A Bad Girl Ch. 03

Hello again Dear Reader.

My apologies. I told you this piece of the story would be available months ago. Unfortunately real life intervened. Fantasy is a much more pleasant way to spend our time, don't you think?

For those of you who would like to fill in the rest of the story, please read "A Bad Girl" Chapters 1 & 2. Briefly, Miss Althea Flock, schoolteacher, has already experienced her female dominant side. Upon leaving college she swore off such things. Lately, though, she has found herself dreaming more and more of one particular student. Overstepping her bounds only slightly, she has paid a visit to the girl's home, and now Susan Castle sits in the passenger seat of Miss Flock's car.

"Susan," I said "we're going to go have a cup of coffee."

She grunted. I looked over at her: Stirrup pants, bare feet, a sweater, and hair like a wet mop. That's my girl, I thought to myself. Did she know how pretty she was, I wondered?

"Don't grunt." I said, "It just makes you sound like a pig."

Now she consciously snorted like a pig. I was partly angry, but found myself hiding a loud laugh with a smile.

"Enough!" I said, after I regained my composure—but I couldn't quite keep the amusement out of my voice "And do up your seat belt."

"Okay," she replied, suddenly quiet and pensive. She stayed that way until we reached Barilko's, a doughnut-and-coffee place by the highway. As she hopped out of the car, I noticed that her toes, usually hidden by heavy Doc Martens, were bare, and that the nails were painted pink. This display of gaudy plumage on a bird that was deliberately hidden and drab struck me as a positive sign.

Inside I bought two cups of coffee. Sue couldn't decide whether to have a cruller or a cherry stick.

"Can I get both?" She asked with a slight plead in her voice.

"No," I said "you have to choose."

"Please" she appealed, now in full pout mode.

"No. Don't ask me again." I said firmly. I had to be firm; she was annoyingly cute when she was sucking up. I was sure scores of boys would have melted on the spot, and that most people would have given her what she wanted. But I'm a teacher first.

She stopped her whining almost immediately, and I saw a strange combination of wariness and fascination came into her eyes.

"So what are we doing here?" She asked as we made our way to a table.

"Should I talk to your parents instead?"

"Do what you want." She shrugged, but there was a tone there that I didn't recognize, edgy and cautious.

"I want to straighten things out with you—not your mother, and not your father."

"Wouldn't work anyway. She's got her own shit goin' on, and he doesn't care."

Sue had wedged herself into a corner, facing at ninety degrees from me. I stared at her across the table, and when I thought I had almost made eye contact, as much as she'd allow anyway, I spoke:

"First, let's get something straight. I'm Miss Flock, or Miss F. since we're being informal. Because I know you, I'm prepared to call you Sue, or do you prefer Susan?"

Shrug.

"Very well then Sue . . ."

"I'd prefer Susan," She wasn't looking at me, not directly. But her eyes kept cutting back to me "I like the way you say 'Susan'".

I think that was when I first felt it. A funny feeling tingled in my belly, and when I caught her eye I spotted something like a ghost of a smile gracing the corners of her typically sullen young mouth. Somewhere beyond my conscious mind part of me knew what she was, and what she wanted. We were here because of choices, choices that she had to make and that I couldn't--would not--allow myself to make for her.

I squashed the feeling out of my mind. But it caught me by the throat, and when I spoke again, my voice was husky and quivering.

"Susan,"—a little frisson, an unbidden thrill—"The first thing we need to establish is that this is an official meeting. Don't swear at me again," her face fell and her lower lip pooched out "I wanted to talk to you about your performance at school."

"What about it?" The sullen little girl was back "I do my homework."

"Not true—you don't do it often, and what you do is far inferior to what you're capable of."

"If I'm passing, why are you bustin' my chops?"

"Because if you keep going the way you are, you won't pass. And personally I don't want either of us to go through another year like this one. I realize this is a busy time for you. I'm sure a lot of things are changing and that some of them are confusing, but the things you do this year are going to either set you up or screw you up—for life."

"Oh yeah—and history was soooo important to my plans." She rolled her eyes at me, maddeningly. She ran her tongue around her lips, and then puckered them with an audible 'pop'. "Is it true you went to Catholic school?"

The question caught me off guard.

"Why yes, yes I did. Why?"

"Did the nuns beat you and stuff?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, instead of bo-o-o- ring detention, would they, like, lay into your ass with a ruler?"

I was angry now.

"It's none of your business, but yes...

She leaned forward, and her eyes gleamed.

"Did they like, spank you bare-tail with a ruler?"

"I was caned on the hand," I said icily "Once. For insolence."

She sat back, her body language clearly saying 'well that's no fun'. I was angry, but as I fought for control of the conversation I realised three things: I was imagining Sue —Susan — bent over my knee, her stirrup pants down to her ankles. And that my nipples were hard. And that Susan could see my hard nipples—was looking straight at them, in fact. I felt my face flush red.

"That doesn't matter. We're here to discuss your future — not my past."

"Yeah, yeah."

"You can be insolent and fail," I stood up "or you can shut up, listen, and perhaps pass, which will allow you to graduate. Seeing as you seem to be fonder of option 'A' I'll see you in class."

"Don't go..." Almost a whisper. But suddenly I found her hand gripping mine "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to be...to be a bitch."

Unable to look at her I sat down again. I could hear the tears in her voice.

"I'm sorry, Mizz F. I just get these moods, y'know?"

"No," I answered "I don't. Tell me about them."

"Oh it's just, I dunno," Once again she looked at me from under her fringe of hair "did you ever really like someone, maybe really like another person. But maybe that person didn't know you like them. . ." Her voice trailed off.

There was a lump in my throat. We were skirting some of the most dangerous territory a teacher could ever cross. Part of me wanted to hear her confession, but to go that way could only bring trouble. Besides, I wasn't sure how I felt myself—my nipples weren't hard anymore, but I was pretty sure I was wet. And first and foremost, I was a teacher.

I feigned ignorance: "Oh Susan—is it boy trouble?" Her disappointment was palpable.

"Kinda like that." she admitted.

"You're not pregnant or something, are you?"

"Oh no Mizz F." she said in a shocked voice "—I'm a virgin!"

It was so unexpected. An anonymous sex survey taken at the school had revealed two things: First, almost the entire student population were having sex at least twice a week; and second, 98% percent of teenagers indicated that they were "likely to lie about their level of sexual activity on anonymous questionnaires". But still, I'd had a distinct impression that Susan knew more about sex than many of her classmates, and I found myself wondering why I'd thought that.

The smile must have come through in my face. Susan said defensively:

"Well I've, y'know, gone there with boys, but I just never wanted one enough to....y'know."

"I know, Susan," at the sound of her name in my mouth she wiggled like a puppy, the moment was defused—and I found myself regretting it. I tabled it for later, private study--I'd remember the uncomfortable look in her eyes the next time I masturbated.

The rest of the conversation was mostly me lecturing Susan. But I thought we'd had a breakthrough—it had taken a little extra communication and effort, but it had been worth it. We arranged that she would complete her final history project in stages, reporting to me each week how things were going, then she would hand it in before the final exam. If she did sufficiently well, she wouldn't need the final exam, but if she managed to get less than fifty percent on the project (unlikely if she applied herself), she wouldn't need to take the exam, since she couldn't possibly pass without the project.

More importantly, somehow I was able to compartmentalize what I felt about Susan, the woman, from what I had to feel for Susan, the student. In class, I was almost able to forget the dire need to possess, to own her.

At first, she showed me her work early—before Friday's class, usually. Then it was after class, and sometimes I'd see her scribbling to finish it before showing me that week's progress. Then it was the end of the day, and by stages, she stopped getting me to check her work. I waited until the second week with no report before I confronted her.

"Susan," I said as she tried to flee through a crowded doorway one Friday "come here and sit down, please." I pointed to the student desk immediately before my own. Whoever designed those desks knew a thing or two about positions of power. Whoever sat in that student desk would be several inches below my eye-line, looking up to me. Sue crept back reluctantly, hugging her books to her chest.

"About that project thing . . ." she said. But I was too taken aback by what was drawn on her binder cover, which she'd set facedown on the desk before her, to pay full attention.

It was a heart-shaped design, made of a braided design that looked like woven cord or a braided rope. Inside the heart-shaped loop was drawn a circle with a three-pointed design inside it. Inside that symbol were initials: s.s.c. ♥ M.A.F.

My first name is Althea, but I didn't think any of the students knew it. My blood pounded in my head, and my vision swam a little. Again my nipples hardened, and again I found myself warm and flowing. My tongue poked out and touched my lip for a minute—and I realised that she was watching me carefully when her tongue flickered for a moment on the little bump at the centre of her upper lip. Our eyes met.

Don't be ridiculous, Althea I told myself "M" probably stands for "Mark", or "Michael". I mean, what else could it be? I made a mental note to see whether Susan had a middle name. "s.s.c."--hmmm.

"What . . ." my voice trailed off as I realised that I was staring at her binder, horrified that my question would have been what does that stand for? I'm not stupid, but I was wondering about those extra initials. My curiosity fought for its life, but I succeeded in drowning it.

"What have you been doing this past two weeks?" I asked seriously, resisting an unexplainable urge to hug her and cuddle her—to tell her everything would be all right.

"I got it finished. . ." she said, as though trying out the phrase. My heart leapt—she'd turned it around. She would graduate! Instantly I felt a deep pang of regret. But she continued:

"But I don't have it here. I'll e -- mail it to you."

That night I checked my e-mail anxiously, looking for a message from a student with an attachment. I have several accounts, but I only use one for student business. In my non-school home mailbox, with the day's usual detritus, was an e-mail from an individual whose name I didn't recognize. It was from lilslut at a German yahoo address. Since I keep my e-mail addresses pretty private, I wondered who it could be—was it something from a porn site? I would normally delete this sort of unsolicited mail, but there was no attachment, so I opened it:

"Whn y're sitng at yer desk, I think abt wht you could do to me—I want 2 b in yr chains, I want 2 b yr dildo puppet, yr fuckslt, yr slave. mak me do evythng drty 4 u, mke me suck yr cunt, kiss yr feet, eat yr ass. . ."

It went on for a full page. But there wasn't a single identifying detail. Clearly the culprit either worked with me or was a current or former student—unless it was the janitor, I thought. But teachers get e -- mails from students all the time, often threatening. So into the trash bin it went...then I fished it out again.

It couldn't be from Sue, I knew that. She didn't know I even had this e-mail address. But when I read it, I found myself imagining her.

She's standing at my desk, her clothes in a pile at her feet. She's looking at me with something like worship in her eyes. Gently, and with emphasis, I flick the tails of the whip. She bends obediently, hands seizing her knees as she exposes her tight ass and her virgin cunt. One end of the dildo goes into my pussy, then on goes the harness. I step closer, reddening her ass with quick cuts of the whip. Then I'm behind her, guiding the rubber cock into her. . .

I sighed inwardly. It was time to admit something to myself. If I didn't confront this, I was going to go nuts: I was lusting after a student. And a female student at that!—I was totally hetero . . . Had been, anyway. Besides: a female student younger than myself by ten years! What the hell was I thinking? How much more wrong could it be.

Oh, but it was nice to think about, though:

She kneels beside my chair, bound into a painful backward curve, her muscles trembling at the effort. Her mouth is plugged with a thick blue candle. The clothespins on her nipples cast jumping shadows, in her ass is a thick, tapered vibrating butt plug, and in her pussy a pair of polished stone eggs. The chains they're attached to puddle beneath her on the floor.

"Hold that candle steady," I order "If you keep shifting it around it'll take longer for me to finish this book," my eyes travel over her firm, tight b -- cup tits "and if that happens you can look forward to sleeping in your. . ."

"...cage." I breathed aloud. Bitch! What was wrong with me? I'd never had the faintest lesbian impulses before and no kinky ones either. Why did I suddenly find myself wanting to enslave this particular girl?

She had little tits with pink nipples, remember?—You called her your little sow. Shock ran through me as I remembered: Tennisball Turner. My lover and slave for over a year of college. My heart ached as I remembered her unswerving devotion, her eagerness to be punished, the piggy grunting noises she made at my command as I pulled and bit at her nipples . . . just like Sue had made in the car.

Oh, yes—Susan reminded me of something alright!

I wrestled with myself and my conscience for most of the night. Even after I went to bed I tossed and turned, alternating between duty, valour, and love. Finally I got out of bed.

Sue reminded me of her Tennisball Turner. They were different--Sue was all dark, where "Tennie" had been blonde. Yet both had that slight "go-to-hell" flash in their eyes; was that why I, a teacher, was dreaming of fucking a student?

I had been given a dildo as a joke gift from Tennie—a private gift, marked with the letters "S & M Inc". A name we sometimes used for ourselves in private. She, the slave, was the "s", and I was. . .

The initials on Susan's book came back to me: s.s.c.—slave susan castle? M.A.F.—"Mistress" Althea Flock?

My nipples crinkled up so hard they hurt!

The dildo was double -- ended, designed for a leather harness that slept at the bottom of my drawer. For the first time in years, I pulled it out and fastened it around my waist. I was already wet, and the dildo filled me up nicely. Then I tried to fasten the harness. After a few attempts I realised that the harness wouldn't button because the alignment of the rubber cock was wrong—I had put myself on the receiving end. I pulled the dildo back out, and in a moment of mischief I licked it slowly.

The taste of my juices turned me fully on. I inserted the other end of the dildo. With the cock jutting from my crotch at a steep angle, I got the harness fastened.

"Get in here, slut!" Mistress F. declared in my head.

Naked but for her collar and cuffs, the nameless slut appears at the door. She kneels, as she has been taught to do. When her nose touches the carpet, red stripes are visible across her back and buttocks. The teaching of slaves, as Mistress has often explained, is primarily achieved through negative reinforcement.

"Look at this," Mistress says loudly "You were supposed to clean in here."

"But Mis -- s -- s -- " The slave bites her tongue, but too late.

"Are you daring to talk back to me you little bitch? Kneel up—look at me. Open."

The submissive's lips are forced wide by the dildo which Mistress pushes between her teeth. Responding properly, she raises her unbound hands to caress the older woman's ass as she gives a slow blowjob to the firm rubber that she hopes Mistress will open her with tonight.

For Sue Castle, slave, is still a virgin. Her pussy, although it's been eaten and whipped, shaved and beaten, has never been opened by a cock or anything else. A tiny gold padlock holds her pierced labia firmly shut. But the slave wants it, wants to offer her virginity to the Mistress. More than anything else. But she knows better than to beg for anything. She is well-trained to Mistress' pleasure.

Her ass, on the other hand, is well-opened. Since her confinement here in the house she has been stretched gradually, and can now take a fist (albeit only Mistress' small one) in her bottom. The slave is disappointed when her hands are taken, cuffed, and chained above her. She is winched upward, as the chain above her disappears into the ceiling, until she is standing on her very tip-toes.

Mistress places a tight roll of leather between her slut's teeth.

"It's likely to be rough tonight." She says gently, softly "scream if you need to."

So saying, she positions her "cock" at the entrance to the slave's tight asshole. She explores it with a finger for a moment, thoroughly lubricating the warm silicone flesh with the other hand. Then she penetrates her slave at a slow but steady pace.

The slave, gasping and moaning behind the gag, is smoothly stuffed with the rubber dick. Without allowing her to acclimate to her impalement, Mistress F. begins to rock slowly back and forth, feeling the stirring in her own pussy as the other end of the dildo moves slightly with each thrust.

After interminable moments, the slave feels her Mistress' orgasm begin to build. The slut flexes her ass-cheeks, deliberately holding the dildo tighter so that it pulls further from Mistress' pussy. The slave might cum this way if Mistress fucked her long enough, but in her ear the slave hears Mistress moaning deeply, sighing the harsh endearments she, the slave, longs for.

"You fucking little. . . bitch—once I fuck you. . . you'll lick every inch of this dildo, hrahh!. . . clean. And tomorrow you'll clean this room again. . . When I come. . .home, I'm gonna beat you before I even look. . . uh, to see if you've done it. I'm gonna cum any second, and once I get out of this harness and release you, I'm. . . going to. . . whip you. . .Would you like that, bitch?"

The slave, caught close to her own orgasm, can only mew behind her gag.

In the real world, my hips bucked as I imagined Sue's perky tits and ass turning red under my whips and in my chains (who was I kidding—I didn't have any chains!). The tiny muscles in my belly began to spasm, and I came furiously, tugging at the dildo in its harness.

I slept soundly after that.

The next day was a Saturday, and I checked my e-mail for Sue's project. Wonder of wonders—there it was, with a note:

Dear Miss F. Please forgive this being late.

No explanation. I felt a snap of impatience with the girl. But then I opened the project.

It was good—well-written and well-argued. The vocabulary was a bit high-flung, but that's a technique students often use to make an essay sound scholarly.