The Schooling of Carolyn [Academy for Discipline #1]

by Pearl Jones

  "I'm keeping you in French,” her tutor told her. “You haven't a chance of passing, and while it might be amusing to watch you try, I'd rather not hear you mangle such a lovely tongue."

  She quailed beneath his frown; he was really displeased with her. Bowing her head, she promised herself she'd do better.

  "You'll test for all the rest, and for a few specialty skills,” he added. Her head came up, wondering. She got no answers then, he simply waved at her to follow the attendant.

  She'd grown used to the anonymous figures’ attentions, but it was still difficult to strip before them. Small-town programming, and I am working on it! Though she knew it amused her tutor. Piece by piece, this one helped her out of her uniform and daily toys, until she stood completely nude. He or she then led her to stand before a mirror—not part of the usual routine—and handed her a skirt.

  It was a discreet plaid, but the weave was the only discreet thing about it; the hem was exactly long enough to hide her cunt, looked at straight on. She had never had the chance before to watch the flush creep down her chest. The shirt was as bad, a collared white cotton top that had no neck at all, but ended just at the base of her breasts. A single white garter and black patent leather shoes much like the mary janes she wore every day, but with two inch heels completed the new look. She was given no undergarments at all.

  Skin hot with embarrassment, she went where she was bade, to a salon she had seen once before, where a familiar figure waited, grinning.

  "Nice show you put on. Gonna do it again?"

  "I'm the victim this time,” she said.

  "And I get you first.” He rubbed his hands and waved her into a chair.

  He spent what seemed like hours doing things to her face; except for one fast-drying gel, it was applied with the tiniest of brushes. She'd expected trowels, or sponges, at least. Sometimes it tickled, or itched, sometimes she felt only a slight breeze. At his direction, she pursed her mouth, closed or widened her eyes, puffed out her cheeks. Fear faded, replaced by curiosity and then by excitement; when she squirmed in her chair, he pinched her nipple, very casually.

  When he was finished, he turned her chair around, toward a mirror. She couldn't see what he had done—there was no obvious color, no lines or circles, but her eyes looked large and wide, her mouth seemed slightly open even when it wasn't, her lips full and soft. He put something in her hair that made it shine like silk, then topped it with a headband. Like the clothing, it was an odd mix of innocent and harlot.

  She stared at her reflection for a while, fascinated. “Damn."

  "Senior year,” he told her, laughing gently. “You'll learn to do that for yourself, and at least a little of how to make up other people for various effects. If you have any talent in that area, we can even take you through a whole cosmetology program, complete with certificate."

  She blinked, completely at a loss for words. It hadn't occurred to her to wonder why the stylists weren't robed like the attendants, but now that she thought of it, that might mean they were instructors.

  Her mind flashed on those tiny brushes of his; she moaned.

  "Get gone,” he told her, “before I decide to paint a handprint on your ass."

  Her knees went weak at the thought. God, how humiliating that would be ... and how sexy.

  She strutted after the robe, hips swinging wide.

  The attendant led her to an alcove and motioned for her to wait—then leaned in to whisper, “Remember what I told you when you got here: you'll win friends by resisting as long as you can."

  Jack! Carolyn opened her mouth, but the robed figure had gone.

  She leaned against the wall, thinking. If the attendants were older students—or maybe recent graduates—what did that mean for her? I'll never stop blushing, but that's not news. Anyone could be under those robes, and she would never be able to look at her fellow students without wondering how many of them had intimate knowledge of her body.

  Though there was no one in sight, she felt like the world was staring. She had assumed the attendants were service people, like nurses or waiters. Not students like herself.

  That sometimes-separate part of her stirred. So what? They worked toward his ends, did what he wanted done. They are his tools. Do you worry what the dildos and the plugs think? Looked at that way, it did seem a little silly. Think about him. Please him, and he'll give you all that sensation you hunger for. A tiny muscular twitch, her body's reaction to any thought of him. Oh, please...

  When an attendant came to lead her, she didn't blush even a little bit. The calm didn't last.

  * * * *

  The clickety-clack of her heels echoed off stone; she flinched, then stumbled, almost fell. Carolyn felt more uncomfortable than the outfit could account for; she finally realized it was because she was being down a hall she had seen only once, the day of her first arrival. Where is this test supposed to be?

  Please, God, not Outside. Not out in the world, she meant, off the Academy grounds. She didn't think of being out of doors as a particular problem—until she stepped through the heavy doors and felt the sun on her uncovered breasts.

  "Eep.” Hope I don't burn. The attendant pointed, a dramatic gesture with the robe and gloves and all. She went where she was directed, walking toward a gated boxwood hedge above which pennants fluttered. The hedge bordered a large lawn, she knew, a plain stretch of greenery she found boring. Usually.

  There was nothing at all boring about the sight that met her eyes: here a platform she recognized from History, there a set of stocks she knew from personal experience, a ten-foot pole with a ring at the top and leashes dangling down ... some objects that threatened though she had no idea what they were for, others she knew at a glance how to use. Still others she recognized, but wondered about—what would a simple broom be used for, in the context of these tests? And combat boots?

  She didn't have long to wonder; her tutor approached and, very formally, offered her his arm. She looked up at him. “Orders, sir?” Her voice squeaked.

  "Do your best,” he replied, and smiled, and then led her to a table, a simple wooden rectangle with no grace at all, only strength. “Up,” said, and “stay,” and then he was gone. Leaving her to worry, and to blush as people wandered the lawn, looking at things. And then to marvel, as a few other students were brought in, and some of those strange objects were put into use.

  There was one like a rocking-horse that made her squirm—she was so fascinated that Bertha had to raise her voice. A lapse for which she was sure she would have to pay.

  In barely the blink of an eye, she was strapped into an Enforcer; this one, she was told, had a stronger bite. As intended, the thought sent a shiver of excitement through her—Bertha had vastly understated the case.

  "And just to keep things interesting,” the old woman went on, and motioned for someone to come near, “we've decided to test you two at once."

  Carolyn saw who was approaching and groaned.

  As Tom came close, though, she saw the absence of his usual cruel grin, and the mincing way he walked, and felt the slightest bit sorry for him. And then Bertha made him kneel, and she absolutely grinned. She looked down, and for one moment saw, not Tom, but her ex. Wha-at? God, bad as Tom is, he's so much stronger than that. He, at least, had the courage to come here. She smiled almost fondly, and Tom faltered, stared at her.

  He shook his head and bent over her breasts; she felt his breath on her, hot, then he opened his mouth wide and engulfed her—not her nipple, as she'd expected, but as much of her as he could. Her own mouth fell open in surprise; her eyes closed at the sensation.

  The Enforcer sent its warning thrumming through her. Right. Can't let him win. She clenched every muscle tight, held her breath, tried not to feel her breast swelling to fill Tom's mouth, the strange new pressures of his cheeks, the edges of his teeth, the way his tongue probed and pushed, lifting her to the roof of his mouth, hard and comparatively cool.

  "Time,” Bertha said, and Tom released her.
/>
  She wished she could sigh, didn't dare—she was far too close. And it would be no “transgression” this time, but failure.

  "She has two, you know,” the old woman said, and Tom tried to smile. Caro felt sorry for him; his test, whatever it was, must have been bothering him, or he wouldn't have looked so hang-dog. But then he turned his gaze to her, and licked his lips, and the Enforcer scolded before she knew she'd felt anything at all, and she decided she'd better pay attention to her own testing.

  This time he went after the nipple, biting down so hard it made her scream, even with his lips covering his teeth. He tugged and sucked like he was trying to tear it off, pulling her breast up and away from her chest, then turned his head to twist the tender nub of flesh, and then, without giving her any slack at all, started grinding his teeth, the bottom row going one way and that while the top remained in one place.

  She dug her nails into the table, heard a moan escape, felt tears fall, but all that was distant, unimportant. All her attention was on not moving, not coming, not screaming, not ... oh, God ... the Enforcer's shocks grew closer, and she so desperately wanted to give in, but her tutor wanted her to do her best, and she could still resist, so she must, all she had to do was not breathe, not move, not feel...

  "Time."

  Wait. Wait.

  "Tom!"

  Wait...

  He let go reluctantly, suckling until the last, and she shuddered and tried to stay still until he was gone. Hands unbuckled the Enforcer and pulled it away, and she finally, carefully, released her breath. Her crotch was sopping.

  Bertha smiled. “You pass."

  They gave her no time to rest, but ushered off to an area laid out like a children's playroom. The Law instructor asked her to demonstrate certain activities—the test was that he referred to them by the laws they broke. “Demonstrate, if you will, a violation of Texas Penal Code 21.06.” She thought she did fairly well.

  And then she went to Grace, who laughed as she held out a pointer and motioned to Tom, now bound to a St. Christopher's cross. “Can you make him come in three minutes or less?"

  Carolyn looked at the display, then the pointer, and back. He's not ticklish at all. Good control. They'd shared enough classes for her to know that. Likes French, but that's no help for me. She remembered a scene in the dining hall, the look on his face when he'd sucked Sherry dry. And the look in his eyes earlier, when he had helped test her.

  "May I use another method?"

  Grace made a lovely, graceful gesture—Carolyn tried to memorize it—inviting her to explain.

  "I think Tom would come in seconds if I offered him my breasts.” She trailed a finger down between them, then used both hands to press the flesh together. “Wouldn't you, Tom?"

  He didn't answer ... in words.

  Grace actually applauded, as did several others from various spots across the lawn.

  She was sent to rest for a bit after that, kneeling in the first position she had learned, a hood over her head so she could neither see nor hear what went on around her. It always frightened her, the not knowing. She figured they knew that, that this might be yet another test, so did her best to remain still and calm.

  It wasn't easy, with grass tickling her crotch, and myriad breezes whenever people walked by, and the occasional brush of a robe or darting hand. She tried, and told herself that was all she could do, and waited for someone to do something. Anything. Please, please, please, someone—let me come!

  Please, sir.

  There were different people near when the hood was removed, and she was led, blinking, to a stage: Sherry, on something like a gymnast's bars, her breasts offered to anyone who walked beneath. Rachel, a quiet girl whose bed was near Carolyn's, straddling a balance beam, with weights on her ankles to increase the pressure, and probably a vibrator within. Dave, another cut-up, though not as mean as Tom, crawling on the grass...

  She wished she could stare, but knew better. Besides, the stage was fascinating, too. “Since you have proved so able a dramatist,” her instructor drawled, “you may enact a scene from history. Using,” a wave, “these props."

  That seemed to be permission for her to look around, so she did. There wasn't much choice for setting: a block of stone, a narrow wood table, or a white cloth she could drape over either, or lay on the stage floor. And no other “actors,” so it would have to be a solo scene. Something out of History ... Most of the stories she liked best had many more than a single person. Maybe the props would be more help. She found dildos of what looked like ivory and jade, obsidian and granite, rough wood and polished. Plugs, harnesses, clamps and clips, whips and scourges and things for which she had no names. And in a box beneath those, she found “costumes"—belts and hats and masks and shoes.

  "Curtain in five,” the instructor said, and she made her choice: a gold mask, a headdress with black wig attached, a wide gold and cloisonne belt. Wriggling out of her school clothing took longer than she'd hoped, as did struggling into the new gear. And then there was a moment of panic as she realized she'd forgotten her only prop, and had to dig around for it, but when the instructor called “Curtain” she was ready.

  "Oh,” she called, trying for a proper volume, “my precious bees—come hither, and partake of my royal honey.” She flourished Cleopatra's dildo in the air.

  Whistles and cheers and catcalls from the audience made her blush, but hidden behind the mask, she decided she didn't care. They wanted a scene from history, that's what they would get. And I'll bet no one ever told Cleo she couldn't come!

  Even when she realized the buzzing wasn't mechanical, it didn't stop her. She straddled the stone, trying to angle her body so her tutor would have the best view, canted her hips, and set the tool between her lips. It really did vibrate, softly. She teased herself, and her audience, for a while, then slowly pressed it home, sighing in pleasure as she was filled. And out, all the way, so they could it glisten, and back again.

  Then faster, and harder, and more, and the buzzing increased—and a bee not trapped in the toy descended from somewhere and stung her thigh.

  Her scream, half pain, half climax, broke the crowd up, and she didn't blame them one bit.

  * * * *

  The sun had set; attendants brought lamps and lanterns, and a few living candelabras were prodded into place. Carolyn knelt at her tutor's side, unhooded this time, and watched as one student or another was tested. And then an odd low table was brought into the light.

  Carolyn moaned when she saw it—she knew what it was for, though she had never seen it before. Knees there, hands there, and, oh, God, he'll have perfect access. She slanted a look up at him.

  He smiled back at her. “Carolyn."

  There was no need for further command; she knee-walked forward, climbed awkwardly onto the strange frame, and settled into place. The top felt familiar, like any desk fitted for sex, cool polished wood beneath her breasts, padded leather hand-grips. The oddities began at her waist: a leather mount held her ass high, there were cups for her knees that kept her spread and separate, and the leg supports were individual. The posture was not only perfect for corking or whipping, but there was no way she'd be able to stimulate herself, not even any way to rub her clit against anything.

  She didn't need any help—was close to coming just at the thought of finally having him. The familiar chill of lube helped, a little shock to cut through mounting pleasure.

  "Back.” She pushed, opening to his finger, thick and firm and warm beneath the lube. “Stay."

  She quivered at his quick withdrawal, longing to clench down, to keep him in, wanting to please him, wanting his cock.

  "Speak."

  "Oh, God, please. Please. Cork me! Fuck my ass!"

  From somewhere beyond the lights, a murmur. “Not elegant.” She heard, groaned—failed that test—but couldn't think of other words.

  He laughed, and his voice took on that velvet tone she loved. “Surely you've learned some manners in your time here?"

&
nbsp; "Please, sir.” Words. Now? She thought back to his first show with her. “You taught me to enjoy. Let others see how well I have learned."

  For her ears only, he prompted, “Enjoy what?"

  "I was wrong, sir, when I came here. I thought,” she swallowed, still embarrassed to speak the words, “I thought anal penetration was wrong, but nothing you do could be wrong. You taught me to love being plugged.

  "And, oh, I want to learn more!"

  Scattered applause from the audience; she didn't care. She turned her head, trying to look behind her, where he stood. Was it enough? Will he?

  "Close your eyes,” he said, and grasped her ass cheeks. She felt his thumbs at her cleft, his fingers spread almost to her hips. Then a slick heat unlike anything she had ever known. His cock, knocking to come in. Amazing, how different it felt there than it would have just an inch forward. Hotter, harder, huge. She thought of a word she had only learned days before: Indomitable. His cock pressed at her ass hole, indomitable.

  Perhaps she said it; he chuckled. “Thank you.” And then he pressed harder, and she felt her sphincter stretch and stretch and stretch ... He didn't stop until the flare of his head had passed.

  "Oh-h-h.” No. Not yet. Not. Yet. Her body tightened around him; she felt his pulse in counterpoint to her own, little thrummings like a snare shaking through her. Tiny little orgasmic shakings trying to blend into one great climax. But that was not allowed, and she so wanted to feel him all the way inside her. If I fail now, he might not. Hold still. Don't breathe. Just wait.

  He moved—back. Pulled out, then pushed forward again, head and half the shaft in a single stroke.

  She clamped down as hard as she could, desperate to stop the climax, but to no avail. As he pulled out again, she screamed, and kept screaming as he pushed deep into her, forcing his way past the spasms to send her higher than she had ever been. His pulse beat strong in his cock, heat and strength and that different rhythm a sensation she could never have dreamed.

  And it did not stop. He stroked through her climax, and her body responded, doubling and redoubling the pleasure. And then he came inside her, jets of heat that sent her higher still, until all the world went white, and then dark.