A Bad Girl

A Bad Girl Part 1: The Awakening

Or: You gotta be cruel to be kind

I went to a Catholic girl’s school, where we were under strict orders to dress and behave with exemplary modesty. When our plaid skirts rose above the knees we considered it daring. Nowadays there’s a lot of guff about “letting children express their personalities”, but I think our personalities were well expressed. As in many other environments where uniforms were the order of the day, we expressed our personalities in our dickeys (the abbreviated tie all the girls hated), in our hair ornaments (no more than two plain barrettes were allowed, but the boldest of us wore combs), and in our shoes.

I was never the most daring, but I pushed the envelope a little, like we all did. When I was in tenth grade I was sent home to change my shoes by Sister Mary Chang, known to us all as the Dragon Lady. Sister Mary actually took a ruler and measured, determining that my heels were 3/8 of an inch too high for a Grade Ten girl (grade niners were only allowed flats).

So when, to my surprise, I graduated in the upper tenth of my class, I found the heady and comparatively permissive atmosphere of a secular college a bit confusing. It was co-ed, for a start, and I didn’t have a lot of experience with boys.

My room at college was shared with “Tennis-ball” Turner. People called her “Tennis-ball” for her corn-yellow hair, cut into a boyish bob, or sometimes “T-Ball”. I called her Jacquie, short for her full name, Jacqueline. She was, as she liked to say “fresh off the farm”, and seemed to be intent on getting into as much trouble as the city could offer her. As a “good girl” rooming with a party animal, I naturally got a bit of a reputation for being stuck up. I didn’t know it because I dedicated myself completely to my studies for the first semester. My grades were excellent, but I didn’t seem to meet a lot of friends—at least not a lot of people I wanted to hang around with.

Christmas seemed bleak. I hung around the dorm until it was time to go home. At home my mother accused me of “moping”. My father just seemed relieved that I hadn’t turned into some sort of radical, stoned lesbian. I found the whole week stifling, and wondered what I had in common with these two old, boring people. Eventually I left early: I returned to the freedom of being able to do what I chose.

Which was exactly nothing. I read and moped some more.

True to form, Jacquie showed up at two o’clock in the morning the day classes were due to start. I heard muffled giggling, and the scraping as her key missed the lock several times.

Of course she had a boy with her. I vaguely recognized his voice: It was Wayne Williams, a hulking great brute who majored in football.

“You sure yer roomie’s not home?” He asked in a drunken rumble.

“Let me check.” I heard her say, irritably.

Jacquie popped her head into the shared bedroom, and I heard her sigh. I was about to speak up, to tell her that it would be alright if the two of them came in, I’d sleep on the sofa, when she suddenly said under her breath:

“Good old Flock, you never let me down, do you, you old stick.”

I lay there with my cheeks burning as she went back to the door. I heard her whispering:

“No, Wayne. Wayne—stop it (giggle). I’d love to, but I’m really tired. . .We

can’t

. My roomie’s home and she’s a real tight-ass. She’d have the Resident down on me like a ton of bricks!”

That was grossly unfair, and I found myself getting angry. I hadn’t ever reported Jaquie for anything, not when she smoked, not when she brought boys home—not even when I’d found a baggie of pot on the floor.

Eventually, Wayne left, sulkily, and I heard Jacquie close the door and let out a long, slow breath.

Jacquie slipped into the room, and quietly began to undress in the dark. As she pulled off her sweater she was silhouetted in the moonlight, fine bra-less breasts with big, hard nipples. As the sweater came off she let out a yip, and something shiny flew across and landed on my bed. Without quite knowing why, I caught it.

“I’m awake.” I said “Turn on the light.”

She was cursing and holding a hand to her ear.

“Been awake long?” She asked casually.

“Since you and

Wayne

got here, yeah.” I said.

“Oh.” I wondered if she remembered what she’d said.

The light clicked on, and in the yellow dim, I saw Jacquie sitting on her bed a few feet away, looking concerned, her tits bare.

“What did you mean,” I asked “when you told him I’d report you to the Resident?”

“Oh!” she said embarrassedly “I just said that to keep him out. He just wanted to make out, and I wasn’t in the mood.”

“That’s a first,” I said grumpily “anyway, why’d you call me an old stick?”

Jacquie’s eyes widened, “Oh Flocksie,” she always called me Flocksie, and I hated it. “Don’t get tangled up. It’s okay to be. . .the way you are, I mean it’s. . .”

Now I was angry.

“What the

hell

do you mean by that?” I asked.

“Well, come on honey. It’s pretty well-known around here that my roomie doesn’t, y’know, get out much.”

“Get

around

much, you mean.” I accused.

Now it was her turn to flush.

“Jesus you’re an uptight bitch. Y’know,” she said, fishing in the drawer of the nightstand “you oughta smoke a joint occasionally—it’d relax those tense anal muscles of yours.”

I was at a loss for words. No-one had said anything like that to me since before I’d graduated high school. I blushed and felt a dull throb of anger. Tennisball contemptuously fished a joint from a baggie, lit it, and inhaled deeply. After a moment she gave me the joint to hold, and turned to open the window between our beds. I took the pot wordlessly, with tears pricking behind my eyelids. She knew damn well I’d never tried it, and had no plans to. As she turned around I angrily stuck the joint in my mouth and sucked it hugely and inexpertly.

Once the coughing fit had died away and my eyes stopped streaming, I got nervous. What if I went nuts? I’d heard pot could make you do that. Jacquie was grinning sloppily, her yellow hair drooping into her eyes. She came and sat on the bed and took another hit. She was still topless, and by the bedside light I could see how her big pink nipples crinkled in the cool air from the window. I reached up and brushed the hair away from her eyes; I felt something electric. Maybe it was the pot, or something else.

“Here,” I handed her the shiny object—her lost earring “you dropped this.” My fingertips were tingling when she touched my hand to take it. Her hand rested on mine for just a beat too long, it seemed.

“Thanks,” she said, looking at me with something like wonder in her eyes.

“You’ve got freckles all over, Tennie. . .I wish I had freckles.” I found myself saying in the long silence that followed. I touched the little dots which showered her shoulders. Then I sat up in bed to give her a kiss on the lips, soft and hesitant.

I’d never kissed a woman on the lips before. They were soft, and burned like fire against mine. Our tongues touched.

“Mmm.” I pulled away and looked at her.

“Why’d you stop? It’s okay.” she said.

“What . . . I mean, what do we, what are we. . .?”

“What do you want to do?”

I didn’t know—I felt as though I wanted to own her, take her, control her beautiful body. I’d invade her, violate her, make her do things. . .

“I wanna

own

you. Does that sound silly?”

“No. . .” A long pause, and then she gulped out: “I wanna be a slave.”

It was a pure appeal, like something she’d been hiding from me all this time. My pussy (which until that night I’d have definitely called a vagina) seemed to have a sweet little cramp when she said that. My breath caught in my throat, and the blood pounded in my head. Pot and lust were suddenly making me dizzy.

“If you’re my slave, you do what I say.” I teased her, but I wasn’t really teasing.

“Yes. . .Mistress.” Another rush of blood; to my nipples this time.

“Stand up.”

As she obeyed, I threw off my blankets. Underneath the bedclothes I was wearing a cheap cotton nightshirt that went to my knees. Tennisball eyed me warily, like a dog that starts to growl at you only

after

you’ve entered the yard.

“You’re overdressed,” I said, caressing her shoulders “No. Don’t look at me. Keep your eyes on the floor. Take off your jeans—wait—turn around and take ‘em off.”

I don’t know where the feeling came from, where I got that strength. I was the mousiest girl in school, usually. But now I felt drunk with power, watching her skimpy french-cut briefs appear as her denim hit the floor. Her bottom wiggled a little as she reached for the waistband of her panties.

“Stop,” I ordered “I like you like that. You look like a proper little. . .slut.”

I would never have used that word before, but it was appropriate now. Tennisball was small and lithe, compact and sexy. I put my arms around her and felt inside her panties. She was soaked, and she rubbed her back against my chest.

“Are you my slave?” I asked, feeling my face blush as I said it.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“On your knees.” She wasn’t fast enough, I thought. She needed some correction. I explained this to her.

“I think a nice hard spanking will do you good, slave,” I sat on the hard little chair over by the window “Come here.”

She stood up and took a hesitant step. I sighed theatrically:

“On your

knees

, you little bitch.”

Her eyes were wide as saucers. Blonde head bowed she knelt, then after a second or two she crawled to kneel in front of me. I twirled a finger, indicating that she face away from me. She scurried into position.

“Show me your pussy.” She arched her back, and reached around to pull her panties out of the way. Her dark golden pussy hair was neatly trimmed. I would have ordered her to shave it, but I didn’t even know that girls

did

that. I traced her ass with a finger. She shivered.

“I’m going to spank you. Hard.” I said “And you’ll count it, and every time I strike you you’d better thank me for it. Is your pussy wet?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good. I’ll find something to stuff it with. Stand.”

My slave rose from her knees. I pulled her panties down her legs. I could smell her wet cunt. I turned her head with my hand and kissed her.

“Do you want to get spanked, slave?” I asked, pulling away from her panting mouth.

“Oh, yes Mistress.” She almost smiled.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Please, Mistress, tie your slave up, make me your total slut. Beat my ass, fuck me hard . . .”

“Fuck you with what?” I was totally taken aback. I didn’t have a dick or a vibrator, and didn’t know quite what they were, anyway. I wondered what she had in mind.

“In my top drawer, Mistress. I have a dildo.”

When I opened the drawer and rummaged around, it was pretty obvious. I bent the silicone dick and let the top spring loose, almost whacking myself in the eye. It looked like a cock, with a head at one end and a pair of balls at the other.

“And what do you want me to do with this?” I asked, not quite sure what one could do with a dildo.

“Please Mistress, anything you want.” came the correct answer.

I took two belts from the drawer, and used one to tie her hands behind her. My skill at knots impressed her as she tugged nervously, trying to find any slack. I had her spread her legs, and slowly worked the rubber cock into her sopping hole. Every so often I’d smack her bottom hard. Eventually the dildo was stuck into Jacquie all the way to its ball-shaped base.

“Come, slave; bend over my lap.” I said, sitting on the edge of the chair. Obediently my new slavegirl leaned over. I ran my fingers down the crack of her ass, and in an unexpected moment I invaded her anus with my pinkie. She moaned, and I pulled it out.

“Sorry, did that hurt?” I asked, shaken from my Mistress persona.

“A little, Mistress. But it felt good.”

“Do you want me to do it again?” I asked, half wondering. It must have been uncomfortable for her, but she seemed to be enjoying it.

“Yes, Mistress, please put your fingers in my slutty ass! I’m your little bum whore!” Tennie was looking over her shoulder at me over her bound hands, and wiggling her buttocks. Her panties were clinging to one leg, and her face was flushed. She certainly looked like a slut.

I began to spank her. When she hadn’t counted after the fifth one, I stopped, and grabbed her by her blonde hair. Forcing her to look straight ahead I hissed in her ear:

“Are you enjoying that, bitch?”

“Not much, Mistress.”

“Well you’d better start counting, otherwise I won’t know when you’ve had the fifty you deserve!”

“Yes Mistress. That was five, Mistress.”

“Shut up, slut. You count from one again—and don’t you dare lose count.” She moaned aloud as I began to abuse her ass again.

After a long, painful time, her ass was glowing red. I dumped her off my lap. She knelt up at my order with some difficulty, since her hands were still bound, then looked at me. I stood up and turned around, pushing my ass into her face.

“Kiss me,” I ordered.

She hesitated, but then responded beautifully, tonguing my ass cheeks and upper thighs, which were wet with my juice. Then she paused again. Without looking, I reached around behind me, grabbed hold of her hair again, and drove her face into my ass. Her tongue began to lap eagerly at my asshole. The sensation was electric, and I reached down to finger my clit. I came very quickly, with a loud moan. It was unlike anything I’d ever felt.

I released my slave’s hair, and turned around. I had to sit on the bed because I was still dizzy. I leaned on my slut’s head again, and mistaking what I wanted, she leaned forward, licking my thighs, up to my still-spasming cunt.

I’d never had two orgasms in a row before. Now I shoved Jacquie’s face into my pussy, glorying in her complete subjugation to me. My free hand found the second belt, lying near me on the bed, and I brought it down on her back and her red ass as she ate me out. As I came the second time, I threw her backwards and fell on her. The dildo had fallen from my slave’s cunt, and I snatched it up and drove it in again. I dropped the belt and penetrated her ass with my middle finger, thrusting it in and out.

“Oh,” she gasped “I’m yours, your slut, your slave, yourslut, yourslave, yourlittlebitchslutcunt. . .oh. . .oh. . .oh. . .” Her gasps got louder and harder as I made her come, cresting in a shriek as I bit down firmly on her fat pink nipple.

Afterwards, I held her in my arms as we lay there, covered in each other’s sweat. I looked at the hot pink marks on her tits and ass, and I knew this was only the beginning.

For the remainder of the year, Tennie was my slave. During the daytime, when not in class, she had orders to do her homework (the quality of which improved massively), clean the dorm room, and serve me as commanded. She loved it. Of her own accord she kept herself dressed either as sexily as possible, or not at all when she was serving me. She stopped seeing boys, and although I told her she was allowed out to the bars once a week, she slowly stopped going there too. I nicknamed her piggy, for her greedy appetite for punishment and pleasure, as well as for her fabulously pink nipples.

She seemed to glory in it, to need to submit as far as I would let her. Sometimes I’d come home to find her wearing a long leash, which she attached by an even longer chain to my bedpost. I kept her bottom nice and red, and usually whipped her breasts with my belt at least once a week. Eventually we got to a point where she could almost cum before I touched her pussy at all.

I was transformed. My grades climbed, partly due to my newfound confidence. Sometimes she’d bring me a packed lunch from home and whisper in my ear:

“I need a spanking Mistress.”

Or I’d find a note in the lunch saying: “When you get home I’m going to eat you stupid. Signed: slave.”

During Easter break Tennie took me home to meet her mother. Her father, I knew, had died several years before. Tennie’s mother was a stern, demanding-looking woman, who thanked me for “setting her daughter straight”, which almost made me break down laughing—if she only knew!

Her mother was rich, by my standards, and Tennie and I shared the old gardener’s quarters in much the same hedonistic fashion that we shared our dorm, though perhaps a little less cautiously.

One night we’d smoked a little weed, and I’d made her lick my pussy until I came twice (my rule— if I came twice, my slave could cum once). We lay together in the afterglow, when she suddenly said:

“I love you, Mistress.”

I didn’t reply. Did I love her? I didn’t know. If I did, what did that mean? She seemed to expect some reply. But I hesitated too long.

“You know, it’s okay if you don’t love me,” she said, looking away from me “I understand. Maybe this is just a. . .a phase for you. But I’ll be your slave until you send me away, and when that happens, I’ll cry. But I’ll get over it.”

“Be quiet, piggy-slut,” I replied “Maybe I’ll never let you go. Ever think of that?”

“At your command, Mistress.” she replied obediently, but her eyes said

yeah, right.

In the end, she was right. Although she wore my collar, and although she presented me with a double-ended dildo and the harness to use in fucking her, although her pussy and ass were open to me day and night, I became nervous. I expected to return home for the summer, and couldn’t see bringing her home to meet my family. Worse yet, I was developing an interest in a boy from my psychology course, and that felt healthier, less wrong, that what Tennie and I were doing. But I was about to learn the hard way that you can’t free a true slavegirl, you can only send her away.

She knew before I worked up the nerve to tell her. In fact, I waited until exams were over and we were preparing to go home the very next day. I’d been hedging about allowing her to come out and see me. But deep inside, both of us could see what was coming.

“Mistress, please don’t do this.” We were in the room. She was naked except for a pair of stockings and flimsy black panties.

“It’s not like I don’t enjoy what we’re doing,” I said truthfully “It’s just not what I want anymore.”

“Sure,” she said, beginning to drip tears. She tugged on the leash and went to her knees.

“Please, Mistress. I don’t care what you do to me: torture me, beat me, lock me inside all day long, but don’t ask me to go away—because in my heart I’ll still be your slave.”

She desperately invited me to date anyone else I liked, to bring home my boyfriends to fuck her. I responded that she wasn’t getting the point.

“I love you too, Tennie. But it’s over, and it’s time I sent you away.”

There were more tears—mine, mostly. There were angry shouts—hers, mostly. There was a deep pain and bitterness in both of us. But in the end, Jacquie went to spend the night at a friend’s house, and I left before six the next morning.

I spent the summer “moping” as my mother kept calling it. I was sick in my heart, I felt lost, but I knew for certain that I didn’t want to be a lesbian dominatrix all my life.

I knew it.

Eventually the pain faded, and when September came, I felt ready to return to school. On the first day, I saw Jacquie in the hall. She was wearing wooly tights, a grey skirt, and a blue sweater. She had on new glasses, and had curled her hair. She looked pettier, more grown-up; I got wet just looking at her.

“Hi” she said as I passed. She sounded curious, but wary.

I was happy that she wanted to talk to me, but nervous because of what I felt, and because I could see she clearly felt similar things. Her nipples were standing upright beneath her sweater.

“Did you have a good summer?” She asked. Her voice had an odd tremor to it.

I mumbled the usual pleasantries, the clenching of my chest and the rush of hot blood to my cunt making me dizzy. After a few awkward moments, she suggested we meet for a drink sometime. I said something vague, and left her standing in the hallway. I was late for class because I stopped at my new dorm room and masturbated frantically.