Teaching Carol, CH. 1

It was dusk, nearly dark.  A warm, late-September evening.  Carol and I were sitting on top of a picnic table near the reservoir, she in the center, her feet on the bench, and I behind her with my legs on either side of her as I massaged her shoulders.  We didn’t know each other that well, but there had been a slow flirtation going on and we had somehow decided to take a walk together and wound up here.  She was small and dark—her last name was Spanish-sounding—and her petite figure looked very girlish in what seemed almost like a pre-teen’s white party dress, plus clunky sneakers and knee socks.  She certainly didn’t appear to be a particularly sexual person; in fact she seemed rather shy and virginal, in manner as well as dress, and I believe she was, basically.  When I made a slightly off-color joke she smiled and blushed, looked down, and said, “Jeez.”  And yet there must have been some quality about her, some hint of submissiveness, because I just knew somehow she would let me do whatever I wanted.

As I massaged her shoulders I was telling her how much I liked touching her, and apologizing with humorous insincerity for my inability to keep my hands to myself.  She accepted my apologies with laughing graciousness and did nothing to discourage me.

Even though it was fairly dark, there were other people not too far off so I pointed at the silhouette of some trees near the shore and said I wanted to go over there.  She agreed and laughed a little nervously when I picked her up in my arms and began to carry her over to them.  The back of her dress was hanging down where her knees were hooked over my arm, and I think we were both aware that the backs of her thighs were pressing against me there.

I’m sure she hadn’t been planning to get sexually involved with me.  When I put her on her feet in the shelter of the trees and pulled her to me, she put her hands against my shoulders as if to push me away, and said, “Jonathan!” in a way that made me think her next word would be either “No!” or Stop!”  But when I kissed her, she offered no resistance, opening her mouth to my insistent tongue, her hands now holding tightly to my shoulders.  This was even more of a turn-on for me: ‘I shouldn’t do this, but I can’t resist’.

I wanted to see if it was true. I pressed her back against a tree and, without removing my mouth from hers, began fondling her left breast through the stiff, ruffled fabric of her dress.  Again, no sound of protest, no hand plucking at my own.  I decided to push my luck, and put both my arms around her waist again before easing my hands down onto her behind, then bending my knees just enough—and she bent with me—to slip my hands under her dress, up the backs of her thighs and onto her behind again, now caressing it through the fabric of her cotton panties.

I couldn’t believe it.  I knew she thought she shouldn’t be letting me do any of these things, and yet she was doing nothing to stop me.  And I certainly wasn’t planning to stop unless she did.

Still probing her mouth with my tongue, I brought one hand around and slid it between her legs, fondling her there.  We were both breathing heavily by then, but she made no sound, beyond the occasional small whimper.  Even when I pulled my mouth away from hers and dropped to my knees in front of her and lifted her dress, she said nothing, did nothing.  When I began to kiss and nuzzle the mound between her legs.  When I reached up, letting her dress fall over my head, and pulled her panties down to her ankles.  When I lifted first one foot, then the other, to remove her panties completely, and spread her legs apart so that I could lick her there.

Her pussy was moist, and became more moist as I licked, but still she made no sound, either of enjoyment or of protest, until finally I stopped and stood up, picking up her panties as I did.  I tucked them partly into my pocket before putting my arms around her waist.  By now it was so dark that I could barely make out her face.  She let me take her into an embrace, putting her arms around me and resting her head on my shoulder.  Then, finally, she spoke.  Her voice contained both surprise and relief as she said, “You know when to stop.”

She’d apparently been expecting me to pull her to the ground and have my way with her—and, just as apparently, she would have let me.  But intercourse, especially unprotected intercourse, without some kind of understanding beforehand, was beyond my moral limits.  Instead, I cheerfully replied, “Do I?”, then took her right hand and pressed it against the front of my jeans.  She gave me two or three half-hearted rubs there, looking down as if surprised to see what her hand was doing, then tried to take it away, saying, “It’s getting cold,” as if it were time to start home.

It was starting to get a little cold, especially for her, in that dress with no sweater or jacket.  But I was feeling powerful, and I placed her hand firmly back on my zipper, saying, “Keep going,” as if I were gently correcting an unintentional display of bad manners.  As I expected, she complied, one arm still around my waist, running her fingers and palm nervously up and down the length of my erection and peering up at my face through the darkness as if waiting to be told what to do next.

Again the sense she gave of being in my power was irresistible; I had to see how far I could take it.  I let her stroke me for a while in silence, then said,  “I can’t feel it.  Unzip me.”

I actually expected some resistance at this, and in fact for a moment it seemed as if she were going to speak.  But after a slight hesitation she began to fumble at my zipper, at first trying to open it one-handed, then bringing the other forward to hold it straight while she worked it with the other.  She unzipped it with a slowness that suggested reluctance more than sensuality (which of course made it even more sensual for me) and her expression, what I could see of it, seemed a little fearful.  But she nevertheless undid my belt and unbuttoned the top of my pants without further prompting and placing her hand back on my erection, now straining outward against the fabric of my underwear, began again to stroke it.

I took her face between my hands and kissed her, saying, “That feels nice.”  I wanted to ask her if she liked what she was doing, but I was afraid of breaking the spell.  Besides, I wanted more.

After a while I took her hand away from me.  She must have thought we were done, but I quickly disabused her of the notion by pulling my pants, and then my underwear, down to my thighs, so that my erect cock was bobbing in the dim light.  Carol backed away slightly, thinking perhaps that I was going to take her after all, but I caught her arm, then pulled her panties free of my pocket, and pressed them into her hand, saying “Use these.”

She stared with some dismay, first at me, then at my cock, then at the white, crumpled panties in her hand.  Hesitantly, she unfolded them, looked at me again, then, stepping closer, wrapped her panties loosely around my cock, and began rubbing them up and down the length of the shaft, looking at me all the while as if to say, ‘Is this right?’

It certainly was.  The smooth fabric, combined with the warmth and motion of her hand, were beginning to stir something deep within my scrotum, and I knew I’d be coming soon.

One thing more.

I placed my hands on her shoulders, and began to press her gently downwards.  She knew what I wanted immediately, and her eyes went wide, but she allowed me to guide her down onto her knees without missing a stroke.  At first she simply continued to stroke me with her panties, but she stared fixedly at the head of my cock as if gathering her courage.  Then slowly she leaned forward, continuing to stroke as she brought her lips to the very tip of my cock, kissing it lightly.  She started to move away, thought better of it, and returned to kiss it again.  She held the kiss for a little while, as if unsure what to do next, then opened her mouth slightly, taking the head of my cock a little way in.  Finally, with a sigh, she open her mouth wider and took the head all the way in.

The touch of her tongue was all it took.  I immediately grabbed the back of her head as I began to come.  When she felt my semen squirting into her mouth she tried to pull her mouth away, making little panicked choking sounds, but I held her there until I was done.

When I allowed her to pull her head up she looked at me in distress.  It took me a moment to realize that she didn’t know what to with what she had in her mouth.  I knelt down to face her and said, “You can spit it out if you don’t want to swallow it.”

Swallow it?  She looked at me as if I were crazy, then turned and spat what she could into the grass.  Then she turned back to look at me as if wondering what happened next.

I quickly tidied my self up.  Then I helped her to stand and, taking the panties from her hand—fortunately they were unstained—I knelt again and helped her to put them on.  Then I rose to my feet and removed my jacket, then placed it around her shoulders as we started to walk home.

Carol 2

It was definitely getting colder as the evening darkened around us, and we walked with our arms around each other’s waists as we made out way back to the campus dormitory where she lived.  I wanted to ask her what she was feeling about what we had just done, but I had the sense that she didn’t want to discuss it, was perhaps ashamed of her part in it.  So we talked of other things, as if we were still just two people who had gone on a slightly romantic walk.

As we got closer to her building, though, she began to talk a little more nervously, saying that I didn’t have to see her all the way up to her room, that men weren’t supposed to be in the building after ten P.M., and so forth.  I wondered what was bothering her, then it struck me that she was afraid that if I came up to her room I would want more of what we had done by the reservoir.  I hadn’t been planning on it, but now that she’d given me the idea I couldn’t resist.

So when we reached the lobby, and kissed and hugged good night, I waited until she was well on her way up the stairs, then turned and ran down the hallway to the end, where there was another set of stairs.  Dashing up two flights, I made it to her door well before she had reached the floor.  The hallway was dim, with mostly burnt-out ceiling lights, and empty.  I tested her doorknob, and, as I’d remembered from previous visits, she hadn’t locked up, so I quickly opened it and slipped inside to wait.

The room was nearly dark, lit only by the moon and distant streetlights, so I simply stepped into the middle as I heard her approaching the door.  She stepped in and immediately turned to switch on the light and close the door.  When she turned back and saw me, she gasped, putting her hand to her mouth and falling back against the door, then, realizing it was me, relaxed and put on a mock-angry expression.

“Oh, jeez!  You scared me half to death!”

I said, “Sorry,” and smiled at her as I stepped forward to take her in my arms.  I kissed her and said, “It was just so much fun saying good-night to you that I wanted to do it again.”  She giggled at this and said, “Alright,” and we kissed again, more deeply and romantically.  I reached behind her as we did and flipped the light-switch off, which made her giggle again

We continued like this for awhile without speaking, and I allowed our kisses to become a little more passionate without actually moving my hands from around her waist.  Then I raised them to her shoulders and pulled her closer, saying, as if continuing the conversation, “Besides, you seemed kind of tired, and I thought you might need a little help getting ready for bed.”  I held her gaze as I unfastened the catch at the back of her dress and began unzipping it.

Her eyes went wide, and she started to say something, but she stopped and stared into my eyes as if hypnotized as I continued to unzip her dress.  Again it was as if she thought she wasn’t allowed to resist me: when I began pulling her dress away from her shoulders she simply took her hands away from my waist and let them hang at her sides, allowing me to pull her dress past her hips and let it fall around her ankles.

She seemed surprised when I stepped away from her, but said nothing as I stood in the middle of the room looking at her.  She was wearing a plain white bra and her panties, I now saw were old-fashioned kind that came up to and nearly covered her navel.  I enjoyed looking at her like that, her bra and panties and the dress heaped at her feet all glowing a faint blue-white against her dark skin, and her eyes, still wide, a slight glimmering in the darkness.

I knew she would stand there, held by my attention, for as long as I wanted, and I liked that too, so I lingered, enjoying her state of undress and bewilderment.  When I had had my fill, I said softly, “You’re very beautiful.  I love looking at you.”  Then I asked, “Where do you keep your nightgown?”  She looked startled by my question, then pointed at her bureau, whispering, “Bottom drawer.”

I went over and pulled one out.  It was, unsurprisingly, simple, white, and old-fashioned looking.  I laid it out on her bed, then returned to her and took her by the hand, allowing her to step out of her dress before leading her back to the bed and helping her to sit.  She looked up at me, now completely bewildered, but I made no explanation before kneeling at her feet and gently removing her sneakers and then her knee socks.  This activity gave me a fairly good view between her legs, and I felt myself stirring again.

I gently eased her knees apart and leaned forward to kiss her there again.  Then I continued upward, kissing her abdomen and belly.  Without being told, she slowly lay back on the bed as I continued, rising to my knees and then to a crouch as I kissed her small breasts through the fabric of her brassiere, then the hollow of her neck, and finally her mouth, as I slowly lowered myself onto her and slipped my hands beneath her shoulders.

She raised her arms to receive me and wrapped them around me.  Again we kissed passionately, tongues entwining, as I pressed my erection between her legs.  At first she only lay there, but after a while began raising her hips to meet my thrusts.  She began to moan quietly as we moved together, and it seemed to me that she was trying to control the rhythm of our movements, so I adjusted myself to meet her.  Her moans grew louder.

I unhooked her bra, then took my hands from under her shoulders and placed them on her breasts, pushing her bra away and pinching her nipples.  She suddenly began to move her hips much faster, and began a moan that went on for several seconds, growing louder and higher, before bursting into a serious of staccato cries—“Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  Ohhhh!”  --as she came.

I slowed, and gradually stopped, lying there quietly and looking into her eyes as they gradually regained focus.  Then I eased myself into a semi-standing position, and reached to pull her tangled bra away, dropping it to the floor.  Then I eased her panties off.  I took her hands and drew her slowly to her feet.

She stood like a sleepwalker, seemingly unaware of her nakedness.  I picked her nightgown up from the bed and held it over her head.  She slowly raised her arms and allowed me to dress her in it, then lowered them again, still looking at me dazedly.  I took her in my arms again, kissed her lightly and said,  “Now I think you’re ready for bed.  See you tomorrow.”  I kissed her again, then once more on her forehead, and left.

    

Carol 3

The next time I saw Carol was at lunchtime the next day.  We were both heading from different directions towards the entrance to the dining-hall next to her dormitory.  I had been thinking about something else and so looked right past her at first.  She saw me, however, and thought I was ignoring her, and that she was the victim of a one-night stand.

I noticed her just as her face turned sad and she began to walk away from me with her head down.  I understood immediately what she was thinking and called out to her.  When she turned back to me I ran up and gave her a quick hug and a kiss on the side of the head, and asked her how she was doing, whether she’d slept all right, and so forth.  She brightened immediately, and we walked into the building with our arms around each other’s waists.

We sat together and ate and talked, but made no mention of the night before.  We parted without making any plans to see each other, but we both knew it would be soon.

I arrived at her room in the later part of the evening that night, when I figured she would be done with her schoolwork (she was a student teacher).  When she let me in, we hugged for a while.  I used it as an excuse to massage her spine, starting at the top and working my way down.  She relaxed against me and purred.  When I reached the bottom of her spine I allowed my hands to continue on to her behind, massaging her cheeks with the palms of my hands.  She was wearing light corduroy pants, and the texture of the fabric was pleasing to touch. 

After some time we broke off and went to sit on her bed.  We sat cross-legged, facing each other, and she immediately began talking about how she thought we shouldn’t be physically involved because we weren’t in a serious relationship.  I thought, sure...but listened and nodded in the right places.  I was sure she believed what she was saying.  But I was equally sure she would do what I wanted.

When she finished, I kissed her lightly on the lips, and said, “I understand.  I’ll try to keep my hands to myself.”  She smiled at my acquiescence, and I continued,  “It won’t be easy, of course, ‘cause as I told you last night, I just love touching you.”  I kissed her again.  “But I also love just looking at you.  Is that alright?”

She blushed a little and looked down and made a small laugh, looking up from under her eyebrows at me.  “Oh, of course,” she said.

“Do you like it when I look at you?”

“Well...” She wasn’t sure how to respond.

I made a teasing face and said, “Come on, admit it....”

Her blush deepened and she looked down again before saying, quietly, “...Yes.”

“’Yes’, what?”

“You know.”

“Yes, but I want to hear you say it.”

“Oh, you...alright.  I like it when you look at me.”

“Good.  Does it make you feel pretty?”

“Well...yes.”

“What?”

“Ohhh...yes, it makes me feel pretty.”  She gave the last word a self-deprecating twist.

“...And sexy?”

“Well, I don’t know...yes, it...it makes me feel...attractive.”

“Sexy.”

“Okay, okay...sexy!”  She made a face at my insistence on the word.

“You really like it?”

“Yes!”

“Alright then—stand up and let me look at you.”

“Oh, Jonathan...”

“Come on, stand up.  I mean it.”  I took her by one shoulder and nudged her toward the edge of the bed.

“Oh, all right...” She unfolded her legs and stood, facing me, looking very self-conscious.  She was wearing a light green sweater over her tan corduroys and tan socks on her feet.

At first I only looked at her eyes—they were dark brown, and at the moment a little distrustful.  I said, “You really are very pretty...” She allowed herself to smile.  After a moment, I continued, “You have a cute figure, too—it’s alright if I look at it?”  She blushed again and looked down without replying, so I added, “Put your hands behind your head, if you would, and look at me.”

She hesitated for a moment, then did what I’d asked.  Her eyes met mine, though timidly.  I could tell she was feeling vulnerable, and said, “Oh, that’s nice—that really shows off your figure.”  I let her watch me as I deliberately allowed my gaze to drop to her small breasts and boyish hips, and linger there long enough for her to feel it.  Then I looked back up and smiled at her and said,  “But I can’t really see you like this.”

She looked puzzled.  “What do you mean?”

I held her gaze as I said, “Well, for instance, I’m pretty sure you have nice legs, but I can’t see them.  Would you pull down your pants, please?”

She thought I was kidding, and guffawed.  I said,  “Seriously...pull down your pants.”

She was incredulous.  “Oh jeez, Jonathan!  No.”

“Carol, I promised I wouldn’t touch you, and I won’t.  But I want to look at you.  You like having me look at you, right”

“Yes, but...”

“Alright then.”  She started to say something else, but I held up my hand to forestall her, and held her in my gaze as I said, “Carol, I want to look at you.  Pull...down...your pants.”

She couldn’t take my gaze for long. She looked down.  I heard her mumble “Oh, jeez...” to herself.  Although her short black hair curtained her face somewhat I could still see that it was beet-red.  I held my breath.  This was the turning point.  Finally, she took a sharp breath, hooked her thumbs into the elastic waistband of her pants, and pulled them quickly down around her ankles.  Then she straightened up again, but wouldn’t look at me.

“There, that didn’t hurt a bit, did it,” I said lightly.  “Come on, hands behind your head.  Look up.”  She did so, still not looking at me, her face still red.  I smiled and said,  “C’mon, Carol, don’t be embarrassed.  I want you to enjoy this too.  Stop thinking about it so much—just watch me looking at you—enjoy how sexy you are.  Look at me.”

She finally raised her eyes to mine.  I said, “That’s better. Mmmmm... I really like that.  Do you feel sexy like that, with me looking at you?”

Her knit her brows together as she looked at me, her expression perturbed.  Finally she said, doubtfully, “Well....kind of...but I...”

“Good,” I jumped right in.  I think you just need to reassure yourself that it’s okay.”  She looked unsure, but nodded, hesitantly.  “All right,” I said, with a playful smile, “Repeat after me:  ‘I like having you look at me.’”

Her expression was doubtful, but she went along.  “I like having you look at me.”

“Good,” I replied.  “Now let’s take it a little farther: ‘I’m not ashamed of my body.’”

“I’m...not ashamed of my body.  But Jonathan...”

“Nope.  Let’s keep going with what you just did: ‘I like pulling my pants down for you.”

“Jonathan...!”

“Say it.”

She hesitated, looked down.

“Nope.  Keep looking at me...”

She returned her gaze to me.  “I like...” her gaze wavered, looked away, came back to mine.  She blushed furiously and quickly gabbled out the rest:  “...pulling my pants down for you.”  She gasped slightly.  Her eyes kept darting away, then returning to mine.

I tried to soothe her.  “Well, it’s true, I think.  The problem is that you don’t think it should be true—am I right?”  She nodded.  “You think it makes you a bad person, somehow.”  Again, she nodded.  “Well, it doesn’t.  It doesn’t hurt anyone, least of all yourself, and we both enjoy it—how is that a bad thing?”  She still looked unconvinced, but possibly less so, so I went on.  “Alright, let’s try it again.  But only repeat what I say if it’s really true for you, okay?”  She nodded and said, “Alright.”

I stood up and got close to her, looking deeply into her eyes, and repeated, “I like pulling my pants down for you.”

I was so close that she couldn’t look away.  She stood there, hands still locked behind her head, looking up at me.  I felt her resistance melt away.  She said, as if hypnotized, “I like pulling my pants down for you.”

I continued, “ I like having you look at me like this.”

“I like having you look at me like this.”

“I like being sexy for you.”

“I like being...sexy...for you.”

I sat down again, still holding her gaze.  “Good.  Now, stand with you feet apart and let me look at you.”  Without taking her eyes from mine she moved her feet as far apart as the pants around her ankles would allow.

I sat back down on the bed and looked at her for a while in silence.  Her face still had a worried expression, as if she had no idea how she’d gotten into such a situation, but she stayed in her position.  I stayed quiet a little longer to let her get used to being looked at.  Then I said, “I like your panties.”

She looked down at them.  They were pink and embroidered in front with lots of flowers in lighter and darker shades of pink.  She looked back up at me and smiled hesitantly, not sure if I was serious.

“Really.  They’re very pretty,” I reassured her.  Then I added, “Is your bra the same?”

She thought a moment, then nodded.  And of course I immediately said, “Show me.”

She made an outraged face, and said, in a tone meant to convey that I’d gone too far, “Jon-athan...!”  But she stayed in her position. I mocked her facial expression and her voice, saying, “Ca-rol...!”.

Unable to help herself, she laughed.  I said, “Carol, we just went through this: You like having me look at you—remember?”

“Ye-ess...”

“And you like being sexy for me, right?”

“Well...”

“Carol...is it true or not?”

She looked down and said, a little sadly,  “Yes.”  Then, knowing what I was about to say, she looked back up at me and said, reluctantly,  “I like being sexy for you.”

“Good.  Take off your sweater.”

She did.  She held it in her hands for a moment as if reluctant to let it go, then draped it over a nearby chair.  Then she quickly smoothed down her hair, and without waiting to be told, replaced her hands behind her head.  Her bra did indeed match her panties.

“Ooo, Carol—you are so pretty!’ I exclaimed.  “I don’t think you have any idea how sexy you are.  Look...” I stood up.  “See what you do to me?”  I gestured toward my zipper, where my erection was obvious.  She stared down at it, half-fearful, half-fascinated.  “Don’t you love being able to do that?”

Unable to take her eyes off it, she nodded once, slowly. Then started to speak.  “But Jonathan, you promised you wouldn’t...”

“And I won’t,” I finished for her, sitting back down.  I looked at her for a little while, then asked,  “How are you doing?  Do you feel good?  Do you feel sexy?”  She nodded, reluctantly, and I sensed she was just agreeing because I wanted her to.  I said, “I think you do, but I also think you’re still feeling like you’re not supposed to.  Am I right?”

She nodded.

“Okay, put everything back on.”  She looked surprised and, I thought, maybe even a little disappointed--though she’d never admit it.  I wait until she was dressed, then pulled her over to sit in my lap.   I gave her a hug and said,  “Alright, maybe this will help—were you ever in a play?”

“Yes, in high school.  I wasn’t very good at it.”

“Doesn’t matter.  Let me put it another way. When you were a kid, did you ever pretend you were someone else?  You know, someone in a story you’d read or somebody on TV...”

She brightened.  “Oh yes! I used to pretend I was Nancy Drew, and I’d follow people down the street, pretending they were spies or something.”

“Good.  And did you ever get so caught up pretending to be Nancy Drew that you kind of believed it?”

“Yes!  ...I almost got in trouble for looking in somebody’s window because I forgot it wasn’t really a hide-out.”  She laughed as she remembered.

I smiled too.  “See?  You’re a natural.   And that’s what I want you to do: pretend, okay?”

“Pretend what?”

“Umm...okay, pretend that...you’re a secretary...”

“I worked as an office temp for a while...”

“Great. Then this should be easy for you.  That’s perfect...you’re an office temp, and your supervisor...uh...Mr. Black...” I indicated myself and continued to think out loud, “...let’s see....saw you stealing something.  He calls you into his office...and says if you don’t do what he tells you he’s going to have you arrested.”

“I don’t understand.  Why are we doing this?”

“Well, I’m just guessing, but I think you’ll be able to enjoy yourself more if you pretend that you have to do what we’ve been doing.  That way you don’t have to feel like you’re being a bad person, because someone’s making you do these things.  Make sense?”

“Well...maybe...  I don’t...”

“Look, just try it, okay?  And if you don’t like it, we’ll stop.”  Carol looked uncertain.  I said, “It won’t be any different from what we’ve been doing, but it’ll feel different, I promise.  Let’s try it, okay?”

“Well...okay, but I...”

“Tell you what—have you got any office clothes?  You know, white blouse, pleated skirt—like that?”

“Yes, but...”

“Good.  Put them on.  I’ll wait outside.  Let me know when you’re ready.”  And before she could reply I stepped outside her room and closed the door.

She took less time that I thought she would—the idea must have appealed to her more than she’d want to admit—and when she opened the door to let me in I saw that she had gone all the way: white blouse with a red and blue bow at the neck, pleated navy-blue skirt with a wide black belt, pantyhose, low-heeled black shoes.  She’d even pulled her hair back in clips and put on some gold earrings.

She smiled sheepishly at me as I closed the door behind me and asked, “Is this right?”

I smiled back at her.  “That’s perfect.  You should have been an actress—you really look the part.  Let’s see...you wear glasses sometimes, don’t you?”

“Oh!  Yes, they’re right here.”  She went over to her desk, took them out of her case and quickly put them on before turning to face me.  They were round horn-rims that covered her eyes up past her eyebrows, and made her look like a cute owl.

“Oh my god, that’s just perfect!  Come here and look at yourself.”  I pulled her over to the full-length mirror on the back of her door and stood behind her.  She looked at herself...and giggled.  “See what I mean?” I said.  “You know what?  You’re not Carol anymore—you’re somebody else.  Look at her.  Who is she?”

I watched her stare at her reflection as if trying to guess what kind of person she was.  I said,  “That’s definitely somebody else.  What do you think her name is?”

She thought a moment.  “Maria.”

“Maria what?”

“Maria...I don’t know...Smith.  No, Maria Santiago.  I used to temp with a girl named Santiago, and she even looked like this a little.”  She smiled at her reflection again.

“Good.  Okay, take a good look at her, and remember what she looks like.”  I waited a beat.  “Got it?”

“Um-hm.”

I took her by the shoulders and turned her around to face me.  “Okay, you’re Maria Santiago.  You’re an office temp.  You’re a little shy, you don’t talk much at your jobs.  You’re not a bad person, but you don’t make much money and sometimes, if you can, you help yourself to stuff.  You’ve never been caught, but today Mr. Black saw you, though he hasn’t said anything yet.”

I waved my arm to indicate the room.  This is Mr. Black’s office.  That’s his desk,” indicating hers.  “Okay...who are you?”

“I’m...I’m Maria Santiago,” she said, smiling.

“I don’t believe you.  You sound like that Carol person.  Who are you?”

“Maria Santiago.”  Her face was more serious.

“What do you do?”

“I’m an office temp.”

“What else do you do?”

“I...sometimes I...steal things.”

“Okay.  Mr. Black just told you he wants to see you in his office.  How do you feel about that?”

“I...  I don’t know.”

“You don’t know why he wants to see you.  Are you a little...worried?”

“I guess so...”

“What are you worried about?”

“I’m...afraid he might have seen me take something.”

“What did you take?”

Her eyes darted around the room.  “A...CD player...from somebody’s desk.”

I followed her gaze and picked up the one she was looking at.  “Like this?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you put it?”

“In...in my purse.”

“What purse?”

She thought a moment, then turned and rooted through her closet, coming up with a fairly large black cloth purse.  “This one.”  I handed her the CD player and she put it into the purse.

“Alright.  What’s your name?”

Without hesitating she said, “Maria Santiago.”

I gave her a smile.  “Good.  Now, Maria, I want you to go outside.”  I pointed.  “Maria Santiago is going to knock on that door, and when she comes in, this is going to be Mr. Black’s office.  I wish I was wearing a suit, but you’ll just have to pretend.  Okay?”

“Okay.” She looked a little nervous, but excited.

“And whatever happens in Mr. Black’s office happens to Maria Santiago, not to anybody else.  Got it?”  She nodded, frowning a little with fear or concentration.  “Alright.  Go outside...but don’t knock unless you know why you’re knocking.” 

I took her by the shoulders and turned her around.  Without another word she opened the door, stepped outside and closed it behind her.  I went and sat down at her desk, and waited.

The knock, when it came, was a timid one.  Good, I thought, and called, “Come in.”

‘Maria’ opened the door a little, stuck her head in and said, “You wanted to see me, uh, Mr. Black?”

I turned to her and said, “Ah, Miss...Santiago, is it?  Yes, come in.”  She stepped to just inside the door.  “Close the door, please.”  She did so and stood there clutching her purse in both hands.  I was pleased—she was doing a much better job than I expected.  Or else she really was afraid.

I looked directly into her eyes—or as directly as I could through her glasses—and said, “I’ll come right to the point, Miss Santiago.  I saw you take something from someone’s desk and put it in your purse.”

She made an attempt at appearing shocked.  “N-no, I didn’t...”

“Well, if I’m mistaken then you won’t mind showing me what’s in your purse.”

“I...I...”

“Miss Santiago, let me put it another way.  Either I’m going to look in your purse, or the police are.” ‘Maria’ looked blank.  “Your choice.”

She wasn’t good at improvising, obviously, so I gave her a hint by holding out my hand.  She looked down and mutely handed over her purse.  I opened it and pulled out the CD player.  I held it up.  “This is a fairly expensive machine.  I believe you can go to jail for stealing something like this.”  I waited for her reaction but ‘Maria’ was still stuck—so I gave her a lead:  “Aren’t you even going to apologize?”

She blinked for a moment, then caught on.  “...I’m sorry...”

“Sorry you got caught, maybe.  Well, you’re going to be sorrier...” I put the player and the purse on the floor and picked up the receiver from the telephone on her desk.  I was hoping she’d jump in and try to stop me, but she still needed help.  I turned to her and said, “Can you think of any reason why I shouldn’t turn you over to the police?”  Still blank.  I made it a little more obvious:  “I’d be scared if I were you—jail isn’t a very nice place.”

Finally she got it.  “Please don’t call the police...oh god, I’m sorry!  Really!”  It wasn’t very convincing, but it was a start.

‘Mr. Black’ gave her another hint:  “I don’t believe you, Miss Santiago. You’ll have to do better than that.”  I sat back and looked at her as if I’d gotten an idea.  “You know, if you can convince me that you’re really sorry...I might let you go.” 

She floundered, “Well, I....”

I turned back toward the phone.  “But if you’d rather go to jail...” I started to dial.

Finally she woke up a little.  She grabbed my shoulder.  “No!”  I turned back to her and waited.  She went on, trying to sound convincing,  “I really am sorry, Mr. Black, honest!”

I waited for more, then shook my head as if disgusted and turned back to the phone.  She actually managed to sound a little panicked when she stopped me again and said, “Please, Mr. Black!  I’m sorry!  What can I do to convince you?”

That was what I’d been waiting for.  I put down the receiver and turned back to her.  I pretended to think for a moment.  Then I said,  “Well, for starters you could beg my forgiveness.”  She started to reply, but I held up my hand to stop her and continued,  “...on your knees, Miss Santiago.”

Her eyes went wide behind her glasses, but I think she was glad to have some direction because she immediately fell to her knees in front of me.  She looked up at me, and said, “Please forgive me.”

Unfortunately, she smiled as she did so—Carol wasn’t staying in character.  I gave her a disdainful look.  “You’re not taking this seriously, Miss Santiago, but I can promise you that the police will—and it makes no difference to me whether you go to jail or not.  Try again.”

More seriously this time, she said,  “I’m really sorry I stole the CD player, Mr. Black.  Please forgive me.”

I pretended to consider her performance, then shook my head and said,  “You’re still not convincing me.  You’re not really sorry.”  I waited a beat.  “Get down on your hands and knees.”  Slowly, she did so, still looking up at me.  “I think you need a lesson in humility, Miss Santiago.  I want you to crawl all the way around the room.”

She looked a little shocked.  “Why?”

“Because I told you to.  Go on.”

And after a moment, she did.  The room wasn’t very large, it couldn’t have taken much more than thirty seconds for her to make a full circuit, but I enjoyed watching her cute little behind moving under the pleated skirt, and the way her glasses slipped down her nose.      

When she returned to her starting point I told her, “Turn around.”  When she had done so, I reached down and lifted her skirt, pulling it up over her hips.  She reacted with indignation that was only partly feigned.

“No!  What are you doing?” she said, reaching back with one hand and pulling her skirt back down.

I got up and went to crouch down in front of her.  I was closer to her level but she still had to look up at me from her position.  “What am I doing, Miss Santiago?  I’ll tell you what I’m doing.”  I leaned closer and said,  “Whatever...I...want to.”  I let that sink in, then continued, getting so close that our noses almost touched, “...And if you want to stay out of jail, you’ll do whatever I tell you to do. Is that understood, Miss Santiago?”

It was right about here that she really seemed to begin to believe what was happening.  Her eyes behind her glasses took on that same glazed, deer-in-the-headlights look that I’d seen before, and she hardly seemed to be breathing.  After a long moment, her mouth opened slightly and she whispered, “Yes, Mr. Black.”

“Yes...what?”

“Yes, I...I’ll...do...whatever you tell me.”

I kept my face right where it was and said, “Good.  Now put your skirt back the way it was.”  And I waited while she reached back with one hand, and then the other, to pull her skirt back up over her hips.  Then I stood and returned to my chair.  I sat and looked at her for a few minutes, letting the silence and the fact that she couldn’t see me unnerve her a little more.

Then I said,  “Do you know, Miss Santiago, I really dislike pantyhose.  I don’t like the way they look and I don’t like the way they feel to the touch.  I think you should apologize for wearing them.”

After a moment, she spoke, quietly.  “I’m sorry for wearing pantyhose, Mr. Black.”

“Take them off.”

She had been expecting that, obviously, and began rising to her knees in preparatory to standing up.

“Did I tell you to stand up, Miss Santiago?”

She turned and looked at me, flustered, and said, “No, but I...”

“Get back down.”  She did so.  “Put your head down on the floor.”  She slowly lowered herself until her forehead was resting on the rug.  “Now—take off your pantyhose.”

It was an awkward and humiliating process.  She had to rest her weight on her forehead while reaching back with both hands and up under her skirt, which had fallen down again, to pull her pantyhose off of her hips and down to her knees.  Only then could she lift herself back up to her former position and reach back one arm at a time to remove her shoes and then pull her pantyhose the rest of the way off.

When they were all piled up behind her feet I said, “Pull your skirt back up.”  Again she reached behind her and repeated the process..  Now her cute behind in pink panties was on full display.  It was very tempting—I really wanted to run my hands over it—but I was trying to keep my promise not to touch her.  So I settled for telling her, “Crawl around the room again.”

There was no hesitation this time.  She started off in the opposite direction, giving me a nice view as she headed out.  She was of course facing me this time as she completed the circuit, and it was obvious from her expression that she had almost forgotten that this was pretend.  When she had returned to her original position I let her wait for a few more minutes.  Then I said, “Take off your skirt.”

By now she had become accustomed to doing what she was told to do.  So she lowered her forehead to the rug again—losing her glasses in the process this time—and reached behind her back to unfasten and unzip her skirt before pulling it down and off in the same way as she had her pantyhose.  Then she put her glasses back on.  And waited.

“Now your blouse.” 

She reached up with one hand to begin untying the bow at her neck, but I said, “No. Leave the bow.  Just your blouse.”

This time she took the precaution of removing her glasses and laying them beside her before lowering her head to the rug again and reaching behind her to unfasten the three buttons at her neck.  Then she eased the bow above the collar of her blouse, reached back to pull the tail of her blouse up to her shoulders, then grabbed it by the collar to pull it over her head.  It snagged on the bow and she had to struggle with it for a moment, but she finally got it off.  She quickly smoothed her hair, restored her glasses and returned to her position. She looked very vulnerable on her hands and knees, wearing nothing but her bra and panties and that now silly-looking bow, the rest of her clothes scattered around her on the floor.

“Put your head down on your arms, Miss Santiago.”  She did so, and I enjoyed looking at the swell of her buttocks as they pressed against the fabric of her panties. 

“Spread your knees apart.”  She moved them a few inches apart.  “More.”  She complied, giving me a full view of the bulge between her legs.  I looked more closely, and saw a darker spot there.  Moisture.  Ah-ha, I thought—I was right.  Now let’s see how far we can take it.

“Now, Miss Santiago, I want you to reach back between your legs with your right hand.”  She raised her head slightly and did as I’d asked, letting her hand rest palm up on the floor between her ankles.  “And now, Miss Santiago, I want you to reach up with your middle finger...and touch yourself.”

She jerked her head from her arm to look back at me and gasped, “Jon—I mean, Mr. Black!  I...”

“Head down, Miss Santiago,” I told her firmly.  I watched as she fought with herself briefly...then slowly lowered her head again.  Her right hand still rested on the floor.  “I’m waiting, Miss Santiago.”

This was another transition point, I knew.  How completely had she surrendered her will to mine?  I waited...and watched as her hand rose from the floor, even more slowly than she had lowered her head, gradually extended her middle finger...and brought the tip of it to rest precisely on the wet spot.  I heard her take a sudden deep breath as she felt the moisture there, though whether of excitement or mortification or a combination of the two I didn’t know—or care.

“Move your finger up and down, Miss Santiago.”  Slowly her hand began to move.  At first it was just a slight up and down movement, just enough to show that she was following my directions.  But as I watched I saw the strokes becoming longer, and that she was using more pressure.  After some time she began a subtle back-and-forth rocking motion that matched the rhythm of her finger-strokes, and I heard her starting to make little noises—“Uh!...Uh!...Uh!...”—in the same rhythm.  The wet spot between her legs got wetter and spread throughout the crotch of her panties.

I watched in silence as her strokes became faster, and her grunts more intense.  When I judged that she was about to climax, I stepped quietly in front of her, crouched down near to where she still had her head down on her left arm, and said loudly,  “Miss Santiago!”

Her head jerked up, her eyes wide and startled at seeing me so close.  She was breathing heavily through her mouth, and her face and the hair around it were sweaty.  I couldn’t see but I was willing to bet she had quickly moved her hand from between her legs.

I gave her a moment to focus on me, then I said, “Tell me, Miss Santiago...Does it embarrass you to be down on the floor like this...in your underwear...having to touch yourself while I watch?”

Carol knew I was talking to her—that this wasn’t part of the scenario—even though I was still calling her Miss Santiago.  She tore her gaze away from mine and looked down.  After a moment I heard her say, in what sounded almost like a moan,  “Yes.”

“I think you mean, ‘Yes, Mr. Black.”

“Yes, Mr. Black.”

“And you feel...ashamed?  Humiliated?”

This time her answer was barely a whisper.  “Yes...Mr. Black.”

“Look at me.”  She raised her eyes to mine, fearfully.  “Now.  I’m going to ask you something and I want you to tell me the truth.”  I paused, then, holding her gaze, said, “Do...you...like it?”

At first her eyes went wide...then they filled with tears.  Her lower lip quivered.  “Ohhhh!....Y-y-es!...Yes, Mr. Black!” she gasped, and quickly put her head back down on her arm and cried.

I gave her a few moments, then said, “Miss Santiago!”  She raised her face to mine again, her face red and tearful.  I rose and grabbed a tissue from her desk, then crouched down and gently wiped her face and held it to her nose, saying, “Blow.”  When she had done so I tossed it aside.  Then I knelt down and kissed her gently on the lips.

Then I returned to my crouching position and said, “So, you’ve learned something about yourself, Miss Santiago.  That’s good.”  She continued to look up at me from her near-prostrate position on the floor, her eyes still slightly tearful.  “I want to ask you something else, Miss Santiago—and how you answer is completely up to you.”  I leaned down until my face was again close to hers and asked softly, “Do you want to be humiliated...some more?”  Then I waited.

For a moment she looked desperately into my eyes as if seeking something—an answer, permission.  Then, holding my gaze, she said, “Yessss...” hissing it between her teeth.

She hadn’t said ‘Mr. Black’ but I let it go.  Instead I said,  “Say it, Miss Santiago.”

Her breathing began to get rough again.  She licked her lips.  Looked down.  Looked back up at me and quickly said, “Humiliate me.” 

I held her gaze as I replied,  “Miss Santiago.  Where are your manners?   Say ‘Please’.”     

Her eyes closed for a moment, as if she were in pain.  Then she opened them again.  “P-please....humiliate me.”  She stopped, then added, “Mr. Black.”

I sat back and smiled at her.  “Good.  Take off your bra.”  I waited while she put her head down and went through the necessary maneuvers.  When she was done I said, “Now pull your panties down half-way and continue what you were doing.”

She moaned out loud...and complied.  I rose and went back to my seat to watch.  The area between her legs was already slick and shiny with her moisture, and there were beads of it glistening in the small black tuft of wiry hairs that was just visible in the shadows beyond.

She was moaning and sobbing in equal measure as she fell back into the rhythm she had been using before.  I waited until her middle finger—and indeed, the ones on either side of it—were covered with her moisture.  Then I said, “Put it inside, Miss Santiago.”

By now she was so lost in a fever of desire that she didn’t hesitate even slightly; and without the smallest change in her rhythm she inserted her middle finger into her vagina and began moving it in and out.  I watched as she arched her back and began thrusting her hips back and forth to meet the inward stroke of her finger.  By then her moans had modulated into one long spasmodic cry.  Again I waited until I was sure she was seconds away from a climax, then quickly stepped in front of her again and called out, “Miss Santiago!”

This time she gave a small scream as I snapped her out of her erotic trance.  Her small breasts were heaving beneath her, their nipples erect.  Her eyes as they turned up to mine were pleading, feverish.  “Oh, please!....” she whimpered.  “Oh....Mr. Black...please...”

I cut her off.  “Not yet.  If you behave yourself I’ll let you finish.”  She stared at me.  “Get up on all fours again.”  Slowly, she did as she’d been told, her breath still ragged, her eyes still fixed on mine.  “Put your glasses back on.”  She did so.  “Follow me.”  I walked slowly around the room and she crawled after me, moaning quietly, her movements hampered by the fact that her panties were still halfway down her thighs.  I made her crawl all the way around the room twice.

Then I walked over to the door of her room.  Opened it.  And stepped out into the hall.

She followed me as far as the doorway and stopped.  It was now nearly midnight and the hallway was dark, lit only by the dim red glow of the exit signs.  I leaned against the opposite wall in the rectangle of light from her doorway and folded my arms, looking back at her.  She looked up at me, her expression full of fear.  “Nooooo.....” she whined, her voice barely above a whisper,  “Someone’ll see me!”

I said nothing, simply unfolded an arm, pointed at a spot on the floor directly in front of me, refolded my arms and waited, looking at her.

She looked back at me, paralyzed.  Then she leaned her head out of the doorway.  Looked to the right and then the left...and then quickly crawled to the spot I’d indicated and stopped, looking up at me, her eyes terrified.  I looked calmly back at her.  Made her wait for my next direction for several agonizing seconds, which must have seemed like hours to her.  Finally, I languidly extended my arm again and pointed from where she was to the end of the hall and back, indicating that she was to crawl along that route.  She looked up at me in sheer disbelief, shaking her head vigorously, the distant exit lights making red streaks in her glasses.  I nodded.  She shook her head even more vigorously, her glasses sliding down to the end of her nose before she caught them, and mouthed the word “No!”, panic-stricken.  I straightened up from the wall, stepped around her—and she followed me, first with her eyes, then with her head and finally with her whole body—and stood in the doorway, my arms crossed.  The message was clear: if she wanted to get back in...

For a few moments she continued to plead with me in the same manner, mouthing the word ‘No!’ over and over and shaking her head.  But finally she must have realized that the longer she waited the better chance there was of someone stepping out to use the hall bathroom.  So, biting her lower lip in fear, she turned—in the direction that would lead her away from the bathroom—and began to crawl as quickly as she could toward the far exit-door.

I watched her crawl, her buttocks rose-colored in the dim light.  She was making pretty good time considering that her panties were still hampering her movement.  She reached the exit door, tagged it like a swimmer doing laps, and turned around to head back.  I saw that her glasses had not only slipped down her nose again but were hanging askew on her face—she was too concerned with getting back out of sight to take the extra second to straighten them.

In another moment she was in front of me again.  She had obviously expected me to move out of the way as soon as she arrived because she almost bumped her head on my knees.  She stopped just in time and looked up at me, her mouth open, breathing heavily.  Her look, through those still-cockeyed glasses, said, ‘What are you waiting for?  Let me in!’  But I continued to stand there blocking her way.  Her questioning look grew more panicked, as if to say,  ‘What?  What else?  Tell me!’

Holding her gaze, I slowly unfolded my arms again, letting them hang loosely at my sides.  Then I tilted my pelvis toward her, my erection obvious.  And waited.

She caught my meaning immediately and gasped so loudly that she reached up and covered her mouth—so vigorously that her glasses went flying.  She quickly retrieved them and put them back on.  Her eyes, behind them, were once again glazed with fear.  Bad enough to be seen crawling up and down the hall nearly naked, but to be seen in the same condition kneeling in front of a man and doing what she was about to do...

...And she was going to do it, she had no doubt...no choice.  Now whimpering with fear she quickly rose to her knees and unfastened and unzipped my pants and pulled them down to my knees, followed by my underwear.  Without wasting a moment she placed her hands on my waist and applied her mouth to the head of my cock, quickly licking it all around before taking it all the way in.

It soon became obvious that she had little experience in what she was doing.  That first time, the other night, I had come almost the moment I’d entered her mouth because there had been a lot more foreplay, but now her lack of technique was frustrating.

I placed my hands on either side of her head and began slowly to pull my cock out of her mouth and just as slowly push it back in.  She quickly adapted herself to my rhythm and began bobbing her head up and down, but she still needed instruction.  I stopped her with my hands and pulled my cock out of her mouth again.  She looked up at me in surprise.

I reached down and grabbed her right hand and held the first two fingers together as I brought it to my mouth.   I showed her how to use her tongue by using my own, inserting her fingers into my mouth and running my tongue down their length as I did so.  I repeated the action several times, then released her hand.  I looked down at her and raised my eyebrows as if to ask, ‘Do you understand?’  She nodded, anxiously, and began again.

This time it was much better, and I could tell she knew it too.  As she grew more confident she began to vary her rhythm, sometimes stopping with just the tip of my cock between her lips and stimulating it with her tongue, other times exploring how slowly and deeply she could take my shaft in without discomfort.  Soon it became obvious that she had forgotten that she was kneeling in a public hallway with her panties halfway down her thighs—had forgotten everything except the dance of her tongue and lips.

I allowed myself to enjoy it as long as I could, but it was inevitable that eventually I would feel the beginnings of an orgasm.  I decided to give ‘Miss Santiago’ one more surprise.  I held back until the last possible second, then just as I began to come I pulled my cock out of her mouth.  I held her head in place with my hands as my semen began to spurt.  The first few drops landed in her hair, and on her forehead, but the next spurt splattered directly onto the right lens of her glasses, near the bridge of her nose, and began running down and dripping onto her cheek.

Her expression was horrified.  She tried to jerk away from me and quickly raised her hands as if to put them in front of her face for protection...  But then she dropped them helplessly to her sides and turned her face up to mine—so that my final spurts landed on her nose, her slightly parted lips and her chin.  She looked as though she were in ecstatic prayer.

For a long moment we simply stayed like that as I recovered from my orgasm.  Then I backed out of the doorway and into her room again, pulling my pants up as I went.  Without thinking, Carol dropped down to all fours and crawled in after me.  As soon as she was inside I closed the door behind her.  Carol came to a stop...and simply waited.  My semen was still all over her face and glasses—a drop of it fell to the floor from the end of her chin, followed slowly by another—but she did nothing, only waited.

I told her to stand up and close her eyes, and finished adjusting my pants while she did so.  Then, standing behind her, I placed my hands lightly on her shoulders, turned her around and guided her steps until she was standing directly in front of her full-length mirror.  I stood behind her and told her to open her eyes.

Her reaction surprised me.  For a moment she simply stared at her reflection: the white drops of semen in her disordered hair; the blobs of it on her glasses and the glistening trails running down her face—now gathering at the point of her chin and dripping onto her chest and the bow at her neck; her nakedness and the panties bunched around her thighs.  Then suddenly she began to breathe very quickly—almost hyperventilating—and cried “Oh!” in a loud whisper as the top half of her body jerked forward and down so that she had to rest her hands on her thighs as she went into orgasm.

It seemed to go on for a long time—she stayed hunched over, mouth open, whispering, “Oh!...Oh!...Oh!...” over and over as if to herself as if in pain.  And even when she appeared to be done she remained in that position, as if it were the only way she could remain standing.  I waited until she seemed to have recovered her breath, then said, “Stand up and put your hands behind your head,”—deliberately not calling her Miss Santiago.

Slowly, she complied.  I looked over her shoulder and met her gaze in the mirror.  I held it for several seconds—her right eye was barely visible behind the spatter of semen on her glasses but the left lens was still clear.  Then I spoke.

“Alright, Carol, here’s what I want you to do.  After I leave, and you finish cleaning yourself up, I want you to clean off your glasses.”  I reached around her and removed them, examined them, and continued, “Except for this part right here.”  I held them in front of her face and indicated a tiny trickle that had dribbled down inside her glasses at the very right edge of the lens.  “Do you see it?”  She looked at the spot I indicated, then back up at me, and nodded, her face blank.  I went on, “You’re going to leave that there, and let it dry.”  I gently replaced the glasses on her nose and concluded, “And every time you put on your glasses you’re going to see it, and remember how it got there...and how you look right now...” I leaned forward and spoke into her ear.  “...with my come all over your face.  Is that understood?”  I leaned back and waited.

She took a sudden, sobbing breath...and nodded again, her eyes staring at me.

I wasn’t done.  “From now on you’re going to carry your glasses with you wherever you go.  You will put them on whenever I tell you to.  And then you will do whatever else I tell you to do.  Have you got that?”

Her head barely moved this time, but she nodded.

“Say it.”

She swallowed convulsively.  Licked her lips, taking more of my semen into her mouth.  Swallowed again, Then said, her lips quivering,  “I’ll—I’ll always bring my glasses with me.  I’ll put them on whenever you tell me, and...and I’ll...do whatever else you tell me.  Oh god....”  She began to shiver.

I reached over and snagged another tissue and handed it to her, saying, “Wipe off your mouth.”  She did so.  “Turn around.”  She turned and faced me.  “Kiss me good night and say ‘thank you’.

She carefully leaned forward and kissed me on the mouth, then leaned back, met my gaze as best she could, and whispered,  “Thank you...Jonathan.”

I smiled at her and said, “You’re welcome.  Good night.”  Then I left.

    

Carol 4

I didn’t see Carol at lunch the next day, though I waited until nearly closing time.  When she didn’t come to dinner, I casually asked a classmate of hers if she’d seen Carol, and she told me Carol hadn’t been at her classes that day.  It was pretty obvious that Carol was upset about last night and was too embarrassed to show her face in public.  Or, at least, where she might run into me.

This needed to be dealt with.  I sat down at one of the dining tables, tore a piece of paper out of my notebook and wrote the following:

“Dear Carol,

“My guess is that you’re feeling bad about last night.  It must have been a shock to learn that you enjoy something that most people wouldn’t...that they might even find repulsive.  I’d also guess that you’re more ashamed of the fact that I know this about you than you are of the fact itself.

“First of all, I promise you that I will tell no one.  Second of all: though there are obvious reasons for being discrete, there is no reason to be ashamed.  Really and truly.  In fact, I consider you fortunate for discovering something that gives you so much pleasure—most people go their whole lives without experiencing that kind of fulfillment

“I think what’s really bothering you is a desire to not be what you are—a desire to be what other people call ‘normal’.  And if you want to pretend to be that way then you certainly can; if that’s your choice then I will forget that last night ever happened and leave you alone.

“But no matter how well you pretend, you will always remember; you will always know the truth.  So the question is this: Will you try to live a lie, or do you have the courage to be who you are?

“Please know that I will accept you either way.  We are friends, you know.  –Jonathan”

I quickly gathered some hot food in a take-out container.   I folded up the letter and tucked it into a corner of the take-out box, then I took it up to her room.  I set it on the floor outside her door.  Then I knocked and called out, “Room Service!” and went away.

She came to lunch the next day.  I saw her go into the serving area and come out with her tray a few minutes later, looking very cute in a baby-blue  cotton knit shirt and a khaki wrap-around skirt. I was sitting by myself in a corner of the room.  I watched her stop and slowly look around.  I assumed that she was looking for me, but I didn’t know whether it was to join me or avoid me.  When she looked my way I raised my hand and waved.  I kept my expression neutral—ready to be accepted or rejected.

She looked at me for a long time—perhaps she hadn’t truly made up her mind until that very moment.  Her face, too, was neutral.  I wondered if she was trying to judge the sincerity of what I’d written to her.

She started walking towards me.

When she arrived at my table her facial expression was unchanged.  In fact, close up, she looked a little angry—an impression that was supported by the way she banged her tray down on the table, and the way she seemed to flounce into her chair.  She glared at me for several seconds, saying nothing.  Then she pulled her gaze down to the purse in her lap and snapped it open.  She reached in and brought out a leather glasses case.  She pulled out the glasses she had been wearing the other night, unfolded them with sharp, jerky movements as if she were mad at them as well, stuck them on her face and looked up at me, still glaring, as if to say, ‘There, are you satisfied?’

I leaned forward slightly to look more closely at her.  Sure enough, there was the tiny dribble of semen on the inside of her glasses, though it was hardly visible now that it had dried to near-transparency.  She saw me looking at it, and I saw her eyes flick up to it for an instant before returning to mine, possibly even angrier now because of it, as if saying, ‘See what you made me do?’  But I continued to meet her gaze calmly...until she suddenly blushed and looked down.  And, though I couldn’t be sure, I thought she smiled a little.

I had an idea.  I was done eating, so I pushed my tray aside.  Then I reached across the table with both hands, grabbed the edge of her tray and pulled it over to me.  She looked up at me, startled, but I paid her no attention—I was looking at the contents of her tray.  It was pretty much Dining Hall Standard: sliced turkey-roll with cranberry jelly, mashed potatoes, green beans, a small salad.  She also had a small plate of carrot-sticks, a dish of strawberry shortcake, an apple and a glass of water.  I studied it all for a few moments as she watched me, mystified.

Then I selected one of the carrot sticks.  I held it up in front of her face for a few seconds.  Then keeping my eyes on hers I slowly lowered my hand until it was out of sight.

Below the table.

She continued to look back at me in complete bewilderment for several seconds.  I could tell when she got it because she suddenly began breathing quickly through her mouth.  I waited.

This time there was no argument, silent or otherwise.  She was sitting with her back to the rest of the room, and first she looked carefully around her.  Serving time for lunch was nearly over, and the area we were sitting in was pretty much deserted.  Even so, she made a business of ‘accidentally’ knocking her spoon to the floor and bending down as if to pick it up...before crawling under the table.

I pushed my chair back slightly and spread my knees apart, holding the carrot stick between my thighs where she would be sure to see it.  And in a moment, there was her cute little owl-face looking up at me from between my knees.  She reached up to take the carrot stick, but I pushed her hand away and held the carrot stick in front of her mouth.  She understood immediately and opened her mouth, allowing me to place the carrot inside it before she bit off a chunk.

I fed her the entire meal that way: I would cut off a bite of turkey-roll, spread it with cranberry jelly, then place it in her open mouth with my fingers; I would roll up a leaf of lettuce, slippery with oil and vinegar dressing, fold it over and feed it to her; I would pick up a dollop of mashed potatoes and butter with two fingers and let her lick it off them; I would hold the glass of water under the table for her to sip; if things got messy, as they sometimes did, I would wipe off her mouth with a napkin.  With her owl-glasses on, it was like feeding a baby bird.

When the tray was nearly empty, I looked down and silently asked if she’d had enough.  She nodded, and actually smiled up at me—she’d enjoyed being fed that way.

But she should have known that wasn’t the end.

I indicated, by twirling my finger, that she was to turn around.  Her smile faded somewhat, but she did what I asked.  When she was facing the other way I reached down, took her by the hips and tugged gently, indicating that I wanted her to back up.  Which she did, crawling slowly backwards until her legs were under my chair and her behind directly in front of it. 

When I had been feeding her I’d been fairly careful about not looking down too often, for fear of attracting attention; I’d leaned on one elbow and kept my eyes on the tray as if concentrating on my meal, but was still able to see her face in my peripheral vision, and I would glance down to make sure that the food was getting into her mouth.  I used the same technique now—even though there was hardly any food left on the tray—as I reached down and peeled back the flaps of her skirt.

Her panties were thin cotton in the same shade of blue as her shirt, and were printed with the outlines of daisies in yellow.  Very cute, I thought, as I lowered my right hand and began to fondle her behind.  I heard a quick gasp when my hand made contact, but nothing further.  Good.

I had a couple of books with me so I pulled one over with my free hand, and opened it at random.  Pretending to read gave me an excuse to look down continuously, so I could enjoy seeing what I was doing.  I leaned my elbows on my thighs so I could have both hands under the table, and massaged both cheeks of her behind for a while.

Carol, of course, wouldn’t dare make a sound, even if she wanted to, but I could hear her breath becoming more ragged, especially when I slipped the fingers of both hands under the elastic of her panties and began pulling them up so that they put pressure between her legs.  I did this rhythmically for a while—tightening and releasing, tightening and releasing—and I could tell it was making her crazy.  But when I bunched them tightly in my left hand and slipped my right hand between her legs she almost started bucking like a horse.

I stayed right with her though, massaging her pussy through her now wet panties while keeping them pulled tight between her buttocks.  Her balance suddenly seemed a little unsteady, and it wasn’t until I heard her muffled whimpers that I realized she had lifted one hand to cover her mouth.

This was probably a good idea, considering what I had in mind to do next.

When I decided she was well and truly aroused...I stopped.  I let go of her panties and withdrew my hand from between her legs.  Then I reached up and slowly pulled her panties down.  Her gasp was audible, even with her hand over her mouth.  She even flailed one hand behind her for a moment, as if trying to stop me, but quickly subsided, knowing there was nothing she could do.

It was really something to be sitting in the Dining Hall and have a woman’s naked behind between my legs.  For a while I was content to stroke it—delicately, sensuously—with the tips of my fingers.  Then I began to draw one finger lightly through the area between her buttocks, over and over.  This was actually a distraction: at the same time I was dipping the same finger of the other hand into the leftover oil and vinegar dressing in the bottom of her salad bowl.  I coated it as thoroughly as I could and then switched fingers without missing a stroke.

If she felt the difference between the dry finger and the oily finger she didn’t acknowledge it in any way.  But when that finger began to probe her anal passage—sliding a little way in, withdrawing slightly, then pushing in even deeper—she actually took her hand off her mouth, turned her head and whispered “No!” as loudly as she dared.

I, of course, not only ignored her but in one stroke wormed my finger all the way in, to the last knuckle.  She started to cry out, “OH!” but clapped her hand back over her mouth.

This was obviously a new experience for her.

I began sliding my finger in and out, slowly.  I could hear her begin to whimper again, still muffled but seemingly in a higher key than before.  If she enjoys humiliation, I thought, she must be in heaven: trapped under a table in a public area, with her panties down and my finger sliding in and out of her behind.

And the best was yet to come, though of course she didn’t know that yet.

I continued to probe and massage her anal passage until I was sure it was well lubricated.  While I was doing that I used my free hand to take a couple of the bigger remaining carrot sticks and coat them with oil the same way I had done for my finger.

Then I removed the finger from her behind and quickly inserted the carrot sticks.  They weren’t much longer than my finger, and the two of them together were only slightly thicker.  Still, there’s a big difference between a finger and a couple of carrot sticks, and Carol, although she couldn’t see, obviously, must have known something had changed.

But she did nothing.  She remained on her hands and knees quietly, panties down and the orange stubs of two carrot sticks sticking out of her behind.  I slid them in and out a few times then left them where they were as I moved on to the next step.

Carol must have wondered what was going on when I stopped—and she certainly must have wondered what I had left in her behind but there was no way to check without removing them—and she wouldn’t do that without permission, I was sure.  Meanwhile, I had picked up the knife from her tray and was cutting a large wedge from the apple there.

I peeled the skin from the wedge.  I dipped both sides into the leftover melted butter from her mashed potatoes.

Then, holding it in the palm of my hand I lowered it between her legs and gently placed the edge against the lips of her vagina.

She hadn’t been able to see it coming, of course, and it was still somewhat cold from being refrigerated.  And apparently she must have gotten tired and lowered the hand that had been covering her mouth, because the resulting gasp was so loud that I had to fake a coughing fit for the benefit of the few people left in the dining hall—none of them nearby, fortunately.

When everything had settled down I returned to the business at hand.  This time I was careful to brush the inside of her thigh with my hand before touching her with the apple wedge.  She had had the sense to replace her hand over her mouth by then as well so there were no further exclamations.

I pressed the edge inward until it separated her lips.  Then I began slowly sliding it back and forth, pressing it in a little further each time.  Carol obviously had no idea what was being rubbed between her legs, but by that point I don’t think it mattered much, as she was too busy trying to keep her moans and whimpers from being heard.

I slid it back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.  Then I turned it around and slowly inserted it almost all the way into her vagina.  Then just as slowly I pulled it out.

In, slowly.  Out.  In, a little faster.  Out.  Then in, then out, gradually increasing the pace.

Then I saw her shift, and I could tell from the way she raised her behind that she had probably put her face down to the floor—the better to cover her mouth with both hands, I assumed.  And all the better for me, as it made her more accessible.   I continued sliding the apple wedge in and out with my left hand and with my right hand grabbed the ends of the carrot sticks and began to do the same thing with them in an alternating rhythm so that the carrots were going in as the apple was coming out, and vice versa.

And it was a really good thing that she was muffling herself so well, because without her mouth covered what was coming out of it would probably be described as shrieking.  In the interest of not being discovered I decided I’d better finish this part as quickly as possible, so I increased the pace.  It was only a few seconds later that she gave a long, but well-covered  “OHHHHHhhhhhh....” and I could tell by her sudden stillness that she had climaxed.

I waited patiently while she recovered.  I knew she was probably thinking that it was all over.

She was wrong.

I gradually eased the carrot sticks and the apple wedge out of their respective hiding places and held them in one hand.  Then with the other I tapped Carol on the hip to indicate that she should turn around again and face me.

She had either managed to keep her glasses on or she had replaced them before turning, because they were where they were supposed to be.  Her face, as she looked up at me from between my legs, was drained and exhausted-looking.  But there was also an air of satisfaction about her, and she managed a weak smile for me.

Her smile faded as I showed her the carrots and the apple and she realized that they were what had been inside her.  And when I held the carrot sticks, still glistening with oil, up to her mouth, her expression became one of complete disgust and repulsion.

But she opened her mouth.

She made terrible faces as I fed them to her, though I was sure they didn’t taste of anything more than oil and vinegar.  But she wanted to be sure I understood how degrading it was—it was her way of thanking me.

When she had swallowed the last of the carrots, I held up the apple wedge.  It looked much more disgusting than the carrots, being partially covered with a kind of white foam from her orgasm, and she eyed it suspiciously before opening her mouth to receive the first bite.  Her natural juices must have gone well with the butter and apple flavors because she ate it right up.

When she was done, she simply waited, looking up at me.  And she didn’t seem particularly surprised when, after a quick look around, I began to unfasten and unzip my pants.  She even helped me pull them down while I raised my hips slightly from my seat, then reached up to free my cock from my underwear while I assisted by raising my hips again so she could pull them down as well.

Then as a special treat, I dipped my fingers in the leftover sauce from the strawberry shortcake and smeared it all over the head of my cock.  She watched as I did it, then looked up at me and smiled.

Then she went right to work, as if it was a pleasant task she had been saving until the harder work was done.  She remembered everything she had learned the other night, and improved on it.  She honestly seemed to be enjoying herself—I even heard (and felt) her making little humming noises to herself at times, as if it were an ice cream cone she was savoring.  And when I came—making it my turn to cover my mouth with my hand to keep from crying out—she simply looked up at me while her mouth filled up with my juices.  When she was sure I was done she delicately removed her mouth from my cock, being careful not to spill a drop.  Then she looked up at me again, gave me another tiny smile...and swallowed.

I smiled back, and caressed the side of her face with my hand.  She leaned into it, closing her eyes, for a moment.  Then she opened them again, reached up and removed her glasses.  She smiled at me again, then turned around so I could pull up her panties and smooth her skirt back down into place.  I saw her moving away under the table and then a few seconds later her head popped up on the other side and she sat down in her chair, looking as though nothing had happened since she’d reached down to retrieve her spoon, except that her hair was a little disarrayed.

She reached over the table and pulled her tray back in front of her, then picked up her glass and took a long drink of water.  She seemed tired but happy...until she looked at her watch and realized how much time had passed. She said, “Oh god, I’m late.”  She picked up her tray and started to hurry off.  Then she stopped and came around the table to where I was sitting.  She bent down and kissed me quickly, then put her lips next to my ear and breathed, “Thank you.”  Then she was gone.

Carol 5

Although we actually did spend time together without doing anything sexual, it was obvious that the intensity of those encounters was what kept drawing us together.  Carol was becoming more comfortable with her nature and seemed willing to try whatever I came up with.

Some of things we did were improvised around the circumstances we found ourselves in; others  were, for me at least, planned set pieces though I didn’t always tell her what was about to happen.

An example of the former would be the Friday night I noticed her heading into the university library.  I followed her in without alerting her to my presence.  The library was mostly deserted, as was to be expected on a weekend evening.  I trailed her at a distance as she made her way toward the stacks in the rear and took note of which aisle she turned into.  When it seemed as though she were going to stay there for a while I made my way there, checking each aisle for other people as I did.  No one.

She had her back to me as I came down the aisle toward her.  She was dressed simply in a shapeless gray summer dress and sandals, and she was holding a book open in her hands and flipping through the pages searching for something.

I leaned back against the shelves and waited for her to sense my presence.  It didn’t take long before she lifted her face from the book and slowly turned around towards where I was standing.  When she saw me she registered no surprise; she simply closed the book she had been looking at and returned it to the shelf.  Then she reached down and opened the purse which was lying at her feet.  She pulled out her glasses and put them on, then stood looking at me, not smiling or speaking.  Just waiting.

I held my hand out, palm up, and made a lifting motion with my fingers.  She looked around quickly to make sure there was no one nearby, then reached down, grasped the hem of her dress with both hands and slowly lifted it until her panties, and then her stomach, and then finally her bra were revealed.  Her underwear was white, with a pattern of small blue and red stars and larger yellow shapes that looked like asterisks.  She continued to simply look at me and wait.

After a while I held out my hand again.  This time I waggled two fingers toward myself.  At first she thought I’d meant for her to come closer and started to walk toward me, but I held up my palm and shook my head and she stopped.  I reached out and tugged gently on the material of her dress.  Then she understood.

She let go of her dress and allowed it to fall back into place.  Then she reached behind her and unzipped it, pulled it free of her shoulders and allowed it to fall to the floor around her feet.  Then she stepped out of it, bent down and picked it up and held it out to me.

I took it...then turned and walked away.  She gasped slightly when she saw that I was leaving, apparently thinking that I was going to leave her stranded in the library wearing nothing but her bra and panties. But she said nothing.  To confirm her impression I went a couple of aisles back toward the entrance,  then ducked into one and stashed her dress on an empty shelf. Then I crept back around the other way to see what she was doing.

She was simply standing there, arms at her sides, waiting.  But there was an anxious expression on her face.

I continued to watch her for several minutes.  After a while she walked to the end of the aisle where I had left and carefully leaned her head out—looking for me, I assumed.  I made a small throat-clearing sound and she whirled around to face me, her expression terrified.  But when she saw it was me she relaxed again and stood quietly.

I walked over to her and began to fondle her breasts through her brassiere.  She raised her hands and put them behind her head and closed her eyes.  I turned her around and continued to massage her breasts as I pressed my erection  between her buttocks.

After a while I reached up and took her right hand and drew it down to her waist, pressing it flat against her stomach before sliding it beneath the waistband of her panties.  Then I turned her around to face me again and withdrew, leaning against the shelves behind me and crossing my arms.

She slowly lowered her other arm to her side, staring back at me—knowing what I wanted her to do.  Then, still holding my gaze, she began to stroke herself, the movement of her hand inside her panties causing them to undulate in rhythm with her strokes.  Her mouth slowly fell open as her gaze, without leaving mine, became inward, lost in the mixture of pleasure and shame that she found so irresistible.  If someone had come along right then and caught  her masturbating in front of me in her bra and panties she would have been devastated,  but the possibility of such a thing happening was obviously very arousing to her.

I decided to refine the situation somewhat and stepping forward, I knelt in front of her and slowly peeled her panties down so that they hung inside out on her thighs, leaving her loins exposed.  She kept her eyes on mine and made only a small sound, a groan that seemed to fall between pleasure and sadness,  as I did so.  I remained kneeling for a while, watching her hand, now visible, sliding in and out between her legs.

Then I stood, still very close to her, still holding her gaze, as I unfastened and unzipped my pants and took out my cock and gently wrapped the fingers of her other hand around it.  I let her stroke me for a while as she continued to touch herself.  I could see she was beginning to get anxious again; I guess masturbating in her bra and panties  in the university library didn’t seem as bad as masturbating with her panties down and fondling someone’s cock in the university library.

Things could be worse, however—as she was about to find out.

I put my hand on top of her head and gently pressed down.  She immediately fell to her knees, thinking that I wanted her to take me in her mouth.  Instead, I moved my hand to her forehead and began pushing her backwards.  Confused, she let go of my cock and leaned back on her hands, not knowing what I wanted.  I continued to push her back until she was no longer able to balance on her hands and fell onto her back with a small cry, her legs unfolding from beneath her.

She looked up at me from the floor, blinking behind her glasses and breathing hard.  I nudged her legs apart with my foot, then stood between her knees  and began stroking myself.

I doubt she had ever seen a man masturbating, and I could tell it shocked her.  I imagined that  being discovered fondling my cock was beginning to look fairly conservative to her, at least in comparison to being found lying on her back, panties pulled down, while a man stood between her legs and masturbated over her.

I was a little nervous myself, so I didn’t try to hold back.  And anyway the mixture of terror and arousal on her face, combined with her position and state of undress, was more than enough to bring me to orgasm.  She had covered her mouth with her hands because she was gasping so loudly, and I had to do the same with one hand as I climaxed.  Carol seemed nearly petrified as I spurted my semen all over her—a few drops landing as high as the uncovered point of her chin, some on her brassiere, and the rest on her stomach, plus a little in her pubic hair.

As soon as I was able, I refastened my pants and walked away.  Carol must have wondered if this time I was really leaving—and if so what she was going to do.  But I only went to retrieve her dress and hurried back.

The look of relief on her face was very clear when she saw that I was carrying her dress.  I helped her to stand, some of the semen on her stomach running down into her pubic hair as she did so.  She pulled her panties up, then looked at me.  I held out the dress.  She shook her head, indicating the glistening trails of semen on her stomach—she wanted to clean them off.

For an answer, I lifted her arms, one at a time, then dropped the dress over her and pulled them through the arm holes.  When the dress was settled, I turned her around and zipped it up.  I turned her around again to face me.  I held up my hand, palm outward.  And as she watched I pressed it against the front of her dress and ran it deliberately all over her breasts and abdomen.  Immediately dark stains began to appear in the fabric of her dress, showing where my semen still lay wet on her skin.

I extended a forefinger and wiped some of the semen from her chin.  I held my finger in front of her so she could see it, then placed it against her lips.  She bent her head slightly to take it into her mouth, and I could see she was looking at the stains on her dress as she licked off my finger.

And suddenly she began to climax, pressing both hands between her legs and bending over as though trying not to pee.  Her glasses fell to the rug.  She made a sound, “Oooo.   Oooo,”  over and over, as quietly as she could, and her expression seemed almost pained as she looked up at me.

When she was done and had straightened up again I picked up her glasses and set them back on her nose.  Then I lifted up her dress and ran two fingers between her legs to gather some of the moisture from the now sodden crotch of her panties.  I smeared the moisture across her lips.

Then I picked up her purse and handed it to her, went behind her and, putting my hands on her shoulders gave her a gentle push in the direction of the exit.  I grabbed the book she’d been looking at off the shelf and followed her.

Carol had obviously hoped to sneak out unobserved, and gasped when I grabbed her shoulder just as she was passing the checkout desk and said loudly, “Hey Carol, don’t forget to check out your book.”

She had to turn around and rummage through her purse for her library card under the eyes of the dorky student librarian in thick glasses.  He seemed not to notice her shiny lips, the small white glob on her chin, or the stains on the front of her dress—although these last had already dried somewhat and weren’t as obvious as they had been. But she knew they were there and blushed a deep crimson  throughout the entire transaction and continued to blush all the way back to her dormitory room.

When we got to her door, she turned to me and said, with some anger, “Jonathan, I don’t want anyone else to know about...”  She stopped and looked down, blushing.  “...about what we do.”

I put one hand on her shoulder and smoothed her hair with the other as I replied,  “Relax.  He didn’t notice a thing.”  I began massaging her shoulder-blades, at the same time stealthily unhooking her dress at the top as I continued.  “Just be glad I gave you your dress back.”

And with that I quickly unzipped her dress again and pulled it off her shoulders so that it fell to the floor around her ankles.  Then before she could react  I pulled her into a passionate kiss, fondling her behind for a moment  before releasing her.

With a gasp she frantically dug through her purse for her room key, opened the door and dashed inside.  I managed to kick her dress inside before the door slammed behind her.

Teaching Carol, Ch. 6

By Zenmackie

Carol avoided me for a week or so—I assumed she was upset because of the incident at the library checkout desk.  But I did nothing.  She had enjoyed it—she may not have liked the fact that she enjoyed it, but she did—and that kind of enjoyment can be addictive.

Sure enough, one night there was a knock on my door and there she was.   She was wearing floral-patterned shorts and a white t-shirt  and she looked timidly at me when I opened the door.

“Hello, Jonathan.”

I said nothing; just looked at her inquiringly.

After an awkward moment or two had gone by, she looked down, then up at me again and said, “I want to see you again.”

I nodded slightly.  “And...?”

She answered by opening and rummaging through her purse until she found her glasses, then put them on and looked back up at me.

I saw that the small dribble of dried semen was still there.

I said, “Tell me.”

She blushed and looked down.  “You know,” she muttered.

“I want to hear you say it.”

Still looking down, she said, “I want you to...”

“Look at me.”

She kept her face down but raised her eyes to meet mine and spoke in a near-whisper.  “I want you to...tell me what to do...” She waited for me to reply and, when I said nothing, went on.  “I want you to...make me...do bad things.”

I continued to look at her in silence.  She didn’t know what else to say.  She started to speak a couple of times, stammered, and fell silent.  Suddenly her eyes welled up and she fell to her knees.  Still looking up at me, she whispered, her voice quavering, “I want you to h-humiliate me.”

Then: “P-please.”

I leaned down and kissed her gently, laying my hand along the side of her face.  Then, placing my hands on her shoulders, I pulled her forward until she rested on her hands and knees.  I turned and walked back into my room, leaving the door open, and she crawled in after me.

“Close the door behind you.”

She turned and closed the door, then crawled after me until we’d both reached the center of the room.  My dorm room was a little smaller than hers was.  It was constructed of cinderblock so there were no built-in closets or shelves; everything was freestanding.  There was a large combination wardrobe/bureau against one wall, and that gave me the inspiration for the evening’s entertainment.

First, to keep Carol busy while I got organized I pulled the plastic laundry basket from under my bed.  It was about half full, mostly dirty underwear and t-shirts.  I dumped it on the floor in front of her and set the basket next to the pile, saying “Put those back.”

I watched as she lifted a hand from the floor and began to reach for something in the pile, hesitated, put her hand down again—then leaned down and picked up a pair of my dirty underwear in her teeth, crawled over to the basket and dropped them in.  Then she crawled back to pick up the next item.

While she was thus occupied I opened one of the wardrobe drawers and rummaged around until I found what I was looking for: the remains of a spool of speaker wire and some wirecutters.  I cut four two-foot lengths and put the rest away, along with the cutters.  The top half of the wardrobe was designed as a closet, with two doors.  I opened them and tied the end of one piece of wire around the top hinge on each side, then closed the doors again, leaving the ends hanging loose outside.  I tied the ends of the remaining pieces of wire to the front feet of the wardrobe.

I was ready.

Carol had had her back to me the entire time, working at her task. I watched her for a while—ducking her head to seize an item of clothing with her teeth, turning and crawling over to the basket, dropping it in, returning for the next item.  She seemed totally absorbed in what she was doing, as if it were the most important job in the world.

I noticed her picking up a particularly unsavory pair of my underpants, old and full of stains—some quite recent, I thought.

“Stop.”

She halted where she was, the underwear dangling from her teeth. 

I came around and crouched in front of her.  Not surprisingly, her glasses were crooked and had slipped down her nose.  I straightened them for her.  I took the underwear from her mouth.  Then I held the waistband open with both hands and fitted it over her face—turning the underwear sideways so that the top of her head came through one of the leg-holes...and the crotch, catching on the top of her glasses, covered her eyes.  And nose.  And mouth.

She cried out in disgust.  “No!  Unh!” and shook her head back and forth.

But she kept her hands on the floor and made no effort to remove the underwear, even as she was forced to breathe in the nasty odors I was sure the underwear were giving off.

When she had settled somewhat I told her to stand up, and when she had done so—a little unsteadily, being unable to see—I placed my hands on her shoulders and walked her backwards until she was against the doors of the wardrobe.  She was panting a little, and not just from lack of air.  And when I began fastening her wrists to the hinges above her head on either side, she was practically hyperventilating. 

I nudged her feet apart as far as they would go—which couldn’t have been very comfortable—and fastened her ankles to the feet of the wardrobe.

She was now completely immobilized.

She must have been desperately wondering what I would do next.  Would I fondle her?  Undress her?

Nope.

It was worse than that—I did nothing.

I lay down on my bed and read for awhile, glancing up occasionally to see how she was doing.  Her breathing had calmed somewhat, but she was still obviously quite anxious, not knowing what I was up to.

After a while I got up and fished under my bed until I found my digital camera.  I set it to use the available light—mostly from my desk lamp, which I turned on her like a spotlight—and took a full-length picture of Carol tied to the wardrobe with my underwear over her face.  She reacted to the quiet click the camera made, but said nothing.

I walked closer to her and said, “Open your mouth.”  She did so and, using my index finger, I poked the crotch of my underwear as far into her mouth as I could.  She made small noises of protest but knew she was helpless.  I took a close-up shot of her face with the crotch of my underwear in her mouth.

Then I said, “Stick out your tongue.”  She forced the material as far out of her mouth as she could with her tongue, and I took another close-up.

Then I said, “Lick.”

I took several more shots of her with her tongue in various parts of my underwear as she licked out the crotch, but of course I couldn’t capture the sounds of revulsion and near-nausea she made while she was doing it.  Still, when I checked I had some very good shots.

I cued up the first one on the viewscreen, then held it in front of her face as I lifted the crotch of my underwear and let it rest on her forehead so the first thing she saw was the long shot.  Then, when I judged she’d taken it in I clicked to the next, where her mouth was open and full of my underwear. 

I leaned close and said, “You’re very photogenic—I think I’ll print these out and put them on my door so everyone can see how nice you look.” 

Then I clicked slowly through the rest...and as I’d expected, she went into orgasm before I’d reached the last one.  It was just a small one—a little tremor that shook her from her ankles to her shoulders as if she were cold.

I pulled my underwear back over her face.  Then I lay down again to read.

When I thought it was time to let her know I was still there I got up again and went over to her.  I lifted her t-shirt and left it bunched above her breasts.  To my surprise her white brassiere was unlike her normal underthings—it was extremely romantic and feminine, covered with lace and trimmed with frills. 

I picked up the camera and added another shot to the series.  Then I leaned close to her ear and, running the tip of my finger along the top of her brassiere, said, “Very pretty.  Did you wear this just for me?”

“Yes.”  And then, remembering my preference, continued, “I wore it just for you.”  Then she added quietly, “I bought it just for you.”

I cupped her left breast in my hand and squeezed it gently, saying, “Because you like to please me, right?”

She sighed a little from the pleasure I was giving her and breathed, “Yes—I like to please you.”

I moved my hand to her other breast.  “So you’ll lick the shit out of my underwear whenever I tell you to, right?”  I pinched her nipple through the bra, hard.

“Ow!  Yes!  Yes, I’ll...Oh god—I’ll lick the shit out of your underwear whenever you tell me to!”

I went over to my desk and rummaged in the top drawer until I found a couple of alligator clips.  I lifted her bra above her breasts and attached one of the clips to the nipple I had just pinched, making her cry out again, then suck in her breath in arousal. 

“You’re a nasty little girl, aren’t you?” I asked as I pinched her other nipple erect and attached the second clip to it.

Carol began to writhe against her bonds in sweet agony.  “Yeeeessss...Oh!  Yes, I’m a nasty little girl!  Ohhhhh....”

I used my tongue to trace a circle around each nipple, then flicked the alligator clips a few times, making her gasp with pleasure.

I picked up the camera and took another picture.  Then I breathed into her ear and whispered, “You are a nasty little girl—you’d probably let me pull your pants down, wouldn’t you?”  Not that she had any choice; I just wanted to hear her say it.

Her reply was barely audible.  “Yessss...I’ll let you pull my pants down.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Ohh...yes, I want you to pull my pants down.”

“Say ‘Please’.”

“Oh, oh god...Please pull my pants down!”

I reached behind her to unfasten and unzip her shorts, and slowly eased them down over her hips until the separation of her legs wouldn’t allow them to go any further.  Her panties, as expected, were just as frilly and fancy as her brassiere.

I took another picture, then asked, “Do you like showing me your panties?”

“Yes...I like showing you my panties.”

“Will you show me your panties whenever I tell you to?”

“Yes—I-I’ll show you my...my panties whenever you tell me to.”

I slipped a hand between her legs and fondled her there.  The crotch of her panties was, not surprisingly, wet.  She moaned with pleasure as I touched her. 

I said, “You’re really wet.  Did you come in your panties?”

“Yes, I...came in my panties.”

I continued to squeeze and stroke her there.  “Because you’re a nasty little girl?

“Oh.  Ohhhh....  Mm-Yes, I’m a nasty...nasty little girl.”

“A nasty little girl who comes in her panties?”  I pushed the wet fabric a little way in with my finger.

“Ohhh, god!  Yes!  Yes!  I’m a nasty little girl who comes in her panties!  Oh!  Oh god!  Mm!”

She seemed as if she was about to come again, so of course I pulled my hand away and let her writhe in place while I thought about what to do next.

Seeking inspiration, my gaze traveled slowly around the room...and came to rest next to the sink.  The electric toothbrush seemed to offer some possibilities.

I rooted around in the cabinet under the sink until I found the original box, which had a couple of spare brushes in it.  I selected one with soft bristles and put it in place of my usual brush in the motorized handle.

Saying nothing, I went and knelt in front of Carol.  She was in an agony of desire still, having been brought so close to a climax and then left with no means of completion.  Her hips were twitching slightly as if seeking something to rub against. 

I put the toothbrush on the floor beside me and began stroking her thighs with the palms of my hands, gently, sensuously.  It seemed to calm her and arouse her further at the same time.  I slid my index fingers under the elastic in the leg-holes of her panties and pulled upward so the fabric pressed tightly between her legs.  She took a sudden, hissing inward breath and let it out in a shuddering sigh, but said nothing.

Still holding her panties tight with one hand, I picked up the toothbrush and without switching it on began delicately stroking the lips of her vagina, which were clearly visible through the wet fabric of her panties. 

The subtlety of this caress, after the rough fondling she had just received there, took a while to be effective.  But when I applied the same technique to the little bud of her clitoris she definitely became more aroused, taking deep gasping breaths and writhing against her bonds.  She was so aroused that I doubt she even noticed when I pulled her panties aside and gently inserted the head of the toothbrush into her vagina—with the bristles facing forward—until it was well inside her.

But she definitely noticed when I switched it on.

She screamed—or tried to.  Anticipating her reaction I had clamped my free hand over her mouth—which was still covered by the crotch of my underwear—the moment it opened, and a good thing, too.  Uncovered, her screams would have been heard for a great distance even through cinderblock and probably would have caused a number of 911 calls to be made.  But even muffled I was amazed at how strong they were for such a petite woman...and how long they went on, as she came and came and came, thrashing against her bonds with such ferocity that I was afraid she was going to pull the wardrobe over on top of both of us.

When I finally judged that she’d had enough and withdrew the toothbrush, then my hand from her mouth, she let the remaining air out of her lungs in a whoosh as if being deflated, then seemed to pass out, hanging silently from her bonds head down like an abandoned puppet.  Her glasses fell out of the underwear on her face and landed on the rug in front of her, and I retrieved them and put them aside.

I pulled the chair out from under my desk and placed in front of her.  Then I loosened the bonds around her ankles, followed by the ones on her wrists, and just before she sagged forward I snagged the pillow from my bed and placed it over the back of the chair.

I took her hands, walked her a few steps forward and draped her, still only semi-conscious, over the chair.  To make her more comfortable, as well as for my own aesthetic pleasure, I pulled her shirt the rest of the way off and helped her step out of her shorts.  Then, using the same lengths of wire from the wardrobe I fastened her ankles to the back legs of the chair and her wrists to one of the front rungs.

Then I lay down again, to read and wait.

After a few minutes she raised her head and said “Jonathan?”  --her voice slightly muffled by my underwear, which still covered her face.

I said, “Hmm?” in a careless, distracted way, and let her hear me turn a page in my book.

She turned her head in my direction.  “I need to use the bathroom.”

I made no reply, and after waiting for several uncomfortable moments she tried again. 

“Jonathan, I really have to pee.”

Nothing.  All was silent for a while.

“Jonathan?”

“Yes?”

“I have to pee.”

“I heard you.”

“Can you untie me so I can go to the bathroom?”

“Yes.”

There was a long silence as she waited to hear some sign that I was getting up to do as she’d asked.

Then:  “Are you going to untie me?”

“No.”

“But you said...”

“You asked me if I could, not if I would.”

“Jonathan, it’s not funny, I really have to go!”

I got up, and she sighed with relief as she heard me.  I picked up the wastebasket from next to my desk.  There were only a couple of crumpled pieces of paper in it—I inverted it and let the paper fall to the floor, then righted it. 

I went over and lifted the underwear off of Carol’s face, waited long enough for her to see what I was carrying, then let the underwear fall back into place.  Her expression, before disappearing behind the fabric again, was bewildered.

I walked behind her and placed the wastebasket on the floor between her legs with a loud thump.

Then I lay down on the bed again.

As soon as Carol heard those sounds she understood.

“Jonathan!  No!”  Her voice was a horrified whisper.

Silence.

“Jonathan!  Let me go!  Please!”

She started to twist uncomfortably on the chair as she fought to control her bladder

.

“Noooo...please... Jonathan!  I...I can’t wait!”

She struggled silently for almost five more minutes.  Then she let out a long moan of despair and mortification—“Ohhhhhhhhhhh...” And I saw, then heard, a golden stream trickling from between her legs and making a faint metallic echo as it fell into the wastebasket.

When I was sure she had finished I got up and pulled my underwear off her head, dropping it to the floor in front of her.  Her face was red and tear-stained and she was sniffling with embarrassment.  I let her see me walking casually around behind her.  I crouched down and put my hands on the back of her thighs so she would know I was looking between her legs.

“You wet your panties, didn’t you?” I asked, as if it weren’t obvious. 

She said nothing, merely sniffled some more.  She may have nodded, but I couldn’t see it from where I was.  I raised a hand and gave her a stinging slap on the right buttock, making her cry out with surprise and pain. 

“I said, you wet your panties, didn’t you?”

“Y-yes!” she gasped.  “I w-wet...” She took a sudden breath and let it out, sobbing.  “...m-m-my p-panties!  Ohhh, oh god...” She continued to sob.

“You sure did,” I replied, still crouching behind her.  “There’s a big yellow stain, right here.” 

I used a fingertip to trace the outline of the stain in the crotch of her panties.  I put my face close to it and sniffed conspicuously.  “You smell like piss too.  God—how could you ruin such nice panties like that?  I can’t believe you peed in your panties.”

Her sobbing increased.  I grabbed the camera and took a close-up of the stain, then walked around in front of her.  I said, “Just look at what you did,” and showed her the picture.

She looked at it and then up at me, her eyes tearful.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

I picked up my underwear from the floor.  With my free hand I held her nose shut, then said, “Open your mouth.”  When she did so, I crammed as much of my underwear in as would fit.  Her eyes went wide.

Then I released her nose and walked behind her again. 

I said, conversationally, “You nasty little girl.”  Then I raised my hand and smacked her behind again, much harder than before.  Her scream, again, would have been very loud if it hadn’t been severely muffled.

I gave her ten hard strokes, taking my time about it and leaving her lots of room to wonder when the next one was going to fall.  By the end she was practically leaping into the air, chair and all, with each stroke.  And when it was done she was nearly in a state of collapse—her nose was still stuffed up from crying and it couldn’t have been easy to breathe with her mouth full of my underwear.  She alternated gasping with sobbing.

Her hair was soaked with sweat and standing up wildly all over her head from her convulsions.  I went around in front of her again and smoothed it down with my hands, then took my underwear out of her mouth, saying, “There.  Now.  Are you sorry you peed in your panties?”

She drew in a huge sobbing breath and said, “Y-ye-yes!  I-I’m sorry I...I p-p-peed in my...my pa—my p-panties!”

“That was a very nasty thing to do.  Just smell this.”  I reached behind her to pick up the wastebasket and placed it in front of her so that her face was practically inside it.  “I think you deserve to be punished some more, don’t you?”

Her voice was barely a whisper, and it echoed strangely into the wastebasket:  “Y-yessss.”

I went behind her again and eased her panties down as far as they would go.  Her naked behind was brick red and I could see the outline of my hand in a couple of places.  I took another picture, then went around in front of her and lifter her chin with my hand so she could see it. 

She only said, “Ohhhhh...” and lowered her head again.

I picked up a bottle of skin lotion from next to the sink and squeezed some out onto my index finger, then went back behind her.  With my free hand and I pulled her left buttock aside and then began smearing the lotion around the entrance to her rear passage.

When she felt my finger there Carol raised her head, and asked, her voice plaintive, “Jonathan, what are you doing?”

I didn’t reply until I’d finished applying the lotion, worming my finger a little way into her passage to lubricate that as well, which made her gasp.  Then I said,  “I think you deserve to have my cock up your ass...don’t you?”

She was genuinely horrified, I think—by my language as much as my suggestion—and cried out, “No!” in a hoarse whisper.

I stayed where I was.  “I said, I think you deserve to have my cock up your ass...” I slapped her behind again, even more viciously, making her breath hiss in between her teeth.  “...Don’t you?”

She shook her head vigorously.  “No!  Jonathan, I...”

I slapped her behind again.  “Don’t you?”

She cried out, “Ahh!” then hung her head.  She knew she had no choice anyway.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“’Yes’...what?”

She began sobbing anew.  “Y-yes, I d-deserve to have your...” she hesitated, then forced herself to speak the nasty word, “...c-c-cock...oh, oh god...up...up my...” She hesitated again then blurted out, “...my ass!” and continued to cry.

I stepped in front of her.  She raised her head and watched as I unfastened and unzipped my pants and stepped out of them, followed by my underwear.  I stood with my erect cock in front of her face and said, “Lick.” 

She immediately stuck out her tongue and began.  I said, “Make sure you get it nice and wet or you’ll lick it off after it’s been up your ass.”

She did her best, considering her awkward position and the fact that her hands weren’t free.  When I judged it was ready I told her, “There, it’s nice and wet.  Now, where do you think I should put it?”

She hung her head again and whispered, “Up...m-my ass.”

“Look at me.”  She looked up.  I feigned shock.  “You want me to put my cock...up your ass?”

Her eyes began to overflow again, but she kept looking at me and said, “Yes.  I-I want you...” she broke off and took a sobbing breath, “...to p-put...your c-cock up my ass.”

“Say ‘Please’.”

She must have known that was coming, but for some reason it made her sobbing increase. 

“Oh...god!” she whimpered, “Please put your cock...up my ass!”

So I did.

Everything about her was petite, so it took time and patience to get my cock fully buried in her passage.  From the moment I entered her Carol began to writhe and arch her back as if she was expecting it to hurt terribly—and I think she was surprised when it didn’t, even when I had filled her up completely. 

And I know she was shocked, when I began slowly sliding it in and out of her behind, to discover that it could feel so good.  I could tell because her sobs were gradually replaced by little “Oo” sounds.

I kept my strokes very slow at first, allowing her to get used to the sensation.  After a while I asked, “Do you know what I’m doing?”

It was hard for her to focus, for obvious reasons, but she tried.  “You’re...you’re...” Then, nothing.

I leaned down as close to her ear as I could, and whispered, “I’m fucking your asshole!”

She took a huge gasping breath at this, but made no reply.  I began to pick up the pace, and said, “What am I doing?”

She let out a long groan of pleasure.  “You’re...you’re fucking...” and for the first time she seemed to take pleasure from what she was saying.  “...my asshole!”

And to my surprise she began to repeat it over and over—“You’re fucking my asshole!  You’re fucking my asshole!”—in rhythm with my strokes, both of which gradually became faster and faster until she had to shorten her contribution to, “Fuck my ass! Fuck my ass! Fuck my ass!” 

And when I reached around her hip and slipped my hand between her legs her voice lost all its language and became a kind of strangled howl as she went into orgasm—with me not far behind.  So to speak.

After a long rest I pulled myself upright and my cock out of her behind and after cleaning myself up somewhat at the sink drew on my underwear and pants again.  Then I untied Carol’s bonds, though she continued to lie over the chair, her body like rubber, for quite some time.  Finally she stirred and attempted to stand up, moaning with soreness and fatigue as she did so.

I told her to put her hands behind her head.  She did, and I took a picture of her like that: face red, hair askew, nipples still clamped, panties down around her knees.  Then I said, “Take off your panties.”

She looked at me as if she couldn’t believe we weren’t done, but did as I asked and held them out to me.  I took them and threw them on the chair, then kicked my old, rotten pair of underpants—now wet with her saliva as well—towards her, saying, “Put those on.”

She stepped into them as though into a sewer—which wasn’t far wrong. They barely managed to hang from her hips without falling down.  I reached out and removed the alligator clips from her nipples.  I made her stand with her hands behind her head again while I took another picture.  Then I stood close to her and said, “I’m going to do you a favor and let you wear my underwear home.  Isn’t that nice of me?”

She glanced down at them, then back to me.  “Yes,” she whispered.  “Thank you.”

I reached out and held her chin as I continued.  “But I want them back tomorrow...and I want them to be clean.  White.  I want you to scrub every last little stain out of them, no matter how long it takes, understood?”

Inadvertently she glanced down again, taking in the collection of primordial stains that mottled the front of the underwear being discussed.  Then she looked back up at me and I could see she knew it was an impossible task. 

But she simply nodded and said quietly,  “Yes.”

“All right, get dressed.”  I turned away and lay down again.

When she was ready to go, having put on the rest of her clothes and brushed her hair into some kind of order, she came and stood by my bed and waited.  I finished the page, marked it, and stood up. 

Aside from still being flushed, she looked quite presentable, if rather exhausted.

I took her by the shoulders, turned her around and had her stand in front of the mirror over my sink.  I picked up her discarded panties from the chair and placed the waistband over her head so that she wore them like a hat.  I arranged them so the yellow stain in the crotch was prominently displayed in front.  When she saw that her flush deepened and she looked away, though she said nothing.

I told her,  “You’ll keep these on your head until you get back to your room.  Understood?”

She brought her gaze to meet mine in the mirror, and nodded, although her face betrayed her dismay.

“And if anyone asks you why you’re wearing them on your head, you’ll say, ‘I have come dripping out of my ass and I didn’t want to get them dirty.’”

Her face began crumpling into tears again. 

I said, “Say it.  Why are you wearing those panties on your head?”

She was sniffling again but managed to say, “I have...come...d-dripping...out of my...a-a-ass...a-and I di-didn’t want to get them d-dirty.  Oh, Jonathannn...”

I knew she’d hide in the bushes until three in the morning rather than have to say that to anyone, but I knew she would wear those panties on her head all the way back to her room. 

Because I’d told her to.

I took her by the shoulders and turned her around again.  I made her pretend to smile while I took a nice close-up of her, featuring her new headgear.  Then I handed her purse to her and ushered her to the door.

I had forgotten, but she hadn’t.  As I held the door open for her she stood up on her toes, kissed me, and said, “Thank you, Jonathan.”

Then she was gone.

She must have stayed up late that night, or else gotten up early, because when I went out the next morning I found a small plastic bag hanging from my doorknob.  Inside it I found my old underwear.  They were cleaner than I had ever imagined they could be.  They had been scrubbed so hard that the fabric was nearly worn away in the crotch.  Then ironed.  And folded.

Carol 7

Saturday afternoon, a few days later.  It was pouring rain.  I made my way over to Carol’s dorm and knocked on her door, then let myself into her room. 

She had been sitting at her computer but jumped to her feet when she saw it was me.  She was wearing dark yellow sweat-clothes with the university insignia on them. 

And her glasses.

As I closed the door behind me I noticed something different out of the corner of my eye. Her closet door was standing open and. fastened to the inside with pushpins at what would be eye-level for Carol, were the panties she had been wearing when she came to my room.  They had obviously not been washed, as the yellow stain in the crotch was prominently displayed.  When I turned back to Carol she was smiling timidly at me like a student who was fairly sure she’d done well on a test but not positive.

I smiled back at her and said,  “What a nasty little girl.”  I thought that hearing that phrase again might be a turn-on for her and when I saw her close her eyes for a moment and take a sudden breath through her mouth I knew I’d been right.

“Take off everything but your panties.”

It didn’t take long for her to shed her clothing, especially since she’d been barefoot when I came in, and when she was done she immediately assumed what she knew to be my preferred position for her, with her hands behind her head and her feet apart.  Her panties were some kind of glossy synthetic fabric in yellow-green with a lot of lace around the edges.

“Don’t move.” 

I walked around behind her and sat down at her computer.  From my knapsack I withdrew my camera and connected it to her computer.  I quickly loaded in all the pictures I’d taken of her the other night.  Then I programmed her computer to show them, in chronological order, slowly segueing from one to the next, as her screensaver.  I watched the entire sequence once to make sure it worked, then hitched my chair out of the way and said, “Turn around.”

Without changing her basic position she turned so that she was facing the computer screen...just as the first image came up: the shot of her, still fully clothed but tied to my wardrobe, with my underwear over her face. 

Carol had seen almost all of these pictures, of course, but only briefly on the small view-screen, and while she had been highly agitated.  Now she had time to fully absorb each of the images as it filled her entire computer screen, lingered for several seconds, then slowly dissolved into the next.

I watched her face as the sequence progressed and noticed that almost immediately she had begun to breathe through her mouth.   As she watched, I noticed her nipples begin to rise and harden, and I reached over and idly began to fondle her behind through the slick fabric of her panties.  She seemed not to notice, so absorbed was she in the parade of images.

After she had seen the entire sequence twice I decided it was time to move on.  I rose from my chair and stood between her and the screen.  “Do you have a raincoat?”  I asked.

She nodded and went to fetch it from the closet.  I wasn’t surprised to see that it was a bright yellow slicker—with matching headpiece—such as a young girl would wear; her taste in clothing seemed to run that way.  She stood in front of me, the jacket dangling from one hand and the headpiece from the other, waiting to see if they were acceptable.

“Alright, put them on.”

She did so, perhaps wondering if we were about to start another role-playing game as we had when she had been Miss Santiago.

“Boots.  Socks if you need them.”

She returned to the closet and brought out a pair of shiny red calf-length rubber boots.  She sat on the bed and quickly put on a pair of white knee socks, followed by the boots.  Then she stood up and faced me again, waiting.  She looked adorable in her rain outfit.

“You can take your glasses off.” She did so, placing them on the desk.  “Get your purse.  Do you have any money?”

She picked up a small red cloth purse from the table next to her bed and looked inside, then back at me.  “Some,” she said.  Twenty-three dollars and some change.”

“Alright, come on.”  I took her hand and headed toward the door.

“Where are we going?” she asked as I pulled the door open.

“Shopping.” 

When we reached the front door of her building I put up the umbrella I’d brought and led her to the side of the nearby road, to the place where the campus shuttle busses stopped.  There was a Plexiglas shelter there, which was enclosed on three sides and had a roof and a bench. 

We went inside.  Fortunately the rain was being blown from behind the shelter and I was able to put my umbrella down.  I told Carol to stand by the bench and sat down next to her.  We had the shelter to ourselves.  There was hardly anyone outside—a couple with umbrellas hurried down the sidewalk behind us, their figures blurred by the rain-soaked Plexiglas, and disappeared into the Student Union building. 

When they were gone and the immediate area was deserted I told Carol to stand with her feet apart.  Then I reached one hand up under her raincoat and slowly began to lower her panties—first the left side, then the right, a little at a time—until they were stretched tightly at her knees, hanging completely exposed between the bottom of her raincoat and the tops of her boots.

“Turn around and stand facing me.”  She did so, moving awkwardly with her legs apart in order to hold her panties in place.

“Put down your purse.”  She put it on the bench next tome.  “Open your coat.”

She started to look around to see if anyone was nearby, but I said, “Now,” and she quickly unfastened the six buckles on her raincoat then stood waiting, arms at her sides, her eyes on mine.

“Hold it open.”

At first she opened it only enough so that I could see her but then, reading my gaze, slowly extended her arms to as far as the raincoat would allow her.  I reached up and began running my fingers through her pubic hair, combing it and pulling on it gently. 

Carol watched, fascinated, as if it were happening to someone else. 

After a while I allowed my hand to drift down between her legs. I began by stroking her lightly with my middle finger.  Carol said nothing, but shifted her gaze to mine anxiously.  When I began to feel some moisture there I slowly inserted my finger until my palm was resting against her. 

Carol made a soft grunting sound:  “Uh!”

I began massaging her there, my finger sliding in and out, the heel of my hand pressing against her clitoris.  Her face began to contort, and her breathing grew shallow...

...Then I heard a low rumble, and through the rain-drenched plastic I saw a large blur approaching which had to be our bus.  I stopped what I was doing and told Carol that the bus was coming.  She quickly pulled up her panties and fastened her coat and by the time the bus hissed to a stop and opened its door she looked like any young college student on a rainy day, except that she was still breathing a little heavily.

The bus was part of the free campus service and would take us downtown.  There were very few passengers, the weather being what it was that day, but I guided Carol all the way to the back.  She knew why without being told, and as soon as we were settled and the bus had begun to move she reached over and began to massage the front of my pants.  I allowed her to continue until we were downtown.

When we had alighted I led her into the local department store.  We walked through the women’s clothing department until we reached the girls’ section.  I led her into an aisle with shelves of underwear on display. 

We had the area to ourselves.  I took Carol by the shoulders and brought her face close to mine, then told her, “Nasty little girls who wet themselves aren’t allowed to wear grown-up panties.  They have to wear little-girl panties.”  Then I turned her around to face the shelves and gave her a shove.

Being as petite as she was she had no trouble finding her size, and with my help picked out a dozen pairs of cotton panties with various little-girl designs printed on them, ranging from balloons to teddy bears to cowgirls on horses to crayons, plus some fancier ones in bright pastels with lots of huge ruffles.  She seemed to enjoy selecting them.

After she’d paid for her purchases I took the bag and led her out through the rear exit, which opened onto a small, nearly unused back street. 

It was still pouring rain.  Partway down the block I spotted an old-style phone booth: clear plastic top half, opaque red plastic lower half, folding door.  When we reached it I told Carol to step inside.  She stood facing me, rainwater dripping off her yellow rain-hat and coat, her red boots glistening.  I stood under my umbrella, looking at her.

I spoke loudly over the downpour: “Give me your hat.” 

She put her purse on the shelf next to the telephone, took off her hat and held it out to me.

I took it from her and glanced quickly around while she smoothed down her hair: the street was deserted.  I held out my hand to her and said, “Now your coat.”

She swallowed, started to look around, and quickly realized that, just as at the bus shelter, she wouldn’t be able to see anything through the rain-drenched plastic.  She unbuckled her coat and quickly shrugged it off and handed it to me, then stood with her arms folded over her breasts, shivering in just her green panties and red boots.

“Panties.”

Her eyes went wide, but she had been expecting it.  She quickly lowered them and stepped carefully out of them, the rubber boots making her movements clumsy.  She handed them out to me and resumed her position, assuming, I guessed, that she would not be visible below the waist to anyone not directly in front of the booth.  She was shivering as much with fear as with cold now.

I draped her clothing over my free arm and told her to hold the umbrella over me.  She reached out an arm and held the umbrella while I rummaged through the bag of underwear.  I pulled out the cowgirl panties and placed them in her hand as I took back the umbrella, saying, “Put these on.  And don’t get them dirty.”

Relieved to have anything at all to cover her nakedness she quickly but carefully struggled into them.  When she had them on I had her stand with her hands behind her head so I could admire how she looked in them.  Extremely cute, especially with her bright red boots.  I had her turn around so I could enjoy the rear view as well.

I told her to face forward again, then leaned in close and said,  “On Monday, you’re going to go to the campus clinic and get a prescription for birth-control pills.”

Carol gasped, and even though the answer was obvious, said, “Why?”

I leaned in even closer and deliberately enunciated, “So I can pull down your panties and fuck you whenever I want to.”

It was nice to know that I could still shock her.  Her “No!” was an immediate, unthinking reaction, spoken in outrage.  She even dropped her hands to her sides.

I said, agreeably, “Okay.  Let’s go home.”—then, taking a firm grip on her arm yanked her out onto the sidewalk and began dragging her down the street.

In seconds she and her panties were completely soaked, her hair plastered to her head.  She screamed, “NO!  What are you doing?  Stop! Jonathan, please stop!”  All the while looking wildly around in case someone could see her in her state of near-nakedness. 

As she struggled to free herself I stopped her and said, “You’re going to look very cute on the bus back to campus.”

“ALL RIGHT! ALL RIGHT!  I’ll do it! Let me go!”

I released her and she scampered back to the comparative safety of the phone booth.  I walked back in a more leisurely way.  Now she was truly shivering—hunched over, arms across her chest, the water from her hair running down onto her naked shoulders.

“Now—what is it you’re going to do?”

“I-I...I’m g-g-going to th-the c-c-campus c-clinic and get b-b-birth-c-control p-p-pills,” she replied, her teeth chattering.  Then, knowing my next question, went right on, “S-sso you c-can puh-p-pull d-d-down my puh-panties and—ohhh, g-g-g-god—fffffuck me...”

“Whenever I want to?”

“Yuh-yes!  Wh-whenever you wuh-wuh-want to!”

“Because you belong to me, right?  You’re my property?”

At this she looked up at me, and after a moment, in spite of her discomfort and still hunched over, she managed a small smile.  “Y-yes.  I be-belong to you.  I’m yo-you’re p-property!”  Her smile actually got a little wider as she said this.

I lowered my umbrella, stepped into the booth and embraced her, pulling the door shut behind me then dropping the umbrella and her clothes to the floor behind her.  I opened my jacket and wrapped myself around her, warming her and drying her as much as I could, which wasn’t much.  She snuggled against me, the water in her hair soaking into my shirt.  We kissed passionately.

After a while I said, “You deserve a reward.”

She looked up at me for a moment, smiling, even though her lips were still quivering.  She looked behind her, briefly, stood the umbrella in a corner out of the way then knelt down on her coat.  This made things very crowded in the booth, and my back was against the door.  She looked up again, as if seeking permission, then applied herself to unzipping my pants.

She soon had my cock in her mouth, and I took the telephone receiver off its hook and held it next to my ear for the benefit of any passersby—not that it would have made much difference, as our combined body heat had completely steamed the plastic and we were all but invisible to the outside world.

I stopped her long enough to give her a choice:  “Would you like me to come in your mouth?  Or on your face?”

She looked up, her expression a little dazed, and replied, “My face.” She closed her eyes in anticipation and murmured, “Come on my face,” like an invocation before returning to her work. 

And in a few moments I had done as she’d requested—pulling out of her mouth in time to spurt onto her eyes, her nose, her mouth and chin.  I used my fingers to smear it around on her face and then let her lick them off.

By now she was obviously feeling the cold.  I said, “We’d better get you home.”

She stood and began gathering up her things.  I began rummaging through the bag, saying, “Here, let me give you some dry underwear at least,” but she shook her head, causing a few drops of my semen to fly off her chin, and said,  “No—I want to wear these.”

I said okay, then struggled out of my jacket—no small trick in the confines of that phone booth—and offered it to her to wear under her raincoat, but she declined with another shake of her head. 

When she had her coat all buckled up I offered her the rain-hat, but she said, “Not yet,” and when I opened the door and we stepped out onto the sidewalk, she turned her face up into the downpour.  It washed the semen off her face...and right down the collar of her raincoat.

Then she lowered her head and said, looking shyly up at me, “I want to ride home with your come all over me,” taking the rain-hat from me and putting it on.  She smiled.  “So I’ll know I’m your property.”

I liked that so much that as we sat on the bus—again in the rear seat—I slipped my hand inside her sopping wet panties and gave her an orgasm—which she acknowledged with a high-pitched squeak which fortunately sounded enough like a sneeze that someone a few seats ahead of us, without turning around, called out, “Gesundheit.” 

And the next time I came to her room I discovered the cowgirl panties—wrinkled and stiff from contact with any number of fluids—fastened to the inside of the closet door, just above the other pair.

Teaching Carol, Ch. 8

By Zenmackie

When Carol told me that she was going to have to make a presentation on

Parent’s Night at her school I knew I’d have to do something to make it memorable for her.  I didn’t tell her I was planning to attend; I simply arrived at her room about half an hour before the meeting was supposed to begin.

She answered my knock on the door in a dress of dark maroon silk—or some fabric that looked like silk. It was very conservative in cut and came down past her knees.  It buttoned down the front and was cinched with a thin black leather belt with a gold buckle.  She had on simple gold earrings and was wearing more make-up than usual.  She was surprised to see me, and became a little flustered when I kissed her on the cheek and made my way into her room

“Hi, Jonathan,” she said.  “I can’t... I have a...”

“I know,” I replied.  “I’m coming along to lend moral support...” Her eyes widened at this.  “...And I brought something for you to wear.  Lift up your dress.”

She was by now so habituated to doing what I told her that she automatically reached for the hem of her dress.  Then she hesitated, caught between two self-images: the elegantly dressed future teacher who would soon be addressing an audience of parents of the grade-school children she saw every day, and the sexual submissive who thought of herself as my property and deliberately sought humiliation at my hands.

She had so far been able to keep the two separate in her mind, seemingly, and was reluctant to let the line be blurred.  She remained frozen, slightly bent, her hands extended toward her knees, for several seconds, looking at me and several times starting to speak.  Each time she faltered.  Finally, she said, “I’m wearing pantyhose.  I’m sorry.”

I smiled.  “Oh, that’s all right.  I’ll forgive you this time.”

Still looking at me, she lifted her skirt, holding it delicately so that it wouldn’t wrinkle, and stood with her feet apart.  I knelt down in front of her and quickly pulled her pantyhose down to her thighs, not noticing until I’d done so what she was wearing underneath: a pair of the ‘little girl’ panties she’d bought when we were downtown; pink cotton with big yellow, red and green lollipops.  I looked up at her, grinning, and she blushed deeply.  So, she wasn’t keeping her lives as separate as I’d thought!

“You told me I had to... that I couldn’t wear, you know, grown-up ones,” she said, not looking at me.

I leaned forwarded and nuzzled her gently between her legs for a moment.  I couldn’t see her face above her skirt, but I heard her draw a quavering breath.  I nuzzled her some more and kissed her there, gradually adding my tongue.  She started to moan and press herself against me, then caught herself.  “Jonathan, I—I have to... oh jeez... I have to... please, I...”

I stopped.  “All right.  Close your eyes.” 

She couldn’t see me over her skirt anyway but I wanted to be sure.  After a moment I reached into the bag I’d brought, pulled out something made of soft plastic and fastened its straps around her waist and between her legs so that it nestled right against the now moist crotch of her panties.  Then I pulled her pantyhose back up, stood and gently pulled the skirt out of her hands and let it fall back into place.

She opened her eyes and touched the place where the strap circled her waist under her dress.  “What is it?”

“Time to go,” I said, pulling open the door.

I behaved myself all through her presentation, sitting a few rows back so she wouldn’t be distracted by my presence, though her glance sought me out a few times.  She did very well, even if she was a little nervous.  And she only stumbled slightly when she saw my camera as I took a couple of shots of her while she spoke. 

I waited until she was done, and most of the parents had left.

She was sitting down at the teacher’s desk, checking something for one of the parents but at that moment not actually speaking with them, when I reached into my pocket for the remote control and switched it on.

With all the usual background noise—ventilation, a few people still talking—I was the only one who noticed the sudden low-level hum, and that’s because I was listening for it.  I would have known that the vibrator was working anyway, of course, by the way she suddenly sat bolt upright, looked down at her lap and then just as suddenly darted a panic-stricken look at me.  Just at that point, the mother of one of the children leaned down to ask Carol a question, and I switched off the power.

Her relief was obvious as she looked quickly down at her lap again before turning to answer the woman who’d asked the question.  Which apparently had to do with her child’s artwork, as Carol rose from her desk and led her over to a wall, which was covered with drawings in crayon.  After pointing out the drawing in question and making a few polite remarks, Carol turned and began walking back towards the desk.  At which point, I turned the vibrator back on.

She stopped in mid-stride and began to bend over as if she had a sudden stomach cramp.  She looked up at me just in time to see me take her picture like that, then forced herself to straighten up and continued to her desk on somewhat shaky legs.  There, she allowed herself to bend over, placing her hands on the desk and looking down as if studying something there, but I could see that she was biting her lip and that she was breathing unsteadily.  She glanced up at me, her eyes pleading, but I simply took another picture of her and left the power on until someone, a woman who was possibly her teaching mentor, came over and spoke to her.

And so it went for the next twenty minutes or so: when she needed to focus I left her undisturbed; as soon as she was unattended the vibrator was switched back on.  By the end of the evening, she was regularly dabbing at her brow and upper lip with tissues, and I had captured some of her more interesting facial expressions with my camera.

Finally there were only a few stragglers left.  I switched off the vibrator, put the camera away and gave her a friendly wave before making my way out of the room.  I’m sure she thought I was planning to meet her outside or back at her room.  In fact, I simply waited outside the main door until I’d seen all the other visitors leave, then hurried back to the classroom, making sure the school doors were locked behind me.

I did a quick check to make sure the halls and bathrooms were empty, then made my way back to the classroom.  Through the glass in the door, I saw Carol.  She had her back to me and was bent over one of the school desks at the far end of the room, apparently arranging papers of some kind.  I switched on the vibrator for the fun of seeing her suddenly straighten and whirl around.  Then I opened the door and stepped into the classroom.

Carol said nothing, just leaned her hands back onto the desk as if for support.  I pulled the remote out of my pocket and showed it to her before moving the control up to the next highest setting.  Her eyes closed and her mouth fell open, and she now half-leaned against, half-sat on the desk.  She remained like that even when she saw me take out my camera again to capture her in that pose.

After taking the shot, I hung the camera around my neck, then said, “Take off your shoes and your pantyhose.”

She quickly checked to see that we were alone and that the blinds were down, then did as she was told, kicking off her shoes, then reaching under her dress to remove her pantyhose.  She held them out to me, and I took a picture of her doing so.  After draping her pantyhose over a nearby desk, I took her by the hand and helped her to climb, first up onto the chair by the desk she’d been leaning on, then onto the desk itself.  It was small, designed for grade-school children, so there wasn’t much room for her to stand, but she did.  She stood unsteadily, nervously biting her lip and rubbing her palms on her thighs and looking anxiously down at me as I took another picture.  The hum of the vibrator was much more obvious in the empty room, as was its effect on her now that she didn’t have to conceal it.  Her expression seemed almost pained, and she stared into my eyes as I reached up and removed her belt, then, beginning at the bottom, slowly began to open the buttons of her dress.

When I’d unfastened the top one and her dress was hanging open, I slipped my hands inside and fondled her breasts through her brassiere for a while, molding them and gently pinching her nipples, already upright beneath the fabric.  At first she murmured faint protests, afraid that we would be caught and her career ruined.  My reply was to flick her dress off her shoulders so that it fell whispering into a shiny puddle around her feet.  She gasped, but made no further protest, even when I reached behind her, unfastened her bra and allowed it to fall to the desk as well, leaving her wearing only her pink lollipop panties and the vibrator strapped over them.

I told her to put her hands behind her head and she did so, though the vibrator’s effects made her continue to try to press her thighs together as if to dampen the sensation, and her face contorted with the effort to remain upright.  I took several pictures of her like that. Her breathing was very ragged, and I saw a large semi-circle of dampness in the crotch of her panties extending well beyond the vibrator.  I took a couple of close-ups then reached up and traced the stain’s edge with a fingertip.  Though the room was warm she shivered under my touch.

She was facing away from the blind-covered windows, and I slowly walked behind her to have a look at them.  They were the old-fashioned kind that were raised and lowered by a cord.  I took the end of the cord in my hand and told her to turn around.  She did so, balancing precariously on top of the desk.  She stared at the cord in my hand and gasped in horror when I gave it a small pull, raising the blinds enough so that anyone outside the window, if they were crouched to the right height, could see in, although they wouldn’t be able to see much more than her bare feet.

“No!” she cried out.  But she stayed put, her arms behind her head.

“No... what?” I asked innocently, raising the blind a few more inches.

“Please don’t!”  Her voice was an urgent whisper.

“Don’t... what?”  A few more inches.

“Don’t open the blind!”

“Oh.”  I stopped.  “Why not?”

“I-I don’t want anyone to see me!”

“Why not?’

“Ohhhh... you know...”

“Tell me.  Why don’t you want anyone to see you?”

A tear rolled down her face, and her lip began to quiver “I... because I’m... s-standing on a desk in... in just my panties with a... with a...” She took one hand down and gestured at the humming object in her crotch and looked at me desperately.

“Vibrator,” I told her.

“V-vibrator between m-my legs.”

“And that’s why you don’t want me to open the blind?”

“Yes... yes.”

I took her hand, the one she’d gestured with, and placed the end of the cord in it.  She looked down at it and then at me in confusion.  I said, “All right then.  You do it.”

I knew, and she must have known, that this side of the school building was at the back and faced nothing more than a swampy wooded area that was actually fenced off from the rest of the school grounds.  The odds against anyone being there were infinitesimal. 

But Carol didn’t care.  She looked at me with horror and whispered, “No!”

I looked calmly back at her and asked, “What are you?”

She was so distracted by her panic and by the vibrations between her legs that she stared blankly at me for several seconds, before being able to marshal her thoughts –and when she did they brought her little hope of escape: “I-I’m your... your p-property,” she finally stammered, “b-but Jonathan...”

“That’s right.  You belong to me—and you’ll do as you're told, right?”

       “I...”

“Good.  And just to be nice, I’ll go outside and make sure there’s nobody watching, all right?  When you hear me tap on the window, open the blind.”

And I left before she could protest any further.  I walked quickly to the only door that led out to the back area and propped it open with a rock before making my way to the lit window and, after a cursory glance around, tapping on it.

To Carol’s credit, the blind immediately began to rise like a curtain, and I was soon able to see her, still standing on the desk and pulling the cord hand over hand, her small breasts jiggling somewhat with the effort, her eyes seeking me out.  The look on her face was terribly anxious, but she continued to raise the blind until it reached the top.  Then, still holding the end of the cord, she placed her hands behind her head again, her eyes imploring.

She watched me as I took a picture of her like that, framed in the window and the darkness around it.  Her eyes followed my hand as I reached into my pocket and brought out the remote control.  I held it up to make sure she could see it as I turned the switch to its highest setting. 

Her face immediately began to contort and her mouth fell open and her body bent forward at the waist.  I wanted to get another picture then, but the last things I saw were her hands, darting between her legs before she let go of the cord and the venetian blind fell with a crash, cutting off my view.

“OHHHHHHHHH!” 

The sound of Carol’s climax was clearly audible even through the glass.  I waited a few seconds, then turned off the vibrator and slowly made my way back to the classroom.

Carol was sitting on the desk, bent over, leaning her crossed arms on her thighs and gasping for breath, her face hidden by her short black hair.  I gave her some time to recover, looking around the classroom as I did so.  I noticed she had written her name in the upper left-hand corner of the blackboard, which gave me an idea. 

I walked over to where she was sitting and said, “You let the blind close.”

She glanced up at me, then down again.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, still out of breath.

I took her chin in my hand and raised it so she was looking at me.  “Go and open it again.”

Wearily, she slid off the desk and stood.  As she walked past the blackboard, I told her to stop.  “Pick up the chalk.”  She did so and stood looking at me.  “See where your name is?”  She glanced at it, then back to me and nodded.  “After it I want you to write, ‘is a nasty little girl’.  She stood blinking at me for a moment, then turned to the blackboard and wrote the words I’d given her.

When she’d finished, I told her to write her name again under the first one and when she had done so I said, “Now write, ‘stood on a desk in this classroom in just her panties’.”  She carefully wrote the phrase after her name.  Then I added, “...’with a vibrator between her legs’...” She wrote that as well, her hand shaking slightly as she wrote ‘vibrator’.  When she was done, she put down the chalk, turned back to me and waited.  I took a picture of her standing beside what she’d written.

“Good.  Now open the blind.”

She walked over to the corner of the room, seized the cord and raised the blind until it was fully open, carefully standing to one side so as not to be visible.  I told her to tie it off so it would stay that way, and while she was doing that I placed a chair in front of the counter that ran along the line of windows.

“Get up there.  Stand facing the window.”

Her face was a mask of shock, and she started shaking her head, but I grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the chair. 

She balked for a moment, whimpering, “Please, Jonathan, don’t...” Then with a stifled sob, she climbed up onto the chair and then onto the counter.  She stood there, breathing heavily, for a long moment, then slowly raised her arms to place her hands behind her head again.

I let her stand there, peering out into the darkness, for a while.  Then I reached up and loosened the vibrator, allowing it to fall around her feet.  When I tapped her ankle she stepped out of the tangle of straps and stood next to it, feet apart.  Unable to resist I reached up and fondled her buttocks for a while, enjoying the feeling of the warm cotton under my hands.  She squirmed a little as I did so and made a few small noises, but otherwise said nothing.  But when I slipped my fingers into the elastic of her panties and pulled them down to her thighs she let out a long, sad “Ohhhhhh...”

I told her not to move and walked outside again.  Standing so close to the window, with the light behind her, her features were barely discernable.  Still, I took several full-length shots and a few from the waist up in that light before switching on the camera’s flash and repeating the sequence.  All that time, Carol stood there looking down at me, her expression nearly blank now.

When I had all the shots I wanted, I went back inside and climbed up to stand behind her on the counter.  I enjoyed myself for a while, pressing my erection between her naked buttocks while I reached in front of her to fondle her breasts and between her legs while she stood motionless in front of the window.

I could see she was staring at our reflections in the darkened glass, seeing what anyone standing outside looking in would see.  I took a couple of one-handed shots of our reflection.  Then I turned toward her and, taking her elbow slowly turned her to the left before edging around to stand facing her.  Even though she was nearly naked her face was sweating, her expression more anxious than ever.  Especially when I placed my hand on top of her head, indicating that she should kneel.

“No, Jonathan, I can’t!” she cried out.  “Please don’t make me...” Her voice trailed off, and she gestured miserably toward my zipper.

“...Suck my cock,” I prompted her.

She recoiled from my words, but forced herself to meet my gaze.  “Please don’t m-make me ss-suck your cock... not here!  Not in front of the window!”  Her expression grew desperate.  “L-let’s go back to my room.  I’ll... I’ll...” She swallowed, her throat dry, then went on, “...suh-suck your... c-cock there, okay?  As much as you want, okay?

I took her in my arms, she relaxing her arms and wrapping them around my neck, while we kissed.  Then I looked into her eyes and said, “There’s only one problem with that.”  

She looked up at me, her eyes fearful. “What?” she whispered. 

I held her gaze for a long moment, then went on,  “The problem is... you really want to suck my cock right here, in front of the window where anyone can see you... right?

Again there was that moment, that inward, almost hypnotized look, as she realized all over again just what she was... and what she wanted. 

The expression on her face became one of anger, and without another word she sank to her knees and began, with swift jerky movements, to open my pants and zipper.  When she had my pants and underwear down, she wasted no time, opening her mouth wide and taking in as much of cock as she could, glaring up at me as she began to caress me with her tongue and lips.

It went on like that for several minutes. Carol’s eyes never left mine as she pleasured me—I took several close-ups of her looking directly into the camera with her lips around the head of my cock—and as I watched, she seemed to get angrier and angrier until suddenly she stopped and jumped down to the floor.  She pulled her panties back up and stomped over to the blackboard, where she picked up the chalk, wrote her name again just below the first two and followed it with, “…sucked Jonathan’s cock in the window where anyone could see her.”

She then retrieved her purse from under the desk, opened it and rummaged around for a moment before coming up with a small prescription bottle.  She walked back to me and slapped the bottle into my hands, then returned to the desk and with one sweep of her arm cleared it off, books and papers flying everywhere.  She glared at me again, then turned to the blackboard, wrote her name again and followed it with “…let Jonathan pull down her panties and FUCK HER ON HER DESK,” followed by an exclamation point slashed onto the board so hard that the chalk squealed and then broke in two when she made the dot at the bottom.

She threw the remaining piece at me, coming surprisingly close to my head with it, then without another word lay down on top of the desk, legs apart and feet dangling over the side.

I looked down at the bottle she’d given me and saw from the label that it was a prescription for birth-control pills.  Immediately, I jumped down to the floor and, holding up my pants with one hand, went to stand at the end of the desk, looking down at her from between her knees.  “Is this what you want?”

Her eyes were small glittering points as she stared at my erection from beneath her lowered eyelids and her words came out in a low hiss:  “Yesss... Pull down my panties... and... fffuck me.”

Then, as if she couldn’t help it she continued, whispering as if to herself, “Pull down my panties... fuck me... fuck me... with your cock... put your cock... in my pussy... fuck me... oh, fuck me!”

I was tempted—very briefly—to glance at my watch and say, “Whoops!  Gotta go!” and pretend to leave, just to see what she would do.  But of course, I didn’t.  Couldn’t.  But I couldn’t resist making her beg a little more.

She fell silent and watched as I first took a picture of her spread-eagled on the desk, then removed the camera from around my neck and put it aside, then pushed my pants and underwear the rest of the way down—believing, I’m sure, that I was about to do what she’d asked. 

But then I leaned forward and slid just the tips of my forefingers under the elastic of her panties and began moving them slowly back and forth, together and apart, across her stomach there, saying, “You’ll have to speak up, I couldn’t hear you.” 

I pulled the elastic up and let it snap against her stomach a couple of times, then reinserted my fingertips and continued to move them back and forth, smiling innocently at her.  “Did you want me to do something with these?”

She looked bewildered for a moment, then realized she was being toyed with.  She swallowed, her throat dry, then managed to gasp, “Pull them down...”

“What?”

More loudly: “Pull down my panties!”

“You’re not being very polite...”

“Oh, God!  Please... PLEASE pull down my panties!  Oh god!”

Just my fingertips, slowly moving together and apart, now tugging slightly downward. 

“Now why would you want me to do a thing like that?”

Her voice fell to a whisper again.  “So you can... fffuck me.”

“What?”

She couldn’t take it anymore.  She sat bolt upright, wrapped her legs around my waist and her arms around my shoulders and began rubbing herself up and down against me, whimpering into my ear, “Please... Oh, please... fuck me!  Pull down my panties and fuck me... OH GOD!  FUCK ME NOW!”

So after all that there wasn’t even a chance to pull down her panties—I just reached between her legs and pulled them aside so she could impale herself on me, which she did immediately.  She was already so wet that there was almost no resistance as I slid my full length into her.  She kept her arms and legs wrapped around me, and I held her up as long as I could with a hand on each of her buttocks as she rose and descended on my shaft before I finally slammed her back onto to the desk and finished her there.

When we were both done I retrieved my camera and took one final shot of her, limp and covered in sweat and lying on her desk with the crotch of her panties still pulled aside—and the words she’d written on the blackboard, slightly out of focus but still quite readable, behind her.

(It’s been a while since I’ve posted a new chapter so you may want to review the earlier ones here:

http://www.bdsmlibrary.com/stories/story.php?storyid=5842

Also, at the time of this posting (November, 2011) I’m looking for a new online sub to train.  If you think you might enjoy being treated like Carol, please see my ad here:

http://www.bdsmlibrary.com/forums/showthread.php/25424-You-Will-Be-Controlled-and-Humiliated?p=941404&highlight=#post941404 )

Teaching Carol, Ch. 9

By Zenmackie

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came.  In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key.  There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet...and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. 

She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies.  As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime.  One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.”  And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment.  Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills.  Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard:  “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth.  

When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap.  I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind.  Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. 

She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek...whack!  Left cheek...whack!   Right cheek, left cheek...  She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle.  Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. 

I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage.  She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another.  

But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now!  Please...please do it now,” she begged.  But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out,  “Oh!  Oh god...fuck my asshole!  Pull down my panties ...and put your cock up my ass!”  Then, when I only continued, she screamed,  “PLEASE!  PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear--and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so.  

When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera.  Unable to wait any longer I grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard and penetrating so deeply that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again.  Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth.  And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there.  I got a picture of her doing that.

Then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award.  And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door.  The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. 

She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy.  Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter.  She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.”  The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea.  I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email.  For example:  “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk.  When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds.  Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email.  On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk.   It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand.  It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it.  Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly.  Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message:  “Wear the vibrator over your panties today.  Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break.  At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator.  Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home.  Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom.  The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator.  The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch.  Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress.  Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out.  A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth.  Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression.  And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well:  “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00.  Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.”  Or: “I have to go to the library tonight.  Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook.  I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. 

She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?”  Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her.  “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened.  For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory.  It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees.  She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter.  They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me.  She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way.  From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right.  I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before.  She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass.  She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further.  There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.   

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again.  Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus.  During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind.  She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night.  She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red.  This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation.  She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud.  Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter.  Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning.  I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course.  I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door.  She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private.  I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage.  So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position.  Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position.  “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her.  With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position.  We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.”  Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me.  I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes.  As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her.  I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure.  Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me.  “You BASTARD!” she yelled again...and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—“...bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole...” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back.  I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall.

She continued to curse me—“...let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me...”—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her.  Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband--leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare...”

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs.  “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare...” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed.  Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare...fuck me.” 

Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her.  Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well.  She took one gasping breath...then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent.  We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard.  You’re...fucking me!” 

And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her...then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length.  She grunted—“Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare...” and, as she let herself drop again, “...fuck me!”  This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again.  For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust:  “Don’t!...You!...Dare!...Fuck me! Don’t!...You!...Dare!...Fuck me! Don’t!...You!...Dare!...Fuh...UH!...UH!...UH!...AHHHHHHHhhhhhh....!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor.  Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to.  I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me.  She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened.  Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.