Part I -- Looking Back
"Amanda Mountford," I enthused, "sometimes you really need to be appreciated."
Looking back now, Amanda, I have to say your response was disappointingly confined to a muffled grunt; but I could forgive that. After all, your mouth was rather full at that moment. How could one not be generous, indulgent even, to one who is as intently engaged as you were? I looked down at you, my darling eighteen year old pet, filled with pride, watching as you drenched the strap-on, which was firmly belted to my waist, with saliva. I loved the way I had trained you to ensure that it would be just right and well prepared for later usage on your other young holes.
I will always remember pressing forward into that pretty mouth of yours, dismissing my sweet protégée's repeated gagging sounds each time the rubber tool touched the back of the throat at the apex of each thrust. Then I leant over your nubile, young body, running my hand all the way down your back to that pleasingly rounded bubble butt for a deliciously proprietorial squeeze and a wickedly echoing slap.
The darling wriggle, as you flinched in response, was quite natural. Do you remember how your lovely form was actually almost completely denuded and spread, face-down across my new coffee table at the time? Any onlooker would have seen that your pert bottom was still very pink from the rather vigorous caning that my good friend, Gertrude, had inflicted upon it the previous day. Dear Gertie: she is such a thorough disciplinarian.
Those stripes had now faded from the vivid marks that had impacted so on that sweet eighteen year old derriere, even though Gertrude had meticulously criss-crossed your teenaged flanks with them. And yet, they reproached me still as you, my pet, gurgled beneath me. They were an angry reflection on a rare loss of temper at your sometimes pusillanimous approach to the mature joys that I had offered you since taking your education in hand. And Gertrude, grateful for the opportunities that I occasionally toss her way, is always prepared to be as thorough that she imagines I would wish her to be in such situations.
Why, I can almost see her in my mind's eye, ushering you into her study and looking you over, before having you lean right over her dark mahogany desk. I can feel your trepidation as you see the well-worn edge of the desk. Then there is the puzzled look crossing your face as you wonder how many students and other affiliates of ours have been located in exactly that position.
Next comes that cool swish of air against the back of your thighs as your skirt is flipped up around your waist, snagged on the end of some well-chosen tool whose whippy propensities are still to be tested on your youthful derriere. You tremble lightly until the contrasting warmth of a mature female hand offsets the chill. It touches your shivering thighs first and stills them before the fingers rise tantalisingly up to the tight crevice between your panty-clad, teenaged buttocks.
You twitch away from the first contact and are rewarded by the sharp sting of a slap and the hiss in her voice, both chiding you for your naughtiness; and repeated once, twice and then a third time for good measure. You have been warmed, my dear sweet Amanda; you have been measured; and you have been found extremely wanton, despite that air of apparent innocence you normally exude. Gertrude knows exactly what you need to ensure you never say no to your owner again. She has a vast array of implements and a wealth of experience in using every single one of them.
So, just lower your belly to the desk obediently, raise your bottom pleasingly and wait for Gertrude to slip her experienced hands under the elastic waistband of your innocently pink, lace trimmed panties and pull them down to your knees as expeditiously as only she knows how. You know from experience that you will have plenty of time as the seconds tick by to open your eyes, pet, and stare out freely at the lovely countryside. It undulates gently into the distance and forms almost as pleasing a vista to observe as your pretty, pink, soon to be striped derriere...
Ah! Such pleasant recollections! And I can remember to the day, pet, the time you first crossed my path. That is exactly a year ago now, when you moved in next door with your father, James, early that year, just as winter gave way to spring -- hence the candle that I planted and then lit in your belly button after luncheon today. It's such a natural holder. I do so love the way the wax spills over the side and pools on to your lovely young tummy, before spreading and forming that malleable residue, where I can write my initials to remind you just who you belong to now.
This girl remembers the move very well too, mistress. I was quite tired after the long journey. Daddy was so very irritated to find that several of his rarer books had somehow been left in a crate in storage. He does so like having his things about him. I had chosen my room, when daddy finally purchased the house. Yes I know you know the room well, but please let me press my face back between your spread thighs; tug my hair until I am back where I belong. I promise you that I won't exhaust my tongue or your patience with my silly chatter. And yes, mistress, I will enjoy your lovely cunt. I will twist my eager, young tongue round and round, until you squirt your juices all down this girl's expectant face. It's no lie to say that I was drawn to your potential immediately: your chaste demeanour, that lovely brunette mane of hair of yours, those sculpted features and, above all, your shyness called out to me, Amanda. And yet, your timidity was such that you seemed almost fawn-like in your anxious desire for escape from company, looking away and blushing at every turn. Yes, I saw that hunted look straying across your pale face. It made it abundantly clear to everyone who called in during the days after your arrival, that you wanted to hasten away given the first opportunity.
Given that delicate reserve, I am quite sure that you would have been very hard to get to know had it not been for our shared delight in reading, gardening and, unbeknownst to the few friends you had left in her home town, a latent fondness for the most entertaining, masochistic, surrenders.
Well, Amanda, a year later, do you still recognise the sweet innocent that you were? Over the last twelve months I seem to have cultivated in you a submissive temperament of the most delightful and perverse kind. And yet, given the right situation you still manage to turn on that guileless charm, whenever I wish to inveigle another wealthy potential donor into my select group of munificent lady patrons. You really were quite the find I have to say.
Gertrude once asked me how I managed to turn you so completely, while leaving your maidenly exterior so apparently unstained by the inner turmoil engendered by the opportunity to surrender. You have to forgive her sometimes. For Gertrude, submission is really about one-sided conquest. She is in charge. She is certain in her approach. And she rarely entertains any variation on her directive philosophy. Empowerment for her means disempowerment for those who fall under her spell.
For me conquest and control is far more subtle. It is a matter of getting a woman to look within herself to find the image of Sapphic surrender staring back -- quiet, still and embodied in her perception of the mistress who took her there in the first place. And I'm really rather glad that you chose my way, you darling girl. Let me just tweak those excitable nipples once more. There's a good girl. Lean up and let your mistress have the entire run of your gorgeous, little body.
