Saturday, July 28, 2012


~Chapter 71~

I’m eager to have my sweet submissive back. Not that the mild-mannered Merry Mills is tough to take, mind you, just that I’m ready to be me. But before we get back to Master and sub, a transition is in order.

“Here, let me unhook your bracelet,” I direct her. She obediently lifts her wrist and I relieve her of her servitude, temporarily. “Go throw on some exercise clothes. We’re going upstairs to work out.”

Several minutes later, in the elevator, I explain, “I don’t want to confuse the role play with our scene. Besides, I ate like a pig the last few days and I need to work it off.”

“So, just to be clear,” she asks, twisting her wrist in front of us, “we’re not in scene right now? We’re just Edward and Isabella?”

“Just,” I say, matching her smile with my own.

Still, she watches me somewhat warily while she runs on the treadmill, wends her way through the various machines, and works her abs and glutes on the floor. Though I give her my most convincing attempt at innocence, she doesn’t quite believe I’m not going to jump in with some crazy BDSM version of Jack LaLanne.

“Whatsammater, baby? You don’t believe me?” I ask, pulling her into the elevator afterwards.

“Not sure,” she answers cautiously.

“Trust me. We’re going to go back to the apartment, clean up real nice, have ourselves a nice long chat about the role play, and then…I’m going to collar you again. And you will know for a fact that we are not just Edward and Isabella anymore.”

“Gee, that’s comforting.” 

True to my word, we’re sitting cross-legged, facing each other on the couch twenty minutes later in jeans and tee shirts and she’s squirming just like she always does when I make her process a scene.

“So, what did you think?” I ask, eager for her opinion.

“I think you’ve spent an awful lot of time working on this little reform school of yours,” she says, half-accusingly.

“Indeed, I have,” I admit, though I fail to reveal exactly how long the fantasy has incubated in my head.

“So…will we be seeing Merry again?” The corners of her mouth lift slightly with the question.

“Oh, I believe we will. Headmaster’s got plans for her,” I answer wickedly.

Suddenly, her mouth forms into a serious line. “Wait, have you done this before?”

“Absolutely not, sweetheart,” I reassure her, pressing my hand to her forearm across from me on the couch. “I mean, sure I’ve acted out school girl scenes before, but nothing even close to this elaborate. This is all for you.”

“So the uniform…?”

“I bought it for you. Only for you, Isabella.”

She relaxes visibly. “Can I ask you something?”

She struggles for a bit, trying to work up her courage or figure out the phrasing, I’m not sure which. I take both her hands in mine, hoping that will solve the problem.

“It seemed like you wanted me to break the rules. Was that my imagination?”

I feel the broad grin spread across my face. “Not at all, sweetheart. That’s part of the exploration, the fun of it.”

“But that’s not…normally what you want, right?”

“Complicated question.” I search deep for my honest answer. “Normally, no. What I want is exactly what I demand, with perfect obedience. Exactly the way you deliver it eighty percent of the time.”

She blushes bright pink.

“But I’m not gonna lie and tell you the other twenty percent isn’t also a boatload of fun for me.”

She nods knowingly, adding a small chuckle at the end. “So you’re saying you don’t want me to be perfect then?”

“I’m saying you are perfect, Isabella.”

She looks up shyly. “You would’ve been disappointed if I hadn’t pushed the scene all the way, then?”

“Intensely,” I admit, not hiding my happy grin. “First of all, watching you panty dive like that was…” I actually shudder recalling the exuberance with which she tucked into her task. I shake my head, and restart. “Let’s just say I’ve been looking forward to that particular moment for a while now, starting with the first time you introduced me to those see-through panties.”

She smiles proudly. “Dirty old Headmaster.”

“Is there anything else we should talk about before I get you out of those clothes?”

“Well, when you put it like that…my mind is a complete blank.”

“So I figured,” I smirk knowingly. “I need ten minutes to set up in the bedroom. Be waiting outside the door, not a shred of clothing. Ready?”

Her smile is brilliant, now that we’re back on somewhat familiar territory. “Ready, Master.”

Master opens the door to the bedroom exactly ten minutes later, wearing his softest, most distressed pair of jeans and nothing else—my favorite Masterly outfit. Behind him, the lights are dimmed and there are several candles burning along the bureau, the sweet scent of vanilla wafting over to the doorway. I can’t help myself, my lips quirk upward.

He is amused. “What’s so funny?” he asks, already sharing my smile.

Vanilla, Master?”

He shakes his head. “You don’t miss a trick, do you? Lift your hair for me, Isabella.”

I hold my hair out of the way while he fastens the comforting black velvet around my neck. I know exactly who I am in this collar, and there’s no dilemma about disobeying. Master steps behind me, starts his fingertips through my hair and says, “I’ve got this. You can let go.” I feel several gentle tugs and some twisting, and next thing I know, Master has clipped my hair up in a loose updo. Running his thumb along my bare neck, he admires his handiwork—and most likely, my goose bumps—from the back, and then the front.

Not only does he admire my hair, but I feel his eyes pass slowly over every feature, as if he’s trying to memorize me for a final exam. “You look so beautiful like this, Isabella.” He extends one finger and traces a teasing path along my body, starting with my chin, down my neck, looping around one nipple, and continuing down my stomach. When he reaches my dark triangle, he pauses.

“You know, I was thinking about how you’re leaving me for a few days…”

Oh God, don’t remind me.

“...And how much I’m going to miss you.” He cups my cheek in his hand and brushes his thumb across my lips, then leans in to kiss me. My breath catches on his acknowledgment of our upcoming separation, and the effect he’s admitting it will have on him.

“So I asked myself, ‘Master, what can your sweet, sweet subbie do for you to ease your soon-to-be-aching heart?’ And then, it came to me!”  His eyes light up happily. “Well, aren’t you going to ask me what it is?”

“Of course. What can I do for you, Master?”

“You’re going to give me a day of pampering!” He steps out of my visual field and reveals a bedroom that has been turned into a makeshift spa. There’s a towel draped over Master’s side of the bed and bottles of massage oil set up on the nightstand.

“I get to give you a massage, Master?”  I honestly think I’m more excited than he is; but when he answers, his glee proves me wrong.

“Yes! For starters…oh we’ll get to the rest later. Here, follow me,” he instructs, taking my hand and leading me over to the potions. “You’re going to use these on me and work me from head to toe. And you’re not going to want to miss a spot!”

I glance down at his jeans, and I must have a question in my eyes because he says, “Oh, don’t worry, I’m going to take these off…”


“…in a minute. But first, there’s just one catch.”

And that’s when Master grabs the blindfold I failed to notice next to the pillow and pulls it down securely over my eyes. Okay, then. A blind massage. 

“Now, I don’t want you to worry about spilling oil all over my bed, so here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll be in charge,” he sniggers audibly, “and when you want some oil, just hold out your hand like this.” He cups my hand palm up. “Got it?”

“Yes, Master,” I answer, a shiver of anticipation running down my spine.

“I know sometimes you get so into your duties that you might be tempted to take me into your mouth, or even touch me with this,” he adds, cupping my wet pussy with his hand. Then, leaning in so close I can feel the hairs on his chest tickle mine, he says, “But this isn’t that kind of spa. Just your hands, Isabella. Got it?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Okay, here we go then.”

I hear the zip and soft rustle of fabric, followed by the faint squeak of the bed as he takes his position.

“Ready,” he says with a muffled voice, which leads me to conclude he’s face-down on the bed.

Lifting one knee and then the other up onto the bed, I cup my hand and wait for the warm oil. I get my bearings with the opposite hand, locating Master’s firm shoulders, and drizzle the liquid down the middle of his back. I begin by kneading my thumbs into the base of his neck. I feel woefully underqualified, and suddenly wish for our next activity to be couples massage instead of painting.

“That feels great, Isabella,” he moans, soothing away most of my inadequacies.

I’m disappointed that I can’t straddle his lower back or place a kiss between his shoulder blades, but orders are orders. I work my way down his back, up one arm, across, and down the other, before resting my palms on his trim waist. I have no idea what I’m doing but try not to be too self-conscious around his ass, kneading his cheeks, pressing them together, pulling them apart, drizzling extra oil into the crack between them. Master is unusually quiet and malleable, and I realize he has no specific expectations other than ‘being pampered’. Easy peasy.

The blindfold affords me that much more tactile intelligence, my fingertips taking in all kinds of information from knotted muscles and sensitive touchpoints. By the time I finish Master’s ankles, he seems perfectly relaxed and content.

“Ahhh,” I sigh heavily, flopping over onto my back and dropping my hands by my sides. “Everything feels fantastic, princess. Are you sure you haven’t been taking an online course in massage?”

“No, Master,” she says softly, not fully accepting my compliment. She cups her hand for more oil and I happily supply her with the lubricant for my front side.

She’s far less self-conscious with the blindfold on, which was, of course, half the reason for it—the other being her heightened sense of touch and sharper concentration on the task at hand. As the oil drizzles across my chest, I fight the urge to close my eyes, because watching her is just so damn satisfying.

She scritch-scratches down my sides, a playful smile alighting on her face when I twitch and wriggle. Pointedly ignoring my midsection, she slides down to my feet and spends at least five minutes on each one, providing every toe with individual TLC. Part of me regrets disallowing her mouth, but despite product claims to the contrary, the oil tastes disgusting and I don’t want her feeling pressured to ingest large quantities of it. I know whatever Isabella attempts, she’ll want to go all out for her Master, and right now, I prefer resting in the palms of her more than capable hands.

Hands that have now found their way to my ball sac.

“Master,” she whispers, gently rolling me around between her fingers. “About this not being that kind of massage parlor? May I not give you a happy ending?”

My sweet, sweet subbie.

“Oh absolutely, princess. But just with your hands,” my cock and I respond.

She grins and settles onto her knees between my legs, then rests back onto her heels. Yes, princess, get comfortable. Stay a while.

With a confident grin that reads pure sex, Isabella cups her hand and waits for handjob juice, which I happily supply. Standing my cock up in one hand so she knows where to aim, she releases the oil in a dramatic stream rivaling the most flamboyant delivery of vodka into a waiting martini shaker. And then, the real fun begins.

Separating my shaft and balls into separate hands, she stretches and twists, torturing me with long, luxurious strokes that quickly bring me to the brink. “Someone’s been watching handjob porn,” I mutter, causing her to release into gales of laughter.

“Guilty,” she finally responds, a devilish grin on her face to match her admission. And now, I’m curious.

“Asian girls?” I inquire.

She shakes her head and continues working me.

“Hmmm,” I play along, “amateur home videos?”

A highly adorable distasteful grimace crosses her face, and she shakes ‘no’ once again.

Stretch. Twist. Stroke. Mmmmmm.

“You have me intrigued, Isabella. Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?”

She pulls her lower lip between her teeth but she can’t quell the smile. Or the blush.

“Oh my,” I tease, realization dawning. “You’ve been watching manjobs, haven’t you?”

She nods her head, this time in a vertical motion. With renewed effort, both hands slide and pull and blanket me with the most sumptuous attention. My groaning and squirming and summoning some clearly inpirational video clips have brought Isabella into the fold, and all the signs of her arousal are in full evidence—tight little nipple buds, a telltale glistening between her legs, and her mouth dropped open and serious.

Despite my best efforts, my head tips back and I lose my visual. And just when I find my rhythm and start searching for the white light, Isabella retracts the hand holding my balls.

Saccus interruptus.

I glance down, surely failing to mask my surprise, but luckily, she can’t see a thing. Slowly, with shaking fingers, she extends her hand, reaching out for more oil. This can only be a positive development, I figure, impatiently reaching for the oil and pouring a generous portion into her hand. That ought to hold you, princess, no matter what fun you’re conjuring.

Isabella pushes at my thighs with her knees, insistently opening me further and further. The slosh of lubricant feels messy and dirty and decadent. She spreads some upward, but the lion’s share was for my balls. Oh, princess. You remembered.

While her left hand slowly steers me to Paradise, the fingers of her right hand venture around, down, back, and eventually—blissfully—inside. “Oh, God…feels amazing.” I moan, lifting and pressing with my hips, throwing my arm over my eyes and skimming along the surface of the ocean like a horny little wave runner.

Sensing my shift, Isabella increases the pressure everywhere, tightening her grip  and ratcheting up the tension. My head thrashes side to side and I’m mumbling incoherently. Some kind of grunting noise fills the air, and I’m startled when I realize I’m causing it. Through the cloud of escalating desperation, I hear her sweet submissive voice.

“Does this please you, Master?”

“Fuck, yes!” I answer, finally letting go of my tenuous hold on control and releasing in powerful, erratic spurts into her warm, adoring hands.

Master lifts the blindfold from my eyes and releases the hair clip, spilling a soft pile of hair down my back. I’m rewarded with the most incredulous look in his eyes and his fingers pulling gently through my hair. Pleasing Master is always a rewarding enterprise; rendering him speechless is beyond gratifying.

“Hello, Master,” I say, the smile on my face so wide it makes my cheeks hurt.

He can’t seem to stop staring at me, but his smile grows and matches my own. “Hello, princess.”

His hands conduct an entire conversation with my face, and somehow I understand every word; his thumbs sweeping across my eyebrows, the back of his long, elegant fingers gliding along my cheek, and his fingertips resting on my lips. It’s as if he’s been the blinded one, and he is now relying on his sense of touch to remind himself who I am and where we are.

“Best. Massage. Ever,” he says in a lazy drawl.

“I’m so pleased your ending was happy, Master.”

“I’m gonna need a minute here to regroup. Why don’t you go wash your hands and bring me a wet washcloth?”

Ah yes, my slimy hands. I float to the bathroom on my cloud of Happiest-Submissive-Ever-ness. When I return to the bedroom, Master’s eyes follow me every step of the way until I reach his side. His ankles are crossed casually and his hands are interlocked behind his neck. He looks like a man who is perfectly content right where he is and doesn’t want for anything, and I could not be more pleased that I’m the reason. He also happens to look like a Greek God, his muscles greased and gleaming with the lovingly applied massage oil. And of course, painted with his spunk.

I sit down onto the mattress next to him and mop up the mess on his chest and stomach. “I think you missed a spot behind my ear,” he jokes.

“It was quite impressive, Master.”

You were quite impressive, princess. I’ll have to start queuing up the gay porn more often.”

I raise my eyebrows, and he hastens to add, “For you, sweetheart. Only for you.”

He seems open to conversing, so I push him a little on the topic. “So, it doesn’t do anything for you? Not even those sexy massages that turn into…more?” My drifting voice obviously refers back to what we just did.

He considers my question before answering, “Hmm, there is that one bear on Club Amateur…”

“Yeah,” I say dreamily.

Master bolts up to a sitting position. “Yeah, Master,” he chastises me, thankfully adding a wink so I know I’m not about to get punished. “I’m starved. Let’s go heat up some leftovers.”

Master pulls on his jeans, offering me an entirely disingenuous shrug of apology because he’s afforded me no such luxury. “Oh here. You can wear this,” he says, pulling the blindfold on me again. A surge of anxiety rips through me, as it does every time I’m blindfolded.  Master steps right up to me, on top of my feet, in fact, with his bare feet, takes both my hands in his, and kisses me for a while.

When he’s through, he puts his lips close enough to my ear that I can feel the tiny hairs on my neck ripple with his warm breath. “I’m your eyes now, for the rest of the night.”

Oh God, the rest of the night? It’s only, like, six o’clock!

His generous lips are back upon me in an instant, kissing away my growing panic. “I know you’re nervous, Isabella.  Just sink into it, and trust that I’m here. I’ve got everything under control.”

Sink into it, I tell myself, taking those first tentative steps Frankenstein-style, my free hand extended out to break my fall or fend off an unexpected piece of wall. Master pulls me with the other, his pace more animated than I would’ve liked, forcing me to trust his lead.

“Sit right here, on the floor,” he commands, letting go of my hand and walking away. “Brisket or turkey?” he calls, and I hear the suction of the refrigerator door opening followed by the rattling of glass jars in the door.

“Turkey, please, Master.”

My ears are locked onto his movements, and I can practically see him pulling plates and silverware from cupboards and drawers and setting up trays of food and drinks. There’s something inordinately sexy about the idea of him moving around his kitchen in those jeans, maybe it’s the whole caveman-providing-for-his-mate thing, or perhaps it’s the blindfold, but when I feel him returning to me, my heart rate picks up.

Master takes my wrists and guides my hands to the food, naming the food on each plate as he dips down in each one. “Turkey. Cole slaw. Pickles. Bread. Brisket. Chips. Need me to make another circuit?”

“No, Master, I’m good.”

“Okay, I’ll have a brisket sandwich, put the Cole slaw inside, pickle and chips on the side.”

“You seem hungry, Isabella. Are you full or just giving up?”

“I’m full, Master. I promise.”

“Okay, then. Let me just take care of the dishes. You sit on your hands and I’ll be right back”—I turn back and add over my shoulder—“with a towel.”

Truth is, I’m just as messy as she is. Having a blindfolded person feed you is risky business, but she actually did quite well. She only stuck her hand in the wrong plate once, and figured it out right away when she hit the slaw. Making the sandwiches was the hardest part, but once she abandoned all semblance of manners and decided to dive in with gusto, she slapped those meats between the bread like nobody’s business.

She barely flinches when I dab at her with the towel. Good, she’s acclimating to the blindfold.

“Okay, princess, Master’s got an appointment in the spa.”

Before she can process what this might mean, I scoop my arm behind her knees, drawing a tiny squeak as her feet leave the ground. She automatically loops her hands behind my neck and tucks her head into my chest, eliciting in me the most basic, primal response to protect and cherish this trusting creature in my arms.

“You probably want to use the toilet,” I advise, setting her on her feet in front of it.

“Thank you, Master,” she whispers, feeling her way with her hands to the seat and emptying her bladder.  I take the opportunity to remove my jeans…again. She stands and waits for me to direct her, aimless and passive and ready to serve.

Little does she know, that is not happening. “Hands behind your back, princess.” I guide her out of the tiny stall and grasp her upper arm from behind. “No more Mummy impersonation. Just walk.” She hesitates before stepping forward, placing her feet carefully, almost disbelieving that the path is clear.

When we reach the glass door of the shower, I pull it open, then lift Isabella up and over the threshold, and with a start, she realizes she’s standing inside. “This might get a little messy,” I chuckle, by way of explanation.

“Okay, Isabella, I’m going to have to temporarily remove your collar, but it’s only because I don’t want it to get ruined. You should absolutely continue to consider yourself collared. Understood?”

“Yes, Master.”

I unhook the collar and set it outside the shower, closing the door behind us. I turn on the handheld spigot and wait for the water to heat up before pulling it off the hook and directing it at her back, and then her front. She’s clearly confused as to why she’s getting hosed down, but she stands quietly and patiently. I watch as the water beads on her goose bumps and her nipples pebble up, and when I’m all done watching, I return the faucet to the wall. I lined up the jars earlier, and now I unscrew the lid of the sugar scrub and scoop a generous glop into my hand. Starting with her back, I rub the scrub across her skin in tiny circles.

Isabella’s face scrunches up in confusion, and I watch her with amusement while she decides if she wants to ask or just ride it out. Happily, she simply lets go of the questions and relaxes into my hands.

“This is one of those times I really wish I had a big tub,” I share. I lift her wrist and scrub up her arm, massaging the crystals in circles into her muscles and smoothing her skin. She sways gently as I tug this way and that, and by the time I’ve scrubbed down both her legs, I fear she may tip over. Taking a generous scoop from the jar, I anchor myself behind her and slip my hands under her arms, scrubbing my way up her stomach and hips. Treating her to the R-rated version of the sugar scrub, I smooth the tender skin of her breasts and circle the nipples teasingly, causing her to moan and swoon against my chest and legs. Reaching over my shoulder, I grab the showerhead and rinse her off, leaving silky skin and a completely relaxed girl.

“Sit,” I say gently, helping her to the marble bench and helping her find a place to grip. “I need to take off your blindfold now, so you’re going to have to keep your eyes closed without it. Can you do that for me, princess?”

“Yes, Master,” she promises.

I remove the blindfold and kiss each of her closed eyes. “Be good, Isabella.”

I pull the showerhead to her hair and wet her down with warm water. Pouring her shampoo into my palm, I lather up and smooth the slick product over her hair, trying my best to imitate the girl at the salon. I straddle her knees and let her head drop back, supporting her neck with one hand while scrubbing my fingertips into her scalp with the other. Her mouth drops open, but she obediently keeps her eyes closed. I repeat the process with the conditioner, massaging her scalp as well as I can in this somewhat awkward position.

“Be right back,” I tell her, stepping outside the stall to grab her towel. “Okay, up you go, Jello girl,” I command, drying her off before wrapping her in the luxurious bath sheet. “Remember, your eyes are still closed.”

“Mmm” is all she says in response.

I lift her again and deliver her to the vanity chair in front of the mirror. I quickly dry myself before reaching for the hair dryer and her brush. I’ve watched her dress a few times, though mostly she uses her own room for any serious grooming. But it’s not as if we’re going to the Ritz later. The object here is the pampering, the complete attention focused on her, and the soothing blast of warm air and pull of the brush through her hair.

When I occasionally look up from my task, I’m rewarded with a look of bliss on her face in the mirror, and I wonder why I don’t do this for her more often. Maybe we’ll make it a weekend ritual, maybe even on our “off night”?  It feels great to lavish her with the attention, and I’m honestly not sure who’s enjoying it more.

Probably Isabella, I figure, as I turn off the blow dryer and she moans long and low. I bend over and give her an upside-down kiss. She smiles dreamily and says a lazy, “Thank you so much, Master. I love this spa.”

“You’ve been a very good girl, and just for that, I’m going to put your blindfold back on.”

She smiles as I tighten the blindfold over her eyes and hair. “Time for bed, sweetheart.” I nudge her up by her elbow and unwrap the towel when she stands. “You won’t be needing that. But what you will need…” I refasten the collar, “is your reminder that I own you. Always. Now, tomorrow, next week…wherever you go, Isabella. You’re mine.”

And I’m so totally yours.

We somehow manage the teeth brushing and Master arranges me on my back on the bed, where I feel a fresh towel beneath me. A shiver of anticipation ripples through me to think I might be getting the same massage treatment I lavished on him earlier, but a moment later I feel greedy for having the thought after all Master has already bestowed upon me tonight.  

A drizzle of oil hits my neck, nipples and thighs, and finally, my mound. Master teases me with one finger, then more, until I’m a writhing mess beneath his hands.

“Are you thinking about Chad?” he suggests, referencing my earlier gay porn reel.

“You’re so much better than Chad, Master.”

“Oh, come on now. What if he did girls? Fold your hands under your head and spread your legs, just like he makes those supposedly straight guys do.”

He must know exactly how much he’s turning me on. I split my feet apart shamelessly and lick my lips. Master massages me with his hands moving in two different directions and his oiled up fingers slide everywhere, twisting and curling. Up my sides and back down, building and freeing the tension, until I’m bucking and begging.

“Ready, baby?”

“Yes, Master, please.”

“Let go, my sweet subbie. Come for your Master.”

He slides his fingers inside and fills me up. My hips chase after his hand like a large hawk taking flight. I fill the room with my lilting climax, and he eases me back down with gentle, loving strokes.

“One last pleasure, Isabella,” he croons, climbing between my thighs and lifting my calves over his shoulders.   His lips find their way to my mouth and I open for him, taking everything he has to offer.

“Isabella,” he whispers urgently between kisses.

“Yes, Master?”

Suddenly, he slides the blindfold up and off my head. “Open your eyes, sweet princess. I need to see your eyes.”

“Master?” I blink open and squint into the darkened room. It takes me a few seconds to adjust to having my sight back. His eyes are deep emerald pools blasting into me with the intensity of laser beams.

“Yes,” he answers. “Yes, yes, yes.” He closes his lips over mine as he pushes inside and claims me.

Afterward, Master kisses me tenderly as he clears the excess oil off my body. My shoulder, my breast bone, a nipple, my hip. He tosses away the towel and opens the nightstand drawer, drawing out a set of thick Velcro cuffs connected by a heavy metal chain.


The hard floor will be a tough pill to swallow after Master’s pampering, but I’m ready this time. Master lifts my left hand and fastens the cuff tightly.

“I have a very special place to chain you tonight,” he says mysteriously. He hops athletically onto the bed and climbs over me, pulling my left arm across his body as he turns us both onto our right sides and secures my hand against his chest. I hear the distinctive rip of Velcro and a firm tug. “Stay,” Master commands.

Holy shit. He’s chained me to himself!

Saturday, July 21, 2012


~Chapter 70~


My hands quake as I catch the top lines of text on the page:

Therapeutic Boarding School For Sexually Deviant Girls

My eyes leap off the page and seek out the hastily retreating dark form of my Master, apparently off to turn our apartment into some kind of kinky rehab center for wayward girls. Like me. Taking a deep breath, I read further:

At Lotus On The Hudson, our mission is to heal young souls with an unfortunately overactive libido. Through tried and true corrective techniques, we redirect excessively lustful girls so that they may lead productive lives.

Providing a highly structured program for your daughter, we will teach her to sublimate her urges to the Higher Power- personified by Headmaster Edward Cullen, Ph.D., Masters in Educational Discipline.

Ohmygawd. Master is wicked! And not only that, he’s obviously poured hours of thought into fleshing out this scenario, even providing “client testimonials”:

“Our daughter-devil left here three months ago, and we were returned a sweet, innocent angel!” ~Felicia, mother of Sage-17
“It’s nothing short of a miracle! No more fights about slutty clothing, partying, or blowjobs!” ~Hiram, father of Sally Sue-13 
“Headmaster Cullen has a way with these girls…I don’t know what he’s doing up there on the Hudson, but I can tell you, he gets RESULTS!” ~Brytny, mother of twins, Chastity and Patience-14
So I’m meant to be the “before” picture then? I flip the paper nervously to the character bios on the back—my first choice to make.

Character 1: Wendy “Wildcat” Wells, 15, is one of those girls lovingly referred to from an early age as “a handful.” Her parents report clashes over foul language, tattoos and piercings, revealing clothing, an endless stream of nameless, faceless tomcats, and recently, trouble with authority at school. She seems to revel in her ‘bad girl’ status, and her parents feel they’ve lost all control. Wendy is blatantly over-sexualized and distracted from her studies. They feel that Lotus is a last-ditch effort before Wendy finds herself in trouble with the law, or worse. 
Character 2: Merry “Mild-Mannered” Mills, 17, presented in early adolescence with ‘Good Girl Syndrome.’ An only child and straight-A student through 8th grade, when hormones muddled her mind and sent her on a downward spiral, Merry began spending all of her free time alone in her room. Concerned and suspicious, her parents hired a forensic expert to perform a data dump on her hard drive. Browser history revealed copious amounts of internet porn, including fetish stories she herself had been writing and posting.  Her parents fear she is headed on a dangerous trajectory and seek to “nip this thing in the bud.” 

I can only imagine what’s going through Isabella’s head right now.  Yes, it’s an elaborate staging, and I’ve put many hours of deep, lust-filled thought into the scene, not to mention back-breaking writing and editing. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it; solid preparation is essential to success.

Besides, having given birth to those rules, I get it. Writing pornographic material makes a person good and horny. A guy simply cannot hover over the keyboard wondering, Now what kind of consequence will I mete out for a girl who sticks her fingers inside her pussy? without growing harder than marble.

Knowing she’s reading the setup and the Lotus Disciplinary Manual, I’m getting hard all over again. She’ll be here in four minutes, Headmaster, so you best quit messing around.

I’ve changed out of my earlier outfit, not that it was necessarily wrong for the scene, but because I don’t want to call to mind the boyfriend who just took her to brunch with his folks. So I’ve ditched jeans for a pair of khakis with a woven belt, slipped on my dark burgundy tassel loafers over the rarely selected argyle dress socks, and pulled on a denim button-down with a casual tie and my old corduroy jacket with the suede elbow patches. I look highly Headmasterful, if I do say so myself.

Sliding the dining room table toward the front door, I move away all but two chairs and toss a legal pad and pen in front of my seat. I just have time to straighten my tie and grab her submissive bracelet when there’s a knock at the door. I feel the usual jolt of excitement at the beginning of any scene, but this time, it’s amplified by the element of the unknown.

Which persona did she choose? The one that was obviously closer to her own story, or the bad girl she’s never had a chance to be? Either one will be uniquely Isabella and me, and I cannot wait one more moment to find out.

I draw open the door, and her choice is instantaneously obvious.

Buttoned up from head to toe and wrapped inside her scarf and cap so that the only skin showing is a sliver of her forehead above wide, blinking eyes, my “unfortunate” student awaits.

“You must be Miss Mills,” I greet her as warmly as possible. “Come in. Let’s get you unwound.”

She nods briefly and steps inside.

“I’ll take your bag. You won’t be needing anything other than what we provide.”

She surrenders her handbag with trepidation, accurately sensing the last shards of control slipping away.

“I’m Headmaster Cullen,” I tell her, holding out my right hand. “You may call me ‘Headmaster.’”

She uncrosses her arms and places her gloved right hand inside mine. “Nice to meet you, Headmaster.”

I can’t discern how much of her nervousness is due to acting the character, and how much is genuine anxiety. Either way, she’s playing the role beautifully and I don’t mind her jumpiness; it’s fresh and real.

Stepping back, I slide my hands into my pants pockets. “Take off your hat and scarf for me and place them on the floor.”

She peels off her woolen hat and sets it carefully on the floor near her feet. Slowly, modestly, she unwinds the scarf and smooths down her hair when static makes it fly in every direction. I move my eyes to her discarded hat and she obediently sets her folded scarf on top.

“Gloves.” Same procedure.

“Coat.” She seems a bit surprised that she’s to place her coat on the floor, yet she folds it carefully and complies.

She stands awkwardly in front of me for a moment, not quite knowing what to do with her hands.

“I have something for you,” I say, holding out my left hand and demanding her arm. She understands when I pull her bracelet out of my pocket and fasten it around her wrist. “Do you understand what this means?”

“Yes, Headmaster.”

“Good.” I walk over to the table and pull out the chair for her. “Have a seat, Miss Mills.”

She sits demurely and I push her in, establishing my dominance and sealing her at the table. The intake interview begins.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asks, the timbre of the voice familiar, but the Headmaster guise so convincing I’m having a hard time seeing my Master or my Edward. This new man instills a chilling sense of foreboding inside me, yet somehow, he manages to comfort at the same time.

“Yes, Headmaster.”

“Tell me.”

Oh god. Confess your sins, Merry Mills/Isabella Marie Swan/princess.

“I have a problem.”

He smiles. “Yes, so it seems. Details, Miss Mills.”

He’s drawing me out, asking me to create with him, build on the character he started. “I seem to be experiencing…inappropriate desires.”

He picks up the pen and makes some notations on the yellow pad. “What kind of desires?” He looks up, meeting my eyes on that last word.


“Are you asking me or telling me, Miss Mills?”

He cocks his head slightly, his impenetrable, green eyes bearing into me, leaving no room for half-truths. “I’m telling you, Headmaster. They’re sexual.”

“And what do you do when you have these desires?”

“Sometimes I look at pictures.”

He records my answer, then looks up at me. “Pictures of what, exactly?”

I feel the blood rush to my face, recalling the sites I used to visit, before Edward, before Master, before my every fantasy was so readily fulfilled by real life. My voice drops to a whisper. “Naked bodies.”

“You’re going to need to speak up, Miss Mills.”

“Naked bodies, Headmaster,” I repeat, flushing. He gazes at me, long and hard, his eyes roaming down my sweater, my nipples tightening in response.

“Well, nudity can be beautiful, artistic. What are these naked bodies doing?”

“Usually, there’s a man in charge of a girl. Like, holding her down or…” Oh god, I cannot believe how hard this is to say. After everything.

“Or what?”

“Or spanking her.”

His eyes flash, but he maintains a stoic expression. “Spanking excites you?”

Yes. Enormously. So much so that just reading about the disciplinary action for touching myself had me wet and sticky between my legs, out on the frigid streets of New York City just minutes ago.

“Yes,” I say softly.

“Louder, Miss Mills. I can’t hear you.”

“I said yes, Headmaster. Spanking excites me.”

He shakes his head side to side and makes a large scrawl on his pad, underlining it several times. The certainty of an imminent spanking causes me to sway in my chair.

“Have you ever been properly kissed?” he asks impatiently.

“No, Headmaster.”

 “Ever been touched, sexually?”

“You mean by someone else?”

He smirks, and I wonder if I’ve just given him a new idea. “Yes.”

“No.” Surely, this will be a point in my favor.

“No intercourse then?” He sounds almost disappointed.

“No, Headmaster. Definitely not.”

“Hmmm,” he seems to ponder. “Yet you spend your days watching other people have sex and you write about ways this might eventually happen to you?”

“I’m afraid so.” Shame washes over Merry Mills and every part of me is aroused.

It’s as familiar for her to slip into Merry’s character as it was sliding on her gloves at the restaurant, but there’s more to her choice than convenience. It allows her a certain opportunity for examination, if not full-blown catharsis, for her seemingly deviant ideals—as a seventeen-year-old girl. For a moment, I see my Isabella as this young girl, tragically hidden away behind shame and denial, sowing the seeds of desperate private fantasies to be repressed and ignored for as many years again as she’s already lived.

I stand suddenly, moved by the urgent drive to harness the potential of this scene.

“Well then, Miss Mills, you and I have a lot of work to do together, don’t we?”

“Yes, Headmaster,” she agrees anxiously.

“Have you read the rules?”

Her blush deepens. “Yes.”

“So you understand the consequences involved in repeating any of your deviant behaviors here?”


“So,” I push, “You understand that if you touch your genitals, with any part of your body or foreign object, you will receive a spanking.”

“Yes, Headmaster,” she says in a heated rush of breath that makes its way straight to my crotch.

“And you are aware that if, by this manipulation, you should experience a sexual climax, you will receive a …harsh …paddling?”

She pulls her splayed fingers through the length of her hair before answering, “Yes, I understand.”

“And we’ll have to make an example of you for the entire school?”

“I read that, Headmaster.” It’s a half-question I choose to ignore. She’ll find out when the situation arises.

Time for good cop. “Now, Miss Mills, you do understand that this is all for your own good, I hope? I don’t want to have to turn you over my knee and lift your skirt and pull down your panties.” She pales, and the signs of arousal are written all over her face. I lift my palm dramatically. “I don’t want to have to strike your behind with my bare hand, over and over. You do understand that, right?” Okay, not exactly good cop as much as insincere cop.

“Yes, Headmaster.”

“Good,” I smile. “In that case, you know exactly what not to do.” My implication is clear and my message is received.

“I do.”

“Excellent. Then follow me.”

Sweeping the bag containing her costume from the floor, I lead her to the powder room, denying her the use of Isabella’s guest room. Handing her the clothing, I instruct, “You have eight minutes to change into your uniform, and put the clothes you’re wearing into this bag. Just leave your boots next to the bag in the corner. After that, your treatment will begin.

“And Miss Mills, absolutely no touching of your genitalia when you’re out of my sight.”

“I understand,” she answers, slipping inside and closing the door, but only after watching my eyes for permission.

I’ve been tied down, trussed up, prodded, clamped, teased; on my knees, spread-eagle, led on leash; humiliated, denied and forced. And here I am, actually ordered to put on clothing, an entire outfit, including underwear, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt more aroused. If I have, thinking about it right now will only make matters worse.

I hastily yank away my sweater and bra, eager to be unencumbered of Isabella. It takes me a tick longer to unbuckle my boots with shaky fingers, but I manage the hardware and  slide them down, my tights and skirt following swiftly behind. I take the tiny Catholic-School-Girl-esque plaid skirt from the array of pieces spilled across the tiny vanity. Helpfully modified by the manufacturers of Sluts ‘R’ Us, the skimpy bottom sits below my belly button and barely, BARELY covers my goods. Headmaster has selected my very thin pair of paper-thin white panties, the ones I modeled for Master the night of the kinky fashion show, which he promised then and there I’d be wearing again. I pull them on and a large, telltale clear spot appears, sure to catch Headmaster’s notice.

Stretching a white knee sock around my heel and over my calf, I mentally scroll through the pages of rules. Oh shit.

Evidence of physical arousal is distracting and detrimental to the therapeutic atmosphere and will be eliminated.

I frown into the mirror; with my skirt lifted, I can clearly see the curls of my dark pubic hairs through the transparent wet circle. And well beyond the simple outline, I can easily discern the stark details as well—namely, a bright, puffy, rounded “W” formed by my lower lips…"W" for wet.

Anticipating Headmaster’s discovery and imagining what constitutes “eliminating the evidence” bring forth a fresh spurt of clear liquid to compound my humiliation.

Meanwhile, my eight minutes tick speedily by. I manage the second sock and crouch to fasten the first of three separate bow buckles across the provided Mary Jane, standard school uniform issue, but for the screaming red patent-leather and what has to be a five-inch spike heel.

Forcing the final flimsy metal pin through the corresponding half-poked hole, I struggle to fasten the second shoe quicker, certain I’m nearing the deadline.

I snag the bra from where it’s tossed over the sink, and in my haste, unwittingly entangle the straps around the spigot.  

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

When I finally clasp the hooks together between my breasts, I can feel my heart beating right into my hands. I have made it a point never to be late for Master, and today’s punishment is non-negotiable.

Tardiness will not be tolerated under any circumstances. Offenses are punishable at the sole discretion of the Headmaster.
I will my jittery fingertips to button faster, but the cheap polyester buttonholes are unforgiving, and the fabric is already tightly strained across my chest. Has he purposely ordered me a size too small? The buttons only reach as high as the bra clasp at best, and when I perform my final self-check in the mirror, I note with horror that not only is far too much flesh exposed, but to add further insult to harlotry, my bold, sharp nipples protrude obscenely through the flimsy covering.

Bending with great care from the altitude of the ridiculous shoes, I gather and stuff my earlier outfit into the provided bag.  Sliding the boots and bag into the corner behind the toilet, I grab the doorknob.

She knows.

I’m poised just outside the bathroom door, one hand on my hip and the other curled in front of me, where Master’s watch seals her fate. She can’t meet my eye at first, and her downward-cast gaze gives me the chance to openly ogle her, not that I wouldn’t have done it anyway. But this way, I have a chance to gather myself after getting two eyefuls of Schoolgirl-Fantasy-Meets-Hot-Bodied-Submissive-On-Sex-Heels. 

Thank you, God!

She’s in blatant violation of at least two rules right now, starting with that leaky pussy peeking out from under the tartan plaid, but I clear my throat and start with the most obvious infraction.

“You’re three minutes late.”

“I’m sorry, Headmaster,” she says meekly, attempting to meet my eyes. “The buckles were really—”

“Excuses?” I interrupt. “You’re not one of those girls who blames circumstances, are you, Miss Mills?”

“No, Headmaster,” she answers miserably, realizing she’s compounded her error.

“I’m afraid you’re going to need to acquaint yourself with the corner, Miss Mills.”

Her face becomes one horrified question mark.

“Yes, you heard me correctly. It’s old school, but highly effective. Come, I’ll show you.”

I take her elbow and she jumps at my touch. “I’m not going to hurt you, Miss Mills.” Letting my eyes drop lasciviously to her nipples, I add, “Not yet, anyway.”

She gasps and I lead her carefully toward the far corner of the living room, mindful of her treacherous shoes. I spin her away from me and press my hand to her lower back. “Nose to the wall.”

She takes one natural step forward, but I pull her hips back roughly. “Give me your hands,” I demand, and she passes them back immediately. I tuck one hand under the other and slide them together high enough along her back that she has to strain to hold them there. When I push down before letting go, she understands to stay that way, elbows wide, top half bent slightly forward.

This gives me a chance to really savor the view of her perfect bottom jutting out just below the micro skirt. I give myself a mental high-five for choosing the extra-small.

“Feet together, Miss Mills.  We don’t want to add promiscuity to your list of offenses, now do we?”

“No, Headmaster,” she answers softly, sliding her shoes together, no doubt recounting the consequences for said offense. Oh, poor Miss Mills. She’ll break all the rules before long, and I’ll be right here to chart her downfall.

“I’m setting my timer for fifteen minutes. That’s five minutes’ penalty for each minute you were late. Next time it will be ten. Understood?”

“Yes, Headmaster.”

I twist the dial of the kitchen timer and set it down by her feet. Torn between my desperation to touch her and my responsibility to the scene, I step away from the alluring  creature fully under my command. Nobody ever said being a dom was easy.

The tiny red mark indicating my remaining sentence moves slower than death. My nose pressed to the cool plaster, I allow the thrilling humiliation to wash over me. It’s a shameful fantasy I’ve allowed myself time and time again, though never dressed in such a confusing jumble of chastity and promiscuity. Not technically bare and yet entirely exposed to his attention, or his utter inattention, for all I know.

His final command, though embarrassing in its implication that I would’ve preferred to have been spread open, was ultimately merciful; spreading my legs right now would likely lead to a mortifying gush of fluids. Bad enough my bottom is on obscene display for him.

Six minutes down, nine to go. My calves tighten and my arms feel the strain.

Eight minutes down. There’s an annoying tickle in my ear that gets worse the more I think about it.

Twelve minutes down. Why did he put this stupid timer where I can see it? All I can do is focus on the fact that it’s not moving!

Two minutes to go. I am going to make sure I never find myself in this predicament again.

Fourteen minutes down, one blessed minute more. I feel his watchful eyes on my back.

I know we’re playing and I haven’t really displeased Master. He’s given me several impossible tasks and precipitated my “failures.” This chastisement isn’t meant to truly punish or even teach; it’s a stimulant, pure and simple. And it’s worked like a charm.

The final countdown. I feel him behind me now, his loafers shooshing closer on the carpeting, the air displaced by his physical being.  He steps closer, without touching me, a shoe slides into my field of vision.

Setting aside aches, tickles and frustrations, I tighten my stomach muscles and breathe slowly and deliberately. I sink into Merry Mills and beg her not to get me into too much more trouble.

The loud “DING!” of the timer startles me, though I’ve been counting down internally since he set the clock. Headmaster is right there, with his hand on my joined hands.

“Easy,” he soothes, sliding my arms down my back, releasing the tension in my shoulders. “You can come out now.” He takes hold of my elbow and turns me slowly away from the wall. I have a hard time looking into his eyes, and I’m not even sure I’m supposed to.

“Have you learned your lesson?” He stands directly in front of me and tips his head in close, leaving me no escape from those burning eyes. So I have my answer then. The torture of having to face him eye-to-eye is the final humiliation.

“Yes, Headmaster.”

He nods. “All right. Then it’s time to move on to other…” sneaking his eyes to my chest, he continues, “pressing matters.”

My nipples seem to reach shamefully toward his eyeballs and I am powerless to stop this exchange.

“Tsk tsk, Miss Mills, I’m afraid we’re not going to get past the intake tonight at this rate.”

Suddenly, it strikes me that it was never his intention to move past “intake,” that he’s acclimating me to role play with this most delicious prologue, but leaving the door open to infinite possibilities for the future. Possibilities I’ll have a chance to help author. The idea thrills me. I instantly visualize Merry getting herself into all kinds of trouble at school, with this sexy, stern disciplinarian on hand to sort her out every time. And not only Merry, but her deviant classmates as well. I might choose to be Wendy next time, or who knows?…some other wayward overly lustful soul who might apply to Lotus in the future! I realize too late that my mind has wandered far afield when I find him glaring at me, hands on hips.

“Am I boring you, Miss Mills?”

“God no.”

“Repeat my last comment.”

Something about intake…damn, damn, damn! “We’re not going to get past the intake tonight.”

“Yes,” he huffs, “I said that right before I asked you if you understand why it’s not appropriate for you to walk around with your nipples poking out through your blouse!”

I gasp, realizing my terrible blunder. I can’t blame this one on Merry; this was pure Isabella Kink Factory Swan.

“Go and mark yourself a demerit on my chalkboard.”

Demerit? Shit. I read about those. They add up to bad stuff.

He points to the table where we had our initial meeting, and I see that there is now a small square chalkboard waiting for me. As I approach, I notice it’s divided by a vertical line down the middle, separating “Merits” on the left from “Demerits” on the right.  I pick up the sliver of white chalk and mark a tally on the unfortunate side.

“Now come back here so we can continue our conversation, that is, if I can manage to hold your attention.”

I teeter back to the obviously annoyed Headmaster.

“Have you ever seen a penis before?”

Gulp. My eyes immediately snap to his crotch, and he places a finger beneath my chin. “You’d be well advised to keep your eyes above my neck, young lady.”

“Yes, Headmaster.”

“Answer the question.”

“No, never.”

Of course, I drew Merry as a complete ingĂ©nue, never been kissed, never touched, never exposed to the delights of the opposite sex. And she plays it beautifully. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say this girl in front of me was a virgin. But I know way the hell better, and that is some heavy-duty acting.

Her fictionally restored virginity feeds my excitement level, which is already off the charts. I’m thinking we’re in for a whole lot more role play.

“Let me tell you something, Miss Mills. A penis is a highly responsive organ, and when excited, the penis becomes erect. Now, if you’re the one who happens to cause that erection, then you’d better be very, very careful to understand what kind of domino effect you’ve set into motion.”

“Yes, Headmaster,” she says.

“You need to know that those nipples,” I point to the offending buds, “and those sticky panties,” she gasps, “are causing all kinds of responses in me.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers contritely.

“Yes, well, ‘sorry’ doesn’t cut the mustard, Miss Mills. What do we do here with evidence of arousal?”

“Eliminate it,” she recites.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to cut off your nipples or pussy,” I tease, unable to refrain from stating the outrageous. “Let’s deal with the most egregious area first. Wait here.”

I move quickly to the kitchen and grab a bowl of warm water and a pastry brush I’ve never used and can’t remember purchasing. Returning to her side, I dip the brush into the water and paint over her panties, starting where she was already wet. She squirms when the moisture and soft bristles first make contact.

“Be still,” I admonish, and she immediately rights herself.

“Hmmm.” I step back to admire my handiwork. She is utterly exposed, every inch of her panties soaked and transparent. 

“I can see… everything,” I enunciate, “but at least now I don’t have your juices staring back at me, broadcasting that all you can think of is sticking your fingers inside that hot, wet pussy and getting yourself off.”

I raise a challenging brow, and she opens her mouth to speak but thinks better of it.

“Because we both know, that would lead to a spanking.”

She looks at me; I look at her. The gauntlet has been thrown. Arms at her sides, she has no way to block the exaggerated rise and fall of her chest. Her fingers twitch and curl inward. I see the wild gleam in her eye.

Only in the role play would I wish for her blatant disobedience.

Oh, please, dear God, stick your fingers in your panties.

An insane, uncontrollable urge possesses me, a streak of rebellion so foreign, it nearly knocks me off my heels. It’s not simply that I’m wildly aroused; it’s the signals I’m picking up from Master—what he’s telegraphing me goes far beyond a suggestion to disobey, it’s an undeniable plea.

Do it. I want you to.

That’s all it takes. I lift my skirt out of the way with my left hand and plunge my right deep inside my soaked panties, instantly experiencing both enormous relief and unbearable anticipation. My eyes lock onto Master’s, and the intensity of his stare sends my fingers to their target like a heat-seeking missile destined for nothing short of the sun itself.

He makes no move to stop me, yet I know the threat exists, and I am dead certain that I couldn’t bear denial this time. Damn the consequences, I’m going to have this orgasm. My fingers circle faster and harder, drawing Master’s attention down to the exhibition.

His lips curl upward and his voice is low and dark. “You’ve just earned yourself a spanking.”

I don’t speak; I can’t. Every brain cell is engaged in the singular mission of achieving pleasure. I open my legs and rub, harder and faster, flaunting my efforts recklessly. My fingers have never felt better, gliding across my engorged need, his promised spanking spurring my desire.

“I see you’re going for the paddling as well,” he observes, crossing his arms and settling in for the show.

“YES…HEAD…MASTER!” The syllables are grunts.

“Well, go on then, make it quick. I don’t have all day, you know!”

I break apart right then, a loud wail of ecstasy and relief echoing through the apartment. I continue sliding my fingers through my slippery opening because the aftershocks feel so nice and nobody’s stopping me. Master is observing me dispassionately, patiently calculating his response as I heap one gross violation on top of another and another. His eyes are clear and hungry, and finally, he takes charge again.

“That’s enough.”

But it’s not. Not nearly.

I retract my hand from my panties and drop my skirt. My eyes fall to the floor. Though regret would probably be the appropriate emotion, I recognize the stirrings of the next wave of excitement.

“Go get me my chair,” I command gruffly, taking the opportunity to realign myself. Her self-pleasuring in the see-through panties was every bit as enticing as I knew it would be; I’m hard as a rock and there’s no relief in sight. Miss Mills isn’t nearly ready for her blow job therapy session, so Headmaster’s just going to have to suck it up, so to speak, and be content with doling out punishment for now.

“Here’s fine.” She sets down the chair where I’ve directed and steps aside.

I take a seat on the tall dining chair, unable to avoid recalling the fun we recently had. But this, the erotic spanking, is one of my all-time favorites.

“Why are you receiving a spanking?” I ask.

“Because I touched myself, Headmaster. ”

“Did you know it was wrong?”

“Yes, Headmaster.”

“And you did it anyway?” I go for incredulity.

“I’m afraid so.”

“But, why?” I’m sure she hears the touch of disbelief this time.

“I couldn’t help myself.”

“All right,” I answer sadly, resigned to this poor creature’s fate. “Let’s go.”

I gesture for her to lie across my knees, and I pin her hands to her lower back with my left hand. I circle my right hand over the skirt, getting a feel for my target and giving her something to think about. She squirms under my hand and I remind her for the second time tonight to be still.

I gather her skirt and bunch it indelicately into my left hand, using it to subdue her as well. “I would’ve preferred my first touch to be something more tender,” I lie, delivering my first blow. Damn, I love the feel of her ass in my hand, and the wet cotton slicked against her skin only intensifies my utter joy, especially knowing how it adds an extra sting to each blow. I spank her again, catching the reverberation with my palm and savoring the uncomfortable twitch of her ass.

“One more, Miss Mills,” I promise, slapping her soundly, “before we peel off these panties and do it in earnest.”

Sliding two fingers under the elastic waistband, I work them side to side, nudging down the fabric a bit more with each pass as she wiggles in wild anticipation. Finally, I have them down to her thighs, and I allow myself a moment to enjoy the view before continuing, “Your ass is pinked up, Miss Mills. Are you in much pain?”

“No, Headmaster.”

Her voice is shaky and revealing. She is so the other pea in my pod.

I take the next stroke without warning, and she lurches forward with the unexpected blow. I tighten my grip and lock her to my legs. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.”

“Thank you, Headmaster,” comes her voice from down below, and I swear I feel the room shift under my chair. What the hell was that?

Jesus. It was gratitude. As pure and guileless as a small child. Or a slavishly devoted submissive.

Screw your head on, Edward Cullen, and give this perfect girl the spanking she deserves.

With that thought alone, I spank my girl over and over, alternating cheeks and positions, treating her to the full measure of the  experience, including teasing strokes and gentle caresses sprinkled in amidst the harsher blows. Her soft moans and not-so-subtle shifting tell me I’ve hit my mark.

“That’s all. You can stand up now...slowly.” I help her to her feet and slide the panties up as chastely as possible. Her hair is wild and her face is bright red, but it’s her glazed-over eyes that give her away.

“You liked that.”

She looks away, and I stand up, too close for her to escape.

“Look at me and answer honestly.”

Her eyes shift back to mine, and she can’t possibly deny the truth. “Yes, Headmaster. Very much so.”

He smiles broadly. “I’ll have to remember that.”

Gah! Yes, please do.

“We’ll have to stop using spanking as a punishment and start using it as a reward.”

Oh. I don’t know quite how I feel about that.

“At any rate,” he continues, “I don’t think you’ll feel the same about my paddle.”

Crap. I won’t? I really hoped I would, but I’m sure the evil “Doctor of Educational Discipline” knows what he’s talking about. Despite his threat,  I have no regrets about getting myself off.

“Go get it,” he says, pointing his chin toward a hook on the wall behind the television. Wait, wasn’t there a painting there before?

“Miss Mills? Are we adding five strokes for insubordination?”

“No, Headmaster, sorry.” Sheesh, girl, keep your head in the game! I take ginger, tiny steps, my poor legs wobbly with the strain of the spikes and stimulation. I retrieve the familiar, beloved, black leather paddle and hand it to him.

“Follow me,” he says, causing my stomach to drop three stories. Not over his sexy lap then? Not cradled between a hard cock and a pair of firm hands? And more damn walking?

He leads me over to my intake chair, and asks, “On a scale from one to ten, how would you rate that little orgasm you just gave yourself?”

I’m pretty sure I know where he’s going with this, but I can’t lie. It was one of my better releases, and we both know it. “Eight…”—he grins—“…and a half.” He smiles.

“A half, eh? Hmm, I’ll have to get creative with that, I guess. You know, Miss Mills, I think I’m really going to enjoy working with you…once I get you properly broken in, that is.”

Aw Jesus, did he have to add that?

His follow-up sobers me, though. “Put your face on the seat and hold onto the legs.”

He helps me accomplish this, which is no easy feat, walking my bottom half backward until I can at least balance.  I’m an upside-down “V” but I’m stable.

“You’ll want to hold on tight,” he says. “Otherwise, your head’s going to bang into the rungs and you’ll be bruised at both ends.” I steel myself, and thankfully, he warns me before the first strike.


“EEEP!” Wow, I don’t remember it hurting like this the first time. He doesn’t chastise me for my outburst, so I don’t even try to hold back the second time.




Whack! “MMMM!”


Swish! “Ayeeeee!”

“You do realize that if you’d just twiddled your way to a mediocre orgasm, you’d be through by now? Something to think about…for the future. Four…”



Smack! “OW!”


Pause. BAM! “SHIT!”

“Language, Miss Mills! We’ll have to repeat that last one. You know the rules! Two…”

“Mmmm!” I keep my lips tightly sealed. I don’t trust myself.

“Last one…brace yourself.”

Slap! The firm board reaches across the lower half of both cheeks at once, and I struggle to hold my balance. “Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!” The last one is by far the most intense and painful.

I’m teetering back and forth like a keyed-up racehorse, lifting first one foot and then the other. Headmaster places a steadying hand at my back and waits patiently until the sting fades enough for me to settle down.

“Now, let’s see about that half. Spread your legs for me.”

Ohgodohgodohgod. My pussy clenches in apprehension.

“Nope, this won’t do,” I hear him say, just before grasping the sides of my panties and yanking them to the floor. “Now, spread.”

As I trustingly open my most intimate space, all I can think of is how that hard slab of leather is going to feel stinging against my swollen clit, slapping inside my opening. This could hurt like a motherfucker. Why did I have to go and give him the extra half? I chide myself sternly.

The next instant, there’s a soft tap between my legs, and a gentle slide, tap and slide. I moan out loud when it starts again, so grateful for the sweet relief of it. I feel myself rolling into the paddle, longing for the contact with the cool leather. Tap, slide. Tap, slide.

And then, it’s gone. There’s a soft chuckle behind me, and Headmaster says, “I believe this is how you got yourself into trouble in the first place. Intake’s over, Miss Mills.”