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Discipline (Shadow X)


Discipline by Shadow X

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Morgen has developed a problematic crush... on her university tutor, Lisa. The beautiful older woman has formed a part of every single one of Morgen's fevered fantasies since she first laid eyes on her at the start of the semester. However, liasons between staff and students are, of course, forbidden...

Product type: EBook    Published by:     Published: 12 / 2017

No. words: 15491

Style: GLBT, Spanking Erotica

Available Formats: MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


Excerpt

Discipline
An Erotic Story

By Shadow X



Copyright © 2017 by Shadow X

Published by Lascivity.
www.lascivity.co.uk
lascivityblog@gmail.com

This story contains graphic and detailed descriptions of BDSM and rough sex.

If you’re reading this, you’re probably into that.

If you’re not into that, maybe go read a magazine or something?

For kinky stories, snippets of filth, sex guides and more of you can check out my blog.

(Although I’m also on FetLife and Tumblr if that’s more your jam.)



Discipline



Morgen lies face down in the middle of her double bed, one hand crooked beneath her hips. Her housemates are all home, pre-drinking already in the kitchen downstairs, and so she bites the pillow to keep herself from making any noise. She thinks of Lisa. Beautiful Lisa with her tight body and her bright blue eyes. Her pulled-back hair and narrow hips. The soft curve of Lisa’s breasts, hidden beneath her sweater. Morgen’s fingers explore the cleft between her legs, rubbing in long, slow circles. She shudders with pleasure.

She imagines that she and Lisa have ended up alone in Lisa’s office. She has only ever seen Lisa’s office once before, when she dropped by to turn in a late assignment. It was narrow and stacked with books and smelled lightly of Lisa’s perfume, and Morgen loved it almost at once. In her head, Lisa is standing between her and the door, hands on hips. Now she’s pushing Morgen backwards, one step at a time, towards the desk. Her hands are confident, steadying her and turning her face up and drawing her into a long, open-mouthed kiss. And while Lisa kisses her, her hands are busy elsewhere, teasing at the seams of Morgen’s clothing, pulling at the hem of her skirt.

It is the middle of the day, in this fantasy. The door to the office is shut, but students are shuttling back and forth in the corridor beyond. They are separated from the real world by only a single panel of wood, but it’s enough. Lisa pulls back, smiles knowingly, and lifts her sweater up and over her head. Beneath are perfect, heavy breasts cupped in half-moons of black satin. Bigger than Morgen’s. Rounder – more shapely. Morgen has spent an exceptional amount of time staring at the shape Lisa’s sweater makes over her breasts, and she feels as though she can imagine them perfectly. Lisa’s pussy, however, is a mystery. Beyond knowing.

Morgen is so wet now that her fingers slip. So wet that she knows she’s leaving a patch in the middle of the bedspread. It’s so easy to dip her fingers inside herself, and when she does the floating sensation that engulfs her entire body makes her moan with pleasure. It’s as if she’s filled with stars, weightless. In her brain, in the dark behind her closed eyes, she makes her fingers into Lisa’s fingers. She is lying on Lisa’s desk while Lisa kisses her, and rubs and circles and dips into her pussy. Then Lisa is kissing her neck, her breasts, her stomach. Down and down... and Morgen imagines that her fingers are not her fingers anymore at all, but Lisa’s sweet, wet tongue.

Something is fluttering in the pit of Morgen’s stomach now. The pitch of it rising steadily. Her free hand makes a fist of the bedsheets and her body spasms a little, her hips rocking against her hand. She feels like a firework with a burning fuse, like a cup about to overflow. She bites down hard on the pillow, and somehow without any conscious though the picture in her head rearranges itself. Now it is Lisa on the desk instead of her. She is naked, and so beautiful, so perfect, so spread and ready. Breasts lying flat against her chest. The smooth curve of her abdomen. And the mystery of the cleft between her legs, which Morgen cannot fully picture, even as she brings her mouth down to it in the fantasy. Even as she licks and laps, tasting Lisa’s intimate fluids.

The fluttering isn’t a fluttering anymore. Now it’s a steady pulse, a heartbeat of increasing pleasure, something that thrums through her like the rumble of jet engine. It is deafening, and it is so perfectly right, and she imagines licking Lisa’s clit and feeling Lisa’s thighs tights on either side of her as she writhes with pleasure. Lisa’s hands gripping her hair, pushing her down. Lisa grinding her hips up against her.

The thought of Lisa coming with her mouth on her pussy is enough to send Morgen over the edge. She groans into the pillow once more, and the firework in her belly explodes, sending sparks skittering to the very top of her head, to the tips of her toes, all the way up her spine. She shudders, convulses, her hand cupping her spasming pussy. Even at the height of it she holds Lisa in her head – still beautifully naked now and convulsing with pleasure just as she is. It’s so intense she can barely breathe until it’s over, until the last shivers have made their way through her body.

When at last her orgasm subsides, Morgen curls up in the middle of her bed and lies there, slowly regaining her breath. The tidal wave of her orgasm is over, but little sparks still announce themselves now and again, each one bringing with it that same mental image of Lisa – her eyes wide, her mouth open. Is that what she’d look like when she came? Morgen can only imagine – and that is something that she does extensively, whenever she has the chance. For the last six weeks whenever she has touched herself it has been Lisa she thinks of. Always Lisa – beautiful, impossible, unattainable Lisa.

There are some nights, after making herself come two, three, four times that Morgen thinks she might very well be in love.

*

Lisa is unattainable because she is Morgen’s lecturer. She teaches Nineteenth-Century Literature – a class that Morgen has attended religiously ever since she set eyes on Lisa during the very first session. Every Wednesday morning at eleven o’ clock she finds herself in the middle of a crowded lecture theatre, looking down towards where Lisa stands at ease, her beautiful face illuminated by the projector, shifting lines of type written across her skin. Morgen cannot take her eyes off the older woman. Even the way she talks is beautiful; she accentuates all her points with slow, easy gestures that resemble a language of their own. She walks back and forth, talking as calmly to one-hundred-and-twenty students as if she were speaking to a friend over coffee. Sometimes she even takes her shoes off and leaves them by the podium. Morgen loves that about her – the glimpse of her lecturer’s socked feet feels like it’s something far more intimate than it actually is.

It’s odd sitting there now, listening to Lisa’s lecture on the Victorian Romantics and knowing that – only twelve hours earlier – she had made herself come to an imagined image of this same woman – the one who stands before her now in the flesh. The legs that Morgen imagined naked are sheathed in black tights. The generous curve of Lisa’s breasts is disguised by a charcoal grey blouse. Her shoulder-length brown hair is tied back, tucked neatly behind her ears.

Morgen, despite her best intentions, has been too distracted to make a single note all morning. Instead she has been sketching Lisa in her spiral bound notebook – something that happens to a favourite activity of hers. The few notes she has taken over the course of the semester are punctuated by progressively more detailed drawings. Some of them show her simply standing in front of the class, while in others Morgen has imagined her reclining against the lectern or draped across a bed. One – composed in the privacy of a library study carrel – is an attempt at what Lisa might look like without her clothes, nothing but satin underwear clinging to her body, kneeling in the middle of an expansive double bed.

Today’s sketch is nothing quite so imaginative – she can’t stop looking at Lisa’s neck today, and so she is drawing the shape of it, the way it disappears into the neckline of her blouse, the hollows and cusps of it. The face above and the body below are only vague shapes, but the neck is well-defined and shaded. One of the better drawings that crawl across the pages of her notebook.

Morgen is so absorbed in it, in fact, that she doesn’t even flinch at the sound of the bell. It’s only her own name that jolts her out of her reverie and makes her slap down her pen and snap shut the notebook as though she’s been electrocuted.

“Morgen Wilkinson! Stay behind a moment; I’d like a word.” It is Lisa herself who has spoken, and Morgen looks up to find that all around her the other students are packing away their notes and books, making ready to leave. Lisa is staring intently up at her from the recessed stage of the lecture theatre, her gaze as penetrating as a laser. Swallowing, Morgen hurries to tuck her notebook away in her bag and gather up her things.

By the time she makes it down to the front of the lecture theatre the last few students are filtering out the door. She perches on the edge of the front row of desks, unduly nervous, while Lisa collects and shuffles her notes. The final slide from the lecture still glows on the overhead whiteboard – it shows a tarot card: “THE LOVERS”. The image is of a couple hand in hand, the woman falling into the embrace of the man, their faces aligned. Morgen scans the text that accompanies it, but is so suddenly nervous that she can only pick out a few words: “the predominance of imagination over reason.” Then the door to the lecture theatre swings shut behind the last departing student and they are alone, and all of her attention shifts automatically to Lisa.

The older woman appears not to notice. She arranges her notes for a minute or more as Morgen stands in silence, before shutting the binder with a snap and – finally – turning to face her. She smiles tightly, and moves to place herself directly in front of Morgen. Lisa is taller than her by almost a head, but it feels like much more. It feels like Lisa is standing on a podium looking down at her from on high.

“Morgen,” says Lisa, as though tasting her name. Morgen swallows. “Tell me: how are you finding the course?”

Morgen shrugs. She is very aware of a blush creeping up her cheeks, but she tries to ignore it. “Okay, I guess,” she mumbles. “I did Early Modern Lit last year so-”

“Look at me when we’re talking please,” says Lisa. She says it quite calmly, quite without heat, but the effect on Morgen is electric nonetheless. She feels her spine straighten almost on reflex, and finds herself looking into Lisa’s penetrating blue eyes. “Better,” says Lisa. Morgen’s heart beats, and she is aware of it. So aware. “You take notes very intently.”

“Um,” says Morgen. She’s aware that her mouth is moving as she searches for something to say, some excuse. She shuts it. Then opens it again. “It’s one of my favourite modules.”

Lisa nods, arms folded. There is a long silence, stretching out and out. On the other side of the door, Morgen can hear her classmates chatting, the babble of voices slowly falling to nothing as first one then another then another disappear towards future seminars, towards the Union Bar, towards the library and study rooms. The squirming sense that she has done something wrong makes Morgen want to evaporate, to be anywhere but here. Worse still that it’s Lisa who has caught her, who she has disappointed.

“Show me your notebook,” says Lisa, holding out a hand studded with thin silver rings.

“Sorry?” says Morgen, quite taken aback. Lisa’s mouth twitches with impatience.

“Your notebook. The one you use for lecture notes. Get it out of your bag and hand it to me. Now, please.”

Morgen’s sense of shame transmutes into one of horror. She can’t. She won’t. She should make some weak excuse, pretend that she feels ill, run from the room. She should do anything except what she does – which is to follow the order that Lisa gives her. She watches – almost surprised by her own movements – as she reaches into her bag, closes fingers around the notebook and draws it out. There is a final moment during which her brain screams at her to run, to tear up the spiral-bound book, to eat the pages like a spy caught in the act. But she doesn’t. She hands it to Lisa, and Lisa takes it with another tight-lipped smile.

Behind her ribs, Morgen’s heart is thudding like a jackhammer. Her mouth is so dry that she can barely talk. Her mind is blank – she searches desperately for an excuse, but there simply isn’t one. “I’m sorry,” is all she manages.

Lisa ignores her, and peels open the notebook to a random page. The blush isn’t creeping up Morgen’s face anymore, but racing. She can feel the heat radiating from her face as Lisa flicks from page to page, her face registering nothing more than mild surprise. “You’ve been drawing,” she says. “On my time.”

For a moment Morgen allows herself to believe that her artistic ability is limited enough that Lisa won’t recognise herself. “Sorry,” she mutters again.

Lisa flicks a few more pages, pausing for a few seconds on each. Still no expression of puzzlement or outrage or anger readable on her face. Morgen hovers wordlessly, waiting for Lisa’s verdict. None comes. Instead her lecturer flicks patiently all the way back to the very beginning of the book, where Morgen made that awful sketch of her in her underwear, legs spread on the bed, the most undeniably sexual of them all. There’s no way that Lisa can miss it, no lie Morgen could tell to make it all somehow innocent. She feels faint, standing there, waiting. Waiting.

Eventually, after a length of time that feels like hours, Lisa snaps the notebook shut, and turns her eyes on Morgen again. Despite her best effort, Morgen is incapable of meeting her gaze. Her face burns, and she braces herself for whatever is to come. Shouting. Expulsion. Perhaps – and this would be worst of all – simple quiet disgust, as though Morgen were nothing more than a regulation perv. Lisa’s eyes search her. There is a long, weighted pause.

“These are all of me,” says Lisa. Not accusing. Not angry. Just stating facts. If anything she sounds vaguely impressed, as though she’s come across some curious but slightly strange exhibit in a museum. “You’ve been drawing me.”

Morgen, quite unable to speak at this point, nods silently. Her face radiates heat. She would rather be anywhere else but here.

Lisa presses her lips together. Then she places the notebook on top of her folder of lecture notes and turns back to Morgen. She snaps her thin fingers directly in front of Morgen’s face, and Morgen realises that her gaze has fallen again, that she is staring at the floor once more. Quickly, clumsily, she jerks her head back and meets Lisa’s eyes. Here it comes – whatever consequence she has in store for her, whatever awful shame she must face.

“You are not entirely an untalented artist, Morgen,” says Lisa. “But this,” she gestures to the notebook, “is not an acceptable use of your time in my lectures. Do you understand?”

Morgen nods, not daring to look away even for a second.

“How old are you, Morgen?”

For a moment, Morgen cannot remember. Numbers have fled her mind altogether, but she opens her mouth and somehow manages to stutter out the word, “Nineteen.”

“Do you find me attractive, Morgen?”

Morgen gapes like a goldfish. Lisa is staring at her quite levelly, quite calmly, as though she has asked nothing more complicated than what Morgen had for lunch. And yet the question feels like a trap, and her head spins as she tried to guess and second guess an answer. What will get her out of trouble? Or further into it? In the end she opts simply for the truth. “Yeah. Yes. I do. Yeah.”

Lisa nods, inscrutable, filing the information away. Morgen has not the faintest idea what the older woman is thinking, or what is about to happen next. For a moment a billion possibilities seem to spin out from the moment. And then they collapse. Lisa sweeps up her folder and the notebook of sketches with it, and turns for the door.

“This is not the time or place to discuss this,” she says lightly. “Tomorrow evening. Six o’ clock. My office.” She pauses just before the door and turns back. “I would advise you, between now and then, to think very seriously about whether you want to continue being in my class.”

Then, before Morgen can gather enough presence of mind to mumble assent, she’s gone, and Morgen is alone in the empty lecture theatre, standing in front of a hundred vacant seats, glowing with embarrassment, with relief… and with something which she will not recognise until much later as excitement.

*

She touches herself again that night, lying in bed and listening to her housemates play video games in the lounge downstairs. It’s complicated. The squirming sense of shame is there still in her stomach whenever she thinks of Lisa, and she has to step mentally outside herself before she can truly enjoy it. Has to imagine herself as if seen from one of the lecture theatre seats: abashed, face lowered, ashamed in front of the older woman. Her blush – her stuttering replies. There’s an excitement about it that is so intense it has its own gravity. She imagines Lisa reaching down and taking her by the chin and jerking her face up. Forcing Morgen to look her in the eyes.

She stops, shocked by just how close she is. Her skin prickles with the imminence of her orgasm, but she lies perfectly still, hand on her stomach beneath the soft material of her pyjamas, letting the sensations fade. She shouldn’t. It’s wrong. She’s been caught and she’s in trouble. She should be contrite. Ashamed. And yet there was something in the way that Lisa looked at her – a dangerous promise of some kind. It was a look that she can recall perfectly now, and the mere thought of it makes her pussy twitch.

Frustrated, confused, she sits up in bed. Her body hums with the orgasm she didn’t allow herself to have. Right now, she realises, Lisa could be paging through the notebook, observing in detail every portrait and picture and sketch of her. It’s a dangerous thought. She shuts her eyes and opens them again. In the window she can see her own dim reflection, superimposed over the tiny garden of her shared student house. Short blonde hair, small breasts lost beneath her loose pyjamas. Nose piercing. Does Lisa find her attractive? Does she like the thought of Morgen drawing her?

Her imagination refuses to reign itself in. She imagines Lisa appearing in the doorway of her room. Walking quietly forward to the bed and crawling up onto it and coming up behind Morgen and reaching around her to put a hand between her legs. Pulling Morgen’s slender body back against her fuller one. Stroking her, easily and confidently, her breath in Morgen’s ear.

This is not an acceptable use of your time in my lectures, Morgen. And Morgen is touching herself now, and imagining the hands into Lisa’s hands, Lisa’s fingers, diving beneath the waistband of her pyjamas and lacquering wet flesh with further wetness. It takes only seconds for her to finish, and when she does the climax rises up so sharply that she can’t breathe for a second. She hunches on the bed, her fingertips inside her, dipped into her own wetness, feeling her pussy spasm around them. She imagines Lisa holding her through it, through the convulsions, the rising waves of pleasure, the shuddering. She has to bite her lip to keep from crying out.

Afterwards she doesn’t move from the edge of the bed. Not for several minutes. She lets her breathing settle. Withdraws her hand from her groin. Shuts her eyes and opens them and sees again her reflection. Lisa isn’t there. Lisa is elsewhere, at home, probably asleep. But tomorrow she will see her again. The two of them will sit, closeted in Lisa’s tiny office, the notebook on a desk between them. The thought is dreadful to Morgen, and yet despite her worry it sends an aftershock of pleasure through her that makes her bones feel as though they’re turning to molten liquid.

*

Morgen is quite certain that she masturbates more frequently than most women her age. Not that she has asked, but it’s hard for her to imagine everyone else being able to maintain such a rigorous schedule of self-pleasure. At minimum she touches herself once a day, but quite often manages two, three or four sessions in between emerging from sleep in the morning and drifting back into it at night. She masturbates between lectures, biting her lip in the usually-quiet bathroom on the sixth floor of the study centre. If none of her housemates are home she slips a hand into her tights and brings herself to a brief, sharp climax while waiting for her microwave meal to finish cooking. Most nights she can barely sleep before getting herself off at least once.

She blames her perpetual horniness on the late discovery of the fact that she didn’t particularly fancy boys. The realisation came after a drunken hookup in the back of a car with the sister of a boy she was tentatively dating at the time. They had never done anything more than kiss (hungrily, at length, hands roaming one another’s clothed bodies) and yet it was as if the experience had unlocked something inside of her. That night, back safe in her bed, she had made herself come for the first time in her life.

As soon as she discovered she could do it, Morgen couldn’t understand why anyone ever wanted to do anything else but come. It seemed ridiculous to her that she had been getting sex so wrong over the course of the previous years. What a waste of time that she had endured the sticky, fumbling attentions of boys, when instead she could have been doing something to herself that actually, properly felt like sex.

Her first girlfriend happened – more or less by accident – during the first year of university. Jatta was a Finnish exchange student who spoke flawless English, and had an imagination that extended into territory that Morgen had only ever speculated on before. She had never had sex with another person, though, which confusingly made Morgen the more experienced of the two – at least in terms of practical application.

Her time with Jatta was a blur of new experience. It was the first time she had licked another girl’s pussy, and the first time she’d had her own licked by someone who had the faintest idea what they were doing. They experimented with lube and dildos and with their hands and mouths. They watched porn. They each took turns inexpertly tying up the other. It was as if they had both been starved of some particular delicacy that was now available in abundance. Accordingly, they feasted on it. They fucked in the shower, in their bedrooms, in the nature reserve behind the campus, in alleyways, on the floor of Jatta’s bedroom, over the phone and in text messages and in dreams and while drunk and while sober. They did everything that they could.

And then, as quickly as she had blundered into Morgen’s life, Jatta was gone. Back to Finland, her semester abroad soon to be nothing but a memory.

After that, there were a couple of random hook-ups for Morgen. Nights out that ended in heavy makeout sessions in nightclubs, but which never graduated to more than that. Almost-dates that turned out not to be dates after all. A few minor crushes. Nothing major. Nothing that interrupted her rigorous routine of daily masturbation. Nothing that made her stomach feel as though the base had been ripped right out of it. Not until Lisa.

Lisa is, perhaps, the first older woman that she has fancied – and there is something in her maturity that makes her all the more painfully attractive. It’s the fact that her body is different from Morgen’s – fuller, more rounded, not just bones and flesh. It’s the fact that she moves so easily, making Morgen feel like a fawn attempting to walk for the first time by comparison. It’s the fact that, within the framework of the university at least, Lisa is above her, over her, in charge.

Since she laid eyes on her in the first lecture of the semester, Lisa has featured heavily in almost all of Morgen’s private reveries. Morgen has – in her imagination at least – played as thoroughly and as carnally with Lisa as she did with Jatta. All a fantasy, of course, and nothing more. Nothing real. Nothing concrete. At least, not yet.

*

Morgen spends two hours before her scheduled meeting with Lisa applying makeup, fixing her hair, and changing her clothes again and again. She needs to look pretty, but not as though she’s made too much effort. She teases up her hair on one side and then flattens it down again. Should she wear a pin in it? Would that be too much? What about a necklace? Definitely too much. After trying on at least twenty different outfits she settles on jeans and a loose top, just thin enough that you can see the dark outline of her bra through the satiny material.

By six o’ clock most of the day’s teaching has already finished. The lecture theatres are empty, and cleaners are circulating the seminar rooms, the sound of multiple vacuum cleaners buzzing from different parts of the building. Morgen perches on the bike racks outside to toy with her phone for at least ten minutes before entering the building’s revolving doors. Still, she’s early, and she dawdles further in the corridors, pretending to read the wall-mounted displays as she waits out the minutes until six o’ clock. It’s unbearable – excitement and nervousness mixing in her belly in a combination that makes her feel like a firework about to explode.

At five minutes to six she approaches the door to Lisa’s office. It’s plain wood, the lecturer’s name on an inlaid brass plaque in the middle. She raises her hand and then drops it again. Bites her lip. Once she knocks on the door there’s no going back. Her body is screaming for her to do it, to take the final step. But what is she stepping into? She isn’t sure, and she yearns to find out, and she dreads it too. She raises her hand again and raps twice on the wood. It feels like stepping off a diving board.

“Come in,” calls Lisa. Morgen enters, and shuts the door behind her. The room on the other side is small, but crowded. Shelves – each one groaning with books – line the walls, and more books are piled up on the desk and windowsill. There is the usual desk and chair, but also a potted cactus beside the mousemat, and a dreamcatcher in the window, casting its complex shadow across the room. Lisa sits behind the desk, seeming entirely at ease. Morgen notes the curve of the older woman’s neck, the way her hair is tucked back behind her ears. Morgen swallows. “Please,” says Lisa, “sit.”

It’s only after Morgen has sunk into the hard plastic chair on the other side of Lisa’s desk that she notices the notebook. It sits square in the middle of the desk surface, closed, facing Morgen, silent and small beneath its cracked blue cover. She looks at the notebook, then looks at Lisa, then looks back at the notebook. Lisa is sitting back in her chair watching and waiting. When Morgen does nothing, she gestures towards the offending object.

“Take a look,” she says. “Open it. Look at your work.”

Swallowing heavily, Morgen does so, peeling open the cracked blue cover and flicking from one page to the next. The lurid drawings are there, every bit as attentive and explicit as she remembered them. Every bit as unmistakeable. To look at them while the real Lisa sits in front of her, on the other side of a desk, feels like the ultimate shame, the worst, dirtiest thing she could be doing.

“Not like that,” says Lisa sharply. “Slowly. Carefully. I want you to really look at them.”

“Sorry,” mumbles Morgen. She starts again, lingering on each sketch, drinking in the detail as much as she can. Here is one of Lisa’s face, her mouth open mid-word, her hair a tangle of heavy lines. Here is one of Lisa in profile, a hand raised as though making a point. There is silence in the office except for the rustling of paper. It feels as though it takes forever for Morgen to make her way through all the pictures, and by the time she is done she can feel her face blushing hot red. When the drawings run out she flicks through a few empty page and then lets the notebook fall shut. Lisa is watching her still, inscrutable.

“You have been drawing me,” she says. It’s not a question, but Morgen still nods confirmation. Lisa absorbs this. Then she says, “Why?”

With the question, it feels as if the air in the room has perceptibly thickened. Morgen can barely breathe as she searches her brain for an answer. None comes. Any truth she could tell or any lie she could conjure would be equally as bad. Lisa lets the silence stretch.

“Well?” she says at last. “Nothing to say for yourself?”

Morgen tried to meet Lisa’s piercing gaze, but cannot. She directs her eyes instead to a spot just behind Lisa’s left ear. The shame is pouring in again, making her feel small and wretched and somehow terribly aroused at the same time. Her insides burn and pulse with it. “Sorry,” she manages, eventually.

Lisa considers her for a second or two more. And then she shakes herself very slightly, as though throwing off a cobweb she’s just walked through. “Stand up,” she says, and Morgen obeys, rising nervously to her feet. Lisa stands too, and walks around the desk, each footstep careful and deliberate. She stands so close to Morgen that the younger girl can smell her scent – a complex, quiet perfume, like brandy. “Turn around,” says Lisa, “and put your hands on the desk.”

“I...” Morgen almost questions the instruction, but bites back her words at the last moment. Lisa’s tone indicates that she expects to be obeyed. Morgen turns to face the desk and puts her palms flat on the wooden surface. She has to bend her legs a little to do so.

“Take a step back,” says Lisa quietly. “Now spread your feet a little wider apart.” Morgen feels a lurch in her stomach at the words – some line has been crossed here, but it is a line that was inevitable, that she wanted, that she knew or hoped was there to be crossed in the first place. Her thoughts whirl, but her body is already obeying, moving her feet inches further apart. She’s bent and spread now, her posture undeniably sexual. She stares down at the desk, the polished wood. Something is about to happen, she can feel it. Something that will take them beyond the ordinary bounds of tutor and student. “Keep looking straight down at the desk. Don’t move.”

Morgen bites her lip, and makes herself as still as a statue. She can hear Lisa moving lightly behind her, but can’t see a thing except the vague shadow of her own reflection in the wood. She is drenched still in shame. It’s dripping from her, and somehow this position feels right. Penitent. It feels as if every single one of her nerves is on fire. She is aware of each breath and each heartbeat. When Lisa places a hand on her shoulder, she twitches as though she’s been electrocuted. Her heart somersaults.

The next thing she knows, Lisa has raised a hand and brought it down hard, smacking her firmly on the backside. Morgen feels the sting of the blow through her jeans – and although the pain is not great it takes her breath away and makes her weak at the knees. A groan escapes her lips, prompted as much by surprise as by hurt, shock more than pain. Her arms tremble, and she rises up on her tiptoes, jerked by the force of the blow. But she does not move. She stays standing, just as Lisa bid, until she falls back onto the flats of her feet.

And then Lisa smacks her again, on the other side. Harder than before. Hard enough to make Morgen catch her breath at the sting. She rocks forward again, but keeps her place. Her pussy twitches. Can this really be happening? Everything about it is impossible and humiliating and yet it feels… right, somehow. The shame she felt a moment ago is leaking away, and in its place is just arousal. More than arousal. Pulsing, blazing lust.

Lisa delivers another two swats, each a little harder than the one before. Morgen has to bite her lip to keep from making any noise, and her hands are in fists against the wood of the desk. She locks eyes on her dim reflection there even as she shudders and wriggles. In between each blow there is pleasure almost equal to the pain, and the contrast is so great and improbable that it makes her feel as though she’s melting. A dozen more follow – the sound of Lisa’s hand making contact with the seat of her jeans is loud in the small office. Morgen hasn’t been counting the blows, but there must have been a dozen at least. What if someone hears?

And then it’s over. Lisa’s hand leaves her shoulder – an imprint of it in body heat remaining behind. Then there is silence, and the two of them standing apart in her little office – Morgen bent over the desk still, breathing heavily, trembling from head to toe. Lisa somewhere behind her.

“Sit again,” says Lisa. Her voice is languid now, almost post-coital in its calmness. She steps back around to her side of the desk, but Morgen stays standing for a moment, bewildered. Adrenaline is coursing through her system, and she feels awake, ready, on the edge of something. To calmly sit down in the chair as though nothing unusual has happened would be unbearable. But Lisa is waiting, patiently, watching her, and so she straightens up and moves to the chair and settles herself it. Her ass is warm, the sting fading to a pleasant glow.

Lisa too retakes her seat and plants her elbows on the desk, leaning forward. Her eyes drill through Morgen like lasers. “You will answer the questions I ask you,” she says. “The next time you don’t, I’ll use a belt. Do you understand?”

Morgen can only just manage a nod. Lisa’s voice feels as though it’s plucking at strings inside of her, sending strange resonances of shame and need and giddy excitement through her whole body with each word. She longs, for a moment, to be bent over the desk again; the need rises up in surge which collapses against her like a wave. Yes, she wants to say, use a belt on me. Whip me. Punish me. I’m nothing to you. I’m a bitch and a dumb cunt and I’ve been so bad, just whip me.

“Now,” says Lisa, leaning back in her chair once more. “Tell me why, exactly, you’ve spent so much of the last semester drawing me rather than taking notes like the diligent young student I’m sure you are.”

Morgen presses her lips together. It’s hard to speak, but she won’t allow herself to stay silent – not when Lisa has ordered her to speak, when she’s looking at her so expectantly. She wants to obey, but at the same time her thoughts are scattered and her mind keeps being dragged off course, and down, down, down through her body to the place where Lisa hit her.

“I… I just wanted to draw you. I... I think you’re really pretty. No, not pretty. More than that. Attractive. Um. Beautiful. I... that’s just what I think. As soon as I saw you the first time I thought... Well, I just had to draw you. I’m sorry. Is that okay?”

“And what else?” says Lisa.

“Else?” whimpers Morgen. What else can she possibly want to know?

“There’s more. I know there is. Don’t try to hide it.” Lisa speaks with a confidence so complete that Morgen feels tiny by comparison. She knows in that moment what Lisa is digging for. What she has to confess, and the shame of it rises up even before she’s said the words, but this time it’s complicated, strange shame – shame she welcomes into herself, shame she craves.

“Sometimes... I’m sorry... Sometimes I think about you... when I... you know... when I touch myself. I think… I really… I really want… you. I want you.”

Lisa sits back a little in her chair, satisfied, and Morgen breathes a sigh of relief. Her body is filled with a welter of conflicting emotions. She is confused, she is aroused. She wants to touch Lisa and feel the older woman’s mouth against her own. She wants Lisa to hold her down and hurt her. She wants to bridge the space between them in this quiet little room. For a moment she is dimly aware that the rest of the world still exists – the cleaners still bumping about the building outside the office. Cars on the road. People going about their daily business. Time, in here at least, seems suspended. Still.

The older woman tilts her head to one side and appraises Morgen with a long, steady stare. Morgen feels it all the way through her, like an x-ray. “Did you like what I just did to you?” asks Lisa. “Did you like it when I spanked you?”

Morgen can feel herself blushing afresh, but the idea of giving Lisa anything but the truth is unimaginable. Mutely, she nods.

“Speak,” says Lisa. The word carries only the slightest hint of a reproach, and yet Morgen feels as though she’s been stung.

“Sorry! Um... yes. Yes, I liked it.”

“Call me ‘Miss’ when you speak to me.”

“Yes, Miss.” Morgen squirms in her seat, pressing her thighs together. Saying those words sent a shiver through her belly – the humiliation of subservience. Being reduced back to the level of a schoolgirl, back to use of that childish, pleading title. Any pretense of equality stripped fully away. She feels wetness now between her legs. She’s been wet for a while, perhaps, but now she can’t ignore it anymore. She feels the pulse beating in her pussy.

“Would you like me to punish you again?” asks Lisa. She sounds genuinely curious, almost. “Or do you feel as though you’ve… atoned for what you’ve done?”

Morgen pauses a moment. This is the first point at which Lisa has, directly at least, given her a choice. Of course, the option was always there. Another student, when told to bend over the desk, would have refused. Stood up. Walked out of the office – perhaps even reported Lisa to the university administration. But Morgen had not. And she knows that she will not refuse what Lisa is offering her now. She wants it all – everything that is offered. Pain and humiliation and servitude and discipline.

She bites her lip.

“Yes, Miss,” she says. “I want more.”


Enjoyed Reading?

That’s the end of the extract! If you want to read the rest of the story, please buy a copy of this book. It costs about the same as a coffee, and I’m willing to bet you’ll enjoy it at least as much as one.



Author Information

I'm Shadow - writer, sex nerd and (somewhat twisted) mind behind the professionally-filthy sex blog Lascivity. I'm based in Edinburgh, but travel extensively. I read a lot. I'm obsessed with psychology, sociology, games of all kind, true crime and tech.

I am also indescribably perverted.

I write dirty stories about things that happened to me. I write fantasy erotica. I write things that verge on being serious literature and I write things that are undeniably farcical. I interview my friends about thier sex lives, and I write guides to everything from anal sex to insertable toy cleaning routines. My bibliography is a messy, strange, wonderful portfolio of filth.

 

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