Chapter Five
The male slave holds out a leash and I go to him, standing quietly and staring down at his half-hard cock as he clips the leash to my collar. It must be so much more difficult to be a male slave, with your excitement worn on the outside. I’ve always thought so. But my own nipples are hard as two stones, and I’m sure anyone could see a blush on my cheeks and my chest. It’s the curse of being a natural redhead. The Masters and Mistresses all love it. Of course, they always slip their searching fingers into my cunt, finding it wet. I am wet more often than not, my body always seeking out pleasure, and finding it in the tiniest detail: my Mistress’s perfume, my Master’s voice, a quiet command, a rough beating, another beautiful slave. It will all set me off. I spend much of my time fighting my orgasms.
My pussy clenches hard now as the slave boy leads me from my room and into the hall. Across from the Master’s study a door is open, and we turn there and enter.
The room is arranged as a schoolroom, much like the ones I sat in as a child, even with chalkboards and maps on the walls. Except in the long rows of desks, there is a phallus carved from wood in the center of every seat. My gaze roves over these lovely, wicked seats, noting that the closer to the front of the room they sit, the larger the dildos are. I am suddenly so shaky it takes me a few moments, as the slave boy leads me to a desk in one of the middle rows, to notice that most of the dildos in the very front row are double-headed, and in the seats which have single phalluses, they are huge butt plugs, cones of graduated beads. A wave of desire and fear washes over me. But then the slave boy has a hand at the small of my back and another on my shoulder, forcing me to bend over. He kicks my legs apart a little wider, and I feel his fingers between my thighs.
“Good. No need for lube. The Master will be pleased.”
The Master?
My heart stutters in my chest. There is no one seated behind the large wooden teacher’s desk at the front of the room, which seems oddly threatening to me, making my heart pound harder, my legs feeling as if they might go out from under me. But luckily the blond boy is guiding me into my seat, helping me straddle it while I use my hands on the desktop to hold some of my weight as he lowers my already-clenching cunt onto the protruding phallus. Sighing as it enters my body, I have to bite back my climax. He pulls my body up, then lowers me again, smiling a little at me as he does it a few times, fucking me with the phallus in my seat. Finally he settles me onto it, but it’s not terribly large, and my lustful body accepts it easily. I make an effort not to squirm, not to rub my g-spot against the smooth wooden surface. Not to come—oh no, not to come. What might the punishment for that be? A rebellious part of me—a daring part of me—wants to know.
“Stay still,” the slave boy warns me before he snaps the handle end of my leash to a metal loop on one side of the desk and walks from the room.
I do look around then. It’s a classic schoolroom, with the desks perfectly lined up. There are others in the seats in front of me: a girl with long blonde hair woven into a single braid, a delicately built boy with fair skin and dark hair, another girl who’s chin-length hair is bright pink—she has a pair of red roses tattooed on the back of each shoulder. And in the front of the room is a boy—no, clearly a man, despite his predicament—who is so spectacularly beautiful he takes my breath away. He has smooth, golden skin, a hard-packed muscular body with strong thighs and shoulders and a broad chest.
But it’s his face that makes me feel as if I might melt into a pool of pure liquid fire. A finely sculpted jaw and chin, high, high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes that look even more golden than his skin, from where I sit. His mouth is strong and incredibly lush at the same time, a hard pout on it, and I can hardly blame him. He is mounted on a cross beside the teacher’s desk, arms spread, wrists cuffed by heavy metal shackles. His knees are drawn up and bent so that his feet are flat against the crossbar of the big wooden cross, ankles heavily shackled. And despite the tall, pointed dunce cap on his head, he is glaring angrily at the room, which may be the most enticing thing about him.
I have never seen a slave with such fire in his eyes. With such tension in every beautiful muscle while he is made to hang there as if crucified, and I suddenly understand that he is as impaled as I am, hanging from the cross. He is like some kind of caged beast up there, a primal rage just barely contained, and I’m fascinated.
Oh, to touch him… My fingers itch with the need to feel that fine, golden skin. My mouth burns with the yearning to press kisses on his dusky nipples, one of which is pierced. To wrap my lips around his thick, golden-headed cock, which is every bit as beautiful as the rest of him, and just as hard, the head so swollen, his lust barely contained. I wonder what a terror he would be if he weren’t chastised, bound, his ass skewered. A shiver runs through my entire body.
To have that beautiful beast on me. In me.
Suddenly the door slams open and I jump, my pussy jarring against the hard wooden shaft inside me. It hurts, but I welcome it. Want it. Want the Master, who has just entered the room, to see what a good Girl I am, impaled and still in my seat. But I have not been a good Girl, lusting after this new slave at the front of the room. The bad slave.
Oh yes. Even better.
I bite my lip and try to calm down.
The Master walks in and sits down at the desk, paging through a notebook, ignoring us so completely he might have been alone in the room. He is stunning, as always, with his slightly mussed hair, his fine bone structure, his large hands. Even the crispness of his shirt seems erotic to me, revealing his tattoos almost carelessly—although I am sure this man does nothing carelessly.
I want to fidget, for reasons I can’t explain. Why do I feel a need for him to notice me, when I am no one in this House? I glance over at the bad slave and see his expression hasn’t changed. But no, I’m wrong about that. He is silently fuming more than ever, his nostrils flaring. I squirm the tiniest bit simply to feel the dildo inside my squeezing, wet cunt. To imagine it is this slave’s rigid cock.
The slave, and not the Master?
What is wrong with me? I am half in love with my lovely new Master already—more than half—and yet this slave boy has so easily distracted me. My gaze flicks back to the Master, who, as if he senses my disobedience, looks back at me, then rises to his feet. Keeping his gaze on mine, he moves toward the bad slave, one of those long, wooden pointer sticks in his hand.
He asks me, “Does this slave’s predicament amuse you, Girl?”
I flinch, but don’t dare to answer.
“Or are you thinking, perhaps, that you’d love to be in his position? It can certainly be arranged.”
He turns to the bad slave and smacks his chest with the pointer stick, hard enough to leave a long, pink welt. The slave doesn’t move a muscle.
“This is what happens, Boys and Girls, to bad students. To slaves who have a smart mouth. And this is only the beginning of the punishment he will receive today. You see, Christopher here lacks the appropriate respect for myself and my staff. And he is very bad at answering the test questions. Aren’t you, Christopher?”
I am shocked to hear this slave called by name! But I remember the name from the Master’s conversation with Mistress Alexa yesterday. I am just as shocked when the bad slave spits on the floor.
The Master grabs his chin in a hard, vicious hand and squeezes, holding Christopher’s angry gaze to his own as he beats his thighs with the pointer stick. When it breaks, the wood splintering with a jolting crack, he drops it, releases Christopher’s face and walks away. At his desk, he opens a drawer, takes a white handkerchief from it and wipes his hands carefully.
He says, “Shall we?” as if nothing has happened.
Christopher, for his part, wears the same angry glare, his cock harder than ever, his mouth more set. My body surges with heated desire. Who is this slave that he can take a beating like that without moving, without flinching? His thighs are striped with pink welts, and I want to kiss them away. I want to kiss his beautiful hard-on away too.
Who is this slave that he still has a name in this place?
The Master pulls another pointer stick from behind the desk, where I imagine he has a good supply of them, goes to the blonde and grabs her long braid, yanking her head back. “Girl, tell our newcomer what to expect here in my classroom.”
“Yes, Master,” she says in a soft, timid voice. “We will be asked questions by the Master, or by the schoolmaster, Mr. Clare. If we are correct, we may be allowed to kiss the Master’s hand. If we are unable to answer correctly, we will be advanced one row, until we reach the front of the room. If, in the front row, we get a wrong answer, we will earn a beating with a ruler, or…something worse. Is that right, Master?”
“Very good, darling Girl,” he says, leaning down to brush a kiss across her cheek, and I am filled with jealousy.
If only he would kiss my cheek, call me “darling.” Or if only Christopher would.
I silently berate myself as I try to focus only on the Master. He moves toward the Boy with the dark hair.
“Boy, first series of questions. Define a light year.”
“Yes, Master. A light year is the distance light can travel in vacuum in one year’s time.”
“Very good.”
He extends his hand, and the slave turns so that I see his face in profile. He is beautiful, as we all are here in our own way, with sharp features, like a faun. He places a soft kiss on the back of the Master’s hand.
“Now answer this: name the spiral galaxy nearest to the Milky Way, and its distance in light years.”
“Yes, Master. The nearest galaxy to ours is the Andromeda Galaxy, and it is…over two million light years away…?”
“You sound uncertain,” he says, tapping the pointer against the toe of his polished shoe.
His dark hair is a little more mussed than usual after his small struggle with Christopher, and he is so stunningly handsome I find it difficult to look at him. Yet at the same time the only thing that can really tear my gaze from him is the sullen Christopher and his beautiful erection. I force myself to keep watching the Master, as I’m fairly certain he’ll catch me if I don’t, and I have no idea how bad the punishments are in the schoolroom. This thrills me a bit—more than a bit—but not enough to risk it. As I said, I am mostly a good Girl.
The Master taps the Boy’s calf with the pointer stick. “Is that the best you can do?”
The Boy bites his lip. “Master, Andromeda Galaxy is two point five million light years from the Milky Way.”
“Ah, very good.” He lets the Boy place another kiss on his hand. “And what is the most commonly used measure of distance in astrometry, the branch of astronomy that deals with measurements and positions of celestial bodies?”
“That is the parsec, Master.”
Again the slave is allowed to press his lips to the back of the Master’s hand, while I panic in my seat. I couldn’t possibly answer these questions. But as much as I crave the Master’s hand beneath my hungry lips, I am still eager for the punishment. I want to move up the rows until my cunt and my ass are penetrated in the front of the room. To please the Master in this way, which, I am certain, is more satisfying to him than our ability to answer the questions. This idea makes me relax a bit. But only a bit. There is still the narrow pointer stick and the Master is creative in his use of us.
“Girl,” he says suddenly, making my head jerk up, and I realize I’ve been daydreaming. But he’s addressing the Girl with the pink hair. “Which of the Greek philosophers said ‘No intelligent man believes that anybody ever willingly errs or willingly does base and evil deeds; they are well aware that all who do base and evil things do them unwillingly’?”
She sits perfectly still, but I can see the tension in her shoulders—until the Master, out of patience, slams her desk with the stick.
“Answer,” he demands sharply, making me shiver.
I want that harsh voice aimed at me. And I don’t want it. I fear it. Oh, but fear can be such a delicious thing.
“Master, I think it was Diogenes.”
“Wrong,” he says as he smacks her thigh with the pointer stick.
Her body goes loose, and I understand this reaction so perfectly, the release that comes with an anticipated punishment. Then he marches to his desk at the front of the room, presses a button on a device I hadn’t noticed before that looks like an old-fashioned intercom.
“Advancement,” he says.
A moment later the door opens and two men come in, both of them burly in build, and I recognize one of them as Gilby. They unhook the pink-haired girl’s leash and lift her, moving her up one row and lowering her onto the phallus so quickly I barely have time to take in what’s happening. It’s then I see that all of the dildos in that row are carved with intricate patterns, and I can only imagine how they feel. My cunt squeezes the hard shaft inside me, which is suddenly far too small. How I want to be that Girl! I tremble with need at my school desk. Even more so when Christopher raises his chin and his urgent, angry gaze finds me. His golden eyes lance through me like flame and smoke and the keen edge of a knife. He is sublimely savage, this bad slave. The longer he stares at me, the more deeply I feel it. Feel him.
I cannot believe he is looking at me. I feel my mouth fall open a little, and a small smirk appears at one corner of his wicked lips, a dimple flashing for a moment in his cheek.
Ah God. I could die now. Come now.
Come. Now.
My cunt squeezes.
No!
I take in a breath. I hate to do it but I have to look away.
And suddenly the Master advances, his gaze on mine. He presses the tip of the pointer between my breasts. Lovely little pain.
“Girl, your first question. Who painted the infamous Garden of Earthly Delights?”
I almost want to get the answer wrong, but this I know. Art has long been an obsession of mine.
“Hieronymus Bosch, Master.”
“Ah, the new Girl answers correctly. You may kiss my hand.”
He extends it and it is all I can do to control myself, to place a quiet kiss there rather than licking it, sucking on his fingers.
“And now tell me, what element on the periodic table included in those below the atomic number ninety-two is not naturally occurring?”
My mind scrambles for information it doesn’t have, then freezes, my tongue going numb.
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know!
I cannot say this. But I must.
“Master…is it uranium?” I say, trembling all over, knowing I’m wrong.
“Incorrect.” His voice rings in the room before he slams the pointer stick down on my thigh.
I squirm—I can’t help it.
“Try again,” he commands.
I make an effort to focus, but my thigh stings, and my body wants more.
“Colbalt, Master?”
“Incorrect! The correct answer is technetium.”
He smacks my thigh with the pointer once more, then again and again in the same hurting spot. My hands are balled into tight fists as I struggle not to cry out.
He pauses. “Advancement,” he announces. “Front row for her.”
Even before the two enormous henchmen arrive to unleash me and carry me up the rows, my body is melting, aching with desire. They bring me to the very front of the room and the breath goes out of me as I spy the two-headed dildo in the seat. Fear and desire are like fire and water in my system, my clit pulsing, my cunt contracting. Then they are lowering me onto it, the beaded shaft burning as it presses into my ass. The larger phallus slips easily into my wet pussy. I can feel them both inside me. And through the haze of needing to come, I feel both ashamed and glorious, as well as shocked that I ended up here in the front row. I don’t know how this has happened to me, and yet it has, and I can do nothing. Nothing. Beautifully humiliating.
The Master ignores the entire process, turning his attentions to Christopher once more. He presses the end of the pointer beneath Christopher’s chin, forcing his head up. Those golden eyes are still glittering with rage. I am still wet and wanting him. Wanting them both—my beautiful Master and this beautiful slave, whose naked flesh and naked anger drive my yearning for him to inexplicable heights.
“Christopher, I would advise that you answer correctly,” the Master says in a low, threatening tone.
Christopher’s only answer is a flaring of his nostrils, his golden eyes flashing. But his cock jumps.
The Master gives a low chuckle and slaps at the cock with his hand, then does it again. The head is going darker, and I can only imagine the need for release burning through the bad slave’s veins, his balls, that gorgeous, succulent cock. I swallow hard.
“We begin,” the Master says. “Christopher, here is your question. Jane is walking her dog, Spot. She sees her friend, Dick, walking toward her along the same long, straight road. Both Dick and Jane are walking at three miles per hour. When Dick and Jane are six-hundred feet apart, Spot runs from Dick to Jane, turns and runs back to Dick, and then back and forth between them at a constant speed of eight miles per hour. Dick and Jane both continue walking toward each other at a constant three miles per hour. Neglecting the time lost each time Spot reverses direction, how far has Spot run in the time it takes Dick and Jane to meet?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Christopher spits out, the dunce cap falling to the floor, revealing a short, platinum Mohawk.
There is one moment of silence as tension fills the room, then the Master grabs Christopher’s swollen cock and squeezes until the slave’s face turns beet red. But his jaw is clenched tight and he doesn’t make a sound. His face grows even darker, that simmering rage boiling over and beaming from his eyes. The Master lets go so suddenly I think Christopher would have collapsed to the floor had he not been so tightly bound, his head falling forward for a few moments. He’s breathing hard. And my own body is steaming, lust a wild searing in my tortured cunt, my throbbing clit. The Master goes to his desk, opens a drawer, and calmly pulls out a pair of thin metal rulers. Calmly, I believe, until he turns slightly and I see the bulge beneath the expensive fabric of his trousers. And oh my God, what this does to me! To know they are both so turned on by this exchange.
The Master hits Christopher’s chest and sides and thighs with the evil metal rulers, which are long enough to be flexible, and I can hear the snapping of them against the beautiful slave’s flesh. They leave dark welts on his golden skin, and I start to pump my hips, fucking myself with the wooden dildo in my seat, biting the inside of my cheek not to moan, not to come.
Excruciating.
When blood begins to seep from the wounds the Master drops the rulers, grabs Christopher by his short, spiky hair and kisses him. I nearly come then. Only my training allows me to bite it back, to make myself take a few deep breaths. But I have never seen anything this thrilling in my life. And the solid shafts in my ass and my cunt feel as if they have expanded, or perhaps my body has contracted around them. I don’t dare move or I’ll shatter.
The Master pulls back, and he’s panting almost as hard as Christopher. He gives a nod toward the back of the room, and the two large men come up and take Christopher off the cross, half carrying, half dragging him out the door. The Master runs a hand through his hair before he wipes his hands once more with the handkerchief. Then his gaze rests on each of the other Girls, then the Boy, and finally on me. My heart hammers in my chest, my pulse hammering in my clit.
Please notice me.
Don’t notice me.
He gets up and stalks toward me, and I’d shrink in my seat if that were physically possible with these wooden dildos so lusciously buried in my body. He leans over me, his sapphire eyes boring into me.
“That little scene excited you,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question.
I nod the tiniest bit, bite my lip.
He leans closer and I can smell him again, that elegant scent filling my head. He strokes my cheek, his fingertips brush my lips and it takes every ounce of discipline I have not to kiss his fingertips.
He whispers against my hair through gritted teeth, “You. There’s something about you watching me do these things. Knowing you want to watch, knowing it thrills you, that makes it… Be careful, little Girl. Be careful what you wish for.”
He gives me a small shove as he straightens and moves back to the front of the room, keeping his back to us.
“Class dismissed,” he says, then walks out.
I am left with my mouth hanging open in shock. Something about me? Me? And how does he know what I wish for? But of course he knows. It’s his job to know. And I am crushed and frightened and so hopeful my heart is soaring all at once. I stare at the front of the room, my gaze searching madly for…something. I don’t even know what. Some trace of him, perhaps? But what I find are traces of the beautiful Christopher: several tiny drops of blood on the floor. And I want to touch them, to lick them up, to absorb them somehow.
He is not for you. You are the Master’s.
But I can’t help the craving that is driving me mad. The craving for them both! I am not supposed to feel this way. Not to this degree—for either one of them, not even the Master, so soon.
It’s nothing. It’s lust.
But I’ve felt lust before, many times, and it didn’t feel like this.
By the time the blond slave Boy comes for me I’m shaking all over, and when he puts his hands on me, simply to lift me off the wooden dildo, I am so close to coming again—or still—that I resist him for a moment.
He laughs. “What’s this? Don’t want to leave your seat?”
I shake my head mutely and let him snap the leash back onto my collar. As we move down the hallway I keep my gaze on the floor, the patterns of the wood grain making me a little dizzy.
“Boy.”
I look up at the sound of the Master’s voice, my heart racing.
“Give her to me,” he demands, putting his strong, beautiful hand out for the leash, which the Boy gives over to him with a small bow.
“Yes, Master.”
My heart races. Is he angry with me? Did he see me looking at Christopher? Did I do something else wrong?
He pulls me along behind him without another word, and I can barely keep up, he’s moving so quickly. We reach the end of the hall at the front of the house and he marches me up a flight of wide, carpeted stairs to the third floor. At the top of the flight he turns and presses on the back of my neck.
“On your knees, Girl.”
I go right down, the idea of being on my knees and crawling for him making my limbs go warm and loose. The ivory carpet is soft, and scratchy at the same time as I follow his polished black boots. I love that he wears these big, bad-ass boots with his European-tailored slacks. It’s divinely decadent to me, reminding me of the contrast that is kink at this level—an alluring combination of pure luxury and dirty wickedness.
I have no idea where he’s taking me, but I don’t care as long as I can be with him. Unless he plans to lock me up somewhere in an attic room, alone, to suffer.
Please, no.
But in a moment we move through a pair of double doors into what can only be his private rooms, the space is so enormous and luxurious. The floor is a dark wood with lovely Persian rugs in deep red, black and gold. I don’t dare look up to see what the rest of the room looks like, but it smells expensive. It smells like him. When the Master stops and turns to me, I immediately bow down, my forearms resting on the floor, my ass in the air.
He’s silent for several long moments, then he says, “Very nice. Where did you learn that little trick? It pleases me, that you do this without me having to ask. It shows a certain level of devotion. To submission, if not to me. Are you devoted to me? No, don’t answer that.” I feel him moving around me, the slight pull on the leash as he paces, then I hear him blow out a long breath. “Do you know why I brought you to my rooms?” he asks, his voice a quiet murmur. “Well, neither do I. Fuck.”
What is this? I don’t understand what he’s saying to me.
“Come here.”
He tugs on the leash and I follow him on my knees to a seating area with a long sofa and two large chairs on either side, all done in masculine brown leather, diamond-tucked with brass studs. He sits on the sofa.
“Kneel, Girl.”
I do so, in classic slave pose: head bowed, palms upturned on my spread thighs. I love this position. It reminds me that I have given myself to him, handed over my power completely.
“Very pretty.” He tucks a few fingers beneath my chin. “But I want you to look at me,” he orders.
When I do, his eyes are like a shock as they meet mine. They are so impossibly blue, and there is such intensity there. I don’t know what to think of it.
“Tell me your name,” he orders.
It takes me a moment to find my voice. “Girl.”
“No, I mean your name.”
My name in this place is Girl. What else could he possibly want? Then it hits me. He actually wants to know my name. Who I am. And I panic.