Secret Masochist - Education

(All characters in this story are eighteen years of age, or older)

Chapter 6

Down the rabbit hole, Alice

It's 8:00 AM on Saturday, and you're standing on Mr. Peterson's front porch, filled with self-doubt.

Yesterday was so intense, it feels like a dream. Did I

really

come like that... in front of him?

Color rises in your cheeks as you remember how Mr. Peterson had ordered you to clean up the mess your pussy had made. Your brain buzzes with embarrassment as you remember how it felt to pull your jeans over your dripping panties and walk home, hoping nobody would notice the smell. Electricity hums through your pussy as you think about how you had gone straight to your room when you got home, desperate to get off again.

How long did you spend frigging yourself last night? No matter how many times you got off, no matter which of your toys you used, nothing had been enough to satisfy you. The thought of Mr. Peterson's stern voice, how it had felt when he struck you with the switch... with the crop... the way his gaze had captured yours. Every memory of yesterday had sent you chasing that body-shaking orgasm he had given you, but you just couldn't get there on your own. Despite coming at least half a dozen times between last night and this morning, you still felt a burning need for... something more.

You fidgeted with your uncomfortable outfit. When you had told Mr. Peterson that you wanted to take the advanced course, the first thing he did was explain the rules.

Fuckin hell he loves his rules.

One of the rules was about how you were to dress yourself, and the only outfit you had that came anywhere close to satisfying his conditions was your old uniform from 9th grade. Your stepdad had thought attending a strict private school would help you focus, but really it just gave you more rules to get around. You didn't last more than a year there, but you had held on to the uniform.

It felt completely alien to you. The stiff shirt, the stuffy vest, the pleated skirt, the long white stockings. None of it fit with your image of yourself, and the fact that it was a little too small made it even worse. In the years since 9th grade your hips had gotten a little wider, and your chest and ass had filled out a bit. The result was the skirt rode higher than it used to, exposing quite a bit of thigh between the hem and the top of your stockings, and the shirt was almost too tight to button up all the way.

The overall effect had you feeling out of place, exposed, and unsure of yourself. You take a deep breath in a futile effort to calm your nerves.

Remember RC, you're just here for the grade. He caught you off guard yesterday, but you're ready for him now. You're not gonna let him get under your skin like that again. Just follow his stupid rules and answer his stupid questions and you'll be fine. You won't need to get... punished...

The dark wooden door on the front of Mr. Peterson's two-story house seems to drink in the morning sunlight. The longer you look at it, the bigger it seems to get, like the mouth of a dragon ready to swallow you whole.

Get it together, RC. It's just a door, this is just a house, and Mr. Peterson is just a dorky history teacher

.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you bring your fist up to knock on the heavy wood. Nothing happens for a moment, and you almost knock again, but then you hear noises inside. A scrape like a large chair being pushed across the floor, heavy footsteps coming closer... closer...

The door opens, and Mr. Peterson is standing there, his expression unreadable. He's wearing a dark red button-up and gray slacks, and his curly hair seems a little wilder and more unkempt than usual. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, revealing a thatch of grey-black chest hair. Despite being barely taller than you are, you feel yourself looking up at him. He's the same Mr. Peterson you see in class every day, but there's something different about him, something... more.

You realize you've been staring at him like an idiot. Cursing yourself, you open your mouth to say something, but he cuts you off. "Good morning, Miss Murray. I must say I'm a little surprised to see you awake at this hour, much less properly dressed and on time."

Gaping at him, you're too shocked to respond.

The fuck did he just say to me? Did he think I wasn't gonna

—

"Although I will say, Miss Murray, that your appearance does leave something to be desired. You're revealing a bit more skin than is proper, and the dress code I explained to you did specify makeup."

You blush deeply and feel one hand uselessly tug the hem of your skirt down over your exposed thighs. "I... um... I didn't have—"

"You didn't have any makeup." He sighs. "Not surprising. Very well, I suppose this will have to do. Come in."

He steps to the side, but you still can't see past him. The inside of the house is dark, all you can make out is a few vague shapes. His words had dented the self-confidence you'd built back up since yesterday, and you felt yourself doubting if you'd made the right choice.

You can do this, RC. You're stronger than him.

Taking a deep breath, you step over the threshold and past Mr. Peterson into his house.

You're standing in a large, sparsely furnished main room. Bookshelves line the walls in between a few old paintings of philosophers and other old men you don't recognize. There's a fancy looking sofa and a couple of small chairs, along with a huge reading chair by the hearth made of dark leather. On one side of the room you see the entrance to a hallway, and on the other a staircase leading up. Thick curtains cover the windows, leaving the room dim except for the golden light from a single lamp. The air is cool, and you feel goosebumps start to prickle up on the skin of your thighs... and the back of your neck.

"Welcome to my home, Miss Murray." Mr. Peterson's voice right behind you makes you start.

Fuck, he's already getting to me. C'mon, RC, focus!

He walks around in front of you and leafs through some papers on a dark wooden desk. "I trust you remember the rules we discussed yesterday, but before we begin, I wanted to reiterate something. Just so there is absolutely no doubt in your mind." He looks up at you. "You are free to leave this house at any time, for any reason. It will, of course, mean the end of this tutoring, and the return to your normal grading. But, no matter what happens, the decision to remain will be yours alone. Do you understand, Miss Murray?"

You feel like his eyes are pinning you to the floor. Taking a deep breath, you answer. "Yes, Mr. Peterson."

I can do this. This is my choice

.

"Very good, Miss Murray. Now, as we discussed, you are able to remain over the course of the weekend if necessary, yes?"

Your heart is pounding in your chest. "Y-yes, Mr. Peterson."

"This will not present an issue with your... parents?"

The question in his voice fills you with both annoyance and shame. "No, Mr. Peterson. My stepdad is out fishing with his dumb... with his friends until Monday."

"And your mother?"

You look down at the floor, a grimace twitching at the corner of your mouth. "She doesn't give a shit where I am."

Mr. Peterson nods. "I see, Miss Murray. Perhaps we can revisit these issues of absent authority later in the tutoring."

You look back up at him. "What? Absent auth—"

He cuts you off and steps toward you. "But first we must address the issues in front of us. You have a problem with discipline, Miss Murray, that much is clear."

Discipline

. Your mind is suddenly filled with thoughts of yesterday. Of punishment.

He's right in front of you. "We discovered yesterday, Miss Murray, that the root of your disciplinary issues seems to be your inability to control your sexual impulses."

You're breathing hard, unable to look him in the eye. Your fists bunch up in the fabric of your skirt, and you remember how it felt when he punished you. When he struck you. When he made your pussy wet.

When he made you come.

"I have my own theories, of course, about what exactly is causing this. And I have an idea of how to address it. Look at me, Miss Murray."

You force yourself to meet his gaze, and his dark eyes fill your vision. Despite yourself, you start to tremble.

How? How is he doing this?

"It's clear to me that what you need is some strict male authority. Your vulnerable feminine nature, unguided by an authority figure, has degenerated into promiscuity and fecklessness. The first thing we will do is teach you some lessons in obedience. Do you understand, Miss Murray?"

Rage is boiling up inside you, making your breaths heavy.

Feminine nature? Degenerated? What the fuck?

You want to yell at him, slap that smug masculinity right off his face. But another of his words catches your mind.

Obedience...

In spite of your anger, that word pulls at you. It reminds you of how good it felt when Mr. Peterson smiled at you. When he...

"Miss Murray?"