Catching The Devil

Miss Cherie, the Sunday School teacher, watches you out of the corner of her eye. She thinks your breasts are a provocation, signs of the devil in her own church. Barely aware of her own sin, she dreams up different ways to humiliate the sin out of you.

She fantasizes about public shaming, something she fears herself, but would love to inflict on others. She wants to rip your dress off, cut your bra into pieces in front of you, and slap you hard across your cheeks in front of the congregation. She wants them to see you cry, to see the tears running down into your cleavage where she imagines it's sweaty and a little sour, where perfume lingers a little after a shower. She wants you on your knees.

At this particular moment, Miss Cherie is considering exactly how she'd pinch your nipples, scratch your breasts with her nails and take your chin in her hand while she scolds you. She blames your kind for opening doors to a certain kind of sin in the world and wants to correct this in her own very personal way.

And you've given her the proof she didn't really need to feel justified in her disgust for you. Even before she had proof that you were a hedonist slut, she knew to keep an eye on you. But now she knows.

She keeps replaying the scene in her mind... ever since yesterday, when she watched through the peephole into the church ladies room. Her suspicion was rewarded when she watched you each day, knows what a dirty girl you are and what you've been doing to yourself in there while your father attends his group in the afternoons.

Miss Cherie's barely older than you, but a repressive faith has made her appear to be a refugee from your parents' generation, with her stern hairstyle and dresses that are somehow both conservative *and* slutty. Her shape is good, hips a bit wide perhaps, but womanly, with a pronounced ass that jiggles when she walks. Her breasts are smaller than yours, but she has large nipples that her thin JCPenny bra can't conceal. And now they're right in front of you.

She's asked you rather coolly to come see her upstairs in the building behind the sanctuary. She's got "something" she needs to talk to you about, and now you're naively sitting in a child's desk in her main classroom, where she teaches the elementary kids. You're wedged into a desk so low that you can't pull your knees together without jutting them out into the aisle, which is uncomfortable, so they're somewhat splayed out on either side. You're holding your dress down between your legs in a show of schoolgirl modesty. Even now you can't seem to avoid touching yourself under cover of the desktop, squirming slightly on the little chair.

Cherie's tall and fairly towers over you, alternately leaning on the edge of her desk and standing, bending slightly toward you revealing a bit of breast and the nearly obscene points of those plump nipples straining out through the thin blouse. You see an odd combination of feelings and emotion in her eyes... anger and arrogance but also some fear, anxiety. She's flushed, and her agitation is making you increasingly nervous. It's warm in there and you flip your hair up and off your shoulder revealing your throat and emphasizing your own cleavage to her while squeezing a bit down below for your own pleasure.

She stands, now, and turns slightly away. Looking out the window she says, "You were touching yourself in the restroom. I know you were masturbating in the ladies room!"

She continues, saying it's "just not acceptable in a house of worship," and how it "doesn't matter how I know." You're embarrassed and shocked because... well, because it's true. A bomb is currently going off in your tummy, your hands have suddenly gone numb and you feel like you need to pee.

She's not able to make eye contact with you now, but moves in anyway looking down (at your boobs?!) while she repeats her claim again. Taking your chin in her hand she forces your face up to within an inch or two of hers and then your eyes truly meet in a difficult instant. You can smell her skin, her breath and some kind of perfume that's better than you would have expected.

You are ashamed and afraid and can't hold her gaze. You feel all the strength draining away, your mind spinning too fast to be useful, like the moment before a car crash.

Almost surrealistically you begin noticing in great detail the material of her blouse, her skin, how they look together, a small mole and the glisten of sweat you see on her throat... her damp underarms... those fucking nipples. For a short moment you're no longer listening or concerned with anything she's saying, just experiencing something dreamy. You recognize what could only be her pussy scent mixed with sour sweat and how it's not really bad at all, but actually a nice female musk. You notice you no longer have the will to hate her.

She's holding you by the chin before you pull away in anger and impulsively challenge her, deny that you'd touched yourself in the girls room, stammering at her that there's no way she could know even if you had but of course you HADN'T! The instinct to lie is so strong you have no choice because you know it's none of her business even if she's right. You feel you must deny her the satisfaction of making use of what she knows.

Your denial is weak, though. Trembling slightly, you gauge her reaction to this lie, this bluster. She's mad now and triumphant when she confirms that you know she knows you're lying. You can see that she's thrilled at this turn, has a look of glee in her eyes that telegraphs a surprising voltage to your groin.

Your confused and panic-stricken heart is in your throat as Miss Cherie takes you by the scruff of your neck and pulls you to the side and up onto her desk, face down, her strength daring you to resist, daring you to deny what you know is the truth... that you *were* masturbating in the church and she was somehow there to witness it all.

She's impressively strong, forcing you down on her desk, your breasts mashed down onto books and pens. Before you even take in what's happening, you feel the sting on your bare leg. Shock is postponed as another slap lands higher up on your left thigh, and another on your ass as she pushes you firmly down, gripping your neck with her left hand.

You let out a, "Shit... what are you DOING!!" but she grips your hair and pulls as she hisses, "Quiet!!" right into your ear. "Don't you DARE make a sound or I'll..."

You're holding the edge of the desk, panicky at the suddenness of this attack, as another slap lands on the plump of your ass. She's threatening you in a low growl, scolding, saying how ashamed she is of you but you can't take in the words, being overloaded by the enormity of what's going on. She's lifting your summer cotton skirt now, pulling it up over your ass and tucking the hem into your waist, the cooler air on your thighs an alarm that you're being done in. A flash of worry comically crosses your mind as you try to remember which underpants you're wearing and for how long.

Telepathically, she tugs up on the back of your panties, driving the crotch deep into your crack and exposing your ass cheeks. This also applies a delicious pressure down deep in your soft folds as she continues to pull up on that material, undermining further the resolve to struggle free. You begin to wonder if she has any idea what that's doing to you and consider that this is not an entirely bad thing.

Miss Cherie feels it when you slightly squirm back against the pressure on your pussy, notices you shift and open your legs almost imperceptibly. She's focused so intently at the line of your ass, the canyon into which the panties disappear from view as though you're naked. She thrills at the feel of your panties in her grip and the power she's exerting over your sex, convinces herself that this is the thrill of God's domination over the devil squirming and sobbing beside her. In fact her own sex is soaking wet, another thrill in her groin that has nothing to do with theology but with her own domination of you at last.

The slaps now come harder and sting more, coming alternately on one pale cheek and then the other, burning and hot. You can't remember when you've felt such an intense pain, each slap a white-hot sensation that momentarily blots out everything... her sound, your thoughts, your predicament.

Like the blinding whiteness that comes from catching a flashlight beam in the eyes on a dark night, there's the sudden sensory blindness to even the sensation of her hand slapping across the tender inner flesh of your bottom. You're momentarily overwhelmed, circuits overloaded. As the flash of pain recedes, the burning hot of the sting flows back in with the blood, bringing other pains... dull and heavy, more fleshy throbbing.

Her speech becomes labored from exertion and her unrecognized and involuntary lust. Your hand goes up to protect your ass but she just takes your wrist and pulls it up behind your back as though to break it.

Your resistance ends there and the mewling begins... tears flowing down your cheeks onto the blotter, your nose running, your mouth open so you can catch your breath. You can't believe the sense of release that comes with the tears and slobbering, a feeling you haven't had since you were a little girl across your father's lap, when he caught you...

Now... you begin to actually pay attention to what she's saying. With effort you clear your mind and hear her using language you never thought a staff member of your father's church would use. "Slut!" and "Whore!" and "how dare you" this and "how could you" that.

Worst of all, she suggests she should tell your father, setting off a genuine torrent of panic and fear no different than you felt when he caught you lingering in front of the return jet in the swimming pool when you were twelve. That embarrassment, still vivid, of your domineering father scolding you in front of your friends, has stayed buried deep inside. Now this bitch is opening all of it back up again.

Your arm is really hurting at the shoulder and elbow, but nothing compared to the confused mortification as the door opens and someone slips in... Oh God, your father!?... closing the door quickly behind.

You recognize the man's voice immediately as he addresses himself to Miss Cherie... the minister! Your heart leaps, thinking you've at least escaped that humiliation. But horror overcomes you quickly when his tone of complicity and approval of your punishment becomes clear. Now you're hopeless.

He takes off his jacket and hangs it on the back of Miss Cherie's chair, then stands behind you to watch the show. This is confusingly exciting and embarrassing because the secret part of accompanying your father for services has been that the minister is kind of hot. You've never bought the fire and brimstone, but you've felt like, at times, this handsome older man was looking directly at you during the service even though you'd hardly ever spoken except to thank him for helping your father. You'd even thought you'd seen a glitter in his eye when he looked at you, and now he's watching you being spanked, for fuck's sake!... punished and humiliated by this ignorant overpowering bitch.

Your little infatuation also led you to choose ever slightly more revealing dresses that featured your cleavage, being careful of course to avoid tight clothing. Nothing vulgar, in fact you went to vintage shops and found flowery, Catholic housewife frocks that needed little alteration beyond a button left unbuttoned in front and a belt cinched to pull it all in around your waist. The simple cotton underpants, one size too small perhaps, made you feel like a little girl again. This made walking around in church deliciously unbearable as the material was tight on your clit while you thought you'd cultivated a reasonably pious yet sexy church trolling outfit.

The black second-hand high-heels went well with your lace socks and gave you enough height to feel confident until this episode of aggressive handling lost one under the desk.

And now here he is, ironically, the man whose cock you dreamt of sucking on when you masturbated in the ladies every day, watching this awful woman humiliate you on her desk with your skirt up and your panties in full display. He obviously knows you've been masturbating in the ladies room, too, so at least his focus is on your cunt.

In this moment of relative calm, it dawns on you that they've talked about this, your self-abuse a topic of discussion in a goddam meeting, a matter of church business... in which they agreed on this particular way of addressing it. You were nothing more than a naughty little girl to them. As you realize that this spectacularly humiliating disgrace is just part of their office work, you find it is actually possible to feel even worse.

He is speaking to her, this fundamentalist teacher now hurting your arm. The straps have fallen down over your shoulders and your breasts are spilling out of your dress where they're pushed onto the oak desk, damp from your drool and tears. You feel his hand, now, rubbing across the sore part of your bottom where a moment ago that bitch had been slapping you. Slowly and gently, almost tenderly his fingers detect the slight raise of the welts where her hand had left marks, sliding across the crack of your ass from one cheek to the other.

Your pussy tingles in anticipation that his fingers will slip down between your cunt lips to the spot you're dying to be touched... but it doesn't happen.

Walking to the side now, he instructs her to proceed calmly, with the merest aside to you that this is for your own good, that the devil has entered you and must be forced out by strict means. He speaks to her as though you aren't there or wouldn't understand. You have no personhood... just a female form for an ageless evil that must be punished. He watches emotionlessly, looking on at the cotton-covered bulge between your legs, below the crack of your ass, the lips of your cunt clearly visible in compression behind the cloth... wet through!

Miss Cherie surprises you as she begins again, raining down slaps on your ass in a regular and lurid way as her fingers stray into your center. You manage to stop blubbering and shout, "Stop this you fucking bitch...!" Followed by a dramatic silence as you realize your mistake too late.

Enraged, she uses her free hand to pull your face up by your hair and tells you you'll really get it now. You feel her fingernails scratch your ass and thighs as she roughly pulls your panties down, tearing the elastic hard across your hips and down between your plump cheeks to your knees.

You are mortified when you realize the minister is now participating, tugging them on down to your ankles. His large hands brush your thighs and lower the ruined cloth down a bit more gently than she had.

He slips the underpants over one shoe and... pauses. Now you're feeling him looking right at your ass, your pussy completely exposed and the sudden realization that they're both looking at you, closely. At that moment you feel how hot and wet you are there, that they are seeing your obvious arousal and understand you're turned on by this punishment.

"Look at that!" she says. "She LIKES THIS!"

"Well," he says, "this sometimes happens, doesn't it, Cherie." And you feel his fingers down in the slippery juice of your hot cunt before he rubs it across your lips and chin.

"Yes... yes sir, it does happen... sometimes," she stammered, a new inflection in her voice.

"And you know what we must do to rid her of the devil she welcomed in," he fairly ordered.

"Yes sir. I. Do." she said with some pleasure. "I'll help her get ready."

The spanking begins again and Miss Cherie puts her back into it. You can feel your entire body roll with her restraint and slapping. Amazingly, tantalizingly, her hand gets closer and closer to the wetness between your legs, the slaps moving in toward the center making you more wet, more entirely molten, more thoroughly lit up. Your nipples, hard now, almost unbearable against the fabric of your dress and that unyielding desktop.

You find your free hand moving back toward your attacker who's sitting partially on the desk beside you. Your hand finds the curve of her ass and fairly grabs at her through her dress, pinching and imploring her to stop... but she doesn't. Your weak counter-attack softens into a kind of kneading of her ass and thigh, a caressing that telegraphs the hotness of her spanking back to her own ass where it rests on the desk beside you. You start rubbing her leg, caressing your attacker's thigh to give her some idea of the ecstatic pain she's giving you, almost recruiting her to your side, woman to woman.

For a second you feel her falter; she's realized that you're responding to her this way, but she doesn't stop. She also doesn't stop you from pleasuring her.

As your fingertips find the hem of her skirt and slide it up, she lifts slightly to make your exploring easier, yet continues to spank and slap. You've moved your fingers completely under her skirt now, the nails starting to dig into the flesh of her thigh and buttocks where her panty elastic stops you. She falters again then comes down right on your pussy, spreading you open with her other hand now right at your gaping asshole, pushing you apart right where the wetness is, and you howl as she finds your center and her fingers slip lightly inside, just a little detour before another spank, a tiny island of tenderness in her sea of rage.

You're not too busy to note the sound of the student desk being pushed back as the minister moves and you remember your audience. He's moving around the other side of the teacher's desk and, as if to assist her, puts his hand on the back of your head, gently at first, and takes a handful of your long hair and pulls it hard.

You wonder what the fuck he's doing when sure enough you find yourself looking directly at the front of his pants, the pain of your hair recedes at the sight of the noticeable bulge behind his zipper. Miss Cherie now has full focus on your ass and cunt, as you're mesmerized at his hand opening the zipper of his GAP trousers.

Your shock at this is bolstered by the surge of desire you feel, the flood of endorphins confirming that you're ready and eager to see his cock, to take it in your mouth even before you've seen it. You imagine it, a premonition based on the way his handsome and masculine hands look, as his fingers work the zipper and the bulge shifts sideways out the fly. The ordained cock is devilishly red and already very hard as you get a whiff of his crotch, a combination of sweating balls and fabric softener.

As Cherie looks at him adoringly, he undoes his belt and allows his pants to drop as he steps out of one leg, then the other. This puts his erect cock right in front of you. She keeps her hand on your bottom and lets up on your arm so that you can lift enough to raise your head and move toward him. As you do, you look up at her and see that she's completely taken with desire herself, a bit of jealousy that you'll get his cock and not her... for the moment... but she knows the way this works. Her eyes dare you to disappoint him.

"Lick it, slut," she commands you. "I said LICK IT." He leans forward just enough for you to reach his cock with your lips and tongue. You begin to lick up from the scrotum to the head of his cock, then squirm forward enough to plant voluptuous wet kisses along the shaft, pressing your lips on his cock while also applying pressure with the tip of your tongue. You are able now to cradle his balls in your fingertips and begin to kiss and suck them gently.

Judging by the way the two exchange hot eye contact, Miss Cherie's learned to wait, apparently. The horny minister, still ignoring you except as the waiting receptacle for his cock, firmly commands Miss Cherie to guide his cock into your mouth. As the blood returns to your twisted arm, you raise yourself up on your elbows to see her in front of him.