Dear Reader: This is the next-to-last instalment of the "Bad Girl" series. This was supposed to be the last, but I wanted it to have a happy ending for all involved. So due to the necessary lengthening, I have broken the Final Chapter into two. Here is the first. My thanks to all of you for your comments, reminders, and occasional "Hey—you fucked up" memos.
The next day, a Sunday, was spent in a frenzy of preparation. I made several trips to the school. Things were coming to a head, and I could find neither a way, nor the will, to stop them. Much of my time was spent in a fog, doing things automatically while tantalizing images of the girl with whom I'd become so enamoured flitted across my mind in ever-more graphic detail.
By seven o'clock, with the clear winter evening closing in, I was too aroused to think straight. I took ten minutes and masturbated furiously to relieve some of the tension. Such was the state of my arousal that the first tickling of my finger around my dark, trimmed pussy made me wet. I flicked my clitoris hard with a finger and felt the approach of an orgasm in my belly. Pausing, I slipped my hand between my legs, inside of my plain, flowered panties, tracing out my cuntlips and pivoting my hips as the sensations flooded me.
I lay back on my bed, placed the soles of my feet together and stretched my pussy wide with my first and third fingers, slowly slipping the second up and down in slow lazy strokes. Behind my closed eyelids my submissive college roommate, Tennisball Turner, did a dance at my command for hundreds of appreciative watchers and then, bending over the edge of the raised dais on which she danced, offered them her ass for punishment and their satisfaction as she stared deep into my eyes . . . while my pet slut Susan knelt in chains between my legs, licking me.
The flash of lightning woke me from the near-sleep trance I was in as I climaxed wonderfully. But in spite of having blown my cork, I was still furious, and horny. And worst of all I couldn't do anything about it. Tennisball was a bittersweet memory, and although Susan was all too live, I was her teacher. She was off limits. And yet . . .
I had invested considerable effort in my efforts to find an exemption or a loophole in the school rules, and in preparing for this Sunday evening I had turned up one fascinating fact about the regulations governing teacher-student relations.
But
, I wondered to myself,
was one fact enough?
I remained tense, and in the car on the way to school I grew angrier:
Who the hell did Susan Castle think I was?
Not just plagiarising from another student but from
me
, her teacher! Well I was going to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all!
And I couldn't get the image of her soft, wet lips and big, liquid eyes out of my mind.
The school was almost dark when I arrived. My headlights' splash picked her out, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette beneath the yellow sodium light, near the school doors, which gave the parking lot what passed for illumination. Pulling into the space beside Susan I cut the engine with a vicious twist of the key and sat there for a moment, getting my temper under control.
Susan's hair had undergone another of its frequent colour changes—tonight it was blonde, with her single streak of blue now dyed black. I felt an odd shock of recognition that I couldn't quite place. She wore a white man's shirt and a green-and-white school grad jacket over black stirrup pants and flat black shoes. Through the open jacket the shirt was soaked from an earlier rain and her nipples were hard, outlined behind a black bra in cotton now made almost transparent. But she didn't seem to notice, and I frantically pretended not to, although as she approached the car window and leaned in only a blind man could have missed the display.
"I'm here," she announced listlessly "I got your message. Whaddaya want?"
The tone of her voice made clear that she knew I'd found out about her plagiarism. I got out of the car, the opening door forcing her to back up against the wall. I leaned in close, plucking the cigarette from her lips and throwing it to the ground.
"Put that out," I told her strictly, pointing to the butt as I climbed the stairs, my long raincoat sweeping behind me, and keyed the main door open "and come with me." She hesitated, then squashed the smouldering ember with the toe of her shoe.
She followed, trailing me at a distance. I didn't dare look around—I had to assume she'd obey. Using my key to open the great double doors of the school, I experienced the brief feeling of a spider inviting prey into her web. Inside I led the way to my cramped little office at the rear of the history classroom with its atmosphere of chalk dust and jasmine, where I had earlier set a few things up for this evening.
Susan paused at the doorway of the class, like a deer catching the hunter's scent. She seemed to realise that once she crossed the threshold, she was in my territory. I knew it too. And I also knew that that was why I
must not
touch her under any circumstances. Of course she couldn't guess exactly what was in my mind.
"Is this, y'know,
official
?" she asked.
"Let's just say this may be your last chance to
avoid
things becoming official, shall we?" I replied "Wait here, Susan. In three minutes, knock, and wait for permission to enter."
I turned on my heel and went into my office, closing the door. Inside I gulped air as my chest constricted. This was so
difficult
! When I read things like
The Story of O,
and the famous
Beauty
books, I'd never dreamed about how hard the dominants in those stories had to work to treat their precious slaves the way they needed to be treated. How often had Sir Stephen resisted the urge to plunder O in order to work on her the painful treatments she both dreaded and needed? How many times had he softened to her cries, relented as she screamed into her gag, longed to gather her in his arms and love her tenderly?
Perhaps he hadn't—maybe it was easy for him. But my pussy was on fire and all I wanted was to fling open the office door and kiss Susan deeply and lovingly. And yet . . .I still wanted her to obey my firm commands, to respond to my wishes like a well-trained bitch, and to punish her for failing in that duty. At the same time, I must not fail in my duty toward
her
, both as her teacher and as . . . whatever she needed me to be to her.
As I struggled for control of myself, the knock came, timidly, at the door. It was showtime. I slipped out of my raincoat and hung it on my hatstand.
"Enter" I almost-barked.
When she entered, I was leaning against the desk, facing away from her. Instead of my customary wool skirt and jacket I wore a bright red dress with sleeves, but which left my shoulders bare. The skirt was indecently tight, highlighting my ass, which was also complimented by my four-inch heels. Beneath the dress I wore no bra, and although she couldn't see them, only the skimpiest of bikini panties. The outfit was highlighted with a pair of crimson stockings, held in place with elastic garters. When I turned around, towering over her, Susan gazed at me like she would eat me up.
"What will it take?" I asked. She had stopped, her mouth open, just inside the door, and one shapely buttock, outlined in the mellow light of my study lamp, was propped against the frame.
"What'll what take?" she replied dazedly, her eyes fixed on the plunging neckline of my outfit.
"What will it take," I said, deliberately taking slow strides on my clicking heels to where she stood, watching her widened eyes rove up and down me "for you to do your work? I've tried talking to you. I've given you detention. Why isn't that enough?"
"I dunno." She was looking to my left, through the window into the near-dark sky.
"And now, this." I pointed at her essay, whose pages were strewn across my desktop "You insult me not only by plagiarizing, but by stealing
my own work!"
"I didn't think you'd notice." she said, uncomfortably but listlessly. She looked at me and then ducked her head to stare at the floor.
"Oh no?" I put a lot of sneer on it.
She stood mute, he shoulders slumped, leaning now against the window frame.
"Stand up straight!" I said tersely. She straightened a little.
"I've had it with you. With your careful insults, your studied insolence. You don't think there's a good way for me to punish you to get some
work
out of you?" The word "punish" rolled from my mouth like a lifesaver onto a lover's tongue. I reached behind her and pulled the door shut, standing inches away.
"Well things are about to change." I finished.
She flinched as the door shut, but she didn't move. Her eyes locked with mine, her lips puckered, and her head came forward. I pulled back, ignoring the heaviness in my belly and the ripe, sharp stink of her arousal.
"Do you know what it is that you want?" I asked.
"Yes." Her breaths were coming in rapid gasps. Beneath her shirt I could see her ribcage juddering up and down.
"Do you want to be punished?" I asked sternly "Look at me!"
Her head snapped round and again she tried to come in for a kiss.
"STOP THAT!" I yelled.
I stepped away and walked a few steps, putting the desk between us and reining in my own desire. I found myself actually getting angry, as well as aroused.
"Do you know," I demanded "What the school board does to teachers who fraternize with students?"
For a moment there was a little gleam in her eye. Was she thinking it, as I was still half-thinking it to myself?
"
And what, Miss F., would the PTA have to say about a sluttily-dressed teacher parading in front of a student with definite submissive lesbian tendencies?"
Then she lowered her head.
"No," she whispered "I'm sorry."
"I'm a modern thinker, Susan," I said "But that was out of line. And I can't help thinking that in certain cases, old-fashioned punishments are called for."
I opened the desk. Inside were a butt plug, some clothespins, and a special historical artefact. Susan moved forward, into the room, and looked over into the drawer. She looked blank. I pulled the artefact out and slapped it against the desk.
