Saga at School: Saga Examined

You come to class, nervous, right? wondering how you'll do on the test, wondering if you can fake your way out of questions that stump you, right?

Honey, you have a different problem this test day.

Because who's sitting in your chair at your desk today? that nobody else can see?

Uh, huh: me.

'Sit right down,' I say, and now you know what pure sin sounds like when you hear my voice: sweet, alluring (*blush* okay, that was shy-inducing), knowing, and just o-so-slightly dangerous and menacing.

You know you should run, screaming, from the class, right? But you're drawn right into my intense blue eyes that fill your universe.

And, as you are drawn into me, you know what pure sin looks like. White, and sapphire, and ... long and purple.

Uh, huh: guess what I've got strapped on? Yup: 'phfina's packing.

Saga, you're gonna know what pure sin feels like in a few seconds, 'cause I'm patting my lap with both hands, indicating where you should sit ...

... to take your test.

Oh, yeah: you'll be 'tested,' all right! How long are your exams? 7 or 9 inches?

Oopsie! I meant to write: 'one or two hours?' Silly me!

Either way, inches or hours: your 'test' is gonna be ... loooooong!

You ... sit.

I ease off your panties, growling in your ear about how we will deal with your unpreparedness and insubordination later. Wearing panties to a 'phfina-fuck, indeed? What were you thinking!

But we'll deal with that later, because now you have to focus.

On your test.

And on the warm, warm, unyielding cock I'm easing into you cunt.

'Like it?' I purr, knowing 'like' is not a word you are thinking.

ARE you even thinking at all, Saga?

Saga! You must focus ... on your exam, that is.

I add: 'I kept it nice and wet and warm ...'

And I smile evilly, and conclude: '... in my kitty!'

That purple cock, Monty, by name? Yes, he's been keeping me company, while I awaited your arrival.

And now he's buried, to the hilt, filling you.

You can tell that, by the way, because your ass cheeks are resting on my hips.

'Comfy?' I whisper my inquiry teasingly.

I'm not sure your response is in English, or in any language at all, for that matter.

And, oh, my goodness, are you that close already?

'No cumming!' I snarl, and your whine is one of the most pitiable things one can hear in the universe.

I'm unsympathetic. 'You enrolled in this class; you studied hard. You finish this exam, and answer every question, doing your best. And THEN, if I allow it, you may cum, but only then, you hear me?'

'Yes, mistress,' you whimper, your face pinched in concentration, trying to stay here, trying not to lose it.

'Good girl,' I condescend in my most patronizing tones.

Guess who's bitch you are, Saga. Guess.

The prof hands out the exams and drones pointlessly on how to take it and how much time you have and blah-blah-blah, it's if these profs think the students have never taken an exam before.

... with a big purple cock buried in their cunts.

And an evil little bitch whispering distracting sweet nothings in your ear.

Oh, yes: I am a naughty one, teasing when everybody wants to be serious, playful during homework time or test-taking time. Such a demanding little bitch I am.

Deal with it, Saga.

'Cause as you're answering the questions and writing your essays? My hands? That have eased off your bra? Where are they now, massaging and pinching?

You know where they are. You can feel them. One, firmly grasping one globe, squeezing, but lightly brushing a nipple.

The other? Down there. On your clit. Think this: slow, very slow, circles.

I like to rest my hand on your tummy. I like to feel me in you, solidly filling you. I like to know that you are mine. I like to feel you tighten and quicken, I like to ease off, and feel you pant in exhaustion and desperation, begging, whining for release, feeling like you're gonna die or explode.

'Concentrate, Saga,' I whisper into your shoulder.

'What is this test anyway? Is it math?' I ask carelessly.

Then I say: '5' And kiss your shoulder and neck with 5 quick pecks, that still leave a trail of 'phfina-drool.

Then I say, 'Oh, is that answer 37?'

It's not a math test, by the way, right?

Like I care.

Because I latch onto the back of your neck, suck, nibble, and then you feel my tongue flick. 37 times.

God, Saga, you are so taut! You really need to relax! Your back feels like a brick wall, for goodness sake!

Then the next answer. Is that 10?

No, we'll save '10' for tonight. You strapped, face down, in bed, and me, wearing my elbow-length leather gloves, ready to administer '10' stiff stinging ones, to your ass-cheeks.

You like white leather or black leather, by the way?

No, I think this answer is 6.

Like me: little 'phfina. Little 6.

'Up you go,' I say.

And up you go. 3 inches.

'Down you go,' I say.

And down you go. 3 inches. Or: 'to the hilt.'

And we repeat that 5 more times to get ... 6.

The whole time, my right hand is kneading and pinching and rubbing your tit, and my left: slow, o-so-slow, circles.

Right. Fucking. There.

It must be really hard to fill out all those answers on the test paper with my ... distracting ways, no?

You finish your exam. Somehow. It was all a blur. What, actually, did you write? Was it a math exam, actually? You may or may not know.

'Can I ...' You say through tightly pressed lips.

'Do you have a request for your mistress?' I ask sweetly.

I am never more dangerous, than when I am sweet.

'Please, oh, mistress,' you gasp out, 'please may I cum?'

You wanton slut, you.

'Hmmmm,' I ponder hesitantly, and you think you may, at this point, actually die from want and anticipation.

'Oh,' I say in a remembering/recollecting way that you SO KNOW is just plain wicked, 'what about the bonus question?'

'Bonus question?' you pant disbelievingly.

'Yes, the bonus question, Saga,' I lecture superiorly, 'every quiz has a bonus question, of course. So answer me this question for the ... bonus.'

You wait ... as long as you can ... was that just 3 microseconds?

'What bonus question?' you almost shriek.

I smile. 'You like monty, thrusting in your purrrrfect little cunt, filling you, Saga?'

'Yes!' you cry desperately, hoping that was the bonus question.

No luck for you.

'Okay, then, Saga, your bonus question is this. It's an essay question. You see, monty? He likes it tight, like your tight little twat, squeezing him so hard, and thank you for practicing your kegels during the test, by the way. But imagine this. Imagine monty questing toward your virgin little rosebud, Saga. Imagine him covering in your cum juices, playfully poking, poking, poking at your anus. Playfully. As I lie atop you. And massage your clit with my hand. Imagine him, poking there, just the tip, until you can't stand it any more, and you beg me to enter your ass, Saga. And imagine him, going in, just the head, as I ease him into you, poking, exploring, questing, letting you get used to him, just an inch, poking in, and sliding out. Poking in, and sliding out. Until you beg, 'more' and ... 'harder.' And I give you more. An inch at a time. 2 inches. In and out. In and out. Then 3, then 4 ... then more ... then, Saga, then ... all the way in. Until I'm in your ass, Saga, all the way, and my hips are resting on your cheeks, and my body is on top of yours, and my little hand and fingers are slowly rubbing your clit in slow circles, and I'm kissing you tenderly, until you beg. 'Fuck me.' And I ask, 'Fuck you where, Saga?' And you submit to me completely, and you beg: 'fuck me up the ass, 'phfina, oh, God, fuck me up the ass!'

And I do, Saga. Slow, steady, powerful and deep thrusts. And I whisper vicious nothings in your ear. 'I'm fucking your ass, Saga,' I snarl. 'I'm fucking you up the ass, Saga, and I'm fucking you hard!' and 'You're mine, bitch. You're fucking mine and I'm fucking fucking you and you are mine!' and I ask you, 'Who's are you?'

And you scream, 'I'm yours! I'm yours! I'm yours!' and you cum. so. fucking. hard, with my big purple dick thrusting into and then fully buried up into your ass.

And that's the bonus question, Saga: imagine that and how it would feel.

Oh, and there's a bonus-bonus question about the next week, after a spankie, a good, solid hard, ass-cheeks-are-cherry-red spankie, where, without any preamble, I pull your ass-cheeks apart and bury my well-lubed monty all the way to the hilt right up your ass, and command, 'Cum.'

You can faint, too, cumming and screaming, if you'd like. I'll hold you.

With my big purple cock pinning you down onto the bed, buried to the hilt up your ass.

Bonus questions. Extra credit. You know.

But Saga, why are your eyes rolling up into your head?

The slow circles? They become a little faster, a little more insistent.

And I begin humping, thrusting monty in deep into your sweet little cunt.

'God, I love fucking you, Saga!' I exclaim, panting myself with the effort.

'Please, o, please, o, please, o please oplease, oplz oplz oplz!' you beg.

'Cum, Saga,' I command.

Yes, Saga, you may cum now.

...

So, how did you do on your exam? Did you do well?

Just one thing, sweetie, and you know this.

That test? It's an exam.

That's what it is. It's important because YOU are important. You want to do well on it because YOU want to do well. The test, in an of itself, are simply words on paper. That's what it is.

Whether you do 'well' on it or not is just an opinion, yours (the most important one) and the grader's and your classmates' and the whole world.

No big deal.

And that test? So what if you turn it in with ink blots marring the paper, and drool, and sweat, and tears, and the words, 'ofuck ofuck ofck ofuck ofuckingfuck o fuk o my fucking god fuck! i ah o ohgod im cummmmmming!' scrawled all over the lines and in the margins? So what? Or so what if you work really hard and get the 'A+ 100% Good job!' So what?

You know what you can do with the former? Frame it. It's art, Saga. You can sell each page for $25 million dollars and people will get into bidding wars to buy originals, especially after they watch the vid of 'Artist: work in progress' on how you made each page, no: each ink blot and smudged word, obscured by spittle. They'll be clamoring for sequels and scour the internet for other works and read and reread the cooking show and beg to suck your toes.

And you'll know what I'll do? Little me? Your fuck toy? Your mistress.

There are clubs that will go fucking nuts for a perfect little sub like you.

I'll put you up on the auction block, Saga. And those other cold bitches, those jealous mistresses.

Some of those biddies are pretty loaded, sweetheart.

You? $1 million for a night. Easy. I can make that easy, especially after all that paparazzi and hubbub of you the great artist exposing 'school life' and 'the rat race' and 'hiding in the closet' and 'real beauty' and every other 'norm' you wish to take on and expose.

And some fucking bitch will be like, I won the auction, here's your cool million, now give me that bitch so I can tame her all night.

And I'll look at you and ask you the question. 'Are you worth a million dollars, Saga?'

And I'll see in your eyes that you know the answer. You can fool everybody else, but you can't fool yourself.

'No, I'm not,' you say, and look away, and curse yourself for not hiding your tears, wanting so desperately to beg me to keep you, but not wanting to make a scene, because you know you're not worth it.

And my firm hand reaches out to your chin, and turns your head to face me, and I say: 'You're right, you're not.'

And I give that Lady her million dollars back and tell her to keep her money. Because I'm going to be holding something infinitely more rich and precious. Tonight I'm going to be holding you. Not worth one million dollars, because you are priceless, Saga.

'Let's go home, Saga.' I say softly.

And we get into your Mercedes or your old beater, and we drive home to your fourth floor flat or your palatial penthouse suite, and I shower you and bring you to bed, and I hold you through the night as you sleep.