Even though this scene had been my idea—in concept if not details—in the first place.
I knelt before her and lowered my eyes. “Please show me,” I said. “Please, I’m begging you.”
Then I bowed down until my head rested on her foot. She wore battered penny loafers, rather than her usual flame-patterned stompy boots, and the images that went with those unassuming brown shoes surged through my brain and into my balls.
“For you?” she said, her voice turned into an aristocratic sneer. “I don’t think so. I don’t do trolls.”
The same words that Muffy Spaulding (of the Westport Spauldings) had said to me—oh, it had to be fifteen years ago now—when she was a student at the venerable boarding school in my hometown and I was a townie boy—a troll—who dared to express my interest in her.
They’d stung, but as she’d said them, they’d seemed all too right. A girl like her wouldn’t want anything to do with a guy like me: son of a grease monkey, grandson of a grease monkey, and likely to have been a grease monkey himself if a couple of teachers hadn’t encouraged my interest in science. Which made me a geek, not much more marketable to the Muffy Spauldings of the world.
And now those humiliating words went straight to my cock.
They had back then, too, but I couldn’t begin to understand it at that age. Now I understood why I’d kept throwing myself against the rock of Muffy’s contempt, why I’d preferred her contempt over some other, nicer girl’s kindness and desire.
I understood now thanks to Heather. Heather who could be cruel because it amused her, but also because it aroused me. Because she loved me, and our love for each other was wrapped up in my need to worship and give myself to a woman who seemed above me.
“Please. I just want to look at you. I won’t touch you or anything unless you tell me to. Just look. Worship. You’re so beautiful. So perfect. Please. I’ll do anything you want.”
She smiled, not Heather’s usual mischievous, warm grin, but something much bitchier and colder, the way a cat would smile at the mouse it was abusing if cats were built for smiling. “I like the beautiful and perfect bit. And I do like a guy who’ll do anything I want.” She stared down at me, taking in the worn Metallica T-shirt and old jeans I’d dredged up from the Salvation Army for the occasion. “Take your clothes off. Now.”
That, Muffy Spaulding had never said to me.
At seventeen, I’d have cut off my left foot if it would have made her tell me to strip. But I’d also have been embarrassed as hell by the imperious demand. “What…” I said, only partly acting. I could already feel myself—my adult, public self, a senior researcher at a biotech firm, confident and successful—slipping away, replaced by a shy, awkward, ragingly horny teenager who would endure any humiliation for the girl he wanted.
“I said ‘get naked.’ You’re almost cute in your pathetic townie way, but that outfit has to go. I don’t want to look at such hideous clothes.”
I complied. As I scrambled to my feet to get rid of the jeans, though, she put her hands on my shoulders and barked, “On your knees. Or your back, if that’s what you have to do to undress. I like you at my feet. It’s where you belong.”
Only when I’d managed to wiggle out of the jeans while lying on the floor and was once again kneeling at her feet did she deign to take off her coat, dropping it casually onto the floor as if she figured a maid would pick it up.
I expected a fetish-store “naughty schoolgirl” outfit with a super-short plaid skirt and a blouse unbuttoned to the place a horny teenage boy would want it to be. But she’d done one better. Somehow, she’d gotten her hands on a proper school uniform: a neat pleated navy-and-green plaid skirt that stopped just above her elegant knees, a white cotton blouse, and a navy blazer. Navy kneesocks, even.
Perfect.
Heather looked like a WASP goddess, tall and leggy and athletically slim, with straight, sandy-blonde hair just long enough to wear in a neat ponytail, gray-blue eyes, and the kind of regular, high-cheekboned face that hadn’t changed since she was seventeen and would hardly change until she was seventy. That uniform suited her like she’d been born to it.
Looks, of course, can be deceiving. The closest she’d ever been to a prep school was reading Catcher in the Rye in high school English, and when I’d first met her, her hair looked like a parrot—scarlet with yellow and green streaks. And if she hadn’t had a nature to match the wild hair, I wouldn’t be where I was now. At her feet, naked, kneeling and humbled, humiliated—and happier than I’d ever been before I’d met her.
“Like what you see?” It was more demand than question, and I knew what she wanted. Luckily, it was exactly what I wanted to tell her.
“Thank you. Thank you so much. You’re so beautiful. I’m barely worthy to look at you, let alone touch you.”
“But you want to touch me, don’t you? Your scrawny little dick’s ready to burst just thinking about it.” Her stern demeanor broke a bit at “scrawny little dick,” and she barely suppressed a giggle. Still, I felt compelled to glance down at my own body and see that my cock was the same unexceptional but satisfactory size it always had been.
She grabbed a handful of my hair and forced my head up so I looked at her. The rough touch thrilled through me like her fingers wrapping around my cock would under other circumstances. “Admit it. You’re just another horny townie bastard who wants to stick his miserable townie dick in me.”
I wasn’t sure what the right response to this was. It was the kind of question where there probably wasn’t a right answer. “You’re too far above me. Like a goddess. I can’t imagine it.”
She snorted, nudged my cock with her loafered foot—gently, but it still filled me with a mixture of dread and paradoxical excitement. “Right. Like I believe you, with that gross little boner staring at me.”
“No…I mean, of course I want to. You’re beautiful and I’m a horny bastard like you said. But you’re way out of my league. Way too cool and gorgeous for me.”
“You’re right.” An evil grin. “I’d never let a guy like you fuck me.” She and I both used that word all the time, without thinking anything of it. But with her in that uniform, the word sounded obscene and harsh as it passed her pink-glossed lips. Harsh and obscene and taboo and hot. “But you know, I’m thirsty. If you can make me a perfect cosmopolitan and bring it back in here on your knees—without spilling a drop—we might be able to work something out.”
Thank God she picked a drink I already knew how to make. They were favorites of hers and I’d worked hard to perfect them.
I crawled off toward the kitchen, wincing at the hardwood floor, dreading the ceramic tiles in the kitchen, and looking forward to standing to actually make the drink—there was no way I could reach the liquor cabinet from my knees.
But with each wince, I thought of Heather. Thought of the trade-off I was making: my discomfort for her pleasure. She was more than worth it.
I finished making the drink, set it gingerly down on the floor—then stopped, stumped. She’d said to bring it back on my knees. I couldn’t very well carry it while I was crawling. I could pour it into an empty water bottle and tuck the bottle under my chin or something, but I couldn’t imagine that awkward presentation would win any points.
Carefully avoiding the drink, I tried “walking” on my knees.
It worked. Not gracefully, and certainly not comfortably, but it worked.
I picked up the drink and slowly and carefully made my way back to the living room.
She looked so glorious standing there in that uniform, a look of superiority on her beautiful face, I forgot all about my sore knees.
My heart was actually racing, I was so fearful I might spill the drink and displease her. I had a couple of close calls, but with a combination of luck and great care, I made it to Heather’s feet safely and raised the drink to her. “Please. I hope you like it.”
She grabbed the glass roughly, dashing a few drops over the rim. “Uh-oh,” she said, her vo
ice laced with malice, “you spilled some.”
“You…” I bit my tongue. The details of tonight’s game might be new, but I knew the overall rules: the concept of fairness didn’t apply. “You are right. I’m clumsy and I’m really, really sorry.”
“Some got on my shoe. Lick it off.”
I eyed the loafer dubiously. Like the rest of the uniform, the shoes had probably come from a secondhand store—and unlike the uniform, they weren’t in especially good condition.
“Do it. You said you’d do anything I wanted if I’d let you look at me. Prove it.”
Her voice was harsh, disgusted, not like Heather’s even when Heather was domming me. I shuddered, half with fear and half with lust, and pressed my lips to the shoe.
“Don’t kiss. Okay, you can kiss if you must, but lick. Clean that mess up, troll.”
I obeyed. I couldn’t help obeying.
I tasted leather and a hint of dust, maybe a few sticky drops of alcohol.
I tasted every humiliation I’d ever faced in my hopeless pursuit of Muffy Spaulding—made new and fresh and delicious because now it was coming from Heather, whom I loved. Whom I really did worship, kinky games aside.
I tasted my own tears falling on her shoes.
Finally, she tugged on my hair, pulling me upright. “You made me a good drink. And you have an enthusiastic tongue. I can think of better uses for it.”
Breaking role for a second, she bent down and licked the tears away.
Then she raised her skirt and pressed my head between her legs.
Not Muffy—at least not Muffy as I’d imagined her, with cotton panties covering a neat blonde bush and a tight, serene sex; a superior cunt that butter wouldn’t melt in. Definitely Heather —waxed clean and no panties and pierced labia and a flood of delicious, smoky juices on my tongue as soon as I began to lick and probe.
She began moaning almost immediately, pressing herself against my face, and I felt a thrill of gratitude and pleasure to know she was enjoying my humiliation as much as I was.
I wanted to wrap one arm around her to pull her closer. Wanted to fill her with my fingers, feel her contracting around me. But I was obedient to her whim rather than my own, and Heather-as-Mean-Prep-School-Girl just wanted a simple licking.
A simple, long licking, one that bathed my face in her juices as I felt her convulsing against me. One hand rested on my shoulder, occasionally driving in her nails. The other gripped my hair, pressing me against her so hard I could hardly breathe. Not that I cared at that point. I could think of far worse ways to go than suffocating against Heather’s beautiful pussy.
My cock ached with need, I was drowning in Heather’s juices, and I was in heaven.
Finally, she gave a little yelp and pushed me away. “That was…wow.” She took a deep breath, put her mean mask back on, a little askew on her orgasm-shattered features. “Guess there’s something to be said for townie boys after all. Your dick may be scrawny, but you’ve learned to compensate.” She shoved me back with one hand, not hard, but hard enough I got the point I was supposed to do a controlled fall onto my back.
“Now what are we going to do about that?” she said, running her hand up and down my throbbing erection, none too gently—just the way I craved it when I was feeling like a lowly worshipper. “I already said I wouldn’t let you fuck me, and I never go back on my word.” She grinned evilly. “I know. I’ll fuck you.”
She wheeled around, fumbled in the huge pocket of her discarded coat and pulled out a paper bag.
She shook out a familiar strap-on harness—a sight that sent shudders of anticipation through me—lube, and a dildo about the size of one that she’d used in my ass many delicious times—but plaid. Somehow, she’d found a plaid dildo that almost matched the skirt.
I could feel my eyes widening.
She tossed the lube at me. “Lube yourself up and do a good job,” she said. “Guys like you need to be fucked in the ass by a girl, shown who’s in charge.”
“Yes…” I moaned as the cold lube shocked my asshole. “You’re right. I’m sure you’re right.” Somewhere out in the real world she knew I loved ass sex, and I knew I loved ass sex, but most of me was deep in my role as an inexperienced high school boy and I couldn’t help feeling a little dread as well.
“Fuck your ass with your fingers, you nasty troll,” she ordered, but I already was, slipping first one, then two fingers inside myself, putting on a good show for her, fighting the temptation to finger my prostate and get myself off because it wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted me like this, red faced and suffering and needing her.
Even with a lewd plaid strap-on sticking out from under her skirt, Heather somehow managed to look cool and collected, not a hair out of place. “You’re so beautiful,” I moaned.
“And you’re townie scum who’s about to get his ass fucked by a girl. Roll over. Hands and knees. Ass high, head down.”
My cock brushed the floor as I positioned myself, and it was all I could do not to come.
Then the head of the dildo nudged against my ass, and Heather grabbed my hips. She knew what I could take, and I knew what I needed, and as she pushed into me, I pushed back onto plaid silicone, feeling it open me wider. It was almost painful, but in the best way. I pushed back harder, took more in.
“You little slut! You love this, don’t you?”
“You know…I do.” It was getting harder to talk, what with the dark, intense sensation of Heather fucking my ass as hard as she could and the way my balls were tightening, and the floor hard and rough under my knees reminding me I was low, a thing for her pleasure, a troll.
But there was one thing I had to say before I lost control, lost the power of speech, forgot to tell her in the rush of sensation. “Love you. Need you. Worship you.”
She reached around, wrapped her hand around my straining cock. “Don’t say it. Show it. Come for me now. Show me what an ass-whore you are.”
The room went dark, then bright, and there was nothing but her hand, her silicone cock riding my ass, my cock exploding all over the floor.
“Gross,” she said in that prissy prep-school voice. “Should have known a guy like you would make a mess.” She pulled out of me, minced off.
The room felt cold, empty. My eyes filled with tears, but I wouldn’t let them fall. In my muddled mind, it was the right end to the story, that I amused her for a while as a butt to her erotic cruelty, but not enough to bridge the gap between her perfection and my lowliness. I had reached too high, and I was alone, and it was sad but as it should be.
And then she came back, still in the uniform, but with her hair loose and wild, her expression warm and open, no longer a mean snob of a schoolgirl, but the woman I loved and worshipped. She knelt down next to me, kissed along my spine and up the back of my neck until she reached my ear. “Love you,” she whispered. “Love you, need you, want you. Now get off the floor, silly. It’s cold, and I want to hold you, and the bed will be a lot more comfortable. My dear, beautiful boy.”
At those words—those words that were pure Heather—I remembered who I was, and what I was. Not low, not scum, not a troll, but exalted and worthy because a goddess—no, not a goddess, but something better, a wonderful woman—loved me.
I let the tears fall.
And my goddess, my golden girl in a prep-school uniform, my beloved kissed them away.
CONNECTION
Kristina Wright
The phone rang and Richard jumped off the bed, as if someone had burst into the room. He knew it was her, though he couldn’t have said why he knew. He had turned his cell phone off; he didn’t want to talk to her. Now she was calling his hotel room.
He strode across the room, away from the phone, trying to get away from her. The phone continued to ring. Once, twice, three times, the irritating noise cutting off midway through the fourth ring. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It was the middle of the night, but he was wide awake, pulse racing.
After a m
oment of blessed silence, the phone began to ring again. He told himself he would answer only because she wouldn’t stop calling, but there was a part of him that feared she would stop calling if he didn’t answer. The thought of silence was more unbearable than the inevitable, painful fight that was coming. So he answered.
“What?”
He heard her breathy sigh. “You have to talk to me, Richard.”
“You told me what you needed to tell me. What more is there to say?”
“Stop being so stubborn. Talk to me.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, his back rigid. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Tell me what you’re feeling,” she said. “I need to know.”
He exploded. “My girlfriend cheats on me when I’m three thousand miles away and can’t do anything about it. How do you think I feel?”
“Pissed off.”
“Yeah,” he said, bitterly. It was easier to hold on to the anger than it was to examine the other feelings churning in his gut. “You could say that.”
“It’s understandable. You have every right to be angry.”
Her validating his anger didn’t make him feel any better. “Why?”
There was a pause before she answered. “I honestly don’t know. I was lonely. I was horny. It just happened. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t even sex, really.”
He thought he might be sick. He swallowed hard. “What was it, really?”
Again, she hesitated. “It doesn’t matter.”
Some part of him, that part that didn’t want to peer too closely at his own feelings, latched on to her hesitation. He needed to focus on her, not on how he was feeling. Because if he turned his inquiry inward, he would have to admit things he didn’t want to admit. If he addressed the source of his anger, he would have to confess that when Kendra had told him she’d cheated on him, his first response hadn’t been anger, it had been arousal. The anger came not in reaction to her infidelity, but to his excitement over that infidelity. He felt bile rising in his throat. He was pissed off at himself, not her. And that was something he simply couldn’t admit to Kendra.
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