ladd@rainier.cs.unc.edu (Brian C. Ladd)
Witch: Neophyte, Pt. I (mf,nc,mc)
WARNING
The following work of fiction includes plot as well as explicit sex. If
you're too young, too prudish, too narrow minded, or too tired, you should
stop reading now.
If you are still reading, it is assumed that stories with mf (=male/female
or heterosexual), nc (=non-consensual), mc (=mind-control, the current
rage) sex do not offend you. If they do, again, stop reading now.
Comments, critique welcome. Threats, diatribes, flames not.
Yours in the Ether, -bcl
GNINRAW
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|
/|||\ Copyright (C) 1993 by Land-Locked Press and Brian C. Ladd
/ ||| \ All rights reserved. Permission granted for a single hard
/ ||| \ copy for PERSONAL use only. Transmission of unadulterated
-----|----- copies in electronic form is permitted provided that this
_____|_____ notice is included in its entirety
\_________/
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Witch:
Neophyte Part I
Throughout recorded history there have been religious conflicts of one kind
or another: Pagans slaughtered Christians, Christians warred with Moslems,
Catholics burned Protestants, and every body hated the Jews (apologies to
Tom Leher). All these religious persecutions pale, however, before the
overarching hunt, perpetrated by all organized religions, for those with
the Power, those they call Witches.
Hollywood's domination of the modern imagination means most people flash to
Margaret Hamilton melting, melting at the mention of a "Witch". For the
record, black, pointy hats are not part of the uniform and brooms do not
fly. In fact, there are few who could pick a true Witch out of a line-up of
their friends and family.
- * -
The transition to college was hard for me: going from valedictorian at a
small New England high school to an anonymous freshman at an Ivy League
institution was a massive shock. Where I had been one of the Untouchables,
an instigator who never got caught, a straight-A student who never had to
crack a book, I became lost, unfocused, restless. By the end of my first
semester I was in danger of losing my scholarship.
The trip home over Winter Break was little help; my parents were worried
and upset. Only my Grandmother Kelly was reassuring. "Patrick Daniel
Kelly," she said, "you're just trying too hard: relax and listen to
yourself."
Returning to college, I thought a bit about what Grandmother Kelly had
said, that I needed to do what I felt was right. Without thinking too much
about it I transferred into Western European History; castles and Crusades
had always fascinated me.
In addition to the twice weekly lectures, European History had a
recitation. We weren't actually expected to recite anything. It was a
discussion session where we got to know the graduate student who would be
reading our papers.
I was early for the first recitation so I sat in the empty classroom and
pondered my future. I kept trying to hear my inner voice and failing. My
dark, oppressive mood seemed reflected in the winter storm gathering
outside.
Students started filing in, those I knew saying hello and asking about
Christmas. Sullen monosyllables kept these greetings from becoming
conversations and no one chose to sit next to me. The chatter went on
around me until our teaching assistant walked in.
Michelle was tall, wearing a nice, tight pair of blue jeans and a loose,
green sweater which gave no hint to her figure above the waist. She carried
a black trench coat over one arm and a book bag over the other. Her hair,
the shade of new pennies, fell to the hem of her sweater. That hair and her
flashing blue eyes stilled the room in an instant.
She introduced herself to the class, informing us that her major was French
Literature, but that there were few openings for teaching assistants in
that department, so she would be leading our recitation. I am sure I was
not the only male in that room who had trouble breathing that day and I am
doubly sure I am not the only one who, later, in the privacy of my own
darkened room, imagined that the right hand that was relieving my straining
erection was Michelle's mouth.
My interest in history grew and somehow I worked around my lust for the
fair Michelle. Her hair, cascading down the back of her baggy sweaters,
pointing toward the curves in her just-tight-enough jeans, these were
burned into my mind as surely as the dates, the battles, the names of the
Middle Ages.
Just before midterms I took a risk: I wrote a paper on the role of women in
the Inquisition. I had found an obscure reference to some nuns assisting a
Grand Inquisitor with their "special sight" (which might have translated as
"intuition", but I didn't think so). It was in direct opposition to the
position supported by the professor and I was a little bit afraid. I took
my draft to Michelle's office hours.
I was more afraid when I got there; this would be the closest I had been to
her outside my imagination and I almost didn't knock. She opened her door,
almost as if she'd been expecting me. When I explained my problem she
smiled, asked for what I had and told me to sit down while she read it.
Sitting across from her in the tiny office, I pulled out a notebook and
began to study. I studied her eyes: cold, pale, blue, beautiful. I studied
her hair: held up in clips on either side of her head and glowing like
flame, even under the fluorescent lights. I studied her skin: She was fair,
almost to the point of translucence and I imagined I could see the pulse in
her long neck as she concentrated. She chewed her first knuckle as she
read, her white teeth peeking through her lips --- I don't think she was
doing it to tease me, but watching anything slide across her lips, seeing
her tongue steal out and wet her bent finger, I felt my temperature rising.
"I'd like it so much if she'd take off that sweater," I thought.
My heart stopped as she put the paper down on her desk and casually pulled
the patented Michelle-sweater over her head. It was jump-started a second
later as I saw for the first time the treasure the sweater had hidden. Or
rather the treasure chest: Michelle was wearing a simple white T-shirt,
strained tissue thin to cover her ample breasts as she pulled the sweater
over her head. I burned the lines of her bra, visible through the shirt,
into my mind for later replay in my nocturnal fantasy.
It wasn't until she had returned to reading that it struck me: I had
thought how great it would be to see her without her sweater and she had
taken it off. *I* had caused that.
She finished my paper before I could marshal my thoughts. She said it was a
fair paper, in need of a footnote *here* and a better transition *there*
and that it addressed the professor's points very well. As she was
finishing her critique another student in the class knocked on the door. I
gathered up my paper, thanked Michelle, and exited. Just before the door
closed I saw Michelle cast a questioning glance at her sweater and begin to
pull it back over her head.
- * -
My fantasies that semester had belonged to Michelle (or rather, Michelle
belonged to me in fantasy). Along with my academic focus, however, my
social graces had also returned. I had been dating another freshman, Amy,
for a couple of weeks. Amy was short, dark-haired, and smelled amazing. We
had necked and petted, but she had wanted to "wait until we know each other
better," before we went any further. Having immediately extrapolated my
"success" with Michelle to the *n*th degree, I knew things with Amy would
soon be getting much better.
That Friday night Amy and I went to see a film. I waited, biding my
time before using "the Power" (that is what I called it). The theatre
lights went down, my arm went around Amy and I thought:
"You would like me to put my hand down your blouse."
I waited for a second, for Amy to ask, or something, but she didn't. I
figured she was being shy, that her desire wasn't something she was willing
to verbalize. I went ahead, sliding my hand from her shoulder down, past
her collarbone, along the swell of her breast, and between the buttons of
her blouse.
"What the *hell* are you doing?!?" Amy hissed.
"Calm down." I thought as hard as I could.
"I thought you might like it," I whispered.
"Well I don't appreciate being treated like a piece of meat," Amy continued,
pulling my hand off of her shoulder and starting to rise.
"Sit back down." I thought and said.
Amy slapped me, hard, and walked out of the theatre.
I took the long way home that night, stomping through the slush and
pondering what had gone wrong. I had thought about Michelle's sweater and
she had taken it off. I thought about Amy's tit and...nothing. Then I found
it, my failure: I had assumed that there was a cause and effect
relationship between my desire to see Michelle without her sweater and her
taking it off. I was simply insane to think I had any sort of "Power" and
it had taken me a fairly nice girlfriend to figure that out.
Knowing I lacked the Power didn't keep me from fantasizing about Michelle
and ordering her to strip for me and a select group of 500 of my closest
male friends. I fantasized about her giving me head while the other guys
melted back into the walls of my imagination. I replayed a scene from a
dirty movie I once saw where the actress lay on a bed with a transparent
pink dildo and fucked herself with it. I had an amazingly good if lonely
orgasm that evening.
- * -
In class that week I think I blushed when I saw Michelle in her standard
uniform; I was embarrassed by the wildness of my recent fantasies and more
so because I had almost made such a fool of myself with my Power. As class
broke up I smiled grimly at my stupidity, but I had to try again:
"Scratch your left ear." I thought at Michelle.
She did it.
I instantly thought of all the reasons it could have happened without my
causing it. I had noticed her shift her stance; I had seen the hair she
brushed out of her face. I tried again:
"Take off your watch."
My excitement grew (and was noticeably tenting my trousers) as she casually
removed the watch and rubbed absently at her wrist.
"Braid your hair for next class and wear a skirt and blouse." I thought as
I left.
- * -
True, the next week was hell, wondering if my "suggestion" would be
followed and wondering how she would look and wondering what else I could
do with her (my fantasies that week were pretty depraved). It was, however,
a necessary wait. I knew me and new toys, and playing with Michelle through
midterms week would not have been good on either of our transcripts.
Somewhere in the back of my head was a voice telling me that anything too
obvious would cause someone to notice and that that was counter-survival.
Exams behind me, I sat with rigid anticipation (among other things),
awaiting the debut of the "new" Michelle. She almost knocked me out of my
seat and I had had a week to prepare.
Her auburn hair looked darker, braided and then coiled on the top of her
head. She had applied some makeup, painting color on her pale cheeks and on
her lips. Her blouse was jade green silk, stretched tightly across her
tits. About the size of large grapefruit, they were encased in a low cut
bra, the lines of which were visible from time to time as she moved and her
breasts shifted. Her skirt was black and straight and fell to just past
her knees. She did not seem to have hose on and her black leather shoes
were eminently sensible: they had no heels.
The pedestrian nature of her leg and footwear did nothing to lessen her
effect on the class; she was devastating. You could almost smell the
testosterone brewing (I could taste mine). Someone asked why she was
dressed up. I almost swallowed my tongue; she answered that she had, "just
felt like it."
After the class was dismissed, I hung around for a few minutes to get a
second alone with Michelle.
"Michelle," I thought, "you'll get your things and let me walk you to your
next class. I'll be asking you some questions which you'll be happy to
answer. Nod if you understand."
Michelle nodded and began packing her book bag.
"Where do you live? Do you have any roommates?"
"I'm in the Towers, room 845. It is a single," she answered. She shouldered
her bag and turned toward the door. I followed slowly, the stiffness in my
groin making it hard to walk.
"What are your plans for tonight?" I asked.
"Studying. Probably in the library. Why?"
"You should stay in your room tonight. Do you have any high heels and
stockings?"
"I don't have any stockings and these are my only pumps. Why am I telling
you this? And why should I study in my room tonight?" Michelle's voice rose
with some indignation.
Thinking quickly I used the Power: "You will answer my questions as
honestly and completely as you can. You will not draw undue attention to
us. You will find my 'suggestions' compelling and will do what I tell you
to do."
"Michelle, I want you to go shopping this afternoon. You need a nice garter
belt, black, seamed stockings, and a pair of high-heeled pumps. The pumps
should be in black satin with at least a three inch heel."
Michelle's face turned red as she sputtered, "I don't know who you think
you are, mister, but this is sexual harassment and I am going to turn your
ass in to the Dean."
"Shut up."
Michelle's fair skin made it possible to fairly watch the blood boil just
beneath it. Her mouth kept moving for a second or two after she stopped
making any sound.
"Michelle, Michelle, Michelle." I said, shaking my head.
"What am I going to do with you. Punish you, of course, but how?" I asked
her, rhetorically since she wasn't going to answer me.
"When is your next class? You may answer this question."
"Fifteen minutes," she said and then she mouthed "you bastard", but since
she had finished answering the question there was no sound.
"Let's sit on that bench for a moment." I guided my catch to a concrete
bench next to the sidewalk. Things were moving rather quickly and I needed
a minute to think, to plan my next commands for sweet Michelle.
"First, you will not tell anyone about my Power. You will not try to
attract the attention of the police, your boyfriend, the football team.
You will not quit your job, drop out of school, change your phone number;
in short you will not attempt to hide from me.
"Second, if, for some reason, we become separated, you will try every
forty-eight hours to get in touch with me. This is my campus number and
this his my parents' number. You will leave your name and a number where
you can be reached; you will tell them absolutely nothing about our
relationship.
"Third, about your punishment. Make those at least *four* inch heels and
get two pair: simple, black, satin pumps, and the sluttiest pair of black
heels in the store. Make sure you have a man wait on you and let it slip
that you are getting the shoes in an attempt to please your lover and
convince him to forgive you.
"Also, get really red lipstick and matching nail polish. Do your finger and
toe nails so you can be dressed by seven. Dress in that outfit plus the
garter belt, stockings, makeup, and slut shoes.
"What color is your bra? You may speak within the constraints I've
outlined."
"Dark green with black trim. Why are you doing this to me? What are you
doing to me?"
"What I'm doing is turning you into my own personal sex toy. Why? Because I
want to," I said, adding only within my head, "And because I can."
"You should make sure the garter belt matches or else get a whole new set
of underwear for tonight. Also make sure you wear the panties *over* the
garter belt. I'll want them to come off in that order."
Michelle looked defiant and stood up, turning quickly to walk away.
"Stop. Sit down. Open your coat."
Michelle did as I demanded.
"Unbutton a middle button on your blouse and show me that bra."
"No, don't make me...," she began, but her fingers went to her blouse,
unbuttoning it and showing me the valley between her tits. Deep cut, the
green satin shone behind a fine black lace. Her hand quivered and the
shadows from the edges of her blouse blurred in the thin winter light. I
wanted to see more.
"Now the next button up."
Her fingers obeyed me, opening the blouse wider so I could see where the
swells of her breasts began. There was a sprinkling of freckles across and
between them.
"It could be much worse, next time. Have I made my point? Good. Button up,
go to class, and don't forget to do your shopping."
I smiled as she closed her shirt and turned to go.
"One more thing."
She stopped.
"Let your hair down. Leave it braided, but let the braid fall to your ass.
See you at seven."
Michelle stood tall and proud as she walked away from me.
- * -
I was shaking by the time I got back to my own room; the tension of
wondering if I could really control another human being (it seemed that I
could), coupled with the excitement of doing just that to a beautiful, sexy
woman put me on the edge of hyper-ventilation. Calm would only come with
detachment, so I imagined the upcoming meeting with Michelle as a
scientific experiment. I needed to determine what I knew, what I didn't
know, and how to find the answers.
I had some sort of Power over Michelle. I did not know its source, but that
was not something I would discover by seven. Besides, I was worried about
looking at my Power too directly, concerned that it might evaporate under
prolonged scrutiny. So I left "how" I controlled Michelle out of my
thoughts and focused on the "what".
Since there was no way of knowing how long this Power might last (though I
had had it for three or more weeks), it was important to reinforce my
admonition against her talking about it with anyone else. I was going to
"have my way" with her and it would be in my best interest that she never
be able to testify against me.
In a similar vein, I would have to make sure she severed any romantic
involvement she might have; I could just see me ordering Michelle to crawl
to me across the floor and the door bursting in with some forward from the
water polo team with murder on his mind. I wanted to keep Jealousy's green
eyes off me.
Picturing Michelle on her hands and knees, my detachment waned and I began
to think about what Michelle and I were going to do that night.
- * -
The elevator doors opened on the eighth floor. My heart was beating like the
wings of a hummingbird as I stepped off. For what must have been the
hundredth time since I started across campus I checked my watch. 6:59. I
was right on time. Punctuality is something to be admired in a
mind-controlling rapist.
I found Michelle's room and knocked. The door opened and I quickly
stepped inside. Anything we had to say should take place, at least for the
moment, in private.
The lighting in the room was darker than in the public areas of the
building; as the door closed I blinked for a moment, waiting for my eyes to
adjust. Something moved toward me, from the left, and I recoiled
automatically. That meant Michelle's hands, gripped together and aiming for
my head like a sledge hammer, glanced off my shoulder first. I fell, to my
right, painfully hitting my ribs against a desk. My vision was blurred from
the blow, but I could hear frighteningly clearly:
"No undue attention," Michelle hissed as she closed on me.
"STOP!" I projected with the Power.
As if she had been frozen in liquefied air, Michelle stopped all voluntary
movement. Unfortunately, my command caught her off balance and she crashed
to the floor beside me. Unable to move, she could do nothing to break her
fall and hit hard.
I sat for a moment, catching my breath and feeling the lump rising on my
head. As I sat there, terrified that someone had heard our abbreviated
struggle, an adrenaline wave broke over me and stretched my nerves tighter.
"You may move," I projected, "but you may never, ever attack me again. You
will hear my commands and you will obey them."
"Answer my questions. Are you hurt? Did you plan any other surprises for me
this evening?"
"My shoulder took the brunt of the fall; I think it is bruised," Michelle
answered as she rolled to a sitting position, "I was going to knock you
unconscious and see if that lifted your 'spell'."
"And if it didn't?"
"I hadn't thought that far ahead. I just didn't want anyone to have that
kind of power over me."
"Well, I have some bad news for you: I do."
It was interesting to me that I was less angry about her plan to knock me
out than I had been about her defiance as we walked across campus earlier.
Maybe it was enough to know that my taking control of her would punish her.
Or perhaps the bonk on the head had softened my brain more than I was
willing to admit.
"Sit there and listen. I am going to lay out some simple ground rules. You
will obey these rules," I said, while projecting, "Obeying these rules is
very, very important to you."
"First, you will not attack me. You will not hurt me. You will not ask
other people to hurt me. You will never, knowingly, do anything which you
would reasonably assume would cause harm to come to me. 'Harm' is to be
taken to mean arrest, beating, killing, maiming, imprisonment, torture,
etc. Is that clear?"
"Yes, I am not to hurt you or plan to hurt you anymore."
"Second, as I have said before, you will never mention my Power to anyone
else. You will never testify against me in any matter and you will never
provide my identity to authorities.
"Finally, if you find yourself planning to escape, planning to murder me in
my sleep, planning to have someone walk in on us, planning to kill
yourself, planning to expose me to any risk at all, you will feel compelled
to tell me every detail about your plan. Is that clear?"
"Yes. I arranged for my friend, Sharon, to drop by in about ten minutes.
Just in case I didn't know what to do with your unconscious form."
"I am glad you told me. These rooms have sinks, right?"
"Yes."
"Good," I said, "Go clean up. Straighten your clothes and your makeup. Put
on some romantic music and get ready to greet Sharon. When she gets here
you will not invite her in, but rather will get rid of her, indicating that
you are expecting company. Do you have a boyfriend?"
"Yes, Richard Stark , he is..."
"I don't care what he is. You will break up with him tomorrow. You will be
mine exclusively. For tonight, however, if she hints that this outfit and
such are for Richard's benefit, you will not let on that that is not the
case.
"You will not attempt to alert her to my presence in *any* way. You will be
cordial and 'normal' with her, but you will also be in a hurry to get ready
for your 'date'. Clear on that?"
"Yes," she answered from the sink in the corner, "I am clear on that."
After she finished retouching her makeup and clothes, I took a look at my
head. It hurt like hell and had a lump like half a golf ball behind the
ear. I wasn't dizzy, though, so I guessed I would recover. I asked my
hostess for some aspirin and she obliged, downing a couple herself.
Sharon was, it seemed, as punctual as I had been and at 7:15 there was a
knock at the door. I stood in the corner where the door blocked me from her
sight and waited while Michelle got rid of her.
It took only a few minutes, with Michelle hinting that she had little time
for girl talk and Sharon making some saucy remarks about Richard and
departing.
After we were alone, I bade Michelle to turn on all the lights and stand in
the center of the room. I wanted to have a good look at my prize.
Her eyes, glacier blue, stared ahead as I appraised her. Her makeup was
light, highlighting rather than concealing her fair features. The bright
red lipstick on her lips stood out a touch, being more obvious than the
rest, but that is one thing I find incredibly exciting. Besides, it matched
her fingernails (and, I assumed, her toenails).
The green blouse and black skirt were much as they had been earlier in the
day, the buttons of her top straining across the girth of her breasts. I
was becoming aroused. I could see black, seamed stockings descending from
the skirt into some amazing shoes.
They had four inch chrome stiletto heels, black half-inch straps around
each ankle with chrome buckles on the outside of each leg, and fine silver
stitching on the black leather. I leaned down to check them out and as I
came close my nostrils were filled with two heady scents: the smell of new
stockings and the bouquet of fine, new leather. These were "fuck-me" shoes
and they looked great on Michelle's feet.
I stepped behind her to continue my inspection and I couldn't help myself:
I wrapped her brassy braid around my hand, lifting it, feeling the weight
of her hair. Silky in texture, it was surprisingly heavy. It, too, had a
special perfume. I walked around her and sat on her bed, facing my new toy.
"Those certainly are slut shoes, aren't they?"
"Yes."
"And you're wearing them?"
"Because you..."
"Hush. I am not looking for excuses. Answer the question: You are wearing
slut shoes. Yes or no."
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, I am wearing slut shoes."
"What can we logically infer from that?"
"What do you..."
"Michelle, those are slut shoes and your are wearing them. That means that
you are wearing slut shoes. That, in turn, leads us to an inescapable
conclusion about you. Say it."
"I am a slut," Michelle practically whispered. Her face was red with
frustration and I was hard as blue steel. Maybe I am a bit of a sadist.
"I couldn't hear you. Say it louder."
"I am a slut," she said again, louder.
"Good. Now that we have that straight, tell me about buying those shoes."
"I got out of class at three. I didn't want to go shopping, especially for
shoes like this, but couldn't help it. I knew none of the discount shoe
stores would have four inches, so I went to Diamonte. They are expensive
but have good selection.
"It was slow, so both of the men working there were free when I walked in."
"Describe them for me," I interrupted.
"One, Tom, was tall and skeletally thin. He greeted me along with David,
but he didn't wait on me. David is just my height with curly black hair
hanging down almost to his shoulders. He sat me down and measured my foot,
then asked me what styles I wanted to try.
"I told him I wanted black high heeled pumps with four inch heels. He
looked at me again, pausing a second or two at my bust. I wanted to
slap him, but I needed to buy the shoes. I told him I wanted a pair of
plain, black satin ones."
"What were you thinking?" I asked.
"While he went to get them I was trying to figure out a way to avoid saying
what you had told me to say. I tried every thing I could to find slack in
your commands, but I couldn't. That is also when I realized you had not
said anything about attacking you. David returned with the shoes before I
could go any further with that thought.
"I tried on a couple of pairs of satin finished shoes, settling on the
simplest pair with a stiletto heel. Then it was time and I leaned forward
and said, 'David, I am really here buying shoes to please my lover. I upset
him and need to win his forgiveness. This pair is wonderful, but I need
something which says I am really sorry. Know what I mean?'
"'I am afraid that is not that much to go on, Miss,' David answered. He was
sitting there, gently squeezing my naked foot, and I swear he was grinning.
"'I want a pair of shoes which set the right tone, which are sexy.'
"'All of our shoes are sexy, or would be on your feet. Is there any message
in particular you are looking to convey?'"
This David was my kind of pervert. I could not have paid him to ask better
questions.
"I was getting frustrated," Michelle continued, "but he seemed to enjoy my
discomfort. I tried to find the words which would get me the damned shoes
and get me out of that store. It came to me in a flash: I let the toes of
my foot rub against his thigh. 'Use your imagination, David.'
"That seemed to inspire him and he went to get a few pairs in my size.
There were several sluttier pairs in red, but your instructions were
quite specific and I chose these, paid and got the hell out of there."
"Very good, Michelle. I am proud of how you handled the situation, but I
think, in future, if any clerk asks questions like that you should use an
answer along the lines of, 'I want the shoes to show that I am willing to
do *anything* for forgiveness.'
"I want you to turn around now, and bend at the waist. That is right, but a
little further. Good. Stay like that."
My toy was bent just short of double, her skirt draped over her shapely ass
and her braid falling past her head to the floor. I wanted to make sure the
rest of her outfit was up to spec, so I lifted the hem up and put it on her
back.
Four inches of chrome, two inches of black leather, two legs of black
seams, razor straight, running over the bulge of Michelle's calves --- high
heels do marvelous things to a woman's legs. Just above mid-thigh were the
dark elastic bands marking the top of her stockings. They curved upward,
pulled by the garter-straps stretched tight up the sides of her ass. The
straps tugged outward on her green panties, the shiny fabric taut across
the divide between her buttocks.
I leaned down, my finger tracing from the cold metal to the warm flesh of
Michelle's thigh. Her clothing met with my approval, though at the moment
there was far too much of it. Returning to my seat on her bed, I bade her
stand up, turn and face me.
"Unbutton your blouse."
She opened her mouth to speak, probably to protest, but as her fingers
undid the top button on the jade blouse she closed it again. She looked
daggers at me as her top parted, exposing her pronounced cleavage. I
swallowed hard as she finished the last button, standing before me with the
center of the green and black bra visible. I told her to remove the shirt.
Pardon the image, but her bra certainly had its hands full; her tits were
very large for her frame and the fine black lace was stretched taut over
the green satin and even the underwire seemed strained with its task. With
each breath her cleavage waxed and then waned. As I had glimpsed, there
were freckles sprinkled across the swell of each tit and into that valley
between them.
"Your tits look lovely. After tonight you will wear only front hook bras. I
want your tits easily accessible. Is that clear?"
"Yes, it is clear."
"Watch your tone, Sex Toy. Now get rid of the skirt."
Michelle bit back whatever glib remark she had been planning and began
unbuttoning and zipping the skirt. As the skirt fell to the ground
Michelle stood in her green underwear. My eyes were drawn to the mound in
her panties; the wedge of fabric seemed to accentuate more than conceal,
but I wanted to see her pussy, the prize in this game.
"Take off your panties," I commanded.
Bending forward at the waist again, Michelle drew the panties down her legs
and then stepped out of them. When she straightened up again I could see
the fiery orange ringlets of her pubic hair and, at the apex of the
triangle I could just see the hint of her pussy. The bright color was more
startling in contrast with the almost bleached whiteness of her skin. As I
stared she clenched her legs together.
I indicated with my fingers that she was to spread her legs so I could get
a better look. She shook her head but her body obeyed and she stood with
her legs shoulder width apart. I could see through the orange cover the
light pink surrounding her female opening and the darker pink of the lips.
I was not a virgin at the time, but this was the first good look I had
gotten of a pussy outside pornographic videos. Thinking about porno as I
sat staring at my own living fuck doll something clicked.
"From now on, Michelle, you will keep your pussy shaved bare. Whenever you
shave it, you will think of me. It will be my mark of ownership. Further,
if we should ever split, you will continue to shave it and think of me. In
fact, I think you should masturbate whenever you shave and think about sex
with me while you do it."
"You're a sick bastard, you ...," Michelle shouted.
"That is enough. I am getting sick of you calling me names, at least those
of your choosing. From now on when we are alone together you will call me
'Master' and you will be nice to me. If we are in public together and you
need to address me, you will use 'Sir'. The only exception to this is in
class. There you may still use my name. Have we got that straight, Toy?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
It was interesting to watch her struggle with that one word. She had not
fought that hard while I had her undress, but in the end my Power won out
over her will: "Yes, Master."
"What birth control are you and Rich using?"
"I am on the Pill, Master."
"Good. You will continue to use it. Now kneel down on the floor. Have your
knees about shoulder width apart."
I had reached my limit. While she knelt, I ripped my belt off, unzipped my
pants, pulled my shirt over my head, kicked off my shoes, and dragged my
jockeys over my raging hard on. Naked, I approached Michelle.
"Now, Michelle, you will give me the best blow job you have ever given. You
may use your hands, your face, whatever you want, but I want the bra to
stay on."
I bent forward for a second, wrapping her braid once more around my hand,
holding it like a leash as she went to work. Her hands came forward,
encircling my cock; I had to strain to keep from coming at her electric
touch. Her fingers, stroking up and down my shaft seemed to pull it past
its normal six inches. She looked up at me, to make sure I was watching,
and then swept her tongue across her dark red lips so that they glistened.
My throat was dry and I had trouble swallowing as she licked around the
circumcised head of my penis, tickling the vee at the bottom of it for a
few excruciating moments. Her hands had found my balls and were gently
squeezing and twisting them, just short of the point of pain. I had never
been that excited.
Parting her lips, Michelle took first the head and then, with delicious
deliberateness, the rest of my cock into her mouth and throat. Her chin
touched her hands around my balls. I could not hold out any longer: I
climaxed deep in her throat. She tried to pull away, but my grip on her
hair tightened and I held her in place as I spent my orgasm down her
throat.
As my senses returned, I loosed my hold on her braid and she pulled her
head back off of my cock. She started trying to wipe her tongue on the back
of her hand.
"Stop that. From now on you will always swallow when you give head; you
will consider it an honor. Now stand up, go to the bed, sit on the edge and
lay back."
Michelle looked upset for a moment, but then she smiled as she licked the
back of her hand, this time trying to get back what she had, moments
before, tried to get rid of. Then, in an amazingly fluid motion, she
uncoiled her legs from under her and stood. She paused, gaining her balance
in the unfamiliar shoes, and then walked to the bed. As she lay back with
her ass on the edge of the mattress, she looked at me, not sure what to
expect.
I followed her to the bed, but rather then laying next to her I parted her
knees with my leg, spreading them wide so I could stand between her legs,
above her copper-fleeced pussy.
I quickly knelt on the floor, before she could voice the question forming
on her face, and slid my tongue from the bottom to the top of her cunt,
parting the lips with the tip. Even before I put my face there, however,
there was moisture; my experiences were a bit limited, but I knew the
wonderful taste of an excited woman and Michelle was excited.
I started a journey of discovery; I was determined to chart Michelle's
cunt and its sensitive spots. I would probe with my tongue, first with a
feather touch, then increasing to as much pressure as I could bring to
bear, noting which motions brought moans, which gasps, and which had little
effect. While I was exploring, Michelle's breathing became shallower,
faster, more ragged. Her legs wrapped around my neck so I felt the cold
chrome of her heels on my back.
As I licked at her clit, lashing it from side to side with a fair amount of
pressure, she started chanting. The words were the sexual nonsense words
some people use as they approach orgasm; they start out whispered, almost
breathed, and then they get louder and louder as the wave of pleasure
approaches and crescendo as the wave breaks. That progression pretty well
describes Michelle that night: I shook my head from side to side like a
sheep-dog emerging from a pond; she began to grind her hips against my
face, chanting a bit louder. I pushed as hard as I could into her cunt,
sliding a finger into her wet opening; she chanted louder. Finally, I
captured her clit in my mouth, holding it still with my teeth and mashing
my tongue onto it; she screamed and spasmed, both her hands grabbing my
head and holding me against her cunt as she came.
Michelle lay still for several minutes, her breathing slowly returning to
normal. I rose and collected my clothes. She sat up and looked at me as I
finished tying my shoes.
"So that is it?" she asked.
"For tonight.
"Don't forget what I told you to do: Shave that pussy of yours clean, break
up with Richard, and wear sexy lingerie with front hook bras.
"Also, from now on I think you should practice every day in your high
heeled shoes. You don't have to wear them to class, if you don't want to,
but make sure you have a pair with you at all times. Got that?"
"Yes, Master."
"Very good. Now, before I go, tell me what you are. Tell me that you are my
Sex Toy."
"I am your Sex Toy."