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She was panting heavily, nervous, her small breasts heaving. Girls screaming in ecstasy, flesh slapping against flesh, men groaning. She was wondered how long it would be, and when the door opened, she felt her heart beat even faster.

She felt their hands caress her body and begin to pull down her thin black panties to expose her tight pink pussy.

She felt their fingers probe her and her hands pulled down instinctively. She felt the bed shake as a man climbed on, and she began to breathe heavily as he placed his hands down next to her head and something, something poked against her pussy.

Without warning he thrust in and she gasped in pleasure around her gag. She tried to control her moans as the man used her like a sex doll, pounding her and grabbing onto her hair for leverage. She felt him speed up, felt him reach his climax, and she groaned as he came inside her. The man climbed off the bed and another one climbed on next, thrusting his cock deep inside her. For hours she felt herself get fucked by different men, used like a tissue to catch their cum. She came over and over again, screaming into her ball gag, loving the feeling of the cocks plowing her.

By the end of the day when the man came in to untie her she could barely move her legs. She was dripping out of her cunt, semen staining the streets. The ropes had left red marks around her wrists and ankles.

As she left the room she saw other women leaving the rooms nearby, smiles plastered across their faces. They were walking bow-legged and their high heels were wobbling on the floor. Claire was one of them now. During the tumult of the protests, many of my colleagues noted class attendance dwindling—not that they particularly minded, since most of us are farther left than even our most sincere little radicals.

My class, for seniors writing theses, remained well attended, however. My secret was the same secret that led to record setting enrollments in previous years: Any seniors who wanted to write theses on sexuality in literature? And then she paused, bit her lip. I really liked The Story of O. It happened so gradually, I barely noticed it.

I began meeting with Priya bi-weekly, and then weekly, chatting about her paper, about her other classes, about her on-campus activism.

At one point, I noticed my hand on hers. She was talking excitedly about a protest. Another time, I forget exactly when, I mentioned something that clued her in to the fact that I had personal BDSM experience—something about after-care, something that set her eyes shining. Digging myself into a hole.

She grinned. I can tell. I shut that conversation down pretty fast too. She wrote her thesis, graduated summa, and I was proud of her. It was a month or two before I saw her again: I was riding my bike to the library, when I like to camp out in the summer months to work, since my apartment has no air conditioning, when I saw her in smart business dress, leading a group of prospective students on a tour. We waved and later, I saw the same group again in the library.

She flashed another smile my way and, an hour later, found me again. Sans prospies. It turned out, she had a job at the admissions office. A full time job. Would I like to get lunch with her? I would. Over lunch, our hands found each other again. She invited me over for dinner that evening and I took her up on the offer. In the dark of her bedroom after our first night together, her curled up in the crook of my arm, her breath ragged after our fucking, she asked me to be her dom.

I was quiet for a while. Of course, I wanted it. Priya was gorgeous. She was a joy to be around, sweet and considerate, with a sassy edge that came with intimacy. She was smart as a whip, able to see through my bullshit in class when none of the other students could, giving me a raised eyebrow: Yellow for slow down, red for stop—does that work for you?

I ordered her out of bed, told her to turn on the lights. She obeyed immediately. Again, she obeyed: I watched her for a minute, our eyes locked as she touched herself, gasping and whimpering softly.

I had already made her cum once and I was surprised at how fast she orgasmed. She nodded, biting her lip, and ran a hand up to her breasts, stroking them softly. She obeyed, digging her fingers into her flesh, whimpering. She was a natural, tugging at her brown nipples, shuddering in pain and pleasure. I strode over to her, laying my hands on her for the first time since we had begun.

I took her by the hair, pulling hard. Gripping her hard by the hair, forcing her head back, almost causing her to lose her balance, I lowered my lips to her ear. She let out a cry and began to shudder. I knew she was cumming. I held her face looking at mine as she came, her pretty features contorting in ecstasy. She obeyed as I went to my jeans, and slid my belt out of the loops.

I heard her breathing, ragged and hungry as I approached her leaking body, the scent of her pussy heavy in the air as I ran my belt over her thighs and up to her plump little ass. I struck her rear softly, hearing the moans of disappointment, before amping up my blows—not to the point that I would leave lasting welts, but enough that her butt visibly swelled under the rain of slaps.

She cried out with each blow, adding in the number at the end. We stopped at sixteen—eight on each cheek. She was trembling very slightly as I took hold of her hips. She groaned as I slid my cock into her for the second time that night. Whereas before, I had looked her in the eyes and kissed her slowly as we fucked, now I began to pound her, grabbing her by the hair from behind as I rode her.

Finally, I pulled out of her. I pulled her by her hair back onto the floor, flinging her like a rag doll as I pressed my slick cock between her lips, forcing her to taste her own juices as she began to obediently suck me. With a groan, I came in her mouth and she swallowed it with a smile. Afterwards, I held her close—after-care, there it was again—and she curled herself up against my chest, burying her face in my chest hair.

So, that summer, we continued to see one another. We continued our play sessions, nearly every single day, and at the end of the summer, she had accepted a job across the country working at a start up. We broke up then, so to speak—it was her first real job out of college, in a new city, and I had no illusions about the new people and experiences she might want to meet and have. I was planning on going to a rope social. Outside my clothing, unfortunately. She was shy, and not much of an exhibitionist, so it took some convincing.

But a couple minutes later, I had her clothes, and she was standing nude in front of a dozen people. I was even a little concerned, because I discovered that she had only had one leg, so we were tying up and abusing a poor little handicapped girl. And not much would have shocked me at this point! She asked for her clothes back, but I refused to hand over her panties.

So instead she put on her shirt, and an apron she found in the kitchen. Or at all. So as we watched the other partygoers move on to the next victim, I slipped next to her, and caressed her back and ass.

For ease of access, I then got on my knees beside her, and we both quietly watched the festivities. Meanwhile I worked my way between her legs, playing with her labia, and feeling her wetness which was now almost dripping.

Soon I slipped a couple fingers inside of her, while playing with her clit. Wetness ran down my hand. As we watched in silence, nobody could see precisely what I was doing behind her apron, but most people had an idea…. Eventually I gave her her panties back, and to my dismay she got dressed. People were getting tied up, spanked, whipped, and every vibrator had its batteries fully depleted.

I even got paddled for a bit, which was a first, and I learned it does nothing for me.

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1 Comments
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