School Daze Forever Ch. 01

Special thanks to kenjisato, a generous volunteer in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editors program, for editing this piece. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic choices are the sole responsibility of the author.

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My name's Jenny and I'm twenty. I like the little rhyme; it makes me smile. I think I have a birthday coming up soon, but I'll have to check with the Mistresses.

I was a really ungrateful kid. I wasn't dumb, I don't think, but I didn't try very hard in school. I didn't even try very hard to get other people to do things for me. My parents took care of me and bought me stuff; we weren't rich by any means, but we weren't poor, either. I didn't whine for more toys or new clothes all that often, but that wasn't because I had any real clue about our finances. Whining itself seemed like a lot of effort, and the one time I was motivated enough to launch a week-long whining, pouting, and sulking campaign, it didn't even work. No fancy pet cat for Jenny, boo-hoo.

When I got a little older, I got a phone, which I became absolutely obsessed with. I never got a car, but then again, I never bothered getting a license. Some boy was always willing to give me a ride if I needed to go someplace.

Isn't memory funny? I know that all of that stuff is true, but, in those rare moments when I try to remember specifics, most of it gets fuzzy. In a way, I feel like my life began when I got to college, and everything before that was a spoiled child's silly dream. It kinda was. The same way little kids don't really get it when Great-Grandma dies, I just didn't "get it" about a lot of stuff back then -- all the way up through high school, really, which I barely graduated. That's a little embarrassing.

A few more memories do stand out. They're much more recent; they're also about how I got to college, so it makes sense that they're clearer.

I remember my parents sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for me, with pamphlets, brochures, and a contract all laid out. I remember the looks on their faces. They were so sad to see their little girl go -- not that I knew I was going, at the time! -- but also so proud of me. I hadn't seen them look at me with pride for a long time, and it made me feel a whole lot of things at once. I was confused, and maybe even a little scared. I felt guilty, too, because, even in my silly, selfish, eighteen-year-old daze, I knew I hadn't done anything recently to make them proud.

I remember that glass of milk. It was unlike anything I'd ever tasted before, but immediately felt familiar. It warmed me up inside like hot cocoa on a cold winter's day. That warm feeling traveled up into my brain, and it... sorted my emotions. Does that make sense? The bad feelings didn't go away. I just knew, suddenly, exactly how to make them go away, and that I wanted to. Mom and Dad explained the scholarship and said it was a great school and a great opportunity. I remember them talking about music, dancing, and even animals. I smiled and nodded along. I signed all the papers. I knew it would make the guilt go away, and it did, like magic. When Mommy hugged me and told me she was proud, I knew I'd earned it. It felt so good. When Daddy told me I was doing the right thing for my future, all my nervousness vanished. He was right. Of course he was right.

Things get fuzzy again, but they stay warm. Mommy and Daddy stayed proud; it didn't matter anymore that I didn't have a job, because I was going to be a college girl. I drank more of that delicious milk -- one glass every morning, and one glass every night. Mistress... no, it was still Mommy, then... started cuddling with me every night before bed. She'd give me kisses, tell me how good I was being, and then leave to go have fun with Daddy. The warm feeling from the milk would travel up into my brain and down into my belly, and then spread to all sorts of fun places. I'd have lots of fun with those fun places, and then go to sleep. I didn't even think about my phone anymore. I had no idea where it had gone, and didn't care. Silly websites and fake friends couldn't compare to having fun with my body.

A nice lady from the college came to visit us, and she became my new best friend -- the first real friend I'd had in what had seemed like forever. She was beautiful, and I immediately knew I could trust her. She looked like a college student who'd just graduated and immediately become a professor. Her short, dark, feathered hair; her chic glasses; the wine-stained lipstick on her pillowy lips; her breasts, big and yet buoyant; her narrow waist and flared hips, immediately becoming toned thighs and legs and then traveling down, down, so far down to professional-looking pumps... she was everything I could be, if only I obeyed. She was smart, successful, confident, and in control.

That only made me happier with my decision to matriculate. I knew she could help me become the best version of myself.

Things get fuzzy again. Did Mommy come with us to all those places, or was it just me and Mistress Vivienne? She told me to call her that, and that warm feeling from that delicious milk let me know that that was exactly how to keep feeling good. Honestly, I feel a little silly that I didn't realize right away that she deserved to be called my Mistress, but I was still in the process of waking up. There were still things I didn't 'get.'

I remember everything about her clearly, but the expressions on her face most of all. The first time I called her "Mistress Vivienne," she was pleased and proud. I knew I wanted to do anything and everything to keep her that way -- to see that expression over and over again. It turned out to be simple and easy; I just went everywhere she wanted me to go and did everything she said.

I can feel her soft, strong fingers running through my hair as I lay in the dipping pod, getting bubbled and sudsed and tingled until I was baby smooth everywhere. When the hairnet went on and the world faded to black -- blockers, to protect my eyes as some nice older lady bubbled and sudsed my face and neck -- Mistress Vivienne just kept shushing and cooing at me. It was like a song. I never once got scared. Even though the work on my eyebrows tickled terribly, I stayed still, because she told me to.

The rest of my time at the clinic is fuzzier. I think I actually went to sleep, off and on. I remember those fingers again, though. I remember beautiful doctors and pretty nurses who all smiled at me, pleased and proud that I was so obedient. Their touches were friendly, but firm, and I was happy to let them guide me anywhere, because that's what Mistress Vivienne wanted. Then there was the milky warmth flooding into me -- into my mouth, into my pussy, and into my bum. I remember the words, and they were almost a song: "beautiful, inside and out."

As I woke up from one treatment or another, I also "woke up" in a brand new way -- one more step towards being a real college girl. My fun places felt even more fun, and I had more of them, too. Then it was back to the clinic, day in and day out: warm milk in my belly, in my pussy, in my bum; hazy, asleep, then more awake than ever; warmer and warmer, more and more fun feelings, all the time. My fingernails were trimmed, polished, and clean. My toes were, too, and my feet looked so soft and dainty. Was that when I got thin in all the right places? I think it was. I can't remember eating much of anything -- just so much of that wonderful milk. I was absorbing it and digesting it, but it wasn't like normal food. It was becoming a part of me. If there's anything like a timeline as the memories fade in and out, blur, and blend together, it's that.

I remember Mistress Vivienne and the hairdresser at that fancy salon clucking and tutting at how I'd neglected my hair. That made me feel bad, but then there was warm water and massaging fingers -- not Mistress', but very talented. There was a little snipping, but not much. There were strange chemical smells, and then heat. Just like at the clinic, I was never scared. Mistress was there. I didn't really have to do anything at all. Obeying her was so easy. Making her happy was so easy.

After they were done with me, I saw myself in the mirror. I had beautiful, rich, wavy, blonde hair that was just long enough to tickle the tops of my perky titties. I think they call that 'burying the lede,' though, because next, I saw my face -- and it was still my face, but... better. It was just better in every way. My creamy white skin was smooth and clear -- a lot like Mistress Vivienne's, just a different color. My nose had a smooth concave slope, and the tall part was thin in the middle, making a vague, elongated, hourglass shape. Even my nostrils looked cute! My lips were fuller, and had a natural pout to them that was sexy and innocent at the same time; there was no lipstick on them, and yet they looked rich and moist. When I parted them in happy surprise, my teeth looked like something out of a dentist's office pamphlet -- the 'after,' not the 'before,' silly! My eyebrows were just dark enough to add some character to my face -- a hint of auburn enriching the blonde. Below them, my lashes were thicker, my eyes were wider, and my irises were the dark green of a mysterious forest.

That's the hitch; my old face fades away in my memory, except for the eyes. I know I'd had brown eyes at some point. I'd never disliked them, but with the new hair and prettier face surrounding that unique shade of green, I didn't miss them, either.

I wasn't confused or upset at all, in fact; how could I have been, with Mistress Vivienne's compliments tickling my brain, and her fingers tickling my hair, then my face, and then the nape of my neck? I remember seeing my new face react to those sensations, and liking what I saw. I immediately promised her I'd take better care of myself, hair to toes.

"Good girl." That's what she said. My face reflected my sudden flush of happiness, and looked even more beautiful looking back at me from that big mirror.

That's the end of that memory. It cuts out completely. Here's another, though -- brief, but ever so important. We were outside of some modern-looking building with lots of big windows; the summer sun was beating down on my blonde hair and my clear, smooth, creamy skin. Mistress was wearing sunglasses, which made her look more like a movie star than a professor. She reached out and brushed a finger against my new, fuller lips, and I felt it in my breasts, my pussy, and my bum, too, all at the same time. She took her sunglasses off, just then. She wanted me to see her beautiful blue eyes, and I wanted that, too. She looked at me in a new way, and I immediately knew that I wanted to see that expression all the time. I didn't know how to make it happen, but I trusted her. I knew she'd tell me -- or show me -- when the time was right.

Memories of Mommy at night melt into memories of Mistress. Like I said, it's just funny that way. With Mistress, I was always clean, always smooth, always blonde, and always so, so warm. She cuddled me longer and more intimately than Mommy had. She kissed me in more places, and her hands moved with purpose all around the most fun ones. Her teasing touches made me tingle and shiver, and shivering while being so warm was a strange delight. She always left me wanting more -- and 'more' became more and more and more, because that very first time, she'd left me with a stern command: she'd said that I couldn't play with myself anymore unless I had her permission. The warm milk had told me that I'd feel very bad if I lied or disobeyed. I definitely remember the strange mix of feelings; I was horny and frustrated, but also felt good for being a good girl for my Mistress.

You have questions, I'm sure. That's another funny thing: I can imagine someone else having questions about my life back then that I just don't have. Where was Mommy? Where was Daddy? I don't know. It was okay. I was almost ready to go to college. College girls don't need Mommy and Daddy hovering. I had my Mistress. I was safe, and I was becoming so pretty. I was being prepared.

The next memory is all mixed up -- fuzzy and clear, soft and sharp. It makes sense that it'd start with my feelings: that mixture of good and frustrated ones that was driving me to distraction. Mistress' feelings were all mixed up, too, I think, because she acted impatient with me, but also seemed smugly satisfied. Those expressions of hers are crystal clear as the fuzzy backdrop swirls and shifts. We went everywhere together... but where did we go? What was I doing? I think I was exercising a lot, but I don't remember being sweaty or sore. She would read to me. We would watch movies on a big screen somewhere. A lot of them were naughty. She'd talk a lot during them, almost like she was trying to teach me things.

I sure do remember how distracted I was all the time. I wanted to play with myself so badly, but I also wanted to obey my Mistress. I think I did -- refrain from playing with myself, that is. All that effort took a toll, though; I wasn't being a very good student. Finally, Mistress Vivienne said she'd had enough. She sat down on my bed and told me to get over her knee. That part is so clear; she's so clear. What's fuzzy is which bed, in which room, she was sitting on. Also, was I naked? Was I in one of our dress-up outfits? I remember her tugging my little panties down once I was on her lap as my head rested comfortably on a pillow on the bed. Maybe I was dressed, at least a little. Maybe it was during the day, and not at night. The lights were on, though, and they were tinged green. That was a curious detail -- a little mystery to be explained later.

No matter how fuzzy all of that is, though, her voice rings out clearly in my mind.

"Ten swats. Count and thank me after each one. If you take your discipline like a good little girl, then you can cum."

She said 'discipline,' not 'punishment.' That was important. That's a direct link to clear memories from my brand new life.

"Yes, Mistress," I said, and then I tried to be good.

Do you know what? It was actually easy. I got spanked for the first time ever, and it felt right. I knew I wasn't a bad girl. I was a mostly good girl who just needed discipline.

I knew Mistress was holding back. Still, the sharp contact of her bare hand on my smooth, creamy, naked ass made me jump a little. Pressure on the small of my back let me know I needed to do better, but I wasn't scared, because I knew I could, and I knew I would.

"One. Thank you, Mistress," I said, and it was like my whole body was flooded with that warm milk. It rewarded my obedience and my total submission to Mistress' loving discipline. It made the swats feel like fun -- like naughty, naughty fun. They almost made me cum, but I knew that wasn't allowed yet.

The next nine fell on alternating cheeks, and by the end, I almost didn't want them to stop.

"Ten. Thank you, Mistress."

Two of her fingers slipped into my hot, wet pussy. Another tickled my receptive rear hole; after so many enemas and so much warmth, it felt like a fun place all the time. Mistress worked and teased me, and it felt like she was reading my mind and my body. Simply having her inside of me was a wonder, but her fingers found the funnest place inside my throbbing tunnel, too, and the waves of pressure she put upon it made me hump and groan. That tickling finger stayed outside, but the tickling wasn't teasing anymore. It was an extra push towards that same destination. I didn't even need it because I was so ready to get there, but I loved it just the same.

"Good girl," she said. "Cum for your Mistress."

I did, like she'd pressed a button -- two of them, to be exact. "Good girl" pressed one, and her command to cum pressed another. When I groaned out my undying love and gratitude as I came, the warm milk that had become my very blood rewarded me with pleasure upon pleasure, release upon release, and the firm knowledge that I was a good little college girl for my Mistress-professor. I still didn't know exactly what she was, but that felt right. She looked the part, head to toe.

Then Mistress Vivienne read my mind even more. She knew I wanted to learn things about her, and about school.

"Good little college girls always obey their Mistresses and Masters," she said.

"Yes, Mistress," I sighed happily.

"Good little college girls are always available for fun unless their Mistresses or Masters tell them otherwise. Do you understand, Jenny? You're always available to me."

"Yes, Mistress! Always, Mistress!"

"Good little college girls all love each other, too, Jenny. They always do their best to be nice, make friends, help each other, support each other, and make each other feel good -- well, unless a Mistress or Master says otherwise. Is that the kind of girl you are, Jenny? Are you college material?"

"I want to be, Mistress," I replied. I wasn't confident enough to just say 'yes.' I suddenly felt extra vulnerable and dependent. My voice shifted to reflect that; I had nothing to hide from my Mistress. "Will you help me?"

"Yes, I will, Jenny," she said, and those words filled a hole in me. It was almost sexual -- almost an orgasm. "In fact, we've already begun, and you're doing a good job. It won't be long now before the semester starts."

Hearing her tell me I was doing a good job felt even better than her reassurances. It's so hard to describe. Can you imagine that you had been nervous, guilty, and unsure your whole life, but didn't even realize it? Can you imagine how it might feel if, one day, a beautiful Mistress or handsome Master came along and gave you the medicine you didn't even know you needed? It's someone you love, admire, respect, and trust completely letting you know they're proud of you. If sex and cumming are chocolate, being a good little college girl is peanut butter. You'd do anything for another taste, wouldn't you? That's why having Mistresses and Masters is so wonderful. That's why being at college is so wonderful. You always know what to do. Even if it isn't always easy, it's simple. Serve, please, and obey. Feel good all the time.

"Now, hold still, Jenny," she said. "You need to be checked, and then plugged."

"Yes, Mistress." Since she said I needed it, I did.

"When you're getting checked like this, if you feel like you might cum, ask permission. It's a delicate procedure. Be ready to be denied."

"I understand, Mistress."

The cool, slick object entered my bum easily. A wave of vulnerability washed over me, leaving my insides warm in its wake. I was profoundly aware that I was naked and helpless, and that my Mistress had full access to all of my most private places. Something between a groan and a sigh escaped my lips.

"Relax and submit, Jenny," Mistress Vivienne said. It was more encouragement than a command. The rod went deeper inside of me, and Mistress's fingers grazed along my spine, coaxing some pulse of emotional and sexual energy from the object's round tip all the way up into my brain. When it hit there, everything came together. Being naked, helpless, exposed, and penetrated was sexy; it was even romantic. 'Fun' didn't seem like quite the right word. It wasn't intense enough. It wasn't deep enough.

"Do you like that, Jenny?" Mistress asked. Her voice was thick, like syrup.

"Yes, Mistress," I replied.

"Tell me."

"I feel warm, Mistress. I feel like I'm not mine. I'm yours. I'm yours to enter. I'm yours to fill. I submit."

The words made it even more real, which made it even better -- for both of us, I was certain. I was surrendering another private place to her: my truth. It didn't even occur to me that I could've told a lie.

"That's very good," she said. "That makes you a very good little college girl already. College girls get checked like this every day. It helps get them ready for their first proper ass fuckings, and then keeps them all warmed up for even more of them. We take good care of all of our students, inside and out. We make sure they feel so good when they submit."