The Tutor

"No," I whispered, automatically. I had barely understood a word of what she was saying, but the words sex, body, and pleasure had registered, and that was enough. She tilted her head.

"I did not ask your permission. This is going to happen."

I shivered again, and thought I might have another panic attack. But it receded. Fiona slipped her hand in my unoccupied one, and I looked at her suddenly.

Her lower face was still dewy, and I had to fight back revulsion as she smiled her unexpected brilliant smile.

"It's okay, mom," she said. "Kanae knows what she's doing. You'll be safe."

"And how do you know?" I said. Meant for an accusation, but my lips were so numb from shock that it was just a question.

"I've met her other slaves," said Fiona, with a happy blush. "She lets me play with them sometimes."

I shivered again, and had to look away from Fiona. Tonight was not the beginning! My daughter had been engaging in sexual activity for God knew how long! And with other people, people she called slaves! My brain was on fire, and my stomach attempted to turn once more. I found myself again with my face between my knees.

"I can't," I gasped in that doubled-over position. "It's not possible. I'm too old, too broken."

This was greater honesty than I had meant, or had even admitted to myself in the moment. The words my numb brain was still trying to formulate were something closer to "How dare you, I'm a respectable mother not some cheap whore, get off of my property this instant, I'll sue you for every cent I've paid you, don't think I won't" and so on. But they never reached my lips; my nervous system was too shattered to adopt that kind of self-possession.

"You're wrong," said Kanae again, her tone as even as ever but the words so plain that they felt like a slap. "You can, you will, and you must. Otherwise----" she paused ominously, and I felt rather than heard Fiona hold her breath expectantly.

"Otherwise what?" I raised my head to look at her, nettled again by her smooth authority and air of suspense.

"You will be punished," said Kanae.

My face registered disgust before I could help it. "Then try to punish me," I spat, and withdrew my hand from hers at last. "I'll report you to the community college if you lay a hand on me. To the police."

Her smile returned again, but it was not the kind smile I had found so cute before: it was a catlike smile, with hooded lids.

"Fiona," she said, without taking her eyes from mine. "You are going to stay over at a friend's tonight."

"I am?" Fiona's surprise was evident, but a moment later she said, "yes, I am," and I heard her get up and rush to her phone, then disappear into the depths of the house to collect her things. Kanae's gaze held fast on mine the entire time.

"What are you going to do to me?" I whispered. "You don't want witnesses?"

"Your daughter loves you," she said. "She might express herself differently in other moods, but she will not like watching you be humiliated as you will have to be until you agree to be mine."

"Why are you doing this to me?" I asked, as I heard Fiona start to emerge from her room.

"Because you need it," Kanae said.

"I don't," I hissed, trying to not be heard by Fiona. "I need to be left alone. I need to not be touched. I need to live an ordinary life." I was on the verge of tears.

Kanae shook her head slowly from side to side.

"You need me," she said simply, and then in a louder voice, "Fiona, take your mom's debit card from her purse. Order pizza for you and your friend tonight."

"Kay," called Fiona, and I heard her rooting through the purse I had numbly dropped on the floor as I entered. Then the door swung, and she was gone.

Kanae did not move. I stared at her.

"What happens now?" I asked.

"That is up to you," said Kanae, and began to slowly slide back down the couch. "If you say yes, and finish the job your daughter started----" she opened her long legs once more, and exposed the brown mons, cleft by faintly purplish lips, still shining with wetness---- "then we will have a nice quiet evening of mutual pleasure. If you refuse----"

She frowned slightly, for the first time since I had known her, and I felt my heart leap into my throat.

"Then you will learn why my slaves do not disobey me," said Kanae. She was still wearing a jean jacket, her usual uniform when tutoring, and the sundress beneath it was bunched up around her waist. From the pocket of the jean jacket she took an object that she held in one hand; our eyes remained locked, so I couldn't quite make out what it was in my peripheral vision. A long, agonizing moment lasted between us. Finally,

"I can't," I said.

She nodded gently, sighed, and then suddenly her leg was behind my legs and she swept them towards her at the same moment that she tucked a hand into my arm and wrenched it behind my back, twisting me down and pinning me to the floor. Her knee was in the small of my back before I had caught my breath from the fall, and her other hand caught my other arm, forcing it to join its twin behind me; and as I cried out, kicking uselessly on the floor, I learned what the object in her hand had been: a ball of strong black cord, which she wrapped quickly around my wrists, knotted together, and tested.

"You can't do this!" I heard myself shrieking. "Help! Assault! Burglary! I'm being raped!" But the empty silence of the house, the distance of the nearest units, and the deathly quiet of the suburban neighborhood at evening swallowed up my screams as deeply as if I had said nothing at all.

Her mouth was at my ear.

"You are being assaulted," she said in a whisper that raised goosebumps on the back of my neck. "You are not, you will not be raped. You will consent to everything, and you will have all your faculties and be without coercion when you do."

"No," I sobbed, struggling in vain. She was surprisingly heavy and strong for how slender she was. "I'll never consent."

She tied my ankles together, leaving a small length of cord between them so that I could shuffle but not run. And then she hauled me into a sitting position, my legs underneath me, my hands pinned behind me, as I stared at her wildly. She bent over and slipped her panties off from around the ankle where they had hung since I entered the house. She bunched them and held them in her hand toward me.

"I want to leave your mouth open," she said, "so that you can communicate your consent clearly. But if you scream again, I'll have to gag you."

I gulped and shook my head, nausea returning at the thought of having to endure her underwear, scented with who knew what fluids, in my mouth.

"Are you going to be a good girl and not scream?"

I nodded, miserably. Tears ran down my cheeks and dropped onto my shirt front.

She stood up and paced in a half-circle around me, considering me.

"The first thing," she said, "is your name. A slave is not going to be called Ms. Pattinson by her mistress." She waited, as though expecting me to volunteer something, but I only sniffled miserably, looking down at the floor. I was formulating a determination to not respond, to outlast her, to wait without moving or speaking until she grew tired of my obstinacy and went home, after which, I supposed, Fiona would come home eventually, either in the morning or after school the next day, find me, untie me, and I would begin legal proceedings against Kanae in spite of my daughter's protests.

"Alexis," she said. "No, still too dignified. Alexis Pattinson is the name on your email signature, on your driver's license, on your mail, on your checking account. We need something sluttier,"

I shook my head, refusing to countenance this, and outraged at the thought that she had snooped into my life this deeply.

"Lexi," she said. "Yes, that's a slut's name. With three X's. Lexxxi." She drew out the consonant so that both the plosive in the back of the throat and the sibilant between the teeth hummed at once. It sounded almost like a purr.

"Slave Lexxxi," she said. "My first command as your mistress is to bend over and kiss my feet."

I sat stock still, my eyes still on the ground. I could see her feet, in black wedges in front of me, but I was not looking at them. I would not. I would not acknowledge her, even to refuse.

"The penalty for disobeying a command from your mistress," said Kanae in the same even tone above my head, "is spanking." She waited another agonizing length of time, and then paced off. I heard her shoes clack in the kitchen, and then there was the clink of the utensil jar and the swift swish in air of a stirring spoon or spatula being tested. She returned.

"My second command," she said, "is to stand up and bend over, presenting your ass to me."

I remained still, the blood rushing in my ears now. This was awful. I felt thrown back into the helplessness of childhood, the hideous unfairness of parental or scholastic punishment, the agonizing dread of waiting for a blow to fall.

"Very well," she said, and bent down. She hooked her hands under my armpits and pulled me to a standing position. For a brief moment I considered going limp and refusing even to stand, but that would be too undignified: I was not a child, despite what the hammering in my chest reminded me of.

My eyes met hers for the first time since she had knocked me to the ground. Her face retained the stern frown that had frightened me, but was otherwise as calm and untroubled as ever, I was the first to look away, down at the wooden spatula in her hand.

She turned me around, moved me into position, and pressed her weight into my back until I bent over the back of the couch, my rear sticking out like some obscene cartoon.

I felt her fingers at my waist, and realized she was unzipping my skirt. This was too much; I had to protest.

"No," I said. "Please. Don't take my clothes off."

"My slave's wishes will be taken into consideration after she obeys my orders," said Kanae. "Will you kiss my feet?"

I said nothing. She pushed the skirt down around my round buttocks, and took her time doing so. Her hands gently circled the globes of my ass without squeezing or smacking or approaching the crack between them, a simple admiring caress.

"I knew your ass was phenomenal," she said, as calmly as ever but with a subterranean note of excitement.

I blushed, and was a little surprised to not experience another rush of nausea.

And then the hands were gone, and the spoon struck sharply. I cried out, and bit my lip to stifle the reaction. The pain was immediate, and familiar from childhood, but it was no longer as intolerable as it had been then; what burned far more deeply was the humiliation. A college student I had barely spoken to before tonight was spanking my panty-clad bottom in my own living room, and I was helpless to stop her.

She gave ten sharp swats, and then paused.

"That's for refusing to kiss my feet," she said, and for once her voice had changed; she was a little out of breath from the exertion. "And this is for refusing to stand into position." Another ten sharp swats, spaced apart so evenly that my entire round bottom must be a burning red.

"Stand up," she said, and I did reflexively, hardly noticing that I was obeying her. She turned me around, and looked at my weeping face.

"Did you enjoy that, Lexxxi?" she asked, panting.

I shook my head, deciding that protesting against the name was not worth the effort.

"I did," she said. "Your bottom is such a pretty red. I hope you disobey me a lot, so it stays red always."

I shuddered at that, but again without the rush of nausea. She sounded perfectly sincere, and the glow in her cheeks was evidence of it.

"My third order," she said, recovering her normal breath, "is to kneel down in front of me."

I hesitated. My bottom burned; I would suffer a lot before I chose to undergo another spanking. And kneeling wasn't so bad. Gingerly, I lowered myself to the ground and knelt.

"Good girl," she said softly, and her hand caressed the side of my face, twisting my hair briefly around her fingers before returning to her side. I felt a sudden confused emotion; delight at being praised; loathing and disgust at the words; horror at the delight; and something else, far off in the distance, that I couldn't make out.

She took a seat in a side chair, and maneuvered it to face me. Methodically, she began to strip: first the jean jacket, which she dropped to the side of the chair, then the sundress, which she pulled over her head and shimmied to get out of. Her lower half had been naked this whole time, but for the first time her breasts came into view, small cups of pale flesh tipped with thick brown nipples. Something within me shivered at the sight, and I flinched nervously, skittish as always of any new hint of sexuality.

She leaned back in the chair and regarded me.

"What you are going to do now, Lexxxi," she said, steepling her fingers together, "is watch me. That's all. Just watch. Your participation will not be required, only your presence. Do you understand?"

I nodded uncertainly. My breathing felt shallow again, and I had a second of thinking that I might pass out. But I did not: she held my gaze, and the feeling moved on.

Her fingers unsteepled and began to move slowly down her body, her first and index fingers walking them down over the swell of her breast, the dip of her stomach, the slight roll where her half-prone position bunched up the flesh between her stomach and waist, and finally to the brown slick mound, cleft by lips I still could not look directly at, where the fingers danced in slow circles between the valley of her legs.

"I am going to masturbate now, Lexxxi," she said softly. "You will watch me, and listen to me, and smell me, and you will be safe."

I could feel sweat trickling down my forehead. This was true horror now. She was going to touch herself, she was going to be sexual, and I would scream and weep and beg her to stop and possibly throw up and possibly pass out. I imagined myself throwing myself bodily to the ground in an attempt to lose consciousness, to get away from it.

"Lexxxi," she said sharply. "Look at me."

My eyes focused again, and found hers.

"Stay with me," she said. "It will be all right."

"It can't be," I sobbed, realizing for the first time how hard I was crying. "You don't understand."

"Yes I do, you sweet ignorant slave," she said gently. "Your mistress always understands better than you do. Now watch me play with myself."

I did not take my eyes from her eyes as she began to stroke herself, but I could tell from the gestures in my peripheral vision that one hand ran up and down her slit while the other moved in lazy circles above it, pulling the skin gently.

"That's right," she sighed. "Just keep watching me. You have no idea how sexy you look, kneeling there disheveled in just your blouse and panties, your hands behind your back like a good little slave." Her breathing grew harder.

I gritted my teeth and focused on her eyes, on her glasses, on the lamplight reflected in the lenses, on anything but the motion of her hands below her waist, her legs splayed out, her breasts jiggling ever so slightly with the motion of her shoulders. I would delay the inevitable. I would fight to ignore the sexuality happening openly in front of me. I would not surrender.

"Good girl," she said, and her voice shuddered as she spoke. "Good girl, Lexxxi. You're so brave. You can do this. Just a little bit more. Oh god your lips----" and she hissed herself to silence, her forearms pumping now, and the chair bumping ever so slightly against the carpet.

I could feel my panic rising. My hands were bound behind me, my feet trussed so that I could not run. Even looking at only her face was making me unwell, as her face contorted with successive waves of sensation, and her breathing was harsh and ragged. My own breathing kept pace with it as my head swam, and I smelled her scent strongly in the room, reminiscent of my own as a girl's, of Fiona's last Saturday, but sweeter, sharper, more insistent. For an insane moment I thought of how the scent would taste on my tongue, and could not suppress a violent retch in response. Her eyes focused sharply on me at the sound, and she controlled her breathing long enough to say,

"It's okay, Lexxxi. Feel your feelings about it. Just keep looking at your mistress."

Some deep wash of gratitude came over me at those words, at the unexpected sympathy in them, at the sense that she did understand what I was going through but thought it was necessary in this moment.

Without making a conscious decision to, I nodded bravely and sniffed, focusing through watery eyes on her face, which was pulling into a rictus of concentration as her fingers worked hard, seeking something that remained just out of reach. I breathed her scent in through my nostrils and waited for the revulsion to come. It did, and I breathed through it, and watched her, and felt tiny pinpricks of agonizing intensity all over my body as the adrenaline churned away without an outlet. I knelt, and watched.

Finally she gasped hugely, and her eyes flung wide open, staring directly into mine, as her lower half moved in wild jumps off the seat of the chair, and her fingers blurred in a back-and-forth motion on her mons. I felt as though time and space were telescoping around me; every detail of her face -- the hair that clung in a sticky strand to her sweaty cheek, the faint fuzz, caught in the light from the kitchen, that gave her face a halo, a little mole just below her nose that pulled and stretched as her lips worked. There were cracks in her glasses frames; they had been broken and repaired.

"Here it comes," she said suddenly, and her hips jerked forward, and with a shock I felt liquid splash onto my face, soak into my blouse, dribble down into my cleavage. Then her hips jerked again, and this time I saw the spurt coming, gleaming in the light, but could not move in time. It rained into my hair, dripped down my face. I pressed my lips tight together, hoping desperately that the salt I tasted on my tongue was only my own perspiration, and shut my eyes as one more jet sprayed on to me, the scent I had only barely caught in the air before now soaking heavily into me, coating my upper body, inescapable. Nausea, churning deep within me, bubbled, on the verge of erupting into a violent outburst, but shock kept it at bay for now.

"Oh God," she panted. "Look at you. Covered in my cream. I have to take a picture."

"No," I moaned, but the single syllable was all I could trust myself with; anything more would give way to shrieking and retching, and I would fall to the floor in misery and seizure.

"Yes," she said. "Fiona will love this."

I heard her phone's camera app make the sounds of taking pictures, but kept my eyes squeezed shut, my entire body tense with the effort of fighting off the horror induced by the indignity of being unceremoniously drenched with the vaginal fluids of my daughter's math tutor.

She was silent for a moment, as she reviewed the photos.

"You were a good girl, Lexxxi," she said eventually. "You knelt for me, you watched me pleasure myself, you let yourself be baptized in my cum. A slave's disobedience means punishment, but a slave's obedience means rewards."

I opened my eyes at that, and found myself able to breathe. I was still trembling all over, and the nausea was still there, but it did not threaten to overpower me. Kanae stood in front of me, naked and slender; I had to crane my neck to look at her face.

"Will you let me go?" I whispered.

She gave a little smile.

"Do you agree to be my slave?" she asked.

I shook my head, and looked down. I could not. Watching her touch herself, even being baptized as she had called it, was one thing; having to touch her, or worse yet, letting her touch me, was something else entirely.