Teacher Slave Pt. 03

If you're hoping I arrived home and immediately threw myself into a round of lesbian orgies or picked up a one-night stand at a lesbian bar, think again. I had a lot of thinking to do. Amsterdam had been mind-blowing, but it had all happened so quickly, it had all been so intense: I needed time to process it. In any case, when I got back to my flat, I found there was a scratch on my car, my bank statement showed less than I thought I had, and the teenage boy in the flat upstairs had been given a drumkit for his birthday. Welcome home.

I like to unpack as soon as I get in, so I did, hanging things up and putting dirty clothes in the basket to be washed. Then I laid my sex shop purchases out neatly on the bed: a dildo, all veined and shaped like a big cock, though I seriously doubted any man could have one that size - at least, not if he wanted to walk straight; a butt-plug, shaped like the ace of spades, which I just could not imagine ever taking up my arsehole. I had asked the man in the shop about it (that was when I had really wanted there to be a woman assistant, but you just didn't find that in the 1990s). He had advised me to train my arse first using smaller things like pencils or candles; he said there was no point buying a small size of plug when any object would do. He also said to introduce the plug using plenty of lubricant. Then he sold me plenty of lubricant.

I hadn't bought a collar. I had looked at them: there was such a variety: punk-style black leather ones studded with huge metal spikes; dainty ones in pink or purple leather; some which actually said "dog" or "bitch" and plenty with "slave" written on them. None of these felt right, though. Then there were plainer ones, some of them simple black leather bands, like a choker; some wider and more substantial; many of them with a metal ring on the front for a lead to be attached. I nearly bought one, but still something held me back: I felt I needed to get one back in England, when I would know whose slave I was going to be.

So, I laid them all out on my bed, with my vibrator, which looked rather plain and dull next to them, poor thing. Then I closed the curtains, switched on the light, and got changed. I didn't quite have the clothes I knew I wanted, but I could make do. I took a smart navy blue jacket out of my wardrobe and a neckscarf out of my drawer. Then I stripped naked and put on the scarf and the jacket. I went to look at myself in the mirror. It looked good, but it needed something else. I went back to the wardrobe and put on my brown leather boots. Now it was perfect. I stood in front of the mirror and did up the jacket. I pushed my tits together to show some cleavage. Oh fuck yes: I ought to do that a lot more often. Then I stood with my legs apart and thrust my cunt forward. Fuck, but that looked good. That looked good enough to be in a porn magazine... Then I unbuttoned my jacket and let my tits out. I held them in my hands, then, looking straight at myself in the mirror, I licked my fingers and rubbed them on each nipple. I was one fucking horny girl.

Then I looked at the toys. I sat on the bed and picked up my trusty vibrator. She and I were old friends, though I don't think Stephen ever realised. I switched it on and started to run it gently over my cunt. There was that familiar, lovely tingly feeling. I lay back and spread my legs wide; I could feel myself gradually moistening. I slipped it inside me and closed my eyes; it felt warm and sexy and comforting, just like a old friend. But there are times when you have to make new friends. I took it out and switched it off. I was feeling nicely turned on now, ready to go up a stage. I took the dildo and gave it a long lick, all the way along its length. Then I went back to the mirror. There was this wanton girl in front of me -- I ruffled my hair a bit -- wearing her teaching jacket and her smart scarf: I loved it that this was a jacket I often wore in class. Then I looked at myself as I opened my mouth and ran my tongue all the way along my big, thick dildo. What a horny teacher; what a fucking slut I was. I took it deep in my mouth, sucking it, taking it as deep into my mouth as I could, moving it in and out, in and out. Really, I wanted someone to do this for me, but for now, this fucking teacher whore was fucking her own fucking dirty mouth. My eyes were alight with lust. I got my dildo thoroughly wet and then put it between my legs. It slid inside me easily, right up inside me -- I gasped as I felt its firm length, its ribbing cleverly teasing my clit. I slid it in and out, looking at myself in the mirror all the time. I pulled my tits out and ran the dildo over my nipples, smearing them with my cunt juices. Oh fuck -- yummy! I ran my fingers along it, getting my cunt juices on them, then I took two fingers in my mouth and tasted my cunt. I looked in the mirror and thought: you horny bitch! You dirty, filthy bitch! You dirty, filthy teacher! You are just a whore for cunt, aren't you? Then, I pumped the dildo in and out of my cunt: I was going to cum, and I was going to make myself cum standing up. This was it -- a teacher wanking, a teacher bringing herself off with a dildo covered in her cunt juices. I was a teacher whore... I closed my eyes in the sheer pleasure of knowing it, and knowing it was true.

It was one of the best orgasms I have ever had.

And now it was time for my arse. Anal was something I had always dreamed about and wondered about, but it just wasn't going to happen with Stephen. I had experimented a couple of times with a finger, though finger nails and anuses don't really mix. This time, I had to do it, I just had to. What to use? I thought a moment, and then had a inspiration. I went to my desk and looked out a long novelty pencil, covered in the coats of arms of the cities of Belgium. I'd bought it as a souvenir on a school trip years ago and it had sat round doing nothing ever since. Wll, now it could fucking well earn its keep. It was too big and thick to write with, but I reckoned the end with the eraser might work as a dildo -- the pencil point end might do me some damage. It occurred to me I ought to wrap it in something, so I looked out a packet of condoms -- they hadn't seen any service since I bought them, rather optimistically, it must be five years ago, maybe six. Still, at least it wouldn't matter if one of them burst. I took a condom from the box and slid it over the eraser end of the long pencil. Then I knelt up on the bed and took the bottle of lube. Everyone had told me not to skimp on lube, though I supposed that was for the butt plug. Still, it wouldn't do any harm, so I applied a good dollop of it to my arsehole and then wiped some onto the condom wrapped round the pencil. I have to say, though, this whole exercise didn't have anything like the sexiness of sliding the dildo in my cunt. At least not yet.

When you insert something in your bumhole, believe me, the first feeling is just discomfort; it squeezes in painfully where it's not meant to be. The lube helped the pencil slide in, but it wasn't doing anything for me, if I'm honest. Surely it must get better? People loved anal: they couldn't all be pretending, could they? I slid it out again -- and as it came, I felt a shiver of pleasure: it had definitely touched something off. I slid it in again, slowly, carefully, and pushed it further in. It was still uncomfortable but -- yes -- it was at the nerve. Suddenly my whole body filled with a glow of -- just, sex. I gasped: I'd always known it would be good, but I didn't think it would be this good. I moved it out, then in again, and the movement was definitely doing it, setting off the nerve ends in my anus. I was groaning: it was incredible. I sank to the bed and pushed it as far into my arse as I could get it. I had to move it in and out quite slowly, much more slowly than with the dildo in my cunt, but it didn't matter. I was fucking my own arse, and I was loving it. I had waited far too long to discover this pleasure and I was going to make sure it wasn't for the last time. But next time, I wanted someone to be doing it to me.

My thoughts turned to Lizzie. I quickly tried to think of something else. You can't; you just can't.

I tried one more thing that night. I was a bit more nervous about this, but I had to know. I took off my jacket and scarf and put on an old t-shirt that I didn't mind ruining. Then, as I could feel it welling inside me, I went to the bathroom and got straight into the bath without running the taps. I had to get into a rather contorted position, with my head and body on the bottom of the bath and my feet on the sides, while my hands held my hips up high. But then it came -- a big stream of piss. It spurted upwards and splashed onto my legs and then fell back down onto my t-shirt.

It was warm. That was the first feeling. It was beautifully warm; I had no idea it would feel so lovely. I had never admitted my sneaking interest in piss to anyone till I told Lisa and Miriam, and I had always been wary because -- well -- it's piss. But as soon as I felt it on me and felt it wetting my t-shirt, I was won over. I put my hands into the steam of piss, and felt its warmth. Then I put a piss-covered finger to my mouth. It tasted bitter and, to be honest, I didn't much like it. But no matter: I'd tried it.

I had a shower before bed, though.

I laid all my sex toys out on my bedside cabinet, so they would be the first thing I saw when I woke up. It made me feel like a whore. And that was just delicious.

In the morning I had things to do. I had to phone the garage about my car and I had to get some groceries. When I had put them away, I looked again at the list of Mistresses Lisa had given me. It's difficult for anyone who grew up with the internet to understand how communications worked in those days. I couldn't look up their websites or find out anything about them. I had their Mistress names, their phone numbers and their addresses: that was as much information as you normally got on anyone. Mistress Nicole lived too close: that was out. I didn't want even the merest chance of running into a student. All the others were on the other side of London. All right, I thought: here goes. I went to the telephone in the hall and sat on the chair. I would try Mistress Julie first. What would I say? How would I do it? I really didn't know, but I would never find out if I didn't try. I kept the slip of paper in one hand and dialled with the other. I took care with the dialling -- I really didn't want to get a wrong number (I mean, can you imagine the embarassment?). I felt a grip in my throat: I could hear it ringing at the other end. (What should I say? "Hello, is that Mistress Julie? My name is Louise. I was given your number by a Mistress in Amsterdam. Mistress Lisa? You know her?") It was still ringing. Hmm. I'll give it three more rings. It rang three more times. All right, one more. It rang once more. I put the receiver down quickly.

Perhaps it was a sign? A sign that it was not meant to be with Mistress Julie. The next on the list was Mistress Annette. I checked the number and put out my hand to pick up the receiver and dial.

The telephone rang.

I almost jumped. Surely it couldn't be Mistress Julie tracing the call and phoning me back? I picked up and just said, "Hello?" warily. It was a man's voice. "Louise? It's Leonard. Look, I'm really sorry to barge into your half term like this, but I'm afraid something's come up." Leonard was a colleague from work and what had come up was serious. I needed to go in to college: sex would have to wait. Yes, even on Literotica. When I came home, I didn't feel like phoning. I nearly gave up on the whole thing. But something inside me said No: you need to do this. This is about who you are, what you want to be. So I decided to write a letter instead. And I decided to send it to Mistress Annette.

Good choice, as it turned out.

"Dear Mistress Annette,

"I was given your name and details by Madame Lisa in Amsterdam, whom I believe you know. She recommended I approach you for the severe discipline and punishment I know I need. I am a professional woman -- a teacher -- and also a slut and a whore. I know I am dirty and filthy and worthless, and I need to be punished SEVERELY. Madame Lisa began my education but she suggested I should continue it and that you would be a good person to be my Mistress. I hope very much that you don't mind that I approach you for my punishment.

"I have a strong desire to be broken, to be enslaved and humiliated. I can tell you more when I see you -- or rather, if I see you.

"I am quite serious -- I feel a strong need for someone to take control of me: it's not just about sex.

"If you decide to take me in hand, perhaps you could let me know when I might report to you for my punishment?

"Yours respectfully,

"Louise Brewer (slut)"

The thing to do with a letter like that is to post it immediately. Of course, with my luck, I had no stamps and had to queue up at the Post Office (I couldn't help smiling, lokoing at all the people with their letters and their bills to pay, wondering what they would say if they knew what the smartly-dressed professional woman behind them in the queue was posting), but I did and then I went up to a postbox, help my breath, and posted the letter.

Then I went home to fuck my arse with my vibrator on full and I discovered pleasure I never knew could exist. Then I stripped off, put on my jacket and scarf, and sat in front of the TV for the evening, wanking my wet cunt with my dildo.

The next morning, I went shopping. Not to a sex shop, nor even a lingerie store: I went to a department store and bought myself two white shirts, suitable for a schoolgirl uniform. Then I went down to the sports department and bought myself a short hockey skirt. I was just going to the checkout when I had an idea. I went down to menswear and bought myself a man's white shirt -- I used Stephen's collar size as a guide -- and looked through the ties until I spotted a striped one that would pass for a school tie. I was determined now: I was going to be a schoolgirl slut and there might even be a chance now that I could show someone. I went home with my stomach alive with nerves and excitement. As soon as I got in, I opened one of the shirts and put it on, then did the tie up loosely and hung it round my neck, then put on the hockey skirt and looked at myself in the mirror. I took my dildo and started sucking it, licking along its length, looking at my reflectio all the time. Fuck me, but I looked a perfect schoolgirl whore, a completely slutty schoolgirl, knowing perfectly well how my uniform was turning on everyone in the class -- boys and girls.

And then the phone rang. Talk about killing the mood! I was quite anoyed as I went to answer it, but then the voice said:

"Is that Louise? Hello! It's Mistress Annette here."

I hadn't expected a reply so soon: it caught me out.

"Oh, oh," I stammered. "Hello. Yes, it's me, Louise."

"Oh good. Thank you so much for your letter, sweetie. It was lovely to get it."

"No -- no problem. It was no trouble."

"Well, if you say so, dear. I would have thought it was a lot of trouble. I think you're a very brave girl. Listen, as it happens, I do have some time this afternoon, if you're free? Otherwise, I can't fit you in for a few weeks, I'm afraid, and I rather suspect the sooner we talk the better."

I thought quickly. I was due to meet Cathy for tea, but I could cancel that. "Yes, I could make this afternoon," I said. This was all happening so fast, it was difficult to keep up.

"Lovely. You've got the address, obviously. It's about ten minutes from Caledonian Road tube."

"I"ll find it," I said. "I've got an A-Z".

[An A-Z, for the benefit of the Google Maps generation, was a widely-used detailed road atlas of London.]

"Lovely. Shall we say at three?"

"Fine. Oh --"

"Yes, lovey?"

"Should I bring anything? Anything to wear? Anything to use?"

She paused before answering.

"Normally, I would say no. Most of my guests are men and they just have to strip off as soon as they're through the door. It doesn't improve how they look but it puts them in their place. But I think in your case, perhaps you should bring anything you feel you need. Then we'll see how you feel when you get here. But, listen, lovey, I would suggest you don't wear anything special on the way. Arrive as you are, and then you can change here if you want to. How does that sound?"

It sounded fine.

There was one more thing to ask. I hesitated and then said, "Er... how, er, how much will it be?"

She didn't seem flustered in the least. "My normal fee is a hundred pounds for an hour, but I'm sure we can reach an arrangement for you. See you at three."

And she put the phone down.

I was a bit bewildered. She was quite different from what I had imagined. Instead of a stern Mistress voice, she sounded warm and friendly, like a favourite auntie. Maybe this was going to be all right. I certainly felt a lot less scared as I put my schoolgirl uniform and my dildo and butt plug into a bag and headed down to the tube. Nervous, yes; scared no.

I called at a cashpoint on the way.

I found the house quite easily. It was a large Victorian terraced house, one of those ones with steps up to the front door and also some steps down to a basement flat, for servants working in the kitchen when it was originally built. It was exactly three o'clock -- something told me to make sure I was punctual -- when I went up the steps and rang the bell. Immediately I heard footsteps from inside. She's coming, she's coming! This is it: I'm going to meet my Mistress. What will she look like? What will she be wearing? But the steps were much lighter than I expected -- younger, almost tripping along the hallway. Then the door opened and I nearly died. It was a young woman in jeans and a stripey top. I just stared. The young woman was Beth.

"Hello!" she said. "I thought it must be you." And she put her arms round me and kissed me. "Come on in. I'm sorry about the mess."

I followed her in as if I was in a dream. What? How?

"Don't look so worried," said Beth. "Mistress Annette is my aunt. I help her out when I'm back in London. Here, let me take your coat. Come on through. Would you like some tea or coffee? Annette will be down in a minute."

She led me through to a very homely kitchen -- all pine cupboards and a country kitchen table. Beth busied herself making tea as she explained.

"Normally I greet Annette's guests and put them at their ease, especially the new ones. They usually phone but when you wrote, Annette showed me your letter and I said it must be you: the name, the address -- everything."

I froze. Beth had read my letter? It must have shown in her face, because she came over and gave my hand a squeeze. "Don't look so worried," she said. "There's nothing to worry about."

"You must be Louise!" said Annette, coming into the kitchen in a great whirl of motion. "Lovely to meet you."

She didn't look much like a domme meeting a guest -- she was in a sweatshirt, jeans and boots, smart enough but not how you picture a dominatrix. But I was too bewildered to make anything of it. Annette laughed.

"You poor thing!" she said. "Beth, have you explained things?"

"Not yet," said Beth, sitting down next to me. "As I say, Annette is my aunt. We've always been close and she's always been my confidant. I learned years ago about her lifestyle and I was fascinated."

"Wait!" I said, interrupting her. "Was this when you were at college?"

"Yes," said Beth. "I was still very quiet in those days. But I quite often used to visit, and I -- well, I learned things. Then it was uni, then teacher training, and I'm now teaching English in a school in Brighton. Thanks to your good teaching."