Sixteen of the Best

by Sarah Veitch

  As she frets and begins to feel overexposed in her bonds, she fails to detect the closing of the door, signalling no more admittance for the night's entertainment. Her worries cease when she hears her Master addressing the audience in his deep tones. She listens to him explain the formalities and rules of the night, and thank them for their attendance, promising they will not be disappointed. She imagines the long-time attendees nodding impatiently, aware of what they must do to stay, waiting for their arousal to be sated, and the newcomers concentrating on taking in everything he says, lest they commit some faux pas that will see them ejected from what they already know will be a very memorable night. The dark bass of the Master's voice ricochets though her body, and her yearning begins anew. She does not know what he has in store for her, but she craves to find out. Her waiting and anxiety will not have been in vain.

  He finishes his speech and comes to stand by her side, positioning himself, as always, near her right hip. He is out of her peripheral vision range, and turning her head is forbidden. She tries to content herself with the knowledge of his presence and noting how she can feel his immense sexual energy even from a distance.

  It is time for the show to begin.

  'And what,' he coos in a voice loud enough for the audience to hear, 'does my little slut wish to learn about tonight?'

  Lydia recognises the familiar opening line, tenses in anticipation of the erotic menu to come. Her cunt clenches involuntarily. She wonders if the audience is tensing too, knowing the outline, but not the content, of what is to come.

  'Perhaps we could teach you about water-play? Some nice naughty droplets running down your body from one of our gentleman guests? Perhaps some live lesbian action between two supposedly heterosexual women - or is that more of a men's fantasy; my little girl? A dirty one for us boys and our incorrigible ways? I'm sure nice girls like yourself would never deign to fantasise about something so base and so unattainable, so unrealistic and common, because everything you would think of wanting would be romantic and attainable and not even the slightest bit vulgar. That's because nice girls like you think you don't have to beg for anything, isn't that right?'

  At this he pauses momentarily to lightly brush his fingers across her vulva, spreading the wetness he finds there, and without thinking she thrusts herself against his hand. In response, he moves it away, and wipes her juices on her ass cheek, disdain obvious in the forceful drag of his fingers.

  'As you know, my dear, and as our esteemed audience are probably aware by now, I take great pleasure in stripping young ladies like yourself of your illusions about these matters. I must say, I've never had any complaints so far.'

  Lydia hears murmuring from the crowd, sounds of amusement and agreement. She imagines the men nodding their heads at her Master's words, pleased to finally have someone voice the thoughts they're not meant to think, looking down on her, and she flushes with embarrassment.

  'But I've gotten off track, haven't I, my repressed little darling? We were talking about your lesson for tonight, how you want to show your debauched desires to our esteemed guests and prove the existence of the slut heart that beats inside stuck-up nice middle-class girls like you.'

  It is always the same. It is lies and performance, a mask of exaggerated disdain for the benefit of the audience, but he sees inside her head and dredges up her darkest shame and desires, proving her to share the desires she considers contemptuous and base in others. He makes her acknowledge what she's been taught she should not yearn for. He scorns her for her needs; every man here is riveted by the forbidden lust that rages through Lydia's body and mind. Images flash through her head and she lets out a moan and pushes her pelvis back toward her Master, unconsciously offering herself to him.

  'What is this?'

  She doesn't answer. She can't, she's not allowed, but she wouldn't anyway. She knows what happens when the Master starts asking her questions.

  'Are you trying to control what happens to you?' He says it quietly, but there is a resonance in his voice that she knows will carry to even the men seated at the back of the room.

  'I think Lydia, our little slut, is trying to tempt me. I think she wants to control what happens to her. And I do not think that is appropriate.'

  There is murmuring from the men in the crowd.

  'I don't think girls who think they can be tied up with their pussies showing in public and not have to give up control to the men who know better than they should be allowed to get away with such cheek. What do you think, gentlemen?'

  More murmurs of assent, stronger now, in the tones of men trying desperately to keep their arousal to themselves.

  'Very well then.'

  Lydia hears him walk away, off the stage, and the heavy footfalls of his return. He comes to stand beside her, but for several moments he says or does nothing, and she wonders what is to come.

  A sudden harsh swishing sound cuts the air, and the biting sting of a riding crop burns across her ass. She gasps in shock and pain, and her stomach clenches involuntarily. The sharp pain always comes as a shock at first, even when she is ready for it and doubly so when she is not. It takes her body some time to adjust before she begins to enjoy it. But tonight the Master is not interested in giving her time, quickly bringing down the crop again, an inch from where he landed it the first time. Lydia cries out in pain, and tears sting her eyes. The crop bites into her flesh again, and her cry turns into a low moan. The Master pauses and strokes her sore, tender flesh, whispering softly so that only she can hear.

  She relaxes against his touch, knowing that it is only a matter of time before he hits her with the crop again. Sure enough, he moves his hand away, and she breathes in, waiting for the inevitable pain.

  Her body is ready this time, and the sting carries with it a faint echo of pleasure. The Master rubs her ass again, the warmth of his hand mingling with her heat, and she relaxes and begins to breathe normally. He knows how to play her; he continues alternating lashes of the crop with gentle strokes of his hand. She begins to relish the hiss of the crop as it cuts the air, and her body begins to reinterpret the pain of contact as pleasure. Soon she feels the heat of her ass move lower down to her cunt, as she and the Master both knew she would.

  He puts his fingers against her vulva and rubs it gently in a circular motion. She can feel his fingers savouring her wetness. He pulls his hand away and takes a step back. 'The slut must sate herself,' he informs the room in general.

  He steps forward into her view but does not face her. He crouches at her side, not looking at or speaking to her, and unties the cord that binds her left arm. He then straightens, turns and walks back down off the stage without acknowledging her. She feels a momentary flash of disappointment at his lack of attention, but arousal takes its place as she hungrily places her freed left hand between her legs and begins to stroke herself. She rubs her clit with two fingers, giving herself over to sensation.

  She strokes harder and faster, growling in the back of her throat as her orgasm approaches. The audience is silent, awaiting her climax, feeling the sexual electricity that filters through the room and crackles off the surfaces. Their collective gaze is riveted to the source of this energy; the woman who kneels, bound by leather ropes to the raised platform in the middle of the room, and sweats from the hot stage lights and her own palpable desire. Lydia feels their desire, their arousal at both the situation and the close proximity of so many other people, almost as strongly as she feels the sensations caused by her fingers working on her clitoris. She rocks back onto her hand again, offering her backside to the audience, and slips a finger into her cunt. Then two. She takes the pressure off her clitoris for a moment, knowing that if she delays her own orgasm, she increases the sexual tension in the room as well as her own eventual climax. Her thoughts fly to her Master as she finger-fucks herself, and she wonders what he makes of her display. Is he watching her, his gaze on her glistening pink cunt, watching the fingers thrust into it and come out a little more slippery each time?
Does he have his hand on his cock as he takes it all in? What does he have planned for her after this?

  She removes her fingers and goes back to stroking her clit, bucking again at the sensations. She will let herself come this time. She will come hard and noisily, and her sexual release will fill the whole room and everyone will be able to see what a little whore she is. The thought of all her men sitting there, thinking about what a slut she is and maybe with their hands on their cocks because of it, sends her over the edge. She comes to orgasm with a howl, rubbing her clit furiously and rearing back against her hand. She continues to rub even after she is sensitive, lost in a post-orgasmic daze and no longer aware anymore of the crowd and their various stages of arousal. Nor does she notice her Master is at her side until he has roughly grabbed her hand and bound it again with the leather.

  She realises what is happening and lowers her head submissively. Although still recovering from her exhibitionistic orgasm, she focuses her senses on trying to locate where he is now that he has moved back behind her, and tries to guess what his next action will be. She does not have to wonder long before she feels the sting of a slap on her right buttock, and gasps aloud, out of shock more than pain, although she can still feel the trail of the crop across her flesh. Before she has time to recover her composure a second slap lands with a sting upon her left buttock. There is murmuring rising from the crowd; they are excited by the Master's actions, and by her response. She arches her back and leans in towards the direction his hands are coming from, and is rewarded for her impudence by several more slaps, coming in quick succession across her ass. Her gasps come steadily, and morph quickly into moans. Then without warning he stops. She pauses, dazed, and whimpers for more, beyond capability of speech. She wants desperately to turn her head to see what is happening, but knows she must not. There will be a punishment if she does so, and far from being a continuation of what she has experienced so far, she fears it will rather be the cessation of the Master's touch, the premature ending of the show. The pause, however, is temporary, and she guesses it is for show. His hands come at her from her side, striking her in such a way as to slap both ass cheeks. She pushes back against his hand once more and is rewarded with several more slaps. She feels her responses grow more theatrical, mindful even in her aroused state of the audience. She wants them to want her; although they will never touch her in the way the Master is doing now. That's part of the point, she thinks, and makes a show of trying to squirm away from his punishing hands. Lydia, for all she has become, remains a terrible actress: there is far less show than genuine desire in her responses.

  The Master stops, and as the pause lengthens, Lydia despondently comes to realise that he has decreed that part of the show to be over. She holds her breath and waits for him to begin the next stage.

  She feels him kneel down behind her, and leans back to offer him her ass. He responds by spreading her cheeks, and keeping them apart with one hand, he rubs lubricant on her asshole. The lube is cold and unexpected, and she jerks away involuntarily. He pulls her back towards him and she feels him place the head of his cock against the tight ring of muscle, and braces herself for the pleasurable pain that she knows will come with his thrusts. Her ass is still relatively virginal, and any penetration comes with a heady mix of searing pain and intense pleasure. She does not know if the pleasure stems from the pain itself or the taboo of anal sex, and she doesn't care.

  He plunges into her and she screams as he embeds his cock in her with an air of propriety, his left hand wrapped around her thigh so she can't try to struggle away from him. He pauses for a moment for her to take in the sensation of his cock in her ass, stretching her out, then withdraws almost all the way, leaving only the head of his cock inside her. She relaxes for a moment - too soon, as he thrusts back into her again with the familiar sensation of pain and profound pleasure. She begins to wail, a steady keening rhythm, an ode to the pleasure of pain and the pain of pleasure, in sync with his thrusts as they become more measured, and gradually the tone of her shrieks alters from the low pitch of pain to the high pitch of pleasure. She gasps in between squeals and rocks back against him, relishing the new sensation of pain this brings with it, a deeper sensation that is not as sharp as the pain of the initial penetration. He takes this as his cue to bring a new element to their fucking, and as he thrusts into her, brings his palm down flat on her arse in a hard slap which echoes through the room and through her tender flesh. She manages to gasp out a guttural request for more. Each slap sends a jolt straight to her clit, the sensation of her stimulation mingling with the harsh sting of his spanking and the ache from his cock up her ass, so that she doesn't know where pleasure leaves off and pain starts. He begins to spank her in time with his thrusts, and she writhes below him, not knowing whether to beg him to stop or insist that he never does.

  'You love this, don't you, you little slut?' he enquires in a voice loud enough for their captivated audience to hear.

  'Yes,' she murmurs softly.

  'Louder. I want our guests to hear. I want you to tell the whole world what a slut you are.'

  'Yes,' she moans, her voice husky and raw. 'Yes, I am a slut, and I love this. I don t want it to stop.'

  He spanks her harder for her confession and she squeals again, her cheeks stinging profusely. She rocks back into him, and can feel the telltale throbbing that means his orgasm is building. He repositions his left hand so that he still controls her movements with it, but is able to stroke her clitoris with his fingers. She rubs herself against his hand frantically, then lets out a deep growl and comes again. The contractions ripple through her ass and set off his orgasm. He comes deep inside her with a grunt, and she feels his cock throb as it releases the hot streams of semen into her. She lets out a final moan and collapses under him, and his cock slides out of her well-lubricated and very well-fucked ass; her bonds, which had been stretched taut throughout their sex, loosen now as their prisoner sprawls on the floor offering no resistance.

  She lies and pants, satisfied and looking up at him now as she is allowed to do once their act is over. He relaxes into a crouch to stroke her hair and looks back at her appraisingly, proud of what she has achieved tonight.

  Behind them, the audience bursts into a raucous round of applause.

  Lessons

  Alicia Wag

  CINDY showed up at his office around 6:15pm, dusk in April, the cruel month, or the new month, depending on whether you like poetry or flowers. She couldn't prevent these idle thoughts from running through her mind as she tapped lightly on the dark mahogany door, rapping her nervous knuckles on the smooth, warm wood, right next to the brass plate with his name on it.

  'Come in.' She heard his voice, quiet but powerful.

  Just like his lectures, which she had been listening to for weeks now, trying to concentrate on them, ignore the uncooperative parts of her that led her to think about other things. Flights of fancy, you might call them, if you were looking for a euphemism. But Cindy didn't need a euphemism anymore. She could just call them fantasies now, and she was tired of pretending.

  The door creaked softly as she stepped into his office and closed it behind her, turning the brass switch that locked it. He spoke first. 'Hello, Cindy,' he said.

  He was sitting at his computer, the glow from it like moonlight on his face. As he waited for her answer, he reached for the lamp by his desk. Cindy put up a hand. 'No,' she said. He stopped, looked at her with a raised eyebrow. Surprised? Interested? Angry? The thought of him being mad at her sent shivers down her spine. 'I just wanted to thank you, and tell you how much I enjoy your class,' she said, trying not to stammer.

  He leaned back, his mature, wise face smiling slightly. One hand ran through his impressive and dignified head of white hair, the other removed the eyeglasses resting on the bridge of his nose. 'Wonderful,' he said. 'Thank you.' He folded his hands and rested them over the bottom of his necktie, on his paunch. His fingers stroked the skin near his watch. He kept smiling at her in a d
isdainful, amused sort of way. 'Is that all?'

  Cindy shifted her weight and felt sweat moisten the inside of her bare thighs. She had been at university for two years now. She wasn't a child anymore, not even a teenager, but she still favored a disciplinarian, and she had seen it in him from the first time she glimpsed him on campus. After two lectures, she had taken to wearing no underclothes to his classes. She thought about her body now, naked under her cotton dress, and a spasm of shame whipped through her. Still, she answered him. 'No,' she said, feeling the hot flush in her cheeks, turning her eyes downward.

  His tongue rolled along his top lip, just touching the ends of his moustache. He swivelled his chair so it was no longer facing his desk. He gestured to the empty space before it. 'Come here,' he said with a hard slap on his thigh, an audible punctuation mark that echoed in the quiet dignity of his office.

  The command made Cindy's nipples harden. She walked to the place she was told to go, like a good girl. 'Yes, teacher,' she said, biting her lower lip.

  'Kneel,' he said, softer now, his voice a low hiss laced with a taunt. Cindy felt tears well up behind her eyes. She fought the urge to cry and beg him not to hurt her. Instead, she did as she was told and kneeled down. He stroked her yellow hair with his left hand, undid the buckle of his suit pants with the other. 'This is what you want, isn't it?' Cindy murmured assent, soft unintelligible sounds rolling from her lips. 'Isn't it?' he said louder, squeezing a clump of hair in his hands.

  'Yes,' she answered. 'Yes, teacher.'

  Keeping a strong hold on her hair, he said, 'Take out teacher's cock.' Cindy yelped now, she couldn't help herself. The cry escaped from her mouth like a bad, bad thing. She knew she would be punished for it. Quickly, she unzipped his suit pants and found the hole in his under drawers. The size of his cock made her gasp with pleasure. Oh, how she wanted to suck it.