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’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.
Part Five
And you, honey. Are you Julie, were you Julie? Were you too smart for your peer group in school, too smart for the adults in your world? Was it a teacher you pined after, some strong, smart, tall, dark, handsome, older man? Or did that come later, with a prof in university? I know you’re a reader, because books like this don’t find their way into the hands of women who spend their lives in front of the television. Did you escape into books, rebel like Julie did? Or were you a dutiful student like Suzanne, making the grade for a gold star and the right to be left alone by parents and teachers alike? And what books did you read on your own time? What thought first made you wet between the legs? Julie read this book, did you catch that? She read her own story here, just as you’re reading yours.
Oh yes, I know your story, it’s written in your secret thoughts, the fantasies that bubble beneath the surface of your nice-girl veneer. How many boyfriends have you toyed with, played with and ultimately thrown away because they couldn’t give you that? How many times have you tried to ask for it and been misunderstood? People don’t understand this kind of interaction, this little dynamic you and I are playing out here. They think it’s about what they see, they think it’s about leather and latex, pain and pleasure, restraint and discipline. They don’t understand that it’s about the mind.
But it is all about the mind, about that secret place you hide deep inside, everything else is just a tool to open that inner door. I am all about the mind and when I say I want you what I want is your mind, if only because I know your body will follow. So come through the door once more, honey, come through the door and into my classroom because it’s time for me to instruct you, to induct you. It’s time to teach you what happens to good girls and bad girls in my world. It’s time for you to learn exactly how to present yourself to present your oral report.
Read between the lines honey, I know you’re clever enough to see the message written there. I have faith in your ability, or at least faith that you’ll do what I want when the alternative is the riding crop applied to your ripe, swollen, well spread cunt. Did you feel the sting when Julie took it on the crotch? Imagine it, feel it now, that sharp-sweet snap that strikes to your core and reminds you so very effectively of the purpose of our journey. We’re going to play our own little game of teacher-and-student now, honey. You get to be the student, and as I’m sure you’re well aware the schoolroom game is all about marks, marks on paper and marks on your ass. So park your hot little ass down at your desk and I’ll give you this week’s assignment, homework in essay form.
Question One: It is generally considered immoral for a teacher to carry on a sexual relationship with a student, and the teacher in this story struggles with this. What influence did Julie’s desire for him have on his decision? What influence does his own desire have? What does he get out of the relationship? What does she get out of it? What do you think will happen? Twenty five marks.
Question Two: Compare and contrast your own sexual development with that of Julie. Use explicit reference to your own early sexual fantasies of domination by a man of intelligence and authority. Twenty five marks.
Question Three: The story is written entirely from the teacher’s point of view. Imagine you are Julie. How did you feel when you first knelt and asked for training? How did you feel when your teacher said yes? How did you feel when you bent over his desk to be whipped for the first time? How did you feel when he came in your cunt? In your mouth? In your ass? Twenty five marks.
Question Four: You’re a dirty little slut and I’ve just caught you reading this book with wet panties when you should be doing your homework. How should you be punished? Be detailed, explicit and imaginative. Twenty five marks.
There it is honey, your homework. I just know that you’re going to get all one hundred marks on it. I know because every mark you don’t get with your writing is going to be burned into your ass. Are you surprised at this little turn of events, honey? I bet you thought you’d spend all your time with me reading and none at all writing, but that’s not the way it works. This little game requires class participation. So let me be very clear about the participation I expect, and that is for you to have your assignment done, complete, spelling checked and grammar correct, between three and five hundred words per question with the title underlined, in the centre, at the top. You will have your name in the upper right and Creative Writing 101 in the upper left. It will be neatly handwritten, in black ink, double spaced on white bond notebook paper with one inch margins. I expect nothing but perfection from you honey, so you’d better not let me down.
Have you got that clear in your mind? Good girl. And wouldn’t you rather be having fun diddling your hot little pussy to my compelling and erotic prose than doing homework? You didn’t even get to orgasm last time and this time you’re doing homework. And yes, honey, I know just how much your clit is throbbing right now, I know just how badly you need release, need to have it stroked and rubbed with that ready, steady rhythm until your world explodes. I know how much you want to give that to me, even more than you want to give it to yourself. But this is part of the process honey, this is what makes our journey real and so you’re going to focus your mind on your task right now, and I am just going to have to wait for the glory of your orgasm no matter how much I want it. Discipline starts with self-discipline. And speaking of self-discipline, you're not allowed to climax until you're done.
So say, “Yes,” honey. Say, “Yes,” the way you do for me.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be a good girl and get my homework done on time.” Say it.
“Yes Sir, I’ll be disciplined.” Say it.
“Yes Sir, please discipline me.” Feel it. Feel the way Julie felt, asking for it, needing it, responding to it, craving it, demanding it and lost in it. Feel yourself being directed in the direction you need to go, corrected by this strong, smart, tall, dark, handsome man who makes your knees so weak you have no choice but to kneel for him.
And do you know what, honey? I believe in hands-on education. I believe people learn best through doing, so now that we’re training you, teaching you, I think we can make this a very instructive experience. So we know that you’re now going to be spending a certain number of hours at a desk, and what we’re going to do to further the cause of classroom participation is to make sure you are very thoroughly penetrated while you do it. So I don’t care if you use a carrot or a vibrator and I don’t care if it goes in your mouth or your ass or your cunt, but the entire time you’re writing you’re going to be penetrated because that’s your role here, to receive cock as you receive knowledge, to be instructed and inseminated at the very same time.
That hard penetrating shaft is going to be there to be my cock for you and you’re going to receive it while you receive instruction. You’re going to take it just like Julie did, sucking away while she listened to her Shakespeare lesson. It’s going to take you several hours at least, hours with your lips wrapped around my phallic stand-in, hours with your tight stretched anus violated, hours with your pussy full and juicing. So don’t cheat me honey, don’t cheat yourself. You’re going to do this assignment first and you’re not going to read more of this book until you’re finished. That would spoil the sequence honey, that would spoil the adventure that I’ve built here for you, so don’t do it, be a good girl for me. Homework first and reward later for good behaviour by good girls, and yes, honey, I promise it will be a very good reward.
So say, “Yes,” honey.
“Yes sir, I’ll do my homework first. Yes sir, I’ll have it in on time.”
It makes you wet to say that doesn’t it? Being put in this position goes straight to your cunt, whether you like it or not. You’re so turned on you could scream, couldn’t you honey? You’re rocking your hips again, you feel that need to arch your back, spread your legs, present your cunt and just have me slam-fuck you until the orgasm gets ripped right out of your body. You want more but I’ll tell you something, honey. You’ve undertaken to get your homework done. You're not going to start reading this again until your homework is done, so that desire will give you incentive to do it quickly. Say, “Yes, sir,” one last time honey, and put the book down. I’m looking forward to reading what you’re about to write.
Cage Girl
Society is a cage, and a cruel one. Its bars are made of propriety, its lock with expectation. Society’s cage was made for me by others but, ultimately, I’m the one who put myself in it. The problem is, I've forgotten how to let myself out. My cage, the one I’m in right now, is simpler. It has metal bars and a wooden floor and roof. Unlike society’s cage, I built it. I bought the wood and metal, cut it to fit, sanded and polished, stained and screwed, but I don’t put myself in it. You have to understand that. I am a competent woman, educated, ambitious, professional, independent. At work I’m well respected, at home I can do my own carpentry and fix my own car. Restraint, constraint is the one thing I can’t do for myself. He does that for me, and in caging me here he frees me from society’s cage.
He doesn’t do it for that reason, he does it to remind me of my place as his possession, but the cage is more than that. In a very real way it is my place. I find my centre there, at peace, because there is nothing I can do until he decides to let me out. Sometimes I’m hooded in there, ears plugged, eyes covered, mouth gagged. Sometimes I’m bound in a position so strict that the cage itself becomes unnecessary except as an attractive display case for my body. At times like those I can feel myself collapsing into myself, almost as if the woman I am in the daytime is dissolving away, her emotions, her needs, her moods, her temper washed clean, with nothing left behind.
I can feel myself regress from that woman, the one with impeccable style and outstanding taste, the calm, in-control leader, the one who saves a dozen lives a day. I can feel myself slip away as my lack of control is made so abundantly clear. None of what I am matters in my cage, not my achievements, not my discomfort, not even my name. All that counts is the fact of my physical existence, and the fact that I am his. I’m kept caged for hours sometimes, curled up naked, unable to stretch out or sit up. It’s anything but comfortable being in there and I’m sore and stiff when I come out. And yet I miss my cage when I’m out of it too long. It is far less cruel than society’s.
This isn’t to say that my cage is easy. When I’m first put in, it can be very hard. I become like an adolescent, moody and defiant. I struggle against the bonds, fight against them, scream into the gag. I am angry and demanding and, because I am who I am, I expect to get my way, to have my demands met, even though, with the calmer, more rational part of my mind, I know they won’t be. This is the only place in my life where I don’t get my way, and sometimes it takes me awhile to remind myself of that fact.
And yet after a time I grow tired, and the struggles diminish. The bonds envelope me, hold me, protect me from the damage I might inflict on myself or anyone near. They defend me from the guilt of a lost temper, they hold me back from my own excess. I regress more then, become in my heart a young child, quiet and obedient. I accept my position, as humiliating as it may be. And then, slowly, slowly, even the child subsides and I return to the womb, to drift in warm darkness with nothing but the steady beat of my own pulse in my ears. I am free in that place, as I am free no-where else in my life.
I have learned to be careful with whom I share this secret. Friends have looked at me strangely, awkwardly changed the topic when I stray too near to the workings of my private life. Before I met him I had suggested to lovers that perhaps we experiment with rope, with blindfolds and perhaps, just maybe, with more. Too many times I was repulsed, told I was sick, that I needed psychiatric h
elp. For too long I believed there was something deeply wrong with me. I was locked in society’s cage, while I yearned for my own.
I have always driven myself harder, held myself to a higher standard than anyone else. I have always fought to be on top, in school, in business, in relationships, and I always, always win. And yet, deep down, I have always had the desire to give that up, yearned to meet someone strong enough to put me in my place and to keep me there, to take me off my pedestal - no, to knock me off my pedestal, and put me at their feet. It could have been a man, it could have been a woman, it didn’t matter. In the event it was a man, and he changed my life.
I spend at least an hour a day in the cage, sometimes more. Sometimes when I’m hooded and trussed and gagged in there he slides a dildo into my pussy, to remind me of exactly what my role is. It’s a simple role. I service his cock. In this cage I am not called by my name, not by the honorific title I earned in years of hard work in school. In this cage I am just cunt. That’s a simple anatomical underlining of the reality that underpins our relationship. The dildo will stretch me wide, probe humiliatingly deep and I am powerless to stop it. More importantly, I am powerless to stop my body’s response to his casual control.
The dildo never finds resistance, it always finds me slick and wet and swollen, eager for any form of touch from him. I’m his cunt, his ready, willing, eager cunt, and yes it’s humiliating to say that about myself. He’s trained me to be his cunt, to be always open and wet for him. I struggle with that sometimes, just as I struggle against the bonds in the cage. I struggle because it is my instinct to struggle, though I neither expect nor even want to win. Like the bonds, I know I can’t break away from the fundamental reality. I. Am. His. Cunt. I couldn’t imagine being that way for anyone else. I couldn’t imagine being any other way with him.
The Secret Journey Page 9