Rachel is Ready

Rachel knew preparation.

The smart girl glasses, she found on the cheap rack of reading glasses at the airport when she was coming back from her trip. At a single power of correction—not so strong to make her bump into the doorjamb, not so weak that she didn't have to look over the top of the frames to avoid what she thought looked like a squinting cross-eyed gaze rather than a sultry, knowing glimpse.

She checked it again, looking down her nose, eyes tilted up. Almost a skeptical stare. The wire rims and slightly larger lenses gave a much better look than the granny glasses she saw at the grocery store, the ones that looked more at home on an accountant than a woman trying to pull off a look.

She wore the flyaway white blouse cinched below her cleavage, the thin material so sheer that her dark hard nipples left no doubt as to their presence as the fullness of her breasts strained and pulled the knot.

The obligatory plaid skirt came from a thrift shop. It was really too small, but the Velcro sides would tear away at the right moment with just a rip. She struck a pose, angling at the hip in the serious fashion of a model she'd seen while they'd been surfing porn together. He stopped at that picture for more than a glance; she knew she could pull it off. A pout. A flutter of eyelids. A toss of the head and the braids bounced.

Brian was late. He'd dropped hints, showing her a site where she could by the whole outfit ready made. Reform school girl, nice girl lacey stockings leading up a couple of bare legs where hidden beneath the plaid skirt a slutty thong tucked her in. She turned around in front of the mirror and lifted her skirt. Her ass perked up in the mirror—the heels gave it that little tilt that offered the briefest glimpse of the turquoise-sheathed mound between her legs.

She unwrapped a sucker—a red one. She tilted her head side-to-side as she licked it. Smack. Her braids flopped back and forth. Her tongue, cherry red, on fire, ready to lick his thigh, his shaft, his nipples. Whatever it could find. Whatever he wanted.

Rachel could go either way tonight. She might be the reform school girl called into the headmaster's office, to be punished for some infraction of the code. What would it be this time? She thought. Caught with the gardener behind the hedge, now in the office to be taught proper behavior? Glimpsed in the shower room touching herself, that dyke Miss Weathers secretly spying and then turning her in for spite when she had seen how powerful of a climax she could bring herself to have.

Or caught after hours in Amber's bunk, exploring each other and trading orgasms until they fell asleep only to be discovered in the morning?

Either way, she would surely be punished, surely made to atone. But Rachel wouldn't just give it up—she would make him work for it. She could be stubborn. In fact, she might just make up her mind not to concede the point until he managed to make her capitulate through some combination of pleasure and pain. Was there really that much difference? When he placed her over his knee and softly touched her bare flesh, the anticipation was as good as any foreplay. Waiting for that first strike, never knowing how long between spanks. Electric jolts of endorphins and adrenaline as sharp as a nipple tweak, a twinge that had her surreptitiously reaching up to pinch her own nipple as if to bring herself back to reality, a steady pain she could control to take her mind off the sharp ones that startled her, made her ache and soak at the same time.

And when she couldn't take it any more, when the combination of pain and pleasure and lust went over the top, she'd confess, she'd admit what she had done, she'd vow to make it up to him however she could. She'd let him soothe her, comfort her, use her. He would take her with force, or maybe gently, bring her to an orgasm so blinding that she wouldn't be able to tell if the throbbing originated from her g-spot or her clit or her burning red butt.

That's one way it could go. Or maybe she'd mix it up.

Let him think he was in control again, but when she couldn't take it any more, turn the tables on him. Catch him off guard. Make him pay. Do to him what he did to her, make him confess he was watching her with the gardener, that it was he who stood peering through the window at her in the shower, that he was the one who had slipped in and watched from the doorway as Amber went down on her. Through the vines, she saw him, through the mist of the shower, through half-closed eyes backlit against the dorm room doorway. And he'd eventually give in, admit his sin, and then she would be free to have her way.

She was soaking now, thinking about it, wondering where the fuck Brian was. She took out her vibe and dialed it up. Just a quick warm up before he got here. Nestled against the moist crease above her clit, the vibrator pressed flat against her pubis, sliding down over her clit, sending intense waves and shocks through her. Her knees nearly buckled and she had to grab the vanity with her free hand to keep from toppling. But then she pictured him there with her kneeling before him, submissive to his will, and she let go, collapsing to her knees and tucking the vibe inside, bearing down on her g-spot, her legs spread, ass on her heels, cheek leaning against the cabinet for support, imaging his cock right there, above her, imposing, as she sucked him to completion, just as he commanded.

When the orgasm came over her, she lay down on the floor, legs splayed, mouth open, lips parted. The heavy breathing—she must have been holding her breath—turned to the deep breathing of sleep.

---

Brian came home. He was late, and not by accident. He knew Rachel was revved up tonight. He wanted to make her wait. Let it build up. Let her know who was in control. So he took his time at the store. He took the long route home. He walked around the neighborhood, looking at the flickering blue lights in the windows he passed, wondering what was going on inside each house. Who was getting head. Who was jacking off to porn. Who was bending whom over which piece of furniture.

He went to refrigerator and grabbed a couple of beers. More waiting for her. Out to the back deck, he swigged beer and ran through the scenarios he could run through. To dominate her. To take control away. He was always so courteous and caring, it was a stretch for him to imagine that he could make her his completely, indulge in the most limitless fantasies ever teenage kid has and then ends up having driven out of him through years of taming. The animal lust, alpha male dominance, the strength and power—he'd curtailed that for years, conditioned by a culture that worshipped women, put males in their place, turned him from a beastly ravenous man of lustful appetites into a sensitive gentle lover who sought not to offend or push any boundaries, but instead politely keep to the same playbook focused on gradually bringing her to orgasm before he'd consider his own pleasure, a romance that was a careful dance, like rare exotic birds preening through a courtship ritual, his animal desires only allowed on her terms, when he passed the test and jumped through all the hoops.

Brian cracked the second beer open. He didn't think she'd mind him taking her as he wished. Hell, she'd practically been dropping hints that she wanted to be ravished. He thought about a rape fantasy. She'd be inside, freshly showered, almost dressed again for a night on the town, and he'd sneak in the back of the house, having watched her from the back for most of the night, timing his surprise to make it realistic. He'd break in, slip up the stairs, and startle her. Toy knife to the throat, tie her up with her bra or stockings. Tight. Realistically. She'd struggle, but the feel of that blade would quickly calm her. He'd blindfold her, strip her, cutting and ripping off the clothes. Laying her out bare. Fucking her hard, harder, slamming against her. Making her suck his cock. Coming once, then ransacking her room, finding her toys and using them on her. Then coming again. Taking his time. Making her come. Feeling her heart beat against his chest.

No way, he thought. He couldn't picture it. He'd crack in the middle, or maybe she would. He'd find out whether she really want to be ravished. He'd detect some hesitation, and then he'd break character and it would be over. It wasn't in him.

But he was hard now, and ready to fuck. He drained the beer. Fuck it, he said. She wants control, I'll give her control. The alcohol unlocked his inhibitions, turned back the clock on the affect of twenty years of being turned into a caring, considerate lover, and unleashed the alpha male. He had no idea what fantasy she had planned tonight, but whatever it was and however it started, she would end up under his control, and he would call the shots, determining when she came, when he came. Determining how it went. And she would just have to go along.

---

He found her in the bathroom, still asleep, sprawled out, legs akimbo, the vibe still in her hand, schoolgirl skirt hiked up, thong pulled aside, a sleeping schoolgirl. So this is what she wanted. He dropped to his knees and inhaled the sweet wet smell of her pussy, ran his tongue along the slick crevice, up across the hood of her clit, ever so gently. Again and again he licked, tugged, until her clit appeared and he could take it firmly between his lips, flicking it with his tongue. Her pussy bloomed in response. She stirred, started to turn over but he held her thigh down. Gentle undulations of her hips brought her deeper into his face, her pubic bone driven against his nose.

Then a clench; a gasp, she came forcefully in his mouth, awakening, sat up and looked over the top of her glasses. In a flash, she remembered where she was, what the plans were, guilt at being caught, flush with a couple of orgasms, she stammered "Headmaster Green, I, I—".

"Get up, young lady. Put yourself back together and put that"—he pointed to the vibrator she held—"away. Report to my office at 10 o'clock."

She scrambled to get upright, to straighten herself out. She looked up at the Headmaster, his face glistening. How long had he been there? She couldn't have been asleep more than a minute or two—her pussy was still wet. She looked him in the eyes. His gaze was so stern, so direct that she was forced to look away, look down, ashamed. She had been caught. She might have to drop out of school. Work some menial job. How stupid it was to let lust overtake her.

Brian left, went down to his office in the den. Rachel wasn't sure what happened, but just knew she was hornier than ever. She blushed. This was role play and it wasn't. He took it seriously. She slipped into her role seamlessly. He would make her pay, she knew it. Dreaded it. Looked forward to it.

She was ready.

She was prepared.