The Education of Ivy Leavold

by Sierra Simone

“You are going to be a good girl while you take your punishment, correct?”

  I dug my fingernails into his hands, trying to pry them off my hips. “Not if you’re going to be like this,” I said, my voice protesting and plaintive. I knew I had no power here. I knew that I wanted to have no power here. But resisting felt so natural, as natural as submitting when Julian’s will finally overcame my own. I dug deeper, no plan except to release his hold on me and maybe bring myself off with my own hand.

  He didn’t wince, even though I knew I had broken the skin in a few places. Rather, he let go of my hips and seized my hands in a fierce one-handed grip, tight enough that I had no hope of struggling free, but not quite tight enough to bruise. I tried pulling backwards, leaning my body weight into the effort, while he used his other hand to unknot his tie and slide the fabric from his neck. Once I realized what he had planned, I pulled harder and harder, squirming and twisting to get away, but it was no use. In a matter of seconds, my wrists were bound with silk, and he was standing before me, eyes burning with anger and his member still very erect, the wide tip flaring with unabashed need.

  “You are quite the wayward pupil today,” he said, unamused. He laced one hand in my hair, dislodging the pinned braids and twists that I had hastily thrown up this morning, and then dragged me over to the table like a cat by the scruff of the neck. He bent me over the table, pressing my face against the cool, glossy wood.

  “You consented to be my student, did you not?” he asked.

  I couldn’t nod, not with the way he had my head pinned, but I squeaked out a yes.

  “You consented and then you removed your ring and tried to leave. I can’t let that stand, Ivy. I cannot.”

  And then there was a sharp crack and a stinging burn that rocked my entire body. I cried out, moaning into the wood, searching for the right word to say, and then there was another crack and I shrieked, the flash of pain taking me more by surprise than the first.

  He was spanking me. He was bending me over and slapping my bare ass with his hand. The word I needed—the word I was desperate to say—finally filtered through the pain. Bluebell. But at the same moment, I felt the wetness between my legs.

  I was so aroused that I was almost dripping. I moaned again, not from pain this time, but from want. And did I want him to spank me again? I decided that I did.

  I turned my head as much as I could, my mouth meeting his thumb, and I bit down as hard as I could. He hissed in anger, snatching his hand away, but he didn’t spank me again.

  “I know what you want, wildcat. You may resist my teachings, but you can’t hide that greedy cunt from me. You want me to turn this beautiful ass red and glowing, and one day, I promise you, I will. You will learn to take your discipline any way I choose to dole it out.” He ran a hand from my neck down to my lower back, his touch soft and loving. “You are so beautiful right now, Ivy, bent over for me. I love it when you think you can fight me. But I will love it even more when you have succumbed to your discipline and you take your lesson with eagerness.”

  He stepped behind me, so close that I could feel the fabric of his trousers on the back of my legs, and then without warning, he rammed into me, sheathing himself in one rough thrust. I was wet, but still not entirely ready, and so the thrill of pleasure I felt was serrated and jagged, the kind of feeling that curled my toes and hardened my nipples and clenched my core.

  “Fuck, you’re tight,” he said, and in his words was a slender crack in his armored control. He bent over me as he sawed in and out, kissing my shoulders and biting my back in ferocious bites, as if he wanted to devour me whole. I shuddered and rocked into him, his touch driving me wild. He took my hips in his hands and then swiftly kicked my legs apart to widen his access—and to let him plunge deeper. The wider stance meant I could barely touch the floor, and so he held me up by the hips, driving into me relentlessly as my toes scrabbled for purchase on the carpet.

  “Ivy, I feel your pussy swelling. It’s getting tighter and tighter and there—your fingernails on the table. You’re about to gauge the surface.” He leaned in and rasped in my ear. “If you come without my permission, I will flay your ass raw and withhold your pleasure for days…or weeks. That trip to York will seem like child’s play in comparison to the deprivation I can wreak.”

  His cock was so big—so big and so hard—and the way he had me lifted up meant that the wide head of his dick was stroking the irresistible spot inside. The spot that turned off my brain and made me into a rutting animal.

  “I can’t stop,” I said breathily. “You…you’re too good and your cock…oh Julian, it’s making me feel so good.”

  “Fuck.”

  His name. It was his name that did it. I often forgot it was my best weapon; for whatever reason, it undid him, snagging at the cracks in his control. With a growl that bordered on a roar, he pulled out and grabbed me by the back of my neck—truly like a cat this time, snatching me off the table and forcing me over to the tall windows against the far wall. My bound hands made it nearly impossible to avulse myself from his grip.

  He took my silk-wrapped wrists and lifted them high above my head. “What are you—” And then I was pressed—no, smashed—against the cold, cold glass, pressed from my swollen clitoris to my breasts to my cheek, which was turned to the side. The window was a cold shock to my system, and my nipples beaded uncomfortably as goose bumps raced across my skin. My climax retreated, oh so slowly, as painful as withdrawing a splinter from the skin. I whined against the glass, my breath creating fogged clouds that advanced and disappeared, advanced and disappeared, hypnotic in the way they matched the pounding of my heart.

  “You will not come until I say.” Another stinging slap across my backside. “Is that clear, Miss Leavold?”

  I nodded slowly, feeling almost like a snake under the charm of a pipe-player. My conscious mind tried valiantly to make sense of all the pushes and pulls of Mr. Markham’s will and my own, of the impossibly numerous sensations and tingling nerve endings and thwarted mating instincts. It couldn’t.

  “Good,” Mr. Markham said, and then he patted my head, stroking my hair softly. “That’s a good pet.” His words sunk in through my misted mind, strangely soothing. “You want to make me happy, don’t you? You want to please your teacher?”

  Yes. God yes. I nodded, eagerly this time. Yes, that was what I wanted. For his wide smile to crack that strict expression, for his faint smile lines to crease around those forbidding eyes. I wanted to hear him say that he loved me. I wanted him to praise me.

  I was brought over to the sofa, led by my wrists, and then Mr. Markham sat. His shaft was slick and wet and dark now, though I could still see the blue traceworks of his throbbing veins, veins that fed the monster jutting out from his hips. “I’m not going to come in your cunt,” he told me. “But you are going to ride me until I am ready to. It is your task to make me come.” He reached down and cupped his heavy balls, exposed by his open trousers. “I need to come hard, Ivy, do you understand? I need to drain every last drop.” He leaned back. “And if you accomplish this task well, you will be rewarded after your punishment.”

  My cunt pulsed at the thought. Reward. Praise.

  Love.

  He inclined his head ever so slightly, giving me consent, and I climbed onto him as fervently as a sinner dropping to her knees in church. My tied wrists made it difficult to position myself, and he didn’t help. He rested his arms on the back of the sofa, watching me intently, doing nothing to guide himself inside my soaking wet pussy. Finally, I managed, and I drew in a sharp breath at how good he felt, how good it all felt, and I sank down to the root, wiggling a little to impale myself fully.

  “Put your hands behind your head. I want to see those tits bounce.”

  I did as I was ordered and began rocking myself on his cock, grinding my clit against him, feeling my orgasm pulse back into life in mere seconds—

  His hands shot out and lifted me up, until only the head of his cock was still notched in my
cleft. “No,” he admonished me. “Bad girl.” He let me sink slowly back down. “Up and down only. You are not to come. You are here to fuck me until I spurt, nothing else.”

  I knew I was whimpering but my resistance was melting away.

  Why fight? Why fight, because when I obeyed, he gave me that look of kingly approval and animal desire, fused into one terrifyingly perfect glance—like he was ready to give me his kingdom and fuck me until I sobbed all at the same moment. No, the fight was fading, leaving nothing left but us, but our true selves and our true souls, and the slick sound of my folds embracing his organ, a sound older than any other human sound.

  I put my hands behind my head again and kept moving up and down, my thighs—strong from all of my climbing and running and walking—easily lifting me up and down, up and down.

  “More,” he said lazily, leaning his head back. His eyes were hooded. “Faster.”

  I complied, my breasts bouncing as I slid up and down as fast as I could, root to tip, again and again and again. He closed his eyes. “Good,” he said and his voice had a quiet hitch in it, like he couldn’t quite control his breath. “Oh, that’s very good. You’re so wet, Ivy. You’re so wet and so warm. I could spend all day fucking you, and I will. Damn it all to hell, I will have you any way I want, any time I want.”

  He was swelling, growing harder, and little growls were escaping from his throat. He opened his eyes—the man gone, nothing left but the male, that wild entity that was only unleashed when he was deep within me. He looked down at where we were joined. “Milk me with that cunt,” he demanded. His expression grew harsh and needy and cruel and uncontrolled, and I almost came just seeing his face. “Yes, like that. Just like that. Faster. Goddammit, I said faster!”

  A sharp hiss and then I was thrown unceremoniously off, caught around the waist before I truly fell, and shoved onto the floor, facedown. The rug was the best rug in the house, deeply plush and silky against my cheek, but I didn’t have time to think about that. Mr. Markham was on top of me, his wet cock burrowing into my ass. I tensed, wondering if this was it—the thing he’d threatened to do on the road, but then he rocked his hips, his length sliding in between the globes of my ass, and I realized he was rubbing himself off against the soft skin there, pressing my ass tight around his shaft and pumping relentlessly into the slick, snug channel he’d made for himself there.

  “Look at yourself,” he said. “Letting me hold you down and use you. I can see the head of my dick peeping through your ass cheeks when I thrust. My cock is so wet…you drenched me earlier with your pussy. Only whores get wet when men use them, Ivy.”

  His words should have made me feel debased, devalued, but instead, they had me grinding my mound into the rug, arching my back at the same time, wishing against all logic that his cock would slip and find its way back into me where it belonged. He saw this. “You are so greedy for my cock, wildcat. And you’ll get it. Just not yet…” his voice trailed off as his thrusts became more irregular and frenzied. “That’s it,” he said savagely. “You’re going to feel me spill onto your empty cleft and you’re going to like it. Fuck.”

  He stopped moving and pushed my cheeks apart, exposing the small, sensitive ring of my anus. He held his cock poised there, not stroking himself, just holding his root and pressing the velvet head against the thin, virgin skin of my dark entrance. And then he came with a dangerous noise—a noise that sent a shot of adrenaline through me, because it was raw and powerful and it hinted at dissatisfaction and unfinished business. His cum was hot and thick and still more came as he held his dick against my ass, coating me in himself. I wanted to see it, so awfully did I want to see what we looked like right now: me spread facedown on the carpet, him kneeling above me, one hand holding himself as he jetted cum onto my exposed entrance.

  And then he was finished, his breathing the only sound in the room other than the fire, which I belatedly realized was very close to my position on the rug. It was warm, so very warm, and I didn’t move even as he stood, which ended up being fortunate for me.

  When he spoke, his voice was calm and matter-of-fact. “Now we are truly ready for your punishment, Miss Leavold.”

  My mind was still foggy and my thoughts were still clouded, and so it took me a minute to find the right words and say them coherently. “That wasn’t…we’re still…we’re not finished yet?”

  His low chuckle was silken and lush, and I shivered just hearing it. “I still plan on keeping my promise,” he said. “First, I need you to stay exactly where you are. But cross your legs at the ankles.”

  I complied, feeling the copious wetness he had left on my skin as I did.

  “Good.” He squatted down by my head, reaching over to plump my bottom. “What do you know about anal sex, Miss Leavold?”

  What did he think? I’d been a virgin when I met him. “Nothing. Obviously.”

  That earned me a hard slap on the flank. “Don’t get smart. Answer the question.”

  I closed my eyes, feeling at sea with this new turn. “I don’t know anything about it, Mr. Markham. I know nothing at all.”

  “Good. I like teaching you. And the first thing to know about anal sex is that you need lubrication. Lots of lubrication. Otherwise, it may hurt you quite a lot.”

  I opened my eyes, the word hurt sending alarm pinging anew through me.

  “I see you’re taking my meaning. Good.” The hand returned to plumping and caressing, and I sighed despite myself, my uneasiness immediately relaxing under his touch. “There are oils made for such a purpose, oils that can be scented or made to increase sensitivity or made to induce numbness or any other variety of things.” His other hand started stroking my hair. “I own all of them. And next time we do this, we will use them. I will make your ass so slippery that sliding into it will be as easy as sliding into your cunt. And I promise that when I fuck you there, you will come, perhaps harder than you ever have before.”

  Another slap. I jumped involuntarily and his hand was caressing and gentle again, easing me back into relaxation. “But this isn’t only about pleasure today. This is about your actions and my discipline. I intend to mark you and make you my own. Make you completely my own, and you will learn that your ass belongs only to me, same as your cunt and your mouth. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Mr. Markham.”

  “Good girl.” He stood. “Today, the only lubrication you get will be from me. From what I just left on you. I hope your ankles are crossed tight, wildcat, because every drop that you let drip down that perfect pussy and onto the floor is one less drop for me to use when I take your ass. And I’m taking it no matter how ready or prepared it is.”

  I whimpered, afraid again. All of a sudden, I was painfully aware of how his come was sliding away from where I needed it. I crossed my ankles as tightly as I could, pressing my knees together, trying to hold his essence where it belonged, but the curve of my body made it difficult. I squirmed up, pushing my ass into the air and making my back as concave as possible.

  “Please,” I said into the carpet. “Please do it now.”

  “I could,” he mused. “I am already hard again. Look at my cock, Ivy.”

  I looked. His cock was indeed hard again, bobbing slightly as it pulsed thicker and thicker. I swallowed, lust overriding everything else. I wanted him inside so badly.

  He walked around my prone form on the floor, absent-mindedly massaging his sack as he observed me. “You look amazing like this,” he said after a minute. “Back arched, dripping with my seed, begging me to take your ass. This, my future wife, this is the benefit of a good education.”

  I was shaking now, with combined terror and lust, with my suppressed orgasm and with the effort to keep my body curved upwards. “You’ll need to relax,” he instructed. “If you relax when I push in, it will hurt so much less. Feel the fire on your body. Feel how it warms your skin and loosens your muscles. Imagine your entire body, from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes, filled with the warmth of the summer
sun. Imagine yourself stretched out under that sun like a cat, basking and purring.”

  I was being petted again, his hands skimming my back and rubbing the outside of my legs. I did as he said, and I imagined it all, the warmth, the looseness, the catlike desire to be languorous and fluid.

  “What a good kitten,” he murmured. “Oh, such a good kitten.”

  I even felt like purring under his expert hands and his husky praise. I tilted my head into his hand when it came there, resting it against his palm. An arm wrapped around my waist as he knelt down beside me again. He pressed a kiss to the back of my neck. “You are perfect,” he whispered. “Remember that, because this next part will not be easy for you.”

  The arm lifted me to my elbows and knees. I was trembling again as he took his place behind me and slid his shaft into my sex. I relaxed an infinitesimal amount, as if I’d been granted a reprieve, but then I felt his finger gently probe the tight ring above my cunt, glazing every secret pleat and crimp with the wetness I’d so anxiously tried to conserve. The finger pushed in easily, and I groaned, feeling nothing but pleasure as I pushed back into him, wanting more of his cock and his finger.

  There was that low, silky chuckle again. And then another finger, which I didn’t buck into. I stopped, trying to adjust to the new feeling of fullness. The fingers were not still, but rather constantly in motion, moving in and out or tugging experimentally outwards, as if trying to widen the entrance bit by bit. The tugs made me tense, but then Mr. Markham found my clitoris with his other hand and began working it in expert circles. I moaned, pushing back against him then, his fingers no longer a distraction, but a darkly deep bliss.

  “That’s it,” he crooned in my ear. “Good.”

  And then—just as I was feeling that tension string through my pelvis once more—his fingers were gone.

  “I will be honest with you,” Mr. Markham said. “I’m not planning on doing this gently. I’m going to fuck your ass as hard as I can. But I promise you that I will finally let you come. In fact, I will make you come. Do you trust that I will?”