Welcome To Corbin's Bend

by Thianna D

  He arranged her over the arm of couch and anointed her rectum. Dutifully, but also blushing with a shame that never seemed to go away, she pushed and opened to him, and received his cock inside the place that nature had not intended to receive cocks.

  "There we go, young lady," he said with satisfaction, and from the beginning, thrust vigorously, as she gasped and moaned. "Do you like to get what you deserve, girl?" John grunted.

  "Yes! Yes, sir... oh, sir... thank you..." and then the long drawn out cry of her climax.

  After that, it was hard for her to think of the cane without a certain fondness, despite the pain.

  Chapter 12

  The whole thing blew up at the beginning of December, on the first Sunday of Advent. Sarah had spent the night before with John, of course. He had caned her for apparently expecting that he would give her an extension on her final paper for his course. Afterwards, during aftercare, she had giggled and pulled the paper out of her bag, at which point he had told her that she would be wearing her butt plug continuously for the following twenty-four hours, to remind her she was a sassy little slut.

  As Sarah drove from John's house to her parents', looking forward to church and feeling all Advent-y, remembering the year she had been the one to light the first candle on the Advent wreath at their old church in Boulder, she realized with a horrible start that she hadn't talked to Marilyn the previous day. Surely, Marilyn wouldn't call her parents–she'd call Sarah first.

  Sarah checked her phone. There were three messages from Marilyn. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  "Marilyn called." There was no greeting. Just her mother at the open front door as Sarah came up the walk.

  Sarah looked back at her mother, desperately trying to locate defiance, and coming up only with alarm.

  "Where were you, Sarah?"

  Sarah found a tiny little spark of rebellion when she heard not only concern, but also a noticeable element of indignation in Maeve's voice, as if to say "Why didn't you tell us?"

  "If Marilyn called," Sarah said fiercely. "I'm pretty sure you already know."

  Maeve responded in fury–fury like Sarah had only seen on her face once before, when Sarah's brother Jeff had set himself on fire.

  "Sarah Jane Harshaw, I never thought I'd raised a disrespectful daughter! When you're asked a question, you answer it!"

  "I was with him. Alright? Yes! I was with him."

  "What were you doing?"

  "What do you think we were doing, Mom? I'm twenty-one. Sex is something that sometimes happens."

  "But he's your professor! That's not right, and you know it–even if he apparently doesn't."

  "Sandy Ridge doesn't have a policy about that. We checked."

  "Not having a policy and something being wrong are two very different things, young lady!"

  "Goddammit! I am not your young lady anymore!" Sarah hadn't intended to let the emphasis she felt slip in–the emphasis on “your”–but it had. And her mother was a very good listener.

  Sarah watched Maeve figure it out. "Not my young lady. Meaning that you're his young lady. Sarah, what kind of relationship is it that's going on here–are you seriously thinking that he's going to play your Head-of-Household, and you're going to be his taken-in-hand?"

  Sarah refused to look at her. "You are, aren't you? Well, your father and I are never going to let that happen! Real domestic discipline marriages are built on love, and I can tell you this: that 'professor' of yours doesn't love you. To him you're just a piece of student ass."

  "Oh my God. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!" Sarah screamed, right there on the steps of her parents' home. That was when her father appeared, looming behind her mother.

  Joe Harshaw said, "Get your supposedly grown-up behind in here right now, Sarah. Go to the family room and get the spanking chair, and put it in the living room, then get over it for a whipping."

  Sarah thought she was losing her mind. "Oh, please, Daddy. That's ridiculous."

  "Fine," said her father. "I didn't really want to write that tuition check anyway."

  "What?"

  "You know exactly what your father is saying, Sarah," her mother replied. "Do as you're told. It's impossible to have a rational conversation with you when you're shooting off that foul mouth of yours."

  Fuming, Sarah obeyed, thinking that she was willing to take a symbolic spanking over her skirt just to get this whole charade out of the way. It was always going to be difficult, she told herself. She just had to steel herself, and she and John would get through it. The spanking was an embarrassing thing to happen, of course, and it was going to hurt more because of what John had instructed her to wear underneath her clothes today, to remind her of him, but John's cane felt so much more painful than anything her father had ever done, and she was now so used to it–really, in certain ways, loved it so much–that she wasn't concerned at all about the pain.

  "This is going to be over your underwear, Sarah," her father said, and flipped up her skirt the way he had used to when she was young.

  She heard him draw breath sharply, and heard her mother gasp. That–the raising of her skirt–she had not expected, and now she couldn't deny to herself that she was in bad trouble, of a non-erotic nature, with terrible non-erotic consequences looming ahead.

  Where they had expected to see the shapely-but-innocently-clad-in-modest-briefs backside of their adult daughter, Maeve and Joe Harshaw found themselves looking at the posterior of an experienced submissive. Three things were immediately apparent about it: Sarah was 1) not wearing underwear, but she was wearing 2) a butt-plug, and 3) six lovely welts from Professor John Dunn's cane.

  She heard disgust in her father's voice. "Get up, Sarah. It's obvious my strap didn't have the intended effect on you when you were younger, and I can't imagine it will do so now."

  Sarah felt the tears coming into her eyes, of rage and of sadness, as she smoothed her skirt down and stood up in the most dignified manner she could manage. Neither of her parents would meet her eyes. She took a deep breath and spoke.

  "I'm sorry you had to see that. I... I'm sorry you don't approve of what I'm doing with Professor–with John Dunn. I'm sorry I turned out this way, but I did. I know you think it's disgusting and perverted, but it's what I need."

  "No you don't!" her mother shouted, meeting her gaze at last. "It's the last thing you need! Let's just pretend we didn't see the evidence that you're doing filthy things with that... that pervert. Let's just think about the fact that he's your professor! I..." her voice trailed off.

  "Well, he won't be for long," Joe said, grimly.

  "What are you talking about?" Sarah said.

  "We're going to go the administration of that college of yours and have him dismissed, that's what."

  "It's not against the rules, Daddy! We made sure of that."

  "It may not be in the handbook," Joe replied. "But no dean wants a story like this one going around. He'll talk to... that pervert, and that pervert will leave, and that will be that. I only hope we can persuade you that this is a passing thing, like I know it is."

  Sarah felt her hands ball up into defiant fists, even as her face twisted with sorrow that everything was ruined. Her parents were never, ever going to understand. She tried to speak evenly, but she felt like she was choking on her tears, on the shattered joys that those tears mourned. Over. It couldn't be over, but she knew already that it was.

  "I know you will never accept this part of me," she said, looking from her father to her mother, and then back. "But let me assure you of... one... fact. This is not a passing thing. This is who I am."

  With a final, anguished look at each of them, and without another word, she left the house. She had no idea at first where she was going. She just drove the early morning streets of Corbin's Bend. If she went to John... but he would already be at church... should she go to church? Could Father Henry talk some sense into her parents? Surely her parents weren't going to church, were they? She turned around and headed for St. Michael's. Sh
e would be five minutes late for Mass, but suddenly she felt that St. Michael's was where she needed to be, with John or without him.

  What she found when she arrived, though, was worse than she could possibly have imagined: her parents and John stood outside the church door, deep in conversation. Their faces all looked very grim, but they were not shouting. To her distress, John's head hung down as he listened to Joe, clearly delivering some version of "If you ever lay another hand on my daughter, I'll kill you."

  She parked and got out of the car as fast as she could. But John was already walking away, from church, from her–though surely he hadn't seen her yet. Still it seemed it must be Sarah he walked away from, with bowed head, like that. She looked at her parents, who were looking at one another with expressions of slight confusion on their faces, as if the conversation had gone very differently from how they expected it would go. Sarah thought she could also read satisfaction in those expressions, but she saw that with a terrible sinking feeling. Satisfied was the last thing she wanted her parents to be, since she knew they would never be satisfied as long as she and John were together.

  They had turned to enter the church door when they noticed her running towards them. She knew the tears streamed down her face now, and that she must look a fright. Joe and Maeve, to her astonishment, met her with concern and love, with no trace of anger. What the fuck had John said?

  "I don't know what he said, but it's not true," she said as soon as she reached them.

  "Shh, sweetie," said her mother. "Let's not talk about it now. Let's just go to Mass." As Sarah looked into her mother's eyes, all the defiance seemed to go out of her. At the same moment, out of the corner of her eye, she saw John's car pulling away. Crying, she fell into Maeve's arms, and let her mother lead her into church.

  Sitting in a pew at the back, out of view of Joe, Maeve took a pair of panties, in a clear plastic bag, out of her purse, and slid them over to Sarah, who blushed furiously, but folded them small, and concealed them in her hand, and went to the little church bathroom, where, whimpering only a little bit, she removed the butt-plug, dropped it in the plastic bag, and put on the blue cotton briefs, wondering whether she had been wrong, and it all was just a passing thing. Girls in blue cotton briefs don't want to be fucked in the ass by their professors, do they?

  She returned to church and sang, "Creator of the stars of night, thy people's everlasting light, o Christ, thou savior of us all, we pray thee, hear us, when we call." Lord Jesus, Sarah thought, tell me who I am, for right now I have no idea.

  After church, she went back to her parents' house for Sunday dinner. Her brother Jeff, a senior in high school who probably wasn't going to go to college and who had stopped going to church (except of course for the true holy days of obligation: Christmas and Easter) the previous year, was there. October and November had begun to assume in her mind a feeling of unreality, as if they had happened to someone else. Not a word was uttered about what had happened before church, though at one point during dinner Sarah caught her mother looking at her askance, when she squirmed a little on her seat to take a bit of pressure off a cane welt. Other than that, she was Sarah Harshaw, straight-A student, good girl, pride and joy. Sarah Harshaw, sex slave, seemed to have disappeared forever.

  When Joe and Maeve sat her down in Joe's office after dinner, then it seemed to be that other person, the one with the butt plug, who wept uncontrollably when they told her about the conversation with Professor Dunn. He had stood there and let Joe call him vile names, in Joe's “quiet yell” as Sarah always thought of it. He had said, if they were to be believed, "I'm so, so sorry. I'll make it right. Sarah just finished her work in my class, and I promise not to see her again."

  "But..." Sarah said, "but he has..." She remembered the pictures, thought of how she had felt when he took them, and let out a choking sob. John hadn't said anything about the pictures because he didn't want her parents to know about them, because that would make it harder for Sarah to convince them that she wasn't irredeemably lost. If the pictures came out, of course, he would indeed bring her down with him, as he had said that first amazing night in his office. No, she couldn't stop thinking of it as amazing. She couldn't.

  Maeve looked at Joe, then at Sarah. "We think we should leave it at that. If the story came out, your reputation..."

  "Oh. My. God," Sarah said. "If you think..." but she couldn't continue, because that other girl, the sex slave, was crying too hard.

  "If he even talks to you," said Joe in the quiet yell. "No, if he comes within fifty feet of you, you are to call me and tell me immediately, young lady."

  The girl nodded. She didn't want to think anymore.

  Chapter 13

  She didn't see him again for three weeks, until Christmas Eve. He wasn't at his exam, and a teaching assistant graded her final. A+, though she was absolutely positive John hadn't read it. It was a good exam, one of her best, and she, in hope that he would read it, put everything she had into it, all the while resisting the temptation to write, "John, please. I need you. I need you in my ass. I need your hand on my bottom, your cock in my little pussy. I need your eyes looking into mine when we're falling asleep in your bed. I want to see Rome with you, the way we talked about. I will never stop loving you."

  After that, she moved home for Christmas vacation. She tried not to masturbate too much, but was largely unsuccessful. When she did masturbate, she tried not to replay scenes from her time with John, and tried not to touch her anus. That was also a largely unsuccessful effort. She remembered John telling her not to deny that this was who she was, and laughed bitterly.

  Joe and Maeve were going to confession, and they asked if they should sign her up, too, with the clear expectation that yes, of course, she would go to confession, considering that at that point she was far and away the most sinful person in Corbin's Bend and possibly the world. She didn't have the energy to say no, and she really did love Father Henry, so she said yes of course she wanted to go to confession.

  St. Michael's had an old-fashioned confessional, but only the most traditional, ex-Roman Catholic members of the parish (including Maeve, of course) said their confessions there. Most confessions happened in Father Henry's study, with him, seated in his desk-chair, turned away in the traditional Anglican manner, while the penitent knelt on a very comfortably padded prie dieu.

  "Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been six months since my last confession."

  "May the Lord be with you to aid you in confessing your sins truly and penitently," came the soft tenor of the old priest.

  "Father..." She had been thinking she'd just not say anything about the whole John thing. But, God help her, she really did believe in this ancient ritual–if only as a way to make oneself feel better. Sarah desperately wanted to feel better.

  "Yes, Sarah?" Father Henry asked.

  "Father, I've been with a man."

  "That's not a sin, Sarah, according to our beliefs."

  "I know Father... but the way I was with him..."

  "There's very little under that heading, either, that I can imagine you saying," said Father Henry, rather hastily, she thought, "that would be a sin."

  "I seduced my professor, Father."

  "Ah. I see."

  And then the whole story, minus the salacious bits, but with enough references to BDSM for Father Henry to figure out the general nature of her erotic relationship with John, poured out of her through quiet tears.

  "Well," said Father Henry, finally. "I don't believe that your professor would have allowed himself to be seduced unless he were also attracted to you, and, as you tell the story, the two of you shared a rather remarkable passion, despite its flouting convention and presenting grave difficulties of appearance. Anyone who looked at the situation from the outside could be forgiven for thinking that the sin was his, and that he took great advantage of you."

  "But he didn't, Father. He really didn't. He's not like that at all. I love him." Her quiet tears became sobs, there on
the prie dieu.

  "I think I can tell that," said the priest, sounding troubled, she thought. Had John confessed to him, too? Oh, God, he must have.

  "Father, did John confess to you, too?"

  "Sarah, you know I can't tell you that."

  "Oh, God," she said, "what's going to happen? It can't be over, can it? Father?"

  "Sarah, trust in God's plan. His plan may not be for us to be happy, but it is far, far better, for us to be loving than to be happy, and I can see how very loving you are."

  At that she broke down, and Father Henry got up from his chair to give her a hug. "Alright?" he asked, after a while. She nodded. "Now do you have any minor sins to confess, so that I can give you some penance? I'm fairly sure your parents aren't going to be happy unless I give you some penance." He chuckled.

  "Yes, Father," she said. "I've been very selfish, only thinking about what this all means to me."

  "Very well said, Sarah," he replied. "Ten Hail Marys and twelve lashes. I think the Hail Mary may be a very good thing for you right now. If I had to give you some real priestly counsel, I'd say you should spend all Christmastide thinking about our Blessed Mother. Now kneel for absolution."

  Christmas Eve penance was rather special. All penitents (which was nearly the entire parish), if they were available, came to church at 4 p.m. to say their penance prayers (Sarah's ten Hail Marys, for example) together, right before the 5 p.m. Lessons and Carols service. If there were single taken-in-hand members who had been sentenced to penance lashes, they scheduled their discipline for that time, as well. Sarah had scheduled hers for 4:30.

  She arrived with her parents at four, and they sat in their usual pew, halfway down on the Epistle side (the right if facing the altar). Sarah noticed with agitation that John was kneeling in the back pew on the Gospel side (the left). She struggled desperately not to look at him. She longed to know if he was looking at her. It was torture–penance of a completely unexpected kind.