really." "Ok, fine, well, until we get that sofa cleared off, how about this? Um, stand there, by the end of the couch, and put one foot up on the arm, and reach down like you're tying your shoe." It was a simple enough position. Mr. Howard had warned me that one must always ask the model to pose in a position that they could hold long enough for you to draw. Modeling, he'd said, was more physically demanding than you might think. He was right. I held it for as long as I could. Even just leaning over like that was making my muscles ache. After a few minutes, I looked up. "Mr. Howard?" "Yes, Sally?" "My legs are starting to get a little tired." "Oh, of course dear. I'm glad you spoke up. Why don't you relax, and stretch a bit." I did, walking around in a little circle, flexing my shaky leg muscles. "Bend over and touch your toes, Sally, it will help your circulation." I did, and it did help. After a tapping my toes a few times, my legs were feeling like they were returning to normal. I looked up again. Mr. Howard was smiling at me. "Ready, then, Sally?" "Yes, sir." "Let's see. This time, hmm. Sally, do you think you could sit on one of those paint buckets? It might be easier on your legs, hmm?" I grabbed one of the big white buckets he was pointing to. They were wide, five gallon buckets, filled with paint. I heaved one over from the corner, and maneuvered it next to the couch. It was pretty low to the ground, but it did look like it would be better than standing. I sat down, and tried to get comfortable. It was a little bit awkward, because it was so low. With my penny loafers together, my knees were up above my waist. I leaned forward a bit, and crossed my arms over my knees. It wasn't so bad. I was pretty sure I could hold still like this for awhile. "Sally, dear, turn towards me a bit. I'd like to do a three- quarters view, rather than a profile." I turned towards him until he said, "Perfect. Ok, now hold it." He drew, and I watched him in my peripheral vision. He was working quickly and animatedly. The charcoal made a scritching noise on the paper. He did a quick study, and then tore off the paper, letting it drift to the floor. Then he began working in earnest. I watched the sun set behind him, out the open window, as he drew. It was a clear fall day, and the leaves were beginning to turn. It was beautiful. Mr. Howard straightened up, and rubbed his nose with the back of his charcoal-covered hand. He looked from the paper to me, and back again. "I think that's a good one, for this angle," he said. It was just as well, because my back muscles were beginning to complain. "One more?" He asked. I smiled back at him. "Sure!" This was great. Becoming an artist. "Ok, now for this one, I think we need something a little more dramatic." He paused. "I know. Just stay seated, there, but lean back. I did. "A bit more." I leaned back even farther. It felt very awkward. My hands were now folded in my lap, but my shoulders and upper body hung off the back of bucket, unsupported. My center of gravity was way off, and my back muscles protested. To compensate, I put my hands on the floor behind me, holding up my torso. It was much better. "Yes, that's it. Can you lean back just a bit more, Sally?" It was no problem, really. My arms would get tired faster, but I could hold it for a while. "Perfect, dear," he said. I was almost parallel with the floor, supported by my arms and hands, my butt, on the bucket, and my feet. It was almost like doing the "crab walk" race we had done at one of Jack's company picnics, when I was a kid. "Now, Sally, do you think you could just let you head roll back? Look up at the ceiling." Again, I listened to the scritch, scratch of him drawing. Before long, it was time to go. I had enjoyed myself immensely, even though I hadn't gotten to draw much. Mr. Howard and I looked over my drawings, and we critiqued them together. Then we looked at some of his. I like the light in the drawings he had done of my standing with my foot up on the couch. I wanted to look at the rest, but Mr. Howard reminded me that it was getting late. Shit! The time! I had promised Mom that we wouldn't go any later than supper. I thanked Mr. Howard, and ran down to the phone on the first floor. Mom was a little bit upset when she picked me up, but I was really excited about drawing, and I think she felt better that I was enjoying it so much. At least she didn't tell Jack that I had called late, and get me in trouble. * * * I waited until I was home. It was all I could do to rush in the door, charge into the bathroom, and unroll the sketches on the tile floor. I was ready to explode. There she was. Even in my crude rendering, I could see the reflection of her. She was beautiful. I fished my semi-hard member from my pants, and began stroking it. Images of the afternoon burned in my mind. She was so gorgeous. And so oblivious. Sitting there on that paint bucket, she had no idea of the show she was giving me. Because of the height of the bucket, her plaid school uniform skirt had fell open to both sides. It had still covered her lap and the tops of her legs, to her knees, but it left nothing to the imagination below. I had stared in rapture for twenty minutes at the creamy expanse of her fleshy thighs above the tight black embrace of her knee socks. I had gorged my eyes on the narrow white strip of panties that emerged from underneath her round buttocks, tightly covering her mound. This thin white strip of cloth cupped her firmly, disappearing between her closed legs. I had openly gawked at it, and found I was even able to make out the swell and curve of each of petals that lay hidden beneath. It was a heavenly, hellish tease. I loved it. Sally's ladylike feet-together stance only made it all the more entrancing. Then, when she had stretched backwards... Good God! She had obviously construed the pose as completely innocent. But the position was entrancing. Her body had ample curves, which might someday sag with age, but which were now so full, perky and taught that they were made me ache. She had stretched out and back, throwing her head back, pushing her chest out, which put a gentle arch into her back. I nearly lost it, right then. Her breasts were quite large, so much so that they seemed to strain against her blouse. As she shifted one last time, getting into the new pose, they had jiggled slightly, wobbling suggestively. Her long hair looked like spun gold. I looked down at my drawings, at my attempt to capture her image. But it couldn't compare with the picture in my mind. I gave in to my wicked imagination, fueled with the images of her ripe young body. I ruined my charcoal renderings, standing over them. Guilt, or perhaps prudence, caught up with me, though. I spent the better part of the weekend frittering away with worry. What if she had already blown the whistle? Monday, the holiday, came and went all too slowly. There was still no phone call from the school, or from the police. So, I gathered my courage, told myself all was well, and went to school. It wasn't until I saw Sally's cheerful, innocent face, beaming at me, and heard her bubbling excitement about "being an artist", that I knew I was safe. Relief flooded through me. But the temptation came rushing back. I had to have more. I arranged for us to meet again the following Friday, even though there was no holiday weekend. Sally seemed overjoyed. I worried that there would be more people around, and that it would be that much easier for us to get caught. But I counted the days, hardly able to stand the waiting. In preparation, I cleaned up the supply room, arranging it so it fitted my plans perfectly. I told the model that it wouldn't she wouldn't be needed on Friday at all. Everything was ready. Our time finally arrived. I led Sally back to the supply room, and she got settled. I slipped back out into the studio, and locked its door. Now the only way we could be disturbed was by someone coming up the back stairs, and I would easily be able to hear that. I returned to find Sally standing at the easel, ready to draw. I took up a pose for her, and surreptitiously checked my watch. I would give her a few minutes, and then step down, with the excuse that my back was troublesome. She seemed to buy the story. She even seemed happy to pose again for me. Not an ounce of disappointment. With my heart pounding, and a warm stirring in my trousers, I asked her to pose. Nothing particularly risque. Just to get her and I both warmed up. When she started to tire, she asked for a break. Naturally, I agreed. While she was stretching, I unveiled a little surprise. I had set up a large, full length mirror, several feet wide, behind the couch and the area she posed in. "So you can see yourself while you're stretching, dear," I told her, pulling off the piece of canvas I had covered it with. "Oh, thanks, Mr. Howard. It's perfect." She smiled at me again. Her face was so bright, so alive. Her schoolgirl charm only drove me on. She didn't seem to consider that I could have any ulterior motive for the mirror. Or that its reflection might reveal anything she didn't intend for me to see. Her innocence was astonishing. We did another pose, also tame. I made it a quick one, though. After a few minutes, I announced, "Ok, I think we'll try something more dramatic again." Sally looked up, grinning. "Great! What should I do?" "I think I should do a study of your legs. They are a very important feature, and can be very difficult to get right. Especially with an element of perspective." Legs. God, did I want to do her legs. But here was the tricky part. "I think, also, that it would be better, especially in this light, if I didn't have to contend with the black of those socks. Don't you think?" She looked down at them, and around the room, as if checking out the light. "Yes, Mr. Howard, I see what you mean." Here goes. "Ok, then, Sally, why don't you just take them off for the next couple of poses? Your shoes, too." She grinned at me again, "Yes, sir." Baby steps, Bill. Baby steps, I told myself. I forced myself to turn around, to give her a chance to take them off without me looking. "Ok, Mr. Howard." I turned around, and my breath caught as I saw her. Those legs! She had long, thick, toned legs, without being overly muscular. Her calves were quite prominent, and her ankles were so small and delicate. It was a vision. I reigned myself in, before I lost control. I asked her to do several more tame poses, not knowing how far I could push things, how fast. I reasoned that small steps were the best thing. This time, no socks. Next time, who knows, I told myself. Just go slow. Before long, the session was over. She bounded out of the room, bubbling with youthful energy. I watched her ample breasts bounce with her laughter, trying not to be too obvious. Before she went, though, I added, as off-handedly as I could, that next Friday, she should just take off the socks as she was getting settled, so we could get down to drawing that much faster. She didn't even blink. "Sure, Mr. Howard. Thanks again, it was great!" Then she was gone. I slunk home, weary with tension, but celebrating. The week crawled by. It was interminable. I began wondering. If we continued with these once-a-week sessions, I might never get anywhere. Not at the pace it was going. I didn't think I could wait that long. When you get older, you don't get more patient - you get less. Friday arrived again, and I hurried to get to the supply room. When I arrived, I found Sally waiting outside the door, her black socks clutched in one hand. Her bare legs beckoned me. "Sorry I'm late, Sally." "Oh, that's ok, Mr. Howard. I'm usually late myself." We got inside and got started. This time, when her turn came to pose, I didn't wait to turn up the heat. "Ok, Sally. This time I'd like to do some more leg studies. Ok?" She nodded. "First, let's get one with you on the couch, here." I arranged her so that she was lying on her back on the couch, propped up on her elbows, the back of her head resting on the arm of the couch. Then I told her to bend the leg nearest to me at the knee, and to point her toes. I watched as her plaid skirt flipped up, exactly what I had hoped for. The pose had bared the leg nearest to me, from her toes nearly to her hip. Her legs were incredible! The activity in my trousers had gone beyond mere stirring, this time. It had now become a salute. The next pose was more daring. After she had recovered, I summoned my courage. "Ok, Sally. This time, why don't you stand up, and face away from me. That's it. Now, stand with your feet a bit farther apart. Uh-huh, a bit more. Yes. Now, I'd like to get a better study of your thighs, so if you would, just hold your skirt up a bit in back, so I can see them." I held my breath, watching the reflection of her face in the mirror for her reaction. I watched, studying, hoping. But she seemed either oblivious or unconcerned. She reached to the sides, and grabbed the hem of her skirt. She began to raise it, craning her head around so she could see how high it had risen in back. I watched the hem inch upwards like a curtain, revealing more and more of her creamy, long legs. She must have been a gazelle in a previous life. My eyes flicked up from her legs to her reflection in the mirror she faced. I nearly gasped out loud. She hadn't realized it, but in pulling the hem of the short uniform skirt upwards in back, she had pulled it much, much higher in front. I could see her white cotton panties, from crotch to waistband, and her flat tummy, all the way to her navel. They were cut so high! The thin straps arched over her hips. The gentle curve of her lower belly, covered in white, was too much. I openly stared, drinking in the sight of her panty-covered mons. Sally had wide hips, wider than I thought, at least judging from her slim waist and flat tummy. The combination was mesmerizing, and my eyes would stray for a moment across her hips, or her belly, but they kept returning to her mound, hidden beneath thin white cotton. I caught her looking back at me expectantly. "Oh, um, yes, that's it Sally. A bit higher, though, please." She inched her skirt up higher still, as I gestured for her to continue, until the hem was grazing just beneath the curve of her round, jutting buttocks. "That's it, Sally. Now hold it there." She smiled back at me. "Ok, Mr. Howard." I was in heaven. I drew for a few minutes. Well, I didn't actually do much drawing. I mostly stared at the radiant creature before me, so willing and nubile. But I had to have more. I was desperate for it. "Now Sally, I want to do one more. This time, just get down on all your hands and knees, please. Yes, that's it, facing away from the easel." The dog's eye view. "Now, dear, I'd like to continue on your legs, so if you could move your skirt out of the way again." I held my breath again, waiting for the fatal reaction. For a cry of 'foul'. But none came. She simply did what I asked her to, raising the hem of her skirt with one hand, until it was just below her gorgeous, round ass. I could catch a fleeting glimpse the thin white strip of panties running between her buttocks, and covering her mons. But, she was having difficulty holding herself up with one hand, and holding her skirt in place with the other. I saw the opportunity, and went for it. "Sally, why don't you just flip your skirt up - ?" She looked back at me, and I gestured, indicating she should just flip her skirt up completely in the rear. She did, giving me an unobstructed view of her panty-clad bottom. I pressed onwards, heedless now. "I think, Sally, that it would be best if you just put your head down on the floor, there. Yes, just bend over a bit more." It was better than my wildest dreams. She was kneeling on the floor in front of me, her skirt up, her long, luscious legs together, with her knees drawn up, and her head on the floor. It presented her rear end upwards to me like a gift. I took a long time to "draw" her in this pose. I savored it, memorizing her image. Again, to the quickening of my heart, I could make out how narrowly and tightly her panties covered her crotch. Her bulging mons and labia had stretched the thin white cloth even more, to the point that I could actually make out each fat lip, and the crevice between. I replayed that scene over and over in the following week. It flashed through my mind each time I saw Sally's face in class. She seemed as happy, charming, and cute as ever. But her body was beckoning me like a Siren. Well, if she was a Siren, there were rocks to worry about running into. So, I decided to take a new tack. I arranged with Sally that we would now have two "special sessions" a week, one on Wednesday, and one on Friday. She was ecstatic. So was I, but for different reasons. Despite my good fortune thus far, and the prospects for even more interesting pursuits, I held myself in check. During the next three sessions, I limited myself to only the advances I had made previously. I asked her to model in more and more poses to "emphasizing her legs". But I didn't press on any farther than that. I wanted to make sure that Sally was who I thought she was. At this point, I was convinced of one of two things. Either she knew what I was doing, and liked it, and did a very, very good job of hiding it, or she was as naive and suggestible a young woman as I had ever met. I hoped for the latter. If she knew, and was this good at hiding it, I had gotten more than I had bargained for. * * * By the third lesson in this "holding pattern", I was ready to explode. Every step with my lovely Lolita had been more consuming than the last. I suppose I should have been content with my long, unobstructed views of her panties, her bare legs, and the suggestive positions in which she would pose for me, but it wasn't enough. On the contrary, it only whet my appetite. I would have more, by damn! Finally my obsession got the best of me. I was waiting for her in "our studio", my palms sweating with anticipation. She bounced in, flashing her knockout schoolgirl smile. My eyes were drawn to her bare legs like a magnet. I couldn't help it. Her black thigh-highs were tossed casually over her shoulder. She obviously didn't give it a second thought, now. She got settled, and I took a deep breath, steadying myself. "Today, Sally, I'd like to do some upper body sketches. Just remove your blouse and bra, and sit on the couch." My heart was thundering, but I had practiced the line hundreds of times. I knew that I was sounding as ordinary and matter-of-fact as I was capable. I couldn't bear to look at her, and quickly busied myself at the easel. But I caught a glimpse of her reaction. There was a flicker of something. Something that made my heart nearly stop with dread. But then it was gone, and her face brightened again, and she did exactly as I asked. I tried not to stare, only letting myself take sidelong glances, as she pulled her black blouse from the waist of her skirt, and pulled it over her head. God, she was a sight! Skin so fair, and so beautiful. Her ample breasts jiggled as she pulled the blouse over them. Her black bra stood in sharp contrast to her creamy skin, emphasizing her state of undress even more. She dropped the blouse onto her backpack, on top of her matching thigh-highs. I quickly glanced away again, but couldn't help sneaking another look. She slid the straps of her bra off of her shoulders, and pulled her arms through them. She hooked her fingers into the cups, as if to pull them down, but then hesitated. I looked away. When I looked up again, she had taken it off! She dropped it, with a faintly wistful look, onto the growing pile of her clothing. My loins were raging with fire. My vision felt blurred. She was half naked. * * * I knew, now. After two sessions in which I had asked my nubile, willing student to take off her top and bra for me, that I could go farther. I knew that I had to. I no longer had any choice. I began the session as I had the last two, with a request that she remove her blouse and bra. I no longer pretended not to watch. Sally didn't seem to mind. In fact, after the few fleeting uncomfortable moments the first time she'd done it for me, Sally seemed completely herself. She was charming, and her fresh, young, glowing schoolgirl beauty was only accented by her innocence and trust. She seemed convinced by my fabrications about having to "learn to model before learning to draw". I was beginning to understand a bit more about the young woman. She was bursting with enthusiasm about drawing, painting, and art. Most transfer students went through a period of adjustment, especially as seniors, but Sally seemed simply thrilled to be at the Academy. She seemed infinitely trusting, and always did what I asked without question. It was this fact that was slowly sinking in. I became determined - no - obsessed - with using this to my advantage. I had to see more of her ripe, curvaceous body. That was my goal. The means were what I was concerned with. I had to keep a modicum of normalcy. Though I was almost sure that she would cooperate, I still didn't dare go to far, too fast. I stared in mute desire as she took of her blouse and bra for me again. The moment her large, thick, pinkish-brown nipples sprang free of the black bra cups was electric. I yearned for them, entranced by the tiny wobble and sway of her breasts as she discarded her bra. She smiled at me, tucking an errant strand of blonde hair behind her ear. So sweet. "Now, dear, I think we're making good progress, and we should continue. Don't you?" The lead-in. "Yes, Mr. Howard, that'd be great." "Good, dear. Now, just take off your underwear for me." She blanched, a blush creeping into her face. I plowed on, determined. "The buttocks can be a difficult part of the anatomy to get right." I blathered on, maintaining my facade of art teacher for a few moments. Yes, Sally, I want to look at your ass. That's what I wanted to say, but didn't. She seemed reassured by my explanation. Her blush softened. She turned around, biting her lower lip. I tried to calm my hammering heart. She hesitated again, but then quickly reached under her skirt, and in a fluid swish, pulled off her thin white bikini briefs. She paused for a fraction of a second again, before she dropped them onto the pile of her clothes. I had won! There was no stopping, now. * * * I suppose I should have known better. I suppose I should have seen what was really going on earlier. But, I didn't. I'd like to be able to say, that looking back, my reason for cooperating with Mr. Howard was my lack of experience. Or, my sheltered life. I'd like to be able to say that I had no choice. But, I can't. At least, not totally. I can't deny what was going on, although I wasn't conscious of it then. The first time Mr. Howard asked me to take of my underwear and pose for him, I was, well, sort of stunned. I did it almost like a reflex. I say almost, because even though I was stunned, and I went into the kind of "automatic pilot" that I do sometimes with Mom or Jack, I kind of knew. Maybe not consciously, not then. But somewhere, some part of my knew that he was getting his jollies from it. That night, after I went to bed, the part of my brain that knew took over my thoughts. I was up almost all night, thinking about what had happened. About him looking at me. About me having to do what he said, and having to take off my underwear for him. About him making me show him my body. I was getting that strange, warm, tingly feeling, stronger than I had ever felt it before. I couldn't resist it. My thoughts were too compelling, and the images my brain conjured were too vivid. I had learned to be more careful since the "book incident". I always left my pajamas on, now. I never used my fingers, even though I longed to. And I always kept an ear cocked for the sounds of Mom and Jack. I don't know what time I finally fell asleep. I waited with dread and excitement for the next lesson with Mr. Howard. I felt sure that he would ask me to take off my undies again. I still didn't consciously realize what he was doing. Or what I was doing. All I knew was that I was confused. As I've said, I was dimly, subconsciously, aware that he shouldn't be asking me to do what these things. That there was some rule, some law or code that forbid it. I knew that I wasn't supposed to show my body to anyone this way. But the model did, and that was ok. I also knew that Mr. Howard was my teacher, and my elder. And I did what my elders told me to. Especially because I liked Mr. Howard. He was nice. And I really did love drawing and painting. This jumble of emotions was churning inside me as the final bell rang. The halls quickly emptied out. I got my books and stuff ready. I felt lightheaded and nervous. Maybe, just a little bit, I felt that feeling, too. I walked through the silent halls and went into the bathroom on the third floor. It was empty. I went into the stall, and locked the door. I put the toilet seat down, and sat down on it. My knees felt wobbly. I took deep breaths, and tried to calm my nerves. Mr. Howard's voice, asking me to make sure I took off the high black socks before I arrived for every lesson rang in my head. I took off my thigh-highs. Goosebumps instantly came up on my bare legs. I rubbed my legs, shivering as the cool air in the bathroom wafted against them. I was thinking about my underwear. About what to do. The part of my mind that knew that Mr. Howard's requests where indiscreet, and that our lessons an affront was quiet. In its place I felt the need to please my teacher. To obey my elder. That growing tingling feeling, though I was barely aware of it, was what pushed me over the edge. "Maybe I'll just take 'em off now," I whispered to myself. But I knew that if I took them off, and he didn't ask me to take them off, and I had to pose in some of the positions that I usually did, that he would easily see. What then? A felt a guilty, but nonetheless electric thrill. And if I took them off now, and he asked me to later, which I was pretty sure he would, he would definitely be pleased. I knew that for certain. With a deep, shaky breath, I took them off. I felt more self-conscious on the walk up to the studio then I think I've ever felt in my life. I kept looking around and behind me to see if anyone was there. If anyone could see me. I felt like the instant someone saw me, they'd know that I was buck naked underneath the short school uniform skirt. I held the back of my skirt with one hand, gathering it closed. Just in case. My heart was pounding, and my face felt burning hot with my permanent blush. And yet, I was exhilarated. Tingling. He was a couple of minutes late. He unlocked the door to our private little studio, and we went in and started to get ready. When he'd finished setting up the easel, he looked over at me expectantly. He looked very serious. Not angry, just humorless. Almost grim. He started saying something about what we were going to do that day. I barely heard a word he said. The blood rushing in my ears and pounding in my heart was drowning everything else out. I dimly made out something like "... go ahead and get your underwear off so we can get started... " I felt faint. I was blushing, and perspiring, and my mouth had gone as dry as a cotton ball. This was the moment. He was looking at me. I turned to face him fully, but then my courage crumbled,, I just couldn't bear to look him in the face. I looked down at the dusty floor. With trembling hands, I pulled up my skirt in front, so he could see. So he could see I'd already taken my underwear off for him. His throaty, deep, jolly belly-laugh rang out. "Ho-ha!" A laugh of surprise and glee. I looked up, and he was grinning at me, his face a beaming glow of pleasure. "Wonderful! Wonderful, Sally!" His grim frown was gone, and he snapped his fingers with a smile. "Let's get to it, then." As I posed for him during the session, I felt myself relax, slowly. He seemed animated, happy, and talkative. He seemed overjoyed, and a bit surprised that I'd anticipated him. He kept shaking his head slightly, smiling to himself. My self-consciousness slowly faded a bit, replaced with that feeling, which was growing more and more insistent. Looking back, I should have known. Looking back, I see that I made a choice that day. And the choice seemed to guide me along. As if I'd come to a fork in the road, and my choice of paths led me on a journey I could not have anticipated. At this point, I should like to offer that in situations such as this, when one is naked, or nearly so, and aroused, as I was without fully knowing it, your judgment can be clouded. I think mine was. As the end of our session began to draw near, Mr. Howard began asking me to pose in some of the more embarrassing positions. I did as I was asked. As you might guess, they were made all the more disconcerting by my new state of undress. I wore only the short and loose wool plaid uniform skirt, and my earrings. The tiny skirt was all that stood between me and the state of total nudity. It was symbolic, though, and I suppose that because of it, I didn't fully confronted the enormity of what I was doing. The skirt was only a minor impediment to the poses Mr. Howard asked me to take for him. You can imagine my shame and embarrassment as I stretched, strained, and contorted into both the positions that had become familiar as part of the regime with Mr. Howard, and new, more improbable and physically demanding ones. These positions allowed the cool late afternoon air to fan against parts of my body quite unaccustomed to such exposure. The situation and the positions further inflamed the feeling inside me. It was palpable. Throbbing. More urgent and burning than I had ever felt on my bed, alone. As I said, being naked and aroused makes for poor decisions, and the more the feeling inside me grew, the more willing - perhaps even eager - I was to obey Mr. Howard's requests for yet more. I felt drugged, drunk. On the ride home with Mom, some of Mr. Howard's questions in those last few moments, those surreal, trembling, vanishing moments, came back to me. I didn't quite understand their precise meaning at the time, but their intent was clear, and their effect was searing. If I had known even just a little more - just a few "health" classes - just a few moments of explanation from Mom - maybe if I had been allowed to date - or Mom and Jack had just given me the straight story, I don't know - I might have been able to respond more rationally. Instead, as our lesson ended, I found myself pressed against the back of the couch, Mr. Howard's arms encircling me. I was shaking with excitement, and couldn't quite catch my breath. He was behind me. The rough wool of his blazer was leaving motes of fire on my skin. We looked at each other's reflections in the mirror. I could feel the lump in his trousers pressing against me from behind. He was so close. His breath was on my neck. "Why weren't you wearing underwear, Sally?" All I could manage was a whisper. "I - " I fought to catch a breath. "I don't know, Mr. Howard." "Yes you do, Sally. Tell me." "I wanted to do it for you." "You want to do a lot of things for me, don't you?" "I don't know." "Sally, you don't think I'm a monster, do you?" "No, of course not - " I swallowed again, flustered. "I like you, Mr. Howard." "So you do these things with me because you like me?" "I don't know." His questions were making me feel so shameful. I felt a blush beginning to creep into my already-tingling cheeks. "How do you feel, Sally?" I felt wonderful and awful. Throbbing and shivering with that feeling. Guilty and ashamed and embarrassed. I felt so very, very bad, but I was aching for release. I had no name for what I was feeling. "I don't know, Mr. Howard. I feel... " I couldn't finish. I looked down. "You feel good, don't you?" I nodded. His arms tightened around me, pulling me against him. "I guess I do, but I feel... " I hardly had words. "I'm being very bad." "But it feels good, doesn't it?" "Yes, it does." I blushed. The admission was frightening. "But I'm very bad." "I don't understand, Sally. Why are you being so bad? - Why are you doing these things with me? Because it makes you feel good?" I turned towards him. His face was inches from mine. Our eyes were locked. "No, Mr. Howard. Because you ask me to." He seemed taken aback, and shook his head uncomprehendingly. "Wait a minute. You're being a bad girl." I nodded. A very bad girl. For an instant, the image of Jack finding out flashed through my mind. I shuddered. "But it makes you feel good." He smiled at me as he said this, and gently cupped my chin in his hand, staring into my eyes. "Yes, it does." I blushed furiously. He stepped back a bit, and with a still smiling at me, pulled up my skirt. I gasped. "Mr. Howard... " "It certainly does make you feel good. That much has been obvious all night." I closed my eyes, burning with shame, and yet engulfed with a wave of heat. He dropped the my skirt, and held me at arms' length, his charcoal-covered hands on my shoulders. "And you do this because I ask you to?" I paused, my head swirling. "Sally?" "Yes, Mr. Howard. You told me to. You asked me - made me. You're my teacher. One of my elders. I learned at home to do as you're told by your elders. They know best." "It has nothing to do with me?" I didn't know what to say. "It has nothing to do with this?" His hand left my shoulder, and darted between my legs, brushing lightly against me with an electrifying shock. I jerked away, gasping, falling back against the couch. He held up his fingers, which were glistening. "Sally, please answer me." His face was kind, gentle. His voice had none of the edge that Jack's had when he had asked a similar question, not long ago. It was his smile that got to me. "It does have something to do with you, I guess." I got up, and quickly pulled on my blouse. He watched me, still waiting for an answer to the second question. I knew what that answer was, but saying the words nearly nude, with my body still ringing with his brief, fiery touch was too much. I finally turned to him, and without raising my eyes, said "It has something to do with how this makes me feel, too." "So you like being a bad girl, don't you." "Yes." I felt so small, so hollow. Like this dizzy, urgent need in my body had somehow worked magic, and let him see into my soul. "You like being a bad girl for me." "Yes." "Sally, tell me that you want to be a bad girl." The shame! "I want to be a bad girl, Mr. Howard." "Tell me that you want to be my bad girl." "I want to be your bad girl, Mr. Howard." "Tell me how being bad makes you feel." I bit my lip, trying to hold back the rush of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me, and make me cry. I whispered, "Being a bad girl makes me feel... wet." "Sally, tell me to make you be a bad girl." I looked away. "Please, Mr. Howard," I pleaded, hoping he would relent. "Say it, Sally. It's ok." I looked at him. His head was cocked to the side, trying to catch my eyes. He smiled at me, and reached down and took my hand in his. I took a deep breath. He squeezed my hand. "Mr. Howard, please make me be a bad girl." He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it, like I was a princess. * * * No underwear. How does one explain the meaning? The charm? The erotic power? I know that I'm probably not your "average" man, but I know that I'm not the only one. There is something about a woman who isn't wearing underwear, in public, that excites me to my very core. Ever since I don't know when, I have had a fantasy. A secret desire. An erotic ideal. The woman who goes bare beneath her clothes. She has haunted my masturbatory imagination all of my life. She is my dream of sex. Sex the way every man pictures it. Sex without all of the heavy encumbrance of the real world. Sex without premature ejaculation, contraception, venereal disease, or emotional entanglements. Where your partner is never too tired, or too shy, or too thin, or too fat, or not in the mood. Where sex is fast and furious, or agonizingly, unendingly slow. Sex so unlike the frantic, fumbling, hurry-up-and-wait, complicated stuff of real life. In this, the man's world of sex, women don't wear underwear. All my life I've looked at women in public, and wondered, "Is she wearing any?" Every woman I've ever met socially or otherwise, I've wondered about. I'll be saying "Oh, so nice to meet you, Ms. or Mrs. X," and all the while, I'm trying to gauge her. Plumbing the depths of her eyes to see if I see the image of my pantyless woman. I'm surreptitiously checking out her ass for a panty line. I've always hoped. I've always hoped to meet, and get to know, a woman that didn't wear panties. If I never do, I at least hope that someday I'll be treated to the rarest, most sought-after up-the-skirt glances a man can see - the woman going bare beneath her clothes. The woman who goes bare is my sexual ideal. She is confident about her body. She revels in the simple sensual pleasure of going without underwear. It turns her on. The truth of it is that this woman loves sex. Longs for it. She secretly hopes that men will see up her skirt and get the thrill of their life. The possibility - the danger - excites her. The woman who doesn't wear panties is proud of her body. She's a hedonist, an exhibitionist. But she doesn't flaunt her exhibitionism, though I know that's a contradiction. She's has too much style. She loves to masturbate. She loves the look, the feel, the smell and the mystery of her body. She knows its power, and doesn't try to control or hide its magnetism or its power. I thought that perhaps this lascivious creature of my overworked subconscious was unattainable. That she would remain forever a dream. That was, up until the day Sally pulled up her skirt for me, and showed me that she wasn't wearing any. I was stunned. It wasn't until later that night, as I sat up, yet again, with my feverish, furtive thoughts, that the impact Sally's simple act hit me. I began to ruminate. I thought back to our conversation at the end of the lesson. I realized that perhaps, I had met the match for my sweet imagination. Sally could become the woman I dreamed of. I felt it. Though the full implications of this day's events, our conversation, and Sally's actions would not dawn on me for some time, they began to have some effect. The next day was Thursday, and Sally and I were not scheduled for one of our special sessions. I was desperate for more, though. More of this glorious creature. I wanted to drink her in. I jittered the morning away, waiting for our regular hour-long class in the afternoon, the anticipation of seeing her building inside me relentlessly. I felt no relief until she was inside the studio, and I had closed the door behind her. I turned and watched her as she walked across the room, and started getting ready. The sight of her body was intoxicating. I stared at her behind, watching the delicious roll of her hips. She looked over at me as she got settled, a sheepish, embarrassed blush coloring her cheeks. I shook myself from my fugue, and smiled back. I was thrilled to see her. I was bursting with joy, and yet still there was the yet smoldering fire inside me. "No model today, Mr. Howard?" "No, Sally," I smiled, waving my hand at the model's platform and chair dismissively. "How about just a still life?" "That'd be great, Mr. Howard." I set up the still life, unable to keep myself from humming a bit as I did. Sally still seemed a bit shy. Skittish, maybe. "Can't really blame her, I suppose," I thought to myself. The previous evening had been rather intense. She got started, and I wanted to give her a few moments to relax. The last thing I wanted between us was any sort of distance, or discomfort. I found myself drawn to the back of the studio, towards the converted supply room where Sally had given me my most unexpected and pleasant surprise. Inside, I replayed the previous night. The images and feeling came flooding back, vivid. I could almost feel our presences in the quiet, dusty room. Back in the studio, Sally was finishing up her first study of the still life. Her work was steadily improving. Her talent was obvious. I pointed out the problems she was having with perspective and shadow. She seemed more relaxed. We even joked a bit. But, as the hour drew closed, she seemed to get quieter. "Mr. Howard?" "Yes, Sally?" She paused, her fingers nervously kneading a gum eraser. "I... About last night, Mr. Howard." She seemed more agitated than ever. "What about last night, Sally?" A sudden dread for what her answer might be flooded inside me. I could imagine her next words being, "I've told the police." I fought my rising panic. She stammered, seemed to struggle for words. Then, shaking her head, she finally managed only, "I don't know, Mr. Howard." "Last night, Sally - those things you said - were you telling the truth?" I looked at her, searching her face. I wanted to take her in my arms and hold her so tight, squeezing the doubt from her mind. She looked down at the floor, blushing again. I took her hand. "Sally?" She looked at me, her confusion obvious. "I don't - I'm not sure, Mr. Howard." I don't know what happened next. What I did was probably the least rational thing I could have thought of, under the circumstances. I led her away from the easel, and picked up a soft, round, sable brush. A brand new one. Without even trying to hide somewhere in the studio, I said, "Sally, pull up your blouse." Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth to say something, but didn't. Slowly, She pulled up her shirt. "Over your tits, Sally." I pulled up her bra and started stroking her with the brush. We didn't speak. Less than five minutes later, she was softly gasping, her breathing quick and shallow. She was biting her lower lip, her eyelids heavy, and had started to perspire slightly. Her eyes finally rose to meet mine. We stared at one another, our gaze locked, as I continued. The sound of the bell jolted us both, and I jumped, dropping the brush. I quickly pulled down her bra and blouse. She straightened her clothing out, returning to look of the chaste, innocent young woman. She picked up her books, and as she turned to go, she gave me a look. I'm not even sure I can describe it, except that it nearly knocked me over. Her pure, sweet face had a touch of trepidation, or perhaps even fear, and she looked a bit embarrassed, but more than anything, it was a look of longing. I snatched her hand up and gave it a squeeze. She squeezed back. I held it, and drank in her eyes for another moment. "So, Sally, do you still... " I could hardly say it, but something pushed me on. "... do you still want me to make you be a naughty girl?" She blushed crimson, and looked at her shoes, but she didn't pull away. "Like just now, Sally?" I waited. After a long moment, during which I swear my heart had stopped completely, she answered, in a tiny whisper. "Yes." I lived for our next meeting. It was Friday afternoon, I waited anxiously for Sally in the converted supply room. When she arrived, I closed the door behind her and locked it. She bent over to put down her books, and as the sight of her lovely, long, nude legs, and her rising skirt met my eyes, I was seized with raging heat. Unable to restrain myself, I pulled up her skirt from behind. To my disappointment, a triangle of white cotton underwear met my eyes. Sally made a little "Oh!" of surprise, and started to straighten up. I guess it was my disappointment made me a bit cross. "No," I said, putting my hand on the small of her back as she tried to rise. "Bend over." I took more liberties with Sally during that session than I ever had before. I was driven. Possessed. But by the end I realized that I was expecting too much for her to know and understand, just like that, all of my perverted desires. She didn't have ESP, after all. As the hands on my watch swept faster and faster towards the end of our session, the heat which had made me visit these heady new excesses on Sally suddenly cooled with a draft of doubt. And yet, to judge by young Sally, I had nothing to fear. She was in a state unlike I had ever seen her. It was a stunning transformation. And entrancing. Her beauty was never more overwhelming. Physically, there was no doubt of the effect of the afternoon's activities. Moreover, there seemed to me a change in her demeanor nothing short of miraculous. She was, if there was anything on the planet even close, the woman of my dreams. As she had told me two nights prior, being a bad girl had a electrifying effect on her. And she seemed only too willing to be as naughty as I desired her to be. Each new low I prompted her for seemed to make her cringe with shame and embarrassment, and yet they inflamed her. Watching her, I resolved to make my dream reality. As we parted, I told her, "Sally, on Wednesday, the day of our next lesson, I want you to do something special for me. You are to come to school without any underwear on... " * * * Mrs. Buskerman stormed into my office, sputtering. Another student disciplinary problem. It seemed that Mrs. Buskerman had apprehended a student in a, as she described it, "flagrantly disrespectful violation of the uniform rules". I sighed. My position of authority at the Academy was not without its disadvantages. Responsibility for meting out discipline for unwelcome behavior, which seemed all too common among the rowdy girls and young women of the Academy, was one such drawback. If the Academy were anything like the Society, it wouldn't be such a chore. No, on the contrary, it would be most interesting. Sadly, and fortunately, my two worlds had never collided in reality. I had often considered the possibility, and thoughts about one would rarely stray into my head while I was involved with the other, but by and large, my life was well divided into these two separate boxes. In fact, my life was so well compartmentalized that I hardly even considered it that way. My personas were so familiar, so perfect, that I no longer gave them a second thought. When I was at the Academy, I was Dean Pierce. I became her, totally. My attitudes, beliefs, likes and dislikes instantly transformed themselves into that of the efficient, businesslike, conservative school administrator. When I was on Society time, I was, well... you can imagine who I am then. However, this particular afternoon, the story that the peeved Mrs. Buskerman told me broke through the mold of Dean Pierce, and touched my other side. When I finally calmed her down enough to get the full story, my alter ego, the mistress who led the Society of Silk, was intrigued. Mrs. Buskerman had caught a student who wasn't wearing any underwear. I took a few moments to soothe the irate matron's nerves, promising that I would bring the offender to justice, and that swift and appropriate punishment would deter any such further behavior. I finally managed to whisk her out the door. I sat down at my desk briefly, as my Society mind savored the tantalizing possibilities. I snuck a look through the blinds on my door into the lobby of the office, where the offender was waiting for punishment. "She's a looker", my nefarious mind said. "She's definitely your type. Make her wait a bit. Make her sweat it out." I asked my secretary in for a moment, and bade her to get me the girl's file. When she returned with it, I told her that the young woman was to remain seated until I had time to deal with her, but that she would, of course, be responsible for making up the work she missed during the two classes that remained in the afternoon. Imagine my surprise when, as I began reading the girl's file, I discovered that she was none other than the daughter of my would-be Society members, Jack and Connie. Isn't life funny? The circumstances made me chuckle. But, I began to feel a bit uncomfortable with the unexpected collision of my worlds - my personas. So I squelched the lovely, lewd thoughts that had begun to run through the Dean's mind, and returned to the work at hand - school administrator. I reviewed her file, and then finished up some paperwork I had left. Just as the day's second-to-last bell was about to ring, I asked the young woman into my office. She got up, but her eyes remained contritely downcast as she walked past me into my office. "Linda," I said, "why don't you knock off, hmm? Go home early, it's been a long day." Linda was a good secretary, and she knew when to make good on such an offer. Five minutes later, she was gone. I shut the outer door to the office behind her, and then returned to my office, shutting the door behind me. Inside, Sally was standing in front of my desk, waiting. "Please sit down, Sally," I said, indicating one of the two leather chairs in front of the desk. Experience had taught me that a little uncomfortable silence before dealing with a discipline problem like this was a wonderful tool. So I sat down behind my desk, and reread the first couple of pages of her file. When I finally looked up, Sally looked properly contrite. She was staring at the floor. If experience was any guide, most students were miserable by this point. I had a reputation for swift, harsh punishments. I didn't fool around. The power of deterrents is not to be underestimated. At first we talked about school in general. How she was getting along, how her grades were, what classes she liked, etc. I did this with all my students. It helped me keep my finger on the school's pulse, from their point of view. Eventually, I broached the real subject at hand. "Sally, Mrs. Buskerman has made a very serious accusation." She only nodded. "Is it true?" She paused, and I waited. Finally, she nodded again. I wasn't sure, but I thought I could see her fighting back tears in her eyes. "I see." I scribbled some lines on a pad of paper, as if this were something important. Another subtle little trick. She definitely noticed, and she seemed to be getting upset. She sniffled. "Why, Sally?" No answer. I gently offered some explanations, including the obvious - that she had an accident, or had gotten her period and had a mishap, or some such, but she shook her head at each one. I began asking some questions, with concern, about her family life. More sniffling ensued. I had hit a nerve. But, Sally still wasn't speaking much. I guessed, mostly on a hunch and the familiarity I had with her stepfather, Jack, that her family woes were related to him, but "normal". Something told me that this incident was unrelated. Over time, in a job like this, one can develop a sixth sense. I liked Sally. I doubted that she was a real trouble maker, or had serious problems, like drugs or booze. Sally's grades were good, especially for a transfer student. She had already earned some complimentary remarks from her teachers and other students. She was smart, and pretty, nice, and well-liked. She seemed very polite, and very respectful. I was surprised that she was in my office, and for the nature of the offense. My sixth sense was twitching, but I didn't have anything concrete. Why was she here? Why was she running around like Lady Godiva? And why wasn't she coming clean about it? One doesn't get to be who I am at the Academy by following the rule book. You have to have more. You have to think, and to be creative. I decided I'd take a chance. I decided that I'd just have a nice, long chat with Sally, let her off the hook with an hour's detention, and ask her to return for another chat. And in the meantime, I'd poke around a bit more, and see if I could find out what was going on. When I told her, she seemed to relax, but only slightly. "What about my parents?" She said. "Sally, I'm willing to let this slide - no phone call - but only this once." She literally sagged with relief. Hmm. After I'd delivered that verdict, we had a very nice, hour- long chat. Sally seemed much more relaxed. The final bell interrupted us, and I got up and showed her to the door. She seemed eager to go. As I followed her to the outer office door, I, or rather my dark side, noticed the way she was self-consciously holding her skirt closed. A bit later, I was on my way out. It was only by chance, after the halls were clear and mercifully silent, as I was getting ready to leave, that I saw her. At the far end of the main corridor, Sally was just disappearing out of sight, up the stairwell, her free hand still clutching her skirt. A tiny bell went off in my brain. "Where could she be going?" I wondered. Her detention wasn't until tomorrow. There were no after-school activities upstairs. I followed her, carefully, mostly by listening to the sound of her penny loafers on the linoleum floors. I paused on the landing between the second and third floors, listening to her walk down the corridor. I heard a door open and then shut - a bathroom door. I snuck a glance - no sign of her. She must have gone into the bathroom. I waited, and momentarily, I heard the door reopen, and her footsteps once again. Listening, I could tell that she was heading away from me, towards the far end of the hall. I snuck another look. Something was different. Then it hit me - her legs were bare. Now the bell in my brain was clanging. I watched her open the door at the very end of the hall, and she disappeared. I waited a few moments, my brows knitted, chewing my lip, wondering what to do. Finally, I took off my shoes, padded in my stocking feet to the end of the hall, and saw that she'd gone into the art studio. The door had a pane of frosted glass, and I couldn't make out anyone inside. Strange. I listened, and finally made out a muffled voice - hers, I think. One of the perks of being Dean was that I had keys to everything. The Dean and the janitors were the only ones with this privilege. I quietly slipped into the art studio, half expecting to be caught, or to catch whoever was inside, but it was empty. Then I heard voices again. They were coming from the back of the studio. There was another door at the back of the studio, with a lit "exit" sign above it - the back staircase, used only as a fire escape. I padded up to the door, and slowly, quietly turned the handle. There was the staircase landing, and another door. A door with light spilling out from underneath. The door was labeled "supply", and it had a clear pane of glass, over which newsprint had been taped, from the inside. But there was a tiny strip of light at the bottom, where the paper and torn away. I crept forward, and put my eye to it. I nearly fell over with shock when I saw what was happening inside. My Dean's heart nearly stopped beating. My jaw fell open, and I stepped away from the door like I'd seen a ghost, covering my open mouth with my hand. My God! Sally! Bill Howard! * * * I drove home in a daze, the sight in the supply room seared onto my brain. In shock, I'd crept away silently, locking the door behind me, leaving Mr. Howard and young Sally behind. I just couldn't bring myself to do anything else. As the Saab speared through the rain and mist on the drive to home James, the cats, and the money pit we called our home, the Dean in me fell away like a snake's unwanted skin. I began to see the debauched scene in the art studio supply room in a different light. I started to laugh. I laughed all the way home. My laughs echoed in the Saab's plush cockpit right up until I pulled it into the garage. After dinner, although James bored me with yet another tale of our accountant's pessimism, I was too bemused to even care. I kept seeing them together, up there in the studio. It was a sight worthy of any Society scene I had ever attended. I didn't tell James. Not that would have cared or understood anyway. My involvement in the Society, no longer a new problem for us, remained on of our great Unresolved Issues. It was probably better that I kept my little joke to myself anyhow, because any mention of the Society seemed to throw James into a black rage. Being the Mistress was one of our greatest financial burdens, and as if he didn't already resent my involvement, the cost made it all the worse. I had little trouble falling asleep that night. But I woke from a slumber so deep it was like unto death with an explosive thought. A thought so wild it jerked me into total consciousness immediately. We needed money. We really needed money. We needed money so much we'd even talked about insurance policies and their implications. We'd talked about more get-rich quick schemes than you could shake a stick at. We'd talked about James embezzling from Universal. Jack and Connie had an enormous amount of money. Buckets of it. Their application to the Academy included a very, very interesting financial disclosure report, which I had studied while checking Sally's file. Jack was a reckless, horny bastard. A Satyr, if ever there was one. The man's penis had more brain cells than the thing between his ears. And then there were Sally and Mr. Howard. The thick, conservative shell of Dean-ness must have dampened my instincts while talking with Sally. Looking back on the conversation, her disciplinary offense, and finally, the scene with Mr. Howard, things began to add up. She was a submissive. I could tell. You don't become Mistress of the Society of Silk without knowing your sexual genus and species backwards and forwards. As I've said, I'm an unerring judge of character. It all fell together. I saw it happening before my eyes. The scenes unrolled in my brain like a movie. The young submissive, Sally, in a very, very, untoward situation with her stepfather. The whole thing captured on videotape. Me, presenting the blackmail letter and a demand for a huge amount of money to Jack. The transfer of funds. The triumph. The more I thought about it, the more excited I got. It was so far beyond anything I had ever considered in my life that it seemed completely plausible. I would maneuver the submissive young woman into a state of perpetual hyper-charged sexual arousal and willingness. I would release the obvious barely-checked lust in Jack. I would capture their forbidden union as evidence, present it to him, and demand a check. The instrument that I would use to bring Sally to this state was none other than Mr. Howard. It would distance me from the liberties he would take with Sally. No, I corrected myself, from the liberties he was already taking with her. The thoughts, images and possibilities were dazzling and intoxicating. I could see it. I could feel it. I lay back down and fell instantly to sleep. The next day, during first period, I set about putting my plan into action. I went to see Sally. I interrupted the class she was in, apologizing to the teacher, and asked Sally to step into the hall for a moment. She followed me into the hall, a look of sheer terror on her face. "Sally, I'd like to have that chat with you this afternoon, after school. You are excused from your detention. Be in my office at four o'clock sharp." By the time four o'clock rolled around, I had re-checked Jack and Connie's financial statement. It was just as impressive as I had remembered it. Perfect. I had only to confirm my appraisal of Sally's nature. A submissive. She stood as she had the day before, in front of my desk, her eyes glued to the carpet. There was something about her body language. She was leaning forward slightly. Trying to emphasize her upper body - or hide her lower. I sat down behind my desk. "Sally, pull up your skirt and show me that you are wearing underwear today." She started to cry, silently. Big, tears were rolling down her face, and her chin was trembling. She pulled up her skirt. Bare. She was bare as the day she was born, beneath her uniform. My hunch was dead on. Bill Howard, the foggy old lech, was behind this, I knew it. She stood there, sobbing, her charms on display. It was quite an alluring sight. Very enticing. I let myself enjoy it. Crying harder, though still quietly, she started to lower her skirt. "Uh-uh, Sally. I didn't give you permission to cover up," I said. She yanked it higher again. "Turn around, Sally, in a circle." I watched her. Nice ass, too. "Tsk, tsk, tsk." I shook my head. "I'm very disappointed, Sally." Submissive. Without a doubt, Sally was ready, willing and able. * * * "What!?!?" That was all Bill Howard could manage, though it was fairly convincing in its feigned shock and disbelief. He was seated on the same chair that Sally had perched in the afternoon before, when my suspicions were confirmed. I'd "dropped by" his office, early this morning, and told him, with grim brevity, that "I needed to speak to him about his relationship with one of the students". I knew that from the moment on, he'd been on the rack. His day was a living Hell. He thought he'd gotten caught. I began our conversation by telling him that Sally had been caught going underwear-less. That she had a significant discipline problem. That it was causing trouble. That it was probably caused by a "deviant sexual relationship". Bill Howard was sweating up a storm. Just because I could, I twisted the knife a little harder. With all the gravity I could muster, but without sounding accusatory, I asked him "Bill, you seem very close to Sally. Do you know anything about this?" His voice quavered shrilly as he answered, "No, Dean Pierce, I had no idea." It was cruel, but it was fun watching him squirm. "What!?" was all he could say when I told him that he was being put in charge of a "special disciplinary curriculum" for the young woman. The relief on his face was so obvious I had to stop myself from laughing. Just as he thought the curtain was about to close, I'd given him Broadway. I outlined the part of plan that he needed to know about, which wasn't really much, and his role in it. The carrot. I told him that I was going to open the old school building on the back of campus, and that he and Sally would be alone there every day after lunch, for her special instruction. I told him that he would be responsible for correcting her "disrespect for authority", her "rebellious attitude", and for giving her a "thorough sexual education." I let the double entendre hang there. I saw the recognition in his eyes. He more than readily agreed. His relief made him affable, and we talked for a long time. I kept him there until the janitor came by, and was locking up. We finally wrapped up, and I made a subtle, but pointed show of taking out my key ring and locking my office door as we left. "You know, Bill, I have the key to every door in the Academy," I said casually. I knew Bill well enough to know that he wouldn't miss this, or its implications. This was the stick. The carrot and stick were more than enough to get Mr. Bill Howard interested. I had even more effective ways of getting him to play exactly the sort of game I wanted. But that could wait for now. * * * I hung up the phone angry, disappointed, and a little worried. I was worried both about what Sally had done, and about what Jack would do. I was also a little bit shocked. I was shocked to learn that the same woman who was the Mistress of the Society was the head of Sally's school. Jack and I had met Allison, first at the restaurant, and several times since. I had become, well, let's just say that I'd become familiar with her indirectly, because of the "trials" that this Society was making me go through. I'd found out that she was the one who dreamed them up. If my "tests" were any indication, then this Allison Pierce was one wicked woman. "But," I told myself, "then again, so are you, Connie." It was possible for me to go through these tests, not to mention all of the other kinky things Jack and I had been involved in down through the years, and still function as a perfectly normal member of society. Why isn't it possible that the head of the Society of Silk was a school administrator? Still... I shook my head as I picked up the phone again, and started to dial Jack's number at work. He was going to be pissed. Really pissed. "Jack, Sally's in trouble at school. We have to go down and meet - " He cut me off. "I'm on my way. I'll be home in ten minutes." Click. The line went dead. Funny. He was in a silent, black fury on the drive to Sally's Academy. Stomping on the accelerator at every opportunity, and swerving in and out of traffic like a race car driver. I didn't even try to say anything. Sally had really done something, this time. But what? She had been acting a bit strangely last night. I wished that I hadn't been spending so many nights "out". It seemed like I was spending more time "auditioning" and going through the Society's tests than I was at home. No wonder I hadn't seen this coming. The creeping resentment I had been harboring for Jack came flooding back. He was the one who'd gotten us so involved in this humiliating, obscene experience with the Society. For a moment, I felt like crying, thinking about all of the things I'd been doing - all the things done to me - over the last few weeks. I was in deeper than I ever thought I would, or could be. I guess I was finding something out about myself that I wasn't sure I understood, or liked. But this thing with Sally was just the icing. I started to get angry with her, too. The school was empty by the time we got there. We found the office, and went in. Inside, Sally was sitting on a leather couch, next to a frumpy man with greying hair. She looked like she'd been crying. My anger softened with a touch of tenderness. I wanted to sit down and hug her. Allison Pierce was there, too. She looked so neat - so put together. I could see that she was wearing a very expensive suit. It felt weird seeing her. Especially in this context - at my daughter's school. I wondered what she thought of me. I wished I had been done up a little better - some makeup, or a nicer dress. Too late. We sat down, in the chairs in front of her desk, which had been turned towards the couch. Sally didn't look up. "I'm glad you could make it, Connie, and Jack." The Mistress seemed very schoolteacher-like. Crisp, and efficient. She pulled up a smaller chair, and sat across from the couch, facing us. I looked at Jack. He was staring at Sally, his jaw clamped shut, and the cords in his neck straining. God, was he pissed. "This is Mr. Howard," she said, pointing to the man on the couch. He stood up and we shook hands. "Nice to meet you both," he said, and then sat back down. "Now, Jack, Connie, we have had a little problem. Sally has, that is," began Allison. "Sally is a very good student. She has excellent grades, seems to be a hard worker, and is doing well in all her classes. She also seems to be getting along with other students and the faculty quite well." Allison looked from me, to Jack, to Sally, and then to Mr. Howard as she was talking. "But, recently, Sally has been having some disciplinary problems." Sally looked down at the her hands, folded in her lap. Without looking at him, I could hear Jack's angry breathing. If he were a bull, he would have been snorting by now. The Dean continued, "In fact, these infractions have been rather serious. I'm afraid that we are going to have to begin to address them." Jack muttered, "Damn right." I saw the teacher - Mr. Howard? - looking at Jack quizzically. I thought I saw a touch of contempt in his face. Once again, my husband was making an ass of himself. He was so good at it. But, I was used to it. Resigned to it. Allison continued, describing the school's reputation, the importance of maintaining an atmosphere conducive to learning, and more. Then she started telling us about some special "disciplinary curriculum" she wanted to start with Sally. Mr. Howard would be her teacher. She said that it would be a daily thing, sometimes after school, and even occasionally on weekends. I didn't know what to make of things. I was confused - I still hadn't heard what she'd done. But Jack was nodding his head, looking over at Sally, and saying "Mm-hm. Yes, indeed. Damn straight," agreeing with the whole thing. The Dean was saying that the Academy had a "tradition and reputation of excellence in all respects," and that "special problems required special solutions." But, I started to get even more concerned with the Dean started to give more details. She finally, with a somewhat lowered voice, and more measured tones, said that they had "some experience with problems like this," and that they sometimes used "old-fashioned punishment techniques, which were out of vogue, now." "What do you mean?" I asked. "Are you familiar with the term corporal punishment?" She replied, looking steadily at me. My heart flipped-flopped as the vision of a recent "test" flashed back to me. God, was I. And Allison knew it. I didn't know whether to feel baited or relieved that she'd kept up her schoolteacher facade so well. Never mind the fact that Jack, as long as I had known him, had insisted on spanking Sally. I had long since come to grips with that, but still! "Well, I - " Jack thundered, "We sure as Hell are!" "I see," she went on. "Well, we believe that it has a place in a larger disciplinary context. Isn't that correct, Mr. Howard?" He seemed a bit flustered. "Um, yes, of course, Dean Pierce." "Jack, is this a problem?" She said to him, meaning me, I think. For a second I thought - no. But then my hunch was confirmed. Jack said, "Sure, just like I said, we've always believed a good whipping put the fear of God into Sally." He'd already spoken to Allison! That's why he seemed to know, when I called him at work! I felt betrayed. Like they'd already decided what to do, and I'd been left out. "Wait a minute," I said, gathering my courage. Jack looked at me, surprised, with his "shut up" look. "I - who would be doing this?" Allison looked at Mr. Howard. He straightened up. "I would, Connie. I, well, Sally and I have a good report, or else Dean Pierce wouldn't have asked me to get involved. Believe me, this is best for Sally, and you can rest assured that we will straighten her out right away." "I don't know." I wasn't sure I liked this idea. And I still didn't know why she needed "straightening out". Jack broke in again. "Yes, we know. We know that if Sally needs a lesson, that you're going to teach her one. And that's enough." The last sentence came out with a ring of finality. "Sally, honey," I said, looking over at her. "What do you think?" She didn't look up. I heard her whisper, "What ever you think is right." I steeled myself for Jack's wrath. "I'm not sure." Allison stood up and went to her desk, and handed Jack and I a form. "This is a release form. Jack, Connie, why don't you read it over." I tried to concentrate on it, but it was a tangle of legalese. The only thing that seemed to stand out was the line where I guessed we would have to sign. Allison must have seen the look on my face, because she said, "Connie, this is basically a form that says that you and Jack agree to let the Academy act as if it were in your place, and punish her in the way we see fit her for her very serious behavior. It also enjoins us to keep in close contact with you, and most of all to try to correct her problems." "Wait a minute," I said. "What exactly did you do, Sally?" Sally let out a little plaintive moan, and covered her face with her hands. "Connie, I'm afraid you might be quite shocked." "No, I want to know." The Dean motioned to Sally. "Show them, Sally." Sally stood up, and silent tears were streaming from her face. She showed us. Shocked wasn't the word. I just started to cry. I was so mad at her. I was angry I could hardly speak. I felt - slapped. "Sally, why? If this is the way you want to act, young woman, you're going to have to face the music. We won't tolerate this." Jack and I signed the form, and then Jack had to leave the room he was so angry. The Dean pulled me into the outer office, and told me that she needed our cooperation, and that we were not to punish Sally, because they would take care of that. "Fine", I said. "But you better convince Jack." She went off to speak to him. The three of us rode home in silence. I felt numb. As soon as we had pulled into the driveway, and Sally and I got out, Jack announced, from behind the driver's seat, "I'm going out." The truck bounced out of the driveway, and sped away. Although I got madder every time I looked at her, Sally seemed exhausted. "Come in," I told her, "it's time for dinner." That night, as I lay there, awake and alone in our bed, the thought "like mother like daughter" drifted though my head. It made me so angry and sad I wanted to scream. * * * "Now, it's time for a physical, Sally." I led her and Bill into the old schoolhouse's nurse's office. As was most of the building, it was furnished and maintained nearly as if it were still in use. Sally was deliciously apprehensive. She seemed jumpy and nervous, and I could sense her growing disquiet. "Up on the table, Sally," I said, and proceeded to remove two latex exam gloves, a tube of lubricant, and a thermometer from a drawer. I placed them on the counter next to the exam table, and then thoroughly washed my hands, letting Sally get a good long look at the items I was about to use on her. Bill looked nervous, too. Like he wasn't sure quite what to do with himself. He folded his hands across his chest, then put them in his pockets, and finally settled on clasping them behind his back, like he was a soldier at parade rest. It was quite amusing, although I kept my face blank and businesslike. When I turned around, the young woman before me was a sight. She looked positively skittish. Her bright, schoolgirl face was clouded with worry. Perhaps even dread. I knew her agitation was increasing with every moment that she'd been looking at the items I'd placed on the counter next to her. The tension in the room, between us, was palpable. I was very much looking forward to what I was about to do to her. I have to admit that it was making me wet. I had spent the afternoon conducting an "exploratory interview" with Sally and Bill. Our afternoon's conversation had been a first lesson to the lecherous Mr. Howard about just how I expected him to "instruct" Sally. About the limits he had had with her, or didn't. But our conversation had been just that, talk. Now, I knew that a demonstration of exactly what was permissible - and expected - was in order. "Sally, take off your shirt and bra, and give them to Mr. Howard," I said matter-of-factly. I saw the flicker of alarm in her eyes. She hesitated for a split second, but then reluctantly began to comply. I put on the exam gloves. She was seated on the exam table, her coltish legs dangling over the side, facing me. "Scoot forward a bit on the table," I ordered. She did, until she was perched nearly on the edge. "Spread your legs." I watched as she cringed, but slowly yielded, until I was treated to an inviting glimpse of her creamy, curvaceous thighs. I stepped up very close to her, my body between her parted knees. I could feel her thighs on my hips. My head was nearly even with hers, and just inches away. I was deliberately coming to an intimate distance, a distance which made Sally very uncomfortable. She looked to down and to the side, biting her lower lip slightly. "Now Sally, I'm going to begin conducting an exam. I want you to breathe normally, relax, and tell me if this hurts." I took my time, going with agonizing slowness. I started very gently, using feather-light touches. She showed no signs of reacting. I knew that my "examination" was having an effect on her, but that she was trying to hide it. After every few touches, I asked her "Does this hurt?" She only shook her head. Slowly, I increased the intensity of my "exam". My face just inches from hers, Sally couldn't hide her response. Her breathing grew quicker and more shallow. Her nostrils flared, and a touch of color rose into her cheeks. Finally, convinced by the response in Sally's body that the exam was having its intended effect, I let my exam grow more insistent, quicker, bolder, and more persuasive. I watched her face as I conducted my mock physical, and when I felt her thighs began to unconsciously tighten around my hips in a slow rhythm, I knew that she was ready for more. I stepped away, and made some meaningless notes on an exam form. This gave me a chance to collect myself for the next part of Sally's ordeal. I realized, with mischievous and secret glee, that my own body was rapidly taking an interest. I looked at her, checking her out with a deliberate and frank gaze, knowing that I was embarrassing her. She looked delectable. Just my type. She was a tall young woman, and her blonde ponytail and clear blue eyes fit her perfect image of the innocent, naive schoolgirl. Her face was sweet, with high cheekbones, full lips, and expressive eyes. Her body was marvelous. Especially in this state of undress. Her short plaid skirt, thigh- highs, and penny loafers made her seem even more exposed, vulnerable, and naked. I feasted my eyes on her large, firm tits. Her areole broad and pink, and her nipples were thick pencil-erasers, but my exam had made them rosy, long, and hard. In fact, her whole body seemed a bit flushed. I was anticipating the next part of her "physical" with a rising flush of my own. "Now, Sally, step down, and stand here, at the end of the table." She jiggled temptingly as she got down. "I'd like you to bend over, and lie, face down, on the table." She looked at me with trepidation, and then obeyed. When she was settled, I surveyed her for a moment. She was standing at the end of the exam table, bending over at the waist so her upper body was lying on the bottom half of the table. The position put some demand on her long, taught legs, accentuating their natural curves. I stepped behind her, and without ceremony, pulled her skirt up and over her waist. She gasped. "Spread your legs." She hid her face on the table, and then spread for me, and the view she gave grew more lewd and beguiling. It wasn't enough, though. "Farther, Sally. Much farther." When she was straining a bit more, her position undeniably lurid, I looked over at Mr. Howard. His eyes were practically popping out. "Good, Sally," I told her. "Now, let's get started with the rest of your exam." I began with her legs. My hands and fingers explored Her tight, straining muscles. "Does this hurt?" "No." "And this?" "No." So it went, my hands slowly rising upwards from her ankles. I could smell her sweet, musky heat as it rose from between her legs. Unable to resist, I indulged myself. I ran my fingers under the elastic of the back of her panties near her waist, and gathered the thin white material that was covering her round, firm buttocks, creating a thong. I twisted the material, until it was a thin rope of cotton running between the beautiful white mounds of her ass. It widened at her crotch, still covering her charms. I pulled this thin cotton rope upwards, away from her body. I pulled it deeper and deeper into her crack, watching as it hugged her barely-hidden treasures tighter and tighter. I held it there, watching as Sally adjusted to this new pressure on her privates by first resisting, which only increased the pressure, and then eventually submitting to me. She let her body follow the upward and outward tugging, and she pushed her bottom up higher and higher into the air. Then I started pulling again, harder this time. I used more strength, knowing that it was forcing the cloth deeper into her ass, squeezing her delicate flesh harder, and making her thrust herself out at us obscenely. With my free hand, I resumed my "exam". A few tense, breathless minutes later, when the cotton strip was good and damp, I told her to get undressed completely, and get up on the table on her hands and knees. When she was naked, and in that humiliating and vulnerable position, I dabbed a bit of lube on her, and with a quick, smooth jab, put the rectal thermometer to good use. I studied her gorgeous, inviting body from a vantage that left nothing to the imagination. She was more than ready, and her heady scent was driving me wild. As I intermittently twirled the thermometer, I gave her an exam like none other. Later, her cries, whimpers, and moans still echoing in the little room, I pulled out the thermometer. "98.6," I said. "Perfect." But, I waited to remove my sticky fingers until the lewd undulations in Sally's sweat-covered body slowed, and finally stopped. * * * French had always been one of my favorite classes to teach. But it took on a whole new meaning with Sally. On the day of our first private lesson, I heard the door of the our new, private schoolhouse open. Sally entered the small, deserted classroom, holding her books in front of her chest defensively. Her face was a perfect mix of fear, embarrassment, innocence and excitement. I savored that look as she stood before me. I think a breeze might have knocked her over at that instant. That look set the fire inside me ablaze like I had never felt it before. I was crazy, I knew, to be doing this. I would probably go to jail, or worse, but I knew that couldn't turn back. I wanted it too much. I figured that one horny old bastard like myself in ten trillion got a chance like this. I was the lucky one who was handed the right combination of inclination, a partner, and opportunity. There was Sally, the willing young woman. A charming, alluring, innocent, trusting, nubile young woman. There was the unique set of circumstances that, had I only the courage to seize them, would allow me the freedom to do whatever I wanted with her. She stood before me, shivering with either fear or excitement. I nervously licked my lips as she stood before me, head bowed. I had opportunity. I had Sally. The only question was my inclination. I was seizing this opportunity, despite the risks. Yesterday, Dean Pierce had played the part of stern, dispassionate disciplinarian. Pierce had given Sally the most obscene interrogation I had ever heard in my life. Poor Sally looked like she wanted to fall of the face of the earth. Despite myself, I found Sally's shaking, nearly-tearful embarrassment incredibly arousing. Strange, but her humiliation was a most powerful aphrodisiac. As Pierce's intimate probings continued, Sally's shame deepened palpably. Yet, the young woman had continued to answer, revealing anything that the Dean asked her to. As the perverse interview continued, I watched as Sally's heart rending shame turned slowly to desire. It was a subtle transformation, but by the end, there was no way Sally could hide it. It was this power that Pierce was wielding, the ability to drive my gorgeous, nubile young charge from mortification to lust, that made me hunger, even more than Sally's humiliation. At one point, I had been forced to excuse myself to go the men's room to relieve myself of this throbbing need. But the true revelation had been the "exam" Dean Pierce had given Sally. When Pierce had told me that I was to be in charge of this "special disciplinary curriculum", that Dean Pierce was up to something. But, I had quickly agreed, for two reasons. First, because I thought that she might have suspected about the "art" instruction I was giving to Sally. Second, because I thought that perhaps the new situation might lend itself well to continuing our illicit activities. I had developed more suspicions about Pierce's true intentions in the meeting with Sally's parents, but yesterday, watching Allison Pierce savage Sally's body was perhaps the most shocking thing I had ever seen in my life. I had never, even in my wildest imaginings, expected this. Dean Pierce had, in effect, handed Sally to me on a plate. Keeping the facade of a teacher was silly, but it still somehow made so much sense. It defined our relationship. It put me above her, enabling me to ask what I did of her, and allowing - or requiring - her to comply. It was my first taste, my first foggy realization of what this game was about: power. I had already learned that lesson from Dean Pierce. "Put down your books, Sally," I told her. Reluctantly, she did, and as she turned back to me, I saw her with a new eye. She was my peach. I drank the sight thirstily, and for the first time, ever, did not have to look away, or glance at her through my peripheral vision. She was mine, and there was nobody here to see the way I looked at her. I appraised her, slowly and carefully, allowing my glance to linger as long as I wanted on her inviting features. She looked down at the floor, trembling more noticeably, her cheeks scarlet. She was in the spotlight of my ill intentions, and it was obvious she found the position uncomfortable. She nervously folded her hands over her chest, and stood with the heels of her loafers together. "Put your hands at your sides, Sally." She did. I felt a rush of adrenaline, lust, and power. "You know why you are here, don't you Sally?" "Yes, Mr. Howard." I circled her like a shark, undressing her with my eyes, missing nothing. I put on the show our relationship required of me. I explained to her that I was in charge of her discipline, and that her behavior problems would be corrected in the special instruction that I would give her. With a quavering voice, she told me that she understood, and that she wanted very much to make amends. I went on to explain that these classes would be very different from anything that she was used to, and that they would be, at times, extreme. These extreme measures were dictated by her behavior, and if she wanted to be restored to the good graces of the Academy, she would have to learn a new respect for authority. I told her that her parents had agreed in full to any punishment that I deemed appropriate. Her voice very, very small, she said "I know, and I'm ready, Mr. Howard." Standing once again before her, I found three competing urges raging inside me. One part of me wished to savor Sally's sweet innocence. I wanted to patiently, slowly teach her to make love. To help her blossom from a trusting schoolgirl into a sensuous woman by introducing her to sex, one step at a time. But, another part of me wanted to unleash my darker desires on her. I thirsted to see Sally humiliated and embarrassed as she had been yesterday; I longed to crush her innocence with my perversity. The third part of me was aroused by the power I held over her. I longed to dominate her, totally. Physically, intellectually, emotionally, and most of all, sexually. This afternoon, the occasion of Sally's first private lesson with me, was to become one of the most memorable events in my life. The sexual tension between us was so thick it seemed to fill the entire room. But, I somehow managed to control myself, and we started off very slowly. After all, I reasoned, now that I was in charge of her "special studies", we would have every single day to explore. Besides, I now had a freedom with her that I had only dreamed of. Freedom to do any little thing that had ever crossed my libidinous little mind. So, I began taking the small liberties that I had always daydreamed of. Nothing too extreme, yet. Just enough to feed my perverse curiosity. I could tell that it was also just enough to keep Sally both blushing, and despite herself, titillated. Humiliating her, even just mildly, and seeing her become aroused from the very same circumstances was like a drug to me. An aphrodisiac so powerful I felt twenty years younger. By the end of the afternoon, Sally was having a French lesson like none other, though it would pale in comparison with what would follow. * * * On the third day of Sally's new life, my curiosity got the better of me, and I slipped away from the office, leaving a note for Linda, my secretary, that I would return late in the afternoon. I stole quietly into the old schoolhouse through a service entrance, and was soon hidden in a janitor's closet, which now served as my electronic listening post. In this case, it was actually a viewing post. Before I had handed Sally over to Mr. Howard, and given them the run of the old schoolhouse, I had installed several tiny surveillance cameras in hidden vantage points. I was taping every moment of young Sally's education. I flipped on the monitor, and was soon absorbed in the scene, in full motion video and stereo sound, of Mr. Howard "teaching" Sally French. I immediately found myself reassessing Mr. Howard. Either he was even more depraved than I had first thought, or was one of the quickest studies I had ever met. He had obviously grasped that Sally was a submissive, though I doubted that word was in his vocabulary. On the chalkboard he had outlined a set of punishments, which apparently increased with the number of incorrect answers she gave. On the floor, in front of Sally was a yardstick, and she was standing, rather awkwardly, with her feet on top of the ends of the yardstick, quite far apart. She faced the blackboard, and behind her paced Mr. Howard, with a book in one hand, and a wooden ruler in the other. As I watched, Sally answered one of his questions incorrectly, and with unrestrained glee, Mr. Howard exclaimed, "That's ten wrong answers, Sally!" Sally's head fell forward, and she shook it slightly, obviously dreading what was to come next. She bent over at the waist, and put her hands out onto the blackboard for support. Mr. Howard, now standing directly behind her, flipped up her skirt, revealing her panty-clad bottom. "Count them," he ordered, as he raised the wooden ruler. I left the glowing monitors and returned to work. When I returned, late in the afternoon, nearly two hours after the Academy's final bell, I found Sally and Mr. Howard still at it. The recording equipment hummed quietly behind me as I watched them. Judging from both of them, Mr. Howard hadn't given them a break, even for a moment. They both looked exhausted, but they both still had all of their clothes on. I guessed, however, that Sally wouldn't be sitting down without a great deal of discomfort this evening, or tomorrow. "Pull up your skirt, Sally," Mr. Howard said, en Francais. "No, please, Monsieur," she replied, shaking her head. She was flushed, and visibly trembling. "Now!" he said, snapping his fingers and motioning impatiently. Sally slowly raised her skirt, blushing fiercely. The old lech leered at her. Her black thigh-highs contrasted starkly with the creamy expanse of her thighs, above them. But Mr. Howard's gazed was fixed on her now-visible bikini underpants. Continuing in French, he demanded, "Sally, describe to me, en Francais, how you feel." "Well, I am very embarrassed," she began, breathless and haltingly. Her accent was improving, but it could still stand some work. "No, no! Not you." Now appearing quite annoyed, Mr. Howard picked up the yardstick. "Spread you legs wider, Sally. Wider!" Sally quickly obeyed, splaying her feet apart more and more, until her long legs were shaking with the strain. Then, Mr. Howard, using the yardstick like a long finger, prodded the damp "v" between Sally's legs, protected only by thin layer of white cotton. "Sally, tell me how this feels," he said. "Your cunt." The last word was in English. * * * My life seemed like a strange dream. Just a little more than a week had gone by since the horrible incident when I'd been caught in the hall without underwear by Mrs. Buskerman. Since then, I had done things, said things, and felt things I never thought I would. It was as if a switch had been flipped, and suddenly everything was different. I seemed different, even to myself, which was the weirdest thing of all. I felt different. I don't know why, but something had changed. Just a little more than a week ago, I never could have imagined what I was doing at that moment. I was sitting in a wooden desk in a classroom, with the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the window. I had just spent the last two hours being drilled on calculus questions. So normal. But that's where the similarity to my normal life ended. Even as Mr. Howard explained what I was going to have to do today, I felt the strangeness settle in. "I think we need to change tactics," he said. "Today, instead of punishments for wrong answers, I'm going to reward you for right answers." Then he leaned down, and started whispering in my ear. "Have you ever kissed a boy?" I shook my head. "Never?" Again, I shook my head. "Have you ever thought about it?" "Yes, Mr. Howard," I told him. "What was it like, when you thought about it?" Although I was dying with embarrassment, I found myself answering, with the whole truth, as I had been ever since this whole thing began. "It was, well, it was nice. Kind of warm." "Today I'm going to teach you to kiss like a woman." The words didn't even seem real. I didn't know what to say, or what to think. When I got my first right answer, he leaned over, and took my head in his hands, so gently, and pressed his lips to mine. They were warm, and just a bit wet. He smelled and tasted a bit like coffee. He kissed me, just like that, on the lips, over and over again, as I answered each question right. I was so weird I can't even describe it. But it was making me feel so strange. I guess the truth was that it was giving me that feeling. You know - that feeling. Each time he kissed me just a little bit harder and longer. His lips were so soft. I don't know why, but I just opened my mouth, and it was like an explosion. I felt the feeling inside me spring to life. His mouth opened too, and I guess I started kissing him back. It lasted a really long time. When he finally pulled back, I was out of breath, and didn't want him to stop. I looked at his mouth, and his lips, and wanted more. Then, smiling, he said, "That was the beginning of the way a woman kissed, Sally." And suddenly, I felt so ashamed and embarrassed I wanted to crawl into a hole. But he didn't stop asking me the stupid math questions. When I finally got my head together enough to get one right, he started kissing me right away, hard. I opened my mouth, and I felt his tongue! I felt dizzy. I put my arms around him, pulling him closer, and his tongue touched mine again. It was gross, and yet, I was melting. I felt like he'd lit a fire in my body. I was kissing him back, more and more, and then I stuck my tongue out a little bit. It touched his, and suddenly we were french kissing, our tongues touching lightly, sending shocks of heat into me. I don't know how long we went on like this. It felt like hours, but at the same time, only minutes. The sun was going down. It was time to go. I felt lightheaded, and so hot. I was sweating, but the heat was inside me, deep inside. "Sally," he told me. "I have some homework for you." "Yes, Mr. Howard," I managed, licking my lips. They felt numb, and chapped, but so good. "Well, one of the lessons you have to learn is the consequences of your actions." "Yes, Mr. Howard." I watched him get up, slowly. I found myself looking at his crotch. There was this big bulge. It was unmistakable. I felt myself getting breathless from the pounding of my heart. "Well, let me tell you a story. Once, when I was at my Aunt's house, I ate some ice cream when I wasn't supposed to, and I got caught. That, of course, was the thing I did wrong - getting caught. My Aunt told me 'Bill, if you want ice cream, it's ice cream you'll get.' She made me eat so much ice cream I wanted to be sick. But I learned two lessons. First, don't get caught. Second, if you do, make sure it's a flavor you really like. Now, Sally, I think it's time that you started having some ice cream, if you follow me." I didn't, until he told me what my homework was. "Stand up, Sally." I did, and I felt so weak and dizzy, and had to steady myself with one hand on the desk. "Now, pull up you skirt with one hand." I swallowed, feeling my cheeks starting to burn with shame, as they always did. "Show me your cunt, Sally." I felt a sob of humiliation boiling up in my throat, but managed to swallow it down. "No, not down. Just pull your panties to one side," he said. If I told you my judgment had been clouded by the combination of being naked and aroused, back when I first met Mr. Howard, and started this mess, then imagine what I felt now. After a week of these lessons, and hours of making out with Mr. Howard, kissing an older man I hardly knew, I didn't know which way was up. With a shaking hand, and the weird feeling of an out-of-body experience, I pulled the moist crotch of my underwear to one side. I felt so ashamed, but I was feeling hotter by the second. I looked down at the floor, knowing that he somehow knew how much this made that feeling inside me rage. The moment dragged on forever, and finally he told me, "Now bunch it up, and pull it up." With wooden fingers, I obeyed, twisting the crotch of my underwear, and then pulling it snug against my mound. I wasn't enough for him, though. "Pull it between your lips, Sally. High up. Between your buttocks, too. I want it to disappear." I could hardly believe his words. I didn't sound like him. I didn't feel like me. The whole scene felt so unreal. But I did it for him. "Good," he said, staring at what I'd done. He walked up close to me, and took my chin in his hand, and kissed me again. I felt my knees buckling, but he held me up. Finally, he pulled away, and said, "Now, Sally, I want you to keep these like that. That's your homework. Don't take them off when you go to sleep tonight. I want you to wear them, just like that, until I see you again tomorrow." He paused, and then added, "And this time, don't get caught." "But, Mr. Howard, my parents... " I protested. * * * The instant the idea had occurred to me, I knew I would do it. The next day, Sally arrived in our classroom right on time, as she always did. She was also breathless with anticipation, and, although I think she was trying to hide it, she was already nervous about me asking about her "homework". So, of course, I waited, drawing out her erotic dread. Instead, I simply asked her to turn around, and then placed the blindfold over her eyes. She gasped when I did, and her hands shot up to feel it, as if to ascertain that it was real. Indeed it was. And, from what Dean Pierce had told me when she'd given it to me, 100% effective, but also comfortable. Which was good, because from the moment I put it over Sally's eyes, I felt a new rush of power over her, more potent than any yet. I had rendered her even more dependent on me. I had an advantage in our sexual power struggle that she had no way of matching. I felt quite sure that Sally would be spending a great deal of time in this blindfold. When I finally asked her about her homework, I could see that the blindfold, rather than making her feel more secure, as if she were more anonymous because she couldn't see, it was making her feel even more vulnerable and helpless. She told me that she hadn't been caught. "Good," I said, circling around behind her. She turned her head, listening to me walk around her. I loved it. I pulled up her skirt in back, and she gasped with surprise. I gorged my eyes on my Lolita's perfect ass. Emerging from between her round, ample buttocks, a narrow strip of white cloth joined the waistband of her underwear. She had pulled the waistband high up over her hips, twisting it up as well. In effect, she was wearing little more than a cotton cord, and much to my delight and desire, she had obliged me by pulling it up most severely. I suspected is was causing her deadly embarrassment, burning shame, not a little discomfort, but also guilty, throbbing pleasure. I dropped her skirt and walked in front of her. I told her to show me her "homework". Her cheeks flushed scarlet as she pulled up her skirt. I drank in the lewd sight, my pulse quickening by the second. Later, long into our afternoon of delight and depravity, Sally told me that she had to relieve herself. Nothing could have hammered home the power I now held over sweet Sally, than the intimate intrusion that I then had the pleasure of subjecting the unfortunate schoolgirl to. I led a stumbling, halting young woman by the hand, down the vacant hall. She was breathing in short, ragged gasps, and hanging on to my hand so fiercely it almost hurt. She pleaded with me to take off the blindfold and let her go by herself. I had to guide her every inch of the way. When we actually got into the stall, it became the most intimate of degradations. She had to hang on to me as I helped her sit down. I thought she might start to cry, but quickly silenced her with a long, probing kiss. I felt her shame so strongly it was like heat. In the end, I think she gave me her trust and dignity, as much as I took them. I felt like I had possessed a part of her. She seemed profoundly affected by it. It was unmistakable how pliant, and how aroused she was during the remainder of our "special class". I knew quite a few things about Sally now, but at that moment, above all else, I prized the intimate knowledge I had just gained. * * * Reviewing the tapes of the last week or so of Bill and Sally's lessons, I decided that I didn't like Bill's pace. Too slow. Plus, something about the way they had started acting, at least part of the time, was bothering me. It was almost tender. Mr. Howard had been introducing Sally, very slowly, to sex. First kissing, then some petting, and then, just as things were beginning to really heat up, he seemed to back off. This wasn't good. I didn't quite understand it, either. Bill was every bit the horny old man. More perverted that I had ever guessed. I saw it come out, from time to time, as he "instructed" Sally. There was a nasty, depraved side to him, I had no doubt. But, instead of the twisted old man that I wanted to see, the one that would turn Sally into my little blackmail slut, I kept seeing a tender side of him. I wondered if he was in love. Which, in and of itself, was fine with me. As long as it got me to the point with Sally that I wanted. I wanted her to be a teenage cock slut. The kind that, when faced with the situation I intended to put her in, would choose to suck and fuck her stepfather, even if he was a lousy bastard. I needed to get involved, to direct Bill Howard a bit. And I knew just what do do. It was easier than I thought to sneak into Bill's house. Simple, actually. I waited for him in the hall closet, wearing a black leather "slavegirl" ensemble. Just the kind of thing that would appeal to him. When he opened the door to the closet, there was a split second when I thought he'd have a heart attack. But then I saw the excitement in his eyes. I pushed him roughly up against the wall, and dropped to my knees in front of him, tugging down his zipper as I did. He was still so surprised he was literally sputtering. "I've wanted this for so long, Bill," I said, looking up at him, flashing my eyes. "I've wanted you for so long," I breathed, licking my lips. He didn't exactly put up a big fight. When he was done, I stood up and kissed him until I could feel him starting to come back to life. I pulled away, sucking his tongue as I did, and stepped back, striking a pose so alluring it instantly revived Bill's flagging attention. "Bill, do you want more of this?" He nodded. Of course he did. I was to die for, especially in my leather-slut outfit, and I knew I had him. "Do you know what I want, Bill?" He shook his head, and finally found his tongue. "No, Dean P - Allison - I don't." "I want to see Sally doing what I just did to you." I saw the shock in his eyes. But I still had him. "It makes me so hot, Bill. I want to watch her do it to you. Oooh, Bill, even just thinking about it, look what's it's doing to me." I showed him. Half an hour later, I knew I had gotten my point across to him. He was going to play ball. By my rules. I had given him quite a show, promising everything that he saw and more, and left him hanging. Frustration was a good thing. * * * The gym in the old schoolhouse wasn't exactly my ideal place to conduct my lessons with Sally, but Allison had insisted on it, and I wasn't going to refuse. I had cleaned it up, but only a bit, and it was still cluttered with old phys-ed equipment, classroom furniture, and other odds and ends that the Academy was storing. There was a dusty locker room, with showers and toilets, where the girls used to change. There was a layer of dust on everything, but I cleaned a few things off for our lesson, my mood souring as I did. Allison had pointed out that there were lots of things I could tie Sally down on, which shocked me when she said it. But now, as I was finishing up my janitorial duties, I was getting more and more enamored with the idea. It appealed to my base, darker desires. Allison had also given me a leotard, for Sally to wear. "Her parents insisted on providing some gym clothing," she'd explained to me. I hadn't really looked at it, and when Sally arrived for our lesson, I had just handed it to her, told her to change in the locker room, and to come out when she was done. I wasn't expecting what I saw when Sally emerged. The leotard was at least two sizes too small. And it was made of the flimsiest material. I was practically sheer. Sally looked mortified. The garment was obviously all wrong. I even doubted that it was intended for use as exercise clothing at all. But the effect was disturbingly erotic. The ridiculously small piece of clothing accentuated Sally's womanly curves. It called attention to Sally's near-nakedness: the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, and her pouty ass. It shouted "Look at me!" because it hid nothing. It was the same effect that an anklet, or a thin gold chain around a naked woman's waist has. Sally walked over to me, wincing, and I saw just how small and tight the leotard was. The crotch looked painful, yanked upwards into Sally's furry mound so severely that the fabric looked like it was stretching. Sally's face was a mask of embarrassment and shame. I patted the balance beam, next to me, and said, "Up you go, Sally." Along with this perfectly lewd piece of clothing, Dean Pierce had given me a devilish idea. A few moments later, I was done. Sally was straddling the balance beam. I had arranged it so from her straddling position, Sally's tiptoes just barely touched the floor. I had tied three-foot length of rope to her feet, so she couldn't get off of the beam, and then lashed her hands together behind her back. The piece de resistance was her blindfold. Sally, her face already scarlet with shame, gave me a pleading look, filled with dread, as I fit it over her eyes. She was helpless, and bound so that she couldn't escape the relentless pressure of her body pressing her crotch onto the polished oak beam. She was straddling it in a truly lascivious way, and the sight was enrapturing. To enjoy this little lesson even more, I pretended to leave the gym, making noise like I had closed the door behind me. Then, I took off my shoes, and silently snuck back in to watch the show. I watched as she tried to adjust to the pressure of the ropes and the unrelenting grind of her pubis against the beam. At first she seemed both frightened, and miffed. Then, as the pressure grew, she began to squirm. She began to rock from side to side, trying to relieve the force directed solely at her tender, nubile flesh, but to little avail. Then, apparently to ease the feeling, she tried scooting forward on the beam. This was very difficult, because her feet barely touched the floor, and to give herself any forward momentum, she had to lean forward, grinding herself onto the beam just where her most delicate and sensitive spot was. But she began making some headway, inching forward. But the sensation must have been quite powerful, because she began mewing, most plaintively, with every lurching inch she managed to push herself forward. Her agonized mewing, quiet though it was, echoed hollowly in the old gym. The scene was just as Allison had described it would be. It was depraved beyond all of my expectations. I was glad I had heeded Allison's advice, and spread a thin layer of baby oil on the beam, just a few inches from the spot I had put Sally. She inched her way onto that section of the beam, onto the sheen of oil, mewing and groaning pathetically, and her forward progress nearly ceased. The oil made the beam very slippery, and it was now doubly hard for Sally to move. She seemed to realize this, because she paused, and hung her head, shaking it, and moaned "Pleeease," very quietly, as she rocked from side to side. I knew she was aching for relief. But then she redoubled her efforts, rolling forward, hunching onto the beam lewdly, trying to get some purchase, but only sliding back and forth on her crotch. Her mewing was growing more prolonged, and even more plaintive. I quietly stepped closer, and put my eye even with plane of the beam. From just a few inches away, I watched as my lovely Lolita strained and ground her pouting mound onto the slippery beam. It was all the more obscene because Sally's ridiculously small leotard was pulled completely between her now-swollen lips, and I knew it only added to the sensations assaulting her. It was perfect. * * * Every day I was transformed. From the person I thought I was - Sally - into someone else. Someone I hardly even recognized. For what seemed like a long time that transformation began when I walked into the old schoolhouse, and ended when I left and went home. But gradually, I found myself changed, even when I wasn't with Mr. Howard. This was the part that was most frightening. I ran across the short distance from the behind the parking lot to the old schoolhouse. From the outside, there wasn't a trace of what went on inside. You couldn't even tell that the building was open. I jogged around to the back of the building, the side that faced the woods, and nearly slipped on a patch of ice. The air was cold, and a wind was beginning to pick up. I paused at the door, and I looked up at the flat, grey sky, wondering who I was, and what I was doing here. I went in, just as the first drops of sleet began falling on the frozen ground. Inside, in our classroom, Mr. Howard was waiting for me. I was about two minutes late, and I knew he was going to punish me for it. I could see it on his face. The realization made me throb with nervous anticipation. What punishment would it be today? Already I was transformed. I had scarcely walked into the building, and already I had metamorphosed. I was thinking about being punished by Mr. Howard, and it was making that feeling in me pound like tribal drums. But the truth was that I had already began my change, before I walked into the old schoolhouse. I had woken up changed. I had woken up from a dream so real, so vivid, that I had to sit still in bed for a moment, just to convince myself that I was awake. It was a haunting, disturbing dream, and it was all about the things I had to do for Mr. Howard. I had woken up with that feeling, throbbing in time with my racing pulse. In my dream I had been asking for more. Begging for more. Pleading to be punished, and melting into ecstasy when Mr. Howard made me do... things. Now, as I stood before Mr. Howard, I realized that I had been waiting for this moment the whole day. I had been thinking about it constantly. It had been a buzz in my brain since I opened my eyes, stumbled out of bed, and taken off my pajamas, only to find them soaked. I had been like that all day. I was like that now. I knew that my undies were sticky, and that they would smell so strongly of me. I realized that the whole day had passed, and I couldn't recall its details. I couldn't remember any of it clearly, except for the need I felt and had been pretending didn't exist. He had changed me. Or, I had changed. Both. And it was happening all the time, now. I knew what I was doing, now. At this moment, I saw that I had a choice. I saw it clearly, away from the urge to obey that always welled up inside me. I knew that I could walk away, and that I could free myself from all of this with one phone call to the cops. One brief conversation with another teacher. I knew that I was the one with the power. The idea that this was all in my control suddenly cleared my vision. I felt so lucid and balanced, and calm. I could do whatever I wanted. But, at that moment, I also felt ashamed. I blushed, feeling my guilt wash over me. I was ashamed because I had a choice, and Because I wanted it. Because I was choosing to be wicked. I had changed. I knew that my judgment had been bad. I knew that I had followed blindly before, and done whatever I was told. I knew that what was going on here was so wildly twisted it was unbelievable. But I wanted it so much. I needed it. And at that moment, I was no longer a naive little girl. I was strong. I was me - Sally. And, despite myself, I wanted this more than anything. I wanted it so much that I was possessed by it. I knew that I had never felt this way before, and that I wanted it, all the time. I wanted this throbbing, burning, aching feeling every minute. I had changed, and not just for them. I burned with shame, knowing what I was about to do. Knowing what I was choosing. I knew how much I wanted to submit. Before Mr. Howard could speak, I told him how wet I was. I told him about my dream. I told him how I had been feeling, all day. Then, I took off my undies, and handed them to him. I told him that I had been especially naughty, and that I wanted him to punish me for it. When he was done, I asked him to make me be naughtier than ever. * * * More bad news from the bastard accountant had arrived via registered mail, and it only made my black mood blacker. A couple of whiskeys later, I was feeling quite a bit better. I went to look for Allison. Allison, not long after we had been married, had developed an uncanny ability to disappear when she didn't want to be found. This had become especially easy for her to do when we had moved into the Godforsaken Pit we now called home. I started by looking in all of her usual hiding places, but soon found myself wandering through the palatial halls of the house, looking for her, but not much caring whether or not I found her. I was content to brood, alone, listening to my footsteps echo loud and hollow in our empty corridors and rooms. Then I caught a glimpse of Monique, one of the house staff, far down at the other end of the hall, bursting out of a closed in an obvious rush to go somewhere. But something about her made me stop, and then slip quietly to one side, behind a stone column, to watch her. After launching herself out of the room and into the hall, and then slamming the door behind her, she nearly collapsed against the far wall. She bent over, and her long, curly dark hair hung over her head like a mane. Faintly I could make some sounds echoing down the hall to me. She was panting. Or sobbing. I couldn't tell which. She stayed like that for a few moments, and then slowly straightened up. As she did, I saw that her white blouse was unbuttoned down to her waist, revealing a modest, but perky pair of tits in a beige bra. She started to button herself up, but then saw something on the ground in front of her. She stooped down and scooped it up, and I saw that it was her panties! What was going on, here? Had she dropped them? I was straining to see, and my shoe scraped on the hardwood floor. Monique started, and her head jerked towards my hiding spot, but I don't think she could have seen me in the darkness, so far down the hall. But she must have been spooked, because she quickly stuffed her panties into a pocket on her skirt, and clutching her blouse closed with one hand, she fled down the hall, and quickly turned out of view, headed towards her quarters, I guess. "Allison," I thought to myself. Who else would be responsible? She must be in that room. I walked down the hall, and paused in front of the door that Monique had just bolted from. I could hear the sound of a television, playing quite loudly, inside. I slowly turned the doorknob, and pushed it open. Inside, I found Allison. She was watching some sort of video tape. Porn. Actually, she was doing more than watching. It was a study, or a library, of some kind. God only knows how many rooms this house had that I had never seen. This one was decorated with pictures of hounds, foxes, and hunting scenes. Dark mahogany and brass bookshelves lined the walls. There was only one dim light on in the library, and its feeble light was lost in the wash of electric blue phosphorescence from the TV. Directly opposite me, the source of that glow, a projection- screen TV was showing some sort of porn. An older, grey-haired man and a young woman. They weren't doing much at the moment, but I could tell it was porn - there was something about the way they were talking to each other. Allison was sitting on a leather couch, with her back to me, watching. She was naked. I slowly opened the door even more, watching her to see if she noticed. She didn't. I slipped inside, and eased the door shut behind me. Then I saw what my wife was doing. On a small table in front of her were a bizarre and disturbing collection of objects. I couldn't even imagine what half of them were for. But the way Allison was using one of them on herself, right in front of me, left nothing to doubt as to its purpose. She looked like she was in a trance. Her eyes were glazed over, heavy-lidded, and bathed in the blue glow of the screen. She moved slowly, languidly, tilting her head back a bit, and as her lips parted, I caught a barely audible moan escape from them. I had never seen what Allison did with her "Society" friends. I had never wanted to. And this, apparently, was the sort of thing that they liked. I was disgusted. Repelled. But I couldn't tear my eyes from Allison. Her position on the couch was so lewd, and what she was doing was so shocking that I was rooted to the spot. She picked up a remote, and pointing it at the monstrous screen, fast-forwarded the tape. The scene changed from a classroom to an office of some kind. The vantage point was terrible, though, even for the cheap sort of porn that this looked to be. The cameraman must have been seven feet tall. The older man, who looked vaguely familiar to me, led a fresh little peach of a woman into the office. She was blindfolded, and wearing a schoolgirl uniform. "Hmph," I thought to myself with an inner sarcastic sneer. "Bringing a little bit of work home, Allison?" I watched as the man left his blindfolded victim standing alone in the room, and then he returned, carrying a paper bag. Out of the bag, he pulled coil after coil of white rope. He was talking, quietly, to the woman. He was telling her how much she need to be disciplined. How much she needed to learn, the hard way, that she was to let him to anything he wanted to her. It sounded so cheesy. Though she was still clothed, he tied the rope around her ankles and legs, creating cuffs, in effect. Then, with what seemed to be little regard for her blindfolded state, he pulled her, by her bonds, over to a high-backed chair behind the desk. Allison was totally absorbed in the cheap porn, and in what she was doing as she watched it. I was aghast. As the man began tying his young victim to the chair, and to the desk, I could see Allison starting to get into it. I watched her, her body illuminated by the flickering artificial light, as she did things to herself that I had never even conceived of. She was moving more quickly now, keeping pace with the events unfolding on the video. The man had trussed up the blonde in position so lewd that she looked like some sort of contortionist. Then he began touching her. At first it was almost gentle. It had a strange sort of tenderness. Amazingly, as the old man touched the poor young blonde, she seemed to respond, straining and arching in her bonds. But this seemed to annoy the man, and he grew more and more mischievous as he touched her. He teased and teased her, and was slowly either removing or pushing her clothing aside as he did. She was moaning. Allison seemed to be enjoying the show almost as the twisted old man and his victim. As the long-legged blond, bound obscenely on the screen moaned louder, so did Allison. Just as the old man seemed to pushing his blonde bombshell's buttons most effectively, he seemed to grow even more savage. I watched in mute shock as he quickly released her from her ropes, but then, just as nimbly, bound her up again. This time, the poor young woman looked truly agonized. I felt the burning of anger and disgust beginning to stir in my stomach. It seemed so unfair. When the old man had finished tying her up again, even an impossibly perverted and lewd position, he started in on her again. This time, he was saying the most wicked and depraved things to her that I think I've ever heard. Worse, he now seemed to be really enjoying the unlimited access he had to the vulnerable young woman. He was growing more frenzied by the moment. The helpless woman sobbed and moaned, her body alternately shaking with the strain and thrusting out obscenely at her assailant. She was moaning, and begging for it. I looked down at Allison. At the new "toy" she was holding. At what she was doing with it. I felt my stomach turn when I saw how much she was enjoying it all, and I couldn't take it any more. "You make me sick," I said, watching Allison literally jump up from the couch. She screamed something at me, but I didn't even hear her. I was already walking out. * * * The fall days grew shorter and shorter, and soon it was winter. As the days waned on into the darkness of winter, I found myself on a journey into the depths of desire. I plunged headlong into that place inside me where I seldom looked. It was a engulfing catharsis. I felt reborn. Sally was more willing than ever. If anything, as my depravity grew, she grew more disposed to it. Now, if Sally didn't walk through the doors of our private schoolhouse breathless, devoured by her own desires, it was an occasion out of the ordinary. She seemed to hunger to submit to me as much as I longed to debauch and dominate her. Despite, or perhaps because of her newly acquired and growing appetites, each new debasement seemed to strike her ever more sharply with shame, complicity, and humiliation. And yet, her thirst grew with each new depth we reached. As did mine. There was no end in sight. Nor was I even capable of looking for one, so consumed was I. Ever more bold, more strident, more ravenous, I feasted on Sally's modesty, her virtue, and her sensibilities. And never once did she refuse. Our games were progressing from a playful prurience to an earnest, unabashed lust. In this regard, my relationship with Dean Allison Pierce had changed dramatically. She seemed to be enjoying, albeit vicariously, a fantasy whose perversity nearly matched mine. It was actually a bit unnerving how similar her lusts seemed to my own. Ever since she had attacked me in my own home, she had begun meeting me there nearly daily to discuss Sally's "education". Actually, these discussions had grown more and more physical as time passed. It seemed that listening to my accounts of our days' activities inflamed Allison's libido like a match to aviation fuel. It seemed the more depraved the lessons I meted out to Sally, the more Allison found her urges irresistible. After a life of barrenness. Of sterile aloneness, devoid of any physical contact, or of any expression of my virility, long after I had given up all hope of such, I found myself at an oasis. I went from Sally to Allison, and back, day in and day out. I was feasting, but I hungered for more each day. Often, I found myself mulling over some turn of phrase, or some hinted suggestion, or a confessional account of one of of Allison's fantasies. I don't think she realized just how obscene she was with me. Whenever I would mention these accounts, later, she always seemed to change the subject. As if she were denying that she even had them. But these thoughts would, more often than not, result in a new and devilishly depraved idea for a lesson with Sally. I had discovered a meanness. A meanness in me, when I had believed that I had none. A mean streak that was a tool that I used on Sally. Perhaps meanness is the wrong way to describe it. Callousness might be more appropriate. I'm not sure when I first became aware of it, but gradually I found myself turning on and off this callousness when it suited me. And it suited me with Sally, because she submitted to it. It drove her to do things I knew she never had dreamed of. It allowed me to demand her to do thing I would never have dreamed of. I learned to wield it like a king's scepter. It was my vessel of power. Power over Sally. Power to do the nastiest things I could think of. Power to make her do them for me. Power to make her love to do them. Power to make her want me to make her do them. I discovered other tools, as well. Sally's blindfold was one. Restraint was another. Their effect was helplessness, which seemed to free her, and which jolted me with the purest of lusts - power over her. Her helplessness was one of the drugs that we both became addicted to. And the tool I had discovered most recently was humiliation. Erotic embarrassment, as it were. Sexual shame. It had occurred to me during on of our lessons. The combination of embarrassment and arousal were natural. I knew Sally would hate it, but be unable to resist it. It would drive her wild, even as it humiliated her. And the mere thought of degrading and debauching Sally in this way was firing my vivid, perverse imagination remarkably. I decided to plan several lessons on it. Late one winter afternoon, I waited for Sally to arrive for her lesson. Because it was now getting dark so early, we had moved our regular meeting place to one of the few rooms in the old schoolhouse that had no windows - the old girls' locker room. When Sally arrived, I began her first lesson directed most carefully at her humiliation. "Take off your blouse and bra, Sally." With downcast eyes, ever the subservient young woman, she began to comply. As she did, I took an instant camera out of one of the lockers. While she wasn't looking, I snapped a photo of her as she pulled her blouse over her head. The flash and whirr of the camera gave it away, and she quickly pulled her blouse back down to cover herself. "What is that?" She asked, her face burning red with embarrassment. It was obvious, of course, but I explained to her that her punishment required documentation. Then I told her to do as she had been told, or she would face the consequences. I could see Sally's shame. In her eyes, I saw her struggling with herself over what she was doing. The fire in her body, and the force of my will against her delicate sensibility, and her innocence. I felt a rush of lust and power, and snapped, "Strip, Sally!" She finally continued, but with obvious reluctance. I could see how she hated this. How degraded she felt by it. I knew she was wondering what would become of these photos. I knew the possibilities were mortifying. Her horror and shame, should anyone ever see them! But Sally looked at the tiled floor, and began undressing for me. I snapped picture after picture, dropping them on the floor in front of her, so she could see what she was doing for me. To increase her shame. When she was bare from the waist up, I tied her hands together behind her back, and then retrieved my camera. "Now, Sally, I want you to somehow get your skirt and panties off, without using your hands." She looked at me with obvious pain, her cheeks crimson. I explained that she could use any other part of her body, like her feet, and anything in the room that would make it easier. It was the highest caliber of erotic game. And, in this case, it held special meaning for Sally, because as she set about following my instructions, I took photos of her progress. It was most thrilling watching the poor young woman contorting, twisting, and rubbing herself in a nearly hopeless attempt to do my bidding. She was soon perspiring with the exertion, and was resorting to more and more desperate measures to obey. She finally found that the corner of one of the sinks in the locker room gave her enough purchase to get her underwear off. She never did get her skirt off, though I greatly enjoyed watching her growing frustration and embarrassment as she tried. I finally relented, and took it off for her. Then I led her, now naked, by making use of a convenient and sensitive part of her budding anatomy, to the next part of today's trials. Between two rows of lockers, Arrayed on the low bench in front of me, were an astonishing variety of what were called, in polite company, marital aids. There was no politeness or restraint about these devices, however. Some were exotic. Others bordered on the strange. But, they all shared two traits: they were wicked in the extreme, and they were all quite large. Sally's face fell slack when she saw them. I snapped a picture. I explained that she was first going "try all of these on for size". She continued to look absolutely stunned, but her face, which was already flushed with her exertions, grew a shade darker with her shame. "And," I announced gleefully, "I'm going to record it all." Allison, who had been kind enough to furnish me with her collection of toys, had also given me a harness that would hold them in place on the bench while Sally endeavored to "try them on". For the better part of the afternoon, I watched, enraptured with perverse lust, as Sally did. She found most of them a great struggle to accommodate. That was, of course, by design. I made things just as awful for her as possible by taking reams of pictures, and never hesitating to comment on just what she looked like as she struggled. She finished the last one with an agonized moan of desire, frustration, and exhaustion, as our lesson was beginning to draw to a close. But, although Sally didn't know it, I had arranged for her to stay until very late at night. I intended to push her hard. I appraised her as she sat, impaled on one of the more monstrous invaders, straddling the low bench. She was covered in sweat. Her blonde hair was matted with perspiration, and stuck to her neck and face. She was panting, and her glistening chest was heaving up and down with each breath. She seemed incapable of speaking, and only sat, catching her wind, exhaling rhythmically with a low, breathy moan. Her legs were trembling slightly, no doubt nearly overwhelmed with hours of effort to hold her lovely, pale body up, and to lower herself down onto the strange objects, again and again, as she strained to obey my licentious demand. The small, enclosed room was filled with Sally's scent. It was a heady mix of her sweat, and her sweet, agonized breath. But most of all, it smelled of her poor, misused and tormented body. Most exciting of all, as I had thought, it was driving Sally wild. Even now I knew she was on the edge of ecstasy. She had been there for hours, but I had forbidden her to indulge herself. Not that she could have, easily, with her hands bound behind her. How I was I so sure of the afternoon's effect on Sally? I had made her tell me, over and over, in the most explicit terms. Sally had found it terribly humiliating to not only be forced into this behavior, but then to confess that she liked it. I had been merciless. And there was a stack of pictures to prove it. But, I wasn't done. I untied her, and made quick, but rough and unforgiving use of the shower so handy in the locker room. When I was finished, and Sally was dry, and had used the toilet, she seemed quite re-invigorated. Which was good, because I had a long night planned for us. I began by making her pick a "favorite" toy, and ordering her to wield it as it was intended, as I watched and photographed her. She seemed to take my order like a physical blow. She sagged, and began sobbing quietly, asking to go home. "I can't do this, Mr. Howard, pleease," she entreated me. I sat down on the bench, and made her stand in front of me, facing away. Her ass was perfect. I squeezed it gently, my fingertips following the line where her cheek curved down to her thigh. "Now bend over, Sally, and spread." She did. Even after an ice-cold shower, she was glistening with juice. "Now, Sally, beg me to make you do what I just told you to. Beg me to make you be a naughty girl." She did, of course, her voice choked with shame and humiliation. * * * "Sally, is something wrong?" I looked over at her. She had just hurried across the parking lot from school, and was in the front passenger seat, next to me. "No, Mom, I'm fine," she said, looking out the window. But something about her didn't seem right. She was hunched over in the seat, her arms folded across her lap. But, there was no telling what, if anything, was going on. She just got that way, sometimes. "Ok," I said, and started on our way home. The drive wasn't too long, and I actually enjoyed it sometimes, even at this dreary time of year. I tried to chat with her, but Sally seemed withdrawn. Another one of her moods, I figured. But then, a few minutes later, I looked over at her again, and something definitely didn't seem right. She was leaning over her knees, her crossed arms holding her abdomen. Her eyes were closed, and her lips were pursed in a thin line. As I looked closer, I saw that she looked flushed. She groaned, very quietly, rocking forward a bit. "Sally!" I was a bit alarmed. "Sally, what's wrong?" Her eyes flew open, and she straightened up a bit. "Nothing, Mom, ok? Nothing's wrong." I didn't believe it, though. "I knew we shouldn't have let you stay out so late last night, even if it was a recital." She looked at me blankly. "The recital?" I said, arching my eyebrows at her. "The one you were at last night until almost midnight?" Teenagers! God, sometimes it was like we weren't even speaking the same language. "Oh, yeah - the recital. It was fine," she murmured. "Fine? Well, it might have been, but if you're getting sick, from staying out so late... " But I trailed off when I looked over at her again. She was biting her lower lip, and hunching over again. "Ohhh," she groaned, quietly. "Sally, what is going on?!" I was getting angry, now. I hated playing these stupid guessing games with her. "Oh." She said again, her eyes fluttering. Her mouth widened into an even wider "O", and she put her head on her knees. "Ohhh, God. Ooohhhh." "Sally!!! Damn it, Sally, answer me!" We rode on for a few more moments, and then she seemed to shake herself, and with a that look of scorn and annoyance that only teenagers can manage, told me, "Nothing, ok! Nothing is wrong." "Sally, something is wrong. People don't act this way normally." "I'm just - " she shook her head, and straightened up again. She wiped a thin line of perspiration from her upper lip, and said, "I just have some cramps, ok, Mom?" Well, that made some sense, anyway. I was already mad, though, and I didn't really have much sympathy. "Sally, why didn't you just say so?" I silent swore under my breath. Sometimes Sally just seemed to enjoy tormenting me like this. "Take something when we get home, ok?" We rode the rest of the way home in silence. Sally seemed better. Then I remembered that I had some grocery shopping to do. Instead of heading home, I turned down the road towards the local strip mall, and Sally blurted out, "Where are we going?!" I told her, and she seemed to get very upset. "Can't we just go home? Mom, I have lots of homework to do. Can't you go later?" But there was no way I was going back out in this foul weather, and I told her so. She seemed to get more agitated as we neared the stores. She was fidgeting in her seat, sliding down into a slouch, and then straightening up again, and leaning from one side to the other. A pang of guilt started tugging at me. "Sally, are you going to be ok?" She didn't look at me. She seemed very distracted, like she was concentrating on something. Her cramps, I guess. She only nodded at me. When I got out of the car, in the grocery store parking lot, Sally didn't budge. I didn't even make an issue of it. Fine, I thought, if she wants to wait, it's only going to take that much longer. When I was finally finished, and wheeled my overburdened cart out to the car, I found the windows totally fogged up. I opened the door, and leaned in to pop open the trunk latch. Inside, Sally looked awful. She was sweating, and her hair looked all tangled and wild. The air in the car was thick. It smelled of Sally's musky sweat, like she had been doing aerobics or something inside. I guess I startled Sally, because she jerked up. "Mom! Mom, hi," she said, quickly sitting up. She had been nearly lying down, completely horizontal in the seat. When we got home, Sally rushed upstairs without so much as speaking. I was too tired to really care. I unpacked the groceries, and started making dinner. Jack got home, and we sat down to eat. Sally seemed really out of it, all through the meal. At first I could have sworn she was just being her usual difficult self. She seemed so distracted. A couple of times, Jack or I had to repeat a question to her more than once. It was like she wasn't even listening. She didn't eat much, either. She just fidgeted in her chair, staring at her plate. As we were finishing up, I noticed that she was straining, almost shaking in her seat. Her face was all tense, and her eyes were screwed shut. She was nodding her head up and down, up and down, and her nostrils were flaring. Like she was really in pain, or something. "Sally?" She didn't answer. A bit louder, I said "Sally?!" She still didn't acknowledge me. Jack burst out, "Damn it, Sally, answer your mother!" Sally's eyes flew open, and she blurted out a strained "Ohhh - ok! Ok, what?" But her eyes fluttered closed again, and she seemed to tremble again. "Sally, what's wrong, honey?" I asked. She swallowed, and it seemed like she was collecting herself a bit. "Nothing, Mom, ok? Just what I told you before." She motioned with her eyes towards Jack. This was our little code, and I knew she meant the cramps that she'd complained of earlier. But this had to be a really bad case, for Sally. Usually she would get them for an hour or two, if at all. I was a little worried. After I'd cleared up the dishes, I went upstairs, and found her in bed, hunkered under the covers. I sat on the edge of the bed, and felt her forehead. "Sally, are you ok, really?" She was perspiring, and her skin felt hot. She nodded. "I'm ok Mom, I think. I just have 'em bad, ok?" "Are you sure, hon?" She shrugged beneath the covers. "Maybe not. I don't know if I feel well enough to go to school tomorrow." Well, that set off the usual fake-illness warning bells in my head, but I was pretty convinced that there was something going on. This was unusual, even for Sally. "Ok, Sally," I said, patting her hand and giving her a smile. She was still my little Sally, after all. A bit later, Jack and I were downstairs watching TV, and I could have sworn I heard Sally upstairs. "Jack, turn down the TV," I told him. He gave me a dirty look. "What?" He said. "Just turn it down." He did. But I didn't hear anything more. That was, until much later at night. I don't know what time it was, but I vaguely remember waking up because of some noise, and thinking that it was Sally. But I was so groggy I couldn't really figure out what it was. It was rising and falling, and I couldn't make it out. Was she singing? I put my head back down on the pillow, still swimming somewhere between asleep and awake, and closed my eyes, trying to get my thoughts to focus on what noise she was making. Then it was morning. At about 10 o'clock, I was a bit surprised to get a call from Mr. Howard, Sally's teacher. He explained that he had heard Sally was sick, and he offered to bring over her assignments for the day, so she wouldn't fall behind. I said, "Fine," and he said he'd be over shortly. I went upstairs to let Sally know, and I'm glad I did. She was sprawled out on her bed, still asleep. The sheets were all rumpled and twisted around her, like she'd been doing somersaults in bed. As I stepped into her room, she jerked awake with a start. "Unhhh-Mom!" She looked awful. She was bleary-eyed, and her hair was a tousled mess. She seemed to jerk more awake as I walked over to her bed and sat down. She quickly pulled up the covers at the end of the bed, and scrunched down into them. "Mom," she croaked, half protest, and half greeting. "Hi, hon. Feeling ok?" She grunted and slipped deeper under the covers. "I guess. So-so." "Was that you up here, last night?" "Wha? What do you mean?" "I thought I heard you up here last night. Maybe I dreamed it. Anyway, Sally, Mr. Howard is coming over in a few minutes to drop off your assignments. Isn't that nice of him?" "What? Mom!" Her voice was full of reproach. "What? I thought you'd be happy you weren't falling behind." Teenagers. God, even if she was sick, she was still a pain in the neck. I gave her a kiss on the cheek, and stood up. "Well, you might want to wash your face. He'll be here soon." I waited for her to move, thinking she might fall back asleep. "Mom - " She gave me the "Oh, pleeease," tone. "Up and at 'em, Sally. Come on. You can't look like a ragamuffin." She didn't budge, though. "Sally, I mean it." "Mom, I'll get up, ok. I promise. Just leave me alone." Fine. I couldn't help a sigh of resignation. "He'll be here any minute," I warned, as I left. A few minutes later, after a somewhat strained conversation with Mr. Howard, I led him to Sally's room, and opened the door. Sally, much to my relief, had straightened herself up a bit. She was still in bed, under the covers, but she propped up on a pile of pillows, and she'd fixed the sheets and blanket. "Well," I said, as Mr. Howard set down his bulky briefcase by her bed. "I'll leave you to it, then. Let me know if there's anything I can get you. I have to make a quick run to the store in a few minutes, but I'll be back soon." I blew Sally a kiss, and went back downstairs. I did have some things to pick up, so a bit later I found my keys and purse and got in the car. As I was pulling out, I thought I saw a flash of movement from Sally's window, which faced the street from the second story of the house, but when I looked, there was nothing there. I shrugged inwardly. Probably Mr. Howard. Sometime after noon, when I returned, I called up to them that I was home, and then went upstairs to see how they were doing. I came in just as Mr. Howard was slapping his briefcase shut with a loud snap! "Ah, Connie. We were just finishing up," Mr. Howard said with a smile, clicking the locks on his case. Sally didn't look too great, though. She was flushed, and looked like she was perspiring again. I wondered if she had a fever. "Are you ok, honey?" I asked her. She just nodded. "Oh, I'm sure Sally's just fine," Mr. Howard said, standing up stiffly. As he pushed Sally's reading chair back towards the desk, he remarked, "It's nothing she can't handle. Just a little discomfort for awhile." He gave me a wry sort of smile. "And, she's got plenty to do for tomorrow. I gave her plenty - to keep her busy." * * * I had promised Bill Howard a certain reward, the day that I first waylaid him in his house. I'd dangled myself in front of him like a lure, and he was hooked. But what Bill didn't count on was that I was the angler, too. I'd promised Bill a certain reward, but only when he'd gotten Sally to perform for me. Actually, they both performed, quite delightfully. Sally's introduction to the activity I'd required was one of the most raw, powerfully erotic moments I had ever experienced. I counted myself lucky to be pulling off the most dangerous, daring episode of my life, and at the same time, satisfying that burning, aching need I had always felt. The horny, foggy old lech and his young, ripe, succulent morsel of a student performed for me, and I have to confess that watching them sent me over the edge more times than I could count. That afternoon, I knew that my plan was going to succeed. Of course, I gave Bill his reward, that night. But I didn't give him everything. No, after all, he still had to whip Sally's libido up to even higher heights for me. He had to drag her down to new depths of depravity. Sally's systematic corruption, the seduction of her sweet innocence, and the process exaggerating her submissive side were progressing as I had hoped, but would she do it? Would she? I had to be sure. First, Bill still had to introduce her to the act itself. I was confident that my twisted, nearly subliminal suggestions would make that experience an unforgettable one for all of us. But then we had to clinch Sally's submissiveness. She had to be taught to obey, and to listen to her body's throbbing urges. She had to become my toy. That was the only way I was going to get her to do it with her stepfather. I thought about her firm, young body, and wished I were training her, not Bill. She was mine. I imagined my her servicing me as I called her new name, and an involuntary shiver of heat ran through me. * * * Have you ever wanted something so much that it possessed you? That, in the face of it, you felt your self disappear, replaced by the thing that you wanted? Have you ever wanted something so much that day and night it consumed your thoughts? I, Sally Thompson, have. I don't know when it happened. I don't know how. I had nearly stumbled onto the road that I was on now. At some point, I remember realizing what this journey was. I had decided, then, that I wanted to make the journey, although it made me burn with guilt to know I was capable of wanting something so wicked. But I don't know when I ceased to be, and the wickedness consumed me. I never knew I could feel this way. I had no idea how much I would like it, or how much I would come to need it. There was hardly a moment now when some part of my brain wasn't thinking about it. It ran under and over my waking thoughts like a torrent, and I swam in oceans of it in my dreams. I never thought I would be capable of doing the things I had. More than that, I never thought I'd want to. The fact was, now I wanted to, more than ever. I ached to. I ached so deeply and totally that sometimes I thought I would collapse if I didn't get relief. I ached from the pores of my skin to the depths of my heart. I ached so completely sometimes I was sure that people could actually see it. That they could see and feel and smell how much I ached for it. I wondered if your thoughts could become so strong that they would project from you like radio waves, and other people could pick them up. If that were true, then everyone knew the things I wanted. I felt a perpetual burning ache, and with it, a dull throb of shame, guilt, and embarrassment. And I ached on, in spite of myself. Just a few months ago, when we had first moved here, I was a stranger to "that feeling". It and I had just met, really. But now I was so well acquainted with it, I felt strange in its absence, which, thanks to Mr. Howard, wasn't often. Now that I had disappeared, entirely replaced by the things that I ached for, even when I wasn't with Mr. Howard, I still felt the feeling. Even when I was alone, the buzz of those thoughts in my head started that feeling like flicking on a switch. That feeling had become like the feeling of my own body. Like a second skin. I didn't think it was physically possible, but an hour didn't pass when that feeling didn't spring to searing life inside me, leaving me with an anxious flutter in my stomach. The images of all the ways Mr. Howard had made me be naughty, and the thoughts of the ways he could and would left me slick and hot, all day long. Until my lesson. And even after my lessons, there was the long night, alone with Mr. Howard's "homework", and my churning, aching need. My body practically drooled into my underwear, all day long, and all night long. When I was wearing them, at least - when Mr. Howard let me. At the end of the day, they would be a mess. Sticky from me. Smelling like me. Sometimes Mr. Howard would keep them. I was actually running out of them, and wasn't sure how to get Mom to buy more without making her suspicious. All of this can't even begin to explain my humiliation at the lesson that Mr. Howard began making me learn. He wrote a note to Jack, sealed it in an envelope, and gave it to me. In it, I would come to learn that night, were instructions for Jack. Mr. Howard had asked Jack to begin helping him supervise my discipline. He asked Jack, every night before I was allowed to go to bed, to come to my room, alone. To ask me to take off my underwear and give them to him. Then he was supposed to examine them to see if I was sexually aroused. If my underwear were wet, or even just moist. If I was, Jack was supposed to make me tell him how aroused I was, and why. Then Jack was supposed to report this back to Mr. Howard. I never, ever imagined the things I would do for Mr. Howard. I never thought I could stand the shame. Worst of all, I never imagined how much I would like them. How much I would long for them. How much they made that feeling grow. * * * As I had been telling Bill all along, what we were doing to Sally involved two things: appealing to and exaggerating her submissive nature, and conditioning her to want sex more and more and more. The two were complimentary. Bill would place Sally in a situation where her role was his submissive. The more degrading and humiliating, the better. The trick was to titillate her just enough to get her to do whatever licentious nastiness he had planned. And then, when she had complied, when she had submitted, and gone further in her surrender than her limits had previously been, to reward her by giving her satisfaction. The cycle had repeated itself in lesson after lesson with Sally. I watched our voluptuous, impressionable, trusting schoolgirl gradually transformed. She hadn't lost her delicate sensibilities, her trust, or her naivete. Rather, we had moved the lines she drew. Now, after months of daily sessions, more and more wildly debauched, she no longer cringed at the things she had when I had caught her and Bill in the art supply closet. Sally wanted it, now. She wanted it very, very badly. Bill made her tell him just how much, and I had seen my surveillance tapes of her confessions. It was astonishing just how much Sally had been recast. Sally's rapid, and apparently almost total debasement was the crowing erotic achievement of my life. It went beyond mere fleshy pleasure, reaching an entirely different plane. To know that I was capable, even as removed from her direct "education" as much as I was, of giving the sweet young thing the appetites she now had was a rush of epic proportions. And, Lord, what a hunger Sally had! I rewound the latest tape of her performing for Mr. Howard. Judging from the expression he bore in the last few moments of the tape, Sally's technique was improving. Not that I thought it was lacking from the very start. No, even though the circumstances must have been crushingly humiliating for her, Sally had seemed greedily enthusiastic, her first time. Since then, she'd grown only more voracious. You could hear the longing and yearning in her voice during their sessions. She wanted it, badly. She'd been getting it, too, more and more frequently. Bill had seen to it. But each time, he exacted an ever-greater ante of submission from her. He wanted her total and complete submission. She had to surrender her charm, her shyness, her sweet innocence. Bill trod on them like so much dirt under his feet. And for her submission, she was rewarded the "honor" of pleasuring him in any way he saw fit. It was an arrangement that left all of us satisfied. But, Sally was still a virgin. Only in the strictness sense of the word, granted. But, Sally still had to much to be taught. They say you never forget your first time. I was seeing to it that Sally never would. I knew it involved some risk to my plans, but I decided to use some of my Society contacts and resources. I kept it very quiet, though. I was careful to arrange things so my involvement would be seen as only peripheral, if seen at all. After all, if things ever did blow up, I wanted to remain as distanced from the "sick" Mr. Bill Howard as I could manage. So I quietly called in a few favors, and set up a weekend "field trip" for Sally. The plan was to whisk her away the weekend that many of the girls would be away on a bona fide trip. It was a simple enough matter to inform Jack and Connie that she would be on the "real" trip, and yet arrange with her teachers and so on for her to miss it. Friday afternoon, instead of packing onto a yellow bus bound for the "historic village" field trip, Sally and Mr. Howard took two round trip tickets to Montreal, and boarded a plane. Naturally, I had arranged to go to Montreal myself, but through totally separate means that would seem unconnected under all but the harshest scrutiny. After all, I didn't want to miss this for the world. Once in Montreal, they would be settling into a hotel suite I had picked out for them. Bill would be apprehensive. Probably very much so, if I knew him, because I had given him as little detail as possible. I was running this show. I let him go along just to keep him happy. They would be settling in, in the same room, naturally. I wondered what they would be doing as my plane soared northwards through the night sky. I wondered what impromptu "lesson" Bill would teach her that evening. I knew that there was no danger of them spoiling my party by jumping the gun, as it were, because I'd forbidden him to. But, I was sure that he would seize this opportunity to indulge himself, totally alone with her, in some way. So much time in a hotel room, alone, with the object of his lust. I hoped that Sally would get at least an hour or two of sleep, because the next day was going to be very busy for her. At ten o'clock the next morning, a certain Nancy McBride would be picking Sally up from the hotel. Bill was to remain behind. I was sure he would be able to amuse himself. Sally and her escort were going on a little shopping trip. I had given explicit instructions about what Ms. McBride was going to do with Sally during the day. I had been assured that Ms. McBride, a longtime part of the Montreal "scene" of which my Society was a part, would fulfill her end of the bargain admirably. First, there was a haircut. Something very chic, I had insisted. Price was no object. Then, a makeover. Manicure and pedicure. A waxing, including her "bikini". Then, lunch at the tres "in" Bastille, a pricey cafe. Sally would love it, I knew. Then, there would be shopping. This wasn't an expedition for jeans at the local suburban mall. No, his was an excursion into the exotic land of evening wear, fetish style. I knew Sally would be both devastated and thrilled. To make matters more interesting, Ms. McBride had instructions to make the shopping trip a bit of a "lesson", as well. "I want you to make her so weak in the knees she'll need a cane," I believe I had phrased it. Nothing over the top. Just enough low-level teasing to keep Sally at a steady throb, all day long. As if the clothing she'd be trying on, modeling in front of mirrors, and buying in tiny, appointment-only sex boutiques wouldn't be enough. I pictured her, the blushing little schoolgirl, gawking at the latex-draped displays. I wasn't sure if anything like it would happen, but I imagined Ms. McBride insisting that she disrobe and try on the outfits right there in the middle of the store, with the clerks watching. Or that Ms. McBride would take one look at Sally's oh-so plain and utilitarian undergarments, and insist that Sally remove them, and throw them away, making her go without for the rest of the afternoon. The possibilities were deliciously, achingly nasty. They would be shopping for shoes, as well. Oh, I hoped that Ms. McBride would make Sally expose herself to the shoe salesperson. I could almost see Sally's face, crimson, her eyes flashing with wounded sensibility, as she obeyed. Her shame and erotic agitation were always so easy to see. I could only hope that Ms. McBride would live up to her reputation, because I would not see Sally and Bill until late Saturday night. When I did see her, she didn't recognize me. I was naked, and was wearing a wonderful mask that completely hid my face. We were in a special club that was occasionally used for private parties like ours. In this case, the guests were all members of the Society's sister organization that was located in Montreal. I knew some of the faces out in the darkness, beyond the footlights of the stage, but I hoped none would recognize me in the mask. Bill Howard was out there, too. I could see him amid the small tables lit by candles. He was probably wondering what was going to happen to Sally. Sally was just offstage. I could see her with a striking redhead, who I knew must be Ms. McBride. Sally looked stunning, like a model, or a famous actress. Ms. McBride had done a wonderful job. The young schoolgirl had been transformed into a gorgeous, coiffed young woman. Gorgeous, but also wearing the very best Submissive outfit money could buy. It did all the things that such an outfit should. It said, loud and clear, "dominate me" - "use me". It enhanced Sally's natural beauty, accenting her ripe, taught, full, young body. Some would no doubt find it too expressive. Not enough mystery. But I would disagree. It was, needless to say, very revealing, but it did leave some details to the viewer's imagination. It was quite frank, but still managed to tantalize. Sally looked bewildered and scared, as I expected. I would have felt the same, in her situation. She was dressed like, well, like the submissive she was, she was in a foreign city, and apparently about to be thrust onto a stage with a naked woman on it who was wielding a riding crop. In front of a crowd, no less. I could see her trembling, imploring Ms. McBride in hushed tones. I couldn't quite make out what she was saying, but I caught the phrase, "I'm an American... " I almost chuckled, but managed to retain my stage-dom composure. As she'd been instructed, Ms. McBride deftly handcuffed Sally's hands in front of her, and silenced her by stuffing a large silk scarf into her mouth. Sally looked really, really frightened, and was beginning to struggle in earnest, but Ms. McBride shoved her bodily onto the stage. Sally was met with a polite but enthusiastic round of applause. She blinked with confusion as her eyes adjusted to the harsh stage lighting. It was time for the show. As our subtle, understated introduction wafted down from the club's sound system, I grabbed Sally's cuffs, and dragged her to center stage. She teetered precariously on her ridiculously high heels. But she looked ravishing. Sally and I were the evening's entertainment for this select crowd. A live show, for the most discriminating of tastes. I intended to push Sally to her very limits, and then beyond. This was Sally's biggest test, and as her reward, she would soon be doing what she confessed she'd been dreaming about and masturbating about. I had brought with me every single thing in my collection I thought I might want. I was prepared to make Sally submit for me and the audience like never before. I began slowly. Teasingly. Testing her. Sally was wary, nervous, and frightened. But, I used finesse. Many years of practice makes one expert at the kinds of things that I did to Sally that night. Bill was an amateur compared to me. I had a sense for limits. A knack for finding Sally's sensitive areas, emotional, psychological or physical. At first I shied away from her vulnerabilities, instinctively knowing how and when to turn up the heat. Gradually, she began to warm up. My honed sense for it told me that she was already buzzing with desire, but that she was tight. Holding it in. Holding out on me. So I began to turn up the intensity. An hour into our performance, I finally felt Sally beginning to really get into it. She began to let go, to surrender to me. The crowd seemed completely enraptured with her, and what she was doing for me and them. I felt the bond that begins to form between a submissive and her dominant, in a scene like this. I felt it in the tingle in my fingertips. I began to sense just what Sally was feeling. Just when to use softness, and when to be cruel. Just how humiliated she was, performing in front of a room full of strangers. Just how aroused she was by this exposure. I had an array of ordeals planned for Sally, each one requiring her to submit to me a bit more than the last. Each surrender of her will passed between us like current down a wire. I could feel her resistance. Her shame. I pushed her, sensing her beginning to be overwhelmed with the pleasure, despite the depravity of my demands. I cajoled her. I taunted her. I used her. And, despite herself, she fell under my spell, as I knew the submissive young woman would. I each instance, just as she gave in to me, I changed the game, to something more perversely pleasuring. To something that required her to yield herself even more, to succumb to the insistent, throbbing delights that I would give her. What woman doesn't fantasize about performing for a crowd? Somewhere, deep in us all, there's that part that wants to be worshiped. Adored. There's that part of us that wants to know that others find us attractive. What better affirmation of one's desirableness than knowing that you can make a crowd of men hard, and a crowd of women wet? I had no doubt Sally was having this effect. And she herself was rapidly descending to the place I wanted her. The place where her shame and guilt were diminished, if not drowned, in a sea of aching need. I was cruel, it's true. Domination is cruelty. Sally, the submissive little girl, required it. She needed it. She ached for my cruelty. I merely obliged her. She performed for me and the crowd, and I humiliated her as only an expert can. The growing sense that I'd crawled inside her, and was looking out, began to sweep over me. I could feel her vulnerabilities, and I exploited them without hesitation. Part of her hated to be looked at naked. She was ashamed of her lusts. She was humiliated by being exposed. She was crushed when I made her tell the crowd what she was doing, and why, and how it made her feel. She didn't like to talk about her body with dirty words. I made her yell them. She didn't like to feel helpless, but it drove her wild. She didn't like to do nasty things, but she did. And I made her. By the time the intermission had arrived, Sally was a puddle at my feet. And I was only getting warmed up. When we resumed, I began to push her buttons in earnest. It was time to shatter Sally, to blow past her limits. I did this by bringing her to the brink of ecstasy time and again, and then frustrating her. Soon she could hardly speak, she was so overwhelmed with lust. She was nearly incoherent. When I asked for a volunteer to come up on stage so Sally could relieve his "uncomfortable" condition, as she'd recently learned to, Sally went over the edge. She obeyed my command on the first volunteer with a grunting, panting, slobbering enthusiasm that was astonishing. When he was done, I made Sally wipe the remnants off of her chin, and rub it all over her face. "Now, Sally, pick another volunteer." I motioned to the sea of waving hands beyond the footlights. I was astonished to hear her moan, "Thank you, mistress." When Sally was finished with the last man, I declared it time for women to get equal treatment. It wasn't long before the second intermission, and Sally was a mess. But I had saved the piece de resistance for last. I once again began to whip Sally into a frenzy. After a few brief and varied episodes, I thought she was ready. I made her dance. I made her dance to a throbbing dance rhythm, and chant a very, very lewd request to be deflowered. The audience seemed to loom closer and closer to the stage, as Sally whirled and undulated, and finally fell to the floor writhing and thrusting herself at them in time with the music, moaning for release. I motioned for Bill to come up on the stage, and I asked him give Sally what she was begging for. The music stopped, and a tight white spotlight circled on Sally's surging body. She was covered in a sheen of sweat and juices from the patrons. As her body rose from the stage to meet his thrust, I heard the audience gasp. When Bill and Sally's screams reached a crescendo, I motioned for the lights, and the room went dark. The next morning, I telephoned Bill at the hotel. "Get Sally ready for some visitors," I told him. "Six of them. They'll be there in an hour. I want her ready and willing for whatever they want to do to her." The six visitors had one mission: fill Sally up. I wanted her to ooze all day long. I wanted her to feel it seeping out of her, making her gooshy, soaking her panties. Making her self-conscious. Making her think about what she'd done, and about doing it some more. I also knew that Jack would be in for quite a surprise when he checked Sally's underwear. I knew Sally would be thinking about that all day as she traveled home. * * * I knew Allison was up to something again. Something bigger. I just knew it. She seemed especially mischievous. It made me want her. It made me want to spank the mischief out of her. But, she verbally danced around my not-so-veiled invitations with a merry glee. Instead, she began to outline a plan to me. A plan for Sally. Part of me felt taken aback, because she'd never spoken so directly about Sally to me before. I had always been the one telling her about what I'd down with Sally. It never failed to make the otherwise upstanding and uptight Dean Pierce, who really wasn't upstanding at all, of course, rather frisky. But tonight, something was different. "Bill," she said, "here's what you're going to do." Like I didn't even have a say in it. She described what she wanted me to do, winding up with, "Then you drop Sally off at Motel 7. You know, the one about 20 miles north? In front of room 134. It's on the ground floor. There are no lights in back, so you don't have to worry about anyone seeing her like that." She paused. "And... ?" I asked. "That's it, Bill." "That's it?" "Yes. You go home." I didn't like it. She was obviously up to something. Something big. I wasn't going to do it. No way. The hairs on the back of my neck were crawling. Something was wrong. Really wrong. We had a huge argument about it. It went on for half the night, around and around. She began to get nasty. Really nasty. She didn't say so in so many words, but she started implying that if I didn't go along, she was going to get me in trouble. Like I didn't know exactly, precisely the sort of trouble I could get in. Like I hadn't lain awake, night after night, tormented with the possibility of discovery. The would-be newspaper headlines stalked my subconscious. "Professor Molester," "Acquittal Unlikely for Academy Pervert," "State Attorney's Office Seeks Death Penalty in Academy Sex Case." Ugh. The mere thought gave me heart palpitations. And a prickling realization that I had been had began to dawn on me. I vaguely remembered when this whole thing began, how Allison Pierce had set it up. How she had jingled her keys at me. Like she'd known. I realized that she'd been goading me on. In short, I began to realize how much I'd been used. I felt destroyed. I had been beaten at a game I had hardly realized I'd been playing. I was crushed, and I gave in to her. "Fine, Allison. I'll do it. Now get out of my house," I told her. * * * Another one of the Society things. God, I was both dreading and looking forward to them more than ever. What a weird feeling, to loathe and fear something, and yet enjoy it so much. It was like junk food for the soul. It was Saturday afternoon, and Sally was at some school function again, and Jack was who-knows-where, and I was busy following more instructions left in the "toybox". I drove to the first destination in my instructions. It was a nice drive, despite the butterflies of anticipation and nervousness in my stomach. The sun was out, and the sky was blue and cloudless. And the scenery was pleasant, so far out into the boonies. I carefully followed the directions, which were very good, and found myself at the end of a dirt road, somewhere out in the woods. Way out. As promised, there was another set of instructions there, under a rock by the side of the road. With a shaking had, I read them, and by the time I had gotten to the bottom, I was trembling so hard I almost lost the piece of paper in a breeze. "Connie," I whispered to myself, "What are you doing?" But, despite my nearly overwhelming trepidation, I forced myself onward. I did as instructed, and left every shred of my clothing in a pile, under the same rock that held the instructions. I climbed back into the car, breathless, buzzing, stark naked. I had to sit for several moments just to collect myself enough to drive. I had never driven anywhere naked before. It was a surreal experience. I felt like I was in one of those "naked nightmares", but this was real. I somehow managed to not careen off the road, and made it the next appointed destination of my travels. This time, under the rock were instructions, a blindfold, and an incongruously neon pink latex double-headed thing. With some sort of harness. My instructions were to put it "on", as it were. It would be held in place with the harness. Then, I was supposed to put on the blindfold, and "wait to be buzzed." "Wait to be what?" I mumbled to myself. I looked around, knowing that somewhere, nearby, they were waiting. They were watching. It was making me hot. It seemed that I was alone, out in the woods. There wasn't even any airplane noise. Only birds, and the rustle of the wind in the trees. But there were eyes on my naked body, somewhere around me. I followed the instructions, growing more and more agitated as I did. The blindfold was the hardest part. It made every sound, every whisper in the trees, seem ominous. It made me so defenseless. And the thing, plugged into me on one end, and held in place with the harness around my waist, dangled down to my knees, swinging back and forth like a penis. I felt totally weird, and deeply excited. I waited, and waited, and waited. It seemed interminable, even though it was probably only a few minutes. But every time I heard a crackle in the woods, my heart raced. That was the idea, I guess. Because, just as I was sure I had heard something, nearby, the thing inside me suddenly twitched to life! I literally jumped, and screamed out loud. It was vibrating, humming away. It was like an electric shock. It sent adrenaline coursing through me. After I calmed down just a bit, I realized how much I was turned on. I was already on the verge. They waited until the buzzing pink thing sent me over the edge into a long, agonizing orgasm to come crashing through the woods and grab me. They grabbed me, pulling me down roughly. I was terrified, seized with the strangest combination of fear and arousal. It was like all my senses where heightened with my panic. I thought I'd never come again, I came so hard. They tied my hands, and tied a short length of rope to my ankles. Then, using the pink thing, which was still throbbing away inside me, they began pulling me through the woods, hard, making me trot behind them. The short rope hobbling my legs made me stumble again and again. Branches whipped me, leaving searing tracks of fire on my skin. Weeds brushed like strange hands on my legs. I was sweating, panting, tingling, wet, and so very hot, trying to concentrate on running behind them. The moments began to blur. There was another car of some sort, and a short drive. They put me in the back seat, and took turns pushing and pulling on the pink thing. I was moaning, uncontrollably. The next thing I knew, the car had stopped. They pulled me out of it, and I felt them fitting something onto my face. There was a thin elastic to hold it in place around my head. As they put it on me, I felt something soft. Feathers? They put a gag in my mouth, made of soft cloth, and then somehow lashed it in place, tying it behind my head. Then something totally unexpected - they stuck earplugs into my ears. I was instantly very, very frightened again. Now, not only was I restricted to only making out light and dark, but I could only hear in the barest of muffles. I started to struggle. They grabbed me, roughly, jerking me around by the shoulders and my tied hands. I was helpless. I felt some sort of clothing being draped around me, and they pushed me back into the car, lying face down on the seat. We began to drive again, but only for a few moments. We stopped, and they pulled me out, and with strong, unflinching hands, I was propelled, stumbling forward. I was sure that we had gone inside. They somehow turned off the buzzing thing inside me, and then removed it. They pulled off the clothing draped over me, and pulled my tied hands apart, and re-tied them above my head. They, or perhaps just one of them, began tormenting me. A feather-light touch here. A squeeze there. A shivering slide of a fingernail. I felt a raging, animal need rising inside me. I wanted release again. This was some game. The teasing was getting more insistent, but was driving me wild, because it only inflamed me. None of the touches was enough to begin to satisfy me. I found myself trying to push against the teasing fingers, trying to avail myself of more pleasure. Enough to get me off, anyway, which I was getting desperate for. Then the teasing stopped, and there was some movement in the room. I strained to hear, but couldn't make anything out. I was hanging there, throbbing, aching for more, and knotted up with anticipation about what was going to happen next. I was pulled down from my hanging perch, and led onto something - a bed? Then I realized that someone else was on it, too. I was lying on my side, next to them. They untied my legs, and then began re-tying them. They pulled my leg out, across the bed, and between the legs of my fellow victim, until my thigh pressed up against his - no - her crotch. At least, I thought it was a woman. I didn't feel any manly equipment against my thigh, only the electric prickle of her pubic hair. Then I felt them pushing us closer together, and pulling her leg between my thighs, until her thigh was wedged up against my mons, too, and our bellies were rubbing together. And they tied my leg, and hers, too, I assumed, so we were held in this embrace. There was a slight pause, during which I felt the powerful erotic potion of this situation begin to seep into my pores. The woman's crotch was damp and hot. More than damp. It was slick. I knew she was feeling the same thing from me. She shifted slightly, and her leg slid forward, pressing against me, sending a shock wave of heat through me. I felt my pulse quickening by the moment. I wondered if she had been through an ordeal like mine. I wondered who she was. I had been in only a few sexual situations with another woman. Needless to say, all of them had been arranged, one way or another, by Jack. I had found them, well curious. Not terribly good or bad. Indifferent. I liked men. I liked their shoulders and chests and biceps and cocks. But this was making me so very, very hot. I don't know why. Something about the situation. Or about this woman. She was about my size, I guessed. She had toned, well muscled legs. Her skin was soft and smooth, and wherever we were touching, I felt like I was on fire. Particularly where the swell of my stomach touched hers, and where her thigh mashed up between mine. They pushed us together more, until our chests were touching. As we were roughly forced against one another, I realized I was wearing a mask of some sort, and she was, too. I wondered if she could hear. Was she blindfolded? The feeling of her pointy, hard nipples against my breasts, and mine against hers, was driving me wild. I let myself enjoy it, and pushed my throbbing, hardening nipples out at her, trying to rub them against her. She responded almost instantly, and I felt her thrusting her crotch against my leg. Almost before I realized it, I was over the edge, thrusting and mashing myself against her. I think she was too. It was a short, hard, sharp orgasm. The kind that leaves me breathless. They played with us like that for what must have been hours. In different positions, standing up, lying down, sitting on a chair. Then they started using the double-headed pink thing. Throughout it, I felt like I had never, ever felt before with another woman. It was incredible. Maybe it was because I assumed she had been abused and tormented like I had been in the woods, and on the trip. But there was something about her. The way we moved together. Our rhythm together. It was mind blowing. When they were done with us, I was exhausted. I was on all fours, butt-to-butt with my fellow victim. My afternoon lover. With almost a twinge of regret, I felt them pull the pink thing out of us, first out of her, then out of me. They pulled out my earplugs. The room was quiet. I heard Jack's voice! "That was quite a show," he said. I wasn't really surprised, somehow. Then I heard a woman's voice. She said, "Why don't we give them both a little going away present?" Something about her voice was familiar. I assumed it was the Mistress of the Society, Mrs. Pierce. She slid something inside me. Then she put some sort of harness around my waist, and fastened it to the thing now lodged inside me. As it fastened around my waist, there was a metallic click. By the movements of my fellow victim's legs, I could tell she was getting a similar treatment. The woman said, "Now, sluts, you are both instructed to keep these little presents just where they are now, until you get home. Then, I'd like you both to show them to the man of your house, and invite him to do whatever he wants with it, and you. The only stipulation, is that you have to come back here to do it. And to enforce it, I've made sure that the belts that are holding those little presents inside you are very hard to get out of, without the key. The key will be right here, in room 134. Motel 7." It was over. They didn't take off my blindfold. They just slammed on the brakes, pushed me out of the car, and sped away, leaving me where I'd started, by my car, out in the woods. It seemed really stupid that I had to go all the way home, meet Jack there, and go all the way back to the dingy motel. He had been there the whole time. I had heard him. Why couldn't he just bring the stupid key himself? "These stupid games," I grumbled. It was over, though, and I was glad. I sped home, sore, tired, and hungry. I think I had a couple of strained muscles. I was feeling more than a little tender in certain spots, too. I took quite a while to get home, since I got lost a couple of time on the tiny dirt roads out in the woods. But eventually, I found my way back to the spot where I'd left my clothes, and was soon headed home. When I got there, Jack was nowhere to be seen. I looked around, and Sally wasn't either, so I went upstairs, and took a shower. I inspected the "chastity belt" contraption, which looked very sturdy. I was going to need the key to get out of it. I finished, and had some supper. Still no sign of Jack. Or Sally. I wondered if she was still at school. I looked around the kitchen for a note, but didn't find any. So, I went upstairs, and went into her room, still hoping to find a note. Instead, on her bed, I found an ornate feather mask. * * * I rewound the tape, and began to watch it one last time. But, I was tired, and I closed my eyes, and let the images already burned into my mind play themselves. The tape's quality was only mediocre, but it was like art, to me. In many ways, the best part was the ending. The beginning was a very long, very lewd sequence that left absolutely nothing to the imagination about who the participants were, or what they were doing. The beginning part went of for the better part of two long, sweaty hours. The coupling couple seem almost maniacal, they went at it so hard. The beginning was, of course, the real heart of my blackmail tape. It was the damning evidence. It was the finale, though, that really got to me. For a couple of minutes, there was a scene that one hidden camera, pointed at the door of the tiny hotel room, recorded. It was nothing but the unchanging view of the back of door, which was closed. But, the rhythmic thumping noise, the squeaking of the bed, and the grunts and moans that were this shot's accompaniment were quite unmistakable. Sally's voice, a frenzied moan of, "Harder, harder!" wafted somewhere from inside the room. Then, there was the squeal of tires from a car screeching to a halt outside the hotel room. The sound of the car door opening. Then, the room to the hotel burst open. Standing there was Connie, her face streaked with tears. The grunting and panting stopped. Connie walked forward, past the camera's view. The scene switched to the view provided by the second hidden camera, which was in the hotel room itself. On the bed, in media res, were Jack and his stepdaughter, my creation, Sally. Scattered around them were pieces of clothing, and a black leather chastity belt. Standing at the room's entrance, arms akimbo, with tears of rage and humiliation spilling from her cheeks, was Connie. Call it blackmail. Call it evil. Or, call it art. * * * Just when I thought I couldn't take anything more, when I thought I had been pushed far beyond my limits, life dealt me the final blow. It was a tape. And a letter. It was blackmail. The doorbell had rung, and when I opened the door, and saw it was him, I almost started to scream, until I saw the look on his face. He handed me the letter, and the tape, and said, "Call me. You have my number at Rick's house." I watched the tape and cried. I cried and cried and cried until I thought there were no tears left. My heart was broken. I didn't know what to think, or what to feel, anymore. At first, I wanted to literally kill Jack for what he'd done to Sally. I wasn't satisfied with all of the explanations I'd heard from him and her about what had happened, but I was pretty sure that Jack had somehow corrupted my sweet Sally. That it was his doing. Then I had thought, my husband, that bastard, with all his horrible faults, was still my husband, and my daughter had stolen him away. I blamed her. Finally, I had settled down into simply hating myself, and believing that all of this was my fault. For not being a good wife. For being a rotten mother. I had thrown Jack out of the house. Something I never thought I was capable of. I hadn't spoken more than five words to Sally, outside of screaming at her at the top of my lungs. I felt a hair's breadth away from sheer, raving lunacy. Then, this. The whole thing was about blackmail. About my money. The whole thing was a setup. It was still Jack's fault. And Sally's. And mine. But, it was different. In a strange way, it made me feel better. I had no doubt that the blackmailer was Allison Pierce, even though it didn't say so anywhere. There was only a bank account number that I was supposed to transfer the money to. And the amount of money she wanted! Oh, my God. Basically, she wanted every cent I owned. Part of me toyed with the idea of just saying, "Fuck you. Go ahead, do your worst," and taking Sally and moving away, and letting Jack deal with it. But I knew that I couldn't outrun this. It would haunt me. Daddy's old friends would find out. There would surely be some sort of police investigation. Could they take Sally away? I felt buried beneath a million tons of despair. I knew that we had to give her the money. * * * They were trying to take Sally away from me. I had known that this would happen, eventually. I hadn't known, exactly, what was really going on. I had suspected, but hadn't been able to lay my finger on it. Sally had been "sick" for several days. Dean Pierce was on some sort of unscheduled leave. Something had happened after I'd dropped Sally off at that motel. Finally, I got a call from Sally. "Mr. Howard?" She said. "Sally! My God, where have you been?" I was so relieved to hear from her. There was a silence on the line. "Sally? Sally, are you there?" Then I heard it - she was crying. She told me the whole story. About what happened after I left her. About what she'd done with Jack. About the blackmail tape. She told me that she was thinking about running away, and that she was pretty sure her mother hated her. I tried as best I could to calm her down. Finally, I told her, "Sally. I can help you." "What?" She sobbed. "I can help." "How?" * * * I gunned the Saab out of the driveway and out onto the road. I was so enraged I didn't realize how fast I was going until the speedometer read 110. I looked over on the passenger's seat at the package. There was a letter, and five audio cassettes. The note was from Bill Howard. It was so maddeningly familiar. It opened, "Dearest Allison." In it, he claimed that he had been secretly taping all of our conversations. All of them. He claimed that he had incontrovertible evidence that I was the behind all of the "activities" with Sally. He stated that he was willing and prepared to have the tapes, which had been edited to remove his voice, delivered to the police, the Academy's board of directors, and to the Society. Unless, of course, I agreed to step down as Dean, naming him as my successor, and to relocate to another city. And, he went on to demand, that arrangements be made so that he and Sally could continue their "lessons", as before. In effect, Bill had both me, and Jack and Connie, right where he wanted us. How could I have been so stupid? * * * "Sally, it's for you!" I watched as she sauntered out of the kitchen, flopped down on the futon next to me, and grabbed the phone. Just before she put it to her ear, she asked, "Who is it?" "Some guy named Pierce," I said, shrugging. She frowned, and said, "Hello, this is Sally," into the phone. I watched her as she talked. She was a knockout. I was in love. We were in love. The moment I'd seen her, waiting tables in the Village, I knew I was in trouble. She was the most gorgeous thing I'd ever laid eyes on. I got a table in her section, and started talking with her. We hit it off right away. She was trying to break into Broadway, taking classes and waiting tables. She almost looked too young to be in college, but I didn't care. I was already smitten. We'd been going out for about 3 months before she told me anything about her past. Not that I cared. If she didn't want to tell me, I figured I didn't want to know. * * * Michael watched me as I talked with James Pierce, Dean Pierce's husband. Ex-husband, actually. As we talked, he told me that he had been separated from her ever since her arrest, and that now, their divorce had finally gone through. From what I could tell, it sounded like she was going to be in prison for another 2 years before she got parole. Fine with me. Talking with him started bringing back memories, even though he hadn't been involved in this very strange part of my life. Those last few weeks had been the strangest of all. After I'd done it with Jack, and Mom had caught us, it seemed like everything just got weirder and weirder. Looking back on it, it doesn't even seem possible that Allison Pierce's blackmail attempt had failed. She had expertly used me and Mr. Howard to get me to do it with Jack, so she could record the whole thing. I had been so brainwashed that I hadn't even realized what I was really doing until Mom walked into that hotel room. I guess, even now, I would understand if she never forgave me. When I had found out that Mr. Howard was turning around and blackmailing Dean Pierce, I was overjoyed. Well, as happy as I could have been, under the circumstances. That relief turned sour instantly when he told me what he was planning, though. He wanted me to quit school, and to come live at his house, so we could continue our "education" together. It seemed like it was going to be the only way out of the mess I'd gotten Mom and myself into. She didn't even seem to object to the idea. I guess I couldn't really blame her. After all, I was pretty much responsible for the whole thing. I guess the way she figured it, I had been doing it all along with him, so why not? It seemed like the whole thing was a done deal. Everybody, including Dean Pierce, had agreed. She wasn't going to blackmail us. Instead, she was giving in to Mr. Howard, and stepping down as Dean. Mom didn't make any objections to Mr. Howard's plan for me. Jack? Jack had disappeared altogether. Mr. Howard started getting set to take over as Dean. A couple of days later, he came to pick me up at home. I had all of my stuff packed in a couple of suitcases. Mom hadn't even seen me to the door. But something occurred to me on the ride from home to his house. I realized that I wasn't going anywhere I didn't want to. I remembered that I had the power. That I was me - Sally - not somebody's plaything. Well, to make a long story short, I told the old fucker to give me ten thousand dollars, and take me to the airport, or I was going to the cops. He caved. I moved to New York. Now I live with my boyfriend, Michael. I'm taking classes, and trying to get a job acting... I realized that I had been spacing out. James Pierce, still on the other end of the line, was saying "Sally? Sally?" "Oh, sorry, I was distracted," I said. "Well, anyhow, Sally, I was calling to tell you that your Mother misses you." "What?" "Yes, she does, Sally. You should give her a call, sometime." "Ok, sure," was all I said. "And I have something else to tell you Sally. You're probably wondering why I'm calling, right?" "Yeah, kinda," I said. I did wonder. I had never spoken to him before in my life. "Well, Sally, I have a friend who wants to write a book." I waited for more details. "He wants to write it about your story, Sally. He's offering a pretty good deal." We talked about it some more, and I decided to look into it. He left me with the guy's number. Before we hung up, though, he left me with one more thing to think about. "Sally, well, I don't know how to tell you this, really." He paused. "Jack and I are living together." I must have had a really strange look on my face when I dropped the phone onto the floor. Michael got really concerned. "Sally, are you ok?" It took me a minute to be able to answer him. I picked up the phone, and hung it up. "Yeah, sure, I'm fine." He gave me an expectant, quizzical look. "What was all of that about?" "Nothing important, sweetie," I told him. It was the past. It didn't matter. "Sounded kinda important to me." "No, it wasn't," I said, suddenly acutely aware of how much he genuinely cared. About me. I snuggled up to him, and breathed in his close, warm smell. "Mike, tell me again how much you love me," I said. "Sally, sugar, I love you so much I might even try to sing to you. And that's saying something," he joked. I pulled him close, suddenly feeling the tingly, aching echo of the needs I had left behind me forever. I slid my hand down his jeans, and wrapped my fingers around him. So solid. So simple. No more games. Whispering in his ear, I could hear my own desire. "Tell me again, Mike, how much you think kinky sex is a waste... "