A Slut's Education Ch. 01

Prologue

This evening, I have my pretty, young, petite Asian slave-slut outfitted for serving me in the manner to which I have grown accustomed:

You are collared with a high, stiff leather posture collar, to go with the permanent steel one you've worn for me for weeks now, and from the latter, a slender chain run to a juncture where it splits into two chains that connect to matching steel wrist-cuffs. Also from this juncture, two more chains go down to the matching steel ankle-cuffs, a sirik. The chains aren't really short enough to restrict your movements -- since I have work for you, after all -- so the effect is mostly ornamental. And symbolic: You are my well-trained, kajira house-slave. A third chain runs from a clip in the collar-ring, up to the leather grip of the leash in my hand, by which I have you controlled.

Other features: A ballgag in your mouth with a fetching little chin-strap. I like to see you gagged partly because it's a visceral reminder to you that the only one whose opinion counts is me. You wear a flared, pleasingly plump ass-plug up inside you, with a decorative pale blue opal (matching the one that adorns your collar-ring) at the end, since I have learned that plugging your anus in this way tends to render you more submissive. Finally, black stiletto pumps, which are also ornamental, since you'll be serving me from your knees this evening.

It's an outfit that just says "sex-slave."

So, on to bathroom duty: While I shower, my sex-slave kneels on the edge of the bath mat, the edge away from the shower, nearer the door. You have neatly folded two towels and placed them on the floor in front of you. Your knees are spread slightly and you rest back on your haunches, hands placed demurely atop your thighs, palms up: "At-Ease" Posture. Your head is bowed. You wait. You wait to serve.

When you hear the shower shut off and the curtain is pulled back, you rise to "At-Attention," Second Posture -- which is knees spread wider, up off your haunches, breasts and hips thrust forward, chin up, lips open and eyes forward -- but with the variation that instead of clasping your hands behind your neck, your arms are before you, bent at the elbows with the two towels draped across the forearms.

As I step out of the shower, you bow your head low and raise your hands up high, holding the towel: knowing the protocol that at any time you offer anything to Master, you lift the thing higher than your head, as if to say, the gift you proffer is more important than you are. I take one towel and you keep the other, and I turn to face the mirror over the sink and dry off my hair, face, arms and shoulders -- in other words, what's too high for you to reach from your knees; and you, in turn, moving from the feet, take care of everything you can reach from down there. You are thorough. And you know I forbid you to touch my skin with metal -- but unfortunately, you do, three times.

(I multiply that number times ten, and that means you'll get thirty lashes, from a punishment tool or tools to be determined later. I think tonight is the night I am going to teach you a new game, called "Pick Your Poison.")

Once you're done drying me, and until I finish my morning grooming -- shaving, hair, teeth -- you set aside the towels and turn your attention to stroking my cock with one hand, cradling my balls with the other. You are silent, not just because you are gagged. You keep your head bowed and eyes down as you do this. And you don't do it insistently. You're not trying to get me off, just keep me amused and stimulated until I am finished here in the bathroom.

Nevertheless, soon I am rather hard. And as I finish my grooming, I check your work, I decide you please me and you deserve a reward. I lift you to your feet and bend you over at the waist. You grip your ankles, put your legs together and straighten your knees, and I rather unceremoniously plunge my cock into your dripping cunt. You are much smaller than me, and with a firm grip on your hips, I am pumping you like you're a toy. You know from your training how to take this fucking to maximize my own pleasure: that is, you flex from the calves and push up off the balls of your feet, in time to my thrusts and pushing back into them. You press your thighs together to tighten up the sheath of your slit around my cock and you add a subtle rolling and rocking motion to your hips.

But since this is for you, not me -- not that I'll ever admit to you that you're being rewarded for anything -- after a few more hard thrusts, a few slaps on the ass, and a barked instruction to "Cum!" -- you do. Your knees buckle and you shudder and moan into your ballgag, but I have you in my grip and you stay on your feet.

Then on to the my slut's next chore: My massage. Then you'll dress me. Then I'll refit you with your discrete under-garment toys for our night on the town. No rest for the weary slave...

Ahhh, it's good to own a sex-slave who is so well trained to please the eye and the flesh. And to think, not two months ago, you were just a naïve, reluctant coed who I was blackmailing into sex.

While you rub my back, I let down my guard a bit and tell you, "Ahhhhh, my slave-slut, if you continue to please me this way, and continue to learn how to be my sex-slave..."

You do a good job pushing into that knot under my left shoulder blade. "... I will take you to the Dominion -- to a world you have never imagined."

a slut's Education

by Professor Master, Esq. and kajkelli

Part One:

The Chaining

"Cum!"

Master has no idea how the word echoes throughout my enslaved body. The first time he shouted this command, he had brought me to the edge countless times, and I was his whimpering pet. I screamed into my gag in release, a volcano of lust and hot magma erupting within my pussy.

And it is the same every time.

By the time my class ends, I am already juicing at the prospect of the hours to come. As usual, I have left a wet spot on the plastic chair in the classroom. Master neither allows his slave to wear panties, nor to clean the wetness she left behind. I walk from the classroom in the manner of his slave. Though my ankles are not chained, my gait is measured. Only a few months back, I walked as a tomboy, a female jock. Captain of my high school basketball team, I had walked quickly, athletically. Now, it is one foot in front of the other, a model on a catwalk, accentuating my hips, waving my ass like a red cape before the bulls in class.

I am 18 and new on campus and apparently popular. I guess I am judged pretty, or at least fun, because rarely do I meet someone, guy or girl, who does not want to stop me to say hi and offer to get a Starbucks with me or snack at The Pit. Each offer stokes my ego and confidence, and I turned down no one.

That, indirectly, turns out to be why I am now my Master's slave.

In high school, my parents controlled me on a tight leash. I was not able to date. It was study, study, study, my only outlet being basketball. A 98% grade on a test was not acceptable. I was not allowed to wear anything vaguely seductive, not even to pierce my ears. My friends told me to rebel, but I could not. I was, after all, the perfect daughter to my exacting Asian parents. I could not shame them.

My parents had been so happy when I was admitted to UC Berkeley. It was the crème de la crème of the UC campuses. The first week was orientation and I loved every moment. The freedom to laugh and stay up all night partying, with no homework. Life was good.

On the second day, one of my new friends commented that my ears were not pierced. I was embarrassed to explain why. An hour later, she accompanied me to the salon and had my left ear pierced twice, for a red-stoned stud and a fuck-me hoop, and my right once, just for the hoop.

On the third day, she convinced me that I had a hot belly, so that afternoon I got a belly-button piercing.

On the fourth night I got drunk for the first time, and awoke entangled in the arms of my roomie, a beautiful blond from San Diego named Deanna. Vaguely I remembered our steamy night together, our lips and tongues wrapped in exploration, her fingers playing with my pussy, and my first girl on girl action. It was paradise.

It was also frightening. I wasn't a lesbian, of that I was sure. My roomie knew so much about sex and seduction, however, and my submissive nature allowed her free rein. She insisted I shave my pussy the next day, and I've done it every day since (although more recently, it is at Master's direction, and at times he will do it himself, usually while I am tied up and helplessly spread out.)

I opened up to Deanna, I told her my concerns and she just laughed. "I'm not a lesbian, either, Kelli. I'm bi."

Bi? Was that what I was?

Deanna and I went to a party the next Saturday night organized by one of the fraternities on campus. She helped me purchase a black outfit that left little to the imagination.

Even now, I do not recall most of the night. In fact, most of my memories are captured in the photos that Master took of me.

Drunk. Naked. Laughing and smiling. Naked. Drunk.

Most of the pictures on his phone, some on mine. He used the former as blackmail to gain possession of the latter, along with the phone number for "Mom." I could not let Mom see those pictures. I had to protect her and dad from what their daughter had done.

I did not lose my virginity that night, but the next night, I did.

"Cum!"

The force and authority of Master's booming voice fills me as surely and as deeply as does his cock.

He holds me up, impaled, and I obey.

After work, I swing by the BART station to pick you up. My girl looks so tenderly innocent, somewhat forlorn, dressed in a plaid skirt and white blouse, holding books in front of you, clasped over your crotch as if they are supposed to provide some kind of protection. Your face is bowed thoughtfully.

Are you thinking about your education, schoolgirl? Which part of it?

As I pull up, you come forward to the open passenger-side window and lean in, your face anxious. "Sir, with respect, I will ask just once more, so please don't be cross with me. I have sooo much homework --"

"Get in," I command, tapping the cellphone which is in my front shirt pocket. "I insist."

You sigh and get in. As I pull a U-turn across Diamond and head home, I add, "By the way: 'I?' 'Me?"

I glance over and see you blush, quite fetchingly. "This slut begs your pardon, Sir. She didn't know we had begun."

"'Begun'? Slut, once we started, it hasn't ended for you for even a second of your waking or sleeping life. Understand? You are my slave, and you will behave as such at all times. Period."

"Yes, Sir, this slut sees that now."

I can see you simmer quietly with low-level resentment. But I let it go. I am no dummy, so I know that even as much as I have opened you up to your inner slut and your inner slave -- much to your breathless delight -- I know too that half of our relationship is blackmail and coercion. That will always be between us. But I don't spend much time contemplating how that feels to you.

I just know, in my case, it fucking gets me off that I own you as a slave, against your will.

Minutes later, you stand nude on the livingroom carpet, your schoolgirl clothes scattered across the carpet nearby. You have beautifully assumed First Posture: Standing erect up on tiptoe, arms folded up behind you, hands gripping your opposite elbows tightly, so that your tits jut out, your chin up, mouth open and tongue out, eyes straight ahead.

I stand to one side, crop in hand, assessing you. I would never admit it to you aloud -- preferring usually to remind you constantly, as you perform for me, what a worthless, hopeless, slant-eyed chink slut-whore you are...

... But I think to myself, This cute little kajira-slut has it down, seriously. She is a natural. I doubt you even know it...

... Score: 9.5.

Nevertheless, I reach up and tap the striker of the crop under your chin, lifting up your face just slightly -- even though your face-posture was perfect before. "Stupid cunt," I mutter.

You blush. Kelli, goddammit, I could fuck you right now. But I will proceed.

I see you have followed my instruction and allowed your grooming to lapse over the past five days, and I see the blossoming of soft, black peach-fuzz on your nether lips. I see your legs are a tad shaggy too, and I suspect the same is true of your underarms. Exactly as I wished. I will soon have you spread out across the grooming-bench down in the basement, gaggged and blindfolded, while I shear you fresh and clean with my straight-razor...

... But not to get ahead of myself. I say, "Down."

You assume Posture Two: At-Attention. (Down on your knees, up off your haunches, legs spread wide as they'll go, hips forward, pussy exposed, hands clasped behind your neck with your elbows out straight and wide. Eyes forward still, mouth open and tongue out.)

Ehhh. Score: 8.5. I think you are feeling rushed and nervous.

"Settle down and take your time. Refinement is more important that promptness at this stage." I say, "Down."

At-Ease: You rock back onto your haunches, pull in your knees, place your hands on your thighs, palms up, fingers loose and relaxed, head bowed.

Score: 8. You're slouching a bit.

"Up."

This command reverses the cycle: You pull back up into At-Attention.

Score: 8.5. You are settling into your discipline nicely.

"Down. Forward."

You are momentarily confused, I see, but I watch as the discipline comes back to you, and you settle back into At-Ease, but for just a moment, before you heave forward onto your hands and knees, chin up, eyes forward and tongue wagging out of your open mouth. Proud-Pony Posture.

There are more animal-postures I will teach you, but so far, this is the only one you know.

"Up-up," I say. Briefly At-Ease, then At-Attention. Then: "Down-Down."

Here it comes, your execution of a motion you don't even realize you have come close to mastering. Perhaps because it is traditional Japanese and you are Asian, but more likely, because you are a natural submissive:

The two-stage Prostration:

First, you ease back onto your haunches and bow your head as your hands settle on your thighs, elbows turned in and fingers coming together at an angle, then in a fluid second gesture, your upper body tips forward while your hands slide down toward and past your knees, reaching the floor at the same moment your face does.

And once your face is pressed to the carpet, your hands flip, presenting your palms face up on either side of your head. You scoot your knees in closer to your torso, spreading them slightly, and raise your hips so that your ass is as high as your face is low.

And there it is: The apogee of the Basic Postures, Prostration.

Score: 10.

Your naked body looks like a slave-offering to an emperor.

I amble around behind you and inspect the backside of your humble display: Your cunt is visibly moist and your slender hips and ass-cheeks are inviting. I say, "Offer."

Offer means different things in different slave-posture modalities, but in this case you know what it means: Your hands reach back and spread out your ass-cheeks to expose the pink, puckered bud of the treasure I have yet to plunder.

"What am I looking at, slut? This slut may speak."

"Your backhole," you reply, voice quivering.

"And what is that glistening jewel just beneath it, below this slut's taint?"

"Your fronthole."

"Also known as?"

"Cunthole," you stammer. "Your cunthole, Master."

"And what is this slut using to address its Master?"

"Your face-hole."

"Also known as?"

"Um, your cock-socket. Your cum-dump, your, ummmm, your... your..."

I smack my slut's ass hard with the crop. "My bottomless-throat! Right?.. Worthless yellow cunt," I grumble. "My slut's cellphone is right in my hand! Shall I call up tiger-mom and let her know what a total fucking disgrace her ching-chong-chink-whore-daughter is?"

You whimper.

I interrupt -- "Ah-ah-ah, don't answer, just shut your useless face-hole while I think what to do with your useless fucking ass!"

You shudder, sob, and fall still. I am silent as well, pausing, waiting, looking.

Looking at your tender bud.

I know I am going to take that splendid pearl someday soon. And you'll be well trained to take it by then, trained with lubed dildos, beads, and my deft, probing fingers. But not too well trained. I'll want it to be as fine and tender a virgin blossom as I've ever plucked, when that day comes. But to tell the truth, Kelli, I already know what special day I'm saving that occasion for. It's going to be the day when I'm actually convinced you sort of like me. Oh, I know you worship me, and you need me -- and you juice up for me when I tell you what to do. But that's not the same thing. I want you to like me.

Because I know, at this moment, at least half of you still hates me.

... Hates me for what I've made you do since the frat party, how arrogant and merciless I am... How I use your Asian race to dominate, belittle and subjugate you... How I never actually tell you when I am proud of your performance, or that I am grateful for how intensely you helped me cum, or that you're pretty or smart... or that your skin is pure and flawless... or that I feel lucky and a little bit humbled to have your young, bright, slutty energy in my life...

Yes, that will be the day when I finally win you over make you like me, and see you keep your eyes on mine even when I'm not ordering you to, and smile at me -- and admit it, you like me.

That will be the day when I finally rape your ass.

Master's words are like a slap in the face.

I am Kelli, not three holes. I am Kelli, who has truly earned the respect of others through her academic diligence and prowess on the court. I cannot let him take that away from me!

He has reduced me to three holes. Backhole, fronthole, and most humiliating of all, face hole. Cum dump, cock socket, bottomless throat. He has forced me to study these words as though preparing for an anatomy exam. To make a mistake is to risk his punishment, that being the threat of exposure, to family and friends.

"Offer," he orders. Is there a more humiliating and degrading position possible?

He has taken my passwords. He controls my email; only he can open my inbox, and he directs my replies. He holds my Facebook account and my ATM code. He forced them out of me, not with pain, but with the power over my cell phone.

With my ass raised, and spread, I whimper in miserable humiliation. Master wipes his finger along my slit and I know what he finds. He holds his wet finger, slippery with my juices, before my face.

"How do you explain this, slut? Your love juices are flowing unchecked."

There is no satisfactory answer and I am not sure if it is a rhetorical question or not, so I remain silent. I am wrong.

"I asked you a question, slut. Answer me now!" His voice was harsh, and I did not want him angry with me.

"This slut does not know why, Master. She does not have control over her body," I sniffle.

"The explanation is simple, slut. You were born to submit and to serve. Your sole asset is your body. It is the body of a slave. Sexual slavery is your lot in life. I am here to see you are properly trained for it."