Study Time - Slutty Lit 101 Ch. 01

"Better five than ten..." Irene mumbles under her breath as she raises the paddle again. I don't know if Kristen heard her or not, but I'm sure Kristen has the same thought. I hear Irene. Sophie probably does. No way he does. He's at least eight feet away, but still watching with that odd look on his face: as unhappy about seeing Kristen suffering as he is aroused by the humiliating subjugation of it. And trying hard to look like he's hating it and not watching, when he is.

Kristen yelps a little louder, with a little more strain in her voice, as the next two swats land. After the fifth, she's almost panting, she's breathing so hard.

Irene can't wait to get Kristen off her knees. She immediately sets the paddle down, and lifts Kristen's shoulders, putting her to her knees with her pants still down. Kristen reaches down, staying on her knees, and slowly eases the clothes up over her very sore bottom. When she finally rises to her feet, I can see little tears welled up in the corners of her eyes. She tries not to show it, but her butt is hurting. I'll bet she never risks bringing her phone to the table again.

They stand beside each other, waiting for me to tell them what to do next. "Just to be safe, from now on you'll both hand your phones to Tony before study time starts. You will also tell him the PIN number to your phones, in case he might care to nose through them. After the study is over, you may politely ask him to return your phones. He may choose to, or not to, or return them later. His choice. Now, it's time for Kristen's lesson. Irene, start her studying, and there will be no concessions to Kristen's sore bottom. It's her fault it's sore, and study is study. She can just deal with it."

Kristen very gingerly sits down. Irene has her start the lesson I've brought for her. It's a "make-work" kind of assignment. But Kristen isn't a student anywhere, so that's the only possibility for her. It's a 2500 word short story, written by Sophie, that describes how it felt one time when I tied her down and spent an hour or so teasing her aching clit with an oil-dipped feather. I used it even though it doesn't mention my favorite part: the intense squirming Sophie entertained me with! The first part has Kristen read it and take notes. Then there's a worksheet that makes her explain what information was in the story, how it was presented, and what was important for her to learn from it. Like I said, "make work." But it does what I created the lesson to do, makes students learn/use their basic study skills. The last part has Kristen write an essay, 1000 words minimum, that describes how she feels when she masturbates.

I picked that topic for one reason. It's just so private and so embarrassing to write about. I want this assignment to be very hard to write, and not because of its grammar. It's part of the ethos of my "supervised study" system: students have nothing; no privacy, no modesty, no shame, no secrets. Everything about them, and who they are, is on full display. It usually takes them a spanking or two to get past the embarrassment, but once they do, once they stop thinking about what everyone will think of them with every move they make and word they write, they tend to let their inner selves flow. And once they do, unconcerned about their "image," I tend to get so much better work out of them. I figure it's because they're only thinking about getting the assignment done well enough to please me and spare their bottoms, not "distractions," like their shame. That focus tends to carry over to assignments in regular classes, making them better students.

Irene, at least with me there watching, sits beside Kristen and watches her constantly. As Kristen should be doing when Irene is studying. The lesson takes Kristen about 40 minutes to complete. And that's without Kristen taking even a second of a break.

When Kristen finally has her essay done, she politely tells Irene she's done with the lesson. Then sits there, blushing and fidgeting, as Irene looks over her work. It's obvious Kristen is praying that Irene isn't actually reading it. By her speed, I'd guess Irene half-read it, more making sure it is what it should be than paying attention to the specifics of it. As soon as Irene finishes scanning it, she initials the bottom corner of the page, meaning that she's assuming responsibility for Kristen's assignment being done correctly. I see Kristen sigh out a deep breath of relief as Irene initials it, now knowing that she won't have to redo it.

With the lesson done and my permission, Irene has Kristen put her books up. Irene hangs on to the essay, although I haven't told her why she's keeping it. Still following my instructions, Irene has Kristen kneel in front of the sofa where her husband is sitting. Irene takes a seat beside her father. I sit beside Irene. Sophie kneels beside me. There's only so much sofa! Only then do I tell Irene to hand Kristen her essay so that Kristen can read it to all of us.

Kristen blushes bright, cringing, but staying put as she reluctantly takes the essay from Irene's hand. Irene's had to read numerous of her essays at my house, so by now, she knows exactly what's expected. She tells Kristen, who's never seen an essay read aloud for me before, to stay on her knees, read it, and make sure to look at her audience as she reads, not keep her head down at the paper.

Kristen reads her essay, her voice breaking a little shamefully as she blushes brighter with every word of it. Or so it seems.

My Masturbation

By: Kristen Jamie

I prefer to be in my bed, lying on my back, when I masturbate. But I have to be alone, with no chance of anyone barging in on me, so that's not always possible. Sometimes, especially when it's been a few weeks since Mistress has seen us, the urge just gets too unbearable for me to wait. So I make do, in the shower, or in the bathroom, or wherever I can find the privacy I need. Even in the laundry room once.

No matter where I am, I have to be sitting, lying back, or preferably lying down. The bed is by far my choice. The shower and the bathroom are OK. But anywhere else, I just feel like such a slut when I lie on the floor and pull my pants down. I guess the feeling of the floor on my bare does that to me. But if I'm there, at least for a few moments, I don't think about it. I don't care. If I'm doing it like that, the ache has gotten so unbearable that I can't make myself wait, even a little while until a better choice of places is available. Like yesterday, when I used the laundry room. Tony was in the bathroom off our bedroom, and Irene was taking her shower in the other bathroom. I was supposedly doing a load of laundry when I found a pair of Tony's underwear. They had the scent, but no stain, of his seed in them. His scent. And when I caught a whiff of that, my hand was rubbing over my jeans before I knew what I was doing.

A moment later I was on the floor with the hamper against the door to block it from opening. Not that anyone has ever barged in on me in there. No one wants to help with the laundry. I had on jeans and a blouse, the same things I wear every day. I found myself on my back, with my jeans and undies around my ankles and my knees up and wide. My fingers automatically flew to my privates. Instantly upon my most sensitive place.

The very instant my two fingers touched my privates I felt an ocean of tiny, very intense, very sharp, little electric tingles shoot from my privates and race to every cell in my body. They almost hurt. They pushed my need, and that's what it was by then, a true need that had to be attended to immediately, even higher. I remember then shocking me so badly that a tremor just as sweet racked me. I couldn't take my fingers away, or stop, no matter how much I wanted to. My fingers moved on their own, rubbing that too-sensitive place, their pace quickening with every stroke.

My eyes closed, allowing me to imagine myself anywhere but the floor of the washroom. I imagined that I was in my bed. I wasn't touching myself. My hands were tied to the headboard, as they've been countless times. My husband was touching me. Mistress was standing over us, her crop keeping him behaving, as he touched me the way she was telling him to. Every time I heard her snap an instruction, his touch would change, just a little, but always more intense for me. I wasn't gagged. I was begging. I was begging Mistress to have him finish me off. I was begging so shamelessly, too.

I felt what I was imagining. More of those spark racing through me, tingling my nerves like high-voltage wires, sending near-painful, but unbearably good, jolts into those nerves. My button ached. More and more by the fraction of a second. I felt that ache like it was a balloon swelling up well past where it should have burst. Quickly it was all I could feel, that ache coursing through my entire body, overwhelming everything else, leaving me to feel only it. With every rub, every movement of my fingers, it grew, aching me more, begging me more not to stop.

I don't remember much of anything else. I just remember that burning desire, that throbbing ache, as it consumed every fiber of my being. I remember only some primal instinct in my lizard brain that refused to let me stop, no matter how badly that ache throbbed through me.

And then I remember the explosion. I remember the ache, one second so intense I had to scream, and the very next instant, tidal waves of utter bliss crashing over my entire body like the sweetest of tsunamis. I barely remember my body shuddering, twitching, almost flopping around on the floor. I just remember the pure satisfaction flooding me, filling me, so fast and so strongly.

Then I remember it being over. My eyes slowly opening. I remember feeling like a complete slut as I returned to reality. The reality that I was in my home, lying on a dirty floor and playing with myself. I remember feeling so incredibly ashamed of myself and what I'd done. And I remember being so relieved that no one had come in and caught me.

I lie there a few seconds to catch my breath. I didn't allow myself too long. I wanted off that floor. As I lay there, I could still feel that so-satisfied bliss in my privates. And I could feel myself, down there, twitching just a little, as if the waves were still fading away.

I went to pull my pants back up, to get myself fixed up and covered so quickly. Except I couldn't. My hand, the one I'd used, was utterly covered in my juices. So well covered I didn't dare touch anything with it. Instantly I had a vision in my head of what I must look like down there, how wet I must still be. And I was so glad no one would ever know!

I rolled a little, found a pair of my panties waiting for the wash, and wiped my hand on them. Then I wiped myself with them. When I was done, they were so wet, I was disgusted with myself. I felt like I'd been so cheap, so slutty. I fixed my pants, and those panties went immediately in the washer, even though it was already a few minutes into its cycle. It wasn't long. I didn't last long. I don't know how long exactly, but I'm sure it wasn't even two minutes.

As I resumed the laundry, I could only think about two things. That I was so glad no one would ever know. And that I felt so relieved now, but that it wouldn't last. It never does when I do it myself. I swear that ache was already starting to slowly blossom again. By evening, I'd be praying for Tony to touch me, or even better, for Mistress to appear for us.

1046/10001words. OK, I.O.

Now that Kristen has finished reading her essay, there's no way for her to avoid the one thing she doesn't want to do. She looks forward, at her audience. And waits, on her knees for whatever comes next. She waits very uncomfortably, fidgeting lightly, cringing a bit more, and blushing undeniably.

I announce that now, everyone will ask her two questions. One about the content of her essay, why this or that is there, or what isn't there, or whatever. And a second question about the "subject matter," which means a question about her masturbation. Kristen is to answer every question fully, openly, and honestly. There will be "stern consequences" for not doing as she's told. I don't tell her that the consequence will be that she does the other lesson I've brought for her, which will require even more of that shameless lack of modesty from her to pass.

I go first, asking her "why didn't you tell us exactly how you were rubbing your clit?"

Kristen tells me "I just didn't think that was important, Ms. Rodgers."

"Well, you can tell us now." I grin.

Kristen's face scrunches up. "I... was just rubbing it, Ms. Rodgers, up and down, right over the ache."

I let Sophie go next. Sophie is always mischievous, and she loves to humiliate women in front of me. She knows it entertains me, and Sophie lives to please me. She asks Kristen both questions at once. She asks, "what was the rest of your body doing while you were lying on that filthy floor like some gutter skank, you know, your pussy, your butt, your hands, your feet, and why didn't you tell us that! My Mistress loves details like that!"

It makes Kristen give a longer answer. "I'm sorry, Miss Slave, I didn't put them in because I don't really remember them. All I remember of it... when it was over my bottom was just a little hot, like it had this very light rug burn on it from squirming over the carpet. There was some piece of laundry, I never look to see what, clenched in my free hand. And I remember my toes were a little cramped, so I guess they were curled up pretty tightly. I don't remember what my privates were doing at all, Miss Slave, just... getting their relief, I guess."

Now I have Irene ask her questions, and I hope the seriousness in my voice is enough that she gets the message, I want real questions, not softballs to spare Kristen some shame. Either she gets it, or knows already, or has some imp in her too. She asks "Kristen, when you masturbate, is Mistress always in your fantasies?" Kristen answer with a quick, "Yes, Ma'am," the proper, polite way she knows I demand a student use to address her supervisor during a study session. Irene asks "why didn't you tell us more about that, then, since it's such an important part of your masturbation experience." And Kristen very quietly answers "because I'm too ashamed to let anyone know that I desire Mistress to be there, Ma'am."

Tony is the only one left. He gives Kristen the softest balls. He asks her how often she masturbates, to which she answers "a couple of times a week, Sir." Then he follows up by asking her why she didn't include that, and she answers "because I don't want anyone, especially you, to think I'm not satisfied with what we have. I am! Sometimes it just gets unbearable, and it does it so suddenly, and at such inopportune times, Sir." Her answer leaves her nearly in desperate tears, praying that he won't be upset by her answer.

I turn back to Irene and ask her "OK, Miss Study Supervisor, it's your job to think of Kristen during her sessions. Pretend that she's... partly brain dead and unable to think about herself at all, in even the tiniest way. What is Kristen feeling right now?"

"I think she's pretty embarrassed, ashamed of herself, and wants more than anything to get off her knees and have this over with, Ms. Rodgers."

"That's all probably correct, Irene." I tell her, "but you have to think about her more than that. That's the obvious. What does Kristen, both her mind and her body, need and want right now."

Irene thinks for a second. She knows what's expected of her. I've questioned her countless times at my house, and she knows I'll keep going until I get every bit of everything from her, or decide that she's being modest and holding something back, then I'll spank her and we'll try again. "I think... Kristen is... aroused, Ms. Rodgers. I mean, she seems to like anything with Mistress involved, and you're just as... strong as Mistress is, at least from what I've seen of Mistress which is next to nothing! And... I think... Kristen gets aroused by things that would embarrass me to death, like Mistress standing over me while I was with someone! I think... making her read that essay and answer our questions was just as intimate, and intimate in the same way, so it must have had a similar effect on her, right?"

Kristen misses my glance to her face, it's that fast. But it's enough for me to see that she's now truly scared. As afraid as she is humiliated. And I know, with that glance that Irene has hit it on the head. Which is why Kristen is so afraid. She's afraid that I might assert my dominance over her, and make her do something that would be the most degrading thing she's ever done, and just as powerfully the most arousing.

"Well, you're her supervisor, her guardian, her mommy, and her mistress, until she's done with her study time. You are her everything. You are her world. There's you and study in her universe. It's your place to think about Kristen, what she needs, and even what her body needs. Sometimes, what a body needs isn't what it's brain wants, either. If I was her supervisor, what would I do right now? Think about that, and think about what you should be doing."

Irene thinks for a minute. She's in my study group of two for toys. The study group that I have no limits for. It's also the one that tends to perform the best on their exams. "You'd check me and see if I was that... aroused, Ms. Rodgers... so I guess I should be checking Kristen..." Irene adds with equal parts nervousness and reluctance. I just stare at her with a little smile on my face.

"Kristen..." Irene says after a moment, her voice still reluctant, but now resigned to do what needs to be done in Ms. Rodgers' Neighborhood, where privacy, shame, and decency are irrelevant. "Stand up and turn around for me..."

Kristen trembles as she gets to her feet. And those little tears of shame finally run down her cheeks. I can only imagine the thoughts running through her head; how much worse can I make this for her? Unlike Irene, she doesn't know how things run at my house. She's never attended one of my study sessions, especially as a student.

Irene comes up behind Kristen and reaches around to unfasten her pants. Irene doesn't think much about Kristen's modesty, just getting this over with. Likely as much for herself as for Kristen. But she does think about Kristen's bottom, taking care as she eases the clothes down over those recently paddled cheeks. Then she pulls them quickly down to Kristen's knees and lets them fall to her ankles.

It leaves Kristen standing there, the bottom of her blouse hanging down to cover the top half of her behind, to just below the top of her crack. And leaving bare her still-light-pink globes. Cheeks that aren't flabby at all, but are a little loose and a little flat, no longer youthful or taunt, or hard-rounded. But still shapely enough to look like a cute butt.

"Bend over, Kristen, feet apart a bit, hands on your legs, let's just do this." Irene's voice alone is enough to let Kristen know she doesn't want to be doing this any more than Kristen does.

Kristen leans over, a little slowly, a bit more reluctantly, and thoroughly unhappily. Kristen is nowhere close to fat. She's actually a little lean. But she's also loose. Her skin is no longer taut, no longer young. It gives her body a shapely, but somewhat tired, somewhat used, look to it. As if motherhood has collected it's due. The very tops of her thighs, with their loose skin, still do nothing to hide the slightly puffy mound that she's now poking out for our eyes. It lets us all see her pussy. Her long, very plump, and narrow lips as they poke downward to make that spongy mound. Lips that don't come close to meeting, leaving a wide V-shaped, gash between them. Smoothly shaven lips. A gash so wide that I can see her deep-pink folds lying under those thick lips. And I can see her clit, deep-purplish, swollen up hard and looking like the tip of a miniature cock, the width of a finger, as it rises a good ¼" above its nest of folds. And I can see the wetness, her thin, almost watery, clear honey that's covering everything. Even her gash. Even the tips of those lips.