The Flute Teacher and the White Cotton Panties

by Emma St Giles

  The Domination Diaries

  The Flute Teacher and the White Cotton Panties

  By Emma St Giles

  Erotic Fiction By Emma St Giles

  The Librarian Tales Series

  1 - The Virgin Librarian’s First Time

  2 - The Virgin Librarian’s Bondage Secret

  3 - The Virgin Librarian’s Sex Show

  4 - The Virgin Librarian’s Suppository Surprise

  5 – The Virgin Librarian’s First Time Spanking Experiment

  1 to 5 - The Virgin Librarian’s Omnibus Edition

  (All five stories in one edition – Great Value!)

  The Domination Diaries

  1 – First Time Femdom

  2 – The Flute Teacher and the White Cotton Panties

  3 – The Mystery of the Missing Panties

  The Succubus Series

  1 – College Girl Succubus – The Awakening

  2 – College Girl Succubus – Caned

  3 – College Girl Succubus – The Bottom Problem

  4 – College Girl Succubus - Gang Bang

  5 – College Girl Succubus – The Public Sex Contest

  College Girl Succubus – The Erotic Collection

  (All five stories in one edition – Great Value!)

  Text copyright © Emma St Giles

  All Rights Reserved

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 – The Importance of Discipline

  Chapter 2 – Showing Off My Panties

  Chapter 3 – Spanked

  Chapter 4 - My Sister’s Double Act Offer

  Chapter 5 – Femdom or Submissive?

  Chapter 6 – Sister Sex

  Chapter 7 – Extreme Domination, Sister Style

  Chapter 8 – The Giant Strap-On Dildo

  More From Emma St Giles

  Chapter 1 – The Importance of Discipline

  I, Antigone Driver, woke up to the sound of birdsong outside my bedroom window, and to the smell of coffee drifting up the stairs from the kitchen. I stretched and yawned, enjoying the feel of the bedclothes on my bare flesh and, without thinking, my right hand slid down my belly and traced the outline of my pussy through the thin material of my small white panties. I lay back and opened my legs, letting my fingers work on me. As I stared sleepily up at the ceiling through a quickly building orgasm, I thought about the very first time I had masturbated—nervously exploring myself, scared by the burning ache that had been magically lit between my legs and was working its way up into my belly, but drawn in, taken prisoner by the pleasure and the excitement. Now, of course, like any teenage girl, I was an expert at pleasuring myself, and within seconds my back arched up off the bed and I moaned in pleasure as I climaxed, biting my lip to stop myself crying out loud.

  Afterwards, I lay there, my hand still resting on my now damp underwear. I took a deep breath, enjoying the feeling of my nipples rubbing slightly against the sheet as my chest rose. Then I held it in as my body drew the oxygen out of it, fighting the urge to let it out. I counted, slowly. When I reached thirty I let my chest relax, breathing out in a long exhalation and then in again, my arms and legs tingling slightly in response. I let my fingers move slowly across my knickers again, toying with the idea of masturbating a second time. I smiled and I decided that I loved my body and that I loved being a girl.

  *****

  Ten minutes later, wearing a fluffy, white dressing gown over my naked body, I entered the kitchen. Mum was there, leaning against the work top, talking to a tall woman dressed in a conservative, charcoal grey skirt and a white blouse—Glenys Nixon, our next door neighbour and the mother of my childhood friend Dean who, like me, was home from college for the holidays. As I entered the room they both looked at me and the conversation faltered, as if they’d been talking about something serious.

  ‘Morning Mum, hello Aunty Glenys,’ I smiled. I poured myself a coffee from the pot on the stove, added milk and sugar, and sat down on the other side of the counter from them. I peered at them over the rim of the mug as I took careful sips. After a few more seconds of silence they resumed their conversation.

  ‘I can see why you’re worried, Glenys,’ Mum said. For some reason she glanced over at me and then back at Glenys. Glenys nodded slightly.

  Mum turned to me. ‘Antigone, you’ve got friendly with Dean again these holidays, haven’t you?’

  I lowered the mug and smiled. ‘Yes Mum, just like when we were kids.’ Although not quite like when we were kids, I added silently to myself.

  ‘And have you noticed anything odd about his behaviour, the last few weeks?’

  I took another sip. ‘Odd?’

  ‘Yes, odd,’ Glenys said. ‘Quiet, withdrawn. As if there’s something on his mind, worrying him.’

  I shook my head, enjoying the feel of my hair swinging in time to the movement. ‘No, nothing.’

  Glenys looked down at the coffee cup clutched tightly in her hands. ‘I thought he was going to tell me something the other day, but he didn’t. It was like he was frightened.’

  Mum put out a hand and placed it on hers. She turned her head towards me. ‘Glenys wondered if you would talk to him, Antigone. See if you can get him to open up.’

  I nodded. ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘Thank you, Antigone. You’re a good friend to Dean.’ She removed her hand from Mum’s, looked at her watch and then pushed her cup away from her. ‘I have to go to work, but Dean’s at home. Perhaps you could call in this morning and . . .’

  ‘. . . talk to him?’ I finished. ‘Of course I will. I’ll call in on my way to my flute lesson this morning.’

  *****

  An hour later, dressed in a blue checked skirt, a white blouse and brown sandals I let myself in through the unlocked door into the Nixon’s kitchen. The house was quiet—Aunty Glenys was at work. Next door, our house was empty, too. I put down the bag I was carrying and listened. There was a faint whir from the large fridge sitting in the corner and behind it, almost too faint to hear, there was the tick of the clock out in the hallway. I glanced at my wristwatch. I had to be at my flute lesson in just over an hour. Plenty of time to talk to Dean about what was worrying him.

  I took a deep breath in, remembering the times I’d sat at the kitchen table as a little girl, drinking a glass of milk and nibbling a cookie. Then I picked up the bag again and made my way silently out of the kitchen and up the stairs. His bedroom was at the far end of the landing. The door was slightly ajar, and through the gap I could see the back of his hunched figure lying on his bed. I pushed the door open and stepped into the room. The hinges on the door creaked softly as it swung open, and his body stiffened at the sound. He lifted his head from the bed and looked at me. His eyes met mine and widened slightly, then his gaze slid down to my breasts. I went and sat next to him on the bed. I ran a hand across his hair and smiled. For as long as I could remember I had been a little bit in love with Dean. I’d been the shy next door neighbour and he’d been the popular boy next door. Then we’d both come home from college for the summer this year, and things had changed between us.

  ‘Your Mum says that something’s bothering you,’ I said, still stroking his hair. ‘And she says you nearly told her what it was.’ He shook his head, the flame of fear reigniting in his eyes again.

  ‘You know I can’t allow that,’ don’t you?’ I asked. He swallowed and nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered. I stood up and pulled something long and thin from where it was nestling in the bag next to my flute. I held it up in front of him.


  ‘This is a junior cane,’ I explained. ‘It doesn’t have the cutting power of a senior school cane, but it fits nicely in the bag with my flute.’ He stared at the cane and swallowed, nervously. I got up from the bed and pulled the chair out from behind the desk under his window. I pointed at the chair with the junior cane. ‘Come and bend over the chair.’ He stood up, moving very slowly, as if to put off what was about to happen for as long as he could.

  When he was bent over the back of the chair I stood behind him and rested the cane across his bottom. His whole body stiffened at its touch. Then I removed it and laid it down on the bed. I slid my hand down under his belly and undid his pants, pulling them down and letting them fall to his ankles. His taut, muscular buttocks were encased in white cotton briefs. Enjoying the moment, I slid them down to reveal his bottom.

  Looking at his bottom, I had to admit it was a mess. It was crisscrossed with bright red, raised welts, one of top of the other. I was hard put to find a single place on his tortured cheeks that wasn’t marked, and I could almost feel the pain radiating outwards. I also had to admit, to myself at least, that I might have been caning him slightly too often. Maybe it was time to find another submissive to add to my stable, or perhaps another interest altogether.

  I picked up the cane again and rested it across his now bared cheeks. Once again he stiffened in anticipation of what I was about to do to him.

  ‘I am going to give you six strokes for thinking about telling your mother about us. Do you understand?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes Mistress,’ he whispered.

  ‘Good. And if you ever mention a word to anyone about our relationship, I will cane you until my arm is too tired to go on. Do you understand?’ He nodded again.

  Satisfied, I shifted to a slightly better position, behind and to the side of him. Then I raised the cane, counted to ten to let him savour the anticipation, and brought it swishing down with as much force as I could. It landed across his cheeks with a satisfying snap, and his whole body shuddered, raising up slightly and then dropping back down into position. He started sobbing.

  I raised the cane again, counted to ten, then delivered the second stroke. Once again his body responded beautifully, and the sobs got louder. A further four strokes followed. Afterwards, I left him there, bent over the chair, while I slid the junior cane back into my bag, next to my flute.

  I glanced at my watch. I would have to be going soon, or I would be late for my music lesson. My flute teacher, Mr Conway, was a real disciplinarian, so being late was not a good idea. For a second the idea of using my cane on him, too, wandered through my mind. I shook my head to get rid of the thought.

  ‘Stand up,’ I instructed Dean. He got up, his freshly caned cheeks quivering, his underpants still down around his thighs. ‘Now, go and lie down on the bed,’ I gestured with the cane. He hurried to obey, keeping his eyes downcast, avoiding my gaze. He lowered himself down, and a little gasp escaped from his mouth as his bottom touched the sheets.

  I stood over him. ‘Does your bottom hurt?’ I asked, in a soft, husky voice.

  ‘Yes Mistress,’ he answered.

  ‘Good.’ I sat down on the bed, and took his swollen cock in my hand. ‘Pain and pleasure,’ I said. I started milking him, my small, soft hand running up and down his hard, throbbing shaft, from base to head. I was completely in control, and I loved it. ‘Pain and pleasure,’ I repeated to myself. The two went together. Every time I beat him, I made sure that he had an orgasm as well. And by now, the two things must be totally entangled in his head. He was terrified of the cane, I knew, but his cock throbbed helplessly at the sight of it. As I worked on bringing him to a climax, I tried to imagine what the mix of fear and excitement must be like.

  A moan brought me back to the task in hand. He was reaching the point where the building explosion of pleasure was starting to overwhelm the throbbing pain of the freshly administered caning. His eyes were tight shut, his body was arching up off the bed. I milked him harder and faster, my hand a blur on his shaft. He let out a strangled gasp and he came in a long, shuddering fountain of glistening semen. The sticky stream left a trail across his flat, athletic belly and landed on the white bed sheets. I smiled. He was going to have to wash and dry them before his mother got home from work.

  ‘Thank you Mistress.’

  I smiled again, at him this time. My hand continued to slowly pump his softening organ, getting the last drops out. ‘I own you, don’t I?’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied in a flat tone, accepting it as fact.

  ‘Good.’ I stopped milking his penis and got up from the bed. ‘I have to go. I’ve got a flute lesson in just over half an hour.’ I nodded at the bed. ‘You’d better wash those sheets.’ I picked up my bag and headed for the door, leaving him lying on the bed, his semen drying on his stomach and his bottom throbbing with the pain of my latest efforts. ‘And if you’re a good boy, I’ll sit on your cock this evening,’ I added, looking back over my shoulder. I let myself out of the front door, clicking it shut behind me.

  As I walked down the road I passed a group of workmen, dressed in yellow vests, doing something around a manhole cover. All the way to the corner, I could feel their eyes on my bottom. I let my hips swing just a little bit more than usual. I decided once again that I loved being a girl.

  Chapter 2 – Showing Off My Panties

  As I walked along the leafy road I thought about everything that had happened to me that summer. I’d returned home from college as a shy virgin, jealous of my younger and larger breasted sister, desperate for sex, and desperate to discover what it was like to have a large, rock hard penis filling my belly. Then, as a game when I was alone and bored, I had pretended to be a dominatrix and had been caught by Dean in my black bra and panties, hiding in his wardrobe and pleasuring myself with the cane I had found in my Dad’s greenhouse. I’d always had a thing about Dean when we were growing up. He was the tall, athletic, popular boy next door, and I was the little mouse he’d never noticed. But he’d noticed me then, and within two minutes the bra and panties were on the floor and I was on my back, on his bed, with my legs wide apart.

  I was glad that he’d fucked me like that. It was how I’d imagined my first time—the great, purple head of his manhood parting my damp lips, sliding inside me and making me moan and squirm in complete surrender.

  So how, you are probably asking, did I end up as his dominatrix? It was one look, a longing glance at my cane that I could so easily have missed. And I just knew, I knew that he was longing to feel its caress. I will always remember that very first snap as it landed across his quivering bottom. It was what I had put on this world to do.

  I returned to the present, and found myself turning the corner into my flute teacher’s road. I allowed myself one last thought about Dean. I’d realised straight away that the art of the dominatrix lay in entwining the pain, the domination and the pleasure, but I hadn’t realised just how powerful it would be. He was totally under my control now, mine to do anything with. Unfortunately, what really turned me on was thrashing his bottom. Once again, an image of his damaged and scarred cheeks came into my mind, closely followed by the memory of Aunty Glenys in the kitchen.

  As I knocked on the door with its peeling, green paint and listened for the sound of footsteps approaching from the back of the house, I decided that I needed to find another outlet for my sex drive.

  The door swung open. ‘Come in Antigone.’ He turned and walked back into the dark recesses of his home. I stepped inside the door, closed it behind me, and followed him.

  *****

  Mr Conway had been my flute teacher ever since I had started at senior school. He must have been pretty young then, because he wasn’t that old now. He was of average height, his brown hair dusted with a tiny amount of grey around his ears. His body was fit and healthy looking, and his hands were large. More like the hands of a brick layer or a boxer than a music teacher. When I’d been a young girl, I’d been a bit scared of him. He�
��d had a reputation for being strict. If I was being honest with myself, I was probably still a little bit scared of him. He lived in this house, set back from the road in a quiet street. As far as I was aware, he lived alone.

  *****

  ‘No. Stop there, Antigone!’ I stopped playing and stood there in front of the music stand, in the middle of his teaching room. He was sitting on the old, brown settee that sat in front of his desk. The desk was covered in papers and bits of sheet music. He sat back and crossed one leg over the other. He frowned and caught hold of my gaze with a school teacher type look. ‘That is no better than last week. It is the holidays. Have you really got no time to practice?’

  For a brief moment I thought about telling him that I was too busy fucking, sucking and caning to play the flute. Then I wondered about bringing out the junior cane, which was still hidden in my bag in the corner of the room, and applying it to his bottom for speaking to me like that. Then, I remembered how I’d been scared of him at school and with a sudden shock I realised that the checked skirt, the white blouse and the sandals with their ankle length white socks I was wearing were almost the same as the school uniform I’d worn back in my school days. His gaze was still fixed on me, and for a moment I had the feeling that he, too, had the feeling that we had been transported back in time. I felt my face redden. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Conway.’

  He made a little irritated sound in the back of his throat. ‘If we were back in school, I’d have given you a detention as punishment.’ I felt my face darken to a deeper shade of red. I had been right, he had felt the same as me!

  Then it happened. His gaze, which until then had still been holding mine in its grasp, suddenly flicked downwards to my breasts. It rested there for a only a second and then flicked back up again, but I’d seen it. A little thrill of excitement ran through me.

  He made the irritated noise again and uncrossed and recrossed his legs. ‘Perhaps we’d better try again. From page one, Antigone.’