her

[AbusiveMaster]

She swallowed, nervous as ever, as she undid the brown paper package that lay on her bed. As the twine pulled away, the layers drawn back, exposing the contents. The pleated grey skirt, fitting to mid thigh almost giving the game away by itself. The knee high socks and pristine white cotton of her underwear only confirming her suspicions. By the time she donned the crisp white blouse (one size too small, so tight over her full chest,) tie and blazer, they came as no surprise. A short note at the bottom of the parcel instructing her to put her hair in pigtails, which was easy enough, but the rest of the instructions were not quite so simple.

Locking her front door, she put her keys into the brown leather satchel, slung it over one shoulder, and set out across town to the address he had left for her. The patent leather flats he provided clicking loudly on the concrete. Though the weather was quite mild, the spring winds caught worryingly at the hem of her skirt, the material billowing just enough to make her very aware of the fabric flapping about her legs. Cursing her own obedience, she made her way into the newsagents as instructed. Bending low to look at the teen magazines, she swore he had even chosen the shop to humiliate her, the selection she had been given set near the bottom of the rack. She could either bend over and expose her rear to the shop behind, or drop into a squat and expose her underwear in front. Deciding on the latter seemed less risky, nobody was in front of her. As she ran her finger along Just Seventeen, Popstar, Shout, pulling them out to look at the glossy covers before slipping each back onto the shelf, she felt every eye on her, whether anyone was watching or not. Her skirt dipping between her thighs, just concealing the cotton cladding her sex, the pristine white already shadowed with her musk, starting to cling to the furred lips of her moistening sex.

Done with the magazines, not buying one, she made her way to the counter. “Buy a lolly, eat it on the way here,” he had instructed. “Your money is in your school-bag.” Selecting a lolly was a pleasure, she did enjoy sweets. Setting her satchel on the counter, she started to root through for the promised cash. A few schoolbooks had to be removed, she set them on the glass, aware of a queue forming behind her. The fluffy pink pencil case embarrassing enough, but nothing compared to the large black dildo she found beneath. Rooting around, trying desperately to conceal the phallus, before she finally found the purse he had provided. Naturally it was pink, Nala from 'The Lion King' stencilled on the front. Stuffing her books back into the bag, before opening the purse – and finding it full of copper coins. By now there were a good half dozen people behind her as she counted ones and twos. Loathing maths at the best of times, the heat, pressure and humiliation only serving to make things more complicated, she painstakingly counted out 75 pence in coppers, then fled from the shop, her cheeks flaming, almost forgetting her lolly in her haste to leave. All this and she was barely five minutes from her front door yet.

Satchel over her shoulder, sucking on her lollipop, she trudged up the hill, following the route he had set out for her. The rising wind picked up her skirt often, exposing her underwear to anyone behind her, but she had been forbidden from stopping it, so each gust, every errant breeze merely increased her panicked arousal. Not knowing how badly she was being exposed, she didn't dare look, and it was with a profound gratitude she reached the bus shelter. Looking at the timetable on the wall, her heart sank again. Twenty minutes till the bus. Fortunately he had given her a prepaid pass, at least she wouldn't have to pay her fare in coppers, the bus would probably leave without her.

Her lolly lasted almost till the bus arrived. She saw the passers by looking at her. Still young, still beautiful, but obviously not the schoolgirl she was dressed as, she drew more than her share of appreciative glances. Those were bad enough, but the honks of appreciation from passing traffic were altogether too far, in her opinion. She passed the time reviewing every swearword and curse she knew, mentally hurling them at her Master, inventing new ones when she ran dry. Finally the bus arrived, and she made her way to the very back, as instructed. Her crotch eye level with each seated passenger, almost close enough to feel their breath, certainly close enough to feel their eyes. Sitting down, she took a sigh and relaxed, knowing she had at least the length of the bus ride to relax.

The half hour journey seemed to take no time at all. Three stops from where she had to alight, two stops, one... As instructed, as the bus pulled away from the final stop, she pulled up her skirt, tucking it into the back of her knickers, as if accidentally, exposing her cotton-sheathed behind. Standing up as the bus slowed, she stumbled forwards, again running the gauntlet of crotch-high eyes, but this time knowing each and every one of them was focused on her exposed rump. As the bus slowed, her steps staggering and uncertain, she wondered if anyone could see the dark shadow on her underwear, she imagined they could smell her arousal through the thin cotton, knowing well just how fragrant she could be when her juices were flowing. Not daring to look, she made her way down the long aisle, arriving as the bus ground to a halt, even the driver pausing, delaying opening the doors to take a good, hard look at her. Jumping down from the bus, she hastily snatched her skirt free of her underwear, straightening it down the second she was permitted to, wondering if she were completely insane.

Her satchel over one shoulder, one hand clasping the note which directed her up one street, down another. Her bladder protesting by now, it had been quite some time since she had been permitted to use the bathroom. The wind whistling down the narrow streets, snatching at her skirts as she travelled the now unfamiliar roads and alleyways. Not knowing quite where she was only serving to heighten her dread and anticipation, the slight frisson of fear adding to the blossoming mixture of emotions churning in her belly. Fear, arousal, growing desperation as her need to urinate grew. Finally she reached her destination. Turning up the steps of the old building, she set her hand to the heavy, wooden door and pushed. As the note promised, it wasn't locked, the hinges creaking as it swung slowly inwards into a badly lit hallway.

The door swung shut behind her, cutting off the light from the street. Though not utterly dark, the corridor was dim enough to make her nervous. Third door to the left. Her footsteps slow, patent leather shoes loud, but drowned out by the hammering of her heartbeat in her ears. Just a few yards, but they seemed to take longer than the rest of her journey. Standing outside the door, she raised her closed fist. Knuckles striking the wood, barely heard, the timid knock weak – but answered. “Come in.”

The door swung easily open, revealing a small room, decked out as a study. Bookcases lined the walls. By the central window, a large, imposing wooden desk. One hard wooden chair in front of it, and behind.... behind sat her Master. Sitting in a leather wing-backed chair, he wore dress trousers, shirt and tie. She smiled inwardly when she saw he had even managed to find a tweed jacket and, yes, leather patches on the elbows.

“Come in, Miss Green,” he told her softly, not bothering to look up. A slight wave across the desk indicated the hard chair opposite him. “Take a seat.”

She crossed the room, her eyes never leaving him, though his never once rose to her that she could see. Holding a book in front of him, he calmly read as she settled herself in front of him, and continued to read. Somewhere unseen, a clock loudly sliced away the seconds. The infuriatingly loud tick, the soft turn of a page, and her own breathing the only sounds in the room. Minutes passed, so many of them. She opened her mouth to speak, but his hand rose, one finger outstretched in silent warning, the only indication he knew she was there, the digit moving to turn a page as she settled into protracted silence. Every passing minute an agonising torment for her, why wouldn't he speak? Why wouldn't he look at her? Was she in trouble? Had she done something wrong? In reality, perhaps ten minutes passed, but n her mind it had been hours, before he set his book on the desk. Resting his chin on interlaced fingers, he looked at her across the expanse of oak.

“I am not going to bother listing the reasons you are here,” he told her in his soft, calm voice. “We both know you have been trouble from the minute you started here.” Rising from his chair, he opened a drawer and drew out a stiff leather tawse. The almost rigid strap breaking off into two tongues halfway down its length. “I am not going to ask you to explain yourself, I don't care what your excuses are. I am not going to waste my time telling you why, we both know. No, Miss Green, today we are just going to take care of this little problem, once and for all.”

Tapping the leather strap in the hollow of his palm, he slowly walked around the desk as he spoke. By the time his short speech had ended, he was standing over the seated, trembling girl. She had worked out the nature of the game by now, and nodded. Even though she knew they were playing, the shy nerves of her reply were anything but pretend, that tawse looked vicious, even if she had never felt one before. The leather fell across the wooden desktop so swiftly she hadn't noticed the swing of his arm. The crack of leather on wood thunderous in the small, dimly lit room. The fright almost emptying her bladder, she had to clench to regain control of herself. Even quieter in the wake of the deafening crack, his voice sounded out simply again. “Bend over the desk.”

As she rose, she heard him pull the chair away, the feet scraping over bare floorboards. The desk was high, too high for her petite self. Standing up awkwardly on tiptoes as she bent herself over the hard corner, her breasts pressing flat into the oaken surface. Her thighs stretched even further apart as his foot nudged her ankles, spreading her legs, her tiptoes barely brushing the floor. She felt the cool air of the room on her buttocks as he lifted her skirt. Though the length of the garment concealed little, her position already revealing her knickers, the fact he had so casually raised it left her feeling even more exposed. His fingertip pressed into her slit, running firmly down the length of her sex, pressing her gusset between her lips.

“Already?” he mocked softly, she knew exactly what he meant, the cotton clinging to her sodden folds. “We will deal with that later.”

His left hand pressed down into the hollow of her spine, pinning her easily to the desk. Her head turned to look at him, peering over her shoulder. As her eyes focussed on his face, she felt a searing fire across her buttocks. The first blow catching her unawares, bringing a surprised “ow” from between her lips, which she cursed herself for, priding herself in taking beatings silently. “Eyes front,” he instructed, the tawse landing a second time before her head had completed its turn.

Her underwear provided no protection. The hard leather strap beating down mercilessly. He paused a few heartbeats between each blow, giving her time to think, to anticipate the next. Over the course of only a few minutes, two dozen strokes had turned her buttocks livid red, colouring her as she had never been able to colour herself. Though she couldn't see the marks, she felt each line of fire as it imprinted in her flesh. Her mind drifted into a haze of pain and contentment. This was what she needed. Nobody else knew just how to hit her, just how hard, just how much. Oh she had been spanked before, but always they had been just that little too timid. The only 'proper' beating she had experienced needed several hundred strokes to get her even to this point. When the tawse stopped, she whimpered softly. Not even she knew if it was in relief or disappointment. His fingertips slid into the waistband of her knickers, drawing them down, and she knew it was the latter, actual relief flooding her, alongside fear and embarrassment as the brief garment was drawn down, exposing her naked sex and anus to his gaze. As he took the cotton from her foot, he held it up to his nose, inhaling deeply. Her head turned to watch and he allowed it this time, knowing the shame she would feel as he breathed in the scent that stained her underwear. “It seems someone is enjoying this,” he mocked with a soft smile. Reaching across the desk, he gently stroked her lips with the gusset of her knickers. The smell was stronger than she had feared, rich and heady. Pressing the garment to her lips, she knew what he expected and opened her mouth. Tasting herself as he gently forced her underwear onto her tongue, gagging her with her own undergarments. “Face front,” he instructed a second time, and she did.

His fingertip drew a line down her sex again, this second caress bare, ten times as powerful, brushing aside the dense, damp curls he hated so, the hair he forced her to grow. Her body pressed back into his brief touch, only to jerk away again as the tawse slammed into the underside of her buttock, the crease where arse met thigh, that she termed her sit-spot.

She soon lost track of how many blows he had given her, she had not been instructed to count, for which she was so grateful. Not focussing on the numbers allowed her to give her full attention to the burning pain, the searing in her ass and thighs. She was used to the traffic light system, used to having the security of a safeword to rely on, and had she still had the luxury, she would have called 'yellow' long before he finished. But her trust for him was absolute. Deservedly so, for though she couldn't see, he was observing closely. Her reaction to every stoke of the tawse deliberated before he delivered the next. The entire expanse of her backside glowing an angry, livid red.

Her bladder erupted, the strain too much for her, her sex gushed as the hot flow of urine shot across the room behind her, the violent torrent soaking the floorboards, before lessening to instead cascade down her thighs, trickling from her feet, dripping to the floor. The bursting of one dam seemed to breach another. Somewhere inside her something snapped, and she burst into a torrent of tears. Each new stroke bringing screams from her lungs, the knickers dislodged as she howled into the small room. Still he continued, though each stroke was softer now, not needing the force to keep the fire in her flesh alive. Tears streamed down her face before he stopped. Her body shuddering, the wracking breaths stuttering in her lungs.

He stopped. His fingers stroked her cheek, smearing the rivulet of tears into her skin. “Good girl,” he told her, the love and warmth in his voice seemingly alien compared to the mocking dispassion of his earlier pronouncements. Physically lifting her from the desk, he carried her trembling form easily, cradled against his chest, her arms wrapping about her neck. Carrying her to the chair, he sat himself down, pulling her tighter into his embrace.

Though her buttocks stung with the fire of her beating, she would sooner have died than leave her seat, sobbing into her Master's chest. His steady presence giving her a strength which she devoured as if she were starving. If he noticed she had stained his trousers with her urine and her juices, he made no mention or gave no sign of it, her wellbeing occupied every iota of his attention. Brushing his fingertips through her sweat soaked hair, kissing her brow with soft, lingering touches. He could taste her sweat on his lips, feel her rampant heartbeat slamming into his chest, every tremor of her body translating into his. Taking her hurt, her humiliation, her tears, he returned peace, security, contentment. After breaking her physically free of every barrier she had placed on herself over the long years of hiding, he filled her instead with simple, uncompromising love.

When at last her tears had passed, he stood again, carrying her once more, cradled in his arms. Leaving the austere office, he lifted his slavegirl into a warm, inviting bedroom, laying her gently down on the padded mattress. His fingers worked calm and sure, stripping her of the little clothing remaining of her, each garment placed on a chair beside the bed. Standing above her, he took his time in undressing. The tweed jacket took no time to join her uniform on the chair. His shirt seemed to take an age, her eyes lingering as he worked down each button in turn. Tearstains made the shirt almost translucent in places, sticking to his skin. Removing the shirt at last, he loosened his trousers. No underwear beneath, his erection sprang forth as he lowered the dress pants to the floor, kicking off his shoes as he stepped out of them.

Naked, he joined her on the bed, parting her legs and settling between them. Starting mid thigh, he slowly kissed his way up the inside of her leg. Savouring her skin against his lips, her taste on his tongue, he worked his way in gentle steps, closer, approaching her sex. Feeling her heat on his cheek and ear as his face glided slowly closer. She whimpered again as he shifted, so close to where she wanted him, moving instead to the other leg. Kissing as softly, as thoroughly as before from the hollow of her knee, right up to her crotch. Avoiding her sodden slit, his lips worked through the thick thatch of hair, brushing, teasing, working her into a frenzy. Every second he refused her silent plea only adding to the growing need. The heat in her buttocks now faded from agony to lust, the aftermath of her beating waking the intense passion pain brings to her. Finally, his fingers press into her skin, parting her lips, opening her to his hungry gaze. His passion no less than hers, just contained far more tightly.

His lips press against her, his tongue flickering out, touching her sex, teasing the tip of her clit just gently. His breath hot on her sensitive nub as he breathes a single word into her body. “Cum,” he tells her, barely whispering his command and, to her shock, she obeys. Her body spasms, thighs trembling as she internally explodes, a flood of her juices racing from her quivering lips. His tongue dances across her innermost folds, catching her nectar as it trickles free, drawing her essence into his mouth. Savouring each drop as he feasts on her climax. Not stopping, he resumes his gentle assault on her body. Not attacking her clit as most men would, he circles it, watching her reaction to his every touch, dancing around and across the sensitive flesh. Not only does every woman have a different trigger, but the trigger varies day to day, depending on her mood. By sight and sound and touch, he rediscovers her body, learning which touches will feed her desire. His skilled mouth working ceaselessly, though hardly tirelessly, his jaw starting to ache after a few minutes, but the distraction doesn't stop him as he takes his precious possession through the throes of a second climax. As her body recovers from her spasmodic release, he climbs up between her thighs. His throbbing erection presses to the lips of her sex, her searing heat soaking him even before he touches her. One smooth thrust parts her lips, one steady glide and he is buried to the hilt within her.

His legs shift, pressing her legs together, his own hairy thighs laying along the outside of hers. The change in position angling him differently within her, pressing the head of his cock against her inner walls as he slowly starts to move within her. Using the whole length of his shaft, he slowly takes her, having no desire to hurry the end of their coupling. His weigh braced above her initially, before he lowers himself down, pinning her to the mattress. Her chest pressed into his belly, his lips at her throat. Kissing up her neck, her jawline, her lips, they share breath as he gently rocks his body within hers. Their heartbeats synchronise, each acting as pacemaker for the other. His buttocks dimpling as they rise and fall, his arse tight as he grinds his shaft deep in his lover's womb. No changes in position, no kinky tricks, nothing is needed but the press of skin to skin, mouth to mouth, cock to cunt. Their bodies move as one, his pleasure boiling within him, her arousal beating through her body. All but silent, they move within one another. His shaft pulses, his face contorting in the delicious strain. Her body feels the changes in his, contracting itself about him, both hovering on the verge of their release.

As his manhood lurches, her final release takes her. Tight muscles grasp and milk his already prepared manhood, the final touch all he requires to loose his hot seed deep inside her. His eyes meet hers, their gazes locked, brown on blue, as he empties into her, not just lust, but his love, everything he feels for her pouring from his body into hers.

Wordlessly, both collapse, exhausted. Sleep rises to meet them, nothing more required. All is exactly as it should be.