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From: foreign3@aol.com (Foreign3)
Subject: New: MOLLY by Foreigner
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(Disclaimer: This story is fiction and is not intended for anyone under 18
years of age.)
(Comments welcome.)
MOLLY
by
Foreigner
Your porch light is on, which means it’s a go; your parents have left on
schedule, and the house is yours all weekend. I park in the rear as you
instructed, and knock on your back door. As usual, you don’t answer right
away. You like for me to anticipate. You want me to think about what’s going
to happen, to dread it; to build my anxiety, to build your pleasure. It’s
working; my muscles are rubbery with fear. After all, last time I carried
your marks for almost two weeks before they completely faded. You were
relentless.
Or maybe you’re keeping me waiting because your parents didn’t leave town
after all, and the porch light is on by mistake. Perhaps you’re cowering in
your room, hoping I’ll leave before they answer the door. Just as I’m about to
head for my car, you finally open the door, and you stand there without
smiling. Framed by wire-rim glasses, your green eyes are grim. Even though
what we’re about to do is very sexual, you haven’t dressed to be sexy.
Instead, your dark hair is rather severe, tied back in a pony tail, rather than
the fluffy, frizzy look that you know I love. Your sweatshirt and jeans you
look older, to diminish the fifteen years that separate us; but your overall
appearance also makes it look as if you mean business. You’re almost a foot
shorter than me, and I outweigh you by seventy pounds, but I’m afraid of you.
After all, you have the power, and you’ve proven painfully effective in
exercising it.
“Come in, Timothy.” The proper form of my name adds a sense of formality to
the proceedings, as well as emphasizing the reversal of our roles. Mr. Latham,
you used to call me, like all my other students, but I’d let your short skirts
and tight butt get the better of me, so now I’m your slave or you’ll tell all.
You step aside as I enter, and you lock the door behind me. We’re in the
family room with candles the only illumination. They exude fragrances of roses
and cinnamon. Classical music plays in the background, “Four Seasons” by
Vivaldi. The armless, straightback chair in the center of the room is very
ominous, but the sight of the heavy paddle leaning against one leg, makes my
knees weak. I can’t go over your lap, again, I just can’t. But I must.
Yet, I can’t resist a delaying tactic. You allow me to take you in my arms,
and I feel your soft breasts crush against my chest. You open your lips for a
warm, moist kiss, and I make it last, probing with my tongue, hoping to arouse
you, to make you forget about my impending punishment. Actually, I don’t have
any real hopes that you’ll forget since you enjoy it so much, but I at least
hope to delay it. I kiss you the way I know you enjoy: long, deep, lingering;
and I know it’s working because I feel your nipples harden under your
sweatshirt. You allow my hands to slide down your back and cup your bottom
through denim, and you grind your pelvis against my rising erection. But then
I take it one step too far. I slide one hand down the waist of your jeans,
feel the elastic band of your panties, the swelling of your buttocks where they
rise from the small of your back, and the spell is broken.
You break off the kiss and pull away. I try to cling but you push me away,
and since I know who’s really in charge, I let my arms drop to my sides, as you
seat yourself on the armless chair. “It’s time,” you say in a soft, yet firm
voice.
I know better than to protest. I’m wearing a polo shirt, which is over my
head on on the floor in just a matter of moments; all too quickly; and I
promise myself that next time I’ll wear something with lots of buttons to delay
the inevitable. Your green eyes have been staring at me with a fixed, stern
gaze, but now you examine my chest, shaved bare the way you like it, for any
stray foliage I might have missed. Then you unfasten my slacks and slide them
down my hips, letting them pool around my ankles. You order me to remove my
shoes and socks, and I step out of my slacks. All too soon, I stand before you
in just my undershorts, and my buttocks clinch at what is about to befall them.
After all, they’ve been under your assualt before.
“Put your hands behind your back,” you say, “and turn around.” I comply and
you fasten leather cuffs around my wrists and lock them together. This is new,
but you had warned me that this would someday happen. “It pleases me,” you
had said, and of course pleasing you has become my major goal in life.
Otherwise, you’ll see that I’m disgraced; I suppose you’re legal at eighteen,
but I’ve violated the student/teacher relationship, and the town won’t forgive
me. Mostly, I responded to your seductions, but I’m the adult and I should
have known better.
I feel your warm hands on my hips, and I let you turn me back around until I’m
facing you. Your hands have not left my hips, and now your fingers hook inside
the elastic band of my jockies, slowly lowering them. I feel the tops of my
buttocks exposed to cool air, but you deliberately trap my erection in folds
of material, as if delaying the unveiling to build up your own anticipation.
You sense my embarassment and humiliation, and it gives you a sense of power, a
power all the more enhanced since you’re dominating an adult male. You love
it when I’m completely naked and you’re fully clothed.
My butt is now fully exposed, and you reach behind to grip my cheeks, to
spread them, to pinch them, to slap them, as if getting them warmed up for what
is about to happen. Finally, you tire of this game, and scoot my shorts on
down my thighs. My erection pops out just inches from you face, and you lick
your lips. For a moment I hope you’re going to kiss it, but instead your
fingers take my penis in a tight, almost painful grip, and using my shaft as a
handle, you guide me down over your lap. It’s awkward with my hands fastened
behind my back, but you support my shoulders with surprising strength as I
lower myself into place. Soon, you have me where you want, folded in half with
my butt jutting upwards, vulnerable for whatever you want to inflict. My
penis is gripped tightly between your thighs, the denim rough against my tender
flesh.
“Why is this happening to you, Timothy?”
“I molested a student under my care,” I whisper. I had kept you after
school to discuss your grade, but you had suggested a special arrangment to
enhance your grade, and my mindless cock agreed to your terms. Later, when I
came to my senses I tried to break it off, but you wouldn’t allow it. That’s
when you made me realize that I was no longer the one in charge.
“What will be my grade in Algebra?” you ask.
“A perfect score,” I respond, thinking that’s what you want recorded even
though you only do marginal work. After all, that’s what got me in this mess.
I had given you a “D”, and your mother had caned you. You had shown me the
marks, scarlet and purple welts that criss-crossed your tight buns. You had
insisted that since I had gotten you caned that it was only fair that you cane
me in return, and you have indeed paid me back many times over.
Suddenly, my buttocks sting from a meaty slap which echoes about the room.
“No, Timothy, an ‘A’ would be too suspicious. Just a ‘C +’ this time, and a
‘B’ next quarter. Build it up gradually to make it look real.”
“Yes, Molly.”
Another resounding smack bounces off my ass. For a girl you sure hit hard,
but I already knew that. I imagine two red hand prints decorating my twin
mounds. “Address me in the proper manner,” you order.
“Yes, Mistress Molly.”
“Much better,” you say, but even so the next spank is even harder, and I
realize you’re still warming up. “Why else are you over my lap?” And to
empasize her question, she spanked me again, and started her continous, painful
cadence.
As your hand falls repeatedly on my bottocks, I search for words. “Because it
gives you pleasure, Mistress Molly.”
“And what about your pleasure, Timothy?” you ask, as you pound me
relentlessly, spanking alternating cheeks with loud slaps, each spank harder
than the last; or at least each slap seems more painful as you tenderize my
flesh.
It’s beginning to burn, but I know I must answer. “Whatever pleasures you,
pleasure me,” I say.
“Good answer,” you say. “You’re mine all weekend, and I intend to pleasure
us a lot.” Then I gasp as you strike me a particularly hard blow. Throughout
all of this, my butt is steaming, but it doesn’t really hurt all that much.
However, I know that will change when you pick up the paddle. I feel the hard
wood placed flat against my warm cheeks. Then the wood lifts away, there is a
moment of anticipation, and the paddle slams against my ass with such force
that I want to pull away. But I can’t. My hands are locked behind my back,
and I can’t push myself up. Then the paddle falls again, searing both cheeks
at once.
I try to roll off your lap, but your thighs grip my cock so tightly that I
can’t move. The paddle strikes again and again: a rapid salvo of at least
twenty painful blows. I’m writhing in such agony that my penis almost yanks
free of your denim trap, but you wrap your free arm about my waist and pull me
tightly against your belly as you continue to paddle me with unrelenting
ferocity.
My butt tries to pull away, rising up only to meet the force of your paddle,
slamming me back down against your unyielding thighs. Again, I try to rise,
again you pound me back into place. It’s not that I think you’ll let me
escape my punishment, it’s more like a reflex. You paddle, my poor bottom
tries to get away. But before long, this repeated motion causes a delightful
friction in my penis. My bottom is full of pain, but my cock is full of
pleasure as it pumps between your gripping thighs. “Stop!” I plead, because I
know I’m about to cum, but of course you ignore me, as you try to paddle my ass
up between my shoulder blades. But with my impending orgasm the pain has
turned to pleasure, and suddenly I’m erupting uncontrollably. Startled, you
let go and at last I struggle to my feet. Creamy liquid spurts from my cock,
spraying your jeans and the belly of your shirt.
With a dreamy expression you watch the cream spurt from my body, nor do you
move out of the way as if hypnotized. Finally, my orgasm subsides, until only
a couple of pearly drops cling to my mushroom head, but leaves a messy pool in
your lap. This is the first time this has happened, the first time you’ve
spanked me to orgasm, and I don’t know how you’ll react. But I’m fearful; I
know this bodes ill for me.
You run your hand across your lap, and your fingers come away gooey. Finally,
you speak. “You naughty boy.” But there is no anger in your voice, just a
curious sense of wonder. “Get in the corner.”
“Yes, Mistress Molly.” And with my hands still bound behind me, I scurry for
the corner, eager to obey; I bury my nose where the two walls join, just like
you’ve taught me. I stand this way for several minutes before I finally feel
your presence behind me.
“You came,” you say, as if you still don’t believe it, and you slap my ass.
It’s not a hard spank, but my butt is already sensitive, and I jerk
reflexively. “I spanked you as hard as I could. Didn’t it hurt?”
“Yes, Mistress Molly, it hurt very much.” As I respond, I’m careful to keep
my face pressed into the corner, because you haven’t given me permission to
move. Then I explain about the friction between your thighs and my penis as
you spanked me.
“I see,” you finally say. “You do always get quite hard, when I spank you,
don’t you?” There is no answer for several minutes, and after awhile, I’m
certain that you’ve left the room. But I’m afraid to turn around and look.
The last time I did that, you gave me extra punishment, twenty extra strokes of
your wicked cane. I hear your Grandfather clock tick away the minutes.
Upstairs, your shower starts and I risk a glance over my shoulder. Sure
enough, the room is empty, but before I face the corner again, I notice the
time on your clock, and as I continue to stand here listening to the ticks,
feeling my bottom throb, I eventually hear your clock chime and I realize I’ve
been standing here at least fifteen minutes. The pain in my buttocks has faded
to an ache, and dare I say it, a pleasurable warmth? What was I becoming that
I could take pleasure in such abuse?
Your shower still runs so I risk another quick glimpse over my shoulder, and
you’re standing there in the middle of the room. Your hair is wet, and you
wear a white, terry cloth robe. Your glasses gleam in the candlelight and
you’re staring right at me. You give me a tight smile as if to say, “got ya,”
and I realize I’m really in for it now. Without a word, you spin on your heel
and leave the room. I snap my face back into the corner, but it’s much too
late. The last time this happened you gave me twenty painful strokes with the
leather strap, and I hadn’t even cum all over your lap that time. You’re going
to really make me pay, this time. And we still have most of the weekend to go.
Moments later, I hear your shower shut off, but even though I know exactly
where you are for the moment, I don’t turn around. I’ve done enough damage for
one evening.
Again, I wait forever, and I hear the Grandfather clock chime off yet another
half hour. Finally, you speak. “Turn around,” you order. From the
direction of your voice I realize you are probably sitting on your sofa.
Sure enough, you’re on the sofa, still wearing your white robe. You preen
your hair with a heavy brush that my butt recognizes from other occasions.
One of your legs crosses the other, and the robe has fallen away. I strain to
see the area between your thighs, but they remain in dark shadow. “You’re
being a real bad boy tonight, Timothy. Aren’t you?”
There’s no use to protest. “Yes, Mistress Molly.”
“This calls for sterner measures,” you say quietly. You rise and stand
before me, a full head shorter. I’m surprised when you hug me, your moist
hair smelling of fresh shampoo. Stepping away, you take my limp dick and tug.
Getting the hint, I follow you as you lead me through your house, keeping a
tight grip on my cock, using it like a leash. It begins to harden in your
grip, and glancing over your shoulder you give me a tight smile. “We’ll how
much it likes the next adventure, ” you whisper.
You lead me to a door that opens off your spacious kitchen, and you take me
down into your basement. I expect something dark and dank, but the concrete
walls are painted white, and the heavy beams have been painted as well. With
each step my apprenhsion grows. You’ve never brought me down here before, so I
know you must have something really special, and especially painful in mind.
Releasing my fully erect cock, you say, “Turn around.” As I quickly obey, you
unfasten my wrist restraints. “Bring them in front,” you order. Then you
refasten them so that my hands are locked together in front, and you tie a rope
to the metal rings. “Lift your arms.” As I comply, I notice the rope is
looped over a rafter. You tug on the rope until my arms are extended
completely over my head, then you tie the other end of the rope to an eyebolt
embedded in the wall. I’m now completely helpless, completely at your mercy.
Before, even with my hands tied behind my back, I could have run away, but now
I can’t even do that.
“Scared?” you ask.
“Yes, Mistress Molly.”
“Good,” you say with a smile. “You should be.” Then you pick up a thick,
leather strap and disappear behind me. There’s a meaty slap, and sharp pain
explodes across both cheeks of my buttocks. I barely have time to catch my
breath, before you strike again, lower this time where the cheeks meet the
thigh, an extremely sensitive spot a I quickly discover. Reflexively, one leg
jerks up. You must like my reaction, because you hit me in the same spot
again, and I can’t help it, but my other leg jerks up, trying to escape the
pain. Then the strap falls across my shoulder blades for the first time ever,
leaving a fresh tack of pain on virgin territory. You work the strap up and
down my back, then attack my ass again, several severe blows in rapid
succession. Then you’re attacking my thighs, making them burn as I try to step
away from your blows, but of course the rope doesn’t allow me to move very far.
I try to twist away, and suddenly I’m facing you.
You gasp and for the moment at least, the punishment stops. You’re staring at
my penis which I’m amazed to see is firmly erect despite it’s recent orgasm.
In fact it seems dangerously close to exploding again. “You seem to like the
pain,” you say as you take my cock in your warm hand, the very same hand that
has been so effectively wielding the strap. Your grip tightens and you begin
a slow pumping motion. I feel close to orgasm and you must sense this,
because you say, “You do not have permission to cum.” I try to hold back,
but you pump my cock even harder. “If you cum you will receive extra
punishment,” you say in a stern voice.
Then a white fountain sprays from my body, and suddenly you’re kneeling
in front of me, and my cock is in your mouth, spraying its contents down your
throat as you swallow in rapid, thirsty gulps. Finally, the intense orgasm is
over and I sag under my restraints, my knees buckling, but the rope holding me
upright.
Gradually, I realize you stand before me and there are drops of pearly
cum on your cheeks and forehead and even your hair. Apparently, you got
drenched before your mouth captured me.
“You’re being very naughty tonight,” you say. “Perhaps I need help this
time.”
Help? That sounds ominous. “No, Mistress Molly. I’ll be good.” I realize
how juvenile I sound, but I can’t help myself. What if you decide to bring
over one of your young friends, perhaps another of my students? How would I
ever survive the humiliation?
“Hmm...” You look deep in thought. “That possibility really bothers you,
doesn’t it?”
“Yes, Mistress Molly. I don’t want to be anyone else’s slave. Just yours.”
“Hmm... But slaves don’t really have a choice, do they?”
There was nothing to say to that.
To be continued. (But only if there's an interest.)
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