by Adrian Amos
“I'm sorry for stealing from you.”
She continues to beat away at me, swinging with consistent force and timing, a master at never giving me a chance to rest. My ass starts to sting and each smack hurts more than the last. I try to clench the pain away, but that only makes the next swing hurt even more as the paddle is met with more resistance. So I have no choice but to relax and take the swings in stride.
“The amount of money you took,” she says, “That's a lot. You know what that would make you if I intentionally gave you that much money?”
“No, what?” I ask, in between smacks.
“Mine,” she says. For emphasis, she smacks me one last time with increased gusto, making me clench uncontrollably after impact. I feel her pull away, and I go limp, a relaxed state I already thought I was in. It surprises me that even though I was trying not to tense, and felt like I was succeeding, I was incredibly tense anyway.
“Stand up.”
I do, feeling my skin burn as my body shifts to its new position. My ass feels tight, the skin unforgiving as my cheeks chafe each other.
“Remove your clothes,” she says.
“What?” I ask, incredulous, “Right here in the office. What if the cleaning crew comes by?”
She doesn't even answer me. She grabs the back of my head and pushes it back onto the desk. She then smacks me with the paddle, multiple times, straight on the ass with little hesitation and a fury she didn't have before. “I told you―not to―question me!” she yells, halting her words as she lays into me. After that momentary break from the paddling, the renewed effort lights my ass up, stinging far worse now that my butt had time to rest. It cries out, begging for me to run.
Ms. Torr pulls back and repeats herself.
“Stand up.”
I do, the word burn too kind for the pain radiating through me.
“Remove your clothes,” she says.
I shimmy the skirt back down over my ass, making me flinch from the contact. I know my ass is red; I can feel the heat in it. I unbutton my blouse, leaving me in my bra and panties. I feel Ms. Torr's hands as she unhooks my bra, then glides her hands over my shoulders―causing me to shudder―catching the straps, and slides them down my arms. My bra falls to the ground and I feel a force travel down to my nipples as I am exposed, wearing only my cotton panties. I feel my nipples harden slightly as Ms. Torr spins me around.
I lift my arms slightly, wanting to cover myself, but I think twice about it and let them fall to my sides again. Ms. Torr slides her hands along my shoulders and down my chest, cupping my breasts with her fingertips.
“These are incredibly soft, Jane. Very supple. What are you, 24?” she asks.
I shake my head, “22.”
She runs her long nails across my skin, where they converge on my nipples, pinching them. They're small and pink, petite on breasts that are already petite. She pulls on them, revealing them from their shells, letting them stand on their own. I stifle a moan as she twists them away from each other.
She pulls harder and walks backward, guiding me by my nipples across the room. She turns and places me down on the leather sofa chair in the corner of her office. She stoops in and runs her tongue along my earlobe as she massages my breasts. I extend my neck away from her and she runs her fingers down from my chin to my collarbone.
She heads back around to her desk and pulls her chair around, sitting it not more than a few feet away from me and the sofa chair.
“I want you to spread your legs a little, and place a finger over your panties.”
I spread my legs, but I'm not ready to place my hand over my panties yet. I feel nervous and cold and vulnerable. All I can muster is rubbing my hands over my thighs, sort of building up to touch myself.
Ms. Torr looks at me, her gaze stern and unflinching.
“I'm sorry,” I mutter quickly. “I'm just nervous and self-conscious.”
She reaches over and places both hands on my knees, rubbing them with her fingertips. I feel a pulse up my legs, a tingling that crosses my thighs, as the sensitivity of my knees is apparent.
“The only way to get anything done in this world,” she says, “Is to just dive right in. The more you think about it, the more your mind messes with you. If you get right to it, your mind and your reflexes take over and your body just knows what to do.”
She grabs my hand, “Now, don't think about it. Just place your hand over your panties,” she says, as she moves my hand where she wants, “And just play with yourself.”
She lets go and my hand falls into place. I close my eyes and let out my breath. I push in with my middle finger, applying pressure to my clit. The effect is immediate and my legs clench. I keep moving, sliding my finger up and down over my panties, gliding over the slickness built up from Ms. Torr and my spanking. I think about that paddle laying across my ass; I think about Ms. Torr pulling on my nipples; I think about Ms. Torr's body, something I haven't seen yet but want to. The serious, taller woman seems tantalizing, and I can only imagine her body is as serious as she is, with nothing to laugh about.
I use two fingers now and press into my clit, circling it with a firm pressure. I open my eyes and see Ms. Torr sitting back and watching me.
“Can you show me your boobs, too?” I ask, feeling as mousy as I sound, like a little girl talking to an adult.
“Will they help you relax?” she asks.
I nod.
She stands and begins to unbutton her shirt from the top. Her bra starts to reveal itself: deep black, holding up her large breasts, easily a size or two bigger than mine. She removes her shirt and jacket and undoes her bra. Her tits come out―the word appropriate if I ever thought so―centered with large nipples that command attention as much as she does.
I admire them. Even for a woman around 40, they look youthful and have a round curvature that makes them look like they weigh a ton.
She places her hands over me, onto the back of the couch, and leans into me.
“Suck on them,” she says.
With tits like those, it's the first thought that comes to mind, so I am more than ready to insert her nipple into my mouth. I take one and suck on it, instantly feeling relaxed, as if I was sucking on a bottle. Her breast is definitely heavy as it shifts with each suction. Her skin is so soft and sweet, her smell so engaging, it's as if her pheromones are a perfect match for mine. Her presence over me makes me quiver. I press into my clit and circle it as I engulf Ms. Torr's nipple.
I see her breathe deeply and let out a small moan. She pulls out and bends over me, taking my own small nipple into her mouth. It catches me by surprise. Even in these strange circumstances, I didn't expect her to put her mouth on me. Her tongue flicking my nipple coincides perfectly with my fingers touching me.
She grabs the hand I'm using and brings it to her mouth. She inserts the two fingers I was rubbing myself with into her mouth, closing slowly and sucking on them. The softness of her lips and the warmth of her mouth makes me want her all the more.
“You taste good, darling,” she says.
“You, too,” I mutter, “You taste really good.”
She grabs my legs and pulls them up so that my feet are on the sofa. She reaches under my ass and pulls my panties out from under me. I'm naked, completely, my legs spread open for her.
But she takes my hand and places it back on my pussy.
“Keep going,” she says, “I want you to go deep inside.”
I slide my fingers up and down, wetting them, and then push them inside me.
“Good, Janey,” she says.
I work them in and out, hearing the slosh of my juices as I spread my lips apart. I buck my hips, as if I'm getting fucked, and grind into my fingers to hit my clit. I can see Ms. Torr getting worked up, licking and biting her lips as I pleasure myself.
Ms. Torr takes her glasses off and places them on her desk. She pulls my hand out, then grabs my hips and pulls me forward on the couch. She lifts and holds my legs up as she pushes her face int
o my pussy. She sucks on my lips, licking and tongue thrusting my opening. She glides up and down with the flat of her tongue, stopping at my clit and flicking it with the tip.
I can't remember the last time anyone's eaten me out. I think I'm a good looking girl, but my meekness tends to drive guys away rather than pull them in. It's been years, and Ms. Torr's tongue on my pussy feels like the best thing to happen to me in a long time.
She runs her fingers along me, pushing two into me as she continues licking. She thrusts in with speed, sloshing me with force as my pussy clenches her.
She reaches up and puts those fingers in my mouth, hooking my jaw, coating my lips with my own juices. She pulls me to my feet by my mouth and leads me back to the desk. She bends me over it, guiding one of my hands back to my own pussy.
“Keep playing with yourself,” she whispers in my ear.
I alternate between rubbing my clit and inserting my fingers as Ms. Torr grabs the paddle again. She comes down and cracks me across the ass, sliding me along the polished wood. I keep my fingers on myself and she brings it back down on me.
“Keep fingering yourself, you slut.”
The pain builds, but so does the pleasure, as the vibrations travel through me and ricochet off my vaginal walls. I keep my fingers inside me, thrusting as the paddle comes down across my sore ass.
She grabs my hair, pulling on it and bending me back.
“This'll teach you to steal from me,” she says, starting an onslaught where she lays into me every split second, swinging the paddle as fast as she can as she pulls my hair back.
I rub my clit back and forth as fast as I can, catching the momentum of each swing. As painful as each sting feels, the pain increases my pleasure, until each subsequent swing builds me a little more each time. Swing! Building up. Crack! Stronger. Smack! Intense. Whack! It brings me to the edge, and my fervent clit massage pushes me over. I cum, moaning and screaming out.
But the swings don't stop. She continues to strike my ass as my body strains from convulsions, each pulse of pleasure met by the sting of the bat. My body is barely able to keep me upright on the desk, as it's ready and willing to slip off onto the floor; Ms. Torr notices my racks of pleasure and relents by dismissing my discipline.
I lie across her desk, unwilling to move. She collects her clothes and gets dressed.
“I want you to come by here tomorrow, by 7,” she finally says.
“Saturday? But we're closed,” I say, dismayed that she wants me to come in on the weekend.
“We are, but I tend to work on the weekends anyway. It's the price of running a business.”
“What do you want from me?”
“To come in,” she says, scoffing at the question, ”I could use a distraction while I'm here.”
“Wait. You still want to fuck with me?”
She smiles, “Yeah, of course. It was fun.”
“I mean, you still want me to pay you back? More?”
Since she scoffed before, she laughs this time, “Yeah, I do. You stole a lot of money. Like I said, you're mine now, until I'm done with you. $25,000 for one fuck session? That's high-priced hooker money, and you're no high-priced hooker. You certainly wouldn't be worth that kind of money,” she says, “No, you'll be paying me in installments.”
“How many?” I ask.
“As many as I see fit.”
I look down and put my forehead on the desk. What have I gotten myself into?
“You know what?” she says, “You're asking a lot of questions, and I want to make sure you're here tomorrow. So you're going to stay the night here.”
“What? You're kidding me, right?”
Anger flashes across her eyes. “Why do you keep questioning me? I want your compliance. I'm not asking for your opinions.”
I shut up, knowing punishment would only come from mouthing off.
“No one will find you here. I got the key, so I'll lock the door. There's a blanket and pillow on the shelf over there.”
“But―”
As she heads toward the door, she picks my clothes up from the floor, “And you won't be needing these tonight.”
Before leaving her office, Ms. Torr turns and says, “Be ready for some fun in the morning.”
The door locks.
* * *
I wake up on her floor, inhaling the scent of her perfume that never seems to dissipate.
This isn't the first time. I've woken up here on a number of occasions, a number I can't quite remember. Simply because I've been doing this for months. Sleeping on her floor, naked.
I stand and stretch. The juices on my thighs have dried, leaving my skin feeling tight and kind of gross. My ass is still sore from last night's spanking, and my throat feels bruised from where she was choking me. That one is a new edition to her repertoire, although I certainly don't mind it. I like when she takes her frustrations out on me.
She comes early on Saturdays, usual 6, maybe 7 in the morning. There's no clock in here, so I've been caught by surprise when she enters. She doesn't like that; I need to be prepared. I've grown accustomed to listening for her footsteps. Even though they typically enter the building at the same time, she makes a louder stomp and clack than the normal cleaning crew.
I pack up the pillow and blanket and put them away. I put on the heels she left me, getting ready for the day. I'm hungry, so I grab one of the snack cakes from her desk she leaves for me overnight. She won't take me for a proper breakfast until after our morning punishment, so the cakes keep me fed until about 8 or 9, when she lets me get dressed in a fresh set of clothes and takes me to her favorite diner down the street.
I hear her clacks as she approaches, and I spring to attention, running around the desk and positioning myself. I bend over, my heels pumping my ass up high―a height more to her liking. I lay my breasts against the cold wood and reach back with my hands, spreading my ass open for her morning delight.
As I hear the key turning, I take a deep breath.
She walks in and closes the door.
“Good morning, Ms. Torr,” I say.
“Good morning, Janey,” she responds. She approaches behind me and slips a finger into my slit, rubbing it once through. She tastes it, sucking off what juice she can.
“Still moist,” she says, continuing with the tradition I've come to expect from her. Tradition seems to have a good spot in her heart.
“Yes, ma'am,” I say, “Just how you like it.”
“Good,” she says, “But I think I'll relax today, make it easy on you.”
“No punishment today?” I ask, excited that I might get to go home early.
“I didn't say that,” she smirks, “Come around here.”
I walk around the desk. She pulls the seat back and ushers me into the foot space underneath. “Sit down.”
I crawl under, sitting cross-legged.
“You might want to kneel,” she says. “I wore a short skirt and no underwear.” She sits down and scoots the chair in, closing me off from the outside. She pulls her skirt up and reveals her bare pussy.
“I want to relax and work in quiet. I don't want to have to tell you, so I expect you know what I want from you. I know you're hungry.”
I get up a little to kneel, grab her knees, and plant my face forward. Ms. Torr spreads her legs and inches forward. I put my tongue on her pussy and begin to lick her clean, scratching her thighs with my nails. Her smell is so sweet, eating her out is one of the few pleasures I get out of being blackmailed by my boss.
Ms. Torr sighs in contentment and begins to type away at her computer.
- - -
Conquered by my Coach
Who does she think she is?
Coach Bailey had been running our volleyball team for 20 years. After Bailey suddenly retires, Coach Morris is hired out of some southern school to take over the position. I don't know if this is how they do it in the South, but in Maine, this shit doesn't fly.
And unluckily, when she took over, I happened to be visiting
my family for a week. So when I come back to college—and I'm in the middle of my yoga class—I have Becky in my ear telling me how Coach Morris just kicked Amy, Rachel, and Tams off the team. All because of their grades.
That's not cool. As Captain of the team, it's always been my duty to make decisions on personnel with the coach. It's never been a one-woman show. That's how it's always been. The coach has never made a move without me.
So here I am—rushed out of my yoga class still dressed in my yoga pants and pink, cut-off tank top—walking to the back of the gym where the volleyball coach's office lies.
I walk right in, not even bothering to knock. I close the door. I feel like there's going to be some yelling. She needs to know I mean business.
To my surprise, Coach Morris is there, but she's not what I expected. She's young, black, and strikingly beautiful. She's probably in her late 20s. I pause, caught off guard by who I'm looking at. I was expecting a Coach Bailey clone: a 50 year old frumpy, white woman whose been doing this for too long. Instead Coach Morris has got light chocolate skin, jeans and a tank top, and a hell of a makeup job.
She looks at me from behind her desk, waiting for me to say something. When I can't get my words out, she finally asks, “Can I help you?”
“Uh,” I stumble out, “Yeah, I'm Tiff. I'm the Captain of the girl's volleyball team.”
“Ah,” she says, standing and walking around the desk. She shakes my hand, “Nice to meet you finally. I'm Coach Morris. I'm looking forward to working together.”
“Well, about that,” I say, “I heard you kicked 3 girls off the team. Is that true?”
“Yes, yes it is,” she says, as she walks back around her desk and takes her seat.
“Might I ask why you did that?” I ask, clearly miffed and unable to hide it.
She looks at me, puzzlement showing through, “Each one of them was failing classes. As per school policy, they're not allowed to attend sports until they get their grades rectified. Were they your friends?”
“That's not why I'm asking. These types of personnel decisions are supposed to be made by both the coach and the captain. Together. You clearly didn't do that with me.”