by Thianna D
Dunn moved towards the bed himself. He saw her head jerk slightly and a shudder run through her, at the sound of his footfalls on the carpet.
Almost forgetting to breathe, he watched himself lay his hand gently on Sarah Harshaw's beautiful bottom, gently stroking, holding it all, both cheeks, upon his palm, weighing it. She made the Sarah-noise, and Dunn was again torn between hugging her close and violating her savagely. Now his fingers delicately sought out the place where the lace of her thong began, and arrogantly tugged the thong aside, out of the way, and across her right bottom cheek. Sarah gasped.
"Good girl, my good girl, my little Sarah," he said, very softly. She made a new noise, one he hadn't heard before: a sort of cooing that sounded equally as wonderful as the Sarah-noise of shameful arousal. "Such a bad girl to watch that bad video, though. And you liked it, didn't you, you bad girl?"
"Yes, sir," came her response. "It was–I've never seen anything..."
"Shh. I know. You're a good girl. Good girls don't watch porn." Without warning, he began to spank her with his right hand, his left resting on her waist. He spanked her right cheek, then her left, then the best place of all, right in the middle and down low, where his fingers came away wet, and he kept doing it.
"Oh, God... oh, God... John, oh, please."
Oh God, he wanted to fuck Sarah Harshaw more than anything he had ever wanted in his forty-seven years on the planet.
But why didn't he mind her calling him John? Why had that been so hot, when a girl calling him by his Christian name during a spanking had always been so scene breaking before? He fell into a momentary bout of confusion before he could dismiss the problem from his thoughts, and the spanking slowed, but Sarah seemed to take it as a build to something, and her noises didn't flag. Her bottom was bright pink now, and he had to resist the temptation to see how far he could take her, to get the paddle, or even the flogger. They didn't even have a safe word yet.
He returned his hand to her bottom, then gradually moved it further down.
"Shh, Sarah. Spread your knees for me now, young lady."
She did, and gratified him with the glorious sight of her bare pussy, exposed, with the lace thong pulled across her right bottom-cheek. The pussy's little lips were just as pink as her bottom was now, peeping out from between bigger ones that were themselves rather rosy.
He didn't have a choice: he kissed it.
Sarah screamed in surprise, in shame, in delight. "Oh God..." He kissed again. "Oh..." He licked. "Oh, no..." Her “no” was drawn out into a long, long moan.
Even the way she tasted seemed new, young, and enchanting. He actually did think then to wonder whether he was losing his mind, the feeling felt so overwhelming and so different from any other erotic experience he had ever had.
He had no intention of stopping, but he didn't quite know how he would proceed from this point. He contemplated something since the night before, something so wrong-right, so taboo, so... perfect for this thing they had embarked on... Whenever he had thought of it, he had said to himself, "No, no. It just wouldn't be right."
But it was. It was right because it was so terribly wrong. Dunn swallowed hard. Then he stood up, took his hands off her, and said, in a tone that he meant to break the scene for the moment, "Listen to me closely, Sarah. Are you listening?"
"Yes, sir."
"Call me John for right now, OK?"
"OK..., John" He heard uncertainty in her voice, and he (oh, damn it) loved her for it. Fuck. Yes, he loved her.
"We're going to do some real BDSM now. Do you know what that is?"
"I... um... yes." She hung her head a bit as she admitted it, and he loved her.
When something makes you feel like you might not want to do it, say 'Yellow', OK?"
"Um, OK."
"When you don't want to do something, say 'Red', OK?"
"OK." More confidence, and he loved her for that, too.
He was going to do it. He could and couldn't believe it. Or at least he was going to try.
He put his right hand back on her ass, possessively, easing the tip of his middle-finger inside the wonderful valley of it, resting it against her anus.
“You’re ready for it, aren’t you, young lady?”
“N—no!”
“Yes, sweetheart, it’s time. You’re going to take it in the ass now.”
"What? No! Not my... not my..."
He waited. Twisted and kinky and monstrous as it was, John Dunn and Sarah Harshaw were about to find out whether they were both so damned kinky they might never be happy with anyone else. If Sarah said "Red" now–if she even said "Yellow"–then, well, it might not mean it was over, but it would mean that the stars hadn't aligned the way he thought they had.
"Please, sir—don’t make me—I don’t want it—please let me—let me kiss it—let me kiss it instead...”
She hadn't said "Red," or even "Yellow."
Mustering his most dominant tone, Dunn continued, “No, Sarah. I want ass tonight. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has to be, so don’t make it harder on yourself by resisting. I know you’re scared–every girl is when she has to take it in the ass the first time–but you’ll get used to it after I’ve fucked you there regularly for a week or so.”
She made the Sarah-noise. What he was about to do to this girl he had just realized he loved was monstrous. He was going to take her anal virginity first, to make her his ass-girl now and... yes, always.
He couldn't. Unless… "Sarah," he said in the other tone. "Say 'Green' if this is something you want."
"Green, sir," she said, with only the tiniest hesitation. Then, to his surprise, she continued, "I... I think I've always wanted this. My bottom... my ass–it's very, um, important to me."
Again, he felt the urge to throw the scene away, and just hold her, and stroke that important, wonderful bottom, and tell her everything was fine, and it was fine to do what they were doing, fine to want to be deflowered in back before you were deflowered in front.
"And," she continued in the silence left by his reflection, "I want to give it to you, John."
Spontaneously, she moved to assume what John called "Submissive Position Number One," which he hadn't even told her about: cheek to the bedspread, back arched, hands, palms-up, next to spread knees.
Freely offered. Surely it would be wrong not to take her bottom's maidenhead, now?
"Open yourself for me now, Sarah. Spread those lovely little cheeks you just gave me," he murmured, and she moved her hands to her own bottom. She shuddered when she touched herself there, and made the Sarah-noise, and pulled her little peaches apart to reveal a tiny flower, shining with the lube she had applied earlier.
He dropped his trousers. Sarah made a little noise when she heard the belt buckle hit the floor. He skinned down his boxers with all the speed of which he was capable. After a moment's hesitation, he began slowly to unbutton his Oxford shirt. Curse East Coast tradition! It felt like torture to have his hands not touching her even for this long.
Sarah remained completely quiet, with her eyes sweetly closed as her face lay against the bed. She bit her lower lip, he noticed, with a rush of tenderness, either in fear or in fantasy. And as ever a rush of arousal accompanied the tenderness. He was, he thought, about to give her a real reason to bite her lip that way.
The shirt was off at last, and Dunn climbed onto the bed, naked, thinking ahead already to the moment Sarah would finally see the cock Dunn now held in his hand as he put lube on it, then brought it to bear on his college girl, wondering how she would feel about it, whether she would be kind to it, kiss it, love it. It was not very large, to be sure, but it was his.
He stood astride her on the bed, now, like a cavalier. He brought the muzzle of his cock against her, against the little flower.
“No! Please, sir! Please, not like this–not my first time...”
That was when he realized that whatever else they were, Sarah Harshaw and John Dunn were perfect play partners. They were both hyper-verb
al, and loved using words to turn themselves–and, now, each other--on.
“Oh, yes, Sarah... like this. This is how you get it–up the butt.”
He pushed. She cried out.
"Push down, sweetheart," he said. "Don't worry; it's going to take a while for me to get in there."
"Sir... Sir..." The word seemed like it was becoming some sort of talisman to her.
She gave a sweet little sob and a Sarah-whimper, and he watched her cute sphincter relax, and felt her start to enclose him. He let out his own moan at the sheer intensity of the sensation of having his cock in Sarah Harshaw's anus. He had to fight the urge to sheathe himself violently and brutally, so desperately did he want to see her bottom full of him. Sometime soon, he knew, he would be brutal, and he thought he knew that she wouldn't want it any other way, but now, for her first time, the dominance was all in the humiliation of losing her bottom's virginity first, and of having her professor's cock inside her at all, and in the discomfort of first anal.
He was in her now, pushing still. She was full in her bottom, in her little bottom. She was deflowered—ruined—a man was fucking her in her ass like a little whore. It was monstrous—he was monstrous, and so was his new ass-bride.
She made long Sarah-noises that rose to cries of pain and fell away again into whimpers of shame.
“Nice. Very nice,” Dunn said. He was halfway in, progressing millimeter by millimeter, wanting to shame her to the utmost, to excite that part of her erotic self, and make her realize how kinkily wonderful she was. Hardly even thinking about his words, he continued, “You tart, Sarah—you’ve got a bottom made for a man to keep his cock in. Mmmm... You did a good job getting ready, girl.” The word “tart” really worked for her, it appeared, for at the sound of it he felt her buck back against him, and take a full inch of his cock into her bottom.
John held her hips firmly, and pushed in further. She moaned at the discomfort of the sensation, which was somehow not as she had imagined it, and somehow exactly what she had fantasized about ever since she had known what sex was. The pain was there, but, like the pain of the spanking, the pleasure had a strange effect on it, made the pain itself a form of submissive pleasure. And then there were the fantasy images that never seemed to cease, though she now had a real cock, John's real cock, in her ass. She imagined him doing this to other students, countless others–he was their master–he was her master who liked to fuck girls... fuck girls... fuck ass-girls and give them what they had coming.
At last, she felt his hips come up against her bottom. She had done it; he had done it to her. They existed somehow outside the laws of the world. Her professor had just deflowered her ass, and it was the best thing that had ever happened to her.
It didn't take him long to come inside her after that. A few gentle strokes and he cried out like Zeus struck by his own lightning, as he crouched over her like some devil from primal memory, driving his hips diabolically into her ass. The pulsing of his cock inside her bottom then did something she didn’t expect, although her own arousal grew as the fucking continued. She gave a strangled cry, and had an utterly different kind of orgasm from any she'd ever managed while playing with herself, and certainly from that one her second boyfriend had given her.
Also, she seemed to be... her face grew hot... was she peeing? No... it was different, but it was definitely liquid, coming from there.
"Oh sweetheart," said John, with audible delight in his voice. "Are you a squirter?"
"Um," she said, turning her face away. "I never was before–I don't even know what that was... I'm sorry about your bed!"
He pulled gently out of her anus, and lay down on her left side, facing her, and said, "Come here, little Sarah." She straightened out, grunting a bit at the stiffness from having held her position so long, and lay down, looking into his eyes, suddenly realizing that this was the first time she had ever been naked with a naked man, not counting the thong, still mostly in place.
"It's time for aftercare," he said and gathered her into his chest, kissing her tenderly, all over her face, over and over.
"What's aftercare?"
"That's when I tell you what a very, very good girl you were for me."
"Oh."
More kissing.
"Do I call you 'sir' or 'John'?"
"Aftercare is for you, sweetheart. Call me whatever feels best." Could she detect the tiniest bit of hope in his voice? She wished she knew which one he hoped for, because...
"John?" she said.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"I... I know I probably shouldn't, but... but I can't help it..."
He kissed her forehead. "I think... I think maybe you should." Did he know what she meant?
She took a deep breath, and looked into his eyes. "John, I love you."
"I love you, too, Sarah."
Chapter 11
October and November. Ten years later, John and Sarah could still say "October and November" to one another, and share a secret smile that was the visible counterpart to the arousal both of them always felt in different parts, further down, at the sound of the phrase.
Sarah Harshaw's bottom was deflowered the night of Friday, September 27. The next morning, Professor Dunn told Sarah that for all practical intents and purposes she would move in with him. They drove back to Sandy Ridge separately, in their cars. John waited while Sarah packed a bag and had an awkward little conversation with Marilyn. Then John took her first to a clinic for a birth control shot, then back to his house in his car, leaving her car in Sandy Ridge. When the front door had closed behind them again, Professor Dunn said, "Clothes off, Sarah. You'll be naked when we're here by ourselves, from now on."
It seemed so ordinary a command, after everything she had submitted to the previous night, that Sarah simply obeyed, stripping off her T-shirt and jeans, then her bra and panties, in the guest room, which John told her was now her room.
Sarah lost her virginity, as the concept is traditionally conceived, late that night, with John looking deeply into her eyes and her knees hooked over his arms, crying out in pain just the way she was supposed to, knowing she was supposed to, and seeing in her professor's eyes just how wild it drove him to hear her cry out that way.
It was so traditional, and so nontraditional, at once. John said, when he had lodged the head of his cock that first lovely half inch inside her coral inner lips, "I love you so much, Sarah." But then, after the first, hard thrust, and the first cry of pain, when she opened her eyes again to see him devouring her with his own eyes, enjoying the way her face twisted in pain at the loss of her pussy's innocence, he said, "Such a nice little cunny. It feels good on your Master's cock." And he began to move, murmuring, "That's so nice to fuck. Your little cunt is so nice and tight, little slut."
It was the terrible, demeaning words, of course, that drove Sarah wild, and made her say, "Fuck me harder, sir. Please, sir, come in my little pussy," once that first bloody, burn-y part had faded into memory.
If she had to choose the part that made her most exultant, it was the way they always talked to one another, whether he was in the shower with her, delighting in washing her naughty bits even as he kissed them, saying, "We must get this nice and clean, mustn't we?" with her replying, "Yes, sir. I want to be clean for you," or she was learning really to give head, and he said, "Oh, yes, that's very nice, young lady. You're learning to be a very good girl, aren't you?" or they were sitting at the kitchen table, eating pizza, talking about Rome, and what she wanted to see there most of all, and how he would take her there, and at what hotel they would stay, and how he wanted to make love to her all night with the sound of the fountains in the background. That was strange, because it was the first time the phrase “make love” had been uttered by either of them, but as October wore on, vanilla sex began to enter their repertoire. It was never a huge thing: nine times out of ten, what they did could only be described as fucking, but with that as context, sometimes it even seemed kinky to pretend they were a normal couple–l
ike the first time she was on top during sex, and she cried because she had never thought she could feel so connected to someone else as she did looking down into John's eyes, seeing them lit up with joy at the thought that his cock made her feel so good.
The talking was the best part because it was so different from what she'd grown up with. Her parents were wonderful, and she loved them, but as far as she could tell they never talked much with one another, let alone with their children. Their beliefs about self-determination didn't extend to helping a girl who wanted to live in ancient Rome or medieval England determine how best to act on that passion. The invariable response had always been, "That sounds really interesting. You should ask the librarian about that, Sarah." At college, she had begun to have real conversations. She remembered thinking one night at dinner in the dining hall that she and her friends were having a real conversation about real things: politics, theology, literature–things that she had just never talked about at home. Her conversations with John in October and November about themselves, about Roman history, about kinkiness, were a kind of ultimate realization of the dream she had seen coming true at college–words that really mattered: dialogue that seemed to build something missing before.
John wanted to know about why Livy's early history of Rome fascinated her, about how she'd found Mommsen, about what she wanted to do, and see, and be. If she had to pick one thing from October and November that she always wanted to remember, it was after he had put her collar around her neck for the first time, and she sat in his lap on the sofa in front of the fire, with him in jeans and T-shirt and her in, well, nothing except the collar, and they were (she was sure no one would ever believe it, but it was true) talking about Roman history.
That was one of the many forms that aftercare took for them. She wouldn't say that aftercare was her favorite part, because that seemed to her to betray her absolute need for the spanking and the caning and the brutal sex, but it was certainly the sweetest part. The first time it happened that way, with her collared, in front of the fire, was at about 2 a.m. on Sunday 29 September, when she had been enjoyed by John in every way a man can enjoy a woman, and she felt the very beginnings of what John told her was called “subdrop”. The fire was very warm, but she still shivered a bit in his arms.
