The Education of Heather S.

Reflection

Heather sat outside the studio door on a plain wooden chair, eyes closed, concentrating, calming and centering herself. Nervousness was natural under the circumstances, but it would be a distraction, and she worked to quell it. Her hands were folded quietly in her lap; her breathing was slow and steady.

She was early. She was always early: to be late for the master would be unthinkable.

Tonight would be the culmination for Heather of two years of advanced study and training, two years of research and exploration. Tonight she would defend her Thesis; and if successful, she would be entitled to append the coveted credentials to her name: Heather S       , M.A.F.

Master of Arts in Fellatio.

The students never called it by its formal name. “What program are you in?” one grad student might ask another, and the M.A.F candidates would simply answer, “Cock Worship.”

Heather let her mind drift back to the first time she had entered the studio, a time that seemed both recent and impossibly long ago...

First year, Fall semester

Apprehensive and timid, not knowing exactly what to expect, Heather walked through the studio door. The master closed it behind her. The huge space before her was oddly divided into four distinct, separate areas: part book-lined office, part comfortable living room, part bedroom, and part a small maple-floored gymnasium, furnished with bondage equipment both familiar and arcane. The lighting was soft and even but not at all dim, and there was some source of background noise, a fan or blower perhaps, that obscured all outside sounds without itself intruding.

The master appraised her in silence for a few moments, silence that seemed to stretch for hours, as Heather stood still and nervous in her tight jeans and college sweatshirt. He was very tall, well more than a foot taller than the five-foot-one-inch co-ed, and an imposing figure. She glanced at his face, taking in nothing more than a quick impression of slate-grey eyes, salt-and-pepper hair buzzed close to the skull, and gently lined skin, before awareness of his return gaze startled her into lowering her eyes.

With no preamble, no introductory remarks, no welcome, the master spoke; it was the first time she heard his quiet, gentle voice, a voice that she would never hear raised or rushed in the subsequent two years. “You will address me as ‘sir,’ only. Come.”

She followed him to the center of the exercise area, where a thin cloth pad lay on the hard maple floor. “Posture, to begin,” the master said. “Kneel.” She complied, placing her knees on the pad, feeling immediately how little relief it offered from the unyielding floor. The master bent over her, placing one hand on the front of one shoulder and the other on her back, just above the pert swell of her bottom. She felt the tiniest opposing pressure from his hands, as he said “Thus.” She straightened her back, kneeling upright in a perfect L, and felt his hands withdraw.

He walked away from her then; headed to the office area and took a seat behind a massive, ancient desk, and studied papers without any apparent regard for Heather. She knelt on the inadequate pad on the hard floor, with absolutely no idea of what was going on. “This is class?” she wondered silently. It seemed absurd: she wasn’t learning anything, he wasn’t teaching anything — he seemed to have forgotten her presence entirely. “Am I supposed to ask questions? Offer to show what I can do?” But, unsure of herself, she merely waited.

Minutes came and went in silence. Heather’s knees began to yelp about the discomfort of the hard floor and the unchanging posture. Minutes more, and “discomfort” was no longer the most appropriate word.

Then, startling her, came the master’s quiet voice. “Do not move,” he said. “Feel your body. Feel its place: your spine, bent or straight? Your thighs, upright or relaxing? Your shoulders, where? Your neck, how? Listen to every part; feel; pay attention.”

Heather tried to concentrate on every part of her body at once. Her kinesthetic sense was very good, but the confusion of questions rattled her, and the ache from her knees made it hard to concentrate. She watched as the master walked to her side again. He laid his hands on her again, tailbone and shoulder, pressed, and said “Thus.” Then on her shoulders: “Thus.” On her forehead, adjusting her head to be more erect: “Thus.” The master watched her for a moment. “Posture, first,” he said. “Be aware. Be in control.” And then he was gone again, out of Heather’s sight.

Time crept past. Her knees, crying for relief, had been joined in their petition by the long muscles of her thighs; and now, as she concentrated her attention on her neck, on the tilt of her head, on the set of her shoulders, it seemed that everything was wrong, that she was moving unconsciously out of position, that she would just collapse with the inability to get everything right at once — if she even knew what was right, in this bizarre lesson from this enigmatic teacher.

Ages and ages, stiff, concentrating. At last, footsteps. The master walked a slow circle around his kneeling pupil, assessing her position.

“There is room to improve,” he said. “Dismissed.”

Heather reached up and took his offered hand, and with muscles she hadn’t known she had protesting every move, pulled herself upright. The master’s hand might have been an iron stanchion, so little did she deflect it as she rose.

She had a thousand questions. Two two-hour classes and one four-hour class a week, for the next two years — would they all be this odd? This incomprehensible? This uncomfortable? But she had been dismissed, and as an undergraduate had learned the only allowable response. She curtseyed, as best she could in jeans, and turned to leave.

She was almost at the door when the master spoke. “You have learned proper dress.”

Heather turned back to face him. “Yes, sir. But it’s always been sort of understood that, you know, just around campus...” Her voice trailed off as she watched him lift an eyebrow a fraction of an inch. “Yes, sir,” she resumed, “Proper dress, sir.”

“Dismissed,” the master said again. Heather let herself out, closing the studio door behind her. She changed when she got home, into a knee-length skirt of claret-colored cotton and a simple dove-grey blouse — and had never worn pants since.

Later that night, with three other girls in the Cock Worship program, gathered at their favorite pub with half the first round of Long Island Iced Teas comfortably disposed of, Heather compared first-day notes.

“What was the last thing he said to you?” Morgan was asking.

“He, um, kinda ragged on me a little for not dressing properly.”

“What were you wearing?” asked Alexa, aghast.

“Well, you know, the usual campus slops: jeans, sweatshirt.”

The news was greeted with universal horror. “Everybody knows he’s sticky about all the formalities, Heather,” Kate offered.

“Well, excuse me, I didn’t get that memo,” Heather said defensively.

But before the conversation could spiral down that path, Morgan, who had been trying to follow up on her first question, regained the floor. “That wasn’t what I meant, anyway,” she said. “Not the last last thing he said; what was the last thing he said at the end of your lesson?”

Heather had to think for a moment, a process made harder by how eagerly her friends were hanging on her reply. “Um, something like... there’s room for improvement.”

There was a general clinking of raised glasses and Heather felt Alexa pounding her on the back. “What?” she asked, completely asea. “What’s the big deal?”

“That’s a B!” said Kate excitedly. “You got a B on your first day of Cock Worship! That’s awesome!”

“Way to nail it, Heather!” contributed Alexa.

Heather raised her voice and put on her best knock-it-off expression. “Somebody tell me in plain words what the heck anybody’s talking about or I’m gonna get steamed.”

There was a burst of giggles as her friends imagined the sweet, easy-going Heather “steamed,” but Morgan took pity on her and laid out the relevant college lore. “The master never gives grades, A, B, C, D, F, like in undergrad. So you have to listen to his comments, and there’s, like, key words, instead of grades. And he doesn’t keep a grade book or anything, he just... always knows how you’re doing, you know?”

“So... room for improvement? That’s a key word?” Heather asked.

“Yeah, that, or... you could improve, or that could be better, or anything like that. That’s, like, a B. You know: pretty decent, not the best; work on it harder. See?”

“Sure. So what’s an A, then?”

Morgan, Alexa, and Kate answered in unrehearsed unison: “Satisfactory.” Kate continued, “That’s the highest praise he ever gives. Other profs, they might say something’s excellent, or outstanding, or whatever, but the master — look at it this way: his standard is absolute perfection, so if your work is satisfactory, that means it couldn’t possibly be better.”

Heather sipped her drink. “Weird,” she opined. “Well, ok, how about C’s and D’s?”

“A C? You’re gonna get some sharp words, or even a lecture. He doesn’t yell, and he’s not mean, but he can get pretty... emphatic. And, um, personal. I was nearly in tears after class today,” admitted Kate.

“A D or an F, that’s a spanking,” said Alexa. “Longer or shorter depending on how badly you messed up, but anything worse than a C you’re going to pay for on the spot with your very own personal sweet little ass.”

Those rumors Heather had already heard. She was a natural sexual submissive — as were all of the girls in the program. As a rule, it was only submissives who were willing to put in an extra two years concentrating entirely on fellatio, and the rare exceptions got filtered out in the application process. But while most of her fellow students loved, at some level, to be spanked — at the very least for the extreme, emphatic submission of the ordeal, if not for the pain itself — Heather had never learned to find enjoyment in such severe punishments. She resolved at that instant to be no worse than a B student.

“There have been some legendary students,” Morgan was saying, “Who got the M.A.F and were still in single digits as far as the number of times they took a whoopin’.” She gathered the eyes of her companions. “But they were few and far between.” Nods all around the table, as the girls pondered the more painful aspects of their future education.

“Tell about the other legend,” said Alexa. “The A-Plus.”

Morgan refreshed herself with a sip. “They say,” she began, in a hushed, ghost-story-at-the-campfire voice, as the girls leaned forward to hear her. “They say, that the master once gave an A-Plus. Something better than ‘Satisfactory.’ But only once, and long, long ago.”

“What did he say?” asked a rapt Kate.

Morgan paused, enjoying the attention of her friends, and then shook her head. “No one knows,” she said melodramatically, “No one knows.”

The group dissolved in laughter amid cries of “B.S.” — which had nothing to do with their undergraduate Bachelor of Sex degrees.

Heather’s second class was on Wednesday. She was one of three girls on the Monday, Wednesday, Friday schedule, each of them having her four-hour session on a different day; three other girls had class on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Six students total in the Cock Worship program, forty-eight hours a week of one-on-one instruction among them. The master was the program’s only teacher; Heather was fortunate that its two year cycle had coincided with the end of her undergraduate studies, as some of the girls had to wait a full year to begin their pursuit of the M.A.F.

She was properly dressed this time: a soft cotton halter top in turquoise, a snug and stretchy black miniskirt, black boy-short panties with a satin ribbon lacing the back, and black sling-backs on a three-and-a-half-inch spike heel. The halter top didn’t really work with a bra, so the slight jiggle of her small, firm breasts made her nipples evident through the cotton as she strode to class. Her long brown hair was ponytailed with a scrunchie, and swung to the rhythm of her steps. More than one person stopped to watch that rhythm, the counterpoint swing of hips and hair, with a grateful smile that the world could hold such a beautiful sight.

The master saw her in to the studio, and indicated with a gesture the thin mat on the gymnasium floor. Heather sank to her knees on the mat, and tried to recall her posture from the first session. Legs... like this. Back... so. Shoulders... this way. Head... thus. The master watched her, saw her making the tiny adjustments, recognized that she was paying attention to her body in every detail, and smiled inwardly. He left her then, left her kneeling alone in the center of the floor, without a word.

Time, self-awareness, kinesthesia. Aches and cramps from muscles and joints that had not fully recovered from Monday’s class. Posture, stillness, pulse. Silence.

Heather was bored, and irritated that the master was neglecting her. She wanted to be taught. She wanted lessons. There was pleasure, to be sure, in obedience itself — that was the very heart of her submissiveness — but she was also a natural student, with a curious, seeking, hungry intellect, and she wanted to feel progress in her education and skills.

She tuned out her pains, and tuned in to her breathing and pulse. Her mind started to drift, and she found herself day-dreaming about one of the bondage classes she had taken for her B.S. The feeling of motionlessness in restraints was so different from this unforced stillness.

Heather was a very clever girl, and the moment the comparison occurred to her, she understood what she was learning.

It was not an unforced stillness, after all. Her position was compulsory, no less so than when she had been roped and shackled, but the compulsion was in the master’s expectations alone. In bondage, her body had lost its freedom to move. Here, in the silent studio, her body had the freedom — it was her will that was constrained, and the constraint sprang entirely from the master’s authority and her submissive obedience. She closed her eyes and felt the understanding warm her from within, like the early rush of sexual arousal.

She was not startled to hear his voice close at hand, although she had not noticed his approach. “So, progress.” The master laid a hand on top of Heather’s head; it felt warm and good to her, and she wished he would stroke her hair, but after just a few seconds he withdrew it. He walked behind her, out of sight. “Now,” he said, “Observation. Attention. Follow me with your eyes, turn your head.”

He came from behind her, walked toward his desk in the office area, turned, and came back, taking an arcing path around her until he disappeared once more. “The second time,” he said, “Eyes open, but fixed at the lamp on the desk — do not follow.” He repeated his walk, as Heather struggled not to track his motions, keeping her eyes focused straight ahead. She was aware of him in her peripheral vision, and then in front of her, and finally gone again. “The third time, eyes lowered as you have been taught.” Again the walk, this time barely visible to Heather as she kept her eyes submissively downcast. “Now, close them.” And a last trip, with only her ears tracking his footsteps, surprisingly soft for so big a man.

He spoke from behind her. “Four times, the same path. Your attention the only variable. Four different observations, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Heather said.

“An essay, due Friday: what differed, what do you learn from this. Your posture today was satisfactory. Dismissed.”

Heather rose with the master’s assistance, curtseyed — much more prettily in her sexy short skirt — and left the studio.

And so it went, class after class. There were constants: such as the endless stretches of time Heather spent on her knees. And there were variables: on some days, for example, there was a wooden valet stand in the studio, and she would undress and hang her clothing on it before taking her place on the floor, nude. The lessons changed, but nearly always it was difficult to understand their purpose, and Heather felt frustrated more often than not.

One evening, Kate, who shared an apartment with Heather, stormed in after her class period, slammed the door, and threw her things on the floor. “I’ve had it!” she hollered.

“What’s wrong?” Heather asked, hurrying out of her bedroom to see what had her friend so upset.

“I just spent four freakin’ hours kneeling on a hard freakin’ floor with a little saucer of perfume balanced on the back of each freakin’ knee, that’s what’s wrong!” Kate was in a fit the likes of which Heather had never seen. “This is supposed to be Cock Worship, damn it, not some Zen-freakin’-philosophy class. Where’s the cock, that’s what I want to know; if it’s Cock Worship then where’s the damn cock?” She glared at Heather as if to suggest her roomie was at fault. “I haven’t gone this long without a good hard prick since Masturbation class Sophomore year! I can’t stand it! Three months into the freakin’ year and he hasn’t taught us a freakin’ thing!”

Understanding came to Heather at that moment, the memories of her lessons coalescing into a single, beautiful dawn.

“Yes, he has,” said Heather, quietly firm.

“What?” Kate was incredulous. “What are you talking about? Name one thing he’s taught us.”

“Self-awareness,” said Heather softly. “Grace. Attentiveness. Observation. Respect for details. A sense of station. Stillness of body and mind. The power of our own senses. Attitude. Obedience and submission: surrendered will. Patience.”

Kate’s look of outraged defiance faded during Heather’s matter-of-fact reply. “I said one thing,” she murmured.

“Well?”

“Well, ok... I guess you’re right,” Kate admitted.

“One other thing,” said Heather.

“What?”

“He’s taught us how to spend four hours kneeling on a wooden floor without screaming in pain,” Heather said with a grin.

Kate smiled back. “Yeah, I suppose anything in the real world will be a piece of cake, compared to that.”

“Exactly.”

Kate ran fingers through her short red hair, shaking off her mood, and then squatted to pick up her belongings. “You know, Heather, I had a perfectly good tizzy-fit going, and you completely ruined it for me.”

“Happy to help,” laughed Heather.

Just a few days later, there was a marked change in Heather’s lessons.

When she entered the studio, the valet stand awaited her — she immediately began to disrobe — but the mat on the gym floor was gone. The master sat on a sofa in the living-room-like portion of the studio, another novelty. When Heather was nude, the master gestured for her to go to him.

“On your knees,” he said, and Heather knelt at his feet, lowering her eyes as she had been taught. “Your hands, as if bound,” said the master, and from the several interpretations that occurred to her, Heather chose to place her hands behind her back, gripping one wrist in the opposite hand. “Can you move your hands?” her teacher asked.

Heather thought fast. It was a silly question, on the surface, since obviously she just had moved them; but clearly the master was not in the silly questions business. Suddenly, she knew.

“No, sir,” she replied.

“Explain.”

“I may not move them, because of your command. If I may not, then I can not move them, because the essence of my nature is obedience.”

There was a long pause. Then: “Satisfactory,” said the master. “Eyes.” Heather lifted her head and looked the master in the eye; she saw in his calm expression, for the first time, the smallest hint of real approval. Between that, and the sound of his highest praise, a smile bloomed unbidden on Heather’s pretty face. The master nodded, once.

“Open your mouth,” he said. His tone of voice was gentle, even kind; not demanding but fully confident. Heather obeyed immediately, and seemingly from nowhere he produced a ring gag, holding it so that she could see it. When he saw that she recognized the restraint, he fitted the leather-wrapped steel circle into her mouth, and fastened the retaining strap around her head. “Eyes,” he said again, and Heather bowed her head submissively, lowering her gaze.

Within seconds, the gag began to have its signature effect on the kneeling girl. She felt herself drooling, felt the cool line of saliva trickling down her chin, felt the first drop land between her breasts. Within minutes a steady rivulet of spittle ran from Heather’s wide-stretched mouth: the gag stimulating her salivary glands, her lips helpless to retain the flood.

She had worn open-mouth gags before, first in Intro To Bondage and later in Advanced Topics during her undergraduate years. She had always thought that the uncontrollable drooling made them the most humiliating of all gags, and therefore the ones that excited her most. Now, as she knelt before the master, already a slobbery mess, she felt an answering wetness in her pussy.

The master stood, and left her there: nude, gagged, kneeling, bound by his word alone, drooling. And increasingly, undeniably horny.

The regimen continued. Heather was gagged every day now, during class and for homework, when she and Kate would sit and study together in mutual embarrassment, each girl trying to steal surreptitious glances at her roommate’s drippy face. They read their assignments — everything from anatomy, to erotica, to primers on blow-job technique, to essays by noted dominants or submissives — and wrote their papers and tried not to slobber on anything important.

One day, by the couch in the studio, there stood a large, wheeled cart, laden with a hundred or more small glass vials in row after row after row of purpose-built shelving. The master was seated on the couch, and when Heather was on her knees before him, naked, bound as always by command, and ring-gagged, he took from a shallow drawer in the cart a thin glass rod, tipped at one end with a small glass sphere.

He opened the lid of one of the vials, dipped the glass ball into the liquid inside, and resealed the jar. “What flavor?” he said, and, inserting the rod carefully through Heather’s gag, touched the glass ball to her tongue.

The flavor bloomed in her mouth, intense, dramatic, instantly recognizable.

“Arr-angh,” Heather said.

“Orange, yes,” said the master. He rinsed the glass ball off in a dish, took a soft cloth from the cart, and polished it dry. Then he sat and waited, letting the flavoring slowly dissipate in Heather’s mouth. She found herself following its progress in her imagination, until she felt that the trail of saliva running into her navel must be orange-flavored. While she waited, her eyes were drawn inexorably between the master’s legs as he sat on the couch in front of her. She tried to discern a shape through his crisply-pressed wool dress trousers, but could never convince herself that she really had. One day, she knew, the preliminaries would be behind her.

Another vial, another dip, and the glass rod probing her helpless mouth again, tipping down to touch her tongue. Another explosion, just as strong, not nearly as obvious. Something sweet. Something that was only sweet, without a real flavor of its own. Cotton candy? No. Not chocolate at all — why was she suddenly thinking of chocolate? A hint, a context... aha!

“Ahr-eh-oh,” she said.

“Marshmallow, yes,” replied the master. And so they continued, through the long session: dab after dab, flavor after flavor; some easy, some that Heather couldn’t begin to guess at. He did not seem at all displeased when she got one wrong, or could not name it. Nevertheless, as the lesson came to an end, he said “Next time, you will do better.” Those words, which on the first day had constituted a triumph to Heather and her fellow students, left her disappointed and empty. She had become dependent on his highest praise, his “Satisfactory” — hooked like an addict on the master’s approval. She curtseyed thanks at her dismissal, dressed, and left in low spirits.

The days, the lessons, the homework came and went; the days grew shorter and the weather less appealing. There were diversions: movie nights and dance parties and dinners out, pub-hopping and impulse shopping. Campus events, some concerts, a play. But mostly study: all six M.A.F. students took their tasks quite seriously, and the workload was significant.

It was just before winter break when Heather suffered her first real setback.

She was in the studio, on her knees on the living room carpet. She was dressed in a fuchsia mini with a white lace hem, a boat-necked white cotton pullover blouse, and white tee-strap sandals on a four-inch heel; her long brown hair was plaited and bound with fuchsia ribbons top and bottom. The master was at his desk in the office portion of the studio, reading from a file. In time, he put it away, and walked over to the kneeling girl.

“Moderate skill?” he said, raising one eyebrow.

Heather’s heart fell. She had known, certainly, that the subject was going to come up; that did not make its arrival any easier. Clearly, the master had been reading her undergraduate transcript and appraisal.

“Yes, sir,” she said. She felt heat in her face, and knew she was blushing; she could do nothing to stop it.

“When did this great University,” the master said, addressing the room at large, “Adopt a policy of granting that prestigious degree: Bachelor of Sex, Performance, to young ladies who are ‘moderately skilled’ at swallowing a hard cock to its root? When did our sacred traditions fall by the wayside? When were our principles abandoned?” It was by far the longest speech Heather had ever heard from him, and the shock alone would have kept her from answering, if she had had an answer to offer.

The master seemed to recover his senses. He refocused on Heather, kneeling before him, ashamed and frightened. He blinked once, twice. He reached out and caressed Heather’s face, the first overt gesture of tenderness he had shown her, the first confirmation that she was more than a student to him. Heather’s heart melted at the softness, the sweetness, the clear fondness in his touch. “Moderate skill,” he repeated in a whisper. Then, to Heather, “Explain.”

Her face was hot with embarrassment. “Sometimes, I... I can’t always... Sometimes I still gag, sir, a little bit,” she said. “Usually I’m fine, I really work at it, but... every now and then it just gets... overwhelming. I really try hard, sir, but... it seems like especially during exams, I can’t always...” Heather’s voice trailed off. Her imperfectly mastered gag reflex had almost undone her undergraduate career, where girls were expected to be able to suck a thick hard cock not only all the way down but at a rapidly thrusting pace. And not just the Bachelor of Sex, Performance students — it was considered such a basic skill that even the B.S. Theory and B.S. Education girls were supposed to master it. Heather, and her instructors, had never been able to pin down what made it effortless for her sometimes, and so frustratingly impossible at others. She had squeaked by with a lot of extra credit work and the sympathy of her professors, who knew she was truly giving her best effort.

With a sigh, the master said, “I must know for myself.” He indicated her mouth. “Open.”

Heather obeyed. The master extended two fingers of his right hand, slipped them into her mouth, and laid them on the tip of her tongue. He began to sweep them, slowly, side to side, and by gradual degrees to advance farther and farther into Heather’s wide-open mouth. She steeled herself; willed herself to be still; instructed her body to be subordinate to her control. And yet, as his probing fingers passed her trigger point, Heather gagged uncontrollably, and against every effort of her will her head pulled back, away from the oral intrusion.

Pulled away. Failed.

She felt her eyes grow hot: tears were close. The master looked at her for a moment, and said “Come,” turning toward the gym. He led Heather to a spanking horse and bent her over it, fastening her wrists into soft leather cuffs that were roped to its base. She felt restraints wrapping around her ankles, and the tug of rope there as well, pulling her legs down and apart, and soon she was stretched taut, bottom high, over the horse.

The master raised the hem of her skirt, revealing a pair of white panties, lacy and insubstantial; he spring-clipped the hem to the back of her blouse to keep the skirt out of the way.

Heather felt his hands, warm against her hips, sliding her wispy panties off her bottom and down to her knees. Exposed and humiliated, she heard his steps retreat toward the office.

He kept her there, bound and helpless, bare bottom high, for some thirty minutes. When he returned, he spanked the defenseless girl with his bare hand, landing one painful smack after another on her quivering cheeks. Heather clenched her teeth and took her punishment in near silence, with only the occasional gasp bursting forth, too powerful to stay muffled. She wished she could see the master’s face, to know whether it showed anger, or disappointment. She was not sure which would be worse. Spank after spank fell; her head jerked with each smack, her thick, heavy braid swinging wildly.

When he was done he released her wrists first, allowing her to slip off the horse onto her feet, and then her ankles. He unclipped her skirt, which fell to cover Heather’s glowing bottom. She stood there on her elegant high heels, panties around her knees, while the master opened a cupboard in the gym, extracted a leather case, and brought it to her. She knew what it contained.

“Over break,” the master said, kind but firm. “Start with number three. Four hours a day, supervised at all times. Work up. By the time you return, number eight.” Heather nodded. The graduated set of prick-gags, each one longer than its neighbor, was very familiar. She would try again, just as she had in Freshman Seminar, as she had in Foundations Of Oral Sex in Sophomore year, as she had in Cocksucking Arts in Junior year, as she had in Advanced Topics last year.

“Yes, sir,” Heather answered. Fifth time a charm?

“Dismissed.”

Heather curtseyed. With her panties still around her knees it was an astonishingly beautiful, erotic, and deeply submissive gesture. But the master appeared unmoved as he handed her the case.

Heather’s tears did not come until she was walking home.

Reflection

...Heather opened her eyes. She glanced quickly at the clock in the corridor outside of the studio: still quite a while to wait.

Today it all came down to a single performance. Defend her Thesis successfully, and all of her hard work would come to fruition. Fail, and... fail everything. There were no second chances, not with space in the program so limited. All or nothing, on one cast of the dice — dice loaded, to be sure, with her experience, preparation, education, and talents, but a risky throw nonetheless.

Oh, but that first-year winter break had been a long one: daily practice with the graduated dildos, terrified that this time she would not get over the one hurdle that had been her undergraduate nemesis...

First year, Spring semester

“Do you know this device?”

“No, sir,” Heather replied. It was her first class after winter break. She and the master were standing in the gym, and he had taken the dust cover off a complicated piece of equipment. There were restraints built in, some framework, something that looked vaguely like a fencer’s mask, and, ominously, two leather paddles the size of table tennis rackets, mounted low on the machine.

“Kneel here,” the master told his naked pupil. She knelt on two pads on the base of the machine, and felt restraints closing over her thighs and then her ankles. The master belted her waist and, wrapping cuffs around her wrists, fastened those to the belt. He adjusted the supporting arm of the mask-like piece so that its padded rim pressed against the back of her head, and then slid the paddle assembly along a track until it was close behind her bare bottom. Finally, selecting one of many available attachments, he locked a formidable plastic phallus onto a shaft in front of her mouth. “Open.” Heather opened her mouth, and he dialed the dildo forward until it was between her teeth.

He double checked her bindings, then moved in front of the kneeling girl. “If your head moves backward, the headrest moves with it, closing a switch. Each time, one paddle strikes. So... a wise girl does not move her head.”

With that rather frightening warning, he set a dial, flipped a switch, and left her there.

The phallus moved on its shaft, pressing into Heather’s mouth. Deeper... deeper. She hadn’t had time to get ready; her gag reflex kicked her head back without her consent. The machine clicked and instantly there was the sharp crack of a paddle striking Heather’s right ass cheek. She yelped at the sting, but the sound was muffled by the retreating plastic cock.

The cycle repeated. Better armed this time, Heather was able to fight through one intrusion. She still felt herself gagging, but with a supreme effort of will pressed her head forward, making the problem worse but avoiding the backward movement that would trip the paddles. The dildo slid away; she panted, trying to recover her composure, swallowing like mad to clear the feeling in her throat. And it advanced again; helpless, Heather felt herself pull away, and the motorized leather paddle whipped across her left buttock. With no idea how long she would be left there, Heather’s heart sank in despair.

Time passed. Awful time: choking, her ass on fire, fighting so hard and with such indifferent success. And then the master was before her, fingering the evil machine into stillness. He slid the dildo out of her mouth, and began to release her bindings one by one. “It is not, then, a problem of desire or purpose,” he said softly. “If that were so, the pain would have overcome it.” With the release of the strap over her thighs, he helped a shaken Heather to her feet. “Come here,” he said, and led the girl by the hand to one of the gym’s several spanking horses.

“Oh, please, no more,” thought Heather desperately, as he indicated she should bend over it.

But as she braced herself, she felt the master’s hand on her flaming bottom, bearing something exquisitely cool and soothing, something almost icy without the bite of ice, spreading it with the utmost softness, delicacy, and tenderness into her reddened skin. He worked slowly, letting the balm absorb, always working with slick fingers so that he would not assault her tender skin any further. He took his time, moving back and forth from one pert bun to another, anointing Heather’s ass with the wonderful gel, and as the stinging pain lessened and she regained control of herself, she found herself relishing his caress. It had been so long, she realized, since someone had last stroked her body, or her hair, or her face, with anything like the master’s tenderness and affection — such a long time studying love without feeling it. She was acutely aware of how close his fingers were to her soft, bare pussy lips, and of how much she wished he would — accidentally or not — stray to them.

He was finished. He helped Heather rise; handed her the bottle of brilliant blue gel. “Sooth-A-Caine from Banana Boat,” he said matter-of-factly. “Good for sunburn, too. Keep that, put some more on tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” Heather said, amused. She had almost expected him to add “Available at your neighborhood pharmacy!”

The master dried his hands and regarded Heather as an entomologist might look at an unexpected gynandromorph. “You are a puzzle. You can do this, but even pain cannot force you to. So, something beyond your control, beyond your awareness: else you and your teachers would have found it.” He paused, reflecting. “I must think. Enough class for today. Dismissed.”

Heather curtseyed, nude, winced at the flash of protest from her bottom, dressed, and left.

The next time they met, they solved it.

Heather entered the studio clad in a navy-blue jersey dress that clung to the gentle mounds of her braless hard-tipped breasts, clung to the pert swell of her small, firm bottom, clung to the enticing columns of her thighs — and stopped, just four inches below her navy-blue thong panties. As concealment for her figure, the dress was less effective than a wet coat of paint.

She wore navy ankle-strap sandals on a four-and-a-half-inch stiletto heel, and delicate white cotton ankle socks with a wide ruffle of eyelet lace around the tops, trimmed with a narrow baby-pink ribbon: an eye-catching and highly effective accent.

She stopped in her tracks. Things were different. The familiar cart of flavors was in the portion of the studio furnished bedroom-style, a place they had never conducted lessons. The valet stand was there as well, instead of by the entrance. As she strode across the studio towards it, the master came into view. For the first time, he was not in dress clothes: he wore a floor-length silk robe of impressive opulence, covered with intricate embroidery: not Asian, Heather thought, nor African, but something else remote and exotic.

She saw him give her the once-over as she approached, the first time since her first day that he had seemed to notice her looks.

“When you disrobe,” he said, watching her, “Keep your shoes and socks on.”

Heather smiled inwardly, careful not to let it show on her face. “Aha,” she thought, “I finally found something you like.” She unfastened her dress, skinned it off, and hung it on the valet stand; slipped her panties down and over the high heels and hung them up as well.

The master made a circle in the air with a finger, and Heather immediately turned her back to him. She felt his hands on her bare bottom, assessing her flesh, and at his very first touch felt her pussy flood as desire bloomed in her core. She so loved to be handled, to be made to dance to a strong man’s whim, and the master’s casual assurance that she would turn when told, would submit to his touch without comment — would do anything he asked of her — only made the fire burn hotter within her.

“No lasting harm,” he said. Heather stood calmly, her back to the master. She felt him pull her arms back; felt the long arm binder slipping past her hands and up her arms, tightening to fasten them together from wrist to elbow behind her back. He turned her back around with a touch.

Heather’s eyes were lively and shining. She could not know for sure, but the bedroom setting was new, and the silk robe was new — she had not so much a hunch as a prayer about what those might mean.

“On your knees.”

Kneeling gracefully while bound was something any undergraduate girl could manage by her Junior year: Heather was grace personified as she sank without a sound to her knees. She spread her thighs wide, to ensure that her pussy was exposed and available for the master.

“I have been thinking about your case,” the master said, calmly regarding the bound, kneeling co-ed. “And I recall that, when we practiced sensory awareness and focus, you had no trouble with the touch of the wand, even very far back on your tongue.” As he spoke, he dipped the familiar glass rod into a vial. Heather’s mouth opened wide as he brought it toward her. The rod slid into her mouth, the ball touched down and lingered, the rod withdrew.

“The taste is merely bitter, sir, but the scent is floral — freesia, I think,” Heather said when her mouth was free.

“Yes,” replied the master. “But the essential thing is that the wand was deep in your mouth, at the back of your tongue, far past the point where you could accept my fingers. And yet you had no trouble.” He paused, seemingly to consider. “So, my puzzling student, we will try something well out of schedule.”

The master turned away from her, toward the cart. Glass clinked. When he turned back, the robe was parted — parted by his cock, fiercely erect, immediately the center of Heather’s universe. Her pussy, already flooded, began to leak: Heather felt her juices overflow to moisten her wide-spread thighs. He would take her now, take her mouth, feed her his glorious, beautiful, massive cock; he would enter her body in the confident assurance that she was his to use at his own whim for his own ends. Her surrender to him, her eager, grateful subordination to his will, the ability to abandon convention and just to be the sexual, sensual creature she was born to be, inflamed Heather’s passion. Her mind echoed with her personal mantra. “Command me that I might obey,” she thought, “For I am obedience itself.”

And oh, his cock! Her eyes were wide and her gaze unwavering. It was not as big as some toys she had used, but was easily a match for any real one Heather had handled. And there was nothing delicate, soft, or pretty about it: it was a vein-gnarled cudgel, rough-hewn, powerful and masculine, stiff as granite, pulsing with blood. It looked, to Heather, like a thinking creature in and of itself, separate from the master despite their union. She longed for it. She felt her mouth water, her body lubricating everywhere it could in the hope that he/it/they would pierce her, somewhere, anywhere, soon.

Heather was not a religious girl, but the master’s cock had instantly become her one true god, and she worshipped it.

The master lifted the glass rod and anointed the bulbous head of his cock with liquid. He took a step closer. Heather opened her mouth wide, letting her tongue slip invitingly out over her bottom teeth. Waiting for him. Aching for him. Living, at that instant, only for him. “Please, god, please, let me serve you,” she silently prayed.

“What flavor?” asked the master, in a perfect echo of words long past, and in a single motion thrust his massive rigid prick to the very back of Heather’s mouth.

She closed her slippery lips around him, swept her tongue beneath his thick, heavy shaft, and sucked. If she had not been well trained, her eyes would have squeezed shut in ecstasy; instead, she kept her gaze steadily on the master’s face, in case he should instruct her with a look. But ecstatic she was, thrilled beyond description to be serving him, finally: her heart’s dearest wish for these many months come true.

She tasted the essential oil — anise, it was, clearly and obviously — and when he pulled the precious shaft out of her sucking mouth, spoke the answer.

“Yes. Again, what flavor?” Another clink, another dab of wand to glans, and the master thrust his steel-hard prick deep into Heather’s mouth, wiping the flavoring over her tongue. She felt his hand on the back of her head, fingers tangling in her silky hair, and with a rush of gratitude that she could serve him felt him pull her head closer, his rigid shaft slipping into her throat and down. His grip was firm and the pressure inexorable, and Heather soon found herself with her face against the silk of the master’s robe. She slipped her tongue out between his hot cock and her lower lip, and began to lick the master’s balls as far as she could reach. She concentrated exclusively on the pressure of her lips, the movement of her tongue, and the contractions of her throat, and left any consideration of her next breath entirely in the master’s hands.

He slid slowly out of her mouth, lingering for a moment with his cockhead just at her gag point, probing, stroking. And then Heather’s mouth was empty, the loneliest feeling she had ever known.

She took a deep breath. “Nutmeg? Something spicy, something wintry.”

“Yes. What flavor?” Again the thrust, the pause at her weak spot, and then her throat filled again. This time, both hands in her hair, tangled, pulling hard, back and forth, faster, ever faster, fucking Heather’s throat forcefully, in and out, riding over and over the critical juncture of mouth and throat, pumping harder and harder. Her scalp prickled sharply where he gripped her hair; she welcomed the pain openly, gratefully, as an unmistakable sign that she was being controlled, managed, handled, and used. He was fucking her face at his own pace, plunging deep time after time, barely allowing scope for her many and varied cocksucking skills, but Heather did her best to ply them anyway. And then — gone.

Gasping. Gasping. “Black.” Gasping. “Cherry.” Saliva coated Heather’s chin, had flooded out of her mouth and run down her neck, spilled between her breasts; she was kneeling over a puddle of her own making. Her lips were swelling, reddened; her face was flushed; her throat was a little raw already. She could feel that, from another source, her thighs were slippery, her pussy an overflowing well of slick, fragrant honey. She was intensely, pervasively happy: on her knees where she belonged, wet-mouthed and plump-lipped, being a useful girl. She could feel the joy of her submission like a drug in her blood, rushing through her body, awakening every nerve and every muscle, heating her with pleasure. Inside her lacy innocent-girl socks, her toes were curling.

The master put the wand away. When he turned back, his robe was closed and there was no sign of an erection. He crouched down in front of the kneeling student, looking her directly in the eye from just inches away. Without warning, Heather felt his hand on her sex, two fingers stroking her inflamed clit, gently and with the expertise earned over decades. It took only seconds.

“Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” she cried, falling forward against his shoulder, unable to catch herself with her arms bound behind her. Orgasm wracked her body: her nipples were as hard as bullets, her face was on fire, his probing fingers were drenched. Every sinew in Heather’s body tightened, the climax so strong as to be almost painful — and then the crest broke, and Heather sobbed in relief on the master’s silken shoulder. He wrapped one strong arm around her, and held the bound, nude girl as she slowly, slowly recovered her senses.

In time, he helped her to her feet, and released her arm restraint. He spoke to her as she slipped her panties and dress back on.

“Your past successes: more with toys, or with men?”

“Men,” said Heather, after a moment’s reflection.

“Labs, or tutorials?”

“I think labs.”

“Mixed, or oral only?”

“Umm, more mixed, I guess.”

“So: fellow students, less practiced at self-restraint, closer to orgasm. Already flavored with your wetness, or semen, or both. Something tasty. And now, with the oils. So we find: when your body thinks of flavors, tastes, food, it is prepared to accept things moving past tongue and throat. Without that context, it is prepared to defend itself, to escape. Then we need only to train your thoughts, so that fellatio always triggers the former association.”

“I see what you mean, sir.” Heather thought back on the exams she had failed: almost always involving an artificial phallus, bland and tasteless. And on her triumphs: swallowing to the hilt the cock of a lab partner, wet and tangy with her own pussy juice, just seconds before he erupted. “I think... I think that could be it.”

They looked with satisfaction at each other, teacher and student. “A paper, then, for next time,” said the master, and Heather’s smile dimmed a trifle. “What pitfalls to this solution? What risk? Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” said Heather. “Not really,” she thought. But there was no point in arguing. She turned to leave, conscious of his eyes on her.

She was almost at the door. “Heather,” said the master, the first time he had ever used her name — the first evidence, really, that he knew it.

“Yes, sir?” She was intensely curious.

“Your... footwear,” he said. He seemed a little hesitant, the first time Heather had ever seen him anything but perfectly confident.

“Yes, sir? The anklets?” She lifted up onto her toes, swiveling left and right to show them off.

“Very nice. Very pretty. A favorite, in fact, of mine.” Heather was transfixed by this unprecedented personal revelation. “I thank you.”

She was amazed. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

She turned to leave again. “Heather,” said the master.

“Yes, sir?” Turning back.

“Not every day, though.” He smiled at her then, broadly, the first fully genuine, fully human expression she had seen. “I am not the young man I once was, and must guard my heart.”

She grinned back at him and, before the impulse could be restrained, flew to him and wrapped her arms around him. “I’ll be careful, sir. Thank you for my lesson today. I’m truly grateful, sir.”

Embarrassed at the extent to which he had opened up to her, the master simply shooed her out of the room with a gesture.

She walked home singing aloud, her clear, bright alto a joy to hear.

Heather’s mood took a turn for the worse when she sat down that night to write her paper, because after a wasted hour staring at an empty Word file, she hadn’t a clue how to begin.

Kate eventually noticed the decided lack of typing from Heather’s direction.

“Stuck?” she asked sympathetically.

“Yeah,” Heather replied. “I have an assignment that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Let Kate the Advice Goddess hear your plight, o seeker of wisdom.”

There was an eraser handy, which Heather threw more or less accurately at her friend. “Ok, Advice Goddess, try this. You remember my little, um, deep-throat problem from undergrad?”

“Sure. You got past that, though, didn’t you? I mean, you graduated, after all.”

“I never did. I squeaked by, but I could never be sure when I was going to be able to take one deep and when I was going to choke.”

“Oh, Heather, I had no idea! You poor thing!”

“So, anyway, today, the master figures it out for me. If I’m thinking about, like, flavors or eating or something like that, then I’m ok. But if not, if I’m only thinking about the blow-job, that’s when I choke. So the master says, all we have to do is train me to think about tastes and flavors and food while I’m getting ready to suck cock, and I’ll be fine.”

“That sounds great, Heather! I’m glad you found a solution,” Kate said. “So... what’s the tough paper, then?”

“He wants me to write why that’s a bad thing. Which I totally don’t get. It’s the best thing ever, to think that my one serious problem could be behind me. I’ve been flying high all day — I just can’t think of anything bad about finally getting over that.”

“Hmm,” said Kate.

“Hmm is about exactly right,” said Heather. “That’s how far I got, too: hmm.”

Kate shoved her own work aside. “Ok, let’s think about this. You’re supposed to think about something food-y before you suck cock, so your mouth is ready to feel something going down. Makes sense. So... if that’s a bad thing... then something food-y isn’t what you should be thinking about... right? I mean, there’s nothing else to argue with.”

“Ok,” said Heather, “But... but it’s good that I think that way, so I can suck properly.”

“No, no, no,” said Kate eagerly, as her vague idea began to take clearer shape. “Listen. It’s good for you to think that way, but it’s bad to think that way. So what should you think about?”

Heather caught the thread. “Oh. Oh, I see; I get it. What I should be thinking about is cocksucking. About my partner, about his needs and pleasures, about his wonderful cock, about how I can serve him with my mouth, about his signs and signals and his telltales. About anything special I know he likes me to do. About what my Arts prof called ‘the servant’s place at the altar’.”

“About your reverence, and your submission,” Kate finished. “You should think about how you can excite and please and satisfy him — because pleasing him is your only need.”

“Yes. That’s it. And something else.” Heather was excited now, back to her happy mood in a flash. “It’s wrong to think about tastes, because under the circumstances that’s like thinking about cum in my mouth — and I have no right to anticipate that my performance will earn any reward at all, let alone the highest.”

“That’s right,” Kate added encouragingly. “It’s never a girl’s place to decide if she deserves any cum.”

Heather slid her laptop toward her. “Ok, let me get some of this down while it’s fresh.” Her fingers flew over the keys.

“You’re welcome,” Kate said, amused, after watching for a minute.

“A million thanks, Advice Goddess, shall attend thee... after I get a good grade on this paper. I might even spring for dinner out.”

“Ooooh,” said Kate. “I like the sound of that! Anything else I can help you with?”

“Hush up and let me work.”

A minute later the eraser made its return trip, to the sounds of clicking keys and soft laughter.

In the middle of the night, Heather awoke. The apartment was quiet, her room dark but for the glow of her alarm clock: 2:55.

“I must guard my heart.” The master’s words were on her lips.

She had thought it a throw-away quip, as if to say: you’re so sexy you’ll give me a heart attack.

But there was ambiguity in the words, and it was that possibility that had awakened her.

Heather’s right hand slid up over her hip and on to the baby-smooth mound between her legs. She let a finger intrude, parting her lips, toying gently, without hurry, until she could feel moisture gathering. She spread her honey over her clitoris, stroking the little bud, waking it up and inviting it to come out and play. Her left hand wandered up to cup one breast, fingers spreading to capture a stiff nipple between them, squeezing gently. Fingers probed her pussy, stroking, reaching inside for more and more juices, as her palm brushed her sensitive clit again and again.

She thought of the master’s cock, her god; tried to picture it exactly, in every detail; tried to recall the weight of it on her tongue, the contours of the shaft against her soft lips; tried to imagine the length and breadth and mass of it as it had filled her throat. She remembered being on her knees, looking up at his face, watching so carefully to see if she was pleasing and satisfying him; remembered granting him control of her very breathing; remembered the welcome helplessness of her bound arms. She recalled every detail of her devotion that she could, as her fingers stroked ever more firmly her slippery, fragrant pussy.

And those words, seemingly simple, actually heavy with import. “I must guard my heart.” It wasn’t a quip; it wasn’t about the heart that beat in his chest. The comprehension that flooded through Heather’s mind was nearly orgasmic. Not that heart at all, but a metaphor of passion and affection. The master’s air of reserve and distance, his never emotional voice, the careful restraint of his touch, were suddenly clear to her: not aloofness, not coldness, not dispassion, but a shield. Which meant that... the tenderness, the kindness, the gentleness he had shown her, his rare but beautiful caresses, the way she sometimes caught him looking at her, were genuine signs of her dearest desire: that he did not think of her as merely a student.

As she played with her warm, open pussy, Heather’s fantasies began to drift. Not on her knees, sucking him, in a classroom exercise. But being with him, for real. With him: his, His, His... waking up next to him in a warm bed... passing by his chair and bending to kiss him on the head... working together in a cozy kitchen... no University, no other students requiring his attention, just a quiet shared home where they could live in peace and joy and she could belong to him, where her submissive nature could be expressed and cherished, where her flawless, devoted, obedient service would mingle with the affairs of ordinary life.

The fantasies blended and blurred as Heather’s arousal climbed: sexual and domestic, submissive and mundane, passionate and companionable. On her knees for him where she belonged... Pouring coffee as they planned out their day... Over his lap, bare bottom ablaze, absolved, grateful beyond words to be so deeply cared for... Joining her body to his without restraint, sharing, communicating without words in perfectly matched rhythm... Walking in a park, hand in hand, speaking as softly as the breeze... Sucking, worshiping, taking her pleasure as an echo of his... And then once again she could feel his magnificent cock in her mouth, in her throat, fucking her face, his hands tight in her hair...

When she was on the edge, right on the cusp, one stroke away... Heather imagined, lost in fantasy, what it would have been like if he had cum in her mouth. Her back arched as her orgasm swept through her body; she cried out wordlessly; the fingers around her nipple squeezed inadvertently hard; her needy, aching pussy pressed against her juicy hand, humping, rubbing, prolonging the indescribable pleasure.

“I must guard my heart,” she gasped, when the tremors had passed and she could breathe again. “I must guard my heart.”

The lessons went back to ordinary subjects: sensory awareness, attention and observation, posture and kinesthesia, almost always ring- or ball-gagged, very often bound as well. Then one day in early February came something new.

Heather entered the studio, took off her dress, panties, and shoes, and went to the gym where the master waited. Another of his mysterious machines was waiting for her as well. Like the depth trainer it had a padded kneeler, but above that was a three-hole horizontal panel, half of which was swung open to allow access to the holes. And like the earlier machine, there was an adjustable fixture at mouth level. The resemblance ended there: the new device lacked the motorized flogger, for which Heather gave silent thanks, and featured an LCD monitor showing nothing but black.

Commanded by a gesture, Heather knelt spread-legged on the appliance, placing her neck and wrists upright in the horizontal stock. The master closed the stock and the click of a latch let the naked co-ed know she was trapped. He turned to a nearby table and picked up a Whitehead gag, holding it where Heather could see it.

“I request your permission to use this on you,” the master said formally. His request was required by University law, because of the significant risk should the surgical device be misused.

Heather trusted him without reservation. “Of course you may, sir,” she replied, and then held her mouth open to receive the instrument. The master guarded her teeth with his fingers as he slipped the spreader into her mouth, and carefully squeezed the jaws apart. Heather heard the sharp click of the ratchet — tick, tick, tick — as her mouth opened wider.

“Not too much?” asked the master.

“Oh, hir.”

“One more?”

“Eh, hir.”

Tick.

“Do you know the game Dance Dance Revolution?” asked the master. He spoke as if dental surgery appliances and arcade games were natural conversational companions. He adjusted the LCD panel so that it was right in Heather’s line of sight.

“Eh, hir,” said Heather, confused but coöperative.

“Good. This will be easy to explain.” The master fitted a short rubber cock-head to the fixture in front of Heather’s mouth, and dialed the fixture toward her until the phallus was lying on her tongue. She had already been drooling from the gag, and the feeling of something suckable in her mouth only increased the flow.

The master hit a switch and the LCD came to life, displaying a chart of symbols.

“Left arrow,” said the master, pointing. “Lick the left side of the probe. Right arrow, right side. Pointing up, lick the top; down, the bottom. Circle arrow, sweep your tongue around and around in the direction of the arrow. Dot, lick the tip. Simple?”

“Eh, hir.” Heather was fascinated.

“Just like DDR — when the symbol meets the line, obey it. We will begin slowly.” More fiddling with controls, and then the screen went dark. Seconds later, a countdown appeared: 4, 3, 2, 1... Left arrow. Heather watched the symbol scroll slowly up the screen. When it was half way up, an upward arrow scrolled in from the bottom. She kept her eyes on the first symbol... almost to the line... wait for it... now. She shifted her tongue to the left side of the oral probe and began to lick. “Good!” flashed on screen next to the disappearing arrow. Now the up arrow was coming... near the line... now. Heather lifted her tongue — this was going to be the toughest one, she realized — and swept its underside over the upper surface of the invading phallus. “Almost!” said the display. Circle right... down... right... circle right... dot... up... circle left... The parade of symbols moved up the screen, and Heather, bound, gagged, nude, kneeling, helpless, and drooling, obeyed every command.

The master had left her, once he saw that she was doing well. Heather carried out her task alone.

Half an hour passed before the master returned. Heather was exhausted: her jaw ached, her tongue ached — and as always when bound, she had managed to acquire one or two really fierce itches. She watched as the master stopped the machine and swung the probe out of her mouth. He reached to her face, freed the ratchet on the Whitehead, and, guarding her teeth once more, eased the gag out of her mouth. He held up a cup of ice water with a bent straw, and Heather took a long, grateful sip.

“More?”

“Please, sir.”

The frigid water was enormously refreshing; she emptied the cup in seconds. “Can you play again?” the master asked.

With a word, Heather could be free — could put her tired arms down, stretch her cramped legs, dry the saliva from her face and body, reach that nagging itch on her back.

“If that is your wish, sir,” she replied.

The master unfastened the short cock from its fixture, and fitted a longer, slightly fatter one into place. “Yes, it is,” he said dryly. “That is in fact my wish. This time, without the gag.” He was looking at Heather’s face as he spoke, and must have seen something flicker across her features. “Unless,” he added slowly, “My student prefers to be gagged.”

Heather blushed, hard. “Yes, sir, I do,” she said in a near whisper. “If it pleases you.” She knew from the feeling of heat in her ears how very pink her face must look; she knew from the way the master paused, watching her with evident affection, that he had noticed the sudden rush of color.

The master took up the Whitehead gag and once again fitted it carefully into Heather’s mouth. “Do not feel shame, Heather,” he said gently. “Your submissiveness is a gift, and your expression of it is an art as great as any. Be proud of it, not embarrassed or ashamed.” He crouched down beside the kneeling girl so that he could look her directly in the eye, and Heather felt with a thrill of anticipation that she was about to learn something vital. “The rarest combination in all of humanity is submissiveness and pride. Those who have both are treasures — exquisite, rare, natural treasures. You are such a girl, Heather; you are such a treasure.”

Heather stared into the master’s eyes as she allowed the unexpected compliment to wash over her and fill her. She had never thought of herself as special by any definition, let alone deserving of such tremendous praise. The master paused, watching his words sink in, then rose again and reached for the gag. Tick, tick, tick, tick.

He swung the larger phallus into place in Heather’s mouth. She realized instantly that getting her tongue above it, either for the up-arrow or for either of the swirling motions, was going to be a challenge. The master reached for a switch, and then hesitated.

“I think, perhaps, an incentive is in order,” he said. He crossed the gym to a storage chest, opened a drawer, and removed a medium-sized egg vibrator with a long cord. Returning to Heather, he crouched down behind her, and without comment pressed it deep inside her slippery cunt with a single thrust. The touch of his fingers thrilled the girl, even as she quivered with the thought that he could so surely depend on her being already wet and slick.

The master trailed the wire from the egg and plugged it into a jack on the machine’s control panel. “A little harder, this time,” he said, and the screen came to life once more.

A little harder was an understatement. The symbols scrolled more quickly, and the combinations were more difficult: Left-circle Right-circle Left-circle Up Down Up Down Up Left Right Down. “Good! Almost! Ok!” flashed the screen — and then, a minute into the game, “Perfect!” The vibrator hummed to life in Heather’s body, and the thick rubber cock began to pump slowly in and out of her mouth.

Distracted, Heather missed two symbols — “Bad! Bad!” — before regaining her concentration. Left Right Tip Left Left Tip Up. It was harder to hit her spots on the moving dildo, and sometimes impossible, when it was penetrating the deepest, to get her tongue above it at all. But then, on a well timed Tip: “Perfect!” The vibrator kicked up a notch, the stimulation spreading throughout Heather’s pussy, tickling her clit deliciously.

“Good! Almost! Perfect! Perfect!” Heather’s tongue was on automatic pilot, her sex-fogged brain unable to concentrate on anything but the egg up her cunt, buzzing harder with every perfect move. The flush of heat raced from her clitoris up her spine; her hips churned, seeking the partner that was not there; orgasm swept her away. Heather’s eyes closed — “Bad! Bad! Bad!” scolded the display — and she moaned around the probing cock.

She felt it withdraw. The master’s hands brushed her face as he released the Whitehead gag and slipped it with great care past her teeth. Then the stock was open, and Heather’s hands fell limp at her sides, the blood flowing back into her arms making them prickle. She moaned again, and her eyes opened, as she felt the vibrator being drawn out of her flooded pussy. The master helped her to rise. Uncertain of her strength and balance, Heather wrapped her arms around him, resting her head against his chest, listening to the slow beat of his heart. Slowly, he brought one arm up to cradle her shoulders, and the other to rest, warm and unmoving, on the back of her head. They stood that way, embracing — the diminutive young girl and the towering older man, the student and the master, the submissive and the dominant — while an eternity passed, in the space of but a few minutes. Then he released her. Heather stepped back, and assumed the sub’s posture: back straight, head bowed.

“Eyes,” said the master, and Heather lifted hers to meet his gaze. “Your performance on the agility conditioner today was satisfactory,” he said. “An essay for next —” He stopped abruptly. “Well, perhaps not. Perhaps... one time without homework. Dismissed.”

Heather curtseyed. She dressed, putting her high heels on first in case the master happened to be watching — and, just by accident of course, dropped her panties not once but twice, so that she had to bend over at the waist to pick them up. When she turned to get her dress, however, she saw with regret that the master was occupied with the machine, his back to her. She stuck out an impudent pink tongue at him for daring to miss her little show — and then, horrified at herself, tucked it back away, blushing. She finished dressing. At the door, she turned. “Thank you, sir,” she called.

His only reply was a back-turned nod of the head, and she left, clinging proudly to the amazing prize she had won that day. “I am a treasure,” she whispered.

The drink of choice at the pub that night was Whiskey Sours, and Morgan, Kate, Alexa, and Heather were on their second helpings. Morgan, who had not done at all well in her lessons that day, had brought a cushion to sit on, and had endured a fair amount of ribbing on the matter.

The four girls were often companions on their various outings. Sometimes they were joined by the other two Cock Worship students, Anya and Ariel, but not often. Those two, while perfectly sweet and friendly, were identical twin sisters, and tended to stick close together on their own.

The friends talked about the usual raft of subjects, but the classroom was never far from their minds, and they returned often to the matter of their studies.

“Anybody else get the SSR treatment yet?” asked Alexa.

“The what?”

“Suck Suck Revolution,” she explained, to gales of laughter. Heather raised a hand. “Yeah, I did, just this morning.”

Kate and Morgan had had sessions on the trainer as well. As the girls compared experiences, Heather realized with silent pride that she alone had been given the chance to try the more advanced level of the game, and that the others had not been given an “incentive.”

The topic shifted in time to Kate’s favorite theme: namely, wondering when they would be through with basic training and on to some real fellatio instruction. “I mean,” she was saying, “Have any of you even seen his cock?”

Heather looked around at her friends, none of whom were responding. “Um, I have,” she said meekly, instantly drawing the attention of all.

“You have?”

“When?”

“How come he didn’t —”

“You never told me —”

“Well, give it up, girl,” said Alexa, riding over all of the hubbub. “What’s he packing?”

Heather had had only the one brief experience of the master’s cock, but she had masturbated to dreams of sucking him almost every night since, and it was crystal clear in her mind.

“Well... did all of you have Professor Anderson for Positions and Techniques?” Heather asked. Nods all around. “Ok, well, think of Anderson’s cock —”

“Yum.” interrupted Morgan.

“The master’s is about that long, and I’d say maybe a little bit thicker,” Heather continued. “And somehow... I don’t know exactly how to describe it, but... manlier? That’s not right, but... I don’t know, it’s just more like what I imagine a perfect cock should look like.”

There was a long silence as each of the girls tried to envision what Heather described. Then Alexa said, “Holy crap, a bigger dick than Anderson’s?”

“Yeah, I think so, a little bit anyway. Going from memory — it’s been awhile since P-and-T.”

“Manlier?” said Kate, who’d been stuck on that side track. “How can a cock be more or less manly? It’s like, an oxymoron or something, an unmanly penis. I mean —”

“I said it wasn’t the right word,” Heather protested. “Just... oh, I can’t explain it. But it doesn’t matter. I’m sure we’ll all be very well acquainted with the master’s cock before too long. I mean, how much more practice do any of us need keeping our mouths open for four hours at a time? Or kneeling? Or even playing SSR?”

“That’s right,” said Alexa. “It’s time we all got down to business and sucked some cock.”

A clink of glasses toasted that universally admired sentiment.

The master, however, had quite another view about the importance of fundamentals, and long sessions with the agility trainer continued, although without the dental spreader and, sadly, without the vibrator. The game took on an added dimension: as the tongue commands flowed up the screen, a bar graph on the right showed the pressure of Heather’s lips around the phallus, and a pointer moved up and down under control of the game to show the pressure she should aim for. With her attention divided between lips and tongue, between the continuous variation of one and the agile point-to-point jumping of the other, Heather often found at the end of class that her head ached worse than her tongue or jaw.

There were more sensory exercises, too. More posture training. More stillness, more kneeling — Heather thought she could probably spend a whole day on her knees without trouble — more time gagged, to train her mouth to be wide open and filled, more time bound, to train the very concept of resistance into the realm of the impossible.

She developed, with the master’s guidance, a variety of mental exercises she could use to help with her gagging problem. The most effective approach seemed to be to think, as she was getting ready to swallow one of the many practice dildos, about her previous night’s dinner: reviewing the dishes, thinking about the ingredients, recalling the flavors. Slowly but surely, Heather was putting her deep throat issues behind her. But the master warned her repeatedly not to lose track of her proper focus — she and Kate had been exactly right.

The first day of Spring that year happened to be the first truly warm, sunny day after a grey and sloppy Winter, and Heather and Kate were both in sundresses and high-heeled sandals as they left their apartment and made their way onto campus. Several professors had decided to mark the balmy day by treating their students to an al fresco lecture. An undergraduate bondage class was in session, and the Cock Worship students passed a group of two dozen co-eds in full ponygirl regalia, sporting bridle, bit, blinders, harness, and a knee-length pony-tail each. They were taking turns, two at a time, being hitched to a cart and taking the professor for a spin. Heather and Kate watched as a spirited pair pulled away, high-stepping in perfect unison, their rosy bottoms evidence that the professor’s coach-whip was for instruction and not merely for show.

“Boy, those were the days,” said Kate, her voice wistful.

“I never got much into the ponygirl scene, myself,” Heather replied. “You really liked it?”

“Everything but that freakin’ butt-plug,” replied Kate. “I don’t see why the tail can’t just be fastened to the harness.”

“Just another way to humiliate the sub,” Heather offered, “Emphasize who’s in control.”

“I guess. But anyway, other than that, yeah, I liked it a ton. I really get off on any kind of wordless command regimen, so getting steered around with a bit in my mouth is definitely in the makes-Kate-wet category.”

They walked on for a bit. Then Heather said, “You should maybe think about growing your hair longer, Kate.”

“You think so? It’s been short since high school. I don’t like to have to fuss with it a lot.”

“I think you should give it a try.”

“How come?” asked Kate, running her fingers subconsciously through her short red hair.

“Because every girl has reins,” Heather said softly, “As long as her hair is long enough to grip.”

Silence, for their next few steps. Then Kate said, blushing slightly, “Uh, Heather? That observation is apparently also in the makes-Kate-wet category.”

“So you’ll try it?”

Kate looked thoughtfully at her friend’s long, silky tresses. Heather had gathered her hair into pigtails, each adorned with a cute bow of white satin ribbon, and it was very easy to imagine how a man could control her with them. “Yeah. I think I have to, now.”

They parted ways then, Heather heading for the studio, Kate for the library.

The door to the studio was ajar, and Heather had learned just to let herself in when that was the case. As always, she first looked for the valet stand, to see if she should undress, and then around the room to try to find a hint of whether the lesson would be in the living room or the gymnasium portion of the studio.

There was no valet stand, and Heather did a double take when she saw the master. He was in the portion furnished as a bedroom, and he was clad in another rich-looking silk robe. As she crossed the studio, thinking about what the location and the robe implied, Heather felt her pussy growing moist and needy.

The master was seated in a wide, comfortable armchair beside the bed. Lacking other instructions, Heather adopted the canonical standing pose for a submissive: feet parted, hands at her sides, head bowed, and eyes lowered. She waited, silent and motionless, without the tiniest scrap of impatience.

“Remove your dress,” said the master, after a few minutes. Heather reached behind her, lowered the zipper of her sun dress, and stepped out of it, leaving her clad in her flowery summer sandals and a pair of white cotton string-bikini panties.

The master indicated the floor at his feet. “On your knees.” Heather moved to him, knelt gracefully, and with her head bowed contrived to stare at the center of his robe. Her whole body felt fluttery and weak, as if she would break into a fit of trembling at any moment. Her labia felt slick and her panties were definitely clinging a little bit. She swallowed: her mouth was already growing juicy in anticipation. “Please, let it be today,” she prayed to the god behind the robe.

And got her answer.

The master unbelted his robe and let it fall aside. His penis lay limp, draped over his balls. As Heather watched, unable to tear her eyes away, he began to grow and harden, beat by beat, and the penis became a cock: stiff, heavy, and almost menacing in the purity of its masculinity. Heather’s god. She swallowed again. Her panties were soaked, and a small part of her mind was conscious of the scent of her own arousal.

She felt the master’s hands on her head, each pigtail caught between one thumb and forefinger. He pulled her face toward him, but instead of bringing Heather’s mouth nearer to the bulging plum of his cockhead, he drew her face to nestle against the shaft. Heather’s nose was on one side of the massive organ; her chin, lips, cheek and forehead pressed against the shaft, and by blinking she could tickle it with her eyelashes.

“Hands, as if bound,” said the master, and Heather instantly put her hands behind her, crossed at the wrists, rendered immovable by his command. She felt his hands leave her hair.

All of her training, all of her lessons, came flooding into Heather’s mind. Stillness. Posture. Concentration and focus. Obedience. Kinesthesia. Sensory awareness. Attention to detail. She knelt there, bringing every facility of her considerable intellect to bear on her state. She listened: to her own breathing, to the master’s, to the sound of her own circulation in her ears. She smelled: the faint and not unpleasant musk of a man’s body, the sharper, tangier, overriding scent of hot girl. She looked: from one eye, at the vision-filling blur of the master’s cock; at his abdomen from the other, equally hard to focus on. She felt: her own posture, bound, kneeling, and bowed, so familiar that it now seemed more comfortable than any other; the god-cock, warm against her face, heavy; the cyclic rush of blood in the veins pressed against her skin; the occasional flex or twitch as his cock moved, alive and almost sentient.

As the first hour of the class ticked away, Heather began to focus even harder on the shaft against her face. She concentrated on feeling it with her cheek: how does that feel? What is its texture? Where is it hottest? How does it move? And then, on feeling it with her lips: the same, but... What differed? What do you learn from this? With her forehead: could she feel the head of his cock, or only imagine it? Focusing, thinking, feeling, Heather let her every sense submit to the world-filling presence of the master’s magnificent cock.

She felt one of his hands again, this time on the back of her head — not pressing her closer, but making sure she did not raise it. “What is fellatio?” he asked.

Startled, Heather answered without thinking very hard. Her lips were pressed against the master’s cock, and her voice was muffled as she spoke around that restraint. “Fellatio is an articulate, visual, feminine sex act, tending toward —”

He interrupted her: “Toward the unilateral in level relationships and the bilateral in male-dominant ones — Morrison’s On Head, second edition, page 4; yes, yes.” Heather could hear the disappointment in the master’s voice. “I am happy that you retain your undergraduate lessons, but I had hoped for more insight from my most promising student.”

Heather’s feelings were torn. She was terribly ashamed of having disappointed her mentor with her textbook response; but she was elated to learn that he had high hopes for her. Most promising? Very welcome words indeed.

“I am very sorry, sir,” she muttered against the stiff cock that throbbed under her lips. “May I try again?”

“Another time, perhaps,” he replied, dashing Heather’s hope of redeeming herself. He took hold of her pigtails once more, lifted her face, and moved her head so that she was pressed against his cock on the other side.

And so they stayed, master and pupil, until the lesson was over.

“That will be all for today,” he said, the first words spoken in the room for an hour.

She was moved by an impulse too strong to deny. As she raised her head, breaking contact with the master’s cock for the first time in an hour, Heather stuck out her wet pink tongue and with a broad stroke licked it in a single slow sweep from base to head.

“You exceed your authority,” observed the master calmly.

Heather rose and turned toward the bed. She bent over it with her legs apart, reached back, and pulled her bikini panties down to her knees, the sopping crotch clinging to her pussy until finally forced to pull free. She bent farther and crossed her arms on the bedcovers, bracing herself.

“I knew when I licked your wonderful cock with my soft, wet tongue, sir, that I was behaving like a naughty, wicked girl. I knew that you would punish me quite severely, sir, by spanking me extremely hard on my bare bottom for a very long time. I decided it would be worth it, sir.” Heather arched her back to bring her small, tight ass into even greater prominence, knowing that as she did so she was offering her glistening pink pussy and her tiny puckered asshole to his gaze.

The master looked at the submissive girl, her high-heel-curved legs parted to reveal her charms, bent over the bed to be spanked. He closed his robe over a quickly-fading erection, and tied the belt. Heather could not see the wry smile that flashed briefly across his face.

“You are dismissed,” was all he said.

Heather stood up, turned to face him, grinned broadly, and curtseyed. It was the second time she had done so with panties around her knees, and perhaps for a moment the master’s hardon was not fading so quickly after all. “Thank you, sir,” she said brightly. But inwardly: “Yessssss!”

She walked back to her apartment that day with a long, confident, happy stride, twirling her too-damp-to-wear panties around and around on her index finger, exchanging smiles with everyone she passed.

A couple of weeks later, while getting dressed after class — two hours nude, handcuffed, ball-gagged, and kneeling with her attention focused on the master’s erection as he stood silently before her — Heather worked up the nerve to ask about a subject on which she and her fellow students had been speculating endlessly.

“A question, sir?” said Heather meekly. The master merely raised an eyebrow, which after a few seconds Heather took as permission. “It seems like you can just... be hard, or not, whenever you want. The other girls... I mean, none of us has touched you — well, not really. But... last Friday, for example, you had an erection for two hours, and I wasn’t doing anything that would, you know, cause that, and then at the end of class... you didn’t. Sir.” Heather added a hasty honorific, conscious that she’d been rambling a bit in her embarrassment.

“Yes,” said the master. He seemed to Heather to consider leaving his answer at that, but after a moment he continued. “It is, after all, my body,” he said. “Who is to be in control of it, if not I?”

“But,” Heather protested, before she could check herself. “I’ve never heard of anyone else who could just... think himself hard or soft.”

“No,” replied the master, “Neither have I.” He took Heather by the shoulders and gently turned her towards the door. “Now go, before it occurs to me that you have been impertinent.”

The cellular network was alight within seconds, as Heather dished the details to the other five Cock Worship students while on her way home.

In the days that followed, Heather was frustratingly close to sucking the master’s cock without being allowed to do it. She spent lesson after lesson staring at it, studying it, feeling it with her hands or her face, smelling it; learning its exact shape, texture, warmth, and movement. In one lesson, he even asked her to draw a picture of it from memory — which she did rather poorly, earning a harsh and stinging lecture made all the worse by the calm, controlled voice that delivered it.

Then, on one memorable, wonderful day, everything changed.

Heather arrived at the studio for her lesson, hung her clothes on the valet stand in the bedroom, and knelt out of sheer habit. She had been there for only a moment when the master approached her, clad in nothing but a robe. He stood in front of the kneeling girl, and opened the robe, revealing a majestic and pulsing erection.

“Let me see what you can do,” he said calmly.

Excited, her heart beginning to race, Heather parted her lips, wet them with a quick pass of her tongue, and bent forward to serve the master’s thick, hard cock.

Now, for the first time, she was in her element. Confident, rather than confused. With her one difficulty now well behind her, Heather knew that sucking cock was her greatest sexual skill, and she was determined to impress the master with the quality and variety of her talents.

She began with a comprehensive tour of the massive shaft, using mainly the tip and sides of her tongue, wetting the precious instrument as she teased it, tempting, promising better things to come. When she had covered it all she repeated her actions, but used broad strokes of her skillfully lapping tongue to fulfill a portion of that promise.

Well trained, Heather kept her eyes on her teacher’s face at all times, always on the alert for either a non-verbal command or for signs that her oral attentions were particularly pleasing. He was hard to read, too much the master of his emotions to give signs away easily, but Heather was particularly skilled at noticing even the tiniest of telltales.

She worked lower, lapping at the weighty balls that swung below the master’s stiff erection. With her hands locked carefully behind her back, Heather felt the thick, heavy shaft bounce repeatedly against her face as she washed his scrotum over and over.

When his balls were dripping wet, she gathered up some of her saliva with her tongue, drizzled it out over the plump, purplish head of the master’s rigid prick, and slipped her lips over it until they squeezed firmly around the shaft. Her tongue stroked in circles around his captive glans, and with an inward smile Heather thought of her hours and hours in the agility trainer: left! circle! tip! below! good! almost! perfect! This was so much better, so much more satisfying: true service, not just practice. Devoted, obedient service. Heather’s calling, her station, her place.

Contentment and pride trumped arousal as Heather sucked cock, but aroused she was. The feeling of the stiff, hot, thick, richly textured cock in her mouth thrilled her, but so did every other sensation: the hardness of the floor under her knees, the tension of her willingly bound arms, the sound of her slurping, the cool drizzle of saliva on her chest and thighs.

Heather used every skill she had. Her tongue was never idle, but she used her teeth, her palate, her cheeks, her lips, the depths of her throat, and from time to time her face, combining and mixing sensations to provide as much pleasure and as rich an experience as she knew how.

She watched the master for signs. She was alert for the taste and texture change that would come when he first began to leak into her mouth. She was attuned to him, focused on him, waiting... and nothing happened, which perplexed Heather and, more than a little, worried her.

Some thirty minutes into the blow job, the master withdrew from Heather’s hungry mouth. He closed his robe, held out a hand to help Heather to her feet, and ordered “Come with me.”

She followed him, meek and apprehensive, to his office. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair beside his desk.

“Please, sir, may I kneel for you instead?” Heather begged.

He stopped; turned to look at her; assessed her at length. Heather got the sense, now familiar to her, that he was strongly moved, but shielding his feelings — guarding his heart. “Very well,” he replied. The master went to the back of the office, and picked from a shelf a full-scale anatomical model of a head: cut in half, it showed the oral cavity and all of its features in colorful, realistic detail. He sat in his desk chair, and placed the model on the desk next to where Heather knelt.

The master reached out, took Heather’s face in one hand, and lifted it until their eyes met. He held her there, gently but immovably, as he spoke.

“You have been well taught in fellatio. Furthermore, it is clear that you took your lessons to heart, and retained them well. You are, conservatively, one hundred times a better cocksucker than an untrained girl. One hundred times.”

“Thank you, sir,” Heather responded.

“At the same time, your performance is far, far poorer than it will take to earn a Master’s degree from me,” he continued, deeply shocking the beautiful co-ed. “You know the very basics of your mechanics. They need to improve, all of them. But more than that: you must suck cock expressively. You must communicate. Your mouth, your eyes, and your body must convey your devotion, your enthusiasm, your desire to serve and please, your obedience, your submission, your worship. It is not enough to suck: you must sing.”

A teardrop leaked from Heather’s right eye and clung there, too tiny to fall. She was ashamed to have fallen short in the master’s eyes; but she clung happily to the praise with which he had begun his lecture, and her heart was full of hope and resolve. “I will learn,” she thought. “Kneeling at your feet where I belong, I will become a hundred, a thousand times better.”

The master watched Heather’s eyes for a full minute. Then, satisfied, he released her face. He turned the model head so that Heather could see.

“Let us review the anatomy of the tongue,” he said. And Heather, eager to learn everything he could teach her, hung on every word.

The detailed lessons continued, day after day, week after week. In retrospect they blurred together in Heather’s mind. She could not reconstruct their exact sequence, but episodes stood out whenever she recalled that period of her studies.

His fingers in her mouth, emphasizing the division between hard and soft palate. “It is another feature for you to use. Every texture matters. Every surface is a tool. Now, use that ridge to catch and rub the corona...”

On her back, head back, strapped to a bondage cart, with the master’s cock slamming down her throat at face-fuck speed, saliva flowing in broad rivers up her face, into her nose and eyes and hair...

The nearly impossible one-skill exercises. “Use nothing but your lips — you may moisten them with your tongue, but do not lick me. Begin...”

Endless repetition. “Curl your tongue, make a hook of it, force me into your cheek. No, harder. Use your strength, use the muscles you have trained. The other side now. Again. Again...”

Lying on the bed, sucking his cock while he masturbated her, trying to distract her — with distressingly frequent success. Cumming without permission would earn an instant spanking, but holding back under his expert touch was fiercely hard...

Standing in front of her mirror at home, getting ready for class by plaiting her hair in a double braid, equipping her head with convenient handles by which the master could silently and forcefully direct her every move...

Being trained in the softest, most gentle, most subtle of techniques, so that she could not only drive a man toward orgasm but prolong the trip at will. “More breath than contact now, just barely touching... let your lips skim the wetness rather than the skin...”

Sitting at his desk with her mouth wide open and her tongue out, his finger below it. “Don’t let me lift it to your upper lip.” The instant feeling of her tongue touching her lip. “No. Resist. Push down, fight my finger. Again.” A hundred times, and then his finger above her tongue, pressing downward. “Resist me. Don’t let me move it. Again. Strong pressure now. Again...”

Held down on his cock, all the way, his powerful hands unrelenting at the back of her head, while a timer clicked agonizingly down from two minutes to Heather’s next breath. “Tongue out. More, farther. Extend it. Reach, you can do better than that. Now lick. Farther. Ninety seconds...”

Slowly, day by day, Heather’s skills grew. The more they did so, the more the master concentrated on the mental and emotional aspects of cocksucking, honing her expressive abilities to as keen an edge as her physical ones.

One day, the master had Heather in shoes alone, kneeling, with her arms bound behind her and hooked over her high heels, as he fucked her throat with deep, lingering, powerful thrusts. Every few strokes he would withdraw completely, and watch to see that her mouth remained a wide open cock-target. It was a difficult skill to learn, for the instinct to close the mouth and swallow is very strong, but Heather had been perfect so far, and was feeling rather proud of herself.

He thrust forward again, filling her throat; held himself against her face while her throat massaged his cock; withdrew. Without warning, the master said, “Tell me, Heather. What is fellatio?”

The bound, kneeling girl, as a dripping, throbbing erection bobbed before her face, collected herself and answered from her soul. “Fellatio is reverence, sir,” she said. “The act is its own end. It is the submissive’s service of worship. It is how she finds her place in the universe.”

“Explain.”

“A submissive’s purpose is obedient service. Her pleasure comes from fulfilling that purpose, and its clearest manifestation is cock worship. The pleasure she sees that she is giving, returns to her as... a reflection, sir. And because in her pleasure she serves more eagerly, more devotedly, and with greater submission, the cycle feeds on itself, and grows stronger. Because cocksucking is an act of giving, sir, it is a pure, clear expression of devotion, the submissive’s watchword. Sucking cock allows her to express respect, reverence, devotion, and submission, and if she has been ordered to do it, obedience as well. It is the perfect act, the perfect service, where a submissive girl can be... proud of her nature, sir.” Heather paused for a moment in thought. “The word that keeps coming to me, sir,” she said slowly, “Is home — when I am on my knees for you, sucking your cock... I feel like I am finally home where I belong.”

“You do not mention orgasm — ‘the act is its own end,’ you claim.”

“If in your selfless generosity you choose to reward me, sir, then I will be thrilled and honored by that privilege. But my reverence and devotion will not be less if you do not. Only perhaps my pride might suffer, sir, if I think that I have not been sufficiently pleasing to you. But that can only inspire me to do better.”

A long silence followed, during which Heather, desperate to know if her answer had been acceptable, dared not meet the master’s steady gaze.

“You see now, my dear Heather, how much our textbooks omit.” His voice was particularly soft and gentle, but the glorious, precious words “my dear” rang loud in Heather’s ears, elating her. “And I remind you once more that to be submissive and proud of it is a priceless gift. I was pleased to hear you refer to your pride... and, indeed, to your home. Your answer was satisfactory.” Before Heather could smile at the word, her mouth was full of hard cock. “Suck.”

Heather got busy with her mouth, bringing her oral skills, her emotions, and her intellect all to bear on the giving of pleasure. On service: perfect, pure, submissive service. Suddenly, she tasted a hint of —

Cum surged into her mouth, spewing in torrents from the master’s pulsing cock; burst after heavy burst splattering against her tongue with palpable force. Heather was boundlessly happy: to feel the master’s warm cum jetting into her avid mouth was a dream — figuratively and, more than once, literally — come true.

When the spurts began to wane the master withdrew his cock. His last shot of sperm erupted just as he left Heather’s mouth, the creamy jizz splattering against her soft pink lips, more beautiful than any gloss.

“Show.”

Heather opened her mouth wide, letting the sizeable pool of spooge run to the front of her mouth so it could be clearly seen.

“Foam.”

Heather tilted her head back a little farther. She churned the mass of cum around her mouth, and through her teeth over and over again, aerating it into a bubbly, foamy glob. When it was ready, she opened her mouth again and pushed the cum up to her lips, just to the point of overflowing, so that the master could enjoy the sight of all the delicious, creamy, bubbly cum. Heather’s eyes sparkled with glee — he had not only rewarded her, but he was letting her play as she so loved to do.

“Labial bridge.”

Pooling cum against her lips again, Heather oozed out just enough to coat them. When they were nicely wet and sticky, she let the cum flow back to safety in her mouth, and slowly parted her lips. Shimmering strands of spunk arced between them, finally breaking when her mouth fully opened. She closed her mouth and freshened her sticky, salty lip gloss, then opened again so that the strings of jizz would bridge between her plump pink lips.

“Gargle.”

Mouth wide open, Heather half-swallowed the load of cum, exhaling so that it would bubble and pop at the back of her mouth, glistening clear and white.

“Out and back.”

Heather tilted her head forward again as she closed her lips, gathering the warm cum just behind her teeth. She parted her lips slightly and let cum start to ooze between them. When she felt it start to roll down her lip, she sucked it back in so as not to lose any; she repeated the process many times, each time sucking the dripping cum back off her face at the last possible instant.

“Swallow.”

Heather gulped. A tongue-sweep around her mouth got the last foamy droplets and she swallowed again. “Thank you, sir, for that wonderful gift,” she said sincerely. “I am honored.”

Without comment, the master reached down behind Heather and unbound her hands. “On the bed, prone, ankles in hands, head over the edge. Quickly now,” he added needlessly, as the obedient co-ed was already scurrying to adopt her new pose. “We have only three more hours today, and much to accomplish.”

“Do you know the work of J. C. Ryan?” the master inquired.

Heather was in his office on a warm Wednesday afternoon. She wore a pink spaghetti-strap mini-dress, had her hair in pigtails tied with pink ribbons, wore her four-inch pink six-strap sandals, and had painted her toe- and finger-nails to match. It had just felt like a pink day. And it had seemed to Heather, as she selected her outfit, that the best pink of all for underneath was her own skin. She had made sure to casually-accidentally expose herself several times to her teacher, but without successfully provoking any reaction.

“Yes, sir, some of it. We used his textbook in Cocksucking Arts, and I have a bunch of his techniques primers that I picked up on my own.”

“Some say, he is one of the top three authorities in the world on the art of fellatio.”

“You don’t think so, sir?” Heather asked, hearing a skeptical tone in her teacher’s voice.

The master gave a hint of a shrug. “Who, really, can quantify and rank such things? Ryan has added much to the literature: let that stand on its own without making a competition of it. In any case, do you know Theme and Variations: Symphonic Cocksucking?”

“No, sir.”

The master went to the white-board and uncapped a marker.

“Ryan graphs several dozen blow jobs like so, where the x-axis is time.” He drew a large right-angled line on the board and wrote “time” below it. “And the y-axis is what he calls monotony — the sounding of a single note, which fits with the metaphor of a blow-job as orchestral music that runs throughout the book. But we will label the y-axis variety, without losing meaning, and simply invert the sense of the graph.” The master wrote “variety” next to the vertical line of the graph. He capped the black marker and picked up a blue one; he drew a line parallel to the x-axis and quite close to it. “What sort of performance is this?” he asked.

Heather studied the line. Little or no variation in technique, start to finish. “Well, sir, it looks like the kind of head an untrained girl might give. Like if all she knows is a little bit of in-and-out — you know, pussy-mouth — and so that’s all she does from beginning to end.”

“Just so. And this?” The master started high on the y-axis, drew across, and then dropped a vertical down to the bottom, ran across briefly, went back up, across for a while — the pattern repeating, a series of square-wave dips, half a dozen times.

It was more puzzling. Heather examined the figure: lots of variety, lots of different techniques, then all of a sudden just using one; back to variety — and it became clear to her.

“Um, I think I know, sir. This is a girl with a lot of skills. She tries a bunch of them out, mixing things up, using all her talents, making it fun and interesting for her lover. Then he says something, or she spots a telltale, that one thing felt really great. So right away she zooms in on that, sir, because she knows she’s giving him a lot of pleasure with it.” Heather watched the master’s face for a clue that she was, or was not, on the right track, but couldn’t read it. “But after a while, she doesn’t want to be, you know, tedious, so she goes back to lots of variety, until something else gets a good response. And so on.”

“Yes. Your quickness is commendable. Try this, one of Ryan’s more abstruse examples.” He erased and drew again.

They continued through the hours, looking at graphs of monotony and variability, analyzing them, and talking about the importance of both in artisan quality cocksucking. Heather loved lessons like this: lessons that helped her make cock worship a thoughtful, intellectual act and not one of mere instinct and rehearsal.

With just a few minutes left in the class, the master stood, opened his robe, and extracted his cock, which was just a few heartbeats shy of fully erect. “You have earned praise,” he said, and slipped it between Heather’s eager lips as she left her chair and sank to her knees before him. She began to suck, using the opportunity to work on her gag reflex by stroking his cock-head repeatedly over the back of her busy tongue. “Not even a twitch,” the beautiful co-ed thought proudly. She sucked away with art and skill, beribboned pigtails swinging with the motions of her head.

Perhaps it was the entrancing swaying of her long brown pigtails that inspired the master to seize them in his hands, and to pull Heather with a strong, urgent, irresistible tug all the way down his rampant, pulsing cock.

Completely choked, face jammed against the master’s body, scalp prickling just at the edge of pain, eyes wide open, upturned, and tearing, Heather was in heaven. She licked at his balls, saliva coursing from her gaping mouth, and prayed that he would use her to his heart’s content.

He enjoyed her throat in that way for a while, pulling out only to let her gasp for breath before filling it again, and then released her to suck him at will. In just a few short minutes, Heather felt the first little spurt, and then her mouth was flooded with praise: sincere, unmistakable, unfeigned congratulations for good performance, the highest compliment a girl could hope for.

“A satisfactory lesson,” the master said, withdrawing from her mouth and closing his robe. “Dismissed.”

“Hank you, hir,” said Heather respectfully, her mouth brimming with warm delicious cum. Her mentor began to turn away. “Hir? May I hwahwow?”

The master turned back to her. “Are you headed home?”

“Yeh, hir.” A trickle of sperm escaped Heather’s mouth; she scooped it quickly back to its proper home with a finger.

“Swallow when you get home, then.” He left her, on her knees with a mouthful of cum; only in the act of devoted, obedient service could Heather imagine a happier condition. She stood, and curtseyed for form’s sake, though he was not there to see her. She straightened her tiny pink dress, noting how clearly her hard nipples showed through the light fabric. The treasured taste of the master’s semen filled her mouth, but Heather’s true elation came from knowledge that she had done extremely well — “satisfactory” be damned — on a new and difficult subject. She made a mental note to check Theme and Variations out of the library. It was clear that it would repay careful study.

Suddenly, an impish smile broke out on Heather’s face. She hadn’t said she was going straight home, and walking to the library, finding Ryan’s book, checking out, and walking home from there would easily consume an hour. An hour with the master’s sweet sperm filling her mouth.

With a lovely smile, a confident stride, and a secret treasure to enjoy, Heather headed toward the library.

One day, during a brief break between blow jobs, Heather asked about a question that had been puzzling her for some time.

“Sir?” she said respectfully, kneeling with her eyes lowered and her hands held behind her.

“Yes?”

“In undergrad, we learned lots of different positions. And I know that variety is one of the great advantages of cocksucking. Why do you almost always have me on my knees?” Heather asked. “I mean, besides maybe a dozen times on the bed or the cart, and a few inverted on the trapeze, I’ve pretty much always been kneeling for you, sir.” Suddenly fearing that her words might sound like chiding, or discontent, Heather added, “I’m happy to serve you as you wish, sir, I just want to understand better.”

The master nodded almost imperceptibly; she would have missed the motion had she not been concentrating on him so keenly. “Ice cream,” he replied, “Is available in strawberry, vanilla, butter pecan... many flavors. All tasty. Each has its merits.”

As Heather looked at him with an expression of complete incomprehension — wondering indeed if he had even heard her question — the master said, “Well, enough chatter. Let us use that pretty mouth for its intended purpose once more.” And for the rest of her class, Heather did not get a chance to ask for clarification.

She turned his words over and over in her mind several times that evening, and several more on her no-class day, before the “Aha!” moment arrived.

On her way to her next class, Heather detoured through a convenience store and made a small purchase. When she entered the studio, she presented the paper sack to her teacher.

“What is this?” he asked, looking at his lovely pupil with curiosity rather than suspicion.

“A demonstration, sir,” said Heather.

He opened the bag and glanced inside. A smile flitted across his face, lingering just long enough for Heather to catch it, provoking a happy grin from her in response.

“Precisely. If there are many fine choices,” he said, taking the carton of chocolate ice cream from the bag, “And all are available, why not choose the finest?” He set the carton on his desk, rummaged in its pencil drawer, and came up with a spoon. “Undress,” he said, gesturing with it at Heather as if it were a magic wand. She tugged her tank dress over her head in a single quick motion, tossed it to one side, and fell to her knees, clad only in her heels. “Commendably prompt,” said the master, as he opened his robe and fed Heather some cock.

She sucked him, proudly and skillfully, delighted to be on her knees for him, delighted to be of service, and delighted that he had accepted her gift and recognized her understanding. Without warning, the master slipped his cock out of her mouth and inserted the spoon. Startled momentarily by the cold, Heather sucked the rich ice cream off the spoon. As soon as she had done so, the master filled her mouth with hard cock again.

The contrast was amazing: cold, yielding, melting ice cream; hot, hard, insistent flesh. As he fucked her mouth, chocolate trickled down Heather’s throat with each inward stroke, and spilled over her lips and down her chin with each outward one. From time to time he pulled out and fed her another spoonful, only to resume the forceful face-fuck as soon as she took it.

When he finally exploded in her mouth, the salty gush of sperm blended with the sweet rich chocolate in a taste so exquisite that tears sprang to Heather’s eyes from the pure joy of the experience.

“Hold.”

No more wonderful command could have met the submissive co-ed’s ears. She knelt, joyfully, savoring chocolate cum, holding it carefully in her mouth, relishing both the flavor and her own obedience. The master took the carton of ice cream away — Heather did not know where, as she had never noticed anything resembling a refrigerator. When he returned, he ordered, “Swallow.”

Heather, with the tiniest hint of reluctance, let the delicious mixture of cum and cream slip down her throat. “Thank you, sir! That was so good. I loved sucking you with the ice cream in my mouth, that was awesome. And your cum was especially welcome today, sir, I’m very grateful that you decided to give me such a treat.”

He held out a warm, damp washcloth, which Heather used to clean her face and the sticky drops on her body. The master opened his robe again, and Heather observed his rapidly growing erection.

“Enough play time,” he said. “We have much work to do. Suck.”

Reflection

...And so the rest of the Spring term went, Heather recalled, snapping out of her reverie and back to thoughts of the challenge that lay ahead of her. She glanced once more at the clock: quarter to seven. Twenty-five minutes until her Thesis defense would begin. She hoped that the master would give her a few minutes for preparation, then scolded herself for doubting that he would remember his promise to do so.

It had been a good Spring. Class hours full of cock worship: learning, improving, fine-tuning her skills, more often than not earning a delicious reward of cum, and usually permitted to play with it at the master’s direction. Off hours full of intense study, to be sure, but with friendship and fun mixed in to relieve the pressure.

She had stayed at school over the break before Summer term: the drive home and back would have consumed most of it and her bank account wasn’t quite in shape for an airplane ticket.

Summer term. Heather’s thoughts drifted back to what had proven to be a very educational summer indeed...

Summer session

“Do you know the concept of the timed blow job?” were the master’s first words to Heather. No: “How are you, Heather?” No: “Did you enjoy your break?” Just right back to business. Heather found herself wondering idly how the master spent his days off; it was a hard idea to hold on to, rather like imagining summertime recreational activities for Santa.

“No, sir,” she replied, brushing the irrelevant thoughts aside.

They were in the living room area of the studio, and the valet stand was there, so Heather was unbuttoning her blouse as the master addressed her from a wide, comfortable-looking armchair. He was dressed in what Heather now thought of as his trademark: a rich, ornate silk robe.

“I will give you two numbers. The first, the number of minutes for which I want you to suck to climax. The second, the acceptable error, in minutes, either way.” Heather hung her blouse up and began to unfasten her miniskirt. “I will not exercise control,” her teacher continued. “It is up to your abilities to determine when I cum. Too soon is failure. Too late is failure. You may do anything other than break off contact entirely. Is this clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Heather said, hanging up her skirt. She had marked the beginning of the term by wearing her navy heels and her lace-trimmed ankle socks again; her pink thong panties matched the decorative ribbon of the anklets. She took hold of her panties and, deciding to permit herself just the tiniest of teases, slid them very slowly down her thighs.

“Stop!” the master ordered. Heather froze, panties at half-mast, waiting to be commanded. “Leave your panties right there,” he said. Heather let go of her tiny pink panties and straightened up. The master stood up; he stepped over to Heather; he gathered her long, loose hair in one fist, held tightly to her head. With the impromptu handle he turned her in place, until her back was to him, and Heather felt his free hand, warm and heavy, stroke her naked ass. She purred under his gentle caress, as pleasure radiated from her bottom and spread throughout her petite, nude body. She felt her nipples strain into stiffness. His hand slipped between her legs and cupped, from behind, her smooth, bare pussy; it stroked her soft lips. Heather could barely stand: her legs trembled with the waves of desire and arousal that coursed through her body. The sensation of his hand stroking her sex changed, and she knew that it was because her honey had begun to leak between her lips, making his caresses slippery with juice. Without thought she began to rock her pussy against his hand, in time with his gentle stroking, pressing herself more firmly against his fingers, dying for a finger to penetrate her.

The master’s hand withdrew, and Heather ached for it. He pulled roughly on her hair and spun her back around to face him. They were so close that Heather had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. She was panting with arousal, yearning for him to forget about the class and to take her, use her, satisfy her. He pressed three fingers deep into her mouth, and she sucked them clean of her honey as he watched her intently. The look in his eyes was passion returned.

“On your knees,” he whispered.

Heather sank instantly to the carpet, eyes downcast, hands bound by the master’s will behind her back. His voice bypassed her consciousness; his words tapped directly into her nerves; her body obeyed his commands as if they were, not language, but physics. He walked away, and came back in a moment pushing a large digital timer on a rolling stand. He adjusted the stand to bring the timer level with the seat of the armchair, and placed it just at the end of one of the arms, where Heather would be able to see it as she worked.

“That outfit,” the master said, his voice a little hoarse. He cleared his throat and started over. “That outfit — your pretty little socks, your sexy shoes, and your panties pulled down — is perfect on you.” He sat in the armchair, and twisted a knob on the back of the timer until the display read “+20:00.”

“Twenty minutes, error four minutes,” the master said, opening his robe to reveal an erection so fierce it seemed like his cock would burst from the internal pressure. “Suck my cock, Heather,” he ordered, and the beautiful girl heard in his voice something that separated the words from the world of classroom, teacher, and student, a degree of emphasis that was personal and longing. As she began to lick the head of his cock, the timer started counting down.

The trick, she soon realized, would be to balance him near the point of orgasm, but not dangerously close to it. From there, she could suck for more effect or less, trying to keep him roughly stable; then when the clock was down to four minutes, she’d have an eight minute window to go for the gold.

Heather’s oral skills were good enough for her to adjust the potency of her cocksucking. The hard part was gauging the master’s level of arousal: his face was relatively hard to read to begin with, and he certainly wasn’t going to help her out with verbal cues. But he did have a few telltales, and Heather had been studying them for months.

She began with some straight in-and-out sucking, treating about half of his cock to her oral caress; then switched off for a good long session of licks and kisses. In moving her head around his cock she occasionally broke eye contact, and during those intervals Heather checked the timer, trying to stay with her plan. After some attention to the master’s soft, smooth ball sack and the plump, heavy orbs within, Heather took his cock back into her warm, wet, sucking mouth, varying the pressure of her lips from a tight-sealed O-ring to nil, opening her mouth wide and sucking him with tongue and palate only.

When the timer read “+04:15,” Heather began deep-throating her mentor’s massive dick, and as the seconds ticked off she forced her face farther and farther down the shaft with every stroke, until there was no more to take. Her agile, well-trained tongue orbited his cock head on every release, and her throat milked him on every plunge.

The scent of cum bloomed in Heather’s nose before she had registered the taste of it. She switched to tight, shallow sucking, meant to coax out every drop of the precious jizz, and she felt the thick spurts racing across her busy tongue to reward her efforts. She saw the master reach over to the timer to stop it, and her eyes darted to the display.

–00:41

“Piece of cake,” thought Heather proudly. She caught a signal and lifted her mouth off the master’s cock, closing her lips carefully to retain her mouthful of sperm.

“Twenty minutes, forty-one seconds,” the master said, looking at the timer. “A satisfactory first attempt. Dental bridge.” Heather smiled broadly, forced cum through her teeth to coat them, and opened her mouth. Strings of spooge stretched between her cummy white teeth, and as she held her smile the viscous fluid sought the point of least tension, making the sparkling bridges glide sideways toward the corners of her mouth. Not being told otherwise, Heather freshened the display several times, for the master’s visual entertainment.

“Simmer.”

She tilted her head way back as she parted her lips and squeezed all of the cum up between them. With the thick pool of cream trapped by the rim of her lips, and stopped by her tongue from seeping back through her teeth, she exhaled softly, causing the lake of spooge to bubble and dance like a gently boiling pot of water.

“Quite pretty. Swallow.”

Heather gulped cum. “Thank you sir,” she said politely. Whether it was for the cum in her tummy, or the satisfactory grade, was a matter for speculation.

“Thirty-five minutes, plus or minus three,” said the master, setting the timer again. His cock remained standing stiffly from his groin, wet and sticky but showing no other signs of his recent orgasm. “Begin.”

As Heather slipped her god back into her mouth, she thought “This is the best day ever.” The master was pleased — more than pleased, he seemed enchanted — by her outfit of fuck-me heels, cute, girlish socks, and lowered panties. He had played with her ass and her pussy, which Heather thought must have been a personal touch, not part of the class: a crack in his aloof manner, showing genuine fondness and desire. He had graded her first blow job as satisfactory, given her a few minutes of happy cum-play, and let her swallow her prize. And it appeared that she would spend most of the four-hour class sucking his cock.

“The best day ever,” Heather thought again, mouth full and busy, doing what she did best.

It came as a bit of a damper to Heather’s spirits when she returned to her apartment to find Kate, studying, seated on a pile of pillows.

“Uh-oh, bad day?” Heather asked sympathetically.

“You said it,” Kate responded. “A very bad, horrible — what’s the name of that book?”

“I know the one you mean,” Heather laughed. “Sorry, not laughing at your spanking, just at the way your mind works.”

“Yeah.” Kate gave her a rueful smile.

“Want to talk or want to be left alone?”

Kate shrugged and pushed her laptop aside. “We did timed beejays today — you?”

“Yup.”

“How did you do?”

“Ok,” said Heather. And then, because it was her best friend she was talking to, added, “Well... satisfactory.”

Kate nodded. “Figures. Well, I’m gonna have to get some pointers from you, ’cause I missed the mark every damn time. Hey, wait, you had your long class today, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So you spent four freakin’ hours doing timed cocksucking and you got a freakin’ satisfactory?” Kate’s tone was not in the least accusing: it was astonished.

“It seemed to come pretty naturally, I guess,” said Heather, taking a seat at the table across from Kate.

“Yeah, no kidding. Huh. That’s — you’re pretty amazing sometimes, you know that, Heather?”

Heather felt a little embarrassed. “No, not really. I mean... I just, I don’t know, do what I can.”

“Well that’s what I mean,” said Kate. “You shrug it off like oh, no big deal. But I got spanked, and Alexa had the eight o’clock and she got spanked, and I’ll bet you a dollar that by this time tomorrow Ariel and Anya and Morgan will be cryin’ over their poor little asses. You just oughta realize that this stuff isn’t easy — it really is a big deal.”

“I have my tough spots, too,” Heather reminded her friend. “Remember the deep throat stuff. My bottom paid for that.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m not criticizing. I’m just sayin’, it wouldn’t kill you to realize that you seem pretty amazing to me, and all the others.”

Heather, uncomfortably self-conscious, changed the line of the conversation. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Jeeze, yeah. I made him cum too fast the first two times, and then on the third one I didn’t even have him close before time ran out. I mean, how do you even tell? I’ve never seen a guy give away less.”

Heather nodded. “It’s tough, no doubt. But he does have signs. A lot of it is breathing. Little catches of breath, little soft snorts. Like this.” Heather exhaled quickly through her nose, just hard enough for the brief puff of air to be faintly audible. “And there are some little muscles by his eyes you should keep tabs on.”

Kate grabbed a notebook and a pen. “Teach me, She Who Sits On Hard Chairs With No Pillows. I am all ears.”

Despite Heather’s help, Kate returned to their apartment once or twice a week with tear-stained cheeks and a slow, careful walk. Her predictions about the other girls had proven true, and there were many anguished phone calls among them as they compared notes on their few successes, and on their frequent failures and flaming asses.

Heather pitched in as much as she could, but once she had explained everything that she knew how to put into words, there was nothing else she could do. The timed cocksucking exercises just came easily to her; whether it was intuition, or a greater talent at sensing the master’s degree of stimulation, or a wider selection of oral arts to practice, she found herself growing more adept with each trial.

Her classes grew more challenging with each repetition. The master was setting more and more stringent limits — error intervals of only a minute — and Heather found herself exceeding the rigorous requirements day after day, coaxing fountains of cum to explode into her eager mouth as the timer passed through 00:00.

“Sir, what’s the longest time you set?” Heather asked one day. Her voice was sticky from a just-swallowed load of hot fresh cum.

“At this level of study, forty minutes,” the master replied. He relaxed in his armchair, cock still stiff, pleased with Heather’s performance and with her interest. “You have sucked me for much longer, of course, and will again, but not as an exercise in precise timing.”

“You said ‘at this level,’ sir. What’s the longest ever?” Heather asked.

“There is literature describing timed exercises of an hour, and an article... Lynne Cunningham, I think it was, in the Journal, three or four years ago... that touched on ninety minutes plus or minus ten. But she reported quite poor results.”

Heather’s face shone with excitement, and her eyes sparkled with eagerness. She carefully kept her voice deferential and full of respect, and to be sure not to seem presumptuous she lowered her eyes to emphasize her submission. “Sir, may I please be given the order to suck your cock, for one hour, within one minute? If it would please you to so honor me, I would be very happy to make the attempt.”

There was no answer, and Heather regretted that she could not see the master’s face. A full minute went by.

“You are very good,” came his voice, almost too quiet to hear. “But one minute’s leeway at that distance? You would be spanked.”

“Perhaps not, sir,” Heather said, still with deference but with pride as well. “And if I fail... I will lower my panties and lie bare-bottomed across your knee and take my spanking with all of the gratitude I should, for the care you show for my behavior. If I fail badly, and my spanking is terribly long and terribly hard, I will know that it is just, and deserved, and I will use the extra time to be even more grateful for your correction.” She raised her eyes, and saw him looking at her with the utmost tenderness. “And then, sir, if it pleases you, I will dry my tears, and beg for permission to try again.”

Having made her case as best she could, Heather bowed her head and waited.

“Very well,” the master said softly. “Sixty and one. Not now, there is not enough time. For your next class. You are certain?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I am honored that you trust me enough to give me the chance, and grateful as I always am for the opportunity to be of service.”

He dismissed her; Heather stood, curtseyed, dressed, and left. She did not tell any of her friends about her attempt to push the limits of timed cocksucking. She spent her off day planning how she would keep her teacher hard and aroused and engaged for so long without setting him off prematurely.

And when the day came... when the time came... when with a groan of release the master fired a heavy salvo of thick, creamy cum into Heather’s sweet young mouth... when the timer displayed in glowing red numerals +00:12... neither student nor teacher was truly all that much surprised.

As she swallowed the succulent reward on command, Heather began to get the first stirrings of an idea for her Master’s Thesis.

Indeed, as the days of June slipped by, all the cock worship students began to think more and more about their Thesis projects.

The master had said only that they must each advance the art of fellatio — that he would consider a proposal for any project or paper, provided that it met that one criterion. The lack of more explicit guidance made it harder, not easier, for the girls to come up with ideas; knowing that much of the second year would be devoted to their projects made it that much more critical to choose well.

Heather had decided to do something in the realm of timed cocksucking, since from the experience of her friends it seemed that her abilities in that area were unusual. But she had not decided on specifics, and she had the feeling that just proposing to perform a very long blow job — ninety minutes, even two hours — with a tiny margin for error, would be insufficiently ground-breaking.

Of all the beautiful young girls in the M.A.F. program, Kate was the first to be certain of her Thesis topic. She kept quiet about it until the master had formally accepted her proposal, and then couldn’t wait to tell her best friend the news.

“Heather! Look! It’s my proposal. The master said it was satisfactory!” Kate bubbled with happiness, her bright blue eyes shining.

Heather looked up from her studies and accepted the paper that Kate’s trembling hand held out to her.

“Toward a Universal System of Hand Signals for Sexual Submission,” Heather read aloud from the title page. She started to flip through the proposal, then looked up at her eager friend. “Might be easier if you just tell me,” she said.

Kate pulled out a chair and sat. “Wordless command regimens. Remember I told you how much those... um, interest me?” She blushed slightly.

“Sure,” said Heather with a kind smile, resisting the urge to tease her friend.

“Well, those can take many forms. Bondage gear, like the bit and bridle. Hair control — and thank you once again for that excellent advice,” Kate said, running a hand through her still-growing hair. “Whistles. I knew a couple who used whistles: they had more signals than a shepherd. I’ve read about musical schemes, clap-and-snap codes...”

“But you’re going to do hand signals.” Heather felt she should speak up to cut Kate off at something under an hour. But she was getting a kick out of her friend’s enthusiasm nonetheless.

“Right. I love hand signals. A simple gesture, instant obedience — ooh, shivery stuff. There have been a few systems published: ADSL, Archer’s, I-Sub, Stromquist’s, maybe a dozen others that are pretty obscure,” Kate explained. “But most couples make up their own, if they do hand signals at all. So I’m going to do surveys to find out what people are using, and compare both the command sets and the individual signals, and try to find some common ground.” She riffled through a book, opened it, and flattened it in front of Heather. “That’s Archer.” She repeated the process with a second book. “That’s Stromquist.” She rummaged in her book bag and came up with a thin pamphlet; opening it to a certain page she placed it with the others. “That’s I-Sub. Look: kneel, kneel, kneel,” she said, pointing to each illustration in turn. “See? The hand shapes are different, but they all have something to do with the heart: held over it, pointing to it, whatever. So at least with these three systems there’s a common theme at work for that one command. Maybe something that’s universally understood, something culturally independent.”

Heather nodded, seeing the similarities. “But if it’s that simple —” she began.

“It’s not,” Kate interrupted. “Most of the time I can’t find such obvious agreement. But that’s why I’ll survey private systems, to find out what has, like, just made plain simple sense to people.”

“I see,” said Heather.

“I’m going to try to make a whole vocabulary, for anyone to use. Like a visual dictionary of submissive behaviors. Cocksucking, of course, I had to have that to get accepted, but I want to go way beyond that.”

Heather caught some of her roommate’s enthusiasm. “That would be so cool — if you could get any orders at all in perfect silence, and understand right away.”

“I’m going to have commands for positions and techniques, for movements, for dressing and stripping, masturbation, bondage, sexual display —”

“Hey, hang on a sec!” It was Heather’s turn to interrupt. “I’ll be right back.” She raced to her bedroom and returned with a fat hardcover book in hand. “This is J. C. Ryan’s Theme and Variations,” Heather said, flipping pages excitedly. “Did I tell you about it?”

Kate shook her head.

“I got it from the library for ideas on combining blow-job techniques, but look what’s in the back.” She found the right section and spun the book around on the table so Kate could see. The pages were covered with detailed half-tone drawings, artfully done, of the mouths, faces, and bodies of girls who had been rewarded. “Eighty-three directed cum-play commands,” Heather said.

“Wow. Wow. I only know about a dozen,” Kate said, impressed.

“Yeah, but look!” Heather said, pointing at small line drawings accompanying each illustration.

“Are those —”

“Hand signals. Yup.”

“Holy cow,” breathed Kate. She looked up at her friend and a wide smile grew quickly across her pretty face. “Eighty — how many?”

“Eighty-three.”

“Eighty-three hand signals for cum play. Oh my god, you could play with a mouthful for hours without a single word!” Kate’s brilliant blue eyes were wide as the possibilities ran through her thoughts.

“Would that be a blast or what?” Heather said, agreeing wholeheartedly with her friend’s enthusiasm.

“Oh my god, I’m wet and I’m completely freakin’ horny,” Kate gasped, blushing deeply. “Can I, um, could I borrow this for a few minutes, like probably about two minutes is all it’ll take?”

“Go for it,” Heather grinned at her.

Kate swept the volume off the table and headed toward her bedroom. “I, um, promise not to get it all sticky or anything.” Heather’s laughter followed her as her bedroom door closed. And a few minutes later — more than two, but not by much — Heather heard with happiness the gasping cry of her best friend’s climax.

Then she sighed. “If only I could be as certain about my Thesis,” Heather thought.

When the long Independence Day weekend gave them a bit of a break, Heather and Kate decided to throw a little party. The four other M.A.F. students arrived bearing chips and dips and salads and cookies; the hostesses provided booze and mixers and a series of pizzas moving from freezer to oven to eager consumer; pretty much everybody offered something chocolate. The sliding door to the apartment’s balcony was open, admitting a pleasant summer breeze, and the girls enjoyed food, drink, and companionship in relaxed abundance.

The conversations touched on many subjects, but six girls dedicated to a single pursuit and immersed in the same intense academic program found it hard to avoid shop talk. There was a great deal of chatter about Thesis topics: some of the girls had a good idea of what their concentration would be, some were still searching.

Then, in the midst of all the back-and-forth, Ariel let slip the “L” word.

“It’s so strange to be in love with someone and not even know his name,” she said.

There was sudden silence. Alexa broke it: “In love, you said?”

“Of course,” said Ariel. The sweet girl was so often the quietest of the students that the others tended to be intent on anything she did say. “Dom/sub relationships have to be based on love, there’s no other way for them to work.”

“On trust, you mean,” said Morgan, citing an oft-repeated lesson.

Ariel smiled. “That’s what all my textbooks say. That’s what the professors taught us. The master says they’re all wrong. He says love is foundational, that trust alone isn’t enough. I know he’s right — I feel it.” She spoke with such calm assurance that the other girls felt the intensity of her conviction.

“But,” Kate said, hesitating, “He can’t — I mean, we can’t all —”

“Be his lovers?” Anya finished, picking up the conversational thread from her shy twin. “I think we can, and are; I think my sister’s right. I love him, too, and I know he loves me — he loves all of us. I don’t think I could act as his submissive, not properly, on any lesser basis.” She surveyed the group, noting their expressions, watching them consider her words. “You know what makes me feel sorry for him? Every two years, he has to fall in love with six girls. He has to, because we’re all effectively his subs while we’re in the program. He has to give his heart to each of us, freely and fully; he has to love us as if we truly belonged to him. Doesn’t he treat you as respectfully, and decently, and lovingly, and with as much care, and honor, and esteem, as if he owned you? It’s not teacher-student to him, it’s owner-belovèd. Don’t you feel that? Kate? Alexa? Heather? Morgan?” She looked at each girl in turn, seeing affirmation in their expressions or in their slow, thoughtful nods.

“Think about what that takes. What kind of emotional investment — it’s hard enough to love one person with that intensity. And then what happens? We get our degrees and go off into the world, and eventually find our own partners, lovers, dominants, soul-mates... husbands, probably, most of us. I have to believe that really hurts him. It’s not like he pretends to love us, and it’s just, you know, ‘Bye-bye, nice to have met you, have a nice life.’ It’s like... being abandoned, or having a loved one die — six times over.” Anya looked at the other girls and saw a few moist eyes. “I’m not saying it could be any other way. He’s old, we’re young; he has other commitments; we all have our own paths to find, and one day owners who will, I hope, cherish us as much as he does. That’s the way it is. We live our lives as we have to, and it’s not like he doesn’t understand that up front. I’m just saying... I’m already sorry I’m going to hurt him that much. We all will.”

The apartment was quiet for a time, save for the summer sounds that drifted through the open door. Heather rose, and broke the spell by offering fresh drinks all around. With the activity, and the change of topic, new conversations broke out, and the spirit of the group slid quickly back toward partying, teasing each other, trading gossip, and getting a little tipsy.

But the twins’ words were embedded in Heather’s mind, and party though she did, she thought about them carefully, long into the night.

On one Friday afternoon, at the end of her class, Heather was getting dressed. Unusually, the master waited, watching her carefully as she slipped back into panties, blouse, and skirt. Heather had performed four more timed blowjobs, succeeding with each, during her two-hour class.

“I wish to discuss a change in your curriculum,” the master said, as Heather straightened up from checking the buckles of her ankle-strap heels (an unnecessary step, but one that allowed the pretty co-ed to put her fine, firm ass on display for her teacher). That was a twist, and Heather had to hide her curiosity as she replied, simply, “Of course, sir.”

“I have nothing more to teach you about precision-timed cocksucking,” the master said directly. “While the other students continue to study it, we will add other topics to your lessons.”

“Thank you, sir. Anything you care to teach me, I would of course be proud and grateful to learn.” Heather was delighted by his announcement. It not only meant she’d get to try something new and perhaps enjoyable, but that she was really making good progress in her studies.

“Very well. We will begin on Monday with alternations. Prepare accordingly. Dismissed.”

“With what?” Heather thought. But her “Thank you, sir” and her deep, graceful curtsey were automatic, and then her teacher was gone.

She walked home, consumed with curiosity but happy with the new plans. In her apartment, Heather headed straight to the bookcase in her bedroom, and quickly found the dusty text from her Freshman Seminar class — it had an extensive glossary, she recalled, and would be a good place to start.

It took less than a minute for Heather to find the entry for alternation. It took less than thirty seconds for her to drop the book unheeded to the floor, tear her panties off over her high heels, and plunge two slim fingers deep into her quickly flooding cunt. She lay on her bed, masturbating at a furious pace, playing with her bare pussy and, with the other hand, rubbing one stiffening nipple through the soft fabric of her blouse. Her skirt pooled in a band around her waist as Heather’s pelvis rose off the bed to meet her stroking, plunging hand, and orgasm crashed through her young body with undeniable force as a cry of release was torn from her throat.

When she could think again, and move, Heather rid herself of skirt and blouse with shaking hands. She grabbed a dildo from her toy box, just to have something to stuff in her mouth to muffle her moans, and fell back onto her bed, knees up, legs spread wide, rubbing and stroking and sliding deep into her sopping pussy. With the tremors of one orgasm still echoing in her body, she brought herself to a second climax, and without pause a third.

She lay, finally, on the rumpled mess of her bed. Her room was steeped in her aroma; her body was drenched in sweat; her hair was tangled where the orgasmic rictus had driven her head repeatedly against her damp pillow. She had cramps in her fingers, nipples that were sore from being tugged a little too roughly, and a quivering tremor in her loins that did not seem ready to subside. Her mouth was as dry as her thighs were wet, her heartbeat and breathing slowly ebbing back to normal rates. She finally got enough control of her honey-slick fingers to undo the tiny buckles on her shoes, and slipped them off, dropping them to the floor beside her bed.

There was a gentle tap on the door. “You ok in there?” came Kate’s voice.

“Yeah,” Heather said. She realized that her voice had been inaudible, tried to find some wetness in her mouth, and said louder, “Yes. I’m ok.”

“Not having a heart attack or anything?” The closed door altered Kate’s voice, but her concern was still evident.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Ok. I’ll leave you alone, then.”

Heather forced herself to get up, struggle into a bathrobe, and go take a bath. As an exercise in calming down it proved less than successful, for no sooner had she taken the spray hose in her hand than she found herself directing it at her throbbing, sensitive clit, the warm pulses of water helping her to the heights of yet another orgasm, as the images of her upcoming class could not be dislodged from Heather’s vividly fantasizing mind.

She slumped back in the tub, still quivering, letting the water soothe her. “How am I going to make it until Monday?” Heather thought.

Heather worried about pretty much everything all weekend. What he would think of her. What she should wear. Her grooming — she ran a silk test-cloth over her pussy a dozen times a day, always finding that she was perfectly smooth and bare, always nervous about it again an hour later. She went through shoes, jewelry, perfumes, hair accessories, lingerie, and clothing obsessively, until her bedroom looked like the casualty of a small tornado.

She finally narrowed things down by concentrating on basics. She would start with platform shoes, in case she needed the extra height. Her seven-inch black patent-leather platforms, with a two-inch sole, were glossy and sexy and had criss-cross straps around the ankle that were nice and secure. Stockings? They would be pretty and sexy, but... socks? He seemed to love them especially but... bare? Probably bare legs would be best, all things considered. Black and white, or black alone, seemed a little formal as themes, but black and pink would make a pretty combination, Heather thought: a little class and a little girlishness. She chose a pink pleated miniskirt that could be removed in a flash or simply flipped out of the way, and a black button-front blouse that she would leave unbuttoned and instead tie below her breasts — easy-off, like the skirt. The miniskirt made her consider stockings again: a nice little span of bare thigh between stocking top and skirt hem would be very hot, and with a garter belt instead of stay-ups even hotter, but... no, not this time. The less to think about the better, this time. No bra — she couldn’t actually remember the last time she had worn one. Or maybe a push-up? No, better to do without. Panties? Black under the pink skirt would go with the theme; Heather had a pair made of lace that were very elegant, but the rest of her outfit set more of a playful mood. After endless deliberation, she settled on a black cotton string bikini, plain and simple.

So much for clothing, picked out and settled on — “No more fussing,” Heather said to herself — late Sunday night. Monday’s preoccupation with hairstyle and accessories lasted well through the morning. But finally, with a precise Dutch braid in her silky brown hair, finished off with a broad pink ribbon bow, a cute pair of pink hoop earrings, her makeup done carefully, erased, and re-applied from scratch, and her outfit as planned, Heather headed out the door in plenty of time for her eleven-o’clock class.

Classes were six days a week from eight to ten, eleven to one, and two to six; the girls rotated days and times to balance out their eight weekly class hours, and Heather had checked her laptop twenty times to make sure she had the right appointment for the day.

As she strode to class, her steps long and confident, her seven-inch heels boosting her to an eye-catching five-foot-eight, and her shapely legs a glory to behold beneath her tiny pleated skirt, Heather felt the fluttery tension in her stomach most acutely.

She had masturbated endlessly over the weekend, so often that, though she was ordinarily not the least shy about her sexuality, it had been hard to meet Kate’s glance without blushing. She knew that her moans were audible even with her largest ball-gag strapped firmly in place, and that Kate had no doubt in her mind why Heather was spending so much time behind her closed bedroom door.

She was, in short, sexually aroused to the point of explosion, as eleven o’clock came and the master opened the studio door for her.

Heather was caught short at the sight of him. She had seen him, day after day for quite some time, clad in one of his endless collection of silk robes. But he was back in dress slacks and a crisp dress shirt, as he had been at the beginning of her program. “Come in, Heather,” he said politely, and closed the door after her.

She was concerned. Had she misunderstood? Read the wrong glossary entry? No, she had read that over and over, compulsively, too. Heather tried to calm herself, to let herself be led, guided, commanded, and to be the obedient girl she was meant to be no matter what the day held.

The master took Heather by the hand, which was unusual, and led her to the bedroom. Without a word he placed her a few feet in front of the large armchair, and leaving her there he took a seat in it. Heather felt in his handling of her the silent command to be still, so she put her arms at her sides and lowered her eyes, as she had been trained to do. She could feel her dainty cotton panties clinging to her pussy, and knew that she was leaking.

“Strip,” the master commanded, in the soft, even voice that never changed.

It was not a command to take her clothes off, Heather knew. The master did not use words casually. It was permission, rather, to tease and tempt while doing so.

There was no music in the silent studio, but Heather closed her eyes for a brief moment and let a rhythm find its place in her mind. Then slowly, wisp by wisp, she let it seep into her body. She swayed gently in place, letting the beat find its way gradually down her torso and into her hips; once seated at her core, in the center of her womanhood, the music made her dance.

She began to let her feet move, tiny steps to the rhythm in her mind, and as the sensuality of her movements increased bit by bit, she engaged the master with her eyes, letting them fill with the glitter of promise and the smoke of desire.

He had not, after all, demanded silence.

“I hope you like my outfit,” Heather said, soft and sultry. “I chose it just for today. I wanted to look pretty for you. I wanted to look hot, and sexy.” She ran a hand over a rising hip and caressed her taut, smooth thigh; when the hand returned she let it catch her skirt and pull it slowly upwards, showing her bare leg beneath. Just before it would have revealed the string of her panties, Heather let it drop, remembering that mystery is the essence of stripping.

She continued the dance, letting herself turn now, letting him peek a little bit at her taut, trim ass, and when she was facing him again she cupped her small, firm, round, mouth-watering breasts beneath her blouse. She rubbed them and felt the nipples jutting into prominence; she pulled the fabric taut over them so that the master could not help but see. Then in a flash the bow of her blouse was undone, and Heather’s sweet proud breasts peeked into view. With the sudden touch of cool air her little pink nipples crinkled even taller and harder.

“My nipples are very hard for you, sir,” Heather breathed, teasing one with a fingernail just for show. Her voice was husky with desire, unmistakably sexy; her arousal sounded in every syllable. “And my pussy is dripping wet, because I’ve been thinking about what we are going to do. It’s leaking down my legs, sir, right through my panties. That’s how much I look forward to serving you, sir, always but today especially.” As she teased him with her words, and her eyes, and the tongue that wetted her lips and promised that they, too, would be of service, Heather opened the catch of her skirt. Her arousal was too strong for her to prolong the strip tease as much as she should, so without much flirting with the open skirt Heather tossed it aside.

Clad in black string-bikini panties, which clung to the cleft of her labia with obvious wetness, and in her fuck-me-right-now platform heels, Heather danced. Her lips were parted, and her tongue darted out between them to keep them slick and ready.

As she was about to reach for her panties, Heather saw the master stand. “Undress me, please, Heather.”

With hands that shook from nervousness but ten times more so from restrained desire, Heather did as she was told. She was inconsistent: unlinking one shirt cuff, then untying one shoe, then opening his belt but leaving it in place. But one way or another, the bits and pieces came together, and the master’s clothing came off; and Heather found herself on her knees before his nude body, with his erection huge in her vision, waiting for the command that had been the source of her erotic fantasies all weekend long.

“Positions one and twenty-one, alternately, to terminate at one. I will guide at first. Suck.”

Heather did the translations effortlessly. Position one: sucking cock on her knees. Position twenty-one: rear entry, knees and elbows, with the man standing... so, probably on the bed, given the furnishings around her. She licked her lips and performed her favorite activity in the world: sucking cock because she had been ordered to do it.

Like all blow jobs it had elements of the familiar, particularly as she was now so accustomed to the master as her partner. Like all excellent blow jobs it had novelty and variety and improvisation. After Heather had plied her skills for a few minutes, she heard the word that made her heart skip a beat and her stomach do loops.

“Switch.”

Heather let the master’s cock slip from her lips with a final kiss. Without a wasted or graceless motion she rose from the floor, took two steps to the bed, and positioned herself on it with her knees right at the edge and her legs spread wide. She faced the center of the bed and got down on her elbows and forearms. Her only regret was that the position would not let her see: that when the master’s wonderful, magnificent, glorious cock parted her glistening lips for the very first time, she would have only the feel of him to enjoy.

She felt her panties being pulled down her legs. She smiled to herself, an internal bet won, when he left them there, pulled part way down. A man of few kinks, but very consistent ones.

And then she was overtaken, overcome by the sensation of the plump cockhead probing at the gates of her body, parting her slick, clinging inner lips, pressing inward. She was so wet that only one brief pause was needed for adjustment, and then he was well inside her. The passage in potentia of Heather’s vagina became realized, bit by bit, as the master pressed his cock farther and farther inside her, until it was a welcoming tunnel the exact dimensions of his cock, custom fitted to him, shaped precisely for his pleasure. She could feel her own tightness as if she had the nerves of his cock playing back into her body; in every sense that she felt him stretching her she felt herself pressing back, clinging, hugging the dearly desired invader.

He began to stroke her: firmly, not fast, in full measure. She could feel herself closing as he pulled back, just not quite to the point where her pussy could reject him and her lips snap closed; she could feel herself blooming open again, cunt widening to suit his needs, resisting just enough to deliver his pleasures.

By the third or fourth entrance they began to establish a rhythm, and Heather, to whom being passively fucked was an unheard of concept, did her full part to join in the dance, trading moves, sensing tempos, meeting and parting with the kind of understanding that belied the novelty of their encounter.

The master picked up the pace a tiny bit, and it was enough to thrust his massive cock into the barrier ring of Heather’s cervix. She had known he would completely fill her, had thought about it all weekend, indeed had masturbated to the very image that she could now feel inside her body. Just as with her throat. Just as with her devoted, obedient submission. The principles were identical:

All The Way.

She lost herself in fucking, in the sweetness of it, in the sharp, raw, animal need of it, in the purity of sensory overload. In the essential rhythm, the dance that people must perform to be whole. They communicated beautifully, incredibly well for a first time, and it was testament to how natural to Heather was the gift of the submissive: the ability to experience another person’s pleasure as one’s own. The pounding of his cock against her cervix was like the beat of an internal bass drum, the slap of his loins against her trim little ass a matching rim-shot, together providing a rhythm against which their shared rapture played like music.

“Switch.” The master’s voice betrayed some exertion, but was otherwise calm and quiet. As he withdrew his thick, hot erection from Heather’s clinging sheath, the beautiful young girl slipped easily from the bed to the floor, kneeling at his feet.

She sucked without another word, lapping the copious coating of her tangy lubricant from his shaft, taking it down her open throat so she could clean its entire length. Her own honey was not Heather’s favorite dish, but when served from this particular ladle it was nectar to her.

His balls were also well-coated with cunt cream, and when Heather had treated his cock to a thorough bath she ducked under to lap them gently, swallowing down the remaining traces of her juice, and allowing a brief thought of appreciation that the master kept his cock and balls carefully hair free. Some men, she knew, including a few professors, thought bareness was only for girls. She sucked on his balls for a good long while, using the opportunity to let his arousal level drift gently downwards. “Terminate at one,” he had said in laying out the alternation, which meant that for Heather to succeed she had to make him cum in her mouth. He had set her a difficult combination: she had to induce his orgasm with her relatively more subtle mouth; and she could not see his face, or not well, when he was in her pussy, to gauge his closeness.

She was sucking his cockhead alone, softly and gently, when he next said “Switch.” As Heather returned to the bed on all fours, the master added, “It is for you to guide, now.”

They fucked in beautiful harmony. Heather let the pleasure wash over and through her body; she felt the passion in her partner’s touch and in his eyes and in the stiffness of his prick and she absorbed them, made them her own, reflected them. Then a moan of ecstasy was torn from Heather’s lips as she felt the master reach beneath her to cup one small breast in each hand.

His hands seemed made to fit them, or they his hands. The delicate, firm, compact roundness of Heather’s sweet breasts matched exactly the gentle cup of the older man’s large hands. His hands were hot; without moving they felt exquisite; when he began to stroke her, rubbing the pebbled nipples gently across his palms, Heather moaned again, louder.

She came, shuddering, crying out. She felt her pussy clamp down hard, contraction after contraction, helpless to do anything but yield to the power of her orgasm.

She couldn’t ever let this stop. She had to.

She fell forward, disengaging him. She flipped, slid down, knelt, sucked. There was a scent and taste of semen evident through the sharp overload of her honey. She kept the pressure of her lips light, but knew there was a tradeoff: her looser mouth was wetter and sloppier, and the sucking sounds she made were louder, and both of those were turn-ons at a time when she wanted to calm him. A sliding, kissing, lapping stroke, slow and easy, letting the edge of his erotic tension burn off. Down lower. His cock slapped her face repeatedly, dancing with his pulse, as Heather probed the root of his shaft with her tongue tip.

She rubbed her sweet, young, pretty face all over his cock, letting the wetness from her sucking and the juices from her pussy coat her cheeks and nose and chin. She ran a fluttering stroke of eyelashes up the shaft of his cock from base to tip, making it jump and dance again in involuntary response.

Heather climbed back onto the bed, presenting her firm round ass nice and high so he could plow back into her tight, hot pussy. Her half-mast panties, stretched tightly around her thighs, were a slight hamper to graceful movement, but Heather had grown fairly used to the sensation of the tautly-stretched strings biting into her toned, slender legs.

The now-familiar intrusion was no less thrilling for being known; the strokes that propelled his cock deep inside her, to the very door of her womb, continued to send Heather to heights of erotic ecstasy; she fucked him with eagerness and skill and passion, completely transported: there was no rest-of-the-world. He reached around her, found her exposed and defenseless clit, and began to play with it.

Heather’s breathing became keening. Her trembling arms gave out and she fell face down on the bed as she screamed, wordless yet perfectly comprehensible. She shook with orgasm, shook like it was an earthquake of pure pleasure, her ears ringing with her own cries. She felt the master slow within the pulsing grip of her pussy, and just managed, with her last clear thought, to interpret that as a sign.

With an unbelievable effort of will and body, Heather spun off the bed, and, barely making it all the way down to her knees, swallowed the master’s engorged prick. In the very act of sliding him into her sensual mouth, she made him cum.

It was torrential. After the first three jet-like fountains burst into her mouth, Heather was already growing wide-eyed. She had felt him cum in her mouth so many times that it was second nature: this felt like there were ten of him in there, somehow, all spewing sticky sperm to coat and fill her mouth.

The master groaned, his head tipped back and his eyes closed; then, unwilling to miss a minute of the magnificent beauty of Heather’s face and eyes, he opened them to watch her again. She was sucking, with firm, shallow strokes to coax out every spurt, and a thick rill of cum escaped from both corners of Heather’s mouth to run down her chin and drip heavily onto her breasts.

They looked at each other, eyes locked. The master gingerly withdrew his cock from Heather’s mouth. Her lips were puffy and beautiful. He squeezed his cock with one hand, coaxing a thick bead of cum to the tip, and painted the submissive girl’s lips with it, smearing the cream around until her mouth glistened.

Heather looked up and waited patiently for instructions on the huge load of cum she was, just barely, retaining.

The master caught his breath momentarily. “Lotus,” he said.

Heather raised her left hand near her mouth, turned it palm up, and cupped it. Leaning forward, she parted her lips and filled the flower bowl of her hand with sperm. It took three tries to gather it all up and spit it all out, and before she was done it was leaking, despite her most careful efforts, over the sides of her hand.

Heather prayed silently that his next command would be “Wash.” To lift her hand to her face and scrub, covering her features with cum. “Please. I would love that,” she thought. “Please tell me to wash my face with your lovely warm cum.”

“Lap,” the master said. Because it was his wish it became Heather’s, instantly trumping her own thought in the process; she felt not the slightest regret or disappointment, because she now had his command to obey, and there was nothing finer, nothing that more clearly defined her own desire.

Heather extended her beautiful, sexy tongue and lapped cum from her hand, filling her mouth again. It was an imperfect process by nature, and cum ran down her arm as much as it was sucked up into her mouth. But Heather knew that cum-coated girls are at their most beautiful, and didn’t mind at all.

“Swallow.”

She gratefully gulped down what her mouth held, and turned a beaming, rather cummy smile at her mentor. “Oh, thank you sir. That was not only delicious, but it is a triple honor to be able to take your cum into my mouth twice, and then to be fed with it. Your gesture of kindness and regard for me moves me greatly, sir, and I am deeply thankful.”

He held out a hand and helped her rise. “There is a shower off the bondage salon,” he said, surprising Heather with both its existence and a name for what she had always thought of as “the gym.” He continued, still holding her hand, “Perhaps we might share.”

“Yes, sir,” Heather answered, and something in her eager voice caught the master’s ear.

“It is only a shower, Miss, lest you be tempted to interpret my words otherwise.”

She grinned at him with insouciance. “Doesn’t mean it can’t be a lot of fun, sir.”

Heather sat on the bed to take off her heels. Then with her damp little black panties a flag of triumph around her thighs, she headed for the shower with her teacher.

Wednesday’s four-hour class was more of the same. Concentrated ecstasy. Uncountable orgasm. Sweat and exertion and, as someone once called it, “the slippery friction of mucous membranes” — no less delightful, or passionate, or satisfying for the coldness of those words. Loads of delicious, precious, pungent, warm, rich sperm filling Heather’s sweet young mouth. Honey running down her thighs. Clothing skewed, torn away, tossed aside, soaked. Even the time, at the end, their exhausted bodies barely able to stand under the soothing rain of the shower, when Heather took unspeakable pleasure in simply stroking the master’s back with her soap-slick hands.

By the time Friday’s class came around, Heather realized that she was living for it. She hadn’t studied, hadn’t partied, hadn’t slept, had barely eaten — nothing could find a place in her mind except the notion that he would take her, use her, fill her again. She had given up being cautious at home: she masturbated constantly, dreaming of the master and his glorious cock and wondering what positions would be next; and if Kate had to listen to her screaming through yet another orgasm, so be it.

But it was on that Friday that Heather would learn a very hard lesson.

For the occasion she had worn one of her corsets, a beautiful, luxurious one in dark green velvet and gold brocade. It lifted and presented her girlish breasts, it emphasized the flare of her hips and ass, and it nipped her waist in dramatically. Her plentiful orgasms, as she and the master had practiced alternations, had been supremely intensified by the tight constraint on her breathing, and Heather was in heaven.

Nearing the end of the class, the master had specified a three-position routine. As he lay supine on the bed, Heather first rode him upright in a squat, facing his feet, with the tall spike heels of her thin-strapped gold sandals digging into the bedclothes as she straddled his legs. Then she turned and lay in his embrace, fucking him face to face, the squeeze of his arms adding to the constant hug of her corset. And finally, she would kneel between his legs, bend over, and suck his cock right down her throat; she was required, as she had been all week, to make him cum with her mouth, rather than her pussy. It was difficult — no surprise there — because she had only one opportunity in three to take him in her mouth.

He was close. Heather pumped her hips once more, twice more, taking him deep inside her body, watching his face intently. A third time. One more would be safe, and then... She slipped up and off his cock, scrambled to her knees between his legs, and took the heavy shaft into her mouth, sucking girl juice with her sweeping tongue. She felt the pressure in his shaft with her lips and then cum flooded into her mouth, delicious and exciting as it always was.

When he was spent she let him escape, and sat up, watching and listening for cum-play directions. But the master simply nodded — permission to swallow — and Heather let her prize flow warmly down her throat.

Exhausted, she collapsed to the bed beside her teacher, knowing that, having already run well past the scheduled end of the class period, they were done for the day.

“Thank you, Master,” Heather said.

Almost before she knew it was happening, she was stretched across his lap at the edge of the bed, and fire was exploding in her ass. Seconds elapsed before her mind began to process the cracking sound of his broad, heavy hand slapping her pert buns; seconds before what had been elation and satiation had been entirely replaced by shame, fear, and pain.

Blazing, bright, crackling pain. He had spanked her once before, and that had been dreadful. He had put her on that terrible machine to be whipped, and that had been worse. But on the bed across his lap, feeling his hand on her defenseless bottom once again, Heather would have given anything to take the mechanical strapping instead.

The master was infinitely regretful, but knew his responsibility. His powerful hand swatted Heather’s ass to a rosy glow and continued, setting the poor girl’s taut little bottom on fire. She lost hold of her practiced stoicism: she gripped the bedspread in tight fists, kicked her legs unconsciously, and cried out at every spank.

“The first words I said to you. Repeat them,” ordered the master, voice controlled but with tension apparent. Heather panted for breath in the brief respite in her spanking. She scrambled frantically for the memory.

“You said to call you ‘sir’,” she sobbed through her tears.

“Exclusively so. I am not your Master and you will not so address me. You are no slave.” And with that he started spanking again, calmly and efficiently, propelling one stinging smack after another into the co-ed’s heated flesh.

Heather squeezed her eyes tight but the tears escaped regardless. She wondered how long he would spank her, how much she could endure, and what would happen if she did not have strength enough. The steady slap of his open palm against her firm buns sounded like shots, like an endless salute of gunfire.

He paused again. “A slave dreams of freedom, escape, perhaps revenge. A slave obeys because she fears her Master even more than she hates him,” he said in a measured, level voice. “Why do you obey me, Miss?”

Heather sniffled, trying to get control of her breathing enough to speak. “Because I want to, sir. Because I am made of obedience and the desire to serve. It’s what I am, sir, it’s how I’m made. And —” She had to stop, and sniffle again, and catch her breath. “And because I have a lot to learn from you, sir, and so much respect for you.” She swallowed. There was one more reason, and it needed to come out. “And, because I need... your praise, sir, more than anything. More than air.”

“Do you dream of freedom, Miss?” he asked. “Do you dream, as a slave does, of escape?”

“No, sir.”

“Of what then?”

In that one brilliant moment of self-examination, Heather found herself. She slipped off her mentor’s lap and went to her knees at his feet, the position itself filling her with peace. She locked her arms behind her back and lowered her eyes; then carefully, slowly, deliberately she raised them to meet his gaze.

“I dream of submission, sir. I dream that every day I am more purely submissive, more true to my nature, more fully the girl I am meant to be. I dream, sir, of breaking every convention that tells me to be who I am not. I dream that someday, someone who truly earns and deserves my devoted, obedient, submissive service will give me the respectful love, and thoughtful support, and firm guidance that I long for in return.” She hesitated. There was one more component of her dream, one more truth. She hardly dared to utter it. But honesty compelled her, and its pressure finally broke her reticence. She lowered her eyes again, unable to look at him as she spoke. “And sir? I often dream... that that someone is you.”

The master was silenced, moved, stunned. Seconds ticked away. “Your dream is beautiful, and beautifully expressed,” he said softly. “I know that much of it is indeed in your future. As for my part —” He broke off, unable to voice his thoughts, the armor of his reserve threatening to shatter. He reached out to stroke her hair, buying time to bring his emotions under control once more; to Heather, the affection of the sweet, natural gesture was a perfect anodyne for the blazing fire in her ass. In time, the master found his normal voice again. “This University does not train slaves, Heather. We educate lovers. It would be wise to remember that. Call no man ‘Master’ — serve, as it is your nature to do, with eager pride in your devotion.” With a gesture, he indicated his lap, and Heather climbed back up and stretched out over it, resigned to take the rest of her punishment.

“Sir?” Heather said, turning her face to the side so that her voice could be heard. “I understand my lesson. I understand that I am not a slave and should not have called you Master. But sir? Everyone always talks about you as ‘the master’ — why? All the other professors, we called by their names.”

He sat quietly with his hand on Heather’s bare bottom, on which the splotchy patterns of his hand prints had merged into a uniform shade of deep pink. Even though it had just caused her such pain, and though she knew it would be the instrument of more, she welcomed it and loved its presence there.

“The charter of the University does not refer to academics as ‘Professors’ but as ‘Schoolmasters’ — you have not had any professors, strictly speaking. To refer to me as schoolmaster, as ‘the master’ of my class, is a practice supported by our founding document. It is quite another matter to call me Master as a slave would.”

“Yes, sir,” Heather said. “I see.” She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I am ready to finish my spanking, sir. Thank you for the care you show in seeing to my discipline and proper behavior.”

In a triumph of submission over fear, of obedience over humiliation, Heather summoned her courage, and arched her back to raise her beautiful bare bottom higher, presenting it prominently, silently begging the master to resume her painful correction.

He wrapped his left arm around her nipped-in, tight-laced waist, and drew her body closer to him. His right hand, resting on her tender, up-thrust ass, began slowly to caress her sensitive skin.

“Further punishment would serve no purpose,” came the master’s calm voice. “It is clear that you have learned a great deal in the past few minutes — more, indeed, than I could have hoped for.” His arm continued to hold Heather snugly. She relaxed at the welcome words of reprieve, resting her tear-stained face on the bedspread, content in her mentor’s loving embrace.

He continued to stroke her bottom, gently sweeping his fingers over the lovely globes. Gradually, so as not to be obvious about it, Heather parted her legs. She knew that her pussy, still puffy and wet from their hours of fucking, would be open to his gaze and his touch. Should his fingers stray, she would welcome them gladly. Should they not — openness and accessibility were a submissive girl’s hallmark, after all.

“Alexa will arrive in half an hour,” the master said. “Until then, rest, and review your lesson.” Then, his thoughts full of Heather’s confession of her dreams, he added, almost too quietly for her to hear, “We must take such moments as are offered to us.”

At their table at the pub that Friday night, Heather sat gingerly on two soft pillows, which did not do nearly enough to help.

“So, how many spankings is that, Heather?” Alexa asked innocently. She had seen Heather’s crimson bottom earlier, when she arrived for her class to find her friend freshly punished, and was amazed that Heather could sit at all.

“Three,” Heather answered.

Morgan made a wry face. “Yeah, I’ve had three in a week myself — more than a few times, actually. I can’t think of anything I hate more than getting a spanking before the last one has really faded away.”

“Um, no, not three in a week,” Heather corrected. She already had a sense that the conversation was taking a regrettable turn.

“Three... what then? Three this month? You can’t mean only three this term!” Morgan’s face grew angrier as Heather failed to confirm any of her guesses.

“No,” said Heather, calmly, trying to defuse the situation. “I mean, one right before winter break last year, one right after it this year, and today, this is my third.”

Morgan stared at her. “Bullshit,” she snapped, finally. “That’s the purest bullshit I ever heard. Who the fuck do you think you are, Little Miss Teacher’s Pet or something? Three spankings, bull fucking shit, Heather. Nobody’s that good.”

“It’s true,” Kate piped up quietly. Morgan turned to glare at her. “I live with her. I see her when she comes home, how she walks, how she sits. We study at the dining room table, on wooden chairs. I know I need a stack of pillows when I get punished; so would Heather. Well, what she said matches exactly what I’ve seen.”

Morgan slumped back in her seat and turned her attention once more to Heather. “Are you completely serious? You’re telling me — three spankings, ever?” The anger was draining from her face, as sadness and frustration replaced it.

“Yes, that’s right. I wouldn’t lie to you, Morgan, you’re my friend.”

Morgan began to cry, quietly, as her friends looked sympathetically at her and helplessly at one another. Alexa reached for her shoulder, but Morgan twisted away from the offered hand. A minute later she fumbled a tissue from her purse, dabbed at her eyes and face, and took a generous swallow of her drink.

“I don’t think there have been three times that I went a week without a spanking,” Morgan said. “All of you seem to do so well. The twins, too. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” At that clarion call for help, Heather, Kate, and Alexa chimed in instantly with soothing words.

“...And anyway, it’s not just you, honey,” Alexa concluded for all of them. “I get spanked, Kate talks about her poor tender ass pretty much every time we get together, I know I’ve seen Ariel short-stepping across campus like the back of her skirt was on fire, Anya too. It’s the work: it’s hard for everybody, it’s meant to be too difficult to ace. So we all come in for some over-the-knee guidance and correction.” Morgan opened her mouth to reply, but Alexa interrupted. “And before you say ‘what about Heather?’ — well, she’s sitting here on a cushion for that very same reason.” She reached out again and this time Morgan accepted her touch. “We shouldn’t be competing with each other, it’s hard enough to handle the curriculum. We’re friends. Let’s help each other be the first class ever where all six earn degrees.”

Alexa had not meant her last words to come as such a surprise to the group.

“First class ever?” Kate asked, astonished.

“Seriously?” Heather added.

“Yup. The Registrar mentioned it when I was in her office once. At least one has dropped out or failed, in every M.A.F. class.”

“That’ll be me, then,” Morgan said gloomily.

“No it won’t, Morgan,” Kate said firmly. “Like Alexa said, we’re friends and we’re in this together. All for one and one — hey, did I finish my drink? Or did one of you jokers switch glasses with me again?” She glared around suspiciously, provoking laughter from the other three girls. Kate turned toward the bar, caught the bartender’s eye, and made a sweeping “one more round” gesture with an upraised arm.

Heather relaxed. The painful fire that blazed in her bottom was bearable, when she could count on the company of such friends as these.

One Monday morning in August, Heather left her bedroom on her way to her eight o’clock class, when she was surprised to see Kate, dressed, combed, and prettied, waiting by the front door of their apartment. Kate was never an early riser if she had a choice, and had to have either the eleven o’clock or the two o’clock class on her schedule.

“Hey, what got you out of bed so early?” Heather greeted her best friend.

“Class.”

Heather was confused. “But I have first class today — I thought I did. This is Monday, right?”

“Yup. But on Friday the master said I should come at eight,” Kate replied.

“He didn’t say anything to me about switching times,” said Heather, quite perplexed.

“Yeah, um... I think we’re supposed to go together,” said Kate, “And we’d better get going. If there’s some mix-up he can straighten us out, and maybe I’ll get to go home and go back to bed.”

The girls left their apartment and headed to campus. For the already hot day, Heather had opted for a sundress, panties, four-inch ankle-strap sandals, and a jaunty ponytail. Kate wore a midriff-baring halter top, a scandalously short skirt, and sling-backs with an equally high heel. She had let her hair grow ever since Heather suggested it, and had it clipped back from her face with a couple of barrettes. They walked quickly and matched strides subconsciously, four pert little tits bouncing with their steps in unrestrained freedom, and Kate enjoyed the underskirt breeze tickling her bare pussy.

The confusion about class times was settled quickly once they got to the studio: there was no confusion, and the master meant them to share a lesson. Kate and Heather exchanged a slightly nervous glance. While they were good, close friends, and both very open about their sexuality, neither had seen the other in any sort of intimate circumstances — nothing, at any rate, more daring than a little spin-the-bottle kissing at a party.

The master, in one of his customary silk robes, led the friends into the bedroom portion of the studio. The valet stand was there, its command implicit, but the girls hesitated. A second too long, apparently, for the master rebuked them: “Promptly now — we have much to do today.”

Fingers flew to fasteners and in a trice both of the pretty co-eds were naked. They had seen each other’s bodies before, in quick glimpses, but never at length, in good light, and above all in a sexual situation. Heather looked carefully at Kate, who at five-foot-three was not much taller. Her red hair and stunning electric-blue eyes were the highlights of her extremely cute face, and now Heather could appreciate those as part of a package that included a lovely pair of small, well-shaped breasts, nipples erect already, an invitingly slim waist, a firm little bubble butt, and a pretty pink pussy with very prominent inner lips — a plump, exposed ridge of girl-flesh that just begged to be explored.

While Heather was open in looking at Kate, Kate was checking out her friend with quick, shy glances. Always something of a demure girl, Kate was blushing brightly at their mutual exposure.

When the last scraps of clothing were removed, both girls knelt at the master’s feet. Without any need to think about it, they put their hands behind their backs and lowered their eyes in submission.

The master slipped his robe off and tossed it onto the bed. He turned to the kneeling girls with his cock erect. “Hands and eyes free,” he said, and when they were looking up at him added, “Suck.”

Unsure how to begin, but certain that somebody had better start sucking some cock, Heather moved closer and took the master’s hardon into her mouth, tongue swirling gently around his cockhead. She rocked her head, taking him more or less into her mouth, letting her wet lips squeeze and suck his gnarled shaft. After a few seconds, she was aware of Kate’s face, close to her own. Heather let the massive rod slip out of her mouth and moved to one side, so that Kate could suck for a while. Kate, still blushing, took Heather’s cue and absorbed the master’s stiff cock into her cute face.

They traded off a few times before the master stepped back. He held a hand out to each girl and helped them rise. “Come with me,” he said.

The naked co-eds padded after him to the office portion of the studio. He indicated two chairs in front of his desk and the girls sat, the leather upholstery feeling cold and odd on their bare skin. The master sat in his chair behind the desk, rummaged in a drawer, and came up with a blank sheet of paper and two sharp pencils. He put the materials on the desk in front of Heather and Kate.

“Draw... a house, with a garden,” he said. “Together.”

The friends looked at each other, mystified, as each picked up a pencil.

“Umm... what should we do?” Heather said sotto voce to Kate. “Like a kid’s drawing, or, um, something nice with perspective and all that?”

“Keep it simple — I can’t draw,” whispered Kate in return.

“Ok, um, how about if you start on the house and I’ll do some flowers and stuff.” Keeping up a constant stream of whispered advice and suggestions, the girls began to draw, working around each other, letting house and garden take shape at the same time. Kate added a bit of shrubbery to the garden; Heather drew curtains in Kate’s rather plain windows; in time they were quite absorbed and had forgotten the steady gaze of the master just a few feet away.

His voice, then, made them both jump a bit. “Just so,” he said, taking the paper from them and looking at it with every appearance of admiration. He put it aside and looked at the girls in turn. “What difference, then, between sucking and drawing together?”

After a brief silence, Kate piped up first. “We were working at the same time on the drawing, instead of taking turns.”

“We had a plan,” added Heather. “Not just improvising.”

“Yes,” said the master. “Contributions that reinforced each other. Meshing, to a purpose. Considerate of each other’s best talents.” He stood. His cock was limp but starting to rise. “Come.” He led the way back to the bedroom, and his two petite, pretty students sank to their knees once more. “So: suck, as you drew.”

A few whispers passed between the girls, and then they fell on the master’s erection once again, this time together. They began with Heather taking the head of his cock into her warm, wet mouth, while Kate angled in from below to lave his ball sack with her soft pink tongue. Not having to share for a while, Heather was able to employ more of her oral arts, teasing and pleasing the marvelous cock with her lips and tongue. Then, as she saw Kate begin to slowly, slowly kiss her way up the underside of the shaft, she let the head slip out and worked her way along the top side toward the root, kissing and licking as she moved. Kate captured the cockhead in her pretty mouth, while Heather tongued and kissed the base of the master’s pole.

At one point, the girls found themselves facing each other, sliding up and down the master’s cock, one mouth on each side, and suddenly Heather felt her tongue meet Kate’s, as they licked past each other beneath the hot, hard prick. It came as a shock. They had kissed before, playfully, on a dare, but in this overtly sexual realm the touch was entirely different. Heather’s pussy was already wet — kneeling submissively was enough to cause that, let alone sucking the master’s cock — but she felt it flood even more at the touch of Kate’s tongue.

The next time they came near the same spot on the master’s cock, Heather saw Kate change directions and follow her movements, so that their tongues met repeatedly beneath the swollen shaft. The girls’ eyes were locked together, just a few inches apart. Neither could quite read the other’s face.

Heather, not quite certain what she thought or felt, moved quickly back to the suck, taking the master’s cockhead into her talented mouth. She sucked, and felt the telltale signs of orgasm. She lifted her gaze to the master’s face, looking for instructions, but they came instead by way of his hand on the back of her head, gripping her by the ponytail to hold her firmly in place on his cock. Kate lapped away at the master’s balls, oblivious to the impending orgasm.

Semen pumped into Heather’s sucking mouth, one hot spurt after another. Adeptly, she kept the accumulation of jizz in her mouth as she continued to suck, enticing the master to release every last drop of his cum into her care.

He withdrew his cock from her mouth and pulled away from Kate. Kate was momentarily puzzled, but then looked at Heather and saw the sheen of semen on her lips.

“Now then, Kate,” said the master, “What is the purpose of snowballing?”

Kate had only academic knowledge — group sex was discussed but not practiced in the undergraduate curriculum — but she had been an excellent student. “The minor purpose, sir, is for the girls to share the reward for their efforts.”

“And?”

“The major purpose is visual, sir. It is to give pleasure by offering an erotic display to enjoy — a performance.”

“Satisfactory,” said the master to Kate, who beamed at the praise. “Heather, give the cum to Kate, now.”

The girls looked at each other. They had seen snowballing in videos, but neither had ever tried it. Heather acted first: she sat back on her haunches, making something of a lap for Kate, and with gestures encouraged Kate to lie down with her head facing up on Heather’s lap.

Heather leaned forward, holding her ponytail out of the way, until her mouth was above Kate’s. Kate opened her mouth wide, prepared to receive the second-hand helping of cum.

Heather parted her lips, and worked the load of cum in her mouth to the front. A drizzle began, sperm and spittle, a long string hanging from Heather’s lips. She saw that it would hit Kate in the chin and corrected, moving to one side just in time for the sticky stream to land on Kate’s outstretched tongue. The bulk of the cum escaped in a thick blob, and fell with a plop into Kate’s eager mouth, to be followed by a lesser stream that was more Heather’s saliva than it was the master’s spooge.

Kate sat up, closing her mouth, and the girls looked expectantly at their teacher.

“And back,” he said.

They quickly reversed rôles and positions, and Kate maneuvered a long sticky spooge-string right into her roommate’s wide-open mouth. Unable to perfectly control it, she managed to paint a spermy stripe across one of Heather’s cheeks as well.

Again they sat up and waited for orders. The volume in Heather’s mouth was now twice what the master had deposited there, since it had been augmented by the girls’ combined saliva.

“There is room for improvement, but I take into account your lack of experience,” said the master. “Now, I gave you no instructions about how to share, and you chose a method quite common in pornography. Is that where your approach came from?”

Heather nodded, and Kate said “Yes, sir.”

“Its advantage is that the transfer is very clear and enjoyable to see,” the master instructed them. “Its disadvantage is that it can seem somewhat impersonal or distant, and might even be misperceived as rejection — spitting out — rather than as giving or sharing.” Kate and Heather shared a horrified glance at the awful thought of an ungrateful girl rejecting a gift so beautiful and personal.

“This time,” said the master, “Swap by kissing.”

“By kissing,” thought Heather. “Kiss Kate. Kiss my friend on the mouth. Kiss my... girl... friend on the mouth and feed her cum.” Her heart raced — so much was new today, so much was raw and unprocessed. But Heather’s core was obedience: the master’s order became, when spoken, the natural law by which Heather’s universe operated, and even as she wondered at her own actions she was leaning toward Kate to give her a cum-loaded kiss.

Her lips met her friend’s. Their faces tilted naturally, their lips parted... and Heather’s tongue, loaded with goo, slipped into her roommate’s mouth. She felt Kate avidly sucking up the precious offering, and as Heather pulled her tongue back in to sweep up any remaining jizz, she felt Kate’s tongue probing for more.

They parted, and Kate closed her lips to capture the spitty cum. Heather’s mouth remained open, not so much to prove to her teacher that she had done a good job, but because, overwhelmed by the experience, she was simply stunned.

The master’s voice roused her. “Yes, but a bit stiff. Mechanical. For the best visual effect, you must think first of kissing as lovers would, with passion and intent, and only secondarily of the exchange. Again.”

They came together in another open-mouthed kiss, Heather and Kate, but this time Heather felt Kate’s embrace and returned it. Their bodies pressed together, and each girl felt the unaccustomed pressure of another’s bare breasts against her own. Their embrace grew stronger, their kiss more a statement of their deep friendship than it was merely obedient or functional, and when they finally parted Heather had a mouthful of cum.

“Now sharing fully, back and forth, not a transfer but a mutual enjoyment,” the master commanded.

The kissed again, more easily now, the tensions and doubts behind them. Cum flowed between their mouths, and some spilled as their kisses grew more natural, sperm and spit trickling from their lips. The girls lost track of time as they shared the master’s tasty reward for their cocksucking skills.

“Swallow.”

Their kiss broke. Both girls swallowed cum. Their embrace came apart as they turned to look at the master. Impressively, he was fully erect — at which sight, the submissive co-eds instantly resumed their canonical kneeling posture.

“We begin again,” he said. “Remember that you may talk, as you did when you drew. Give each other suggestions, advice, even encouragement. Modify your strategy as you work, just as with your drawing. Know what you are good at, observe what your partner is good at, and build your strengths one on the other. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well: suck.”

At the end of that day’s two-hour lesson the master donned his robe and, while the girls got dressed, fetched them a 32-ounce jar of the artificial semen substitute they were familiar with from undergrad days (students called it “Gloop”). He handed the jar to Kate. “Homework: tonight, ten loads, five dribbled, six round trips each; five kissed, six round trips each. Tomorrow, no class: share twenty loads, half and half. Questions?”

“No, sir,” came simultaneously from both beautiful students.

“Your performance was acceptable for a first time, but I shall expect much better from you. Dismissed.”

Kate’s shyness came back to her like a flood tide as the girls left the studio, and muttering a hasty excuse she veered off for parts unknown. It was not until seven o’clock that night that Kate got home.

“Hey there, Kate,” Heather greeted her. “I was starting to get a little worried about you.”

Kate flopped onto their couch, pulled her sling-backs off, and began rubbing her tired feet. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you worry.” Looking at her feet, not at Heather, she continued, “I just had some things to do and some things to... you know, think about.”

“Well, I saved half the left-over lasagna for you.”

“Oh, gosh, thanks — I’m starving, now that you mention it.” Kate got up and padded barefoot into the kitchen, and Heather soon heard the microwave fire up.

Ten minutes later, Kate joined Heather in their living room, looking somewhat more herself. Heather typed away at her computer, working on a paper for class. Kate sat and watched her for a while.

“Heather?” Kate said.

“Mmm-hmm?”

“When do you want to... do our homework?”

“I’m doing —” Heather broke off and looked up at Kate. “Oh, you mean the... new assignment?”

“Yes,” Kate said softly, blushing.

“Um, now? I mean, I can work on my paper if you don’t want to, but whenever, really.”

“Now’s good. I’ll get the gloop.” Kate got up to fetch the container of ersatz jizz.

“Hey, nuke that for thirty seconds, ok?” called Heather.

“Ok.” The microwave hummed and beeped, and Kate reappeared, holding the jar. “Where do you want to...?”

Heather looked around. “Well, I’m pretty sick of floors, to tell you the truth. We can use my bed, I guess, it’ll be more comfortable.”

Kate followed Heather into her room. Heather unmade the bed, tossing a couple of throw pillows aside and turning down the comforter. When she turned around to face Kate, she was startled to see her roommate topless and unfastening her tiny skirt. Kate let the skirt fall to her feet, and then looked directly at Heather, blushing like mad.

“I don’t want to stain my clothes,” Kate said defensively, as if Heather had spoken.

“No. No, you’re right, that’s a good idea,” said Heather slowly. She tugged at the bow behind her neck, looking at her naked roommate. In a moment her sundress was puddled around her feet, leaving Heather in high-heeled sandals and white bikini panties. “Kate, I —”

“What?”

“I meant to tell you before. I think you’re really beautiful. I always thought you had the most amazing eyes, and such a pretty face, but — you’re really lovely and special all over.”

Impossibly, Kate blushed redder. “Thank you,” she managed in a shy whisper.

Heather climbed on to her bed and reached for the jar and spoon that Kate had placed on her night table. Dipping out a healthy tablespoon full of the creamy sauce, she fed herself a dose. She patted her lap in invitation.

Kate joined her and stretched out with her head on Heather’s bare thighs, opening her mouth wide like a hungry baby bird. Heather bent over and drizzled her creamy mouthful into Kate’s mouth in a long continuous stream. The spunk substitute was a perfect match for the real thing in texture and flow, but tasted rather gluey — nothing at all like the marvelous flavor of real cum — and Heather was glad to be rid of it.

The girls quickly swapped positions and then a spitty mouthful of gloop, as Kate’s mouth emptied into Heather’s. Then again, and again, a dozen transfers as the master had specified. As they kept changing positions, Heather was acutely aware of her friend’s nude body — of how her cheek had brushed one of Kate’s erect nipples as she lay in her lap, of the way Kate’s labia had peeled damply apart when she happened to spread her legs, of the feel of Kate’s hair against her thighs, of the sight of Kate’s brilliant blue eyes as she looked up into her roommate’s face, watching the frothy cascade begin to spill from her parted lips.

After the twelfth swap, Heather was left with a mouthful of saliva and cream which she had no desire to swallow. She climbed off the bed and went into the kitchen, spat the accumulation into the sink, and grabbed a glass to bring back to the bedroom for the other nine loads.

As she climbed back onto the bed, Kate was just feeding herself a nice full tablespoon of gloop. Heather lay back on the bed, expecting to see Kate bend over her to start their second dribbled exchange.

But instead, blushing again, the demure redhead climbed right into Heather’s arms and kissed her full on the mouth. Taken by surprise, but remembering their lessons that morning, Heather slowly wrapped her arms around her girlfriend’s nude body.

With passion and intent. Like lovers would. They kissed.

At some point during the kiss two soft sweet mouths opened and the creamy cum-like fluid flowed between them. When Heather’s mouth filled she rolled over on the bed, carrying Kate around with her, and returned the payload with a second kiss. She was acutely conscious of her roommate’s breasts rubbing against her own, of their bare legs intertwining, of the soft fragrance of Kate’s skin and hair, and of a rising passion that felt extremely strange and curiously natural at the same time. They rolled again, but as they did so Kate broke from Heather’s arms, sat up, and spit her mouthful of gloop into the waiting glass.

“Heather, I —” Kate began, and broke off, pink-faced and struggling with her feelings. “I want to — do you think we — I mean I’m not —” She stopped, squeezed her eyes shut briefly, and took a deep breath. “Heather, please make love with me?”

There was a natural pause before Heather could reply, in which Kate began to panic. “Oh, god, you’re mad at me now, aren’t you? I just ruined everything and I —”

Heather sat up as well and looked right into her friend’s eyes. “I’m not mad, Kate,” she said, speaking softly. “I’m flattered. I think you’re the sweetest girl ever and my dear friend; how could I not like what you just said to me?”

“But I know you’re not — you don’t —”

“I’m not bi, that’s true,” Heather said, continuing her soft, gentle speech. She reached out to her roommate and calmly stroked her bare shoulder. “But I love you like a friend, like a sister, and you’re not the only one who was feeling... how sweet it is to just be held, and kissed. So yes, my dear friend, I’ll make love with you tonight. I would like that very much.”

They kissed again, softly, eyes closing. Heather raised her other hand and pulled Kate into an embrace, and when she felt her girlfriend’s hard nipple brush against her own bare breast it was familiar and good. Kate wrapped her arms around Heather and sank into the embrace, losing most of her fear and tension in the warmth of it.

They tumbled to the bed, kissing softly. Heather had a hand trapped underneath Kate’s body; she freed it so that she could stroke her girlfriend’s hair as they kissed. She felt Kate’s hands at the back of her head, a tug, and then her ponytail was undone; her long brown tresses fell to curtain Kate’s face. They parted and rejoined, and Heather felt Kate’s mouth open with the renewed pressure. A hesitant, searching tongue licked her lips and then slipped between as Heather parted them. Their tongues, soft and moist and delicate, trained to be agile pleasure-givers, met and played, probed and explored, tasted and were tasted in turn.

Heather heard a moan, and did not know which one of them it had come from.

They rolled over, Kate above Heather, and Heather wrapped her lover in her arms as they kissed. She let one hand trail down to the small of Kate’s back, hesitated just for an instant, and then let it glide onto Kate’s sweet, taut ass, where she stroked and caressed and marveled at the springy firmness of the flesh beneath her fingertips. As her confidence grew, Heather drew one knee up slightly, sliding her shoe along the bed, which forced Kate’s bare pussy tighter against Heather’s thigh.

Kate broke their kiss with a gasp. “Oh god that feels so good Heather!” — the words tumbled out in a rush. In response, Heather began to lift and lower her leg, rhythmically rubbing Kate’s pussy with the firm muscles of her thigh, and Kate’s hips began to churn as she met the thrusts. Heather felt the slipperiness of their contact and knew that Kate was leaking cunt-honey freely onto her leg.

Their next kiss was free of restraint: it was deep and hungry, both girls fully accustomed to thinking of their mouths as sex organs. Tongues clashing, they fucked each other in the mouth.

Heather suddenly grabbed Kate’s head in both hands. Fingers tangling in Kate’s red hair, she lifted her roommate’s face away.

“You’re making my leg all wet,” she said, gazing passionately into Kate’s eyes from inches away.

“I’m so hot,” Kate gasped. “You’re making me so hot, it’s so good.”

“I want you to clean me up,” Heather responded. Her eyes smoldered with a passion she had not had a chance to share in a long time. “Lick me clean, Kate. Get down there and clean up my leg.”

Kate’s quick indrawn breath was her only answer. The look in her own brilliant blue eyes mirrored the smoky heat in Heather’s brown ones. She began to slip down Heather’s body, maintaining contact. Heather was focused on a hundred sensations at once, feeling the parallel track of Kate’s peg-hard nipples as they dragged across her skin, the heat of her partner’s body, the wet streak along her leg as Kate’s dripping pussy slid down it, the thrill from her own sensitive nipples as Kate brushed by them.

And ultimately, the amazing, novel, unbelievably arousing feeling of Kate’s soft, wet tongue slowly and carefully lapping smears of pussy juice from Heather’s creamy thigh.

“Like this?” Kate whispered, passion crackling at the edges of her voice. She lapped some more. “Is this what you wanted, Heather? Am I doing it right?” Her tongue swept again and again up Heather’s thigh, and each stroke ended the tiniest bit higher. “Do you like this? Does it feel nice? Am I doing a good job licking up my pussy cream?”

Heather reached down and grabbed two fistfuls of hair. “Every girl has reins...” Heather thought, as she spread her legs wide and firmly tugged Kate’s face straight to her center.

Without hesitation, Kate began licking Heather’s tiny bikini panties, snugged tight against her pussy and already soaked right through with Heather’s honey. They were so thin, and so wet, that Heather felt the other girl’s tongue as if she were bare. But, releasing Kate’s head with one hand, she worked her fingers under the crotch band and pulled it aside, exposing her pussy to direct contact.

Kate sucked hungrily at Heather’s pussy, wasting no time in licking right on her sensitive clit. She alternated long laps at Heather’s inner lips with teasing, probing, exhilarating licks of the little bud, as Heather’s grip on her hair kept her face pressed hard against her crotch. Heather looked down and saw Kate’s electric blue eyes looking back at her, passionate and sensual.

She released Kate’s head. Quick as a bunny, Kate slid Heather’s sodden little panties down her legs, over her shoes, and off; then she dove straight back to work. With more freedom to move her head, her licking, lapping love-strokes were more varied. She spread Heather’s pussy lips with both hands and tucked her talented tongue right up inside Heather’s vagina, sucking for juice and finding it in abundance. As the tangy honey overflowed, Kate followed a droplet downward, licking in its wake until her tongue was centered on the pretty pucker of Heather’s tight little asshole. She lingered there, playing with Heather’s clit with her nimble fingers as her tongue-tip probed her best friend’s ass, and Heather’s hips rose off the bed as she moaned in ecstasy. Kate followed, keeping her active tongue busy on Heather’s tiny rosebud, licking her girlfriend’s asshole with as much dedication as she had ever sucked a cock. Leaving the sensitive spot with some reluctance, Kate slowly licked her way back upwards to her roomie’s dripping cunt, loading up her tongue with girl-goo to spread all over Heather’s clit.

Heather was overcome, overwhelmed. What had started just minutes before as “it feels good to be held” had escalated rapidly into passionate, heated lovemaking, erotic and thrilling and satisfying. The flood of new sensations and experiences transported her, and college life with all its work and effort and hardships faded away: she could think of nothing, feel nothing, but Kate’s mouth on her pussy.

“Oh, yes, right there, like that,” Heather burst out, a hand trapping her girlfriend’s head once more, fingers finding a firm grip on soft red locks. “Right like — yes, yes, yes, oh god, I love that, just like that, oh Kate, honey, honey, Katie... Oh god I’m gonna cum, you’re gonna make me cum...” The trembling, fluttering, hot-flash feeling grew within her, and Heather could feel that a massive orgasm was in reach. So close... Just... Almost...

Then Kate, sucking like mad, slid two slim fingers deep into Heather’s cunt.

“Oh, oh, gonna cum, gonna fucking cum in your mouth oh my god oh my god Kate I’m cumming I’m aaaaaaAAAAAAAhhhh! oh, oh yes, oh yes, honey, oh your mouth, don’t stop... no no no stop, stop, it’s too much, oh my god Kate I aaaaAAAAhhhh!! Oh, fuck... Oh my... Oh my sweet Kate, that was so awesome. So good. So fucking good.”

With a last soft lap, which made Heather quiver, Kate raised her head. Her face was shining with Heather’s honey, her lips glossy. Her brilliant blue eyes were bright and excited. She smiled. “I guess that was good for you,” she quipped, her loving heart brimming with pleasure at bringing pleasure to another.

Heather stroked her friend’s head softly. “That was beautiful. You were amazing. Not just making me cum but being such an amazing friend, to do that for me.” She paused, and her smile grew broader. “Now let me see if I can do something just as wonderful for you.”

Then it was Heather’s turn for more new sensations and experiences. The look of Kate’s pussy, bare and spread and open, with its long, thick, prominent inner lips. The feel of her juice-slick skin. The smell of her; the taste, which Heather thought was like, and unlike, her own. The texture of the hard little button of Kate’s clittie, and the fun of coaxing it from its tiny shroud to meet the direct assault of Heather’s tongue tip. The nutcracker feeling of ears between thighs, when those thighs belong to a girl who’s about to cum.

And the brand new feeling, when Kate calmed down from her climax, of resting in bed in the afterglow, satisfied and sticky, snuggled in the embrace of another girl, exchanging soft, gentle kisses and sweet, caring words.

Eventually Kate rose and, grabbing the jar of gloop, padded quietly into the kitchen, where Heather could hear the familiar sounds of the microwave. When Kate returned, the girls resumed their cum-swap practice — neither student had ever blown off a homework assignment, and to do so in the master’s class was unthinkable.

But the renewed kissing, the interplay of tongues and lips, the warm embrace of soft bare skin and firm flesh led both co-eds to fresh arousal, and in time the desire to make love again trumped the call of homework. Their second episode was less needy, more languorous, and more tender, and the orgasms that rippled through both girls’ bodies were powerful, draining, and immensely satisfying.

It was past two o’clock when Kate spat the final mouthful of gloop and saliva into the bedside glass.

“We’re done, if I counted right,” she said, sounding sticky.

“Yup,” Heather confirmed, “That does it. Twice as much tomorrow, though.” She glanced at the clock. “Well, today, to be technical about it.”

Kate looked at her shyly. “Do you think... tomorrow...”

“We’ll have more sex?” Heather concluded brightly, smiling at her blushing bedmate. “Yeah, I think we’ll have more sex.” She leaned close to Kate and looked her right in the eye. “I think I’ll grab your head by the hair and force your sweet face right into my juicy hot pussy, that’s what I think.”

Kate’s color deepened, but she did not look away as she answered, “That’s just what I wanted to hear.”

Heather sat back. “Want to spend the night?” she asked.

Kate nodded eagerly, and after the girls cleaned up for the night they climbed happily into Heather’s bed together. “G’night, Kate,” said Heather sleepily, as she snapped off the last light in the room.

“Good night, Heather,” Kate said softly. She lay awake for a few minutes, until she heard her friend’s breathing grow slow, deep, and even. “I love you,” she whispered, and then gave in to sleep.

On Wednesday, they shared class again, another two-hour session. But the girls were far better prepared: they had spent most of Tuesday, in between snowballing practices, in devising tactics and techniques for sharing the master’s cock, trying them out on Kate’s largest dildo.

The master, seated behind his desk in the office, motioned the girls toward the bedroom, where they quickly shed their frocks and panties and knelt side by side, eyes lowered, waiting. He was occupied with paperwork for a while, content to leave his students in silent contemplation. When he was ready, he rose, slipped his robe off on the way to the bedroom, and stood before the submissively kneeling co-eds with his erection proud and stiff before him.

“Hands and eyes free; suck,” he commanded. And the girls leapt into action, following their carefully rehearsed plan.

“Look at this beautiful cock, Heather,” Kate breathed, wide eyed.

“Yum, it looks delicious. There’s something wrong, though, Kate. It’s too dry, the poor thing.”

“You’re right. It should be all wet and slippery.”

“How wet?”

“As wet as our tight little pussies.”

“Mmmm. Really dripping, then. Let’s fix that right now.”

Heather and Kate turned their faces toward each other and came together in an open mouthed kiss. Heather gathered as much saliva as she could and Kate sucked it into her own wet mouth. The girls ended their kiss, and Kate leaned over the master’s extended pole. As she let spit flow from her mouth onto the massive shaft, Heather’s face ducked underneath it, and she caught as much of the runoff as she could in her wide open mouth. In turn she switched to the top and Kate to the bottom of the shaft, drizzling saliva along its entire length.

“Is that wet enough?” Heather asked coyly.

“Not yet,” Kate replied. “That’s not nearly as wet as my pussy feels.”

Heather pointed to her left cheek, and Kate leaned over to her and lapped her face again and again, until Heather’s cheek was glistening wet. Heather then turned to Kate and licked away at her right cheek, until it was thoroughly dripping.

The beautiful students pressed their faces against the sides of the master’s cock, and cheek to cheek, in perfect unison, they began to slide their faces back and forth along the thick, pulsing shaft.

“Let’s lick his balls,” said Kate, and on the next forward stroke both girls, tongues extended, lingered at the base of the cock, licking and lapping away at the master’s heavy testicles.

They resumed their face-fuck, sliding slippery cheeks forward and back, down and up, stroking the cock they worshipped. As if on cue, the girls suddenly turned their heads to face each other, and with wet lips and slippery tongues they rode the cock down to the root and up to the tip, over and over. Their tongues were active and agile and almost always in tip-to-tip contact, and as Heather looked across the beloved cock into Kate’s eyes, she could see a reflection of the passion she herself felt. “I love this more than anything,” she thought, “Sucking cock, on my knees, on command. I feel so alive, so right. I was made to do this. I am meant to serve. I am meant for pleasure. My purpose is to obey.” And the thrill of sharing her task with her closest friend only heightened Heather’s feeling of proud, joyful submission.

“I think this cock needs a good sucking,” said Heather, pulling her mouth away. She gripped Kate by the hair and pulled her up to the tip of the shaft. “Suck his cock, Kate, suck it right now.”

Kate complied, swallowing half the mighty shaft in one gulp and holding there, her tongue working eagerly away at the underside. Heather spent a moment, head inverted, sucking carefully at the master’s ball sack, washing each nut lovingly in turn. When the scrotum was thoroughly sloppy, she let it go, and looked at Kate, who was bobbing slowly up and down, sucking, consuming about half of the master’s considerable length.

Heather grabbed Kate’s hair again and towed her head off the cock. “Suck all of it. Like this.” Heather swirled her tongue a half-dozen times around the head, and then worked it slowly, slowly into her mouth, into her throat, and down it. With the master’s cockhead deep in her throat, Heather, nose firmly pressed against his body, opened wider, extended her tongue, and licked his balls as best she could.

She held herself in place for a full minute, teardrops leaking from the corners of her eyes, before retreating. The cock popped from her mouth, followed by a torrent of spittle that streamed between Heather’s breasts and down to wash her smooth, bare pussy. “Like that,” Heather said, gasping for breath, and she forced Kate’s face back onto the master’s cock.

But Kate again sucked half of it, in and out repeatedly, before backing off.

“You suck all of it now,” said Heather, a stern note in her voice.

“I can’t,” Kate replied, “It’s too hard. That’s as much as I can take.” It was a joke all three of them could share: Kate could deep throat a cucumber without the slightest difficulty, and everyone knew it. She resumed the blow job, from tip to half-shaft, and made sure to let everyone hear her gag uncomfortably at her deepest descent.

Heather shuffled on her knees to a position directly behind Kate. She grabbed one of Kate’s spike heels in each hand and used them to spread her lower legs apart; she snuggled closer, pressed tightly against Kate’s back, and she hoped Kate would notice the twin pressure of her nipples against her back.

Heather grabbed the back of Kate’s head in both hands and pushed.

Half way down the master’s cock, Kate began to gag again, coughing, choking. Saliva trickled steadily from her open mouth. Heather pushed harder, and inch by inch forced Kate’s head closer and closer to the master’s groin.

When Kate had swallowed the master’s prodigious erection to the very bottom, Heather moved her arms, hugging their teacher around the hips. With a strong squeeze, she flattened the Kate sandwich. “All,” Heather said. She squeezed even tighter. “The.” Tighter still. “Way.”

They stayed like that, frozen. Heather’s strong embrace never wavered. Kate, her throat skewered, could only emit a low, humming moan. Seconds ticked past, a minute, a minute and a half.

Heather let go and, as Kate pulled quickly back, the cock slipping from her throat and freeing her to pant around it, scurried around to position her upturned face underneath Kate’s chin. The master’s cock came free of Kate’s mouth and the waterfall that followed it flowed directly into Heather’s, wetting her cheeks and chin as well. Using Kate’s spit for lube, she fell onto the master’s cock, sucking it straight down her throat, tongue busy all the way, as she and her professor listened to the rasping sound of Kate’s eager, deep breaths.

When Kate was herself again, she joined in, and she and Heather passed the beautiful cock back and forth, or worked on it together, as they had rehearsed.

In time, Heather sensed an impending explosion: she had always been good at telltales, and the master, for all of his self-control, was no exception. She took Kate’s head in her hands once more, and forced her girlfriend’s face onto the master’s cock, sideways, so that his cockhead was embedded in Kate’s soft cheek. Heather pressed harder, harder, and Kate’s cheek distended with cock as her mouth stretched wider and wider.

Then Heather, placing her mouth on Kate’s sweet face, began to suck the god-cock through the thin, stretched membrane of Kate’s cheek. She could feel the spongy hardness of the plum-like head even through her friend’s face, and she knew that meant the master could feel her tongue on his cock, the pressure and movement coming from Heather, the wetness and texture coming from Kate. It was a single act of cocksucking performed by two bodies; the girls had been extremely proud of themselves for thinking of it.

Even through Kate’s cheek, Heather felt the cum explode.

With the cockhead wedged so firmly against the inside of Kate’s mouth, the sperm sprayed out in dozens of tiny jets, completely coating Kate’s mouth in an instant. Each successive spurt sprayed her tongue, her palate, her teeth; it was a massive load, and Kate had to work hard not to swallow any.

With a very slight grunt the master eased his erection out of the young co-ed’s mouth. Kate closed it, and both girls turned their eyes to the master’s face. They assumed this would be another cum-swap lesson, and hoped so, but college policy said that all cum play was directed, so they were forced to wait.

“As you wish, share,” said the master. Heather thought she heard a little bit of strain in his voice, and filed that away for future contemplation.

As they had rehearsed, Kate opened her mouth, and displayed her swirling, creamy prize to Heather.

“Ooh, that’s a lot,” Heather cried happily. “Give me some cum now, Kate, I want some too. Let me taste it.”

Kate carefully gathered all of the cum right behind her lips. Making sure the master had a good line of sight, she held Heather’s face between her hands, and slowly kissed a line from one side of Heather’s forehead to the other, letting sperm spill from her lips as she went.

The cum rolled down Heather’s face and spilled past her eyebrows to the cheekbones below, forming ropes of spunk behind which Heather’s eyes gleamed happily. A few droplets caught the tips of Heather’s long eyelashes, which wore the jewel-like adornments beautifully. As the first rivulets of jizz began to puddle at Heather’s jaw line, ready to drop, Kate darted in to suck each one back into her mouth. As the cascades slowed, she licked all around Heather’s face, collecting what she could, and finished by sweeping a gentle tongue through the cum collection in Heather’s eyebrows.

The girls turned back to the master and Kate kissed the length of his cock, coating it with sperm and spit as she had Heather’s forehead. Then the lovely co-eds feasted on it, as if dining at a cum buffet, lapping puddles of jizz from the top of the master’s cock and catching drips and drops with their tongues beneath.

“Swallow.”

The obedient students, happy to hear their favorite command, lost no time. They gulped, and turned sticky, expectant faces up to their professor.

“You have been practicing,” he said levelly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You had a plan.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

His eyes went from one kneeling girl to the next, back and forth.

“You have become intimate since Monday.”

Kate’s face flashed to deep pink in half a second. “Yes, sir,” Heather answered for both of them.

The master contemplated them for a moment. “Intimacy is good, if proper focus is not lost,” he told them. Another beat went by. “Kate, you feel submissive to Heather.”

“Yes, sir, I guess... a little bit, sir.” Kate blushed even harder.

The master turned to Heather. “I will instruct you, then, in one submissive topping another. It is a precarious thing, but it can be managed, given sufficient insight.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Heather.

“Your final act — one girl sucking through the other’s cheek — what source?” the master inquired, looking from blue eyes to brown and back again.

The girls shot each other a look, not even able to remember whose idea it had been. “We, um, just made it up,” Heather offered with a slight shrug. “It’s not from a practices handbook or anything like that.”

“Interesting. Quite possibly novel,” said their teacher. “A description, not exceeding one hundred words, directed to the ‘Notes and Queries’ editor at Oral Theory and Practice, would certainly be published.” Kate and Heather exchanged delighted glances: that would be something to be proud of. “Your performance was satisfactory, both of you.”

Kate beamed — “A” grades were sometimes elusive for her — and Heather, sensing a dismissal on the way, asked a question. “Sir? Why are we studying this? I thought dominant-submissive relationships were monogamous — we learned that in undergrad.”

The master contemplated her question. As he did so, he reached down, cupped the back of Kate’s head, slipped his stiff cock between her lips and deep into her throat, and held her head pressed against him.

“That is generally the case,” he answered. “A dominant-submissive relationship, and I confine myself as always to healthy, well-conducted ones, tends to be more committed, more respectful, more faithful, and more partner-focused, than level relationships typically are. Thus faithful monogamy is the common model — devotion, you understand, runs in both directions. Yet polyamorous households are not entirely unknown; several have been documented in the literature, should you wish to research them further. And even in monogamy, it happens from time to time that a submissive introduces another girl as a gift to her partner, a demonstration or token of her devoted submission, for a short space of time — a night, a weekend, or perhaps for the duration of a vacation trip, for example.” He looked down at wide-eyed Kate, whose face was starting to turn quite pink, but whose tongue was still bravely extended and busy. “We will have just this week’s three lessons on the subject of sharing. It is not certain, not even very likely, to arise in your life. If it does, you should be prepared.”

The master took a deep breath after his uncharacteristically wordy reply, and let it out slowly, watching the pretty redhead sucking skillfully on the shaft that impaled her head. He seemed lost in thought for a few seconds. Then, finally, he let go of Kate’s head and she flew off his cock, gasping, panting, slack-jawed, drooling, and extraordinarily happy.

“There is time left in your lesson,” the master observed, “But I think we will stop here. You are dismissed. I commend you again on your satisfactory performance.” With that he turned away, picking up and donning his robe on the way back to his office. Kate and Heather stood, curtseyed carefully to his receding back, and began to dress.

Outside the studio, Kate grabbed Heather in her arms and lifted her off her feet, spinning around in a circle once, twice, before putting her down. “That was absolutely positively my best freakin’ class ever!” she cried. “Oh, thank you so much for helping me get ready, and for being there with me, and for being such a great friend!” Kate’s eyes were shiny with happy tears, and Heather felt her own responding in kind.

Heather smiled at Kate and held the outside door open. “Hey, no homework, either!” she said. “A night off! What should we do?”

Kate grinned back. “Do da word ‘party’ mean anything to ya?”

They started with dinner at an upscale restaurant not far from campus. Two young ladies, petite, gorgeous, sporting tight, ultra-mini club dresses and fuck-me heels, made up and bejeweled, drew a good deal of attention, secured the best seat in the house, and were the direct cause of two spills at nearby tables.

After dinner, Kate and Heather headed for a dance club, where they were ushered straight in ahead of a long queue of hopefuls. Almost before they found seats they had admirers offering drinks and dances, both of which they politely accepted. And when they eschewed suitors and danced with each other, bodies touching sensually, eyes riveted to one another, all the men and more than a few women watched them with arousal, desire, and envy.

They stayed and danced until they wore out, and left together, shattering the fantasies of every guy who thought he might have had a chance with one of the beauties. Foot-sore, they splurged a few dollars on a cab ride home.

The day’s outstanding lesson, the fine food, and the dancing and excitement of the club scene, had left the girls’ spirits high. In the cab, Kate reached out to take Heather’s hand, the gentle pressure of her fingers promising that the evening had not yet come to an end.

As they stood at the door of their apartment, Heather fumbled in her purse for her keys. She felt Kate’s arms wrapping around her from behind, a tongue running along her ear, a hand sliding up to cup a breast. Her nipples stiffened, raising peaks through her clingy dress. She spun around in Kate’s embrace and their lips met even before she stopped turning. Kate’s lithe, probing tongue found its desired home and her right hand left Heather’s back to caress and hold her cheek, her tongue questing deeper into her mouth.

When their mouths finally parted, Heather, breathless, managed to suggest that they would be more comfortable in the apartment than in the hallway. Fingers trembling slightly, she managed to fit the key into the lock and open the door. They were locked in an open-mouthed kiss again before it clicked shut behind them.

“Let me undress you, Heather,” breathed Kate. “I want you naked, so I can give you my thank-you present for our —” She imitated the master’s deep voice as best she could. “Satisfactory.”

Heather leaned in for another kiss and let slow, delicious seconds pass before parting. “You don’t need to thank me — we did it together. Everything was as much your idea as it was mine.”

Kate just smiled and shook her head slightly, as she reached for the zipper on Heather’s dress. Heather, not content to be passive, started to undress her girlfriend too. Between the two of them, meandering in a slow and eratic path toward Heather’s bedroom, they managed to shed dresses and panties, kissing and fondling each other all the while.

“You’re soaking wet,” Heather said.

“I’ve been thinking all night about making love with you. I would have crawled under the table at the restaurant to eat your pussy, if you’d said so much as a word.”

“No tablecloths, Kate, remember?”

“I know. I don’t care. I would have done it.” She moved her tongue back to play with Heather’s sensitive ear, making her roommate shiver. “I would have done it in the club, with all those people watching, if you had told me to. And I’m going to suck your beautiful pussy right here, right now. Ooh, you’re a drippy girl too, yes you are,” purred Kate, her fingers exploring between Heather’s slick labia.

They reached the bed; fell into it; embraced as lovers, their hands roaming, touching, giving and taking pleasure. In the midst of a kiss, Kate’s thoughts drifted back to the morning’s lesson.

“You are so amazing, Heather,” she said. “I can’t believe how much different the master is with you.”

“What do you mean?” Heather leaned back in their embrace to give Kate a genuinely puzzled look.

“Huh. Everything. He talks to you more than he ever does with me — he’s always so terse, but with you he seems... warmer. And when we were sucking him? I don’t think I’m all that hard to look at, but he always had his eyes on you. Almost like I wasn’t there.”

“We did it together; you were just as much a part of it as I was,” Heather countered.

“Yeah, but he was looking at you.”

“He was looking at both of us, I’m sure he was. Don’t sell yourself short, Kate.”

“Heather.” Kate held her lover’s face in her hands and looked directly into her eyes. “Ok, not every second. But eighty percent of the time he was looking at you. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you. I’m a well-trained girl, I look up into his eyes as much as you do, and I know where he was looking. And... when he looks at me, he’s like — like a teacher watching my performance. Evaluating. When he looks at you... it’s so different. It’s full of... I don’t know what — like he’s really proud of you.”

Stunned at the implication of Kate’s words, Heather could only stare quietly at the naked co-ed in her arms, as something in her thoughts slid into place.

Heather knew that the master loved her; she had accepted the idea that he loved all the cock-worship girls. She also had developed some confidence that he really appreciated the quality of her effort and skill. But there had never been anything to indicate that she was receiving any kind of special treatment. Admittedly, she hadn’t told anyone else about the few truly intimate moments she had had with the master, nor that he had fucked her pussy as well as her mouth — those thoughts were reserved just for herself, when she wanted to indulge her fantasies of him. But she had assumed that the others had experienced some similar tenderness.

More than once she had gone to sleep dreaming of being held tightly in the master’s arms, able to be his and his alone. She had imagined him so taken with her — her intelligence, her good heart, her sexiness, her flawless, devoted, obedient submission — that he would build a life with her, claiming her for his own. It was a compelling dream but she had never imagined that any part of it was true. To listen to Kate, though — he was already enchanted by her.

With one more piece of the master deciphered for her, Heather felt a warm glow deep inside, and a soft, sweet smile blossomed on her face.

When Kate saw the smile that grew on her best friend’s face after her far-away stare she laughed and nearly fell out of their embrace, overcome with giggles.

“You should see the look on your face right now!” Kate said, still laughing.

“What?” Heather could not help but feel a rising mirth herself.

“When I told you that the master was proud of you, your eyes went all out of focus and you got that goofy smile.”

“Oh, well, I just hadn’t noticed, is all,” Heather lied, even as she felt the warmth fill out to her fingertips; every part of her body purred with excitement.

They resumed their kissing and petting, letting their arousal build again after the interlude. Then Kate slid out of Heather’s arms and down her body, kissing all along the way. She took one of Heather’s spike heels in each hand and forced her girlfriend’s legs wide open. Gazing hungrily at Heather’s wide-spread pussy, glistening with honey, she said, “Now I’m going to thank you for all your help, Heather. And my mama always told me, the only right way for a girl to say thank you is with her mouth.”

Minutes later, hips rising from the bed, Kate’s tongue agile, active, and effective, Heather crested for the first of many times that night.

Reflection

...The break between the Summer term and the first semester of their second year had let Kate and Heather regain some control over their relationship, Heather recalled as she waited in the quiet outside the studio. They remained the best of friends, and both girls were open to making love when the mood was right, but it was no longer a matter of urgent, almost nightly compulsion.

She remembered, too, how concerned she had been to begin the Fall semester without an accepted Thesis proposal. She had made a few suggestions to the master over the Summer, all having something to do with prolonged cocksucking and careful timing, but none had earned his approval.

The key idea had come on the first day of class...

Second year, Fall semester

The master welcomed Heather back for her second year by escorting her to his office. He was in dress shirt and slacks, which disappointed Heather: a robe would have meant the likelihood that he would use her body.

Instead, he sat her down at his desk, on which a flat-panel computer monitor rested along with a keyboard and mouse.

“We will study facials,” the master said, which came as wonderful news to Heather. Facials were, to her, among the most emphatic of dominance acts, and the very few she had had a chance to enjoy in her young life had made her feel gloriously submissive.

“Today, fifty short video clips of facials. Watch carefully. When you see something done very well, or something especially attractive, or you find the scene to be arousing, hit the plus key. Done poorly, unattractive, a turn-off, press minus. Space bar to pause or play. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” said Heather. It sounded like a fun assignment, although she would have preferred some more personal instruction.

“Your panties, please,” the master said, extending his hand.

Heather, feeling frisky on the first day of school, decided not to simply slip them off. She stood, and turned slowly to face away from the master. She parted her legs and bent at the waist, more, more, until her face was nearly touching her ankles. Reaching back, Heather lifted the hem of her skirt, raising it very slowly until it lay on her back, and her tautly stretched bottom, nearly bare in scarlet thong panties, was fully revealed.

She nipped the string of her panties at both hips, and slowly slid the tiny garment downward. She felt the cloth pull away from her pussy, and knew she was fully exposed to the master’s eyes. Heather drew the wispy panties down her legs as slowly as she dared, finally pulling them over her five-inch floral patterned sandals. Her skirt fell as she straightened up, and Heather turned around and hung her panties over the master’s hand, which had not moved.

“I am happy to obey you, sir,” Heather said with a sensual lilt to her voice. “But may I know why you wanted my little red panties?”

“As a courtesy to you,” her teacher replied dryly. “It will make it easier for you to masturbate while you carry out your assignment.” Heather’s eyes grew wide. “Which has been delayed long enough. Begin.”

He left her alone in the office. She settled back into the desk chair and hit the space bar to begin.

The clips were extremely hot. They were all close-ups, showing little more than a beautiful girl’s face and a cock. Heather could tell that they had been shot overcranked — or perhaps the computer had been told to slow them down during playback — and the slow-motion effect gave her time to watch and appreciate every shot of semen, and every reaction from the girl receiving it.

Heather watched with full attention. One heavy spurt perfectly bisected a girl’s face, running from her chin straight up the bridge of her nose to her hair, exactly missing both nostrils and both eyes; Heather thought that was particularly pretty, and hit the plus key. Her free hand crept beneath her skirt and began to toy gently with her clit — even without the master’s encouragement, she would have been unable to resist the urge.

Another clip, another shot, and the model seemed to Heather to frown a little bit, her nose wrinkling slightly. A tap on the minus key, then, for failing to love every drop of her gift. A plus, and another, and another, for a girl-next-door type who grinned more broadly, and looked more beautiful, with every burst that crossed her features. A minus for a spitter, a plus for a very pretty line of brilliant white, sparkling like pearls across a girl’s dark red mouth, a string of minuses for a girl who tried to turn away from every spurt. A minus for a bored expression — Heather found that completely incomprehensible. A plus, and she wished she could somehow hit the key harder, for a girl who bravely forced her eye open despite its being submerged in cum.

When the last clip ended, the screen went dark. Heather had been quite keyed up, fairly close to cumming, but with no further stimulus she took her fingers away from her humid pussy and let her fluttery feelings of arousal fade slowly away. She wondered when the master would return — she still had almost twenty minutes left of her class period.

Heather swiveled in the chair toward the nearby bookcase. She scanned titles, idly, noting many that were familiar from her studies or from independent reading. The books covered a wide range of subjects: rigging, fashion design, anatomy, psychology — anything to do in the least with dominant-submissive sexual pairings and activities.

Then another shelf caught Heather’s attention, and she read the titles aloud to herself as her eyes ran along the spines. “The Baseball Fan’s Companion... Total Baseball... The New Bill James Historical Baseball Abstract... Fair Ball... Watching Baseball Smarter... Take Me Out to the Ballpark... The Official Rules... Baseball Between the Numbers... The Physics of Baseball... Baseball Strategies...”

“Whaddaya know,” Heather thought. “He’s human. He’s... normal!” She was still looking at the shelf when the master came back to the office. He held several sheets of paper, and he laid them on the desk as Heather swiveled back around.

“This column,” he said, “Is where you have marked plus and minus. This column is where I have noted good and bad points in the clips. What do you see?”

Heather scanned the marks, then turned to the subsequent pages and did the same. “Mostly I see that you marked a lot more spots than I did, sir. I guess I don’t know everything I should have been looking for. But where I did find something, sir, it looks like we pretty much agree. I didn’t see anything where I put a plus and in that exact spot you had a minus, or the other way around.”

He collected the papers and dropped them in the blue recycling bin. “Yes. Next time, then, we will be free to focus on practice, rather than theory.”

Heather’s grin of delight gave her feelings away instantly.

“Now before dismissing you, I should return your panties,” the Master said. “Perhaps in a way that will remind you to keep your mind on your studies, and not on teasing your elders.”

Heather’s smile dimmed. “Darn,” she said to herself. “I thought I got away with it.”

“Stand up and bend completely over,” the master ordered. “As you have demonstrated you can,” he added wryly.

Heather complied immediately, making sure her legs were well spread as she bent double.

“Raise your skirt.”

She reached back and flipped her skirt up onto her back.

“Quite moist, I see.”

“I masturbated while I watched the facials, sir,” said the inverted, exposed girl.

“Open,” came the master’s quiet command.

Heather reached back with both hands and pulled the lips of her pussy apart. The slippery skin was hard to grab, and it took several tries before Heather could hold herself wide open.

“Your panties, Miss, returned with this small additional lesson,” said the master, and taking plenty of time, he carefully stuffed Heather’s bright red panties up into her vagina. He left only a small loop of one string outside.

At a word of command, Heather straightened up. Her face was pink from embarrassment as well as from inversion. “Thank you, sir. I’ll remember not to be impertinent. I’m sorry, sir.” Actually, the stuffing didn’t feel all that bad, and it had been very enjoyable to feel his fingers on her pussy.

“May I ask a question, sir?” Heather said, about to disregard her just-made promise. When he did not object, she continued, “I saw your books. Are you a baseball fan, sir?”

“Indeed. Those who appreciate intelligence and subtlety generally are. Now, we have no more time. You are dismissed.”

Heather was brimming with questions. It was the first personal fact she had learned about her mentor; she was eager to explore it and to expand on her understanding of him. But training held. “Thank you, sir,” she said as she curtseyed.

She walked home full of happy thoughts. She had cracked open the enigma that was the master — just a bit, to be sure, but a real crack nonetheless. She was pretty certain that, starting Wednesday, they would be back to cocksucking, with beautifully submissive facials to look forward to. And happiest of all, she had an inkling, a tiny glimmer of an idea, of something she could propose for her Thesis that would finally win approval.

As she approached her apartment building, one more cheerful thought struck Heather. Kate would be home. Kate liked it when Heather gave her sexy orders. And Heather had a nice soggy, juicy pair of red thong panties, with a little loop hanging free of her pussy. Just enough, Heather thought, for Kate to catch between her fine white teeth.

It had been a while since Heather had had class in the bondage salon, but that was where she found the master waiting for her when she arrived at the studio on Wednesday.

To her deep dismay, she recognized the machine he had uncovered: the one that had flogged her every time she gagged. Her stomach began to knot at the prospect of being strapped into it, helpless.

But on closer inspection there were differences. The padded ring that sensed the backward movement of her head had been replaced by a similar but much more delicate contraption. There was no phallus mounted at mouth height, ready to be sucked; instead there was a system of geared racks, with a thin flexible hose running away from it and into the interior of the machine. But best of all, there were no dreadful leather paddles — the motor assembly was there, but it had been rendered impotent.

Heather stripped off her short, tropical-print dress and her high-cut pink cotton panties, hung them up, and knelt on the device wearing only her dangly gold earrings and her tan leather sandals, letting the master strap her firmly into place. When she was immobilized she felt him adjust the sensor carefully against the back of her head.

As he worked, the master quizzed his lovely student. “How much semen, on average, per orgasm?”

“Point one to point two cc’s from the urethral glands, the same volume from the testicles, point five to one cc from the prostate, one to three cc’s from the seminal vesicles,” Heather answered promptly. “Total ejaculation two to five cubic centimeters. I don’t think I know the mean, sir, but that’s the normal range.”

“Time between contractions?”

“Point six seconds, sir, during the principal orgasmic phase; in some men slower toward the end.”

“Number of strong, high-volume contractions?”

“Two point eight, on average,” she replied easily, reciting her undergrad basics.

The master indicated the mechanism in front of Heather’s face. “This will ejaculate gloop,” he said. “The position and angle are randomized.” He started to adjust some knobs on the trainer’s control panel. “We will leave the interval at point six, but raise the number of effective shots to... let us say eight, with a corresponding increase in total volume. There is no point in training for averages. Eight is high, two sigma, but not at all implausible.”

Satisfied with the adjustments, he took a step back. “You will have no warning. It might begin in ten seconds, or ten minutes. The bursts will be fired at the proper interval. Then the process resets. The time between sequences is unpredictable.” He watched Heather’s face for incomprehension, but saw that she followed him easily. “When your head moves back, this counter increments. I will return in half an hour to assess your performance. If it is necessary at that time, the paddles will be reattached.”

He pressed a button and left her. The nozzle in front of Heather’s face began to move silently up and down, left and right, in a completely unpredictable pattern. She waited, calm and ready, disappointed in her hopes of sucking the master’s cock that day but willing to learn from any lesson he set her.

A warm jet of gloop struck Heather in the cheek. Six-tenths of a second later, a second spurt landed higher, just under her eye, then a third on the other side of her face, right at the corner of her mouth. Then four, five, six, seven, eight, splashed in their turn against her beautiful face, as the early bursts began to ooze and trickle across her features.

Heather felt the rain of warm sticky sauce on her pretty face, and dreamed of her submission.

The trainer reset; just under four minutes later it was having its second mechanical orgasm, adding the volume of a fresh eight shots to the gooey coating that Heather’s face already wore.

By the time the master returned to her side, Heather was wearing the signs of six salvos, forty-eight strong bursts of gloop; there were very few patches of skin left on her face without a glistening coat. The runoff from her face had painted a number of sticky rivers down her body as well.

The master took a quick evaluating glance at his pupil, and then turned his attention to the counter on the machine. Heather heard him utter a soft, annoyed, “Bah.” Then he turned to her and said, “The trainer has malfunctioned. You have my apology.”

“What’s wrong, sir?” Heather said, forcing her sticky lips apart with some difficulty.

“The counter remains at zero: it has failed to record your flinching away from the ejaculate. I will repair it, and then we —”

“Sir, excuse me sir, but... I don’t think I flinched even once.”

“It is a reflex reaction. Inevitable. It takes a great deal of training to eliminate.”

“Please, sir... check?”

The master studied her intently, holding her eyes, hearing the pride and confidence underlying her voice. “Very well,” he said slowly. “Lean your head back for me, just one time, just the slightest motion.”

Heather obeyed, and in the quiet room could hear the tiny snap of the microswitch that detected her movement.

The master watched the counter. “Again.”

A tiny motion, a nearly inaudible click.

Heather waited, watching her teacher, who was staring at the counter. “Two,” he whispered. Heather closed her eyes and allowed a soft smile to adorn her sloppy face.

Then she felt the bonds being released; when she was free the master handed her a damp and then a dry towel to clean up with. He watched her as she did so, watched her as if he had never seen her before. “Come with me,” he said, when she had cleared her face and body of the cum substitute.

He led her to the bedroom, where he took a seat in the oversized armchair. He patted his lap in an unmistakable gesture of invitation that absolutely astonished Heather. She climbed, nude but for her strappy heels, into his lap, and snuggled against his chest, supported by his left arm. As she curled up on his lap his right arm went around her, imprisoning her in his embrace, and his right hand found its home on her bare bottom. Heather, her right ear against his chest, could hear his pulse and breathing. She felt warm, and happy, and helplessly overpowered in a way that made her feel snug, safe, and protected.

She felt his lips touch her hair, and her eyes closed in joy.

“You are,” he began, and stopped. Then, a moment later, “You are an unprecedented marvel of a girl, Heather.”

She relaxed more deeply against him, and felt his right hand stroke her bottom, gently, slowly. “Thank you, sir,” she said meekly. She was stunned by his words, shocked and humbled, both for the astounding degree of praise and for the departure from his reserved, aloof, understated manner. But beyond that, Heather was elated, transported a thousand times more powerfully than by any orgasm: for this loving, moving, tender intimacy had nothing in it, not by the wildest stretch of imagination, of a mere teacher-student relationship.

“It has never happened,” the master said. “The trainer is too... surprising. No warning word or moan, no telltale. Not the least clue. Something strikes you in the face without warning — you are programmed by instinct to retreat, to evade. Our purpose is to train you not to flinch, but... everyone does, at first. Everyone.” He continued to stroke Heather’s bare ass, softly, and she thought she had never felt anything finer, or more expressive of tender, affectionate care. “How did you do it?” he asked with wonder, his voice barely above a whisper.

Heather took a minute to reply, sensing correctly that there was no hurry. “I just told myself, sir, that it wasn’t a test. I imagined it was your cum. I pictured myself kneeling for you, and looking up at your beautiful cock, and not knowing when but... never ever wanting anything more than I wanted your cum on my face. I dreamed that my submission was perfect, and that I showed it to you, sir, by my eagerness for you to praise and reward and decorate me.” She gave a tiny shrug, all she could do in the firmness of his embracing arms. “That’s all. It’s what I most want to feel: your cum on my face... I just let myself love it before it was really real.”

She felt his lips against the top of her head again, so gently that she could not tell if it was a simple touch or a tiny kiss. His breath ruffled her hair. He continued to fondle her bottom. Heather sat in utmost contentment and peace on her teacher’s lap, wishing the moment could last forever.

A long time later, she asked, “Is this class, sir?”

“No,” he replied, “It is self-indulgence. Dereliction of duty. Inexcusable idleness.” Having said which, he continued to hold the petite nude girl on his lap and in his arms, as if his self-deprecating words had not been spoken.

More time passed in sweet, contented silence.

“I love you, sir,” said Heather.

There was no response for a moment. Then the master said, “I am aware that you do. Please know that I do not receive that gift at all lightly, nor take it for granted. For your love I am deeply in your debt.”

“I know that you love me too, sir,” Heather whispered.

“While you are in the program, you are my submissive. With only one exception: I have not taken ownership of you. We will find ourselves acting, often, as if you truly did belong to me, but deep within we will recognize that as a pleasant, convenient, temporary fiction.”

Heather nodded gently against his chest.

“That exception aside, I must treat you as my submissive, and that means I must love you: a love founded on equality, respect, and thoughtful, earned esteem. In your case, Heather, those foundations were not difficult to establish.”

Heather, joyful, could only ask, “Please, sir, will you say it?”

She felt him, with certainty, kiss the top of her head. “I love you, Heather.”

“Thank you, sir. I am so happy.”

They did not move, and did not speak again, until the arrival of the next student stole the moment from them.

When the last of her research figures were at hand, Heather began to draft her Thesis proposal. She worked on it at every opportunity, refining her arguments, changing the presentation of her supporting data to make her ideas clearer, going over and over her words to add persuasion and remove ambiguity. Long into every night the tapping of computer keys became the apartment’s constant background sound. Late on a Friday afternoon, Heather sat back from the table and said, “Done.”

Unlike every other faculty member, the master had no e-mail account, or not that anyone had discovered. Heather wrote a note, therefore, in copybook script, asking for him to set aside their next meeting to review her Thesis proposal, and left it with his incoming mail in a basket outside the studio door.

She spent the rest of Friday, and all of the weekend, proofreading and editing, fixing the tiniest of punctuation errors. On the fifth or sixth complete re-reading she was horrified to find that an entire word was missing — something her brain had casually filled in for her on every earlier pass — and she forced herself to go through it again, word by word, sometimes reading aloud.

Finally, Monday arrived.

Certain it was going to be a special day, Heather dressed with particular care. She chose a backless black halter-top dress, below-the-knee length but with a hip-high side slit, black thigh-high stockings with red roses worked into the lace bands at the top, red g-string panties that rode high enough on her hips that the strings wouldn’t peek through the slit in her dress, and open-toe black pumps with red accents and a five-inch red spike heel. She adorned both wrists with close-fitting red bracelets and made matching red lipstick the highlight of her makeup. She plaited her hair at one temple into a slender braid, and then tied tiny red ribbon bows along its length, one every few inches.

Grabbing her proposal, and checking several times that it was the very latest version, Heather headed to class.

The master invited her in to the office, where he offered her the chair across from him at his desk. She sat and crossed her legs, letting the dress fall open to reveal her elegant stockings and the even more enticing expanse of bare thigh above. The master glanced at her but turned immediately to her proposal and began reading.

It did not take long to read — the proposition was simple enough to explain — but after he read it he swiveled his chair until he was facing his bookshelves and sat, silent, motionless, deep in thought.

Heather could hardly stand it. If he rejected her idea, she had no other to offer. If he accepted it... then she had set herself up to try something extremely difficult, with failure a possibility that had to be considered.

After what seemed like hours, the master turned back to her. “It is not without merit,” he said.

Heather closed her eyes momentarily in relief. That was as close to cheerleaders and fireworks as she was likely to get from her teacher, she knew.

“There is no precedent that I am aware of,” the master continued.

“No, sir. I searched and searched, and didn’t find anything remotely close.”

“The extension of time alone would not be ground-breaking, it would merely be... a curiosity, a novelty. You said the average was —” The master flipped pages, looking for a table Heather had included in her proposal.

“It varies, sir. By year, by league, and by team. In the AL, for example, New York is longest, Detroit is shortest. But over all, the Commissioner’s office set a target of two hours, forty-six minutes for this year’s average.” Heather was well-prepared: she had her proposal memorized, and good familiarity with its supporting research.

“Even at that, your proposal would be outside the realm of possibility for most people.”

“That’s why I need you, sir.”

“But as I said, time alone is not of particular interest. The addition of another mental thread... Why do we study timed cocksucking, Heather?”

“Sir, it’s partly as a way to keep my techniques well-honed and fresh in my mind,” Heather began, but even as she did so he was waving away the minor issue. “Mainly, though, it teaches me how to be fully engaged in my sucking: intellectually and emotionally as well as physically. I learn how to read you and your reactions, sir, and I learn to weave those into a plan. I learn to be sensitive and engaged, with all of my attention on you and your pleasure, to the last nuance and detail.”

“Yes. So if in addition you must maintain another mental thread, with subtleties, nuances, and planning just as complex —”

“Exactly, sir,” Heather beamed. “Sometimes I think it will be a little like the piano exercise, where one hand has to play in five and one in seven, or three against five — like that.” With delight, she saw that she was winning him over. “Plus, it has all the demands of small-error timed cocksucking, but with the goal constantly shifting. Shifting in ways that can only be predicted, sir, with full attention to and understanding of that competing mental thread.”

The master folded his hands, steepled his index fingers, and held them to his lips, tapping gently. Heather waited while he thought.

“You will use radio?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. All the information with fewer distractions, I think.”

“You have considered the full range? Five innings at minimum, and... twenty-six, I believe, the record so far?”

“Yes, sir. It’s one of the bigger risks, I agree.”

The master regarded Heather in silence for a full minute.

“To summarize, then,” he said, sliding her proposal back across the desk to her. “You will suck my cock, without significant pause, beginning at the first pitch of a Major League baseball game, causing orgasm at the moment the final out is recorded or the winning run scores. With all of the variability inherent in the game of baseball, you freely undertake to stake your degree on this attempt?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” said Heather formally.

“Very well. I accept your proposal.”

A wide, bright smile flashed into being on Heather’s pretty face.

The master turned and dragged a huge, thick, heavy volume from his shelf of baseball books. “Let us look at some numbers together,” he said. As Heather came around the desk to join him, he added, “And perhaps you would like to remove your dress first. It would be such a shame not to enjoy those beautiful stockings to the fullest.”

Gleefully, Heather reached for her halter strap, and as she did so she felt her nipples start to stiffen. “Yes, sir!”

Kate shared Heather’s relief and happiness in getting her Thesis topic nailed down. But she met its description with incredulous wonder.

“I can’t believe it’s even possible,” she said, on hearing Heather describe the project. “I know the master’s good, but how can any man last over two hours, when he’s getting his dick sucked by a girl with more than five years of training?”

“I know what you mean,” Heather replied, “But that’s the part he didn’t seem worried about — you know how much self-control he has. It’s more the variability. What if one of the pitchers is working slowly? That can add twenty minutes alone. What if there are a whole bunch of double plays, and the game ends at two-oh-five when I don’t have him even close to cumming? That kind of thing.”

Kate nodded, wide-eyed, understanding the challenge more and more as Heather talked.

“And I’ll have to listen, especially late, for what kind of night everyone’s having, so I can zoom in on the pacing of the blow job. It’s kind of like, what’s it called, a feedback type of thing. I have to adjust everything I do, minute by minute, based on how the game is going, what’s likely to happen, which batter is facing which pitcher, who got on base or struck out — speeding up or putting the brakes on. With the usual rule: I’m never allowed to just stop.”

“I wish you the best of luck, Heather, I really do,” Kate said sincerely. “But I have to say... it sounds way too impossible.”

Heather gave her friend a worried smile. “I know. Most of the time I’m confident I can pull it off. Sometimes I tell myself I’m completely insane. I can’t afford to lose even the littlest speck of attention from the blow job, but I have to follow every inch of the game. I think I can do it. I sure hope I can.”

Kate gave her roomie a gentle kiss on the lips, and let it linger for a moment. “You’d better get studying, then,” she said softly. Then with a sudden smile added, “I think there’s a game on TV tonight.”

The master tested Heather’s bindings, making sure that her wrists and ankles were locked together behind her. She knelt, naked, in the studio’s bedroom, her hair in a tight pony-tail, waiting with barely suppressed eagerness for her facial training to begin. Two video cameras on tripods were aimed at her face, so that she could review her performance afterwards.

“We will defer specific focus on the eyes until a later time,” the master said as he slipped out of his silk robe. “But the ejaculating penis is not a precision instrument, and you must be prepared for mishap.”

“Yes, sir,” Heather replied. Cum in the eye wasn’t a huge problem for her: uncomfortable, but not unbearable. She knew that others found it far worse.

“Suck, for effect,” he ordered, and Heather leaned forward to swallow his erection. She threw her more subtle, more teasing, more prolonging techniques out the window and sucked for an orgasm as soon as she could get it.

She was talented and well-trained; he was coöperative; the combination worked fairly quickly. Heather tasted a single small spurt of cum in her mouth, and then he was outside of it, his cockhead resting on her chin, firing shot after shot of creamy jizz across her face. She felt the first one arc across her lips, near the corner of her mouth, race up her cheekbone, and curve past the outer corner of her eye, and subsequent bursts followed the same path.

As soon as his orgasm stopped, the master was at the video mixer, and within seconds Heather was watching her face from two angles, as cum streaked over it in slow motion.

“How can you improve?” the master asked abruptly, when the clips ended.

Heather was at a loss. It had looked quite pretty to her eyes, though she had to admit that the chance to watch herself take a facial for the first time had rather distracted her from its technical merits.

“May I see it again, please, sir?” she asked, buying time.

“This once,” he replied, dissatisfied. The clips ran again.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t have an answer,” Heather said, with regret and apprehension.

The master reran the video, slowed down even more. Heather watched the progress of the first jet of cum over her lips and up her cheek.

“If I am actively decorating you,” he explained, “Painting your face, placing each line and drop where I wish, then to hold perfectly still is indeed your part.” She noticed then that he was not touching his cock, that it simply rested on her face below her mouth. “If I am still, like this, if I am passive, then you must be the active one. You must turn to improve the beauty of the resulting patterns. Because this —” He pointed to the second spurt, just finishing, and then to the third, tracing the same path. “This is wasted. Redundant. Too little of your face is involved. Too much cum lies here in one spot, and it will drip too fast because of the concentrated volume. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Heather replied. She felt suddenly humbled: there was so much more to learn, more than she had ever imagined. But with humility came hope: surely, she was with the one man best able to teach her.

“Again,” said the master, as he forced his thick cock down Heather’s throat. She sucked him hard and deep, with enthusiasm and skill, as warm cum ran down her face.

By the end of the class, Heather’s pretty young face was glazed with cum, some dried, some still oozing. Her eyes were a bit irritated from the occasional stray droplet that had found them. Her throat was weary from repeated, hard, rapid face-fucking. And her body ached from two hours in the hog-tie. But his last words were, “You showed much improvement today. I will continue to expect it,” and all in all, Heather felt it was a well-earned “B.”

The facial lessons continued, week in and week out. Heather learned a great deal about the technicalities of ejaculation, how to time her motions beneath the master’s spurting cock to improve the coverage patterns, how to tilt her face to get more cum on her forehead or her cheeks or more around her mouth, depending on his orders. He granted her special permission, for a few days, to hold his cock in her hands, stroking it while he came, and Heather learned exactly how to aim it to achieve the results he specified. With patience and practice, she grew able to cover any spot he named with a sticky frosting of cum.

Heather sat in her apartment on the afternoon of one such lesson, reviewing video of the day’s facials on her laptop, when Kate returned from her session.

Her red hair was still neatly arranged in the French braid that Heather had done for her that morning, mussed only by a few traces of dried cum at her hairline.

She wore a white silk blouse with black pin-dots and short puff sleeves, with a soft black silk bow tie. Her skirt was white polka-dots on black, a tight pencil style with a peplum hem at the knee. Her fine, shapely legs were clad in sheer white back-seam stockings, and on her feet she sported a pair of T-bar heels that matched her blouse exactly. She was the very picture of elegant style, mature beyond her years.

But it was not her best friend’s classy appearance that held Heather’s eyes, it was the dried tear-tracks on Kate’s sweet face, and the puffy redness of her eyes. Sure signs that Kate’s class had not gone well at all.

“Oh, Kate,” cried Heather, bolting from her chair and dashing to her roommate. “Poor baby, what happened?”

Kate’s eyes squeezed shut and fresh tears welled up between the lids. When she opened her eyes, droplets ran freely down her cheeks. “I messed up, Heather. Big time. I got the worst — remember when you got spanked for calling him... what you called him? I think I just got what you got then.” She buried her face on Heather’s shoulder as Heather gathered her into a comforting embrace.

“Better let me take a look,” Heather said sympathetically, switching into all-out TLC mode.

Kate nodded and sniffled back her tears. She reached behind her and lowered the long back zipper of her pencil skirt. Then, breath whistling through her teeth as the tight skirt slid past her bottom, she stepped out of it. Underneath, she wore a white lace garter belt with three straps for each stocking, and over the garters a pair of white satin tap pants.

Heather dropped to one knee behind Kate. She took the waistband of Kate’s tap pants in her fingers, and gingerly eased the panties down.

“Wow,” Heather breathed. She could almost feel the heat radiating from Kate’s scarlet bottom. She helped Kate step out of her panties and said, “You go lie on your bed. I’ll be right there.” As Kate made her way to her bedroom, Heather sped into hers.

She found Kate face down on her bed. In her white blouse, garter, stockings, and shoes Kate practically disappeared on the white sheets, but for two bright red blazes: her hair and her ass. Heather crept onto the bed and settled in by Kate’s bottom. She unclipped the back garter straps and folded them out of the way. From the bottle she had fetched she squirted soothing gel into her hand, and with the greatest care and the most delicate touch applied it liberally to Kate’s tender buns.

After a few applications, Kate murmured, “Ohhh. That’s nice. That’s helping already.”

Heather worked slowly, making sure not to rub any skin that did not have lotion on it. “So what happened?” she asked, confident that Kate would not consider it a prying question.

“We were doing facials — everybody is, right?”

“As far as I’ve heard,” Heather replied.

“So I suck him off, going for speed, right, so we can get as many rounds done as possible?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“So he’s gonna cum, and he pulls out just in time. And I, um...”

“Don’t tell me you turned away!” Heather gasped.

“No. Much worse. Oh, Heather, I still can’t believe I did it,” Kate said mournfully.

“What?”

“I left my mouth wide open. Worse than that. I kinda... opened it more. Like, ahhhhh.”

Heather clapped her gel-free hand to her mouth, aghast. “Oh, no! You — you fed yourself cum? Without asking?”

Kate’s eyes started to moisten again. “Yup. That’s what I did. When did we learn about that — Freshman orientation, maybe? Like, the first day, maybe? I have no idea what I could have been thinking.” After a pause, she added, “That’s just it: I wasn’t thinking. I don’t know how I could be so freakin’ stupid. So anyway, half the load is wasted in my mouth before I come to my senses and... well, you’ve seen the rest of the story.”

Heather started to treat Kate’s other ass-cheek. “No wonder you got such a spanking,” she said.

“So, what do you think, Heather? Does it look like your last one?”

There really wasn’t any way to tell, but Heather understood that her best friend was seeking some reassurance that her suffering was appreciated. “It’s hard to compare exactly, but I’d say it’s even worse.”

A minute elapsed while Heather continued to soothe Kate’s rosy ass. “There. All done. I hope that feels better.”

“A ton better,” said Kate. “Thank you so much.”

Heather capped the bottle and cleaned her hand off with a tissue. “Want help getting undressed?”

“Would you, please?” said Kate gratefully.

Heather took Kate’s shoes off first. She carefully unclipped the other four garters, then unhooked the belt and slid it out from under her roomie’s prone body. As she carefully rolled the sheer stockings down Kate’s fine legs, Heather, looking at the charms exposed between them, began to have some feelings that were less associated with Kate’s needs than her own.

“Sit up — no, wrong choice of words, kneel up.” With a hiss of pain, Kate pushed herself up to a kneeling position. Heather knelt in front of her and undid her bow tie, and then worked her way down the front of the blouse, freeing each of the tiny buttons hiding behind the placket. There was a little button on each sleeve as well, and when those were open Heather slipped the blouse off Kate’s shoulders. As she did so, their bodies came together, and Heather was effectively hugging her now-nude girlfriend.

Their kiss was inevitable.

The kiss, and the one that followed, and the dozen after that, increasingly traded tenderness for desire and need, and Kate’s questing hands found themselves inside Heather’s blouse, beneath her skirt, tangled and trapped in her panties. They broke apart, long enough for Heather to throw the annoying garments aside, and came together again, pressed tight from knees to breasts, mouths locked.

They came up for air. “We could soixante-neuf with you on top,” Heather said, breathlessly.

“Please,” was Kate’s urgent response.

Heather stretched out on the bed and watched as Kate carefully straddled her. She saw her girlfriend’s beautiful bare pussy descending toward her face, its thick, long, protruding inner lips glistening with desire, and she reached up to take Kate by the waist and guide her. As soon as she could she craned her neck forward and captured Kate’s inviting labia between her lips, licking, tasting, savoring girl juice. Kate moaned and froze there, wrapped up in the thrilling sensation, until Heather pulled her all the way down.

Kate rode Heather’s sucking mouth and probing tongue until, coming to her senses, she remembered that a sweet pink pussy, bare and smooth and inviting, awaited her own attentions. And not only that, but another tiny playground that strangely tempted her, where she knew some gentle licking would provoke deep moans of pleasure from her lover. She fell forward and got busy, her cock-trained tongue having no difficulty opening Heather’s tight pussy and seeking its center.

Their lovemaking was hungry, reminiscent of their first times together. Tongues probed and darted, lips sucked, fingers stroked and sometimes entered, juices flowed. Each girl was intensely focused on the flower she explored; each was repeatedly distracted by the pulses of pleasure emanating from her own core. More rapidly than usual they climbed to orgasm, Heather’s seeming to trigger Kate’s, and that dispelled the sense of urgency. They made love again: slowly, more gently, taking extra time to appreciate each other, savoring textures and tastes and warmth and beauty. The second time it was Kate who peaked first. Too sensitive to continue sitting on Heather’s face, she slid off, crawled down the bed, and came up between Heather’s wide-spread legs to eat her pussy. The new angle provided new sensations, and that was all it took to push Heather over her own crest; and then Kate was in her arms, softly lapping her own honey from Heather’s beautiful face.

They kissed softly for a while, calming down. Heather thought she might have dozed off a little bit. But in time she had to say, “Well, dear one, all good things...”

“I know,” Kate said with a smile. “I need to study, too.” She climbed off Heather. “I don’t suppose you have a few dozen pillows you could lend me to sit on,” she grinned.

Heather returned her smile, happy to see it. “Oh, I might have one or two.” And, gathering up her discarded clothes, she went to find some.

Heather’s facial lessons grew steadily more varied. Once she had become proficient at manipulating cock, face, and jetting spunk from the head-on, kneeling position, the master mixed in other approaches and angles for her to study.

He had her lie face up on the bed, for several sessions, as he knelt by the side of her face and shot across it. Those were particularly difficult positions, Heather found, because there was a shorter span of her face for the cum to fly across, and the chance for missing, for wasting some of the precious goo, was greatly increased.

They spent some classes in inverted positions as well, including two with Heather in suspension. Those were a favorite of the talented co-ed, because the extra sloppiness of her cocksucking, with saliva pouring up her up-side-down face, was humiliating and sexy. And if her cum facial tended to run and seep into places that weren’t the most comfortable, Heather still thought it a small price to pay for having so much fun in school.

On a brisk day in late November, though, the master had his devoted student back on her knees. They were in the bedroom, and Heather, who wore only her heels and jewelry, knelt with her back right up against the bed, waiting.

The master opened his robe as he turned to her, and at the sight of his beautiful cock Heather started to salivate. It stiffened, pulse by pulse, as he spoke.

“Cum in the eyes. In this, I set no standard of performance, for no girl can control how it feels to her. You will keep your eyes fully open throughout the ejaculation.” She had them turned to her teacher’s face as he spoke, although tempted to watch his cock grow instead. “After that, I want your best effort, your very best, to keep them open for as long as you can.”

He took a step closer to Heather, and she licked her lips in anticipation. “If that is no time at all, it will not count against you.” He bent his cock down to her mouth and slid inside. “Suck, for effect,” he ordered.

The master fucked Heather’s throat as she sucked him. As always during facial lessons, she sucked for speedy orgasm, so that they could fit more practice in to the class time. It was regrettable to do so much rapid cocksucking, when the arts are meant to be used for prolonged and subtle pleasures, but the need was clear.

She kept her gaze on her mentor as she sucked his thick, delicious cock, and thought about the experience that she was about to have. Heather had had cum in her eyes a few times, more or less by accident, but this was the first time that they would be deliberate recipients of a substantial load.

Heather tasted semen, and knew that the cock plunging down her throat and back was close to erupting.

The master pulled out of her mouth, and Heather held her beautiful dark-brown eyes open, not straining and wide-eyed, but naturally gazing at the older man’s face, once so imposing and inscrutable to her, but now well-loved and expressive.

Cum fired from the master’s rigid prick as he aimed it carefully at Heather’s upturned face. With unerring precision, the first thick, creamy spurt filled and coated her left eye; the second her right. More and more cum jetted into Heather’s eyes, until from the master’s point of view they were obscured by swirling clouds of white. “Free,” he said, to tell her that his orgasm had ended and that she was free to blink when she had to.

Heather looked up at her teacher through lenses of his essence. In the blurry shape that was his face, Heather thought, strangely, that she could see a younger man, that the fine lines of his skin were erased, that his hair was thick and dark, that his eyes sparkled with energy. As she felt cum trickling from her eyes, meandering down her face, it seemed to Heather that she could see the master with more clarity than ever; she could see him, through the puddled cum, as a gentle man, a moral man, a loving man: things far more important than her naked eyes had ever seen.

She blinked, and her eyelids squeegeed cum from her eyes to spill in thick rivers down her face. She squeezed them tightly, then blinked rapidly several times, then held them open and gauged how she felt. With her vision clear, she looked at her teacher, and saw only his face.

He glanced at a stopwatch, then dropped it back into the pocket of his robe. “Eighteen seconds. How is it for you?”

“I guess I’d say it stings, sir — it’s not what I would call very comfortable, but it isn’t, you know, ouch ouch scream.”

“Colorfully put,” the master said dryly. “Try, then, to extend your time to... let us say twenty-five seconds.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Suck,” he said, and filled her sweet young mouth once again.

When Kate got home after class that day, she headed straight for the bathroom, and when Heather wandered past the open door a few minutes later, she saw Kate holding a bottle of sterile saline solution, dabbing at her face with a damp tissue.

Heather leaned against the doorway. “Cum in the eyes today?”

“Yeah,” said Kate. She tipped her head back and dripped more saline into her eyes.

“Looks like it’s really bad for you,” Heather said sympathetically.

Kate turned to her, saline solution running down her cheeks.

“Actually, no — it’s a little irritating, but not so bad as for a lot of girls.”

“Why the juice, then?” Heather inquired.

Kate shrugged. “It’s only a little irritating, but it also won’t go away. If I don’t wash my eyes out they’ll be itchy for hours.”

“Huh,” said Heather. “I’m like you, it’s irritating, but I can pretty much blink it away.”

“You know who hates it? Anya,” Kate reported. “She told me she’d rather have gasoline in her eyes, it burns so bad. She talked to the master, and he said he’d let her skip it.” She blinked a few times, looked at her face in the mirror, and, satisfied, capped the saline bottle. “I really don’t freakin’ understand men sometimes, you know? Why do they get off on this so much?”

Heather considered briefly. “I bet it really looks beautiful. I’ve never seen myself but — I know how gorgeous a facial is, and eyes are so expressive and pretty on their own. I should ask the master to take a picture of me so I can see what it looks like.” She was lost in thought for a moment before continuing. “But anyway, it’s so submissive, I think that’s what’s really attractive about it. You’re saying, yes, this is difficult for me, and awkward, and messy, but if there is pleasure in it for you then I want nothing more than to give you every possible pleasure — that’s all that matters. Know what I mean?”

Kate folded her arms and looked at her roomie with mock severity. “Do you have to have everything figured out the minute I ask a question?” Before Heather could react, she broke into a wide grin. “Just kidding. You’re probably right, though.”

“Hey, Kate, think you can spare an hour or two?” Heather asked.

“For what?”

“I’m feeling a little shopping jones coming on. I haven’t bought a new dress in ages.”

Kate’s eyes lit up. “I can always use a few little silky, lacy nothings myself,” she said happily.

“And of course there’s always...” Heather began.

“Shoes!” they said in chorus, grinning.

“I’ll get my purse!” called Kate, heading to her room.

“Beat you to the door!” challenged Heather, racing to hers.

An hour or two proved to be a very optimistic estimate.

On the last day of the Fall term, with a nice long Winter break to look forward to, Heather entered the studio for class. The master held the door for her, the first time he had greeted her at the door in some time, and as Heather hung up her overcoat he said “A nice diversion today, I think, from our recent studies.”

“What will we work on, sir?” Heather asked, eager as always to learn something new — and perhaps just a bit relieved to be spared four or five loads of cum in her eyes.

“Beauty,” was his enigmatic reply.

He held her hand as they walked to the bedroom, something he did quite rarely, and as it always did the simple gesture thrilled Heather, making her feel special, desired, and loved. She noticed, as they approached, that a video camera, mounted on a tripod, was pointed at the bed.

When they reached the bedroom, the master turned Heather to him, and reaching to her throat he began to unbutton her blouse. “Sir, I can do that if —”

“So can I,” he said with finality. Heather yielded to the new experience of being patiently undressed by her teacher. When her blouse was off he skimmed her camisole over her head, Heather doing nothing but raising her arms at the proper time. Her skirt quickly found its way to the valet stand, and in panties, pumps, and pigtails Heather stood quietly, hands at her sides, eyes lowered.

He surprised her, then, by untying the ribbons in her hair, and slipping off the elastic binders that they had concealed. But she loved being so close to him, loved the feeling of his hands on her body and in her hair, and did not mind in the least.

He opened a drawer in the table by the side of the bed, and took out a hairbrush. Returning to Heather, the master took hold of her panties and slid them down off her ass to rest half-way down her thighs.

Heather felt a momentary pang of fear. Panties down and a hairbrush? That could be considered as a very ominous pairing. But instead of a flash of burning pain from a hard-smacked buttock, she felt the master’s hands on her head, and the brush working gently at her long brown hair. She closed her eyes, and let peace return. No one had brushed her hair for her since her mother used to do it; she had forgotten how soothing it was. It was somewhat superfluous — undoing her pigtails had not substantially mussed her hair — but Heather was happy to be in the master’s care, and to have him direct their activities.

When he was satisfied with the sheen of Heather’s silky tresses, the master returned the hairbrush to its drawer, saying quietly as he did so, “On your knees.” By the time he turned around Heather was ready for him, hands bound by his will, eyes downcast.

His silk robe fell to the floor. “Today, not for speed, but for pleasure. All your artistry, please. Suck.”

Heather began at his balls, taking one between her lips and washing it gently with her soft pink tongue.

“We will explore beauty today. If I explained ahead of time, you would think of a dozen reasons that you do not want to do this particular thing. So we will simply experience, and then reflect.”

Puzzled, Heather switched testicles. She could barely form, let alone hold, the concept of not wanting to do whatever the master wished: his desires were instantly hers, without conscious thought. Rather than trying to figure out her teacher’s meaning, she concentrated on his pleasure, plied her arts, and enjoyed the feeling of being home: on her knees, sucking cock, on command.

Heather worked her way slowly up the underside of the master’s cock, licking and kissing; some ten minutes later she reached the tip and took him between her lips for the first time.

The best part of an hour slipped by, as Heather brought the master closer and closer to release with the slow, gentle, gradual, feminine progression that fellatio alone can accomplish. She felt her saliva thicken, and knew that meant he was beginning to leak. Then in an instant his cock was gone, and he was helping her to rise.

“On the bed, now,” he instructed, “Supine.”

Heather stretched out on the bed, panties around her thighs, and watched as the master joined her, straddling her chest. He leaned forward, put his hands behind her neck, and pulling upwards drew her hair out from beneath her, spreading it out in a perfect, even, silky fan on the bed above her head.

He positioned his cock against her face, spanning from cheek to forehead and pressing against the side of her nose, and then began to stroke against her soft skin, fucking Heather’s face in quite a new sense. One stroke, two, a third, the dripping wet cock slid over her face, and Heather extended her tongue to lick him as best she could. Another half-dozen strokes, and then Heather felt the unmistakable pulsations coursing along the heavy shaft of his cock.

She felt the cum in her hair as a weight, tugging at her scalp as each burst landed.

When the pumping spasms died away, the master climbed off his beautiful student, and went to the video mixer being fed by the bedside camera. While he worked, Heather lay still, content to wait, happy and satisfied that she had given the master the pleasure he sought.

“Come,” he said, beckoning, and Heather got out of bed. As she sat up she felt the wetness in her hair against her back. She joined her mentor at the video monitor, with panties lowered and cum sliding down her soft hair.

“I have found,” he said, fiddling with controls, “That my students do not like to hear me say: I will cum in your hair today. They object. They say it will be a mess, that it will never wash out, that it will dry there and make horrible tangles. Watch now.”

The video played. In slow motion, jets of pure white arced from the master’s cock and into the field of brown silk below it. As each line hit, the individual strands of hair, acting as a fine diffraction grating, caused the spermy burst to throw off showers of minuscule droplets, so as the weight of the thick white line traced a path through Heather’s hair its descendants sparkled and glittered all around it. Each jet was unique, interacting with her hair in different ways as the force and angle of contact changed.

“Beauty, is it not?” asked the master.

“It’s like fireworks,” Heather said, entranced. “It’s so pretty!”

“But what would you have said if I had given you warning?”

Heather had no trouble answering. “I would have said, sir, that this is your body, and if you want to... fuck my shoulder blade and cum in my ear, as long as I know you are taking pleasure from me, it would be my pleasure as well.”

“A satisfactory reply. I am glad to have had the chance to show you how beautiful this is, dispelling any silly prejudice you might perhaps have had. Now, to the shower, quickly.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “If it dries there it will make horrible tangles.”

Heather paused only to shed her shoes. She gave him the treat — she knew very well how much he loved it — of watching her scurry to the bathroom with her panties still down around her legs.

Reflection

...A minute before seven o’clock. A minute more to wait. Heather redoubled her efforts at calming herself. Focus, purpose, plan; skill and experience; practice. All would be well. She could do it; he would be helping with all his effort and skill. Relax. One more minute.

Heather thought of the weeks that had just slipped by. She could not possibly be more ready...

Second year, Spring semester

The Spring semester — it was still fresh experience more than it was memory — had been devoted to preparing for Heather’s Thesis.

They began in January, after the break, to find out how much work needed to be done. Heather dressed for the day in cardigan, camisole, skirt, panties, stockings, and heels: warm, pretty, and elegant. The master greeted her at the studio door for the first day of her final term.

“You are an expert fellatrix,” he said as she entered and shed her overcoat. “Adept at giving pleasure at great length. We will begin by trying to locate an upper bound to that talent. For the two hours we have today, you will suck me continuously, delaying climax as long as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” Heather replied, following him to his favorite armchair in the bedroom portion of the studio. To carry out her Thesis project, she would have to be able to suck his cock, giving pleasure without release, for somewhere between two and three hours — closer to three, almost certainly — and then bring him to orgasm within just a few seconds.

“Kneel and begin,” he commanded, taking a seat in the chair. Heather sank gracefully to her favorite position as the master opened his robe, revealing her god to her. She took him into her soft sweet mouth right away, sucking very gently. Some of her arts would have to be used sparingly, Heather knew — she would have to limit the deep excursions into her tightly clutching throat, for example, lest they prove too much of a stimulus. But she had scores of pleasures to give that were more subtle and gentle, and mixing those into an erotic blend should keep him aroused and pleased without pushing him to his peak.

Some ten minutes into the blow job, the master said, “Hands.” Gratefully, Heather released her behind-the-back grip on her wrist and let her hands come forward to rest on her thighs. Two hours with her arms bound behind her would have been rather painful, and she gave silent thanks for the master’s consideration.

He instructed her from time to time as she sucked his stiff cock, pointing out techniques and sequences that accelerated his arousal too fast, or suggesting variations in style; but he never had to warn her that she was losing his interest: Heather was far too accomplished for that to be a risk.

Heather lost herself in her cock worship. The fundamental rightness of being on her knees, in submissive service to a man for whom she had the utmost respect and love, was such a source of peace to the beautiful girl that the time passed quickly. Her mind was engaged wholly in her service, gauging the effects of every art she practiced; her emotional involvement in the master’s pleasure, reflected as her own, was complete; her body reveled in every sensation from her posture to the heat and weight and flavor of the massive shaft that filled her mouth.

When he came in her mouth there was no surprise: Heather had read all of his telltales perfectly, and had known the treat was on its way, beyond her ability to defer it any longer. When he lifted her off his cock, holding her face between his large, warm hands, she closed her lips and held the beautiful prize like a priceless treasure in her mouth.

The master expelled his last breath in a shuddering sigh. “One hour, forty-nine minutes,” he said, looking at a wall clock. “What do you think?”

Heather addressed him honestly. “Ngoh wery goog, hir,” she said, careful not to spill.

“I disagree,” he replied, continuing to hold her face in his hands. “It was longer than I expected for a first effort. Furthermore, I did not try to assist you by exercising patience and control. Your effort today gives me hope for your Thesis.”

Heather took heart at his words, her disappointment dissolving in the face of them.

“Open,” he said, and Heather opened her pretty mouth wide, showing off the deep pool of cum that covered her tongue. The master held her head in both hands and forced it all the way down his hard cock, plowing the plentiful load of cum down Heather’s throat. He held her there, her face pressed against his loins, helpless in his powerful grip, and Heather felt his cock throb once, twice, three times more in her throat, squeezing a final few drops of cum straight down to her stomach.

When he released her, a full minute later, she thanked him politely for his generous gift. Then Heather lowered her eyes and re-bound her hands, waiting patiently on her knees for further orders. With the chance finally to focus some attention on her own body, she realized how aroused and needy the long session of submissive cocksucking had made her.

“We will need more time,” the master mused as he stood and refastened his long robe. “One four-hour class a week will not be sufficient.” He left her there, went to the office, and came back with a small black book. “On your off days, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, are your evenings free?”

Heather thought quickly. She had little in the way of standing obligations, and could easily reschedule incidental appointments if there were any. “Yes, sir, they can be.”

“Very well. In addition to your class time, let me see you on those nights at seven o’clock.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you for giving me extra time, sir, I’m very appreciative of your interest and efforts.” Heather’s gratitude was genuine. The M.A.F. students had often marveled at the master’s packed schedule; particularly when Alexa had pointed out, while they were all studying timed cocksucking, that it involved roughly ninety-six blow jobs a week. That he was even able to produce an erection by Saturday’s last class was amazing; that he was offering three additional sessions a week to Heather even more so.

The master offered a hand to the kneeling girl and helped her to her feet. As she walked to the studio door to get her coat, he followed, looking at her. “Your stockings — the ones with the roses?” he asked.

Heather turned and smiled at him affectionately. She found his few soft spots charming, endearing, and sweetly amusing, and she loved to be able to indulge him in them: it made their relationship more personal and intimate. She lifted her skirt high to show off her stocking-tops and her black lace panties.

“No sir, these are pretty plain. Shall I wear the rose-topped stockings for you again?” she asked sweetly.

“At your convenience,” he replied, the indifference in his voice not fooling her for an instant.

Heather took advantage of having her teacher’s attention and interest. Still holding her skirt up with one hand, she rubbed herself through her panties with the other, stroking slowly between her legs. “Mmm, sucking your wonderful cock made me so horny, sir. I just know I’ll have to play with my pussy as soon as I get home.” Her voice was sultry and alluring, and to tease even more she slipped her fingers inside her panties as he watched, the delicate lace barely hiding them as they softly caressed her clit.

But he responded as he always did to her teasing: by turning the tables on Heather. “The bed is comfortable,” he said, gesturing back to the bedroom. “There is an hour before the next class. I see no point in waiting.” The no-nonsense look he directed at her gave his suggestions the force of orders.

Meekly, Heather dropped her skirt and headed back to the bedroom on suddenly shaky legs. She undressed under the master’s unwavering gaze, leaving only her high heels and stockings on; and as she stretched out on the bed he pulled a chair up next to it.

As Heather began to extend a tentative hand to her pussy, the master grabbed her around the waist and pulled her hips right to the edge of the bed where he sat. With one leg on either side of him, Heather’s pussy lay bare and open right before his eyes.

The humiliating situation only increased Heather’s arousal. Her right hand crept to her dewy lips and began to stroke, and her left soon found the hard nub of a nipple to toy with. To masturbate, so intimate and personal an act, as... a performance, a show — on command — inflamed her beyond measure. She had indeed been horny enough from the long session of cocksucking, but to be exposed like this, handled, ordered, to be helpless to do anything but obey, intensely thrilled the sweet submissive. She abandoned all restraint and played with herself openly, avidly, and the more she thought about the master’s eyes on her probing fingers and her widespread labia and her aching clittie and the copious wetness of her vagina, the hotter she grew and the more steeply her arousal climbed.

With a shudder that swept her from curling toes to rigid neck she came, bursting into orgasm before her observer, thrilled and elated that he could see and hear and smell her, nothing hidden, nothing held back, shyness and embarrassment and humiliation deeply felt but banished from consideration by her inescapable need to submit and obey.

When she could bring herself to look at him, Heather saw only a gentle smile on the master’s face. Her fingers roamed softly over the folds and valleys of her pussy. Still so horny, so needy, so on edge. Fluttery, trembling. At a word, she could —

“Delightful. Again, if you please.”

Heather continued to play. She had never had such an orgasm from her own hands, and was more than willing to relive the experience, if her body would coöperate...

When she came for the third time he gathered her into his arms and lifted her off the bed, settling her in his lap as he had once before. Heather spared a guilty thought for the giant wet spot she was making on his fine silk robe, but her orgasm-fogged mind let go of it quickly. She sank into the master’s welcome embrace and let her body relax completely. Peace came quickly to her, and a sense of belonging and contentment.

Their time came to an end far too soon. “Kate will be waiting,” the master said, “I must disturb you.”

Reluctantly, Heather left his embracing arms and his lap, and stood on legs that seemed too weak to support her. “Thank you, sir, for giving me a further opportunity to receive and obey your orders. I love to serve you in any way that you find pleasing.”

He rewarded her with a kind smile as he turned to head to the office. “Seven o’clock tomorrow,” he said in parting.

Heather dressed quickly. Kate was outside the door, sitting and waiting patiently. “Sorry,” Heather said to her. “I had to do some extra, um, work.”

Kate grinned at her. “Yeah, I know. I heard you through the door. Must have been a really tough job, to make you holler like that.” She chuckled at Heather’s rapid blush. “See you later,” she said with a finger-wave, and closed the studio door behind her.

Heather walked home, in good spirits, happy — but not as happy as she had been for those few short minutes in the master’s lap. How she wished she could hold on to that deep, perfect peace.

In the evenings, they worked on extending Heather’s ability to suck cock for longer and longer periods. She returned to Theme and Variations and re-read Ryan’s assertion that monotony, the repetition of any single cocksucking technique, tended to accelerate orgasm. So armed, she tried a high degree of variation, rarely kissing, licking, sucking, nibbling, or stroking the same way even twice in a row, and the master agreed that it was harder to bring him to climax that way.

The downside, of course, was that by the end of the ball game Heather had to have him only seconds away from cumming, so that she could synchronize his orgasm with the final play.

In the extended evening hours, which had no deadline to limit them, Heather first passed the two hour mark, and after much patience and practice and fine-tuning, finally made it to three. No one with an ordinary supply of self-control could possibly have endured three hours of Heather’s adept cocksucking, no matter how carefully she worked, without reaching orgasm; the master had to call on his last reserves of experience and restraint to hold himself back.

During her regular class days, Heather and the master explored new techniques together, trying to fill out her arsenal of sweet sucking strategies with even more delicate, subtle touches. They delved into the most obscure corners of performance literature, watched dozens of videos together, hunting for ideas, and tried out everything they found. It was not unusual for Heather to switch from reading in the office, to sucking in the bedroom, and back to reading, a score or more times in a class.

They devoured every article published on precision-timed cocksucking. There were no rules, per se, but every researcher made sure to emphasize that “there was no substantial cessation of stimulation” or “fellatio was continuous throughout the trial” or other words to that effect. It was a given that there would be occasional transitions, such as to move from cockhead to balls, but the general understanding prevailed that if the fellatrix stopped for even a few seconds just to let her partner cool off, the experiment was a flop.

A question occurred to Heather during one daytime class, as they pored over journals together, and it amused her to phrase it as she did. “Sir? What is fellatio?”

He looked up and raised an eyebrow, wondering if she was mocking him. “Your meaning?”

“What counts as fellatio? What things can I do? Obviously, sucking with your cock inside my mouth. But from all these articles it’s clear that kissing and licking and even using the teeth are considered fair. I mean — going by the dictionary, fellatio is oral stimulation, and oral means mouth-related, so that makes sense. But... remember, sir, when Kate and I were rubbing you with our faces?”

“Vividly,” the master replied, thoughts racing ahead of his inquisitive student.

“It’s not like you said ‘Hey, knock it off, that’s not real fellatio’ — I mean, it was close to our mouths, but not with our mouths, but you didn’t object at all.”

“I am not insane.”

That stopped Heather cold; then she laughed. “Right, I see your point. But I guess my question is, for a precision time trial, could I do something like that, sir? Rub you with my cheek?”

The master sat back in his chair, thinking. It was so satisfying to work with a student of Heather’s eager intelligence: she often caused him to think away from well-traveled paths.

“Because if things like that are considered fair play,” Heather continued, “It could really open up a lot of new techniques and approaches.”

“Yes.” He drum-rolled his fingers on the desk, softly, considering. “I shall have to consult with some of the experts in the field. There are no formal boundaries, but it would not do to publish your results only to be accused of error.” He stood and beckoned for Heather to follow him to the bedroom. “In the mean time, show me some of your ideas. If they have merit then the inquiries are warranted. If they are ineffective we need not bother.”

He sat in the armchair and exposed his stiffening cock to Heather, who went swiftly to her knees before him. “Suck for effect,” he ordered, “Near the edge. Then try to slow down as you envision.”

It had been a while since Heather had had the freedom to impale her throat at face-fuck speeds on the master’s massive cock, and she let herself go with a will. The well-loved sensation of being filled all the way, the cool rush of saliva as it spilled from her mouth, the puffy feeling of her lips from the rough friction — she enjoyed every aspect of it. Her joy increased a hundred fold when the master’s hands grabbed her by her twin braids and tugged her head down hard on every stroke, even as he bucked his hips up toward her, slamming down her throat with all the force she could handle.

Suddenly the tug on her hair reversed, and Heather was drawn off the glistening shaft.

“Close,” the master said, breathing hard. “Now try.”

She leaned forward and stroked the length of his cock with her cheekbone, turning her head so just the corner of her lips brushed him. With a wet stripe of saliva on her face, she rotated it slowly, massaging the underside of his cock shaft but avoiding its more sensitive head.

“Yes,” he breathed, “It is calming.” He let her continue for a while, evaluating his own reactions and discussing them with his student; then he took hold of Heather’s reins again and filled her throat. “Again to the edge,” he said, and fucked her face fast and hard. Heather’s scalp prickled as he tugged her head up and down his cock, and she gasped for breath on every outstroke.

“Again,” he commanded, pulling her off.

Heather chose another surface to soothe him with. She tilted her face down and rubbed the sensitive underside of his glans across her philtrum, letting the gentle undulations of her upper lip and the ultra-fine down of her skin caress him softly and gently. She slid her pretty face slowly from side to side and back, over and over, feeling the heavy shaft trace the alluring, feminine contour of her lip, stroking oh so sweetly.

The unheralded burst of semen, thick, hot, voluminous, and fired at high pressure, went straight up Heather’s nose.

She pulled away, caught instantly in a coughing, choking fit as warm, pungent cum filled her nasal passage and dripped down the back of her throat. Cum continued to fire from the master’s rod, splattering against Heather’s forehead and arcing into her hair, as the poor girl snorted and coughed in reflex reaction. As a cough tipped her head forward Heather took a spurt of cum on her right eyelid, and when she opened her eyes most of it seeped inside. She blinked her eye to clear it of cum, as the final jets of spooge caught her cheeks and chin.

“Hgggaaakkk,” went Heather, trying to clear the post-nasal sperm-drip feeling out of her head. She snorted, and spunk bubbled thickly out of her nose.

“Are you all right?” the master inquired, concerned.

Heather just nodded, and held up a finger to indicate “Give me a minute.” She felt a glob of jizz migrate down her forehead and watched it as it fell to her cheek, leaving a string of cum hanging from her brow, bisecting her vision like one cross-hair in a rifle scope. She snorted sperm once more and it turned into a laugh, and soon she was laughing uncontrollably and waving at her sticky face.

“Look at me! There’s cum every place cum can go!” She looked up and saw the master smiling broadly at her, tickled by her amusement and good nature. “So much for subtlety. Made you cum like a fire hose, that one did.”

“The physical sensation was calming,” the master observed, indulgently watching Heather as she scraped cum off her eyelid with a fingernail. “The combination of the gesture’s novelty, its gentle submissiveness, and the extreme beauty of your face, was difficult to resist, however. And I was perhaps too close to begin with.”

She stopped laughing abruptly and looked up at her mentor with nothing but serious purpose. “Extreme beauty?” she said, her voice quavering.

“I find you beautiful, Heather. Surely you know that. And never more so than now, as you are.”

“Thank you, sir,” she whispered, heart pounding. She tipped her face downward so that he would not see how deeply she was moved by his words, and cum dripped off her face to fall on her smooth bare thighs. She felt his warm hand stroke the top of her head.

“We must try again,” the master said, “When you feel ready. Your ideas have merit, despite one mishap, and should be explored further.”

“I am ready now, sir,” Heather replied. “I am ready always,” she thought. “For you, sir, always.” She lifted her dripping, cum-smeared face and sucked him into her mouth. “For you, sir, forever.”

When they next met, the master told Heather what his contacts with other timed blow job experts had revealed.

He sat in the bedroom armchair. She stood before him, legs well parted, wearing nothing but her rainbow-hued Betseyville Valentin quarter-strap sandals, acquired on her last shopping trip with Kate. She had replaced the dangling charms on the ankle straps with tiny silver handcuffs, and hoped the master would notice and comment. There was, after all, some precedent for being able to entice him with pretty footwear. But so far all of his attention had been focused on their conversation.

“...Strictly to the meaning of the word ‘oral’,” he said. “Your side-of-the-face technique would therefore be disallowed.” He saw the disappointment in Heather’s face. “However, when I described your use of your upper lip, they were generally supportive. Receptive to the argument that, if lips are in play, as they clearly are, then every part of the lip is fair. So, a mixed result, no real surprise.”

Heather sighed. “It’s never easy, sir, is it?”

The master gave a small shrug. “We are here not to do the easy, but the beautiful and the perfect. ‘Easy’ is the untrained girl, with her fist wrapped around a cock, pumping away like mad as she sucks the tip.”

Heather shuddered at the awful thought.

Fellatio is an articulate, visual, feminine art: feminine not meaning performed by a woman, but meaning that the curve of the man’s sexual arousal over time is woman-like, a non-monotonic rise and fall, an undulation, a wandering path, rising slowly and at length only when considered from afar. Like the path of a stream from beginning to orgasm, rather than like the straight-line highway between the same two endpoints. Heather could no more imagine trying to rush straight up toward climax than she could imagine... keeping her eyes closed, or holding her mouth unchanging and passive, or spitting out cum with ungrateful distaste.

“So, let us return to the external surfaces of the lips, and experiment. Perhaps on other, less sensitive parts of the cock.” The master leaned over in his seat, opened a drawer in the bedside table, and after a few seconds search came up with a pair of handcuffs. He reached around Heather to fasten them around her wrists, saying, “And for some strange reason, I think I will have you bound for class today.” As he sat back, Heather thought she saw, for one unbelievable fraction of a second, that he winked at her. “Begin,” he commanded.

“Yes, sir,” said Heather, sinking easily to her knees, happy to work on the perfection of her beautiful art.

Several days later, Heather dressed with particular care before going to class.

She waited until the master had shut the studio door and turned back toward her. Quickly untying the belt of her long overcoat, Heather pulled it open and let it slip from her shoulders.

Without the coat, she wore only a tight black lace corset, shiny black leather d’Orsay pumps with a five-inch heel, and sheer black stockings.

Stockings with red roses woven into their wide lace tops.

In bending over to retrieve her coat and hang it up, Heather made certain to turn directly away from her teacher, so that he would have a good view of her soft, bare pussy and firm little ass. When she stood up straight, she preened a little bit, knowing how well her corset displayed her proud breasts, her narrow waist, and the sweet curve of her hips; but most of all she knew that he loved the stockings.

“Come,” he said, holding out a hand. He led her to the bedroom and to the far side of the bed, where there was a small circular posing and inspection stand that they had never had use for. He helped her climb up onto it, and without being told Heather immediately parted her legs, placing her feet at the circumference of the stand, so that his eyes, or hands, or anything else, would have unimpeded access to her body. As she had been trained to do for inspections, Heather put her hands on top of her head, interlacing her fingers.

He walked around to stand behind her. Heather felt his hand on her ankle, slowly, slowly stroking upward over her soft, sheer hosiery, sliding up the inside of her leg with infinite patience and care. His hand passed her knee and continued upward, and as it reached her thigh Heather felt the familiar twin sensations: her stomach started to flutter with desire, and moisture rose in her pussy. He moved even more slowly, stroking and caressing her inner thigh, until his fingers slipped past the sheer fabric and onto the lace band that held her elegant stockings tightly to her legs. She felt him trace the roses with careful, gentle fingers. She thought, “Please don’t stop there please don’t stop please don’t please please.” Her scent reached her nostrils: sharp, tangy, needy.

But his hand left her; a second later, she felt the other one on her ankle, on the outside of her leg. It made the same, slow, drawn out excursion, from ankle to calf to knee to thigh, while inside Heather’s arousal-drugged mind there was nothing but the urgent plea.

Then the first hand returned; both hands held her thigh, stroking softly through the delicate rose lace. They moved upward, slipping past lace and onto firm creamy bare thigh, and Heather’s moan of satisfaction was loud in her own ears. The inner hand slid upwards; the outer moved to her ass; the inner touched her pussy and Heather shuddered with desire; the hand on her ass spread her and the hand on her pussy gripped more firmly, the curve of forefinger and thumb arced to fit her snugly between the legs, finger on her leaking labia, thumb between her cheeks, pressing against her tiny asshole.

Then his finger was between her lips, pressing against her inner folds and her clit, and the hand on her taut ass was squeezing, fondling, the hand between her wide-spread legs was moving, rocking, stroking asshole pussy clit, juice everywhere, sharp scent, panting, heat, her wordless rhythmic voice, more fingers, harder, deep inside, more, stroking, plunging, more more more asshole-pussy-clit, blurred sensation, throbbing, tremors throughout her body rising, closing in, peaking, “Aaaeeiiiiiiiiihh!” the keening scream of orgasm, clenching hard on the two thick fingers deep inside her cunt.

It was very near to fainting. When she became aware of her surroundings again, Heather felt one hand still cupping her pussy from behind, but the other on her hip, helping to steady her. When the master was sure of her balance, he released her; Heather ached for the return of his hands. Instead, he walked around the stand to face her.

“Thank you, sir,” she gasped. “That was... the best. Thank you so much.”

“Your hands free, now,” he said. Heather lowered her trembling arms, grateful for the release. “The stockings are beautiful. And they teach,” the master continued.

Heather, head still swimming from her powerful orgasm, could only manage, “Sir?”

“They would not be beautiful lying in a drawer, or draped over a chair, or dangling from your hands. Their beauty is entirely a potential. The potential is realized only when they adorn your legs; to be beautiful they must draw from your resources: your healthy body, your fitness, your lovely feminine shape. Your submissiveness, like the stockings, is beautiful in potential only. The potential is realized when it draws on your strength of character, your pride, your intelligence, and your devotion.”

“I understand, sir,” said Heather.

“There is perhaps one more parallel. The beauty of your stockings, and the beauty of your submission, to be complete, must be shared with one who can truly appreciate them.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you —” Her voice caught. “Thank you for seeing the beauty in my nature, sir. And for showing it to me.”

The master regarded his student with great fondness, which was clear in his face. “I would like to ask a favor of you, Heather,” he said. “It is not my place to do so, and your refusal would be perfectly understandable.”

Heather, stunned by the humble way he broached the subject, simply asked, “What would you like, sir?”

He hesitated, and Heather grew more and more deeply curious. There seemed little that she could do for him or give him; she could not imagine what was on his mind.

“You will leave my class soon,” he said softly. “And go about your life, as is proper. I will remember you, but...”

“Go on, sir, you can tell me,” Heather said, gently encouraging.

“I would like, if I may, to have a photograph of you. Just like this, in your pretty roses. Just... to help an old man’s memory, every now and then.”

Heather’s first reaction was to refuse on the spot. Throughout her undergraduate years, and during many sessions with the master, film and still pictures had been used as teaching materials, so that she could watch herself and be coached. But by University policy every clip and every photo went directly into the student’s hands, to guard against any hint or suspicion of misuse. Heather had never had to confront the idea of someone else having an explicit photo of her, one that would outlast their actual relationship.

But, uncomfortable though it might make her feel, Heather had absolute trust in the master; and she was keenly aware that to refuse the one and only request of a man who had done so much for her, devoted so much time to her, guided her and supported her with such care and patience and love, would be wickedly selfish, heartless, a cruel slap in the face. She tried to picture herself refusing, and instantly hated the resulting self-image.

Then his words played back through her mind and, reflecting on what Anya and Ariel had said, she finally recognized the empty loneliness and pain that lay behind them.

“If a picture of me would make you happy, sir, then please take one.” Heather’s coy, teasing streak got the better of her again. “Do you want me just like this, with my little pink pussy all open and juicy, and my legs spread wide, and my nipples hard?”

“Just like that. I thank you for granting my request. I know that I did not make an easy one.” He went to the office and came back with the still camera. Heather put her hands behind her back, emphasizing her beautiful little breasts, put a sultry, bedroom expression on her face, and posed for him.

The camera flashed; the master checked its display and nodded.

“Once again, I express my gratitude. I did not wish to have only my faulty memory,” he said, as he helped Heather down from the display stand.

“Did the other girls all say ‘yes’ as well, sir?” Heather inquired innocently, as she walked with him toward the office.

For the first and last time ever, Heather saw a blush on her teacher’s face. “I asked only you,” he said.

Thesis

...At seven o’clock on the dot, the inner door to the studio opened. Heather rose, left her last nervousness in the hallway, and entered.

She wore a dress purchased for the occasion. It was red, with thin shoulder straps and a low-cut neckline; short and swishy, with the hem a good five inches above the knee. Its stellar feature was red lacing all the way up the otherwise bare back: tied properly, it acted like a gentle version of a corset, squeezing Heather snugly at the waist and highlighting her beautiful, sexy breasts and hips.

On her legs she sported a pair of Musette thigh-high stockings in sheer black. The stocking-tops laced in back with a thin red ribbon, criss-crossing four times up her thighs and ending in a bow: a beautiful, miniature echo of the corset-lacing in her dress. The dress was short and swirly enough to let some of the stocking-tops and laces peek out when Heather moved, enticing eyes and hands to wander higher.

She also had bought some new shoes to go with the dress. Bright red sandals with one strap across her toes, and red ribbon ties that wrapped around her ankle and up her calf, crossing four times before ending in a pretty bow behind her leg. But the most stunning feature of the shoes was their tall spike heels: at six-and-a-quarter inches the highest Heather had ever worn. She had practiced in them in her apartment, night after night, learning to walk with a steady, comfortable, confident stride despite the tip-toe angle of her feet.

Heather had thought about going bare beneath her dress, but after trying several pairs of panties, she decided on a string thong in red satin.

The master was wearing a long silk robe of pure jet black, without decoration; its simple formality seemed to Heather to suit the occasion.

“You are beautiful, stunning,” he said to her by way of greeting.

He was not a man much given to personal remarks; certainly not one for empty flattery. Heather blushed at his words. “Thank you, sir. I’m glad you like my dress.”

“I had not noticed it,” he said, making Heather’s face even rosier. “But now that you mention it, your outfit is quite pleasing. I love the shoes — show me.” He made a little out-and-back gesture with his hand, and Heather, suddenly feeling a bit shy, gave him her best catwalk stride away from him, a deliberate turn and pause, and the same sexy stride back, showing off her swishy short dress and her extreme tip-toe heels. She watched him watching her sexy, curvy legs and smiled.

“Very pretty indeed,” he said. “Now, where would you like me?”

“I think in your favorite chair in the bedroom, sir, if that’s all right.”

“It is entirely up to you. I will get the radio,” he replied.

Heather went to the bedroom, where he joined her. He put the portable radio on a table beside the armchair, and clicked it to life.

...is on the air, coming to you from Petro Stadium on WHES-AM, WHES-FM, and our network affiliates around the state. Tonight, the Austin Anvils, who lead the American League South division by a game and a half, open a three-game series hosting second-place rivals the Little Rock Leopards, in what should prove to be an exciting Friday night contest. Hellooooo, baseball fans! This is Gordon Jackson, happy to be with you to bring you the play-by-play of tonight’s...

Heather stepped close to the master and tilted her pretty face up to him. “Would you be so kind as to help me out of my dress, sir?” She turned, and felt his warm, gentle fingers carefully unlace her corset-dress, working surely and quickly. When it was loose she slipped out of it; the tiny strings of her thong panties did little to conceal her alluring body from him. As she straightened up, Heather was startled to feel the master slip one arm around her, his hand cupping a breast, as the other hand stroked her soft, bare ass cheek.

“I will not distract you during your performance,” his voice came softly in her ear. “So please forgive me this brief indulgence.”

Heather felt her nipple crinkle into hardness in the palm of the master’s hand, as his other one, softly caressing her bottom, woke arousal in her core. She had expected that her marathon cocksucking session would make her horny, wet, and needy; she had not expected to be so turned on before she started.

...And now for the lineups, here’s my partner, Dave Madden.

Thank you, Gordon; and good evening everyone! For the visiting Leopards, who come into tonight’s game with a record of eighteen and eleven: leading off will be number twenty-three, the center fielder, Ian Morton. Batting second, the catcher, number seven, Darren Townley. In the three-hole, playing at first base, number fifteen, Jeff Cassidy. Batting clean-up for the Leopards is the designated hitter, number twenty-six, Fidel Rodriguez. Batting fifth...

“Mmmm, that feels so nice, sir. There is nothing to forgive in the least,” Heather purred.

“There is. I should let you compose your thoughts,” the master replied, and to Heather’s disappointment he released her. When she turned around he was taking a seat in the wide armchair. “Would you like a cushion for your knees?” he asked.

“No, sir, I’m fine without.” Heather smiled broadly. “I happen to have been well trained in the position.” She got down on her knees in front of her teacher, and felt the ribbon bows at her calves tickle the backs of her thighs. “Are you ready, sir?” A nod was her reply.

...brief word from our sponsor, we’ll return for the first pitch.

Heather untied the master’s robe and opened it. “Would you be more comfortable taking it off?” she asked.

“As you wish. Everything should be as you wish; whatever you feel is best for your task.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s fine like this.”

“You may have your hands free, of course,” the master said. Heather hadn’t even thought about keeping her hands bound for the long night ahead of her, and was grateful that he had. “Is the volume adequate?”

“It’s fine, sir.” Heather suddenly realized that the master was suffering from some nervousness of his own. Certainly, it was her Thesis that was on the line — but it was also his student’s success, and he had an emotional stake in the outcome.

...on WHES, the radio home of Anvils baseball. The managers and umpires have exchanged lineup cards and are going over the ground rules, so we should be underway in just a minute. Dave, what would you say is the key to tonight’s game for the Anvils?

Well, Gordon, not to sound like a broken record, but it’s going to come down to the Anvils’ starting pitcher, left hander Preston White. In his last start he was roughed up, going only four and a third...

Heather cleared her mind of distractions, and focused on two things: the sound of the radio, and the cock that lay before her, limp against the master’s leg. Two hours and forty-six minutes — give or take a minute, or an hour, or more.

She had French-braided her hair in twin plaits, to make sure it kept out of the way; she rolled her head, stretching and loosening her neck muscles, and felt the ends of the braids brush softly across her back. The ribbons that tied them off matched the two bows adorning her shapely calves, and the two tiny ones that snugged her stockings around her firm, smooth thighs.

She bent over the master’s lap, resting her arms on his legs. She listened.

...plate umpire Frank Furman calls ‘Play’ and we’re ready to go. White gets the sign... and delivers: low and away for ball one, one-and-oh the count to the right-handed hitting Ian Morton. Morton enters the game a career four-for-twelve against Preston White, so White will be working the corners, hoping for...

Heather pressed her sweet, soft lips to the base of the master’s cock, right where it met his scrotum, and her dainty tongue-tip came out to play. She licked softly, teasingly, not moving her lips, letting her tongue provide the most tentative, gentle arousal. If it took her half an hour to get him fully hard, so much the better.

She concentrated for a long time on base and balls — a pun not lost on her — easing the master into fullness with great care. As she concentrated on his face, his breathing, the tightening or loosening of his sack, the shifting of his cock, his thickness, his hardness, his pulse, concentrated with the devoted attention that lies at the heart of cock worship, she listened as well to the game in progress. She tried to picture a score card in her head, the slow spiral roll of diamonds across the page, and to keep track of how each batter was performing.

...strike three looking! Oh, and Jeff Cassidy knew it, too, he was already on the way back to the dugout when Furman threw up that right arm for the strike three call. The Leopards go down in order, and at the end of a half inning of play, Leopards nothing, and the Anvils are coming to bat. You’re listening to...

The master’s cock beat softly against Heather’s cheek. Heather could gauge his hardness: not quite full, not far off. She had not yet taken any part of him substantially inside her mouth, still relying mostly on kisses and licks to stimulate him softly.

Heather loved her task. Her fear, her nerves, her sense of all-or-nothing risk, were no longer present in her heart. She felt love for the amazing man she was serving, pride in his clear trust in her, joy in her submission, comfort in her subservient pose, and contentment in her purpose. She loved the man, and she worshipped in devoted service through his cock.

As play resumed, she wiped her juicy tongue up to its tip, wetting his full length for the first time. The heavy shaft jumped and slapped Heather in the face. She smiled, and trailed her lips slowly downward. “I think you liked that,” she said, her lips moving against the master’s cock, caressing it as she spoke.

He did not answer. They had decided ahead of time that he should be silent, lest an explicit verbal clue detract in any way from Heather’s accomplishment. But that was no constraint on Heather, and she knew that, if need be, she could help to arouse him with words — as long as her mouth never left his beautiful cock.

...Alan Arnosti stepping in to lead off for the Anvils, facing the right-handed pitching Randy Balfour, who is making his first start of the year after coming out of the pen and into the rotation for the Leopards.

Gordon, Arnosti is currently leading the AL South in bunt base hits, in sacrifice bunts, and in batting average when leading off an inning. He’s been doing a great job offensively, showing that his Spring numbers were no accident. I think he’s got second base locked up right now, which has to make Hernandez, sitting on the bench again tonight, mighty frustrated.

Swing and a foul, straight back over the netting, on Balfour’s first pitch, a fastball middle half away. Oh-and-one the count. You’re right about that, Dave, he’s been red-hot in April and again here in the month of May...

Heather knelt in her calf-laced sandals, elegant, eye-catching stockings, and tiny red satin panties; her hair perfectly arranged and bound; her evening makeup mature and classy. Her clear brown eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and delight; her fit young body was firm and curvy and inviting; and as she worked carefully on keeping her mentor and lover at exactly the right level of arousal and pleasure, she might have been the goddess of sexual love personified. There was no more beautiful sight to be seen in the world at that moment.

She soft-stroked the upper side of the master’s rigid cock shaft with her lips, sliding a long kiss slowly up and down its length, stopping shy of the coronal ridge. It was far too soon to get to places that sensitive. Keeping carefully to her theme of high variation, she changed her approach, and spent a few seconds washing one heavy round testicle in her mouth, using the broad surface of her tempting pink tongue.

The game progressed without incident. They had chosen a roofed park, the Anvils’ Petro Stadium, to eliminate the possibility of rain delays. The short string was broken for Preston White when Little Rock designated hitter Fidel Rodriguez led off the second with a walk; the no-hitter ended for Randy Balfour on a bloop single by Anvils catcher Carter Owens in the bottom of the same frame. Heather made one of a hundred mental notes: unless one pitcher or the other rode a shutout late into the game, both managers would probably turn to relief in the sixth or seventh innings. That would add some length for warmups, but subtract time spent by tired starters beginning to flag. She calculated carefully, darted an occasional glance at the clock, and sucked cock with beauty, grace, skill, and devotion.

...will reach, and Owens gains third on the play. That will bring up center-fielder Chuck Foster for the Anvils, runners at the corners and nobody out.

Gordon, this is a classic sacrifice bunt situation, but Foster is a power guy — I don’t think I’ve seen him lay down a bunt all year long.

You’re right about that, Dave. Balfour checks the runners and delivers... and Foster bunts! It’s a good one, right down the first base line, Balfour charging, scoops it up and fires to Cassidy at first... out! by a step. Owens scores, Welke to second, and the Anvils take an early one-nothing lead here in the second, on Chuck Foster’s very surprising sacrifice bunt.

Listen to the fans, Gordon, they can’t believe their eyes either. Balfour looks a little rattled, taking some extra time to get back on the mound.

Now the right fielder Trent Gammon steps in for the Anvils, riding an oh-for-eleven hitless streak that...

Heather continued to worship the master’s cock, with her mouth, her intellect, and her emotions fully engaged, while the game rolled along. When third baseman Rodger Barnes opened the third inning for Little Rock with a first-pitch solo homer off Preston White, tying the game at one run, she had just begun to suck the head for the first time. She lingered only briefly, though: with six and a half more innings to play she could not afford to bring her teacher anywhere near a high state of arousal.

The fourth inning passed scoreless and without much of a threat by either team, ending on a one-out 5-5-4 double play to waste a couple of singles by the Anvils. The fifth was even quieter, with each side sending just three men to the plate. Heather spent the first three appearances sucking the master’s large, heavy balls, and the last three licking softly back and forth along the sides of his vein-gnarled cockshaft.

...of the sixth, center-fielder Ian Morton steps in. He grounded out to the pitcher to open the game, and then hit into an around-the-horn double play in the third inning, retiring Anthony Posner, who drew a walk to follow Barnes’s homer. He takes a breaking ball low and in, one ball and no strikes the count... White, working quickly, winds and delivers... it’s a high fly ball, deep center field, I don’t think it’s going to clear the fence, Foster chasing, at the track... and it’s off the wall, Morton digging for two and there won’t be a play on him. A stand-up double for Ian Morton to open...

Tie game, runner in scoring position, top of the sixth, no outs, decent pitch count for both starters, no hint of leaking semen yet, cock fully stiff and pulsing gently, breathing normal, the master’s eyes on her, watching with affection, love, interest, curiosity... Heather’s mind, even more agile than her beautiful wet tongue, kept track of every last detail. She let her wet lips glide along the ventral surface of the master’s pole, tapping gently with her tongue as she went.

...Darren Townley laces one into the gap in right center, this should score Morton, Gammon has the ball and he’s going to try for the play at the plate, strong throw! Owens dives for the tag... Safe! at home. Townley reaches second and that’ll go on the books as a single, a fielder’s choice, and a run batted in, as the Leopards break the tie and take a two-to-one lead here in the top of the sixth...

As the game progressed, Heather, knowing that she could not simply keep the master on indefinite simmer and then bring him to a full boil in only seconds, began to suck less for maintenance and more for effect, ever so slowly increasing her attentions to the more sensitive parts of his cock, very gradually allowing herself to repeat the same lick or kiss or suck a few times in a row.

Both starters lasted longer than she would have predicted. White gave up a two-out solo home run in the top of the seventh and two batters later, at the seventh inning stretch, he was done for the night.

...closes the line on Preston White, seven innings pitched, three runs, all of them earned, seven hits, four walks, and five strike outs.

That’ll go in the books as a quality start, Gordon, but only by the numbers. White did not pitch particularly well, and not just those two taters but the four walks, very uncharacteristic for the control pitcher that he is.

Not to mention, Dave, he gave up four doubles, one in the second, one in the fourth, two back-to-back in the sixth to give the Leopards a two-to-one lead, all of them hit hard and deep — any one of those could have gone out with just a little bit more height.

Yeah, take a look in the dugout, pitching coach Mel McGwain is still right in White’s face, I think he saw a lot of pitches he wasn’t too happy about.

So, Pete Perez takes the mound for the Anvils in the top of the eighth, relieving Preston White, and he’ll face the four, five, and six batters, Fidel Rodriguez, DeWayne Brown, and Norm Colon. The Leopards have a three to one lead. Here’s Perez’s first pitch to designated hitter Fidel Rodriguez... strike, that big twelve-to-six curve ball, and Rodriguez was just locked up by it. Now the pitch... a hard shot down the right field line, fair! past a diving Jerry Morris at first, this ball is going to find the corner, Rodriguez rounding second and pouring it on, Gammon’s throw cut off, and Rodriguez is in with a triple to open the eighth inning...

With so many ways to score a man from third with no outs, Heather made the assumption that the Leopards would go ahead by three runs before long. If Balfour or a relief pitcher could keep the Anvils in check in the bottom of the eighth, that would bring Leopards closer Dustan Ames in to pitch the bottom of the ninth. Ames hadn’t had many chances, but Heather knew his record from the previous season: thirty-six saves in thirty-eight opportunities.

She calculated odds, evaluated possibilities and probabilities, and began to suck cock more strongly, more emphatically, to begin to ramp the master up towards a plateau from which she could make him cum at will.

...Brown slaps a base hit through the gap, Rodriguez scores easily from third, and it’s a four-to-one lead for the Little Rock Leopards. Perez needs to settle down in a big hurry here, Dave...

Justin Moss relieved Randy Balfour for the Leopards to pitch the bottom of the eighth and worked an efficient four-batter, eight-pitch inning. Heather sucked the master’s cock deep into her mouth, reserving the depths of her tightly clinging throat for the final effect, but otherwise going all out. Perez stayed in to retire Little Rock in the top of the ninth, and with a four-one lead, the Leopards did indeed bring in their deadly closer, Dustan Ames, to save the game. Heather knew that Ames was a pitch-to-contact man, not intimidating batters with heat or movement, but inducing them to swing over the ball, tapping into easy infield outs. The ninth was likely to end in just a few minutes.

Heather’s active, agile, well-trained tongue stroked the master’s pulsing cock, her cheeks and palate caressed its head, her lips slid enticingly along the shaft, and she tasted the sharp flavor of semen as he began to leak into her hungry mouth.

...Ames faces Carter Owens, who is one-for-three tonight with a run scored in the second. The pitch... a line drive and a base hit, just out of reach of second baseman Anthony Posner, and Owens leads off the ninth with a single. Wow, was that ball sharply hit...

Heather continued to suck for effect. A runner on meant nothing; the tying run was still on deck and a ground ball double play was more than likely with Ames pitching. She lapped up the gently flowing droplets from the master’s cock and sucked joyfully. It was going to be somewhere close to the three hour mark — an amazing accomplishment.

...the pitch, and there goes the runner! the pitch is outside and Townley fires toward second... safe! with a stolen base for Carter Owens.

There aren’t many catchers in the league with base stealing speed, Gordon, but Owens runs great and he had that one stolen by a good three feet. The throw was on target but I think Owens caught Ames napping a little bit, he had a great jump on that play.

So it’s three-and-oh now to D.H. Marvin Welke, with Owens now in scoring position and nobody out. Ball four high, he walked him, two on now for the Anvils and center-fielder Chuck Foster steps in. Ames checks the runners, checks again, steps off.

I think that steal made him a little twitchy, Gordon, he’s not looking real comfortable right now.

Ames is ready, he sets, delivers... line drive, caught! by Dustan Ames. Wow! What a catch, that ball was a rocket right back to the mound.

He had two possible plays there, Gordon, he could make a spectacular catch, or he could take that thing at a hundred miles an hour right in the teeth.

That’s going to make the highlight reels this week, no doubt about it. One away now and right-fielder Trent Gammon will bat, oh-for-three today with two strikeouts, now oh-for his last fourteen at-bats. A strike is in, oh-and-one. The infield is keeping close tabs on Owens at second, I won’t be surprised if there’s a pickoff play in the works. Ames sets and delivers... wide, one-and-one. No sign of any base-running plays from Owens and Welke. Ames is ready, checks second, fires... a tapper right back to Jeff Cassidy at first, he holds the ball long enough to keep Owens at second, then tags Gammon on the base path, three unassisted the play. And the Anvils are down to their last out...

Heather sucked cock as if her life depended on it. All of her most arousing, most erotic, most stimulating techniques came into play, as she artfully drove the master closer and closer to orgasm. The taste of semen was constant in her mouth, and she knew from his slightly irregular breathing that he was fighting off his climax, helping her in every way he could to time the explosion to the exact second.

...one-and-two the count to third baseman Alejandro Major, oh-for-three tonight, and he is hitless in his career against Dustan Ames. The pitch... low, two-and-two. The Anvils down to their last strike here, and the crowd is starting to trickle out of the ball park. Ames sets, delivers... a high fly ball, deeeeeeeeep right field, way back! waaaay back! Brown turns and looks up, gone! A three run home run for Alejandro Major, driving in Owens and Welke, and the Anvils tie the game at the last possible chance!

Heather tore her face off the master’s throbbing cock and instantly slid down to rub her philtrum softly against its very base, one of the least-sensitive spots available to her. She blew soft, cooling streams of air against his heated shaft. She heard the master groan — he attempted to stifle it, but looking to the side she could see his fingers making deep impressions in the leather of the armchair. His thighs were so tense they vibrated, and Heather could hear him breathing rapidly, almost panting, as he fought to hold off an orgasm that had been just seconds away.

She held her face almost still, barely caressing the juncture of cock and balls with her lips. She listened as the master’s breathing slowly calmed, and watched the tension in his legs slowly bleed away.

“We are here not to do the easy, but the beautiful and the perfect,” said Heather softly, lips pressed against cock. She felt the master’s response, his warm hand stroking her elegantly interlaced hair, then sliding lower to cup her delicate ear and caress it with his thumb. His cock was iron-hard and his pulse throbbed in it; the head was smeared with the early signs of impending orgasm and with Heather’s saliva. She nibbled and kissed, hoping against hope that she had not brought him too far along.

But as the game continued to unfold, it was clear that that was a serious problem. Heather had taken her mentor right to the brink of cumming, and his arousal remained at its very peak. There was almost nothing she could do that would qualify as uninterrupted fellatio, that did not risk triggering his climax.

The Leopards went three up, three down in the tenth, with Darren Washington pitching for the Anvils in relief of Perez; the Anvils followed suit in the bottom of the frame, facing Dustan Ames in an unprecedented second inning of work for the closer. Heather listened carefully as the tie persisted, now completely without a reference point for the performance of the pitchers, and tried her hardest to help the master calm his arousal.

But that had its own perils. If the Leopards took a lead, she would have time to listen and adjust. But if the Anvils scored first, she would have little or no warning before the game would be over.

...brings us to the bottom of the eleventh inning, with Bobby Rider taking the mound for the Leopards. He’ll face Owens, Welke, and Foster. Owens with a two-for-four night and two runs scored, one on a sacrifice by Chuck Foster in the second, one on the game-tying blast by Major in the ninth. The pitch... in the dirt, skipping away from catcher Darren Townley, one-and-oh the count to the very patient Owens...

Heather glanced up at her teacher’s face, and saw that he had closed his eyes. He had never done that before, and Heather soon realized that he was taking the visual excitement of looking at her out of the equation — for no matter how subtle her technique, Heather’s beautiful, slim, feminine, nearly nude body and her sexy young face were themselves quite powerfully stimulating.

...and the 4-6-3 double play erases the walk to Owens and batter Welke. Chuck Foster faces Rider and takes a ball, just off the inside corner. Rider continuing to struggle with control...

And clearly, the master was still struggling with control himself. The tension in his body had eased somewhat but was still palpable, and it looked to Heather that his teeth were tightly clenched. His cock still oozed with signs of his very high level of arousal; Heather’s lips slid through the slippery leakage as she kissed, ever so gently, the length of his thick, heavy shaft.

...Cassidy flips it underhand to Rider, covering first, and that will retire Trent Gammon and the Anvils. With eleven innings in the books, we remain tied at four...

Heather wished so much that the master would give her some verbal guidance; she was adept at reading his telltales, but she had no experience interpreting the level of tension, restraint, and phenomenal self-control he was exhibiting. She lapped softly at his sack, between his balls, searching for spots that would appeal without setting him off; his pulsating cock bounced and danced against her face as she licked him.

The Leopards went down one, two, three in the top of the twelfth inning, and Heather began to despair. No matter how much she tried to be subtle and delicate, to prolong her cock-worship session to its utmost, there was no denying the fact that everything the beautiful co-ed did had some arousing effect, and the master, having held back as strongly as he was able, was obviously at the limit of his control. The tension in his legs had returned fully, and Heather could see once again that the leather of the armchair was being dented by his fingers where his hands rested on its arms.

...third baseman Alejandro Major steps in to the batter’s box. Major hit the game-tying home run in the ninth, just his second long ball of the year. Rider winds, delivers... oh! he hit him!

Right square in the back, Gordon: that’s gonna hurt. No doubt that was intentional: a guy blows your victory with one swing and the next time up you nail him? That’s a purpose pitch.

Now home plate umpire and crew chief Frank Furman is issuing warnings to both dugouts. Oh, and does that make Anvils manager Don Gardener angry!

Pretty much a pet peeve of his, Gordon, his guy gets drilled and he has to sit through a warning — and that leaves no way to even up the score. Look at him, the bench coach and the batting coach are standing in his way, trying to keep him from charging the field. He’s barkin’ at Furman, and Furman’s barkin’ back.

Oh, my. Well, Major is on first, Stewart Ross is up to bat in the nine-spot, one-for-four tonight, and he’s been rung up twice by Furman. He takes a pitch low — and there goes Major, there’s going to be a play, strong throw by Townley... safe! In with a stolen base, and the Anvils have the winning run in scoring position with nooooobody out in the bottom of the twelfth...

Heather watched the master’s face. With his eyes closed she had lost one of her best signals to his condition; on the other hand, she didn’t need much in the way of telltales. He was ready to cum, and her opportunity for staving that off was rapidly diminishing. She trailed a sinuous tongue-tip up the length of his massive cock, avoiding the sensitive glans.

...four pitch walk to Ross, runners at first and second now. But Ross doesn’t matter a hill of beans: Major is the Leopards’ only concern. Alan Arnosti bats, facing Rider. Swiiiing and a miss, strike one, oh-and-one the count.

Arnosti is a typical lead-off guy, very patient at the plate, he likes to see a lot of pitches. But this late in the game, I think we’re going to see everybody swinging for the fences, hoping to put an end to it.

I think you’re right, Dave. Swing and a miss at a pitch that was definitely ball one, two strikes now the count to second baseman Alan Arnosti. Rider is not checking second; if Major wants to steal third it looks to me like it’s an open shot. Swing and a miss, strike three, Arnosti fans for out number one.

The master groaned, struggling to contain his arousal.

Oh, just listen to the groans coming from the crowd. Left fielder Brad Archer steps in for the Anvils, a disappointing oh-for-five tonight; although he hit a couple very sharply to deep right field, and another long line drive to center, they were all catchable balls.

Heather considered. A runner in scoring position, one out, a batter at the plate having a rough evening but not hitting badly, just unfortunately. And, barring a double play, Jerry Morris would be the fifth batter; he brought a .320 average into the game and was a good clutch hitter.

Did she dare risk it? Gamble that the Anvils would get the lead runner across? Stake her degree on one prediction?

It came down, in Heather’s mind, ultimately to the inescapable fact that the master was going to cum within minutes. If the game went to the thirteenth inning, she almost certainly couldn’t hold him back long enough.

She had preparation, training, an amazing intellect; she was emotionally keyed to the master; she knew him and every facet of his sexuality as well as any girl possibly could; she knew the odds involved and could calculate her best chances.

Heather decided.

“Please, sir, open your eyes,” she said, her lips pressed against the master’s hard cock. She watched as he re-focused on her pretty face, and after giving him a second to adjust, she took his precious, wonderful cock into her mouth and sucked him. With love, with adoration, with respect, and with reverence. For effect.

...Rider gets the sign, sets, delivers... ball one to Brad Archer, one-and-oh the count. Rider is ready, still ignoring the lead runner. He sets, fires... a line drive! through the gap at shortstop! base hit! Major is charging around third, Chris Casey has the ball in left, watch out! he’s got an arm on him!...

Using her arms for leverage, Heather rose off her knees and got her feet underneath her center of gravity, squatting. She pushed herself to a standing position, never taking her mouth off the master’s cock. As she rose, she reached back and hooked her thumbs into the sides of her red satin panties. Holding them in place, she effectively stood up out of her panties as they slid down her legs. Heather bent at the waist to keep her mouth busily sucking the master’s cock; as her legs extended she bent over more and more.

With legs fully straight, and with her arms stretched back to hold her panties just above her knees, Heather became imbalanced on her six-and-a-quarter-inch heels. She pitched forward, and the entire weight of her upper body impaled her face on the master’s prodigious cock. Bent double, Heather was supported at three points: her feet, and her throat. She sucked her god with all her passion and all her talent, forced onto it by her posture and weight, fully choked, helpless to breathe.

...the throw is... off the mark! Major scores! The game is over and the Anvils win the game! The dugout empties and...

Heather felt the pulsations as clearly and vividly as she had ever sensed anything. The master’s cock throbbed in her throat, discharging gout after gout of thick, hot cum straight down to her stomach. She heard the master roar with completion and release, a cry of anguish mixed with delight the likes of which she had never experienced; his whole body was shuddering with tension broken.

It was an epic, once-in-a-lifetime orgasm, draining and ecstatic. The explosion of sperm deep in Heather’s throat was like nothing she had ever felt in all of her training, the master’s cock pulsing like a runaway fire hose, buried deep inside her head, choking her with pure pleasure.

...for the Little Rock Leopards, four runs, eleven hits, no errors, for the Austin Anvils, five runs, eleven hits, no errors; the winning pitcher is Darren Washington, and Bobby Rider takes the loss. Attendance tonight was thirty-five thousand, two hundred forty-one, and the time of game was three hours and twenty-seven minutes. Up next on Anvils baseball we’ll bring you...

She felt the master’s hands on her shoulders, lifting her up. His erection slid up her throat and through her mouth, trailing cum, and then it was gone. Heather savored the taste even as her heart filled with triumph. “I did it!” she exulted in her thoughts. “We did it!”

She stood on her tall red spikes, elegant black stockings highlighting her curvy legs, soaking wet red panties down at her knees, bare pink pussy and hard pink nipples on display, watching the master slowly recover. He was breathing hard and for the first time she noticed a sheen of perspiration on his face.

His eyes were locked on the stunning young girl, locked to her eyes despite all her other charms. Heather could not read his expression, but her triumphant thoughts were being pushed aside by another: “Say it. Please, say it. Say: ‘Satisfactory’. Please, sir, let me hear it; give me my grade. I need it, I need your praise. Say it for me, please, don’t make me wait, I can’t bear it. ‘Satisfactory’ — please, please.”

Then before she knew what she was doing, Heather was seated on the master’s lap, in the same position in which he had twice held her so comfortably and peacefully: her back against his left arm, her right ear against his bare chest. She felt his right arm wrap around her and his right hand cup her ass, locking her into place on his lap, warm and protected and loved.

She could hear how hard his heart was racing, and the raspy edge to his breathing. She waited for him to gain strength and calm, but the desperate pleading in her thoughts did not diminish. All the effort, all the struggle, all the long hours would be worth while, if she could just hear that single word of praise from the man whose esteem was all that mattered to her.

She felt him embrace her just a little more tightly. He drew breath. Heather’s heart pounded.

“Good girl, Heather,” the master said.

Her breath caught in her throat. It was a wildly inappropriate thing for him to say, a phrase reserved for an owner, the ultimate verbal reward that a girl who fully belonged to another could ever hear; it was wrong for a teacher to say it to a student: far outside the bounds of propriety, an unpardonable liberty.

The most beautiful sound that Heather had heard in her life.

She tipped her pretty face up to look at him. He regarded her with the greatest tenderness and affection, but the glistening of his eyes was born of pride. He was achingly proud of Heather, and she could read the emotion with crystal clarity.

“You are a good girl, Heather. You have done an impossibly beautiful thing, a submissive, loving, and skillful act, performed with exquisite artistry. You have set a new standard for extended cock worship and opened an entirely new line of inquiry. You have exceeded my expectations tremendously; and, because I know your abilities, they were very, very high to begin with. Good girl.”

She might as well have plucked the words from the air — “Good girl” — and rubbed them directly on her clit, such was the effect they had on her. The highest praise imaginable: it reached straight to her center, warming her, elating her.

Heather snuggled back into the master’s chest. She let his praise wash over and through her, let it echo in her mind, let it overwhelm her every sense with its delicious magnitude. “I am a good girl,” she thought, “Oh, sir, I so love to be a good girl for you.”

Some time passed — Heather had no idea how long. Then the master released her from his embrace, and slid out from under her, getting to his feet.

“Wait here,” he said as he rose. He walked to his office, where Heather could see him take something small from a drawer. She watched him with curiosity as he returned.

“On your knees,” he commanded, and Heather found herself kneeling, eyes lowered, hands locked behind her back, before her heart beat three times. The thrill of obedience suffused her body and spirit, elating her even before she knew how she could be of further service.

“Eyes.” Heather looked up at the master’s unreadable face. “Your right hand, please,” he said. Heather extended it. Her ring finger bore the symbol of her undergraduate degree: a thin silver ring, inset with a band of nacre. Across the band a diagonal slash of silver was inlaid, denoting that her Bachelor of Sex, Performance degree had been conferred with honors. It was Heather’s dearest possession, and it was not without a qualm that she watched the master slip it off of her finger.

“There will be a pompous ceremony for this, in which officials who are entirely ignorant of you and your work make vague congratulatory remarks. I much prefer intimacy, sincerity, and meaning.” He slid another ring onto Heather’s finger. It was like her B.S. ring, slim and inset with stone, but the ring was gold and the inlay lapis lazuli.

“By the powers invested in me by the University, I confer upon you the degree of Master of Arts in Fellatio,” said the master formally. Then he slipped her B.S. ring back on.

Heather gazed at the paired bands with eyes that rapidly filled with tears. She could feel them starting to course down her cheeks, as the mottled blue hues of the beautiful lapis lazuli blurred into one. It was so fitting, she thought, that at the moment of her greatest pride she should be naked and kneeling at the feet of the man she loved. Pride and submission — pride in submission — defined her.

“Thank you, sir. Oh, thank you, thank you!” Heather’s voice broke and the rivulets of her tears became a waterfall. Two years. Arduous, dedicated, committed years, constant study, endless attention, uncounted hours of practice — they were distilled into the priceless, precious, blue and gold band that swam in the center of her flooded vision. Her extended hand trembled.

Then the master took it in his own. “A small mistake,” he said, “Easily corrected.” He put his thumb and finger on Heather’s new ring, and for a terrible instant she thought he might be about to remove it. Instead, he twisted it half way around. “Much better,” he said, as he released her hand.

Heather had to blink tears from her eyes before she could focus on her ring. Across the lapis lazuli inset lay three diagonal stripes of gold:

Summa Cum Laude.

Perhaps it was because the night had been filled with such a variety of overwhelming emotions. Perhaps it was because of the amazing euphoria of having her hard work behind her, no longer a source of concern. Perhaps it was her very deep, very real feelings of love, adoration, and passion for her mentor. Perhaps it was because the night had brought so many delights that she did not want it ever to end. Or perhaps it was because he had already broken the bounds of propriety, by rewarding her with a phrase reserved for girls who fully belonged to another.

For whatever reason, or for all of them, Heather was overcome with the great, desperate, aching, so-familiar need: the need to be with the master, not as his student, but purely, simply, and wholly as his submissive, his devoted, obedient servant, his lover. With more passion and conviction than ever, it filled her mind and every sense.

She was already on her knees at his feet. Her body was bare but for shoes and stockings; her panties were pulled down. She was open and accessible, with her legs well parted. So only one more adjustment was required.

Slowly and deliberately, Heather bent at the waist. She put her hands down on the floor to catch herself, and as she bent farther, farther, farther they stretched out before her. Keeping her thighs widely spread, she brought her feet together until they were touching. She bent the last possible bit, and then her cheek was pressed to the carpet, her arms fully extended.

Prostrate.

Like the master’s words of praise to her, it was wrong. Prostration was the pose of belonging; in fact, it was a significant part of the collaring ceremony for the submissive to display it for the first time. She had no right to assume the pose before a man who did not own her; he had no right to see her in it.

Prostration. The Pose of Triangles, some called it, for there were many to be found in her posture. Knee to feet to knee, knee to vulva to knee, knee to hip to shoulder. It was the ultimate in subjugation, freely and fully offering her most intimate treasures, unguarded and open, pussy and ass available to his eyes or cock or fingers or tongue, defenseless against a spanking. The pose yielded all, claimed nothing; it proclaimed the submissive’s place with exquisite clarity.

Heather gathered her thoughts, and spoke purely with her heart.

“I beg you, sir, please allow me to make love with you now. Please accept my total submission, sir; let me serve you in any way that I can bring you pleasure. Fuck my throat, sir, as hard as you like, if that would please you; fuck my pussy; or lie back at your ease and let me ride your glorious cock and bring you pleasure. Let me serve you with my body, my mouth, my hands, my hair — would you like me to wrap my hair around your hard cock and stroke it until you cum? Fill my eyes with sperm, sir, I beg of you, or my mouth, or my throat, or coat my breasts with your warm cum, or anywhere you like. Oh, please, sir, use me as your submissive, command me, order any pleasure or delight you can imagine. I’ll dance for you if you like, I’ll give you a nice long back-rub, I’ll play with my pussy while you watch, I’ll stuff myself with toys at your command. I long for your orders, sir, and the chance to obey you in love and submission. Anything you wish for, anything that would please you, only speak of it and I will obey — or say nothing, and accept from me whatever service I can devise. Tie me up, sir, suspend me, bind me, make me helpless. Command me to bathe every inch of your body with my tongue. Let me read or sing to you, if you are tired, or use my body as your pillow until you feel like fucking your obedient servant. I will show you my complete submission in any way you wish.”

She could see that he was moved by her words, very deeply indeed, but he was frozen in place, silent.

“I offer myself to you, sir, all my submission, without distance or reserve or restraint. I beg you to take me, use me, command me; please, sir, let me serve as I am meant to.”

She hesitated only an instant before plunging ahead, withholding nothing from him.

“Just before I left home, sir, I prepared my body for anal sex. If you would like to press your beautiful cock into my tight, hot ass, you would find it a welcoming home. Please, sir, I beg you to fuck my tiny asshole, sir, fuck me deep in my snug little ass.”

That plea finally broke the master’s silence.

“Is that an offer made because you enjoy it, or because you believe that I would?” he asked.

“It is an offer made because I love you, sir. It’s not any more complex than that.”

He moved, finally. He bent over and took one of Heather’s outstretched hands in his. “Stand up, please, Heather,” he said softly, and he helped her to rise.

They stood there, face to face, eyes locked to each other. Heather’s face retained her urgent, submissive plea. The master’s held confusion, deep longing and unbearable need, and despair.

He shook his head in a slow, tiny, reluctant gesture.

“Heather, I must guard —”

She interrupted. “You must not, sir. With my deepest respect, sir, you are wrong. You must not guard your heart from me; nor must I reserve mine. This one time. This one night. For a night, sir, or an hour, or a minute if only that, let me be yours. Let me belong to you. Just once, while we can. Let me give you my heart, oh, my love, my love, and let me have yours.”

She waited. There was nothing left that she could say or do.

As an answer, he took her by the hand. At the far side of the studio’s bedroom was a small pocket door, which Heather had assumed was a closet and always ignored. He slid it open, and she found to her astonishment that it led to a large and well-furnished apartment.

“My home,” the master said. “Welcome. Your presence brings honor to my home.”

Heather looked around in amazement. It was a huge space, divided much like the studio into regions: bedroom, living room, library-office. A large, professional-looking kitchen was divided from the space by a long bar with a row of tall chairs; another door located the bathroom. The furnishings were well-chosen if occasionally eccentric. There was art on every wall, running mostly to etching, drypoint, mezzotint, and other examples of fine printmaking. A row of baseballs in clear plastic cases sat atop the mantle, over a hearth that looked like it had been cold for years, the home’s only discordant note.

“I had no idea!” Heather exclaimed. “What a beautiful home, sir! It is rather my honor to be invited to it.”

She turned to him and there, just inside the doorway, they kissed for the very first time. Heather’s heels helped to make up some of the great difference between their heights, but she still had to reach up to him. As their lips met, their arms entwined around each other in an embrace that felt like they had shared it a thousand times. Heather poured her heart into that kiss and that embrace, and felt the love flowing back into her body from his. Their lips matched perfectly, their arms knew just where to hold. She felt so full of love: of Eros and Agape in equal measure; thrilled to be in his arms; thrilled to have him in hers.

They made love all night long. The master had stamina and rapid recovery honed by decades of teaching; Heather had the vigor and energy and enthusiasm of her youth. They would no sooner exhaust themselves in one pleasure than another would invite them, and they would join again.

Heather found her lover an entirely different man in that setting. He had no reserve: he spoke freely to her as they joined their bodies and their hearts, praising her, exclaiming his delights, guiding her in how to please him, encouraging her to pour out her own feelings and desires. They tried things that Heather had never done before; they embraced in the most basic of well-known and well-loved positions; they fed off each other’s passions and pleasures until every moment, every stroke, every sensation of their coupling surpassed the one before.

His dominance never wavered. Her submission was absolute, a perfection of her love. Every pleasure she gave him returned to her, reflected and magnified by her joy in submissive service.

At one interlude, a few hours past midnight, while Heather refreshed her body under the pelting rain of the shower, he gathered some sustenance for them. When she came back from the bathroom she found a table laid, and heaped with treats: crackers and rye and pumpernickel, Camembert and Vermont cheddar and tiny cubes of Manchego drizzled with honey, pâté de foie gras and rare roast beef and smoked salmon, red grapes, Honeycrisp apples sliced paper-thin, horseradish and honey-mustard, slices of cucumber and mushroom and Bermuda onion, almonds and cashews, savory bacon-spinach dip steaming in a bowl straight from the oven, dark chocolate pastilles heaped in a cut-glass dish. In two tall flutes Champagne prickled and popped, glacier cold and granite dry. Wrapped up in the long silk robe he had given her, Heather sat with her lover and refreshed herself, taking exquisite sensual pleasure in the variety of tasty treats, and just as much pleasure in simply watching him eat — so ordinary a thing, for a man she had only seen in an extraordinary light. They talked, easily, naturally, of a hundred things, as if creatures of a well-established domestic relationship — as if they had been married for years, and knew each other through and through. Heather had never felt so much at home.

When their hunger was a thing of the past they took the last two glasses of wine back to the bed. And as they talked, and sipped, and softly kissed, the mood shifted once again to eager passion, to the need to leave words behind and communicate more directly. Not every drop of the Champagne was tasted directly from the glass.

In the end, Heather stayed with the master throughout the weekend. There was more food, more bathing, more conversation; more cuddling curled up in his lap, snug and safe; a little bit of sleep. But as much as they could, they lost themselves in lovemaking, sharing with perfect understanding the love and the passion that they felt. He commanded her, and with a heart nearly bursting with adoration Heather obeyed him instantly, flawlessly, joyfully, and with overwhelming pride.

They loved, and they laughed, and they let themselves be close, as lovers, with hearts unguarded. Against the harsh realities of time and commitments and age and circumstance, they seized a fleeting moment, tearing it from the grip of the universe.

For that heartbeat of time, they were the lovers they were meant to be.

Epilogue

The M.A.F. students — the Cock Worship girls — met for the last time at their customary evening haunt. The bartender bought the first round; many other students, undergraduate and graduate alike, stopped by their table to offer excited congratulations, tinged sometimes with envy, often with great respect. Six right hands sported six gold and blue rings, and if they were displayed a little bit conspicuously such pride could easily be forgiven.

Some of the guys tried to linger, but it was made politely clear that it was a girls’ night out, and eventually they dispersed in search of other opportunities.

It was by nature a sad occasion, since the girls would split up after two years of daily closeness, each to go her own way. But their lively spirits were not well suited to misgivings and sadness, and their conversations were, in the main, light-hearted.

Ariel and Anya shared stories from their summer lessons, about the astounding awkwardness of finding that one was expected to practice cum-swapping with one’s sister, that had the party laughing so hard it hurt. Morgan, perhaps the proudest of the bunch for sticking with the program to the end, said little, but fondled her ring with an unshakeable grin on her face. Alexa, growing a little tipsy, kept asking for phone numbers and addresses she already had, and making heartfelt vows to stay in touch and get together often.

Heather, remembering that sometimes the others looked at her as a bit... apart, or different, had turned her ring so that it looked like all the others. But Kate, when she noticed, would have none of that modest behavior.

“Give me your hand for a sec, Heather,” she said. “No, the other one.”

Heather held out her right hand, and Kate grabbed it in a firm grip. Heather realized in a flash what her friend had in mind, and tried to pull away, but Kate held on tight.

“Look, everybody,” Kate said loudly, and as Heather struggled Kate held her hand up so all could see the triple slash of gold across her ring. “She wasn’t going to show you, but I will.” All around the table, eyes grew wide. Kate let go of Heather’s hand and Heather hid it in her lap, blushing.

“Summa,” Morgan breathed, awestruck. And then her voice changed to an excited squeal. “Holy fucking cow, Heather, Summa?” She leapt from her chair, raced around the table, and hugged Heather tightly. “Oh my god oh my god that is so fucking awesome!”

“Heather, wow, way to go!” Alexa exulted.

“You continue to amaze, my friend,” Anya said, beaming with shared pride.

Quiet Ariel simply rose, walked around to Heather, bent over, and kissed her softly on the mouth. She returned to her seat, a little pink in the face, smiling contentedly.

Morgan, who had returned to her place, regarded her classmate across the table, marveling that such accomplishments were possible. “Two years of Cock Worship. Three, three spankings total — right?” Heather just nodded. “A Master’s degree,” Morgan continued, “Summa Cum Laude. An all-or-nothing performance Thesis. And I have to assume you got an A, right?”

Heather hesitated, which Morgan immediately pounced on. “You did get a ‘Satisfactory,’ didn’t you? Well? Heather?”

She really hadn’t meant to tell, but Morgan was pushing, and dishonesty wasn’t in her nature. “No, Morgan, I didn’t get an A. Since you insist. I didn’t get a ‘Satisfactory’.”

The group went quiet, shocked. It was Ariel who first understood. “So tell us, Heather,” she said, a smile growing on her face. “When a girl gets an A-Plus, what does the master say?”

It was not, of course, the last time they would see each other. With a friendship as strong as theirs, it was certain that they would make arrangements to meet, from time to time — perhaps to travel together for recreation. But to lose the dependable, familiar, daily contact was wrenchingly difficult, and the added dimension of parting from a sometimes-lover made it worse.

They sat in their apartment, waiting for a friend of Kate’s who was coming with a van to haul her belongings away.

“...And not only all the help you gave me with classes,” Kate said, a tissue crumpled in her hand ready to blot away tears. “I mean changing me as a person. You can’t know how much that means to me.”

“I don’t really know how I’ve changed you, Kate,” said Heather.

“For one thing, giving me someone to look up to.” As Heather tried to wave off the compliment, Kate persisted. “No, I mean it. You’re, like, a model for me now, for how hard to work, and how much to care about being the best — no, stop it, I’m serious. All the girls look up to you but I’ve watched you all the way through it and I’m the one who knows it didn’t just fall in your lap. Plus all the talks we had about being submissive girls, you clarified so much for me, I’ll always remember some of the really... smart stuff you said about it.”

“Most of that came right from the master,” Heather said modestly.

“I know, and he taught me, too; but I got it when you talked to me, it just made sense.” Kate took a deep breath. Her friend, roommate, and lover would not be surprised at her further remarks, but they would be difficult to utter. “But mostly, Heather, how you’ve changed me... I, um... I mean, you know I was never with another girl. Never, um, you know... partners.”

“Lovers,” said Heather softly.

Kate blushed. “Yeah. Lovers. I never made love with a girl before you. And... what I’ve figured out is... Um, that’s, I guess, it’s... It’s turned into something important to me. I don’t just mean your friendship.” The blush deepened. “Your love. Which... I love you too, you know that, right?”

“Yes.”

“Know it deep and for sure, no doubts, right inside you?”

“Yes,” said Heather, calm and reassuring.

“But what I’m trying to say is... I’m bisexual, Heather. When I picture my life now I don’t just picture my submission to a wonderful, strong, caring man. Now I picture... all of that, just like always, but with another girl, too. You... helped me discover that. I would have, I think... always missed something, without knowing what or why, if you hadn’t... opened your heart to me, and shared your bed. And loved me when I needed you.”

Kate wrapped her arms around Heather and hugged her tight. She pulled away suddenly and blotted at her eyes. “So I guess... remember our lessons together? I guess maybe someday, if I can find the right guy... and the right girl... I’ll need those snowballing lessons, after all.”

“Is that your dream, now, Kate?” Heather asked. “A ménage à trois?”

“I’m not sure. I can only picture myself giving complete, devoted submission to one man. And I’m bisexual, I want to love and make love with another girl. Whether three is best for me, or some kind of harem, or what, I don’t know. I’ll just have to... go have some experiences, and keep an open mind, and see what finally feels right.”

They sat in silence for a minute, envisioning their future lives — so many unknowns before them — before Kate added, “What about you, Heather? Do you feel any of the same things?”

Heather thought for a while before replying. “I’m not bisexual. I only like men, and you. Does that have a name? Am I a Kate-o-sexual?”

Kate grinned. “I like the sound of that.”

“What we have together... I don’t think I’ll ever find again. As an abstraction I’m still not into girls. It was different with you, I think, because I already felt so much love for you — you’re the closest, best friend I ever had. So when the time came it sort of didn’t matter about the plumbing.”

“Huh. Plumbing. I think I should be offended,” said Kate, smiling to show that she was kidding. A car horn sounded on the street below. “There’s my ride,” she said, peering out the window.

They shared another hug, soft and sweet. “Now don’t forget, last weekend in July, you’re coming to see me,” said Heather needlessly, just for something to say that wouldn’t make them both burst into tears.

“I won’t forget,” said Kate. “I won’t ever forget.”

They each grabbed a cardboard box and headed out the door.

Then only one goodbye remained.

Heather closed the trunk of her car, packed full of her possessions, and drove onto campus. She parked by the studio, ignoring the requirement for a faculty permit, and with reluctant steps went inside. She straightened her stockings, smoothed her skirt, patted her hair — a dozen delaying gestures. The inner door was open, so she entered, the click of her heels on the hard floor the only sound.

She found her teacher seated in the living room, occupied with a stack of correspondence. He was in dress slacks and shirt, as she had first seen him. But when she had first seen him, she had seen only his frightening authority and his distant reserve. Now she saw a simple man, age and exhaustion to be found in his face by one who knew how to look. But with honor and wisdom and infinite kindness to be found as well.

Her teacher. Her mentor. A man who had never acted toward her with even the slightest lapse in esteem and respect; a dominant who never domineered; a forceful man who was always gentle; a man to whom she submitted freely without any doubt about her emotional safety, without any doubt that he considered her his moral equal. Her friend. Her lover.

Her true love.

Heather knew that the master could not be her dominant. He could not collar her; she could not belong to him. He had an unshakeable commitment to the University, for one thing, a promise of service that overrode all other considerations. She knew that he had other girls to guide, support, instruct, and care about — that was his purpose, and she honored him for it, despite the personal pain it caused her. And for a hundred mundane, practical, tedious, but inescapable reasons, giving herself to belong to a man well over twice her age was not to be seriously contemplated.

Somewhere in the world, a man deserving of Heather’s love and submission was searching for her, dreaming of her, imagining every quality he could admire and respect all in one perfect package. A man to whom she could give her life: her mind, her body, and her free will, in return for the kind of loving care, esteem, and respect that only a true submissive ever knows. A man with whom she could abandon all restraint, knowing that he would always be there to support her.

One day, she would find him, and he her. One day, she would accept his collar around her neck, proudly marking that she belonged, in every sense, to another. One day her submission would be complete.

But to lose this man broke her heart.

And for the master, whose sadness was better disguised but no less heartfelt than Heather’s, came the realization that she had not only been his best student ever, but that she would never lose that place. In a sense, his entire adult life had been spent defining and coming to understand his dominant nature for the express purpose of educating Heather, and he knew that he would never meet her equal again. It can be a terrible thing to reach a certain age, and to come to understand that in the long stretch of life and love and experience, your best, happiest days are behind you. That those days can be recalled freely and cherished is no anodyne for the bleak pain of that certainty.

He rose when he saw her, putting his papers aside.

“This is for you, sir,” Heather said, holding out a flat, square package, wrapped in floral paper and ribbons.

He recognized the shape of the compact disc box. “Music?” he asked, taking the gift from her with hands not entirely steady.

“Pictures,” Heather replied. “I thought... the photograph you asked me for? I just thought, you know, you’d get tired of just having the one. So... I know this sounds kind of egotistical or something, but... this is a whole bunch more pictures of me.” She took a step and closed the distance between them, tilting her face up to look him in the eye. “There are poses in all your favorite outfits, sir,” she said in her soft, sensual, bedroom voice. “Like my navy minidress and my little white socks. But most of them are nudes. Some are artistic and elegant and classy. Some... are not. Some show me with my legs spread wide, and my panties stretched tight across my thighs, and my fingers... well, no point giving everything away.” She put her arms around his neck, lifted up on her toes, and kissed him: sweetly, softly, sadly, on the left cheek, on the right, on his mouth. “So when you want to remember me, sir, you can decide to remember just a nice young girl in a pretty dress. Or a sexy girl without her pretty dress. Or...” Her voice broke. “Or a girl who loved making love with you, and wishes she could make love with you for the rest of your life.” Tears rolled freely down Heather’s cheeks, and she saw with shock that there was an answering film in the master’s eyes.

They held each other close, swaying slightly, Heather’s face against the older man’s chest, her tears dampening his shirt. “You must know, sir, if there were any way...”

“Shhh,” he said, wiping at his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I know. It is right that you go; all other words would only add to the pain of this moment. You must do what is right. So must I. That is the end.”

He released her and stepped back. “So. You return to the place where you were raised?” His voice was artificially normal, the emotion obviously forced out of it.

“Yes. I like that part of the country, I like the people, I know my way around. I’ll have my family close. It will be easier to get started there.”

“I have something for you.” He went to the office and came back with a parcel, inexpertly wrapped in brown paper, clearly from its shape a hardcover book. “Indulge me: do not open it until you are settled in your home.”

Heather took the package from him. It would be hard to restrain her curiosity, but: “If that’s your wish, sir, I’ll wait.”

He saw her out and walked with her to her car. It occurred to Heather that she had never seen him outside of the building.

There was no way to make it easier. “Goodbye, sir. Thank you for all you taught me. Not just taught me to do, but taught me about myself. That will be with me my whole life.”

“Goodbye, Heather. You are an unprecedented marvel of a girl. Let no man fail to value you at your amazing worth. You have earned happiness, and I am certain you will find it.”

She tracked him in her rear-view mirror as she pulled away, a tall, erect figure, unmoving, watching her disappear. He did not wave.

She had to stop, an hour later, to pull off the highway and weep. A state trooper, once convinced that she was unharmed, suggested with more sympathy than severity that she find a rest stop, and followed her for a few miles to make sure that she was in control of her car.

It was the first of four uncontrollable fits of crying that befell her on the way home. She thought about the master the whole way — and cursed the universe that she had been born thirty years too late to belong to him. It seemed an unbelievable act of planned cruelty, proof of a malign, sneering god, to be so perfectly suited to another person, so clearly meant to be his, made, heart and soul, for each other, only to be forced apart by damnable circumstance and a span of years.

On the morning after her first overnight stop, she stared at the Interstate signs as she left the motel. First right Westbound, second right Eastbound. So easy to turn around, to retrace her path, to go to him, to offer herself on any terms. “You must do what is right. So must I.” Heather wiped tears from her eyes. “But what if the right thing hurts too badly to bear?” she thought.

She turned the car toward home, driving through pain and tears.

In being reunited with her parents and her elder brother, Heather’s naturally ebullient spirits came to the fore, and much of her sadness and longing faded with time and activities. She had a job to start, an apartment to move into, old friends to look up, new friends to meet and come to like and date and — eventually — love and make love with. And somewhere, someday, one who would be right for her, perfectly so; one who would earn and deserve a girl of her qualities and character; one to whom she could belong: entrusting her body, her thoughts, and her will to his care, in flawless, devoted, obedient submission.

If, indeed, there were two such men in the world.

It was while she was unpacking in her new apartment, a cozy, sunny studio on a handy bus line that could get her downtown in fifteen minutes, that Heather rediscovered the brown paper parcel from her teacher. She plopped down on her brand-new sofa, a flat-warming gift from her father, and opened it.

It was a copy of Theme and Variations, and at a glance Heather realized with pleasure that it was the limited-run collector’s edition, the one in which each cocksucking technique was illustrated, not with a drawing, but with a photograph. She opened the heavy, ornate leather cover, and turned to the title page.

There, neatly penned, was an inscription:

For Heather, a prideful submissive and a virtuoso of her art. You are in my thoughts and in my heart every day, as you always shall be.

Love,

J. C. Ryan, Schoolmaster

(Sir)

She blinked back tears as she flipped through the pages. There were the familiar graphs, monotony and time. There were the excerpts from musical scores, showing how notes could build themes and themes could be woven together to create beauty. There was the chapter on directed cum-play that had so excited Kate with its wordless commands. And there were the photographs: dozens of lovely young girls, displaying their skill and artistry on a single, beautiful, well-remembered cock.

“I miss you, too,” she whispered in the silence of her apartment.

“I love you, sir.”

Heather closed the book. Her truly happy life lay ahead.

Author’s notes on The Education of Heather S.

The real Heather S. is, like her fictional counterpart, “An unprecedented marvel of a girl.”

Kate, Alexa, and Morgan are real people as well, and all are friends of Heather. The physical descriptions of Heather and Kate are accurate portraits, to the best of my ability (although I do not have the privilege of knowing if Kate keeps her pussy bare). Twins Anya and Ariel are complete inventions.

Schoolmaster J. C. Ryan also has a real-life model, although I have taken substantial liberties with his appearance, mannerisms, and talents. Knowing him as I do, I am confident of his good-natured forgiveness.

The baseball books named in the story exist, and any of them would be worth adding to your library. The journals and books mentioned in connection with the University curriculum are of course imaginary.

Ryan’s Theme and Variations: Symphonic Cocksucking is based on a metaphor I developed in private correspondence in 2007. I think that the correlations between the very best oral sex and symphonic music have both descriptive and prescriptive value. One day I hope to produce the work as an essay, if not the volume-length text described here.

The events that take place in The Education... all have a basis in the lives of the real Heather S., who is a submissive, and her real-life mentor, who taught her to be proud of her nature. Some are fairly accurate reporting, changed little from actual experience. Some are extended fancies that depart from a single incident, thought, or remark but then take shape in my mind alone. All have been fictionalized to fit them into the University setting of the story. But all are “real” in greater or lesser degree.

The University is, sadly, not real. I cannot for the life of me figure out why. There is no skill that we expect people to have without training, except that of making love. A friend recently asked for a comment on the saying “There’s no such thing as a bad blow job.” My reply is that there is: there are bad blow jobs, they are common, they are abundant. This is all that can possibly be expected without good coaching and plentiful, willing practice, done with the understanding that there is scope for improvement every time. The saying arises because bad blow jobs may still yield a very pleasant, effective sensation. But that does not excuse them for being so much less than they should be.

Because MLB has lawyers and knows how to use them, I must emphasize that the players, umpires, coaches, teams, division, and play-by-play events depicted in the radio broadcast are fictional, and any resemblance to actual players, etc., is coincidental. The list of men who have played baseball at that level fills a hefty volume of fine print, and collisions between my imagination and history are inevitable, but none were intended. Nothing may be read into my selection of Austin and Little Rock. I needed a fictitious division, the AL South, and arbitrarily chose two cities that might plausibly fall into such a region.

At the time this story was written, radio call sign WHES was not in use, according to the United States Federal Communications Commission.

I discovered Banana Boat’s Sooth-A-Caine after a kayaking excursion in the Pacific Ocean off Kauai, when a few unfortunate waves managed to wash all the sunblock off my legs. The combination of pale Irish skin and equatorial sunshine is a nasty one, and the cool blue gel was my best friend for a few days. Available at your neighborhood pharmacy.

Dear reader, can you have come this entire distance with me, and not feel very strongly moved to send me your thoughts? Your comments, after all, are my only compensation for two years of painstaking work. Go ahead now: do the right thing — links are below. Thank you!

I asked Heather to add some remarks of her own for the reading public. She writes:

Dear Readers,

Thank you for taking this journey with me. When Mr. Frenulum wrote me this story I was overwhelmed with so many emotions. It’s amazing to see such proof that someone spent so much time and effort thinking about you.

Please know that this was a labor of love for him and it would mean so much to both of us if you would take the time to write something in return.

One piece of advice: If you find someone special in your life, don’t let them go. You may never find another.

Sincerely,

— Heather S.