Secret Masochist - Education Ch. 18

(All characters in this story are eighteen years of age, or older)

Chapter 18

If you want to make an omelette...

Of course you had said "Yes, Mr. Peterson." Those words were almost automatic whenever he asked you anything now. You were just caught off guard by the question. Never mind that your tone had been confused, shaky, and a little disappointed. I thought for sure he would have wanted something more...

Would I have given it to him?

Of course your pussy had clenched when he patted you on the behind as you turned to leave the bedroom. It was just the feeling of his hand on you, was all. After everything else that morning, you had been expecting more... contact. Your neglected pussy was responding to your pent-up arousal, not the way he touched you like he would a... A what? A lover? A servant?

A pet?

Of course you had only gotten wetter and wetter as you walked down the stairs to the kitchen. It had nothing to do with how these ridiculous clothes made you feel... submissive. How every movement made you aware of your bare pussy and breasts, how... accessible they were. No, it was the way the plug felt in your ass, stretching you, filling you, just like his cock had yesterday. It was the way the gentle sway of the chain between the nipple clamps kept bringing your attention to the sweet pain they were causing. I... I like pain. It gets me off. I know that, now.

Thanks to him.

And of course that strange feeling inside that grew with every breath, every step, had nothing to do with how quickly you had agreed to do as you were told. You weren't that subservient. That's why you had been denied an orgasm -- and his cock -- last night. It was just frustrated arousal, was all. And anxiety, since you weren't exactly a master chef. Oh, yeah, and hunger. That's what it was. I'm only making him breakfast because I'm hungry, too.

That's all.

So here you are, standing in the middle of Mr. Peterson's kitchen. Nipples clamped, ass plugged, body clad in an outfit beyond anything you've seen in the kinkiest porno. Maybe that says more about the porn I watch than it does about the outfit. Shaking your head to clear your thoughts, and pointedly ignoring how your pussy is already starting to drip down your thighs, you turn your attention to the task at hand.

What does a chauvinistic history teacher eat for breakfast?

More importantly, what does he have that I know how to cook?

You walk over to the fridge, trying to ignore the feeling of the plug, how the base rubs against your asscheeks as you move. Opening the fridge door, you immediately notice how clean and organized the interior is. Nothing like the mess at my house. You pull out a carton of eggs and package of bacon, figuring a man like Mr. Peterson prefers a meal with plenty of protein. You're about to close the door when something stops you.

Would... would he be disappointed in something so basic?

Suddenly seized by a strange anxiety, you dig through the contents of the fridge, trying not to disturb the careful organization too much. You finally settle on some mushrooms and an onion. I can make something with this. I can do an omelette, right? Before you can second guess yourself, you take your ingredients over to the counter. As you search for some tools -- you need a cutting board, mixing bowl, frying pan, knife, whisk, spatula, oh shit what else? -- you're grateful to be alone. You would be embarrassed enough to be seen flailing about with no clue, but doing it in this outfit...

"Can I help you find something, Miss Murray?"

Biting your tongue to keep from yelling in shock, you turn to face Mr. Peterson. How the fuck does he keep doing that? Cheeks crimson, you try to find your composure before answering. "I, er, yes, Mr. Peterson. C-cooking utensils." He's wearing a red knit sweater with dark grey slacks. His casual style makes you even more keenly aware of how you're dressed. Even though his eyes are resting on your face, you feel your body grow warm. How long was he watching me?

Mr. Peterson takes a seat at the table and gets comfortable. "Utensils are in the drawer next to the stove. Pans and bowls in the cabinet just below it. Knives in the block just to your left. Is there anything else you need, Miss Murray?"

I dunno, is there? "Er, I don't think so, Mr. Peterson."

He gives you that small smile, and you feel that familiar thrill. "Very good, Miss Murray. I look forward to tasting what you have to offer. Please, don't mind me."

Yeah, like I'm gonna be able to ignore the guy watching me cook with my tits out. You try to push those thoughts out of your head and focus. While you technically know how to make an omelette, it's not exactly something you have a lot of practice with. And you've never cooked anything in such... extreme circumstances. Whisking the eggs, all you can think about is how much the motion is making your ass shake. As you chop the vegetables, the sharp, heavy sound of the knife on the cutting board makes you think of paddles and crops. When some hot bacon grease splashes out of the pan onto your bare skin, the pain makes your clit tingle. The whole time, you can feel Mr. Peterson's eyes on you...

You wish it were his hands.

Finally, you finish cooking and serve up two plates of bacon and omelette. You bring them over to the table and set them down. As you put Mr. Peterson's plate in front of him, he gives you a wide smile. "My thanks, Miss Murray. It smells tantalizing." You feel your heart swell, and you can't help but smile back at him. Just as you're about to go to your side of the table, your teacher raises his hand. "Just a moment now, Miss Murray. Stand by me while I eat first. Just in case anything is... missing."

The warm feeling in your chest suddenly freezes, and you clasp your hands tightly in front of you. "Y-yes, Mr. Peterson." What could be missing? What did I do wrong? Anxiety about screwing something up is making a knot in your stomach, but there's also something else. The idea of standing by him, quietly waiting while he eats before you...

He takes a bite of the bacon and nods. "Very good, Miss Murray. A little more cooked than I prefer, but I'm sure you'll do better next time." Next time? Those simple words, that casual assumption that you'll do this again, makes something flutter in your chest. He takes a bite of the eggs, and his expression goes cold. Your breath stops as he puts his fork down, reaches into his mouth, and pulls out a bit of eggshell. Oh, shit. He holds it up for you to see. Behind the mask of calm on his face, you can see his dark eyes burning. "What is this, Miss Murray?"

Fuck fuck fuck "It's... it's an eggshell, M-Mr. Peterson." Your heart is racing, your breaths shallow. You can't believe you messed up on something so basic.

"And why is it in my omelette, Miss Murray?"

Tears sting your eyes. "I... I don't... I must have missed it when I was making the eggs, Mr. Peterson."

"So you were not paying adequate attention to the meal I asked you to prepare?" He waits while you try and fail to find words. "Is this the only oversight, Miss Murray?"

"I... I..." Words are impossible when you're trying so hard to avoid sobbing. Why? Why do I feel like such a failure? It's just eggs!

Mr. Peterson digs through the omelette with his fork, and pulls out another eggshell. Then another. With each proof of your inadequacy, your heart sinks lower and lower. You feel absolutely wretched. By the time Mr. Peterson puts his fork down, he's pulled seven bits of eggshell out of his omelette. He looks up at you, his expression still calm. "I am quite disappointed in you, Miss Murray."

You can't help but let out a pathetic sob. "I... hic... I'm s-sorry, Mr. Peterson..." I'm such a fuckup.

"I can see that, Miss Murray, but apologies alone are not an adequate remedy for such a breach." He lets his words sink in while a hot tear makes its way down your cheek. "I'm afraid you will need to be punished."

Yes, please, punish me. "Y-yes, Mr. Peterson."

"Bend over the table, Miss Murray." You do as you're told, sticking your plugged ass out, the chain between your nipple clamps partially resting on the solid wood. Mr. Peterson moves his plate so it's right in front of your face. So you can't look away from your failure. You hear him remove his belt, and your pussy clenches. "How many pieces of eggshell did you leave in my breakfast, Miss Murray?"

"S-seven, Mr. Peterson." Your breaths are heavy as you await your punishment.

"Seven it is, Miss Murray."

CRACK! the belt comes down sharply across your bare cheeks.

"HANH! One, thank you, Mr. Peterson." Yes, please, I need this, I deserve this.

Seven times he whips your ass with his leather belt. Seven times you count off the strikes and thank him for his punishment. You feel utterly miserable about letting him down like this, but with each impact that knot of anxiety loosens inside you. Each sweet sting of his belt against your ass makes you feel just a little bit better. The burning pain starts to melt away the cold feeling of failure and replace it with gratitude for his discipline.

After the seventh strike Mr. Peterson puts his belt back on and tells you to stand and face him. It's hard to meet his eyes, but you force yourself, tears still wet on your cheeks, pussy juice wet on your thighs. You feel so strange. This isn't like the pure erotic thrill you experienced when he taught you about pain yesterday. The pain now feels almost secondary. Instead, you feel... put in your place. The stinging on your asscheeks, the clothes you're wearing, the feeling of looking up at his stern expression.

It all feels so right.

"How do you feel, Miss Murray?"

"Much better, Mr. Peterson." There's no point in hiding it.

He nods. "I am pleased to hear my discipline had the desired effect. However, this was not the beginning to the day I had planned. You will need to do more to make this up to me, Miss Murray."

Your pussy tingles at the thought. Yes, Mr. Peterson, please let me make it up to you.

Just tell me what to do.