A Bad Girl Ch. 01

bySimon J.©

My new roommate was Veronica Shore, a snotty classic beauty who dated only frat boys. She was on the fast track to wife-and-mother-hood, and eventually dropped out, possibly pregnant, a year before graduating. I moved out that year, and lived off-campus in a grotty little apartment over a Chinese restaurant until I graduated.

Occasionally, I’d see Tennisball Turner, my ex-slave, in the halls or at meetings. She tried to contact me at home a few times, but was clearly hurt that I didn’t respond. I started seeing Mark Uppmann, and got engaged to him.

The night before graduation, a group of us from the teaching program went out on the town. There were only three boys going into teaching from our year, so it was very much a “girl’s night out”. I brought Mark, and was astounded when Tennisball turned up as a guest of one of the other boys (I suppose they were men, but I always thought of them as boys).

After a number of drinks, I arose from my place near the head of the table to go to the powder room. Tennie, who had carefully sat at the other end, rose unsteadily as well. Our eyes met, and my nipples crinkled up into little hard points. I couldn’t sit down, so I left the table and tried to race for the toilets without looking as though I was running.

I had a head start, but Jacquie burst in before I could lock the door. Panting a little, she reached behind her as it swung closed and locked it.

“Hang on,” she said, gasping, holding up a hand “You’ve been running away from me for nearly a fucking year. I’ve given up trying to catch you—I just wanted to tell you something.”

“What?” I asked, secretly relieved that she was giving up, but oddly . . . was it regretful?

In answer, she took my head between her hands and kissed me on the mouth. Now my pussy was soaked. My hands grasped her shoulders and I tore at her sweater.

Suddenly the contact was broken.

“No!” Jacquie shouted “You can’t have me both ways! Either I’m yours, or I’m fucking not. I told you: I’ve given up trying to hold onto you, so don’t . . . don’t. . .”

She doubled over and began to cry. Soon I was holding her, and our tears mixed as we kissed for the last time.

“I love you, Mistress.” She breathed.

“I know, and I have to hurt you.” I answered. She nodded her head fearfully.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. I deserve to be punished.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” I asked, secretly hornier than hell.

“Mistress,” she said seriously “I just want to be your slave. To serve you on my knees, and to eat your sweet juicy pussy. But if you don’t want me, I’ll go. Just let me please you, and punish my ass one last time. Then you’ll never see me again.”

“Eat me, you little bitch,” I ordered “and make it good, because you’re getting whipped with my belt, no matter how good it is, but I might make it less painful if it’s fantastic.”

“Mistress, there’s no way you can hurt me more.” she answered simply.

She ducked her head under my short black skirt and began licking her way up my thighs. The time apart hadn’t dulled her sharp little slave tongue, and she was putting it to use as only she could. I felt her fingers move my panties aside, felt her stick a finger into my pussy as her tongue pressed itself to my ass. I came once, almost falling down. I leaned forward and over her, supporting myself on the sink as she squatted, bringing me to the peak of pleasure for a second time only a couple of minutes after the first.

I suppose that I knew she was right, and that may be why I beat her so hard. By the time I finished beating her ass, there were little stripes of blood where the belt had abraded her flesh. Once I was done, I left her sobbing on the floor, her panties around one leg, her cunt soaking and red from missed strokes of the belt, her eyes red and weeping, and I walked out.

There was a long line-up outside, and from the looks of it, some of them had been listening at the door. I strode angrily past those shocked faces and clear out of the restaurant.

I never saw Jaqcueline “Tennisball” Turner again. The next day she wasn’t on the podium with the other graduates from her program, and I learned casually later on that she’d gone home early and received her diploma by mail.

Mark and I broke up that afternoon. I gave him back his ring and gave him the usual “It’s not you. . .” speech. I suppose I meant it. But he’d obviously heard a few things on the grapevine, because he seemed almost relieved.

That year I got lucky—my hometown high school needed an English/History teacher, and I knew the head of the school board. Soon I was settled in as “Miss Flock”, and began wearing a comfortable, lonely groove in the yellow linoleum of Park West Secondary School.

There were a few men over those years, but none seriously. My attraction to women seemed to have dissipated. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of a blond bob, or a head of short, curly blonde hair, and something in me would kind of kick over. But I never went near another woman, and sort of stopped going for men after a while, too.

I didn’t escape from my groove until six years later. You can call it fate, destiny, or luck, but I call it surprise: I was about to step on the garden rake in the long green grass of life.

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