The Secret Journey

by Paul Christian

  At home I made supper, tried to grade papers. Visions of her body kept intruding, visions of her in the same positions I’d had Lize in, had Jana in, had Colleen in at the Club. Beautiful women, intelligent women, women who came to purify themselves on the Club’s altars of leather and steel, who came to consecrate themselves with me. The difference was, Julie was my student, forbidden fruit. That was exciting, in a way that none of the others could offer. That was exciting, as much as I wished it wasn’t, and the danger involved was just the icing on the cake. Unable to focus, I tried to read and found no distraction, and found myself wishing I’d set the time for nine instead, to end the anticipation sooner. I didn’t want her to come, and I wanted her to come more than anything. Finally I laid the riding crop on the desk, ready, and forced myself to do my own writing. Ultimately I managed to lose myself, to do it so thoroughly that when the door chimed I’d lost track of time. I glanced at the clock. 9:59 blinked to 10:00. Her timing was perfect. We’d play this game out to the end.

  She was there at the door in a pleated skirt and neat white blouse, demure and conservative clothing, not at all like her usual style, and dangerously close to Suzanne’s. I don’t know what lies she told her parents to get herself out of the house. It didn’t matter. I was in too deep to back out now. I didn’t say anything, just turned and went back inside. I heard the door close behind me, the slight scuff of her shoes on the carpet. I led her into my study where I had been writing, where the riding crop waited. I pointed to the desk. “Grab the far edge,” I said. “If you let go before I tell you, it’s over.”

  “Yes sir.” She bent over, stretched out, wrapped her fingers around the far lip of the desk. That position forced her onto her toes. Roughly I shoved her legs apart, so each foot was outside the edge of the desk, hooked around the legs. She inhaled sharply, her nose almost touching the riding crop. She had transformed in that moment, from girl to woman, her breasts pressed flat against the wood through her thin blouse, her legs long and feminine, her waist small and tight and her ass, her taut, rounded, upthrust and spread ass, so wonderfully presented beneath the skirt, ready for anything I might care to do to it.

  I picked up the riding crop from its place between her outstretched arms and flexed it, watched her muscles tense in anticipation. I flipped up her skirt with the crop’s tip. She had no underwear on, and her cunt was shiny wet, and swollen.

  “You’ve been a bad girl Julie,” I said. I raised the crop. “A very bad girl.”

  “Yes sir,” she said, her breath catching in her throat. I brought the crop down, fast enough to whistle through the air, hard enough for the smack of impact to echo around the room. The stroke left a burning crimson streak across her smooth round buttocks and ripped a cry from her throat.

  “You’ve put me in a very difficult position, Julie.” I kept my voice level, in control, but I was angry at her. I was angry for the boldness of her action, for the inescapable logic of her proposal, for reminding me of Suzanne. I brought the crop down again, slashing it hard against the sensitive crease that divided her ass and her thighs. She moaned something inarticulate that might have been, “Yes, sir.”

  “Your homework is not up to standard Julie.” Slash!

  “Your attitude needs correction Julie.” Slash!

  “I’m not going to stand for this Julie.” Slash!

  At first she said “Yes Sir,” after each statement, each stroke, but then they came too fast and her words became grunts, inarticulate noises of pain. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her ass flexed and danced. I wanted to make her let go, to break. I was angry at her for risking my career, and for making me desire her so much. I took that out on her, brought the crop down over and over, working her taut, red streaked buttocks, letting the tip snap into the tempting cleft between them. Her pussy was open now, her clit rigidly erect, peeking from beneath its protective hood, and I snapped the crop up against it. If she was so eager to be punished I was willing to make sure she got what she was looking for. The whipping seemed to go on forever, and finally I tore a word from her throat, choked out around her sobs.

  “Please…”

  “Please what?” Snap, I brought the crop down again.

  “Please stop.” Snap. “Sir.” There was desperation in the word 'Sir'.

  “Are you going to behave?” Snap.

  “Yes sir.” Her cunt had swollen more under the sting of the crop. The inner and outer lips opening to reveal the entrance to her vagina. Her hymen was intact. She was a virgin.

  “Homework in on time?” Snap.

  “Yes sir. Please sir.”

  “Well composed, well written, properly put together?” Snap.

  “Yes sir. I’ll be so good for you sir. Please stop.”

  “No more reading in class?” Snap.

  “No sir, no sir, I’ll be good, please stop, please please…”

  I gave her one last stroke, drove it hard up between her legs so the shaft of the crop split her labia and the tip snapped against her clit. She screamed then, her cunt visibly pulsing under the impact as she shuddered hard, and it may be that she climaxed. I paused to breath. My cock was ready to burst and I wanted nothing more than to drive it up into that tight, wet, pink, and vulnerable hole. Instead I tossed the crop down and collapsed into my armchair. “We’ll see on Monday, just how good you’ll be.”

  “Yes sir. Thank you sir.” She stayed in position, crying softly. Her ass was a solid mass of red welts. She’d have trouble sitting for a week. Her pussy was swollen and slick with her desire.

  I tore my eyes from her display. “Get up. Go.”

  She stood up and turned to face me, her tear stained eyes begging for comfort. I just pointed to the door. I didn’t want to build intimacy with her, I wanted her to understand that she was in too deep, that she couldn’t handle what she thought she’d seen at the Club. She couldn’t have been in my presence for more than five minutes, but it had seemed like forever. As soon as I hear the door close I hauled out my cock and started masturbating. It took me under a minute to finish, spurting huge globs of white hot sperm over my hand, my balls contracting so hard they hurt. The image of her tight, virgin cunt was burned into my brain. I was shaking at the end of it, and her vision filled my dreams that night.

  Saturday dragged and Sunday dragged slower. She had me hooked though I didn’t want to admit it. It wasn’t just her body, it or her eager innocence. Part of it was her intelligence and maturity, so far in advance of her peer group, but there was more than that too, something deeper, something darker that showed in her eyes when they looked up into mine.

  I understood when I thought about that, when I thought about her, how it was that she’d found herself at the Club. She was bored, not just with the advanced daycare centre we call high school but with her entire world, with the entire way of life in this bucolic little suburb, revolving as it did around shopping malls and high school football and the top ten shows on cable. A lot of girls in her situation discover drugs, use the high to lower their bar, submit themselves to the inexpert fumblings of half drunk jocks. Not her, she was too smart for that.

  How many nights had she lain in her bed, surrounded by cute frilly things given to her by relatives who didn’t understand the first thing about her, masturbating to visions of trial-by-ordeal? She would know how to defeat the parental controls on her computer and surf the darker corners of the internet. She would know what was available, and she craved it and she had sensed in me that I had exactly that to offer, though with only the vaguest of idea of exactly what that was in reality. She had followed me and found it, and decided she wanted it, screwed her courage to the sticking point and found a way to get it.

  The way to get it was to offer herself in trade, and I had found it an offer difficult to refuse. I was half tempted to call up her file and call her house, but that would be worse than stupid. She had what she wanted now and I wondered now what she thought of it. The demons set in. I had hoped to discourage her from her chosen path w
ith a whipping too intense for her to take. She would be bruised, no question of that. What if her parents saw the welts, and asked her where they came from? What if she not only changed her mind but decided to tell on her own? Either way my career would end. Would it be worth it, to have a woman like her in my life? Would it be worth it, to avoid another Suzanne? My rational brain said not, but the decisions I had made disagreed with my rational brain. I had made my choices, and she had made hers, and there was nothing to do but wait.

  Monday arrived like the change of the seasons, and the day seemed to unwind in slow motion while I felt every eye upon me, as if my colleagues could read the guilt written on my soul. It went on forever, until the last class of the day, until creative writing class. Julie came in and sat, at the front of the class, in the same pleated skirt she’d worn to my house, the same neat white blouse, her long dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, alert and attentive and ready to learn. She was the perfect student, my perfect student, in every way. In every way. I went through the lesson in a haze, convinced every student could see our new-forged connection.

  At the end of the class everyone handed in their papers, their weekend homework. She handed hers in last. It was entitled Penitence, six pages stapled together, laser printed, double spaced. It was the first assignment she’d handed in on time all year. There was a yellow sticky-note attached to the front page. 'Thank you for the extra attention in helping me complete my work. Julie.' I looked at it, looked at her. Her face was calm and composed. Behind me I heard the door click shut as the last student left.

  I held up her assignment. “Will I be pleased with this?” I asked her.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Face the door.” She did it. “Skirt up.”

  She flipped up her skirt to reveal her ass. She had thong underwear on this time, and though the welts had faded in most places, they had darkened in a few. I'd marked her, signed my name on her ass with my riding crop. She was mine, whether I wanted that or not, but I could not deny that I wanted it. A lot. Her ass was beautiful, firm and heart shaped, and the crotch of her thong was soaking wet.

  “Skirt down.” I said, resisting the urge to touch her offered pussy. I couldn’t risk getting caught doing this, and yet there I was risking it. “Ten o’clock, my place.”

  “Yes sir.” She went out and I waited until my erection had subsided enough to allow me to walk in public. It would be harder for her to get out on a school night than on a Friday. I didn’t want it to end now, I just needed it to.

  Another endless night of waiting. I read her story, Penitence. It told of a Catholic girl in confessional, atoning for her sins with oral sex offered through a hole in the confessional screen. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” it began, and before the end she receives her blessing, a baptism sprayed on her face from her Father’s guiding staff. It was dark and explicit, completely inappropriate, and it was stunningly good.

  At ten the door chimed. At three minutes past she was bent over my desk again, hands grabbing the far side, legs spread wide, her tight, no-longer virgin cunt clamped around my cock as she screamed out her orgasm. I fucked her forever, my hands squeezing her bruised ass cheeks hard, making her beg for it, making her feel it, making her come over and over, until her contractions became painful, until she begged me to stop. I didn’t stop, I kept fucking her, my cock like a steel bar, over and over, on and on.

  When at last I unloaded my balls into her I nearly passed out. I meant to send her home promptly, mindful of parental curfews, but she told me her parents were away. I could have her as much as I wanted. Later that night she crawled for me. She kissed my boots, licked them, worshipped them. She knelt for me and sucked me, exactly as in her story, and then I fucked her again, and again, and again.

  It was not lovemaking, it was sex, raw and violent, passions unbridled. It was conquest and submission, each of us playing our half of the duet. But when it was over, when I had fucked her and whipped her and tied her and pumped her so full of sperm that my balls ached, wrung absolutely dry, when we were both so drained neither one of us could stand, then the inevitable emotions set in. I lay on my bed, sweaty and sated, exhausted and trembling and she put the tangled mop of her hair on my chest and cuddled close and said “Thank you, Sir,” with a purr of contentment, and I held her until it was far too late, and she finally went home just in time to beat the dawn.

  She came in her own car I learned. Her parents had bought it for her birthday. It was the same one she had taken into the city, to the Club, to follow an instinct she was only now beginning to understand. I fell asleep when she left, exhausted and with just three hours before the alarm was due to wake me. Alea iacta est. The die was cast, the Rubicon left far behind. Julie and I would play this out, as far as it would go.

  I learned over the next month just how far that might be. There was nothing she would not do. My memory of that time is full of images flash frozen in my brain with sexual intensity, Julie kneeling to suck my cock, Julie kneeling with her tongue extended and covered in sperm, waiting for permission to swallow. Julie’s face in the mirror, contorted in mingled pleasure and pain as I came hard up her tight little ass. Julie with her nose in the corner, skirt up to expose a fresh set of welts, Julie with nipple clamps, with cunt clamps, Julie gagged, Julie trussed, Julie crawling, Julie begging for punishment, for orgasm, for me to cum on her and in her. Julie used and abused and degraded every way I could think of to do it. She lapped it all up, and then demanded more.

  I changed her arrival time to seven to give me more time to take her, and my world became Julie. Her parents spent a lot of time away, which explained her ease in staying out late. That was purely lucky for me because by then I didn’t care about getting caught. Psychoanalysis might hint that the reason she came to me, the reason she needed what I offered, was due to her parent’s emotional absence, but my role in her life was not to provide analysis but catharsis. And Julie provided me with what I needed in return, provided it in full measure. She was my drug, addictive and compelling, lithe limbed and pliant, soaking up everything I could give her. And all the time her schoolwork got better and better, she kept her side of the bargain. I checked her file after midterm exams, and her marks were all either A or A+. The other teachers in the staffroom remarked on the change in her attitude, little guessing what was bringing it about. Her writing changed too, from dark themes to light, from despair to hope. I’ve seen that change before, in the women who respond to what it is I offer. I’ve never seen it so dramatically as in Julie.

  I took risks, too many risks. I trained her to spread her legs on a signal in class, so I could see her wet cunt while her classmates paid attention to what I’d put on the board. I trained her to climax on command, and then gave her that command while she had her legs spread in class. I fucked her in the classroom after school with the door locked and her wrists cuffed behind her back. I fucked her at lunch with a ring gag in her mouth. She came to school with rope marks burned red into her wrists, and her ass was always marked and sore. I don’t know how she dealt with that in the locker room or at home. I don’t know what she told her friends about where she went each night. I was jeopardizing my career and I didn’t even care. My prep-work went on autopilot because she occupied all my time every night she could get free, and all my thoughts on the nights she couldn't. What mattered was Julie, nothing else.

  On the day after Thanksgiving she spent the evening kneeling beneath my desk with her face in my lap, her lips wrapped around my cock, sucking eagerly while I read her Act V from Shakespeare’s Macbeth. It had become our standard instructional position. The reading was next week’s homework assignment. It was routine now for her to kneel there, servicing my shaft as I read to her. The ritual had become comforting in its familiarity, and yet I could not repress a shudder that was more than sexual as Macbeth's wife cried “Out, out, damned spot,” as she scrubbed in vain to cleanse her blood-stained hands. I was stained with the blood of Julie’s virginity as surely as Lad
y Macbeth was stained with the blood of Banquo’s life.

  My crime was there for all to see, written in her sundered hymen, written in the welts that never quite had time to fade from her ass before I gave her more. I read the passage again and realized that I had to end it. It was not just my career but my soul I'd put at risk. No matter how right it felt, it was still wrong, and I had to stop this while I still had the chance. I put the book down and looked down at her, her big eyes wide and worshipful as they looked up at me, her full red lips working my hard cock just the way I’d taught her.

  She slid herself back, to the point where her lips were just grazing the head of my cock. “Please come on my face, sir,” she pleaded. “Please make me be your dirty little whore.”

  Desire hit me like a tidal wave, over-riding every fear, every doubt. I grabbed her hair, thrust my cock back in, seeking the back of the throat with the swollen head. It was hard for her to take it that deep but she did it. She did everything, that’s the way she was, and she thrived on being made to do it. She loved the thick rigid shaft forcing her jaw wide, the soft, firm texture of the head, the salty, slippery precum dripping on her tongue.

  It occurred to me that I hadn’t been to the Club since the first night she’d come to me. She made them all pale in comparison, Lize and the rest. I looked again into her eyes, held her head in my hands as my cock stiffened rigid, getting ready to spurt. She knew what was coming, she knew my responses by now. Her eyes widened, her expression totally accepting, and almost without warning my orgasm hit, my balls contracting, emptying spurt after spurt of sperm down her eager sucking throat. My juice her mouth until it ran down her chin, and dripped down to glaze her firm, full tits.

  She sighed in satisfaction, her eyes sliding closed as she swallowed. She was allowed to swallow automatically when I read to her, and she never failed to tremble in pleasure at the privilege, her cunt contracting in gentle orgasm without so much as touching her clit. I leaned back, reclining to allow her to suckle my softening cock clean. And I knew then that I couldn’t stop. I truly was addicted to her, eager little minx that she was, even as she was addicted to me. I couldn’t give her up, come what may, and I hated myself for my weakness, even as I took strength from my conquest of her cunt.