A Slut's Education Ch. 05

Your skin. It is soft, tanned and -- apart from the tat I gave you and the occasional and temporary stripes my whips leave -- unblemished. It is perfect and pure. I think your skin reminds me of how young you are, and when I am reminded of that, it reminds me how lucky I was to find you and make you mine.

"Lucky," I say aloud with a chuckle as I stare out the window and sip my whiskey.

I've often have suggested to her that our time together is limited -- perhaps to the four years she will spend at UC, perhaps even less -- before I "complete your education," as I put it, and pass her off to live her life as she chooses, with a young man better suited to her.

She has pouted at the suggestion, but I sense she knows I am correct in this.

But now, as I think about it, I don't know if it's possible to "complete" the education of a slut girl of such boundless submissive promise. Perhaps I will never be "done" with her, never release her.

And if I don't, will she willingly stay?

I feel a soft pang of regret at what I am planning for my slut. Would our time over the Thanksgiving weekend be best spent returning to our accustomed training regimen, as well as nurturing our personal bond, as opposed to the harsh and arguably punitive exercise I have in mind. Surely it is not too late to reverse course and undo my plans. Why not make my surprise a pleasant one?

Absently, I drift back toward my computer as I muse on this. And what I see on the screen answers my question and makes up my mind.

An email from my slut:

Master, i know you insisted we should have no contact before finals are done. However, your slut has an issue that she has have no choice but to raise with Master. Your slut will be visiting home for Thanksgiving and she is concerned about her parents or siblings seeing your slut's pussy locks.

i am afraid that over the four days at home, they may discovered by sis or mom, no matter how careful your slut is with your pussy. This would be devastating to your slut, and she humbly begs to not take the risk.

May i beg Master's leave to remove the locks?

humbly kneeling before Master,

i am,

Your slut.

I slam my hand on the tabletop.

The lying bitch!

The lying, two-timing, filthy cunt-slut whore! "Four days at home," my ass! Um, did the weekend plans with your roomie and classmates just somehow slip your mind, cunt? Or in fact, aren't you planning on screwing Deanna the minute you two whores get alone in the house? The whole fucking girl scout troop, for all I know?

My reply is immediate:

slut,

ur request is granted, provided that u remove the locks in the car upon your arrival at home, place them in the glove compartment, and upon ur departure, replace my hardware as before.

Master will be in touch after the weekend to confirm my slut's compliance.

P

Oh, the bitch is going to pay for this.

Not just for the lying and cheating, but taking advantage of Master's generosity and trust, just to stab him in the back.

So, back to Square One with the Thanksgiving weekend plans, my two-timing slave-slut and captive-cunt-to-be.

And this time, no mercy.

**slut**

Practice went well today. I will start the preseason opener v. Westmont next week. I am sitting in Memorial Glade, a spot of lawn that has become my favorite "alone" place.

Practice done, I should be attaching Master's heavy steel earrings, but I don't feel like it. I do not find them attractive. Though he is not out of mind, he is out of sight. The tongue stud he placed on me I like. Every time I look at my body or click my teeth with the stud, I think of him. Every time my pussy quivers in reaction to something I hear, see, or smell, he comes to mind.

I miss him.

But I have grown tired of his steel fuck-handles. They are too heavy and large for my small body. They are not feminine according to my sense of feminine. They are his symbols of control over his fuck toy. I want to put my hair into a ponytail, to feel it swing as I walk, but I don't want others to see the earrings. I am sure they turn off guys and girls alike. I want my more dainty fuck-me silver hoops.

I relocked his pussy rings before leaving the locker room, once I was sure all the other players and coaches had gone. Everyone thought I was just slow, but I want to keep my vow to Master to lock the rings immediately after every practice. If I wait until I get back to the apartment, the temptation to play with myself will be too great. For three weeks I have obeyed, not out of fear, but out of obedience. But I can barely remember his cock and how it feels sliding into my holes, his holes. It seems forever.

Sitting on the lawn, I am twirling the jeweler's screwdriver between my fingers like a baton. I put it away, in the same small string bag with the earrings. My best thinking and contemplation occurs at this time. The day is done, the darkness has not yet arrived, and I let my mind wander, without a map.

Master. So far away.

Deanna. I am feeling closer and closer to her. If it was not for the pussy rings...

I am thinking of what Master once said, how I would be under his training for my four years at Cal, then he would hand me off to some nice boy. Some nice, vanilla boy. Probably white, which would upset my parents, but at this point, every Asian boy seems to be from the same cookie-cutter. Study. Video games. Study.

... Vanilla.

After these few weeks with Master, how can I ever be satisfied with a vanilla relationship? Not a week goes by that some guy does not ask me out for a Starbucks, or some girl asks me to join her for study or lunch. I have turned them all down. What do they think of me?

I pull out my scrunchy and wrap my hair into a ponytail. My ears are free of his handles. I feel lighter on my feet as I uncoil my body from the ground and make my way back to the apartment.

Deanna is making dinner. She is a really good cook. I walk over to where she stands next to the simmering kettles.

"Hey," I say as I lean over her shoulder and smell the aroma.

"Hi, good practice?"

"Yes! Coach says if I'm starting against Westmont."

"Oh, that's awesome," and she turns from the stove throwing her arms around me, a huge wide smile on her face. I react more swiftly than striking for a loose ball.

"Thankssss!" I squeal, as we embrace, our faces inches apart.

Our looks suddenly serious, I see her lips separate... and I respond.

I have wanted this for so long, and our mouths suddenly seal, then open, as our tongues flick in search of contact, then the uncontrollable desire for discovery. Our tongues wrestle for dominance, our heads twisting and aligning. I use my tongue stud to swat at her teeth and try to capture her wriggling tongue.

Her lips begin to explore my cheek, then neck, then ears. I am panting in desire. She nibbles my ears and I shift to make it easier for her.

"Your earrings are gone," she whispers, one word at a time. "I thought you never took them off."

"I know," I reply, thinking immediately of Master, so glad he is not present.

I feel her hands sliding down my breasts, not stopping, reaching for my shorts. Nooooooo, I realize, I cannot let you see what he has done! I have to break our moment, I cannot let you find the locks!

"Deanna," I whisper, my voice husky with lust. "I..."

"Shhhhh, let me. I want you and you want me," she whispers in reply.

Our tongues and lips still in combat. "Please," thinking fast, "please let me shower, ok, please," I hiss, and she agrees. We slowly separate, our eyes locked, our pussies aflame.

"Let's shower together," she suggests.

I am thinking as though on a fast break, making quick decisions. "Ok, but give me a sec. I need to pee first!

"Ok, the pasta is almost done. I'll join you in a second, lover," she laughs.

I scamper to the bedroom, scrambling for the key to the locks. I can't do anything about the rings or the tat. In the bathroom, I undress and remove the locks, hiding them and the key in the palm of my hand. I flush the toilet for effect. Naked, I walk to my ditty bag on the counter and hide the locks and key at the bottom.

While I wait for Deanna, I examine myself in the mirror. Removing the scrunchy, I shake out my hair. I have never seen Deanna totally naked. I wonder. Multitasking, I am thinking of a way to explain the slavenumber barcode tat.

"Can I come in?"

"Sure, what took you so long," I laugh aloud, excited. Maybe we are both thinking the same thing, because as Deanna enters, deliciously naked, I notice her eyes going to my pussy, as I lower my gaze to hers.

"Oh my god, Kel, you've had your pussy lips pierced! And you have a, uh -- what is that tat?"

"Oh my god, Deanna, I love the way you've shaved yourself!" I counter, smiling widely, not wanting to explain my rings.

"Can I touch, please," she asks, already moving in.

"I guess, sure," I laugh. Master had long since taken care of my modesty. He knows every inch of my body, so Deanna's request is not awkward. She squats and reaches between my legs, which I spread widely for easier access. I think of Master's position commands, and smile to myself. She hooks a finger from her left hand in one ring, giving it a tug.

At the same time, she is tracing her fingernail across the tattoo. "Does this hurt?" she asked.

"Haha, noooo. Not now, anyway," I reply truthfully. "In fact, it feels good."

"What does the tattoo mean?"

I know that I am not a good liar, so I stare into her eyes without blinking, trying to give an air of honesty. I smile innocently. "I wasn't born in America, you know. My Thai grandma believes in the power of numbers and that these would protect me from evil."

What shit, I think, but it is all I could come up with. I certainly cannot tell her the truth!

Looking up into my face, she has a wicked smile, one of mischievousness. Changing her voice to sound more dramatic, she says, "Follow me, slave girl."

My heart skips a beat, wondering if somehow she knows something. No way, I think... But realize she has hooked her fingers into all the rings as she tugs me towards the shower, all smiles.

In keeping with her playful demeanor, I respond, smiling widely, "Yes, Mistress."

I can feel my pussy begin to juice...

I enjoy the shower, as we wash each other and play touchy-feely. With the water cascading over our bodies, I kneel as Deanna guides me into her crotch. I think that is how it happened. I am not really sure. It just did.

And she came hard as I pleasured her.

After toweling each other dry, I tried to gain some control over the situation and said I was hungry after practice and that I had a lot of work tonight before classes tomorrow. Deanna did not argue too much, and we enjoyed her pasta dinner, talking about everything under the sun, except what happened under the shower.

***********

In bed, I do isometric stretches as I decide if I want to get up this early Sunday morning. I replay the last few days, as I toy with my unlocked pussy. I think of Deanna and me in the shower, how she called me "slave" and I called her "Mistress," imagining she forced me to my knees to take her pleasure from my submissive tongue. I think of how deeply satisfying it was for me to make her cum so hard.

I never relocked Master's pussy after the shower. I keep thinking Deanna would suddenly appear in the middle of the night and I would not be able to resist. I have been unlocked for three days.

At first I felt guilty, but now I see no real reason. I will not be seeing him for another few weeks at least, and after all, he did give me his email permission to remove the rings and his fuck-handles for my Thanksgiving trip home in three days. He doesn't know about my plans to be with Deanna and her friends. But so what? It's all the same, parents, family, besties.

I twirl my fuck-me hoop earring, as I twist the rings in my pussy lips. Soon I am breathing in short, rapid gasps, knowing that a powerful cum is imminent.

THANKSGIVING.

**MASTER**

From my online research and correspondence with Dominant colleagues, I learned to be careful with chloroform.

You don't just soak a rag with the stuff and choke out your target with it. For one thing, too much of it fresh out of the bottle, the fumes might actually knock out the user; for another, too much in the dose, it can actually cause brain damage, respiratory injury or.... worse. I learned that I should get the good, pure stuff, but dilute it with water to a concentration specified in a formula taking into account the victim's body weight, age, and similar considerations. I learned that I should wear an industrial fume mask with a certain OSHA rating, handle the chemical with latex gloves, use a rag made of cotton terrycloth, and keep the rag in a sealed freezer bag until the moment it is ready for use. I also had to learn on my own how to concentrate the dose in consideration of the fact that I was going to deliver it through a layer of canvas fabric over my victim's head....

... Which is what I do, when the moment finally comes that she walks through the door of the darkened vacation house, on Thanksgiving night, calling out,

"Deanna?"

Bitch, your clit-licker isn't here -- yet -- Surprise!

I spring from behind the screen to the right of the door, my victim's back to me, and throw the black canvas bag over her, down to her waist, bear-hugging and pinning her arms to her sides.

I have planned this carefully. Although I outweigh the slut by almost a hundred pounds, and I am much taller and stronger, I also know she is lithe, athletic, an intense competitor, and capable of fighting back in ways that might lead to injury to me or her.

I have preempted all that. The canvas bag, and my strong arm, has not only confused and disoriented my victim, it has subdued her. I squat and bend my knees forward against the backs of hers, causing them to buckle, collapsing the girl face-down to the carpet, where I leap atop her, legs straddling her body and arms.

Leaving both my hands free to take the rag out of the plastic bag and apply the chloroform through the canvas shroud over my victim's head...

...

... "She's cheating on you," Deanna told me over the phone two days ago.

I said, "Are you sure?"

"Sure I'm sure," Deanna said, "'cause it's with me. We took a shower, she went down on me."

"What about her pussy-locks?"

Deanna sounded confused. "You mean the piercings?"

"I mean, padlocks on the piercings."

"Ummm, I didn't see any such thing."

I didn't say anything, but I thought Deanna could "hear" my anger. My simmering rage at my slut's mendacity and faithlessness has sustained itself over the weeks since her lying email; Deanna's call just now only helped to stoke the fires. I had just another two days to wait before I would be able to unleash it on the cheating cunt.

"Well," I said, changing the subject, "it sounds like you have what you wanted. What do you need me for?"

"Nuh-uh," she answered me. "I want Kelli in YOUR world. I want her tied up and spread out across a bed, or chained up, gagged... whatever you guys do. I want her to resist, but --"

"But it can't," I said.

"'It'?"

"Listen, Deanna. If you're going to be part of my weekend plans, I need for you to learn a certain vocabulary..."

...

... Only a few seconds to knock my victim out, but another two hours of silent waiting before I am finally able to see the thing stir from unconsciousness, and the fruits of my planning begin to drop from the tree.

The captive slavebeast does exactly what I expected as it wakes up, sensing the foreign object attached to its face and bringing up its leather-sheathed hands up to paw uselessly at it.

It pauses, shocked, and draws its legs under it, raising up on its knees, suddenly active and aware.

Leather covers its face and hands, chains restrain its limbs, and cool steel grips its wrists, ankles and throat... Yes, my slave's cuffs and collar have been restored. It realizes, next, that apart from the leather and steel restraints, it is completely naked... Naked, alone, vulnerable, and helpless... Lying chained and muzzled on a cold concrete basement floor... on top of a spread-out layer of newspapers, like a bitch-cur who hasn't been house-broken.

Its face is restrained in a dog-muzzle: A set of head-harness straps tightened over the top of its head and buckled behind its neck and under its chin. A black leather muzzle-panel hooked in place across its lower face, up over its nose. Under that, a bit-gag IS secured between the captive's teeth, which are clenched hard around the rubber bit by the brutally tight harness-straps. And its straight black hair is pulled back into a strict ponytail high on the back of its head, poking through where the head straps come together.

A steel ring is clamped inside its nose, not piercing the septum, but pinching it tightly and inescapably.

From THE septum-ring, a fine, slender chain rugs out through the slotted breathing-grill in front of the muzzle-panel, about three feet in length, the end of which is fastened to an eyebolt set low on a nearby wooden post. The captive pokes both hands at the metal clasp at the end of the chain, seeing there is no lock there, just a spring-loaded clip that it could easily undo... if it had hands.

But it doesn't. Black leather mitts are fastened on in their place, strapped at the wrists and laced up tight, so that its fingers are balled up into useless fists...

... No opposable thumbs, my captive-cunt isn't a human being, it's an animal....

... The same goes for feet that won't stand upright: This is when the captive realizes, because of the carefully adjusted length of chain reaching from both ankles-cuffs and threaded through the lower pair of pussy-rings, it cannot even stretch out its legs, and so, unable to stand, the captive will remain on its knees as long as I choose to keep it there.

Its cuffed, sheathed hands are chained as well: a slender steel strand runs down from the collar-ring, threaded through the upper pussy-rings, and back up to its wrists, where the chain splits and joins the wrist-cuffs, leaving about two feet of play between the hands. It is able to reach out with useless hands, but not far, before it feels the tug on its chained and captive pussy.

By now, the picture of its restraint is complete and clear to the prisoner. The wretched thing sees and senses the measures of carefully modulated freedom it has been granted -- in the hands and arms, feet and legs -- but acutely feels each pathetic little liberty thwarted and nullified by the counter-measures of my bondage.

How especially humbling, I think, for such a gifted athlete. And I think it realizes at this point, too, that the deliberate purpose here is the captive's utter humiliation and degradation.

I watch this.

From behind the shroud, I am sitting on a stool as I watch my captive-cunt waking up to a reality it never imagined before, its shocked and disoriented mind racing to catch up.

I watch it struggle and squirm, wave its useless hands in the air and moan through its muzzle-gag: "MMH-muhhr! MMMMMGH-muhrrr!"

Master!... That's right, there's no fooling my clever slut about who's behind its captivity. Not that I had any intention of trying. On the contrary, it is satisfying to me -- and arousing -- to hear that the slut knows who has put it in this miserable state.

I watch my metal glinting in the soft light on the captive thing's naked flesh.