All characters are over 18.
Chapter 1
It began on Facebook. Well, what story doesn’t nowadays? I was looking through people’s updates and I paused over a friend’s photo of a trip to the zoo with her boyfriend. Some of her other Facebook friends had left appreciative messages and it was one of those that caught my eye. Not the message, which just said "Gorgeous!" (which indeed the photo was): the name. Belinda Stokes. I knew it was her, even without the little avatar photo of her, which proved it beyond doubt. It was her all right. Belinda. I felt a tingling going through my whole body. Suddenly I was back there, back at school in those mad last weeks of the summer term before we all left. The time I had tried so hard to shut out of my mind but had never quite managed to. The time I always went back to in my daydreams and my fantasies. Belinda. Fran. Those two boys – what were their names? Martin? Simon? The white shirt. The boots. That party – and what happened afterwards. And the school uniforms. Oh yes, those school uniforms. Even after twelve years, I hadn’t forgotten those school uniforms and the effect they’d had on me. On all of us.
I paused and thought hard. Let’s be sensible here. I was in a stable job, Head of Year in a large London comprehensive, between relationships but quite happy on my own for the moment. Certainly not looking for any sort of complication. And now this had come up. I don’t usually believe in premonitions but I knew – I knew – I was asking for trouble if I made contact with Belinda. And it would be so easy to do – a couple of clicks and I’d have revealed myself. Of course, I could just add my own message to Harriet’s photo and Belinda would see it and realise it was me and then she could make contact with me if she liked. That way I could let her know I was around and leave it to her to choose whether or not to make contact. If things went wrong it would be her fault, not mine. Then I realised that she must have seen messages from me to Harriet before, yet she hadn’t made contact. Or maybe she had only just joined Facebook, or only just Friended Harriet – after all, I hadn’t seen any messages from her before. Or maybe – and I stopped. This was ridiculous. I was worrying myself silly like some lovesick teenager trying to work out what it means when her boyfriend doesn’t ring.
I came off Facebook and did some online work for a while, but I couldn’t shake her out of my head. Belinda. Still around, and suddenly back in my life. Well, she would be if I wanted her to be, that much I did know. And, I realised, I did want her. Back in my life. I could handle it, I told myself, I knew I could handle it. Yeah, right. So, with a feeling of inevitability, like going to the headteacher to own up to something, I went back onto Facebook, found Belinda’s message to Harriet, clicked on her name, went to her Wall and sent a Friendship request. There’s a space where you can write a message to go with the request, but I didn’t write anything. There was no need.
* * *
"Louise! Hi! Great to hear from you! We must meet up!" ran Belinda’s reply: she’d accepted my Friendship request of course. And, being Belinda, she gave a day and time. She didn’t ask or offer: she just told me where to be and when. I think she just assumed I’d be free, or that I’d make myself free for her. Just like at school. And so it was that the following Saturday I was walking to the tube to go and meet her for coffee in a café in Notting Hill. She would live in the fashionable part, of course: I had to come across London from decidedly unfashionable Hammersmith.
It was one of those bright November mornings when you can sit outside as long as you keep your coat on, and it was one of those very chic cafes with tables where you can. In fact, it looked as if it had somehow escaped from Paris. She was already there, of course; I even wondered if she had deliberately got there early so as to gain the upper hand from the start. Probably. She was very elegantly dressed: expensive camel coat with a matching polo neck jumper and black trousers and boots. Simple but devastatingly effective. I felt very dowdy next to her. She already had a coffee and she ordered me one as I sat down – needless to say a waiter was on hand the second she needed one.
We didn’t talk about it. We quite definitely didn’t talk about it. We talked about everything else. About what we had been doing over the past twelve years – university, teacher training and two teaching jobs in my case; some sort of high-flying business role in hers (it all sounded rather vague but glamorous. As I would have expected). We talked about London. We even talked a bit about politics, I remember. She was genuinely interested in my work and in how the government’s education policies were affecting it. She hadn’t changed at all, though I don’t think people do really: not just in their looks but in their relationships. I was actually quite a confident, go-getting character at work but here I fell instantly back into the subservient follower role I had played under her devastatingly powerful lead at school. I couldn’t quite decide if I liked it or not: I rather thought I did.
And then something strange happened.
I think I noticed them first. A married couple, I assumed, in their fifties I would guess, walking along arm in arm and off to do the shopping or go to the estate agent or whatever else happily married couples do in Notting Hill on a bright Saturday in November. They wore sensible coats and scarves against the morning chill. I hardly registered them but then they stopped and the man looked over at us. Or rather at Belinda. She hadn’t noticed them yet and she stopped mid-sentence, wondering what I was looking at. The man was walking over to her, very deliberately. And as he drew level, he sank to his knees. Not one knee: both knees. I was so taken aback I didn’t know quite what to say; Belinda too looked a bit startled for a moment but then she recovered. He was kneeling in front of her, his head bowed; one or two people had obviously noticed and were watching to see what would happen. I glanced at his wife. She was watching it all, quite impassively. That was when I knew.
Belinda placed her hand on his head and leaned forward to say something in his ear. She seemed very kind. He smiled, said something that looked like "Thank you" – but it wasn’t just that, was it? – got up onto his feet, turned round, walked over to his wife, and they linked arms and walked off as if nothing had happened. I looked at Belinda, though I knew what she was going to say.
"One of my regulars. Wasn’t that sweet of him?"
"What did you say to him?"
"I said I was very touched by his loyalty and he could go freely back to his wife."
"And what did he say?"
"You know what he said."
"He said ‘Thank you, Mistress’, didn’t he?"
"Yes, he did."
I looked at her. I should have known this. "So you still do it? You carried on?"
"As a domme? Yes, I carried on. It’s a funny thing: men like to say dominatrix – I think it gets them excited – but I find it a bit of a mouthful. I prefer domme. Yes, I still do it. Are you surprised? I bet you’re not. It’s all right, I’m not one of those lifestyle ones you read about. You do read about them, don’t you?"
"I have".
"Of course you have. No, that’s not for me. Too much of a good thing: I think I’d get bored with it. I do it on the side, at weekends, sometimes on a Friday night. I do genuinely work for a finance company, Louise. You can look me up."
"Do you see her too? The wife? She seemed to understand what was going on."
"Actually no, I don’t. I know about her, of course – he’s been coming to me for the past three years – but I’ve never met her before."
"But she knows, doesn’t she? She must do."
"Oh yes, she knows. The wives always do, I find. Their husbands never realise that. Isn’t that strange? It wouldn’t surprise me if I heard from her soon. I’ve known it happen."
"As a client, you mean?"
"Possibly. More likely as an ally."
She smiled and poured herself some more coffee. I sighed. I was in this conversation now: no pretending otherwise. Might as well carry on.
"So what do you have? A dungeon?"
"Oh heavens no. I told you: I don’t do this for a living. There are plenty of people who can offer you that. I meet them sometimes at parties. No, I see people in my flat. A few toys, a few implements: that’s all you need really. That and a good website. I have a very good web designer."
"Another regular?"
"They’re the best."
"I bet you have a schoolroom too."
She laughed. "Well, of course I have a schoolroom! It’s just a couple of desks and an old blackboard, mind: nothing elaborate. But I’ll tell you what else I have – I’ve got my old uniform. Why don’t you come and see?"
"I can’t. I’m meeting someone for lunch."
"It doesn’t have to be today. How about Friday? Come and have supper. I’ll show you around and you can see what you make of it. I might even have a client."
"I don’t know…"
"Oh come on. You know you want to."
I shot her a look. That phrase. I hadn’t forgotten that phrase and what it led to. Neither had she.
"And there’s someone I’d like you to meet."
"Not Fran?"
"No, not Fran. She moved on. She’s in Canada now. We’re in touch. She’s on Facebook – you should contact her. No: someone else. Oh do come – you’ll like it. There’s nothing to be afraid of, I promise."
So I said yes. Of course. As Belinda said, I knew I wanted to.
* * *
No, I didn’t spend the whole of the week that followed all keyed up thinking about the Friday night. I had a busy week at school with plenty of marking to do in the evenings. It wasn’t until the Thursday night that I really had time to stop and think about it. Part of me couldn’t quite believe it was all real: Belinda had seemed perfectly normal and pleasant on Saturday. Was the domineering schoolgirl Belinda still there underneath it all? It was hard to believe, and yet I had seen her client kneeling in front of her in the street. Oh yes, now I thought about it, I could see the old Belinda underneath the new one. I gathered up my papers and put them away in my bag ready for the morning and went upstairs to the bedroom. I opened my wardrobe and rummaged through the clothes on hangers. There it was. There it all was. My old navy blue school blazer on a hanger with my old school skirt underneath it. And my old school tie d****d on top. I took them all out and laid them out on the bed, looking down at them thoughtfully. Then I knew what I had to do.
I turned back to the wardrobe and looked out a smart white blouse – a rather smarter cut than the ones we had when I was at school, but it would do. I took my clothes off and changed into the school uniform. The blazer still fitted, the skirt was a bit on the tight side but it felt all the better for it. I tried tucking the blouse in, but it wasn’t really designed for it, so I let it hang outside the skirt for the more modern look. Then I knotted the striped school tie loosely round my neck and looked at myself in the mirror. I gasped. There, looking back at me, though I said it myself, was a very sexy and rather bratty schoolgirl. I tied my hair back in a ponytail, the way I used to wear it and moved closer to the mirror. I loosened my tie a bit more and pulled it further down, opening the neck of my blouse a bit further. God, that looked good. And then, for the first time in years, I did what I used to do when I was a teenager, still exploring my own sexual feelings: I leant forward and kissed my own reflection in the mirror, imagining I was kissing another schoolgirl, deeply, our tongues touching. That did the trick. I stepped back from the mirror and looked at myself again. I bent my legs slightly and lifted up my school skirt. I watched my reflection defiantly as I slipped a hand inside my knickers and began to stroke myself. I could see the wanton look that came over my face as I watched myself in the mirror. I ran my fingers over my cunt and played with my clit. I could see the dirty look come over my face as I stared at my reflection. I loved this: how could I have forgotten how good it felt? And I knew then that I wanted to be a schoolgirl again, for Belinda. More than anything in the world I wanted to be her schoolgirl. Her dirty and devoted schoolgirl slut – as I had been once before.
* * *
Looking back, I realise things must have been growing for some time, but the point I always thought of as the start of things was one specific English lesson on one particular day. We’d both had our eighteenth birthdays: everyone in the group had, in fact. We were in the sixth form and in our very last couple of weeks of school and we ruled the world: in just over a week’s time we would leave school, sit our A levels, get our results and go on to whatever life held next, and the world had better look out.
As is so often the way, I had no notion of anything being about to happen when I went into the English lesson on the afternoon of the Friday of the second last week. But the moment I stepped into the room my heart nearly stopped. Fran, our English teacher – Miss Cornish officially, but she was younger and we were all on first-name terms – was sitting on her desk at the front of the room, as she often did. But it was what she was wearing that took my breath away. She was in a large, white man’s shirt, with a thick black belt round her waist, and a pair of black leggings. I’ve always had a big thing for white shirts and blouses and I think a man’s shirt is one of the sexiest thing a girl can wear, but that outfit was the sexiest thing I think I had ever seen anyone wear outside a porn mag or a wild party. Certainly the sexiest outfit I had ever seen at the school. My eyes must have been out on stalks because I was hardly listening to what she was saying – it was about Charlotte Bronte, I think – I just sat gazing at her. Dreaming of kissing her neck, licking her sweet tits, putting my head between her thighs and licking her gorgeous cunt…
Someone nudged me and I sat up with a start, thinking maybe it was her. But it was Belinda, sitting next to me. She was slipping something into my hand. A note. Well, we were still schoolgirls. I surreptitiously opened it and spread it flat on my notepad. I still have it. It said:
You want her, don’t you? You can have her. My place tonight, 6.00. Wear your uniform. B
I stared at Belinda, not quite believing what I had read. What did she mean, I could have her? And had my feelings been that obvious? And what was all this about going to her flat tonight?
"Louise?"
"Mmm?"
Fran was looking straight at me. She’d asked me something, but I didn’t know what. I just saw her in her big white shirt and felt myself getting wet just looking at her.
I didn’t learn much literature in that lesson.
* * *
I remember running home that evening. I dumped my things and ran upstairs to shower and change into a clean blouse. I put my tie back on: I was going to leave it loose and then I changed my mind. No, I’d go smart. All the sexier if I got loosened up later. So I tied my tie up properly, all the way to the top, and put on a pair of hold-up stockings. Without my skirt, as I looked at myself in the mirror – why, I’d willingly fuck any girl who looked like that. But I slipped my skirt on – it hugged my bum nice and tightly – and headed downstairs for a quick bite to eat before heading back out again. My mum was surprised to see me still in my uniform – I couldn’t tell if she realised I’d actually changed into it – but I mumbled something about a party at Belinda’s and headed back to the bus stop.
Belinda lived in a very smart flat in a small private estate. The architect had won an award for it, I remember: big windows, lots of greenery – you get the idea. My heart was racing with excitement as I ran up the steps and rang her doorbell. Belinda came to the door. She was in uniform too – tie loose, no blazer and, as I realised after a moment, in black leather boots. This was going to be an interesting evening, I thought as she let me in. She looked me over and straightened my tie.
"Good girl: you look great. Come in and say hello to Fran."
She led me into the sitting room, where I saw Fran sitting on a sofa with a glass of wine. She got up when I came in – "Hi, Louise" – and I gulped. It was a very simple thing but it knocked the breath out of me. She was still wearing that sexy white shirt, but now she had turned the collar up. Only one person knew how sexy I find that – Belinda. And that meant Belinda had told Fran. Which meant it had been done for me.
Belinda poured me a glass of wine and I sat down in one of the armchairs. No, we didn’t all immediately tear our clothes off and leap onto each other. We talked about school and then about music and then about theatre and it was all very civilised and restrained, as Belinda kept our glasses filled and served us with peanuts to make us thirsty and drink more. And I remember wondering how you set about turning a pleasant chat into a lesbian orgy when Belinda suddenly announced she needed the loo and we should feel free to look at anything we cared to while she was out. I didn’t understand what she meant, but Fran did. "I think she means these", she said, moving a couple of newspapers to reveal a small pile of porn mags on the coffee table. "Don’t worry", she said, tossing a couple of them over to me, "there’s nothing to be embarrassed about." My eyes were wide open – rather like the girls in the mags – because these weren’t copies of Mayfair or Fiesta: these were hardcore Swedish magazines: one was called Color Climax, I remember, and the other – I couldn’t help smiling at the not-exactly-subtle name – was called New Cunts. "Where did she get them?" I wondered, as I leafed through the pages.
If you haven’t tried it, then believe me – there is nothing, absolutely nothing, as sexually exciting as looking at porn with someone else. Most of the pictures were too close-up for me, more like a gynaecology textbook than anything sexy, but I liked the pictures at the beginning of the sets, showing the people fully or partially clothed, beginning to show their tits and their (I suppose) new cunts. But the real turn-on wasn’t so much the pictures themselves: it was just sitting there openly looking through them with Fran – the sense of being complicit with a teacher in looking at hardcore porn was more of a thrill than I can describe.
"Wow. Look at that!" said Fran, holding up a picture of two girls joined by a double dildo. "Wouldn’t you just love to do that?"
I stared at her and gulped. Because of course I would. But I could only dream of it.
And then Belinda came back in. And there was something about the way she did it that made me turn and look. She had changed. She was still in her school shirt and tie, but she had taken off her skirt and now had a belt tied round her waist. And she was holding a riding crop. I stared, open-mouthed – not just because I loved the outfit, but because she had obviously planned all this, obviously done this before. What was going on here? Part of me felt nervous, fearful even, thinking I ought to make my excuses and just get out of there. But a much bigger part of me wanted to stay there. Wanted to stay there for ever.
Belinda didn’t say anything. She just looked at Fran and Fran, registering the look, put the magazine down without a word and stood up. She walked past Belinda over to the wall. Belinda was watching her and I turned to watch too. I was about to say something but Belinda made a quick movement with her hand to tell me to stay quiet. Fran had her back to us and was taking off her shoes and slipping out of her leggings. She folded them neatly and left them by the wall.
"And the knickers." Belinda spoke with a sort of quiet firmness, anger even, that was alarming – but exciting too. And sure enough, Fran slipped her knickers off as Belinda had told her to. I had to keep reminding myself – this was our teacher doing this, taking orders from one of her pupils. Kneeling down and stripping off and – and what?
"Take a moment and then crawl to me," Belinda instructed her.
Fran was kneeling again, still facing the wall. She seemed to be composing herself. And as I watched, I could see the change come over her. She was breathing deeply, like an athlete or a gymnast psyching herself up before an event. Then she stood up, very calmly, and looked Belinda in the eye. Belinda met her gaze and Fran nodded – a sort of sign of understanding and consent. She got down on all fours and crawled across the room to where Belinda was standing. Then she sat up on her heels, like a dog.
"Tell Louise who and what you are."
Fran looked me in the eye, quite matter-of-fact, as if this were the most normal thing in the world, and said, "My name is Trixie. I am Belinda’s personal slave. Her slut, her bitch and her whore. I am her cunt slave to do with as she wishes. I am her three-holed whore, and my body is entirely hers. I am her property. I have signed an agreement giving Belinda, my Mistress, complete control over me. I will service her every need, I will fulfil her every wish. I accept her control and her punishment. If I commit a fault, I must be disciplined and punished severely. I am her teacher slave and always will be. This is what I am and this is what I am very happy to be."
I just stared – I was lost here, I didn’t know what to do or where to look. It was both horrifying – this was my teacher, for heaven’s sake – and also the most sexy, erotic, exciting thing I had ever heard anyone say. And then, quite unexpectedly –
SLAP!!
Belinda has slapped Fran’s – Trixie’s? – face.
"What did you call me, you slut?"
"I’m sorry Mistress. I called you Belinda. I should have said Mistress Belinda."
"Too right you should. I’m going to punish you for that."
"Yes, please do, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress."
And she stood up, pulled up her shirt to expose her bum (I just stared – I was looking at my English teacher’s bum) and bent over one of the chairs, gripping its arms. Belinda walked over to her and paused. I looked at her face; she was sneering with contempt.
"You really are a pathetic fucking slut. What are you?"
"I’m a pathetic fucking slut, Mistress."
"What are you?"
"I’m a pathetic fucking slut, Mistress!"
SLAP!!
Belinda slapped Fran’s – Trixie’s – rump hard with her hand.
"Thank you, Mistress! Slap me again please!"
So she did. Hard slaps on each buttock in turn. And with each slap Belinda uttered an insult – "You whore!" – SLAP!! – "You cunt!" – SLAP!! – "You cocksucking twat!" – SLAP!! And with each slap Trixie – I was thinking of her as Trixie now – responded: "Thank you, Mistress! Yes, I’m a whore!" "Oh, THANK you, Mistress. Yes, I’m a cunt!" "Thank you, Mistress! Yes, I’m a cocksucking twat!"
I watched, fascinated. Seeing my teacher humiliated and spanked by a schoolgirl in this way was one of the most powerful turn-ons I had ever known. And then Belinda picked up the riding crop.
"Right, you fucking teacher slut, I’m going to teach you to respect me."
And she suddenly whipped the riding crop across Trixie’s bum. Trixie bucked and gave a yelp, and then stammered, "Oh, thank you, Mistress. Thank you so much." Belinda did it a second time. Again, Trixie bucked and this time her head sank onto the chair. Again she stammered out her thanks. And a third time Belinda whipped the riding crop across Trixie’s bum, which was now looking very red and shiny. Trixie’s head was buried in the chair now and she moved a hand towards her bum but Belinda firmly batted it away. And Trixie looked up and spoke out clearly: "Thank you, Mistress, for whipping your fucking stupid, filthy fucking teacher whore."
And then Belinda held the riding crop out to me.
"Do you want to have a go?"
Panic. I didn’t know what to do.
"It’s quite easy. Just stand here and whip it across the bitch’s bum."
"I don’t want to hurt her."
"Don’t worry about that. The bitch loves it. Don’t you, bitch?"
And Trixie – or was it Fran? – looked up at me, her eyes full of yearning, and nodded. So I stood up and took the riding crop.
The first blow didn’t really work. I was too timid and hit her too lightly. Still worried about hurting her. The second one was a bit firmer but still too feeble.
"You’re getting the idea," Belinda encouraged me. "Now, really crack this one."
WHACK!!
Trixie cried out – "Wowww!!" I was so surprised: like having a go at a shooting stall at a funfair and unexpectedly hitting the bullseye. And then I knew that I loved it.
Belinda spoke in a firm voice of authority. "Do it again."
I did. Trixie was now crying out with pain.
"Again!"
I whipped her. Tears were coming to Trixie’s face and she gripped the chair hard. And – what was that I was feeling?
"Again!"
I aimed a sharp painful cut across her bum cheeks. The crop was beginning to leave a mark across her bum now. And now I knew what I was feeling. I was enjoying this. I looked down at my English teacher’s bare arse and I knew I too was sneering with contempt.
"Give the bitch one more. And make it good. And you – push your fat arse up further."
God, I loved this. Seeing that fucking whore in her beautiful white shirt thrusting her arse up towards me for me to whip it. I could have spent all night doing this. I laid the crop across her arse carefully, tapping it a few times to build up the tension. I took aim at where I wanted to hit – across the widest part of her arse, where her bum cheeks bulged into a perfect rounded peach shape. I lifted the crop high, back across my left shoulder and snapped it down hard. There was a loud crack and Trixie screamed. She fell forward onto the chair, gulping the air, and I heard a sob. She was crying. Her hands were gripped into tight fists and her whole body squirmed. "Oh my God", I thought, "I’ve hurt her badly. I’m sorry, I’m sorry…"
But Belinda looked at me with a look of surprised respect in her eye. "Well done", she said, and she obviously meant it. She turned to Trixie, who was still gulping down her sobs. "What do you say to Louise, who has punished you so well?"
And to my surprise – my amazement – Trixie looked up at me, put up her arms, took my head in her hands, and kissed me. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, darling, so much." And she kissed me again.
Then Belinda’s voice spoke, very clear and cool: "Why don’t you thank Louise properly?"
Trixie looked me directly in the eye, and I saw a mischievous glint. "Oh yes, Mistress."
"Take your skirt off, Louise. Then sit down."
There was no mistaking the tone of Belinda’s voice. She was giving me orders too. And I obeyed her. I had no question in my mind. Looking straight at Trixie I unzipped my skirt, let it fall to the floor and stepped out of it. Trixie licked her lips. I sat down and Trixie started crawling across the floor towards me, slowly, like a cat. When she reached me, her head went down and I realised she was kissing my shoes. Kissing them, giving them little licks. Then she started kissing my ankles. I looked down at her. This was my English teacher, for heaven’s sake, and she was lying at my feet, kissing my shoes. It was the horniest thing I had ever seen in my life: I began to tremble with pleasure.
"Keep still!" Belinda’s voice was firm. I gripped the sofa cushions to keep my feelings in check as I felt Trixie’s mouth on my legs, kissing my calves, licking my stockings, right leg, left leg, licking all the way up them. Now she was at my thighs, parting my legs and coming between them. I looked down at her hair, at the top of her head, and then a tingle ran through my body as I felt her tongue at the top of my thighs, directly on the bare flesh. She was kissing my thighs – I felt a surge of pleasure like an electric charge sent through my whole body. I gripped her head, as she kissed one leg, then the other, inching ever closer to my knickers, to my cunt. I felt her fingers inside my knickers – black and lacy (no, not school regulation) – moving them to one side. And then her tongue was among my pubes, licking my cunt lips. I gasped. I had always dreamed of this. Again I looked down at my teacher. "You’re my teacher," I gasped. "You’re licking my cunt?" She pulled away for a moment and looked at me, a triumphant smile on her lips. "I’m your fucking teacher whore," she said, "And I’m licking your lovely, fucking schoolgirl cunt. And I love it!" And she buried her face in my cunt, nuzzling her way between my thighs, easing my legs wide open. Her tongue was lapping between my cunt lips now, and I could feel how wet I was becoming. She was pressing her face into my cunt, washing her face in my juices. Her tongue was inside me now, French kissing my cunt. I was in heaven. "That is fucking amazing! Fuck me, Trixie, you fucking teacher cunt licker! Lick my fucking cunt you fucking slut! You gorgeous fucking teacher whore!!"
And then her tongue licked my clit and I nearly screamed with pleasure. She was flicking it with her tongue, running her tongue over it, sucking it into her mouth. I was melting into her, my juices were running freely and I felt my head would explode – I was about to cum more than I ever had or ever would in my life.
"I am cumming you gorgeous fucking twat twiddler! You dyke! You gorgeous lesbian cunt!"
And then Belinda’s voice rapped out sharply!
"That’s enough! Pull away from her now! She’s not allowed to cum yet."
And Trixie stopped. I just stared. My chest was heaving, I had to cum, I had to. I moved my hand to my cunt to bring myself off –
"Leave that! Wait your turn!"
And I was so surprised, I did as I was old. I sat a moment, clearing my head, getting my breath back, until the moment had passed, I breathed more steadily, the need to cum had subsided. Trixie crawled back across the floor to sit at Belinda’s feet. "Good girl," said Belinda, as if Trixie were a dog that had performed a new trick. Which, perhaps, she was.
"Now, Louise, it’s time for you to drive Trixie mad, just as she’s just driven you."
"You want me to lick her?"
"Not yet. I’ll show you what I want you to do. Stand up."
I stood up.
"Now look at you," said Belinda. "Did you ever see such a sexy schoolgirl? Nice clean blouse, smart tie, gorgeous stockings. No skirt. Quite shameless, isn’t she?"
Trixie looked straight at me and nodded. "Yes, Mistress, she is. A shameless schoolgirl slut."
"Now, Louise, do exactly as I say. Put your finger in your mouth."
"What?"
"Do it."
I put my finger in my mouth. Almost instinctively, I bent one leg, so I looked – and felt – like a sexy schoolgirl who knew exactly what effect she was having on her teacher.
"Good. Now, take the ponytail out and rough your hair up a bit."
So I did. It felt such a cliché, but it worked. I felt sexier than I had ever felt in my life.
"Very good. Fuck, but you are good looking, Louise. I could fuck you myself – in fact, I probably will. Would you like that?"
I hadn’t actually thought in terms of fucking Belinda – I hadn’t even thought in terms of fancying her. But I knew I loved the idea of her fucking me in my uniform like this. "Oh yes," I said, "I would love that."
"Good. Now loosen your tie."
I undid my top button and loosened my tie. I knew how fucking sexy I felt now – I felt like sweet sex on legs. And Trixie often thought the same: her eyes were out on stalks and I swear she was purring like a cat. She was obviously finding it hard to sit still and watch as I did my act.
"Loosen it more. And undo two more buttons."
I loosened my tie so it hung down more like a loose scarf than a tie. And I undid two more buttons of my school blouse.
"Pull your shirt open so we can see your tits."
I parted the front, pulled my tie to one side and pushed my tits out. I was wearing a black bra that gave a good cleavage.
"Stay like that. Do not take your shirt or tie off. Understand?"
"I understand. What about my bra?"
"Keep it on for the moment. You are such a fucking slut, you know, Louise."
God, I loved her calling me that. I felt a warm glow going through my whole body.
"Oh God, yes," I said. "I am a slut. I love being a slut. A sexy fucking schoolgirl slut."
"Right," said Belinda, "now for the finishing touch. Turn your collar up."
I was in heaven. I even think I closed my eyes for a moment. It was what I dreamed of, what I practised in front of the mirror, the way I always dressed when I fantasised and practised kissing my reflection: school shirt, loose tie, upturned collar. I reached up and turned up my collar.
It looked as if Trixie was having the same reaction. She looked up at Belinda, imploringly. "Please, Mistress? Please? Please? Pleeease?"
"Very well. Go on, then."
I didn’t even see her move. Suddenly Trixie was on top of me, her tongue half way down my throat, and I was French kissing her back as if my whole life depended on it. She was all over me, gripping me to her, her hand on my tits and then in my knickers. I felt her tongue licking my nipples – delicious. Now she was French kissing me again and I was kissing her back. Oh yes, I was kissing her. I wanted to kiss her for ever. Now her fingers were inside me, she was rubbing my cunt furiously, desperately. Her fingers had found my clit. I braced my legs as I felt my whole body on fire. She pulled away from my mouth and hissed in my ear, "Cum, you fucking little schoolgirl whore. I’ve got my fingers in your twat, you little slut." It was gorgeous to hear that dirty language coming from my teacher’s mouth.
"I’m cumming, I’m fucking well cumming."
"Cum, you whore." I loved her.
"I am a whore. I’m a fucking slut and I’m cummmmming!"
I think I just grunted and a spasm ran through my whole body. I felt myself stagger backwards and I fell onto the sofa.
"God, Louise, you are one gorgeous fucking slut. You know that?"
I looked up at Trixie – at my teacher, I had to keep reminding myself – and grinned. Yes, I was a slut, and I didn’t want to be anything else.
"Do you want to make me cum?" she asked.
I nodded. "Oh yes!"
She turned back to Belinda. "May she, Mistress? May she make your teacher slave cum?"
Belinda looked straight at me and sneered. "Do it, you slut." It was like a slap in the face. And I loved it.
Trixie pulled my head towards her cunt. "Lick me, slut. Lick me out."
I had never done this before, and I wasn’t even quite sure what to do. Her cunt lips were wet and I took a tentative lick – and immediately choked on a hair in my mouth. I got rid of that and moved in again, licking more confidently now. She was groaning, her hand gripping my head. Then I found her clit and started licking that, little licks, flicking it with my tongue. I felt her begin to shudder. "Oh yessss!" she was saying, "Lick me. Eat me. Drink me!"
And I was drinking her. Her juices were all over my face, and still I licked her, faster now, and bigger licks, just as she had licked me. Suddenly she shouted out in a low, almost grunting voice, "I. Am. Cumming. You. Brilliant. Schoolgirl. Whore." Her whole body shook and she let go of my head. I looked up at her, smiling, and she bent down and kissed me again. "Thank you, darling. God, you’re good."
"I’m impressed, Louise", said Belinda, from across the room: "very impressed. Now, I think there’s just one more thing you can do for my slave. Here."
And she came over and handed me a surgical glove. I looked at it, puzzled.
"Put it on."
I put it on, still wondering what I was to do.
"Now finger fuck her arse."
Trixie almost exploded next to me. "Oh yes, Louise, please please please please please please finger fuck my arse. Please, darling, please, I’m begging you – stick your finger right up my fucking arse."
"Right. OK."
Belinda spoke again, firmly. "Trixie, you whore, lie down and stick your big arse in the air. She’s got a big arse, hasn’t she?"
I looked at it. Yes, I suppose she had.
"Oh yes, Mistress. I’ve got a fat arse. It needs to be spanked, Mistress, and it needs to be fucked. My arse is yours, Mistress, my fucking arse is yours."
"Good," said Belinda. "So Louise is going to fuck it with her finger. All right, Louise?"
I nodded. Trixie was pulling her bum cheeks apart from me as I slid my finger into her bum hole. Hard to say how it felt to me – tight but slippery and rather knobbly sums it up best – but Trixie almost erupted with pleasure. "Oh fuck, that is so good! That is so fucking good! Thank you, Louise! Thank you for finger fucking your teacher! Your teacher wants your fingers up her fucking arse every fucking day!" She was groaning and squirming in a sort of agony of joy. I think I was just interested to see the effect as much s I was turned on. So I slid a second finger in and she almost collapsed. She was trembling now and could hardly speak, the feelings running through her body were so intense.
Which, of course, made me wonder what it would feel like to have the same thing done to me.
I drew my fingers out in the end, of course, and Trixie sat panting like a sprinter after a race. But the evening wasn’t over yet. Belinda just clicked her fingers and Trixie obediently crawled over and sat at her feet.
"You two make a good pair," said Belinda. "I think I’ll use you again." Then she turned to Trixie, nuzzling her face as if she were a dog. "You love fucking girls in school uniform, don’t you, you slut? Yes you do! Yes you do!"
"Yes, Mistress. I love it. It turns me on so much!"
"And you, Louise, you’ve been aching to fuck your teacher for months. Don’t deny it – I’ve seen you."
"Yes," I said, "I have."
"Good. Well, now’s your chance. Slut! Fetch the snake!"
For a moment I thought she meant a real snake, which alarmed me – I can’t stand them – but Trixie crawled over to a drawer (even then it didn’t escape me that she obviously knew her way round this flat) and came back with a sort of long pink sausage in her mouth. It was floppy – it hung down on either side of her mouth. It took me a moment to register what it was, and when I did I confess I laughed. I’d seen pictures of these things – in fact Belinda and I had laughed ourselves silly over them when we looked through a sex aids magazine. It was a double-ended dildo – or a double dong as we had called it, giggling uncontrollably. But Trixie didn’t pause when I laughed – she presented the dildo to Belinda like a good dog and then crawled over to me.
"You’d better take your knickers off", she said to me as she reached me. And I did, as Belinda brought the dildo over. Trixie and I sat opposite each other on the sofa – which was large enough for it, luckily – and Belinda stood over us, with the dildo in her hand.
"Start wanking, both of you," she commanded. Trixie and I looked each other in the eye as we both started to touch our cunts. Though in fact we were both so wet the dildo would have no trouble going in.
"Right. Teacher slut first." And Belinda slid one end into Trixie’s open cunt. Trixie gave a little gasp and caught her breath. Then she looked at me again.
"Now, schoolgirl whore." And Belinda slid it inside me. I closed my eyes. It filled my cunt. It felt warm and long and – just – good. Then Trixie began to rock her body, fucking herself with her end of the dildo. I began to do the same, in rhythm with her. And soon we were both gasping as the dildo fucked us both at the same time. Faster and faster we rocked, as if we pushing it from one cunt to the other. I looked at Trixie – her eyes were wide with excitement. And I knew – she was fucking me. My English teacher was fucking me. I felt I would die from pleasure.
You probably want me to say we both shuddered to an ecstatic climax together, but that only happens in erotic fiction: sorry. I came first – I was less experienced and didn’t know how to hold it in. Trixie kept it going much longer – I was beginning to feel a bit sore in fact – until eventually, with a great grunt and a cry of "Fuck!!" she came too. We lay back on the sofa, getting our breath back, and then Trixie slipped it out of her cunt and eased it out of mine. We sat up together and Trixie took the dildo, still wet with her juices, and slipped her end of it into her mouth. And I took my end into my mouth, sucking on the pretend cock and licking up my own cunt juices. With my gorgeous sexy English teacher next to me, doing exactly the same, it was sheer heaven.
All in all, it had been an unexpected evening. But the weirdest bit – and, looking back, I still find it strange – was yet to come. Because when we finally finished licking the dildo, Belinda suddenly announced in her more normal, bright voice, "Well, I don’t know about you two, but I’m dying for a cup of tea. How about you? Louise? Fran?"
And Belinda – yes, Belinda – went into the kitchen and made a big pot of tea and some rather good ham sandwiches. No, she didn’t order Trixie in there to do it on her knees or in handcuffs: she was acting the normal hostess again. That’s what was so strange. And clearly ‘Trixie’ had gone; Fran was back.
It was surreal. The porn mags were still on the coffee table, the double dildo and the surgical glove were on the floor, I was still in my school shirt and tie, with my tits hanging out of my black bra, yet here we were drinking tea and talking about what was on telly last night. Finally I could take it no more: I looked at them both and said, "Stop! Now: explain."
"It’s quite simple," said Fran. "I’m a sexual submissive, as you may possibly have noticed."
I said I thought I had picked up one or two clues.
"And I’m dominant," said Belinda. "Opposites attract. That’s all."
"But how did you find each other? Not at school, surely?"
"No," said Fran. "It was in a club I sometimes go to. A fetish club. A few weeks ago I was there with some friends and I suddenly caught sight of Belinda. I nearly died of embarrassment, but since I was tied to a St Andrew’s Cross at the time, having my nipples whipped by a friend of mine with a flogger, there wasn’t much I could do except hope she wouldn’t notice me. Which seemed unlikely."
"She caught my eye," said Belinda, "and the look in her eye, it was as if she was saying, ‘Hey, this is me. I can’t help how I am. Get over it.’"
"Which is pretty much how I did feel," Fran confirmed. "When we’d finished with the cross I went over to Belinda and we just talked normally. Belinda said she was more of a domme, and we both agreed it would be great to meet up and see how we got on."
"Weren’t you afraid of being found out? You could have been sacked."
"We kept it absolutely discreet", said Fran. "No-one else was to know."
"Except me? Why did you choose me?"
"I just knew," said Belinda. "I knew it would be all right and I knew you were right for it. Believe me, a domme always knows."
I think I blushed. I certainly felt as if I did.
"OK. How do we play things at school?" I asked. "There’s still a week left."
"Good point," Belinda agreed. "Fran – white shirt or blouse every day, agreed?"
She nodded. "Agreed. I’ll need to buy a couple of new ones. I can do that tomorrow."
"Since Louise is in with us now, and she really likes them, you’ll need to wear something round your neck every day too. Ties, scarves, chokers – you decide. But every day, without fail. OK?"
"OK. I’ve got some nice ones."
"Good."
"But what about school?" I asked. "What do we do? We can’t just carry on as normal, surely?"
"Why not?" said Fran, rather surprised at my question. "Belinda and I have been doing it for the past three months."
"Three months?" I gasped. "You’ve been doing this for three months?"
"It’s a question of demarcation lines," Belinda explained. "Friday and Saturday nights we do this, either here or at Fran’s. Sunday’s off because I’m either working in the pub or I’ve got work to do – "
"And I’ve got marking and preparation," Fran pointed out.
"And nothing during the week. There’s no point in jeopardising my A levels."
"So what about me? Where do I fit in?"
"Tomorrow," said Belinda, "You come here. We’ll have another session. I have some plans for you." I felt a shiver through my body when she said that. "Then it’s back to normal for the last week of school. Friday is the leavers’ do. We’ll both be at that but Fran will be on duty all night, so we’ll have to find our own amusement that night. Then on Saturday we’re all going to a party."
"A party?"
"A friend of mine. It’s his eighteenth. It’s all right: he lives in Wimbledon: there’ll be no-one there who knows us. After that, we’ll need to sort something out for the exam period and see how it pans out afterwards."
"You’ve got it all very worked out", I said.
"I’m a domme," she replied. "We tend to be well organised."
Fran got up. "I must be making tracks. Listen, darling, can we make it eleven instead of ten tomorrow? That will give me time to get to the shops and buy a couple of blouses. I can bring them, if you like."
"Oh yes, do. Eleven’s fine."
I looked blank. Belinda explained.
"Fran’s giving me some extra tuition on Jane Eyre. You can come if you like."
"Only don’t tell anyone," Fran added. "I’m not really supposed to do it for a pupil."
It seemed to me there was a lot more she wasn’t strictly supposed to be doing for a pupil than giving tuition on Jane Eyre, but I just smiled and said I would look in. I could do with some help too.
We started to clear up. We all took a shower – strangely enough, there wasn’t as much kissing and cuddling there as you might imagine, just a few fond hugs between Belinda and Fran. I got dressed and headed for the door and turned round to wait for Fran. But there was one last moment of that unforgettable evening still to witness.
As Fran walked towards the door, Belinda said, quietly but firmly, "Trixie, wait."
Fran stopped and stood quite still, not even turning her head. Slowly and deliberately, Belinda walked round her and stood in front of her. She was holding something behind her back, and from where I was standing I could see what it was. It was a large black leather collar. I watched, fascinated, as Belinda held it up high above her head. Fran – no, Trixie – looked up at it, yearning.
"Do you want this?" Belinda, asked.
Trixie looked her in the eye.
"Yes please, Mistress."
"Then you shall have it. This is your slave collar. Wear it with pride."
And Belinda fixed the collar round Trixie’s neck. "Thank you, Mistress," Trixie whispered. Then she and Belinda kissed, long and slow. I waited politely, until Belinda let Fran go. Fran was still wearing Trixie’s collar as she made her way out to her car and offered me a lift home.