FemDom Blog

Our hands brushed together. Just the briefest of touches; But she looked at me, into my eyes, and in that fraction of a second I felt an electricity pass through me. Oh no, Althea. I told myself sternly, this is poison-the worst and nastiest kind. As abruptly as it came on, the shock receded, and Sue Castle, whom I began to address as Ms. Castle from that day on, flopped into the vacant desk. I regained my composure, and finished calling the roll.

Over the first weeks of that year, Susan earned a number of detentions from me for violating the “4-B” dress code. Finally she settled into what became her uniform: Stirrup pants and an oversized sweater a la Marilyn Monroe-a look I thought was outdated, but which somehow made her even more of a sex-pot than her friends who were trying unsuccessfully to emulate teenage pop stars (while still covering the school minimum of flesh).

Susan had definitely begun discovering the benefits of being female in a crowd of hormone-crazed teen boys. She got respect from the jocks because she stood up to them, but hung out with the nerds, possibly making her the most popular girl in school. But her marks were atrocious, her conduct disrespectful, and she had serious discipline problems.

II wasn’t sure she was entirely unaware of the effect she had on me, either. When I told her to wait after class was dismissed she would deliberately stand too close to me, making me feel flustered and hot.

And horny. I was continually surprised and somehow angry at that. But damn it!-she was seventeen. Three years over the age of consent but nine years younger than me. And, I thought, she couldn’t possibly have any idea of the sort of things that crept into my head when she looked at me so insolently in class:

Susan Castle is standing outside my office door. She is wearing a thin, long cotton T-shirt and nothing else, as she has been instructed. Inside the office, I am waiting and wet. I slip the dildo into its harness, and then slide the free end into my pussy with a grunt. I tighten the buckles on the straps which cup my ass and hips. I always love the look of the dildo thrusting up from my crotch. Do men feel like this, I wonder? Apart from the dildo and its harness I am wearing a pair of stockings, a bustier, and opera-length gloves. The room has been prepared. Several candles flicker on the shelves, making my rubber cock cast shadows that would give old Sister Chang from high school nightmares. Hanging from assorted hooks along the wall behind my desk are some toys: A thick strap called a strapple, a piece of bamboo cane, a shiny pair of clamps (nipple or labia-oh no, the clothespins for naughty pussy lips are over there). Satisfied with the arrangements, I call out: “Enter”. I cross my arms and stand facing the door with my feet apart. The door swings open of its own accord. Susan enters with an old-fashioned candlestick. Her eyes are big, dark and a little fearful, riveted to the jutting phallus between my thighs. I melt inside, wanting to hold her to me and tell her its all going to be alright, that I’d never really hurt her. But I can’t-she needs to know that I am the one in control. Ordered to place the candlestick on the desk, Susan attempts to straighten up. But I have a gloved hand firmly in her hair. I push firmly downward. “You will enter this room only on your knees from now on, slave.” Obediently she kneels. I slap her face. “You will answer me with your little mouth,” such a tight little rosebud of a mouth-I want to kiss it. I want to pinch her lips with clothespins, I want to bite them “and what I will hear from that dirty little mouth will be ‘Yes Mistress’. Have you quite got that?” She almost nods for a minute. But eventually says: “Y-yes Mistress.” There’s no foreplay. “I’m going to fuck all your holes, right now, just to prove I can; to prove that you’re my property. Won’t that be nice?” “Yes M-Mmmmph!” as I drive the dildo between her lips. She resists for a moment, and I take a short sash cord from the desk and whip her vigorously. After about ten stripes have blossomed on her back and ass, to the accompaniment of shocked squeals, I feel the dildo fully inserted in her mouth. She’s looking up at me from my crotch, inquiringly. I fuck her mouth for a few strokes, then pull out. At my command she turns and presents her behind to me. I order her to put her head to the floor, tossing a textbook down so that she won’t risk wood burn. She almost wiggles in pleasure as I drive the first inch of the dildo into her cunt. But I stop almost as soon as I’ve begun, and she whimpers as I withdraw. “You cum without permission, slut, and I’ll whip you sixty times with the cane.” I hiss at her. An empty threat. She’s never been caned before, and her tender ass would bleed before I gave the tenth stroke. But she doesn’t know that. She also doesn’t know that I don’t know her anywhere near well enough to stop her from cumming if she started. But I rely on her honesty. I grab her ass firmly and spread her cheeks. Her puckered little asshole is porn-star clean, as I specified. Fingering a large dollop of lubricant into her hole, I begin intruding with the dildo. Her whimpering becomes moaning, then crying out. “If you want this to stop, all you need to do is use your safe word, slave.” She knows-but I have to be sure. As I seat the dildo inside her to the hilt, I feel the tension relax inside her as she opens up and admits her Mistress. I glory in the trust and triumph, and as the dildo slips in and out of both of us, I smack her ass triumphantly and start to cum. . . . See what I mean? What seventeen-year-old could possibly share that dream?
Susan settled into her seat, and for the entire term she never once raised her hand. If I called on her she’d either ignore me, looking out the window, or else she’d stare at me blankly. There wasn’t much I could do beyond give her another detention.

After her first report card, neither of her parents came to parent-teacher night. Since she was in great danger of failing, I took it upon myself to call her listed phone number. Receiving no reply, I attempted to contact her parents at work. At her father’s workplace number I was told that Mr. Castle was away at the moment and probably wouldn’t be back for several weeks. Her mother’s listed employer-the construction firm of Stonewall and Mason-told me that Mrs. Castle no longer worked for them. Intrigued, I pulled her file card at the office-technically a no-no but easily done if one knew the file clerk.
…End of the part5. To be continued..