Better When It Hurts

I was pleased when Miss Turner came back, steaming paper cup in hand, and settled back into the booth. "Not that I'm complaining. But don't you have to go back to work?" I asked.

"Actually, I took the afternoon off." She was looking at me strangely. Like she was expecting something from me. Wait for me to-- oh, I got it.

"In case I wanted to..." I trailed off. Unsure exactly what word to use to describe her intentions for me.

Miss Turner nodded. "Yes. But please don't feel bad or anything. I took a calculated gamble. You weren't to know."

I thought back to the gallery, and the boy under her heel. Had I played my cards differently that could have been me right now. I wasn't sure how I felt about that. Well, that's a lie. A few of my parts were making it very clear how they felt about that. I was suddenly glad I'd worn a well padded bra. It wouldn't be giving me away, I was pretty sure. I fought down the urge to check.

"What about Sadie?" I asked. Though it was really an excuse not to ask any of the scarier questions screaming to get out.

"What two consenting adults get up to on their own time is nobody's business but theirs." Miss Turner recited it like a rote. "Not even my nosey daughter's."

Two consenting adults. There it was again. Tacit acknowledgment that I wasn't a kid anymore. I was part of the real world. A member of the club. With all the terrible privileges it entailed

Right then, I realized I wanted to be that boy under Miss Turner's boot. What I'd thought was indecision had actually been me looking for permission. And, god damn it, I didn't need permission. "You know, Miss Turner. I never did say 'No'," I said.

She gave me that look again. Lancing through me. How had Sadie survived high school with a mom who could read minds? But I mustered up all the confidence I could find and stared back at her.

It was an ordeal, watching her study me. But I endured it. And the investigation went both ways because I saw her make her own decision when she chose not to mother me.

"Jemma. I would hurt you. I would embarrass you. And not much else besides," Miss Turner leaned in. It was all too much, and I had to look away. "Is that really what you want?"

It was exactly what I wanted. "How bad will it hurt?"

Miss Turner's tongue flicked out and wet her lips. I realized I needed to do the same. My throat had gone dry.

"I could give you a test," Miss Turner practically breathed it across the table. "No pressure. Just to see how you respond. Then we'll both know if you can take it."

"Yes, please," I said.

-----

Miss Turner slid over to my side of the booth. I scooted in, out of reflex. She followed and sidled right up to me so the bare thigh below my skirt pressed against her pants. I could smell her. Lavender, and just a tinge of sweat.

I don't think I'd properly realized until right then, that I hadn't just asked to be dominated, or whatever the right word for it was. I'd asked to be dominated by her. Miss Turner, who I'd known as far back as I could remember, watched with cool grey eyes that should have been familiar. But instead, I felt like I was looking up into them for the very first time.

She was so close, I didn't even think about it, one moment I was losing myself in Miss Turner's eyes, trying not to look as scared as I felt, trying not to look as wanton as I was. The next, I was tilting my head, parting my lips. Waiting for a kiss that never came.

Instead, to my combined humiliation and confusion, Miss Turner looked away and picked up her coffee. She turned it around in her hand like she was seeing it for the first time, before wrapping her fingers delicately around it. The plastic lid was still on. A wisp of steam pirouetted through the hole.

After a few seconds, Miss Turner put the coffee back down. "Ah!" she hissed, flexing her fingers. Her palm had gone slightly pink.

I chanced a look at the madwoman beside me. But she was still intent on giving the coffee an unwarranted amount of consideration. At last, she decisively plucked a couple napkins from the dispenser and wrapped them around the cup. She wrapped her hand again around the whole thing and smiled in satisfaction.

I was all geared up to ask what the absolute hell was going on, when Miss Turner turned back to me. "When you're with me Jemma, always move slow. Do not be skittish, or erratic. Because I might accidentally hurt you," Miss Turner thought for a second, "In a manner I didn't intend. I mean." She took the padded cup and brought it between us. And then, down, under the table.

To her credit, Miss Turner didn't float the coffee above my legs, where a spill might have actually sent me to the hospital. She reached down and around until it was positioned just beyond my knees. Even with the napkins insulating it, I could feel the radiating heat. And without giving it much thought, I parted my knees to avoid them touching the cup. This was, of course, the invitation Miss Turner was looking for. She carefully guided it between my thighs.

There's a children's game where you control two metal rods and have to finagle the angle between them as a marble rolls down their length. Too wide an angle and the marble falls. But too little separation and the marble doesn't roll at all. Miss Turner made me play that game with my legs. I gripped the edge of the table and nervously watched the hot coffee, careful to keep my thighs spread enough that it wouldn't touch them, but equally afraid that opening too wide would be, well, an invitation.

My skirt was riding up far more than was modest, but I couldn't be bothered to care as I watched the cup prepare to disappear under it. Almost instantly I could feel the damp heat trapping under the fabric. I remembered how red Miss Turner's hand had been after just a few seconds holding the cup. She couldn't be thinking of doing that to a far more sensitive piece of my anatomy, could she? That would be torture, not kink. Sure, she'd insulated the coffee with a few napkins. But they, and my panties, seemed a pitiful defense. Of course, I'd been left an escape route.

I squeezed my legs together to trap the hot bundle. I headed Miss Turner's advice as I did so, moving slowly, carefully. With equal care, she extracted her fingers. I was so distracted, that her touch on my inner thighs went almost unnoticed.

Miss Turner had judged the number of napkins well. I wasn't being burned by the coffee bundle. But it was uncomfortable, and growing steadily more so by the second. At least I was confident enough in the stability of the thing to wrench my eyes away from it and look at Miss Turner. "Is the test to see how long I can keep it there?"

Gingerly, careful not to jostle me, Miss Turner put her arm around my shoulders. Her fingers idled in my hair. Against my side, her weight held its own kind of heat. But it didn't seem to be steadily growing in the same way the ember between my thighs was. "Oh no," she said. "I'm testing to see if you will."

Miss Turner's insistent stare coaxed me to meet it. It was hard to look away from the menacing coffee cup, but easy to lose myself in her eyes once I did.

"Perfect," she cooed, twining her fingers deeper into my hair, "talk with your eyes. Tell me how it hurts."

It was easy to obey. Even though it had only been a few seconds, the heat had multiplied. I pictured the thin sheen of sweat from my thighs saturating the napkins, reducing their protective benefits, making more sweat -- a vicious feedback loop. It was coming, the moment where discomfort would tip over the edge to real pain, accelerating as it approached, like a runaway train with the conductor laying on the horn. And when the sensation spiked, and my nerves started to shout, "Burning! We're burning!" I prepared to open my legs.

Miss Turner read the scrunching of my face plainly. She whispered, like my conscious talking. "Just go a little further than you think you can. I promise you're safe."

Safe. Tap water over a skinned knee.

I felt the tension flow from my face when I gave in. The pain didn't stop. In fact, it kept intensifying, burning brighter and brighter until it was a searing ember. But it was like I'd forgotten there was anything I could do about it.

I stared into and past Miss Turner's eyes. My eyebrows were doing a twitchy dance, knitting and unknitting themselves as I struggled to maintain my zen. She blurred. My own eyes were watery. Maybe she would save me if I cried? I could feel a tear forming, even tried to blink it along, but it was collecting so slowly, hanging, impossibly full but refusing to fall. And all the while a white hot beam of light scoured my thoughts, making it impossible to concentrate on anything for more than a moment.

Miss Turner leaned in and kissed me.

At first, I didn't even realize it was happening; I was so consumed by being burned. But when her tongue split the seal of my lips, soft and tasting of the same coffee that was tormenting me down below, I found my discomfort had another effect. Under this torment, a measured response was impossible. I opened myself to Miss Turner. Head tilted. Jaw wide. Wanton and shameless, I practically sucked her tongue into my mouth.

She replied in kind. Her tongue explored me in rapid, circulating, licks full of pressure intent, it seemed, on tasting every last corner of me. She even ran it along my gums. And when surely the whole of my mouth had been explored she pressed her lips even harder against mine, trying to get deeper still, until our teeth were clicking and I felt like my jaw might unhinge.

She finally pulled back. I opened my eyes to her big girlish smile. Mischief in her eyes, like when Sadie put me up to something-- Shit, this was not the time to wander down that road. "Shhhhh!" Miss Turner hissed. "We're in public!"

I hadn't even realized I'd been moaning. Or had it been whining? Between my legs, where the pleasurable sensations from Miss Turner's kiss mingled with the pain in my thighs, it was difficult to disambiguate. Though it became easier when Miss Turner finally pulled the coffee cup away. As the blazing heat faded into a dull throb, a desperate need remained.

Miss Turner used her thumbs to wipe the tears from my cheeks. "Imagine. I almost let you get away," she said.

"Ha," I breathed back, hoping she'd kiss me again. But I'd finally regained enough composure not to embarrass myself by opening for it -- a baby bird begging for its dinner.

"Did I pass?" I asked. When the longed for kiss didn't come.

Miss Turner put her hand on my thigh. It was strangely cool, and it did something to quiet the dull ache that had set up there. "Oh, you absolutely did," she said.

I looked down. My skirt was so bunched up it barely hid anything. Briefly, I indulged the fantasy that Miss Turner might move her finger. Just an inch, that was all it would take. Sure, she'd feel the wetness that had escaped into my panties, and that would be embarrassing. But it was a price I was oh so willing to pay.

"You might be a little burned. But it's nothing worse than a splash of hot water. You won't blister or anything," Miss Turner said. Mistaking the reason for my staring.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's okay," I whispered.

We were quiet, both looking down at my exposed thigh. Miss Turner's fingertips traced a slow, almost reverent, outline of the deepening redness.

"So now that you know what I'm about. Do you want to continue?" It was strange to see a nervous, tepid, side of Miss Turner. Not only did it clash with how she'd been treating me that day. She'd been a confident authority figure for the rest of my life, too. Usually, I'd be the one asking permission.

I wiggled a little closer to her. "I really, really, would," I said.

-----

"Unbutton your top." Miss Turner's trepidation was immediately gone. Like it had never been there at all.

"Here?" I whispered, shocked.

"Just the next two buttons. Nobody can see us here."

She was right. Our high-backed booth, the last one down the line, was quite private. But still, this was a public coffee shop, not an art gallery turned fetish expo. And as trivial as two more buttons might sound, it would basically leave me sitting in my bra. Miss Turner's hand on my thigh though, was too powerful a counterargument to deny.

Once I'd undone the buttons, even fanning my neckline wider in the process, I felt immediately betrayed when Miss Turner took her hand off me to pick up her coffee again. The way she brought it toward me, I could just tell she wasn't going to drink it.

"You're still going to hurt me?" I whispered. The question sounded pitiful in my head. Even more so out loud. But hearing it, and realizing that even though I knew the answer I wasn't going to do anything to stop it, was somehow thrilling.

"I'm only ever going to hurt you, Jemma. I was clear about that." Miss Turner's lips were by my ear. As she whispered, she tilted the coffee cup. "If you are very, very, good you might earn a drop of pleasure." Ever so slowly the hot brown liquid pooled in the small hollow of the plastic lid. "But even that will come in a glass of pain." The coffee dribbled. A quick patter of raindrops splashed the exposed skin just below my collarbone.

"Ah!" I flinched, mostly out of anticipation. The drips stung hot and bright but cooled almost immediately.

Miss Turner ignored my little outburst. She continued to amuse herself by pouring the coffee on me. Sometimes, instead of a few drops, she'd let it run in a drizzle. When she did that, she wouldn't stop until I was tense and sucking air through my teeth. But the breaks in between each attack made this game far more bearable than the cup between my thighs had been.

Where the coffee bit me especially hard, my skin turned a bright red that faded over the course of about a minute. However, the muddy stains it was leaving on my shirt and bra were going to be a challenge to get out. Idly, I wondered if I should be mad at Miss Turner for ruining my things without asking. But it seemed like such a silly complaint when held up against the literal torture she was inflicting on me. And I wasn't complaining about that, for some reason.

"Now, give me your nipple." Miss Turner said, after swooshing the cup to leave me a full necklace of beaded droplets and sensitive rosy skin.

I reached for the cup of my bra, but paused. Miss Turner was sitting closer to the exit of the booth than me. And she did make me feel protected, in a weird way. Closed off from the rest of the coffee shop by the twin walls of her and the high-backed seat. But still...

"I don't want to go much further," I said, "not here."

"After this, we'll go back to my place, I promise," Miss Turner coaxed me. That knotted my insides up good. A thousand possibilities flashed through my mind, each informed by her promise to keep hurting me. Some were scary, and some were hot as hell. I doubted any of them were what she actually had in mind. All I really knew was that in each of my fantasies I was naked and bare for her. And I wanted that so badly. Practically needed it at this point.

I peeled my bra back. Not all the way down, but enough so we could both look down at my nipple, hard in anticipation. Of course, I wasn't surprised when Miss Turner poured her coffee in a thin stream across it. But I had expected a quick lick of heat, like she'd been doing along my chest. I hadn't prepared for her to keep the drizzle going. What was initially an almost pleasant shock quickly escalated. It was like I'd tripped backward in time and the cup was burning between my legs again.

Without thinking, I covered my poor tit with my hands, cramming the wet padding of my bra back into place. Under the damp insulation the fire continued to intensify for a second. Then it mercifully cooled.

Miss Turner tutted at me. "If you don't want to come back to my place, you can just say so."

"No. No. I do. I really, do," I whined. I knew she was teasing me. But the idea of losing my chance with her was somehow more horrible than any of the pain she'd been putting me through. So horrible that I was having a hard time caring about my own dignity. I just wanted her to know that I was hers and she should take me.

"Then let's try again. No. The other one this time."

I let Miss Turner stream the remains of her coffee over my tit. She'd used a lot of it on my chest already. And I'm sure it had cooled down some. But pouring over my sensitive nipple, it didn't feel like it. It hurt bad. And it came on so fast I didn't have time to sink into the pain like I had earlier. I was tense and tight lipped, even shaking, the entire time.

But I suffered through for Miss Turner, who told me I was her good girl, which made it all worth it, even though my nipple had turned an angry sunburned red, and felt like a raw nerve. Settling my bra back in place didn't even help. It was an expensive piece, and I had once considered it nice and soft. But now, I might as well have been wearing a burlap sack for all my nipple, which continued to stay hard and puffy, shrieked at every tiny movement.

-----

It was strange being in Sadie's house without her. Even with Miss Turner guiding me to the familiar living room, I felt like I was doing something wrong. A part of me half expected to find Sadie sitting there on the sectional, flicking through TV channels, huddled under the fuzzy blanket she always kept there. Miss Turner and I didn't settle on the sectional, though. Instead, she drew me down until we were both kneeling on the carpet. Her fingers immediately went to the buttons of my blouse, which she undid deftly, even though my rapid breathing made them moving targets.

"Let's see what damage I've done." Miss Turner was gentle stripping my bra off, but still, I winced when the receding cup rasped my nipple. It seemed permanently engorged now. For the first time, I was grateful that Sadie and her mom kept their house so chilly. Maybe Miss Turner would blame the rapid hardening of my other nipple on that. She didn't need to know how unbearably aroused just the anticipation of being topless in front of her had made me.

She tutted, seeing my reddened nipple. "We'd better put something on that. Stay right here."

Miss Turner was gone only seconds. But I drank in every moment. Left to kneel, exposed tits prickling in the cool air while I waited for my Master; this was the stuff of my fantasies.

Miss Turner chuckled when she returned. I hadn't even realized it. But I'd straightened my back and laid my hands palm up on my thighs while I waited. "No. No. Don't move! That's just perfect." Miss Turner knelt back in front of me. She'd brought a little plastic squeeze bottle full of green jell. Aloe.

"I was going to check if you were sure you wanted to keep playing. But I don't really need to ask, do I?" It was a rhetorical question. I answered it anyway, by blushing profusely.

Miss Tuner hefted my breast with her palm and massaged a dollop of aloe in with her thumb. My abused nipple was unbearably tender. Even with the soothing gel, I twitched at the touch.

"Does that hurt?" Miss Turner asked.

"A little. Kinda. It's just very sensitive."

"Bear with it. This will help you heal." Miss Turner massaged two more squirts of aloe into me before she was satisfied. I might have pulled away a few times, but I kept my hands dutifully on my thighs throughout. "Now, do you think this one needs the same attention?" Miss Turner was shamelessly cupping my other breast.

"Oh, it definitely does," I said, unable to ward away a shy smile.

As I luxuriated in the pleasant tingles Miss Turner coxed from my uninjured nipple, I thought back to something she'd said in the coffee shop. A drop of pleasure in a glass of pain. My other nipple throbbed a dull warning under the chilly aloe. But I ignored it.

-----

Miss Turner took me by both wrists. Lifting them off of my thighs. "You are being such a good girl. But I'd still like to tie you up."