Schoolgirl Domme Ch 01

All characters are over 18.

Chapter 1

It began on Facebook. Well, what story doesn't nowadays? I was looking through people's updates and I paused over a friend's photo of a trip to the zoo with her boyfriend. Some of her other Facebook friends had left appreciative messages and it was one of those that caught my eye. Not the message, which just said "Gorgeous!" (which indeed the photo was): the name. Belinda Stokes. I knew it was her, even without the little avatar photo of her, which proved it beyond doubt. It was her all right. Belinda. I felt a tingling going through my whole body. Suddenly I was back there, back at school in those mad last weeks of the summer term before we all left. The time I had tried so hard to shut out of my mind but had never quite managed to. The time I always went back to in my daydreams and my fantasies. Belinda. Fran. Those two boys – what were their names? Martin? Simon? The white shirt. The boots. That party – and what happened afterwards. And the school uniforms. Oh yes, those school uniforms. Even after twelve years, I hadn't forgotten those school uniforms and the effect they'd had on me. On all of us.

I paused and thought hard. Let's be sensible here. I was in a stable job, Head of Year in a large London comprehensive, between relationships but quite happy on my own for the moment. Certainly not looking for any sort of complication. And now this had come up. I don't usually believe in premonitions but I knew – I knew – I was asking for trouble if I made contact with Belinda. And it would be so easy to do – a couple of clicks and I'd have revealed myself. Of course, I could just add my own message to Harriet's photo and Belinda would see it and realise it was me and then she could make contact with me if she liked. That way I could let her know I was around and leave it to her to choose whether or not to make contact. If things went wrong it would be her fault, not mine. Then I realised that she must have seen messages from me to Harriet before, yet she hadn't made contact. Or maybe she had only just joined Facebook, or only just Friended Harriet – after all, I hadn't seen any messages from her before. Or maybe – and I stopped. This was ridiculous. I was worrying myself silly like some lovesick teenager trying to work out what it means when her boyfriend doesn't ring.

I came off Facebook and did some online work for a while, but I couldn't shake her out of my head. Belinda. Still around, and suddenly back in my life. Well, she would be if I wanted her to be, that much I did know. And, I realised, I did want her. Back in my life. I could handle it, I told myself, I knew I could handle it. Yeah, right. So, with a feeling of inevitability, like going to the headteacher to own up to something, I went back onto Facebook, found Belinda's message to Harriet, clicked on her name, went to her Wall and sent a Friendship request. There's a space where you can write a message to go with the request, but I didn't write anything. There was no need.

* * *

"Louise! Hi! Great to hear from you! We must meet up!" ran Belinda's reply: she'd accepted my Friendship request of course. And, being Belinda, she gave a day and time. She didn't ask or offer: she just told me where to be and when. I think she just assumed I'd be free, or that I'd make myself free for her. Just like at school. And so it was that the following Saturday I was walking to the tube to go and meet her for coffee in a café in Notting Hill. She would live in the fashionable part, of course: I had to come across London from decidedly unfashionable Hammersmith.

It was one of those bright November mornings when you can sit outside as long as you keep your coat on, and it was one of those very chic cafes with tables where you can. In fact, it looked as if it had somehow escaped from Paris. She was already there, of course; I even wondered if she had deliberately got there early so as to gain the upper hand from the start. Probably. She was very elegantly dressed: expensive camel coat with a matching polo neck jumper and black trousers and boots. Simple but devastatingly effective. I felt very dowdy next to her. She already had a coffee and she ordered me one as I sat down – needless to say a waiter was on hand the second she needed one.

We didn't talk about it. We quite definitely didn't talk about it. We talked about everything else. About what we had been doing over the past twelve years – university, teacher training and two teaching jobs in my case; some sort of high-flying business role in hers (it all sounded rather vague but glamorous. As I would have expected). We talked about London. We even talked a bit about politics, I remember. She was genuinely interested in my work and in how the government's education policies were affecting it. She hadn't changed at all, though I don't think people do really: not just in their looks but in their relationships. I was actually quite a confident, go-getting character at work but here I fell instantly back into the subservient follower role I had played under her devastatingly powerful lead at school. I couldn't quite decide if I liked it or not: I rather thought I did.

And then something strange happened.

I think I noticed them first. A married couple, I assumed, in their fifties I would guess, walking along arm in arm and off to do the shopping or go to the estate agent or whatever else happily married couples do in Notting Hill on a bright Saturday in November. They wore sensible coats and scarves against the morning chill. I hardly registered them but then they stopped and the man looked over at us. Or rather at Belinda. She hadn't noticed them yet and she stopped mid-sentence, wondering what I was looking at. The man was walking over to her, very deliberately. And as he drew level, he sank to his knees. Not one knee: both knees. I was so taken aback I didn't know quite what to say; Belinda too looked a bit startled for a moment but then she recovered. He was kneeling in front of her, his head bowed; one or two people had obviously noticed and were watching to see what would happen. I glanced at his wife. She was watching it all, quite impassively. That was when I knew.

Belinda placed her hand on his head and leaned forward to say something in his ear. She seemed very kind. He smiled, said something that looked like "Thank you" – but it wasn't just that, was it? – got up onto his feet, turned round, walked over to his wife, and they linked arms and walked off as if nothing had happened. I looked at Belinda, though I knew what she was going to say.

"One of my regulars. Wasn't that sweet of him?"

"What did you say to him?"

"I said I was very touched by his loyalty and he could go freely back to his wife."

"And what did he say?"

"You know what he said."

"He said 'Thank you, Mistress', didn't he?"

"Yes, he did."

I looked at her. I should have known this. "So you still do it? You carried on?"

"As a domme? Yes, I carried on. It's a funny thing: men like to say dominatrix – I think it gets them excited – but I find it a bit of a mouthful. I prefer domme. Yes, I still do it. Are you surprised? I bet you're not. It's all right, I'm not one of those lifestyle ones you read about. You do read about them, don't you?"

"I have".

"Of course you have. No, that's not for me. Too much of a good thing: I think I'd get bored with it. I do it on the side, at weekends, sometimes on a Friday night. I do genuinely work for a finance company, Louise. You can look me up."

"Do you see her too? The wife? She seemed to understand what was going on."

"Actually no, I don't. I know about her, of course – he's been coming to me for the past three years – but I've never met her before."

"But she knows, doesn't she? She must do."

"Oh yes, she knows. The wives always do, I find. Their husbands never realise that. Isn't that strange? It wouldn't surprise me if I heard from her soon. I've known it happen."

"As a client, you mean?"

"Possibly. More likely as an ally."

She smiled and poured herself some more coffee. I sighed. I was in this conversation now: no pretending otherwise. Might as well carry on.

"So what do you have? A dungeon?"

"Oh heavens no. I told you: I don't do this for a living. There are plenty of people who can offer you that. I meet them sometimes at parties. No, I see people in my flat. A few toys, a few implements: that's all you need really. That and a good website. I have a very good web designer."

"Another regular?"

"They're the best."

"I bet you have a schoolroom too."

She laughed. "Well, of course I have a schoolroom! It's just a couple of desks and an old blackboard, mind: nothing elaborate. But I'll tell you what else I have – I've got my old uniform. Why don't you come and see?"

"I can't. I'm meeting someone for lunch."

"It doesn't have to be today. How about Friday? Come and have supper. I'll show you around and you can see what you make of it. I might even have a client."

"I don't know..."

"Oh come on. You know you want to."

I shot her a look. That phrase. I hadn't forgotten that phrase and what it led to. Neither had she.

"And there's someone I'd like you to meet."

"Not Fran?"

"No, not Fran. She moved on. She's in Canada now. We're in touch. She's on Facebook – you should contact her. No: someone else. Oh do come – you'll like it. There's nothing to be afraid of, I promise."

So I said yes. Of course. As Belinda said, I knew I wanted to.

* * *

No, I didn't spend the whole of the week that followed all keyed up thinking about the Friday night. I had a busy week at school with plenty of marking to do in the evenings. It wasn't until the Thursday night that I really had time to stop and think about it. Part of me couldn't quite believe it was all real: Belinda had seemed perfectly normal and pleasant on Saturday. Was the domineering schoolgirl Belinda still there underneath it all? It was hard to believe, and yet I had seen her client kneeling in front of her in the street. Oh yes, now I thought about it, I could see the old Belinda underneath the new one. I gathered up my papers and put them away in my bag ready for the morning and went upstairs to the bedroom. I opened my wardrobe and rummaged through the clothes on hangers. There it was. There it all was. My old navy blue school blazer on a hanger with my old school skirt underneath it. And my old school tie draped on top. I took them all out and laid them out on the bed, looking down at them thoughtfully. Then I knew what I had to do.

I turned back to the wardrobe and looked out a smart white blouse – a rather smarter cut than the ones we had when I was at school, but it would do. I took my clothes off and changed into the school uniform. The blazer still fitted, the skirt was a bit on the tight side but it felt all the better for it. I tried tucking the blouse in, but it wasn't really designed for it, so I let it hang outside the skirt for the more modern look. Then I knotted the striped school tie loosely round my neck and looked at myself in the mirror. I gasped. There, looking back at me, though I said it myself, was a very sexy and rather bratty schoolgirl. I tied my hair back in a ponytail, the way I used to wear it and moved closer to the mirror. I loosened my tie a bit more and pulled it further down, opening the neck of my blouse a bit further. God, that looked good. And then, for the first time in years, I did what I used to do when I was a teenager, still exploring my own sexual feelings: I leant forward and kissed my own reflection in the mirror, imagining I was kissing another schoolgirl, deeply, our tongues touching. That did the trick. I stepped back from the mirror and looked at myself again. I bent my legs slightly and lifted up my school skirt. I watched my reflection defiantly as I slipped a hand inside my knickers and began to stroke myself. I could see the wanton look that came over my face as I watched myself in the mirror. I ran my fingers over my cunt and played with my clit. I could see the dirty look come over my face as I stared at my reflection. I loved this: how could I have forgotten how good it felt? And I knew then that I wanted to be a schoolgirl again, for Belinda. More than anything in the world I wanted to be her schoolgirl. Her dirty and devoted schoolgirl slut – as I had been once before.

* * *

Looking back, I realise things must have been growing for some time, but the point I always thought of as the start of things was one specific English lesson on one particular day. We'd both had our eighteenth birthdays: everyone in the group had, in fact. We were in the sixth form and in our very last couple of weeks of school and we ruled the world: in just over a week's time we would leave school, sit our A levels, get our results and go on to whatever life held next, and the world had better look out.

As is so often the way, I had no notion of anything being about to happen when I went into the English lesson on the afternoon of the Friday of the second last week. But the moment I stepped into the room my heart nearly stopped. Fran, our English teacher – Miss Cornish officially, but she was younger and we were all on first-name terms – was sitting on her desk at the front of the room, as she often did. But it was what she was wearing that took my breath away. She was in a large, white man's shirt, with a thick black belt round her waist, and a pair of black leggings. I've always had a big thing for white shirts and blouses and I think a man's shirt is one of the sexiest thing a girl can wear, but that outfit was the sexiest thing I think I had ever seen anyone wear outside a porn mag or a wild party. Certainly the sexiest outfit I had ever seen at the school. My eyes must have been out on stalks because I was hardly listening to what she was saying – it was about Charlotte Bronte, I think – I just sat gazing at her. Dreaming of kissing her neck, licking her sweet tits, putting my head between her thighs and licking her gorgeous cunt...

Someone nudged me and I sat up with a start, thinking maybe it was her. But it was Belinda, sitting next to me. She was slipping something into my hand. A note. Well, we were still schoolgirls. I surreptitiously opened it and spread it flat on my notepad. I still have it. It said:

You want her, don't you? You can have her. My place tonight, 6.00. Wear your uniform. B

I stared at Belinda, not quite believing what I had read. What did she mean, I could have her? And had my feelings been that obvious? And what was all this about going to her flat tonight?

"Louise?"

"Mmm?"

Fran was looking straight at me. She'd asked me something, but I didn't know what. I just saw her in her big white shirt and felt myself getting wet just looking at her.

I didn't learn much literature in that lesson.

* * *

I remember running home that evening. I dumped my things and ran upstairs to shower and change into a clean blouse. I put my tie back on: I was going to leave it loose and then I changed my mind. No, I'd go smart. All the sexier if I got loosened up later. So I tied my tie up properly, all the way to the top, and put on a pair of hold-up stockings. Without my skirt, as I looked at myself in the mirror – why, I'd willingly fuck any girl who looked like that. But I slipped my skirt on – it hugged my bum nice and tightly – and headed downstairs for a quick bite to eat before heading back out again. My mum was surprised to see me still in my uniform – I couldn't tell if she realised I'd actually changed into it – but I mumbled something about a party at Belinda's and headed back to the bus stop.

Belinda lived in a very smart flat in a small private estate. The architect had won an award for it, I remember: big windows, lots of greenery – you get the idea. My heart was racing with excitement as I ran up the steps and rang her doorbell. Belinda came to the door. She was in uniform too – tie loose, no blazer and, as I realised after a moment, in black leather boots. This was going to be an interesting evening, I thought as she let me in. She looked me over and straightened my tie.

"Good girl: you look great. Come in and say hello to Fran."

She led me into the sitting room, where I saw Fran sitting on a sofa with a glass of wine. She got up when I came in – "Hi, Louise" – and I gulped. It was a very simple thing but it knocked the breath out of me. She was still wearing that sexy white shirt, but now she had turned the collar up. Only one person knew how sexy I find that – Belinda. And that meant Belinda had told Fran. Which meant it had been done for me.

Belinda poured me a glass of wine and I sat down in one of the armchairs. No, we didn't all immediately tear our clothes off and leap onto each other. We talked about school and then about music and then about theatre and it was all very civilised and restrained, as Belinda kept our glasses filled and served us with peanuts to make us thirsty and drink more. And I remember wondering how you set about turning a pleasant chat into a lesbian orgy when Belinda suddenly announced she needed the loo and we should feel free to look at anything we cared to while she was out. I didn't understand what she meant, but Fran did. "I think she means these", she said, moving a couple of newspapers to reveal a small pile of porn mags on the coffee table. "Don't worry", she said, tossing a couple of them over to me, "there's nothing to be embarrassed about." My eyes were wide open – rather like the girls in the mags – because these weren't copies of Mayfair or Fiesta: these were hardcore Swedish magazines: one was called Color Climax, I remember, and the other – I couldn't help smiling at the not-exactly-subtle name – was called New Cunts. "Where did she get them?" I wondered, as I leafed through the pages.

If you haven't tried it, then believe me – there is nothing, absolutely nothing, as sexually exciting as looking at porn with someone else. Most of the pictures were too close-up for me, more like a gynaecology textbook than anything sexy, but I liked the pictures at the beginning of the sets, showing the people fully or partially clothed, beginning to show their tits and their (I suppose) new cunts. But the real turn-on wasn't so much the pictures themselves: it was just sitting there openly looking through them with Fran – the sense of being complicit with a teacher in looking at hardcore porn was more of a thrill than I can describe.

"Wow. Look at that!" said Fran, holding up a picture of two girls joined by a double dildo. "Wouldn't you just love to do that?"

I stared at her and gulped. Because of course I would. But I could only dream of it.

And then Belinda came back in. And there was something about the way she did it that made me turn and look. She had changed. She was still in her school shirt and tie, but she had taken off her skirt and now had a belt tied round her waist. And she was holding a riding crop. I stared, open-mouthed – not just because I loved the outfit, but because she had obviously planned all this, obviously done this before. What was going on here? Part of me felt nervous, fearful even, thinking I ought to make my excuses and just get out of there. But a much bigger part of me wanted to stay there. Wanted to stay there for ever.

Belinda didn't say anything. She just looked at Fran and Fran, registering the look, put the magazine down without a word and stood up. She walked past Belinda over to the wall. Belinda was watching her and I turned to watch too. I was about to say something but Belinda made a quick movement with her hand to tell me to stay quiet. Fran had her back to us and was taking off her shoes and slipping out of her leggings. She folded them neatly and left them by the wall.

"And the knickers." Belinda spoke with a sort of quiet firmness, anger even, that was alarming – but exciting too. And sure enough, Fran slipped her knickers off as Belinda had told her to. I had to keep reminding myself – this was our teacher doing this, taking orders from one of her pupils. Kneeling down and stripping off and – and what?