Foot Worship

We had been speaking for a long time, we had met more recently and we were about to have our first moments of true intimacy. I had thought about what it would or could be like somewhere after we started speaking and before we considered meeting. I thought she was sexy and beautiful from the first message. I came to find out that she had pictures on her profile but I don't look when I start chatting with the Specials. The more base, the more Typicals, I read their profile for research to acquire a feel for who they think they are so that I can troll their pictures looking for the one that I know they want people to appreciate. It is rarely the best breast shot or the naughtiest sex scene or even the prettiest image of their face. There is always a picture that expresses what they think they secretly are and they want others to see it and them through it without having to tell you. They also want you to know why without them having to explain it. Picture research does that. If you have the knack you can see it, but it takes more than that. You have to instinctively feel it and the research can do that, if you have that talent. Its a talent that I find to be extremely valuable with the Typicals but completely unnecessary for the Specials. Pictures, appearances, the physical incarnation of a potential Special only serves to provide a risk that could ruin what might be special. If you see before you listen and communicatively touch then you change the object of your affections without intending to. If you speak and experience and appreciate and know the someone before you see the someone then you haven't changed it, you have fulfilled its promise and by doing so you have created a special beauty both for yourself and upon her. Creating is always better than changing or altering so if you find yourself flooding to their pictures before you entrust them with your passions and insecurities, your pleasures and pet peeves, your petty things and pithy postures, then you know its a Typical and will never be a Special. As Special as I knew she was I am still me and me being me I am going to be as I be and thats scary you see. I am who I am - for good and for bad - and so I move as I need to move to be sure I feel safe and assured and that meant she had to be tightly secured. With her that meant that I tied her wrists to the bed posts and blindfolded her eyes with Red Satin. Her bra was black as were her panties and toes. Her legs laid free to wiggle and maneuver, not for her comfort but to allow them to contort. The first time was going to be about me, for me and for the first time I wanted to be pleased by seeing her pleasured. I started by kissing her neck and licking her chin. I softly bit her lower lip before kissing her insistently. I kissed her slow enough and long enough for her to be able to reciprocate which pleased me. She is so soft and sweet. After we finished kissing I smelled her before I ran the back of my fingers and hand along her chest. Then I caressed the side of her left breast with my right hand and ran it along the bottom of her breast before cupping both of her breasts with both of my hands. Then I got on my knees and straddled her body as my cock and balls rested on her stomach. I kissed her left nipple and then I kissed her right nipple. Then I began to bite her lower lip again and as she tried to bite back I pinched her nipples firmly and ground them between my fingers. She gasped with surprise and I twisted them harder. She groaned slightly and I twisted them harder. Every time I felt or heard a reaction I twisted her nipples slightly harder. Once it was clear that she had learned I softly kissed her lips, rose up on my knees and put my hands on the top of the headboard and leaned into her. As I was rising over her in a dominant position that she could obviously sense and feel but only I could actually see, I ran the tip of my penis over her breasts, up past her naval and to within a centimeter of her mouth. I could feel her breathe blowing air into the slit of my tip. She was breathing heavy but I was calm. I was dripping and so I told her not to move and I wiped my pre cum on her lips. "Don't move." I wiped the tip of my dick and the bulk of my pre cum on her soft, red lips, right to left and then left to right. Then, after my tip was dry, I opened her mouth by pulling her lower lip down. I waited a moment or three, as she sat there with her mouth perky red lips open, until I sensed that she knew what was next. It pleased me to know that she knew and her lack of any reaction was an admission of submission. That was when I grabbed her hair for leverage and slowly slid my cock between her lips. I slid the whole thing into her mouth until my balls rested on her luscious red lips. Then I slowly pulled my cock out and slid it all the way back in and I did this four or five times. Then I slid only a third of my cock in her mouth and stopped. I let my tip rest on the middle of her tongue inside her mouth. I told her to suck on my shaft like a thumb. Of course she did. Then I slid my cock slightly deeper, resting my tip before the entrance to her throat but further down her tongue and I told her to do it again. Of course she did. Then I pulled out so only the tip of my cock was in her mouth and I told her to suck me like a thumb and to lick the hole with her tongue. Of course she did and I moaned so she knew I liked it. So she knew to keep doing it. After enjoying her suckling on my tip and licking pre cum out of my cock I told her to open her mouth wide. I told her to sit up straight so she was higher on the pillows as I went from my dick dangling into her mouth to her face being parallel with my cock. I rose up on my knees, grabbed a firm grip of her long, dirty blonde, brown hair and I proceeded to fuck her mouth. Thrust after thrust I plunged my cock in and out of her mouth, sliding the knob of my cock to the end of my shaft down her tongue from the tip of it to the entrance of her throat. I could feel her mouth watering on my shaft as I watched tears flow out of her eyes and down her cheeks. Then I slowed down, got down, and I pulled her down the bed. After pulling her legs enough that she laid flatter on the bed, resting her upper back and shoulders and head on the pillows I brought my face to hers and kissed her moist cheeks. Then I kissed her chin and gently ran my fingers around her lips. I whispered in her ear... "Good Girl." I waited a moment or three to see if I would receive a response, which I did not, and I whispered in her ear again... "What do you want?" She waited a moment, took a deep breathe, exhaled and replied "You." I slid down between her legs and bit the inside of both of her thighs before spreading her legs open as wide as I could force them and I spanked her clit. She gasped followed by a moan each time. Then I lifted her legs over my shoulders, wrapped them around my back and proceeded to nibble her clit, twist and tug on it with my teeth and lick her pussy. As I sensed she was getting close to cumming I stopped...delayed.... told her no. She knew. I did that four times and each time she responded. Once it was clear she learned I bit her clit again, twisted it harder than before, licked her pussy faster and more aggressively, then I stopped....delayed... and said "You can cum as much as you want for the rest of the night Baby Girl." I heard the moan I wanted to hear and I proceeded to continue licking and sucking and kissing between her thighs until she came. After she came the first time I opened her legs wide, slid my dick inside her until she could feel my balls resting on her skin and I rolled my hips around in circles. I could feel her clench her thighs and pelvis, trying to grab a hold of me inside her. We laid together like that with only breathing between us, softly kissing, feeling each others tongues on our faces and lips. I nibbled her throat and kissed her chin and when I could feel her breathing change and sense her needs I slid back down between her legs and did it again and again and again. One day I will be tougher with her, more brutal, more abusive and she won't be wearing a blindfold on that day. She will see the confident, domineering me that owns her completely and who she submits to with pleasure and pain, but for today the softer, gentler me wanted to feel safe and secure with her and among her and for that I need her softness, her delicate demeanor, and flowery scent as well as a blindfold and ropes.

It’s hard being a teacher, a high school teacher. What makes it hard is the girls, the women. When they start they’re girls, gawky and shy, not quite co-ordinated, not yet comfortable with bodies which have transformed themselves in a few short years. They arrive as minor-niners with braces and bubblegum, playing dress-up with themselves the way they used to with Barbie. They giggle about boys, they flirt and fight and cry in response to floods of hormones they can’t control, bringing on feelings they don’t understand. They struggle through crushes and jealousies. They dream of their first dance, first kiss, first touch, first time. And then, a sudden four years later, they’re women. Young women to be sure, with their lives in front of them, but women, not girls. They know the power of their sexuality, and dress-up has been replaced with style. Their bodies are firm and lithe, fully formed and fertile. They know how to get what they want, most of them, and the ones who don’t yet will learn soon enough. They're beautiful, in that first blush of womanhood. They are ripe, and they know it, and they advertise it to the world, knowing the wolves will fight it out to see who’s going to win the prize. Boys lag girls, it’s just the way they’re built. They come into school still children and when they leave they aren't yet men. Young women like older men for just that reason. They're attracted to maturity, experience, confidence, authority. Better to say they respond to such men. They can’t help it, any more than men can help responding to women who are young and beautiful. It’s not a choice, not an acquired taste, it’s instinct. Basic instinct. And if you’re an older man, if you’re fit and tall, if you’re passionate about what you each, if you connect with your students on their level, then it’s inevitable that attraction will happen. I’ve had Valentine’s cards appear in homework, answered the phone to silence and a giggle and the click of a hang-up, seen my name carved in a heart on the window ledge in the library. I’ve had secret notes mailed to my house and had other girls sidle up to tell me someone “likes me” in just that certain way. It takes self discipline to resist when they sit in the front row, looking up at me with their eyes big, drinking you in as you stand there being mature, experienced, confident and authoritative. It takes more when they linger after class to ask a question, spark a discussion, share that precious three minutes before they have to run home to their private fantasy where the teacher/student veil is pierced. It’s just a crush people say, parents and relatives, friends and guidance counselors, as if that makes the emotions less important. That’s wrong, so wrong. Emotions are emotions, and if crushes are fleeting, capricious, always ill thought out and often ill advised, they are nevertheless powerful. I used to say, “Just a crush,” and sidestep the shy glances, the awkward advances. What else could I do? I dated women in my own age group, women whose sexualities are more advanced than kiss-and-fumble, women who appreciate the side of me that I keep strictly separate from PTA meetings and teacher’s union working groups. And then Suzanne Smith killed herself on the last day of school, and her note told the world it was because she realized she could never have me. A thing like that stays with you. Sue was quiet and studious and pretty, with a sly sense of humour that went beyond her years. It’s the smarter ones who are most dangerous, the ones most likely to feel cerebral kinship across the generation gap. I teach creative writing, the last class of the day, and perhaps I should have recognized her attraction by the way she lingered afterwards to ask questions. Perhaps I should have seen it in what she wrote. Her stories were longer than most, and far better written than even the average professional can produce. They tended to romantic themes. She left the last one she wrote in her locker when she went home that day of school, having cleaned everything else out. She titled it The Millwheel, a well crafted tale of a young woman and the miller’s son, her secret lover. They meet in a secluded nook by the millpond, and though nothing more than a kiss occurs you can feel the passion lurking just beneath the words. Her parents find out and forbid her to see him because he is beneath her social station. She refuses to end it, and they arrange to have him drafted into the army. He goes to war and she waits, until news comes that he’s been killed. In despair she dives into the millpond and swims until she’s swept into the raceway, dragged down and under the churning wheel, killed in an instant. Her final thought is of her lover, her wish that his soul will return to his father’s mill, so they can always be together. I wept when I read her story, it was just that good. What I didn’t know was that she’d written it for me, only for me. She had laid it all out for me, as plain as can be, and though I’m good at spotting student crushes I’d never even guessed at hers. She laid her heart before me, bared her soul, and what did I do? Graded it A+ in red pen and wrote 'Excellent work, Suzanne. The use of the millwheel both to symbolize life and to foreshadow of death is very powerful. Your characterization is beautiful. Best of luck in university next year.' Suzanne never got less than an A. She had a dozen scholarships from a dozen top ranked schools to choose from. She could have had any career she chose, anywhere she chose, travelled, learned, loved, grown, raised children and grandchildren. She threw it all away because I didn’t return an attraction I didn’t even know existed, that I couldn’t have returned if I had known. I remember the way she hugged me on that last day of senior year, the last day of her life. She held me tighter and longer than she should have, my first and last hint at what lay beneath her shy and quiet surface, and I kept my professional distance and congratulated her and shook her hand and wished her well. Perhaps I gave her some paternal good advice, I can’t remember. I do remember so clearly when her mother called. “This is Sue Smith’s mom,” she said, and then she burst into tears. Now I bring flowers to her grave every year. I kept teaching, what else could I do? I love my work, even when it hurts. I still get Valentines and carefully penned notes on purple stationary. I still sidestep them, but more carefully now, and with compassion. Never again have I said the words, “Just a crush.” Four Septembers after Suzanne, Julie arrived in that same class. She was tall and tight bodied, adolescent lean with high, firm breasts and long, long legs. She wore ripped jeans and torn t-shirts, and one or the other was always black, tight enough to show her figure, loose enough to show she didn’t care. Her attitude towards school skirted the border between bored and amused. She tolerated the system because she had to, but she made it clear she didn’t buy our line about how important the process was. Julie was as smart as Suzanne or maybe smarter, but her work was habitually late and typically sloppy, though she’d throw in the occasional A+ effort just to prove she could do it, if she wanted to. Most of the time she read a book in class, making her own use of the time we made her spend at a schoolroom desk. She was a reader, gaining admittance through words to worlds she couldn’t yet access any other way. She was doing what she wanted now, not waiting for some magical after-time, after graduation, after university, after landing the career, the promotion, the directorship. I had no idea what she did after school, no idea what her home life was like, but her writing spoke volumes, themed dangerous and dark. She sat in the back where Suzanne had sat in the front, and she never lingered to talk after class. Until one day she did. It was a Friday in early October, a cool and crisp day. The bell rang at four and the class evaporated in a babble of chatter. The usual handful stayed behind with questions or problems to address. I dealt with each one, made notes in my log where I had to follow something up. Julie was last in line. “Julie.” I looked up from my desk, gave her the standard quick smile of invitation to tell her it was her turn. She didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched the previous student go out the door. “Julie?” She was still watching the door as it swung shut again. The latch clacked closed, and then she knelt down beside my chair. “I want you to teach me, sir.” Her voice was nervous, her face determined. She knew what she was doing, it scared her, she was doing it anyway. My blood ran cold. On the surface it was an innocent enough thing to say. I am after all her teacher, and all my students call me “Sir”, as they call all male teachers “Sir” and all female teachers “Ma’am”. Completely innocent, except for the way she was kneeling, except for the tone of her voice when she said it, the way she emphasized “Sir”, in just that way. She knew, somehow, and she was acting on what she knew to get what she wanted. I just stared at her, unable to speak until she said the words I dreaded, the words I somehow knew were coming. “I was at the Club on Saturday night, sir. I saw you there.” She put her hands behind her neck, fingers laced together, raising those high, firm breasts to me, offering them. I ever so carefully didn’t look, but before I didn’t look I saw her nipples, standing hard and proud, jutting evidence of her arousal. They weren’t a good sign. She knew about the Club. The Club with the capital implicit. The Club was in the city, a good two hours from here. The Club was where my other life was lived out, in a world far darker than this quiet little community could ever imagine. And here was Julie, little Julie. How did she... how could she know? It didn’t matter. “Julie, stand up.” I said, in my best teacher voice. It brooked no misunderstanding or disobedience. I couldn’t allow this to continue. “Yes sir,” she said, and stood, with her hands still clasped in the back of her neck. “And put your hands down.” I glanced out the windows, afraid someone might have already seen what she’d done. Innocence, in a case like this, is no defence at all. “Yes sir.” She put them down by her sides and stood there, obediently, quietly, waiting. She was doing exactly what she was told, which was exactly the wrong thing, under the circumstances. “Julie,” I said, my voice quieter. “This can’t happen. You’re too young...” “I’m old enough, it's perfectly legal.” “I didn’t say it wasn’t legal I said you were too young.” “I’m not too young to be your student, sir.” “Not this way, Julie.” “In every way, sir.” “Julie...” I groped for words. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Yes I do sir. I watched while...” I held up my hand, my stomach tightening. “And how do you know about The Club?” “I had a hunch. I went there. I saw you, sir.” “Enough! This isn’t something we can do. We can’t even talk about it. Ever.” There was finality in my tone. Julie looked at me, her eyes big and round, her cheeks flushed. There was a tremor in her voice. This had taken courage for her to do, I had to hand her that. She wasn’t about to give up. “My marks are bad sir,” she said. “I want them to be better, I want to go to university. I need you to help me, to punish me when I’m bad, when I don’t do my work.” “Julie...” She didn’t let me finish. “I’ll be good for you sir, I’ll make it worth your while. I promise. I’ll do anything.” Her voice was pleading, desperate for help, desperate for acceptance. I looked away from her, looked out the window so I wouldn’t see her tight young body or her big, begging eyes. I took a deep breath and swallowed. What she was proposing might be legal, but the school district has a single rule for a situation like this. Hands off. It was up to me to be the mature one, the responsible one, to turn away from what this beautiful, intelligent, eager young woman was offering, to refuse to give her what she clearly needed so much. Her parents, the principle, my colleagues, the world at large, they all expected me to make the right decision here, to live up to the expected code of ethical conduct, to not take advantage of the situation. Just as I had with Suzanne. And would Suzanne be alive now if I’d kissed her, if I’d taken her, slept with her? Would she have enjoyed her teacher-fling and then gotten over it, gone on to her scholarships and her degree and her brilliant and successful future? Would she now be writing me a warm Christmas card, remembering what we had briefly shared, excitedly describing her new and expanding world? Or would it have ended in disaster, in heartbreak? It might have, but nothing could have been worse than what had really happened. The world at large didn’t have to bring flowers to the grave of a smart young woman who’d died for unrequited love. I’d apologized to Suzanne’s mother as though I’d done something wrong, and she’d looked at me and looked away and said “I wish...” She hadn’t finished, but I knew what she was wishing. She was wishing I had loved her daughter, if only for a little while, and thereby saved her life. I looked back to Julie, standing there, young and firm and waiting. Decision time and I really had no choice. “Be at my place, ten o’clock tonight. Be on time or don’t come. If you don’t come, if you’re not on time to the second, it’s over.” I looked her in the eyes. “Understand?” She shuddered. Did she climax at that moment? “Yes sir.” I jerked my head at the door and she ran out, not looking back. As she grabbed up her books I caught a glimpse of what she’d been reading while she should have been paying attention in class. A plain black cover with a single red rose, I knew that book. How many young women had their first look into their own sexuality through the eyes of its thrice-tested heroines? I looked down at my desk, put my head in my hands. What have I gotten into? It was wrong, and it would ruin me, but I couldn’t deny my desire to bend that lithe body to my will, to discipline that brilliant, undisciplined mind. My cock strained upwards at the thought. I felt guilt and desire, fear and lust. I can’t do this. The words ran through my mind in a permanent loop, but I was doing it. Or was I? I hadn’t expected Julie’s approach, I had no plan to deal with it, but I’d made one on the spot. Ten o’clock was a deliberate choice, not so late that she could protest it was an unfair time to meet, but late enough that her parents might stop her from going out. My phone number is unlisted, my address along with it. Smart teachers do that, to cut down on the prank phone calls and the toilet paper strewn all over the lawn. Students have dug it out before and I’m sure they will again, but she’d have only a few hours. If she didn’t figure it out in time I’d be able to end it cleanly before it began, save my career, save myself from the memory of Suzanne. At home I made supper, tried to grade papers. Visions of her body kept intruding, visions of her in the same positions I’d had Lize in, had Jana in, had Colleen in at the Club. Beautiful women, intelligent women, women who came to purify themselves on the Club’s altars of leather and steel, who came to consecrate themselves with me. The difference was, Julie was my student, forbidden fruit. That was exciting, in a way that none of the others could offer. That was exciting, as much as I wished it wasn’t, and the danger involved was just the icing on the cake. Unable to focus, I tried to read and found no distraction, and found myself wishing I’d set the time for nine instead, to end the anticipation sooner. I didn’t want her to come, and I wanted her to come more than anything. Finally I laid the riding crop on the desk, ready, and forced myself to do my own writing. Ultimately I managed to lose myself, to do it so thoroughly that when the door chimed I’d lost track of time. I glanced at the clock. 9:59 blinked to 10:00. Her timing was perfect. We’d play this game out to the end. She was there at the door in a pleated skirt and neat white blouse, demure and conservative clothing, not at all like her usual style, and dangerously close to Suzanne’s. I don’t know what lies she told her parents to get herself out of the house. It didn’t matter. I was in too deep to back out now. I didn’t say anything, just turned and went back inside. I heard the door close behind me, the slight scuff of her shoes on the carpet. I led her into my study where I had been writing, where the riding crop waited. I pointed to the desk. “Grab the far edge,” I said. “If you let go before I tell you, it’s over.” “Yes sir.” She bent over, stretched out, wrapped her fingers around the far lip of the desk. That position forced her onto her toes. Roughly I shoved her legs apart, so each foot was outside the edge of the desk, hooked around the legs. She inhaled sharply, her nose almost touching the riding crop. She had transformed in that moment, from girl to woman, her breasts pressed flat against the wood through her thin blouse, her legs long and feminine, her waist small and tight and her ass, her taut, rounded, upthrust and spread ass, so wonderfully presented beneath the skirt, ready for anything I might care to do to it. I picked up the riding crop from its place between her outstretched arms and flexed it, watched her muscles tense in anticipation. I flipped up her skirt with the crop’s tip. She had no underwear on, and her cunt was shiny wet, and swollen. “You’ve been a bad girl Julie,” I said. I raised the crop. “A very bad girl.” “Yes sir,” she said, her breath catching in her throat. I brought the crop down, fast enough to whistle through the air, hard enough for the smack of impact to echo around the room. The stroke left a burning crimson streak across her smooth round buttocks and ripped a cry from her throat. “You’ve put me in a very difficult position, Julie.” I kept my voice level, in control, but I was angry at her. I was angry for the boldness of her action, for the inescapable logic of her proposal, for reminding me of Suzanne. I brought the crop down again, slashing it hard against the sensitive crease that divided her ass and her thighs. She moaned something inarticulate that might have been, “Yes, sir.” “Your homework is not up to standard Julie.” Slash! “Your attitude needs correction Julie.” Slash! “I’m not going to stand for this Julie.” Slash! At first she said “Yes Sir,” after each statement, each stroke, but then they came too fast and her words became grunts, inarticulate noises of pain. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her ass flexed and danced. I wanted to make her let go, to break. I was angry at her for risking my career, and for making me desire her so much. I took that out on her, brought the crop down over and over, working her taut, red streaked buttocks, letting the tip snap into the tempting cleft between them. Her pussy was open now, her clit rigidly erect, peeking from beneath its protective hood, and I snapped the crop up against it. If she was so eager to be punished I was willing to make sure she got what she was looking for. The whipping seemed to go on forever, and finally I tore a word from her throat, choked out around her sobs. “Please...” “Please what?” Snap, I brought the crop down again. “Please stop.” Snap. “Sir.” There was desperation in the word 'Sir'. “Are you going to behave?” Snap. “Yes sir.” Her cunt had swollen more under the sting of the crop. The inner and outer lips opening to reveal the entrance to her vagina. Her hymen was intact. She was a virgin. “Homework in on time?” Snap. “Yes sir. Please sir.” “Well composed, well written, properly put together?” Snap. “Yes sir. I’ll be so good for you sir. Please stop.” “No more reading in class?” Snap. “No sir, no sir, I’ll be good, please stop, please please...” I gave her one last stroke, drove it hard up between her legs so the shaft of the crop split her labia and the tip snapped against her clit. She screamed then, her cunt visibly pulsing under the impact as she shuddered hard, and it may be that she climaxed. I paused to breath. My cock was ready to burst and I wanted nothing more than to drive it up into that tight, wet, pink, and vulnerable hole. Instead I tossed the crop down and collapsed into my armchair. “We’ll see on Monday, just how good you’ll be.” “Yes sir. Thank you sir.” She stayed in position, crying softly. Her ass was a solid mass of red welts. She’d have trouble sitting for a week. Her pussy was swollen and slick with her desire. I tore my eyes from her display. “Get up. Go.” She stood up and turned to face me, her tear stained eyes begging for comfort. I just pointed to the door. I didn’t want to build intimacy with her, I wanted her to understand that she was in too deep, that she couldn’t handle what she thought she’d seen at the Club. She couldn’t have been in my presence for more than five minutes, but it had seemed like forever. As soon as I hear the door close I hauled out my cock and started masturbating. It took me under a minute to finish, spurting huge globs of white hot sperm over my hand, my balls contracting so hard they hurt. The image of her tight, virgin cunt was burned into my brain. I was shaking at the end of it, and her vision filled my dreams that night. Saturday dragged and Sunday dragged slower. She had me hooked though I didn’t want to admit it. It wasn’t just her body, it or her eager innocence. Part of it was her intelligence and maturity, so far in advance of her peer group, but there was more than that too, something deeper, something darker that showed in her eyes when they looked up into mine. I understood when I thought about that, when I thought about her, how it was that she’d found herself at the Club. She was bored, not just with the advanced daycare centre we call high school but with her entire world, with the entire way of life in this bucolic little suburb, revolving as it did around shopping malls and high school football and the top ten shows on cable. A lot of girls in her situation discover drugs, use the high to lower their bar, submit themselves to the inexpert fumblings of half drunk jocks. Not her, she was too smart for that. How many nights had she lain in her bed, surrounded by cute frilly things given to her by relatives who didn't understand the first thing about her, masturbating to visions of trial-by-ordeal? She would know how to defeat the parental controls on her computer and surf the darker corners of the internet. She would know what was available, and she craved it and she had sensed in me that I had exactly that to offer, though with only the vaguest of idea of exactly what that was in reality. She had followed me and found it, and decided she wanted it, screwed her courage to the sticking point and found a way to get it. The way to get it was to offer herself in trade, and I had found it an offer difficult to refuse. I was half tempted to call up her file and call her house, but that would be worse than stupid. She had what she wanted now and I wondered now what she thought of it. The demons set in. I had hoped to discourage her from her chosen path with a whipping too intense for her to take. She would be bruised, no question of that. What if her parents saw the welts, and asked her where they came from? What if she not only changed her mind but decided to tell on her own? Either way my career would end. Would it be worth it, to have a woman like her in my life? Would it be worth it, to avoid another Suzanne? My rational brain said not, but the decisions I had made disagreed with my rational brain. I had made my choices, and she had made hers, and there was nothing to do but wait. Monday arrived like the change of the seasons, and the day seemed to unwind in slow motion while I felt every eye upon me, as if my colleagues could read the guilt written on my soul. It went on forever, until the last class of the day, until creative writing class. Julie came in and sat, at the front of the class, in the same pleated skirt she’d worn to my house, the same neat white blouse, her long dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, alert and attentive and ready to learn. She was the perfect student, my perfect student, in every way. In every way. I went through the lesson in a haze, convinced every student could see our new-forged connection. At the end of the class everyone handed in their papers, their weekend homework. She handed hers in last. It was entitled Penitence, six pages stapled together, laser printed, double spaced. It was the first assignment she’d handed in on time all year. There was a yellow sticky-note attached to the front page. Thank you for the extra attention in helping me complete my work. Julie. I looked at it, looked at her. Her face was calm and composed. Behind me I heard the door click shut as the last student left. I held up her assignment. “Will I be pleased with this?” I asked her. “Yes, sir.” “Face the door.” She did it. “Skirt up.” She flipped up her skirt to reveal her ass. She had thong underwear on this time, revealing her curves, and though the welts had faded in most places, they had darkened in a few. I'd marked her, signed my name on her ass with my riding crop. She was mine, whether I wanted that or not, but I could not deny that I wanted it. A lot. Her ass was beautiful, firm and heart shaped, and the crotch of her thong was soaking wet. “Skirt down.” I said, resisting the urge to touch her offered pussy. I couldn’t risk getting caught doing this, and yet there I was risking it. “Ten o’clock, my place.” “Yes sir.” She went out and I waited until my erection had subsided enough to allow me to walk in public. It would be harder for her to get out on a school night than on a Friday. I didn’t want it to end now, I just needed it to. Another endless night of waiting. I read her story, Penitence. It told of a Catholic girl in confessional, atoning for her sins with oral sex offered through a hole in the confessional screen. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” it began, and before the end she receives her blessing, a baptism sprayed on her face from her Father’s guiding staff. It was dark and explicit, completely inappropriate, and it was stunningly good. At ten the door chimed. At three minutes past she was bent over my desk again, hands grabbing the far side, legs spread wide, her tight, no-longer virgin cunt clamped around my cock as she screamed out her orgasm. I fucked her forever, my hands squeezing her bruised ass cheeks hard, making her beg for it, making her feel it, making her come over and over, until her contractions became painful, until she begged me to stop. I didn’t stop, I kept fucking her, my cock like a steel bar, over and over, on and on. When at last I unloaded my balls into her I nearly passed out. I meant to send her home promptly, mindful of parental curfews, but she told me her parents were away. I could have her as much as I wanted. Later that night she crawled for me. She kissed my boots, licked them, worshipped them. She knelt for me and sucked me, exactly as in her story, and then I fucked her again, and again, and again. It was not lovemaking, it was sex, raw and violent, passions unbridled. It was conquest and submission, each of us playing our half of the duet. But when it was over, when I had fucked her and whipped her and tied her and pumped her so full of sperm that my balls ached, wrung absolutely dry, when we were both so drained neither one of us could stand, then the inevitable emotions set in. I lay on my bed, sweaty and sated, exhausted and trembling and she put the tangled mop of her hair on my chest and cuddled close and said “Thank you, Sir,” with a purr of contentment, and I held her until it was far too late, and she finally went home just in time to beat the dawn. She came in her own car I learned. Her parents had bought it for her birthday. It was the same one she had taken into the city, to the Club, to follow an instinct she was only now beginning to understand. I fell asleep when she left, exhausted and with just three hours before the alarm was due to wake me. Alea iacta est. The die was cast, the Rubicon left far behind. Julie and I would play this out, as far as it would go. I learned over the next month just how far that might be. There was nothing she would not do. My memory of that time is full of images flash frozen in my brain with sexual intensity, Julie kneeling to suck my cock, Julie kneeling with her tongue extended and covered in sperm, waiting for permission to swallow. Julie’s face in the mirror, contorted in mingled pleasure and pain as I came hard up her tight little ass. Julie with her nose in the corner, skirt up to expose a fresh set of welts, Julie with nipple clamps, with cunt clamps, Julie gagged, Julie trussed, Julie crawling, Julie begging for punishment, for orgasm, for me to cum on her and in her. Julie used and abused and degraded every way I could think of to do it. She lapped it all up, and then demanded more. I changed her arrival time to seven to give me more time to take her, and my world became Julie. Her parents spent a lot of time away, which explained her ease in staying out late. That was purely lucky for me because by then I didn’t care about getting caught. Psychoanalysis might hint that the reason she came to me, the reason she needed what I offered, was due to her parent’s emotional absence, but my role in her life was not to provide analysis but catharsis. And Julie provided me with what I needed in return, provided it in full measure. She was my drug, addictive and compelling, lithe limbed and pliant, soaking up everything I could give her. And all the time her schoolwork got better and better, she kept her side of the bargain. I checked her file after midterm exams, and her marks were all either A or A+. The other teachers in the staffroom remarked on the change in her attitude, little guessing what was bringing it about. Her writing changed too, from dark themes to light, from despair to hope. I’ve seen that change before, in the women who respond to what it is I offer. I’ve never seen it so dramatically as in Julie. I took risks, too many risks. I trained her to spread her legs on a signal in class, so I could see her wet cunt while her classmates paid attention to what I’d put on the board. I trained her to climax on command, and then gave her that command while she had her legs spread in class. I fucked her in the classroom after school with the door locked and her wrists cuffed behind her back. I fucked her at lunch with a ring gag in her mouth. She came to school with rope marks burned red into her wrists, and her ass was always marked and sore. I don’t know how she dealt with that in the locker room or at home. I don’t know what she told her friends about where she went each night. I was jeopardizing my career and I didn’t even care. My prep-work went on autopilot because she occupied all my time every night she could get free, and all my thoughts on the nights she couldn't. What mattered was Julie, nothing else. On the day after Thanksgiving she spent the evening kneeling beneath my desk with her face in my lap, her lips wrapped around my cock, sucking eagerly while I read her Act V from Shakespeare’s Macbeth. It had become our standard instructional position. The reading was next week’s homework assignment. It was routine now for her to kneel there, servicing my shaft as I read to her. The ritual had become comforting in its familiarity, and yet I could not repress a shudder that was more than sexual as Macbeth's wife cried “Out, out, damned spot,” as she scrubbed in vain to cleanse her blood-stained hands. I was stained with the blood of Julie’s virginity as surely as Lady Macbeth was stained with the blood of Banquo’s life. My crime was there for all to see, written in her sundered hymen, written in the welts that never quite had time to fade from her ass before I gave her more. I read the passage again and realized that I had to end it. It was not just my career but my soul I'd put at risk. No matter how right it felt, it was still wrong, and I had to stop this while I still had the chance. I put the book down and looked down at her, her big eyes wide and worshipful as they looked up at me, her full red lips working my hard cock just the way I’d taught her. She slid herself back, to the point where her lips were just grazing the head of my cock. “Please come on my face, sir,” she pleaded. “Please make me be your dirty little whore.” Desire hit me like a tidal wave, over-riding every fear, every doubt. I grabbed her hair, thrust my cock back in, seeking the back of the throat with the swollen head. It was hard for her to take it that deep but she did it. She did everything, that’s the way she was, and she thrived on being made to do it. She loved the thick rigid shaft forcing her jaw wide, the soft, firm texture of the head, the salty, slippery precum dripping on her tongue. It occurred to me that I hadn’t been to the Club since the first night she’d come to me. She made them all pale in comparison, Lize and the rest. I looked again into her eyes, held her head in my hands as my cock stiffened rigid, getting ready to spurt. She knew what was coming, she knew my responses by now. Her eyes widened, her expression totally accepting, and almost without warning my orgasm hit, my balls contracting, emptying spurt after spurt of sperm down her eager sucking throat. My juice her mouth until it ran down her chin, and dripped down to glaze her firm, full tits. She sighed in satisfaction, her eyes sliding closed as she swallowed. She was allowed to swallow automatically when I read to her, and she never failed to tremble in pleasure at the privilege, her cunt contracting in gentle orgasm without so much as touching her clit. I leaned back, reclining to allow her to suckle my softening cock clean. And I knew then that I couldn’t stop. I truly was addicted to her, eager little minx that she was, even as she was addicted to me. I couldn’t give her up, come what may, and I hated myself for my weakness, even as I took strength from my conquest of her cunt. And then it was December, report card time. With it came Parent’s Day, and with Parent’s Day came Julie’s father. Her mother was away at some social function, and he, like his daughter, waited until the end of the evening, waited at the back of the line so he could talk to me alone. He was older than I’d expected, grey haired and well dressed, with an air of authority. He was a lawyer, Julie had told me, a partner at a well established firm, and his handshake was solid. He obviously took advantage of the corporate fitness plan. “Good evening,” he said, as I locked the door behind us and he walked me out to my car. “I want to thank you for taking the time to do extra work with Julie. My wife and I can’t believe the change in her.” “She’s a talented girl,” I replied, and he couldn’t have understood all the ways in which I meant it. “She’s worried us for a long time. She hasn’t seemed to care much about her future.” “Julie isn’t the average student. She needs a different approach.” He little knew how different that approach was. “Maybe so, but you’re the only one who’s taken the time to give it to her.” “She’s a lot smarter than her peer group. Quite frankly she’s a lot smarter than a lot of my colleagues. That can be more of a burden than a blessing.” “Not smarter than you, eh?” He gave me a nudge and a smile, inviting me into the old boy’s club for a moment. I shook my head. “No, she’s smarter than me I think.” Smart enough to seduce me into our dangerous little game, I didn't add. “I’ve just managed to gain some rapport with her, win her respect enough that she’ll put in effort.” He nodded ruefully. “I wish I could do that.” “It’s different,” I said, “You’re her father. She’s trying to grow up and make her own way.” “I know.” He looked away, and I saw him wish for the days when his little girl was really still his little girl, jumping up into daddy’s big strong arms for a hug, laughing in delight at a magic trick or a new kitten, begging for another bedtime story or an extra cookie when Mom wasn’t looking. I couldn’t tell him just how much his daughter had grown up in the last few months, I couldn’t tell him how very little of his little girl was left. I couldn’t tell him how I had won her respect, in a way that would be forever closed to him. I certainly couldn’t tell him that she was waiting for me that very moment, having let herself in to my house with her key, that she was waiting, bent over my desk with her long legs spread and her skirt up ready to be whipped or fucked at my whim. I might perhaps have told him that she had missed him growing up, that he shouldn’t have spent so many late nights at the firm, that he should have given her fewer things and more time, that the one thing she craved more than anything was Daddy’s love and approval. I couldn’t tell him that his absence was ultimately what had brought her to me. If she were younger I could have told him those things and perhaps they would have made a difference, but she was no longer a girl, she was a woman, and now it was too late. I shook his hand and felt guilty. Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I have despoiled your daughter, I have ruined her for the sharp, clean-cut, up-and-coming law/medicine/MBA student you’re hoping she’ll meet in university. No fine young man will suffice to slake her thirst now that I’ve had my hands on her, now that I’ve dirtied her with my desire. She will excel, she will succeed at everything you dream for her, and you will be proud of her, but you will never feel that connection you're only now realizing you've lost. And you will never know the moment when she chooses someone just like dear old Dad. I left him there, got into my car and drove home. She was on time and in position and my cock was rigid before I could get my belt undone. I swung hard once, just to hear the crack of leather on flesh and to see her jump and hear her moan, and then I was fucking her, driving my stiff shaft up into her tight receptive body and I forgot it all, my career, her father, everything. The only thing that mattered was my eager student, my star pupil, my woman, my Julie. I thrust harder, feeling my orgasm build, my balls clenching tight and contracting as I roared out my triumph and emptied myself into her one more time. My knees went weak and I pulled her to the floor, to lie there still tangled with her, still inside her. And in that moment I found myself at peace.