Summer School

OOC: Mr. Lennie Merullo....43 years old, teaching for 20 years, married for 25 years, pretty wife (Janice ... also 43), 3 girls (24,20,16). Lennie is 6'3" weighs 245, in pretty good shape, sort of a bear of man. Black hair, deep brown eyes, dark beard, dark complexion, very much an Italian. He is muscular and has a considerable sex organ. He has a reputation as an easy grade, esp. for girls in his English class, and is a popular guy in the school & community. He is your average all-American man, with one exception: Lennie has a thing for flirtatious girls who "need a grade". He is open to their ideas and advances, but once they're hooked in, he tends to become a Dom over them. His wife understands this (she is a Domme herself to young men in her group at a local firm) and doesn't object. Her only requirement is that Lenny share the details & be utterly circumspect about his activities & hobbies. He has a little "playpen" that he keeps in a city about 15 miles from his home and it's there that he takes his "special girls" for fun & games.

IC: The regular year had ended and Lennie had finished his paperwork and was ready to close it up for another year at Owlwood High School. That was when a note came over his e-mail from Guidance. Well, well, another girl who just didn't quite make it, he thought as he read through the request and the files attached. Mrs. Lindquist failed her for "lack of work & focus. More focused on the boys & partying than English. Let her do six weeks of summer school!"

Lennie smiled. Val had always been a bitch about the preppy flirts. And he seemed to always have some fun in the summer thanks to her.

He copied the girl's email address into a new note and sent her a quick message:

Miss -----,

The folks at Guidance have told me of your need for English credits to graduate. I'll be happy to help you out. Please bring a notebook & pen to 818 N Elmwood in Smithtown. That is where I do my summer work. It's the blue cottage set back away from the road. Just park in back and knock on the back door. Please be there at 8 AM sharp on Wednesday and we'll get going right away. We'll work from 8 til 11 every day, Monday through Friday. There is much I want to teach you before you begin your summer's work for me.

See you Wednesday,

Mr. Merullo

Then he called his wife, Janice. They agreed that Bonnie Lou, his youngest daughter could stay home alone on weekday mornings for the next six weeks. Janice laughed after he explained his situation. "Remember, lover, no permanent marks, no babies, no headlines. But, have fun!"

After he hung up, Lennie called his "girl" Phyllis and arranged for her to stop by the North Elmwood address that evening. After all, Wednesday WAS two days away!

bump

See the CASTING CALL....

Janice

OOC: Mrs. Janice Merullo, 43 year old, Executive at and Advertising Firm for 10yr, married for 25yr, 3 girls (24,20,16). Short wavy black hair. Golden brown almond shaped eyes. Milk Chocolate complexion, and African American woman who loves to be in charge. She keeps her body in shape by playing tennis and swimming. She is about 5’4 weights 120lbs. Well liked at work. Has serveral of the younger men at the firm begging to be her play thing. She has a place in the city close to her job, where she likes to play. She love to share all the details with her husband this only makes their sex life better. (Of course her husband understands seeing as he is a Dominate to his sweet young play things at school
The only rules they had were no permanent marks, no babies, no headlines. But, have fun!"


IC
Janice smiled as she hung up the phone. So Lennie had found a new play thing hummm. Hopefully she would keep Lennie busy this summer, while Janice worked on getting her own new play thing, she grinned wickedly thinking of the new guy at the office. God he was so young and innocent, eager to please. She couldn’t wait to see how far he would go to move up the corporate ladder. But first she had to get her youngest daughter Bonnie Lou settled. The new guy could wait, family always comes first.

Cynthia

Cynthia Morgan

Age: 18

Interests: boys, parties and avoiding the boring dull necessities of day to day life

Cyn is a vivacious, outspoken, flirtatious young woman. At 5’8”, 135 pounds, her long blonde hair, sensual green eyes, full hips, tiny waist and delightfully pert D cup breasts have gotten her nearly everything she’s ever wanted. Until now. In her last year of high school, her compulsion to play, to party has affected her grades a bit, but she’s always been precocious. Unfortunately her best attributes have ticked off the one person she can’t seem to sway. With all that nonsense talk about brains getting you further than beauty, Cyn KNOWS that old cow, Val, is simply jealous. But, that old cow has Cyn paddocked in summer school for the season, if she wants to graduate. And she does, boy does she ever. She has big plans for college next year…and all the new boys to tease and taunt.

Cyn

Wednesday morning…a morning that SHOULD be a free and clear, summer freedom, a bit of bliss, Cyn muses. Instead she’s up, showered, and heading out the door and it’s only five minutes to eight.

Defiantly she’d chosen one of her favorite outfits, totally unsuited to the classroom. A sheer white silk blouse, the elegantly patterned lacy bra clearly defined beneath it. She studies herself in the mirror one last time and admits that a hint…just a hint…of rosy nipple is apparent beneath the lace. The short, indigo skirt, a lightweight silk that floats tauntingly about her thighs and white leather sandals, heeled and gripping her ankles suggestively, completes the ensemble. Her long blonde hair a chaos of curls over shapely shoulders, the blue of her skirt bringing out the emerald depths of her eyes.

“Bite me, Val.” An insidious whisper in her smug demeanor.

She heads out the door, driving the bright red Miata, Daddy’s birthday present. She knows she’ll be late…but not outrageously so. As she pulls up to the address, 818 Elmwood, a shiver runs down her spine. Clutching her notebook, she enters….

Lennie Merullo

He heard the soft purr of a new sports car. He looked out and saw a Miata, fire engine red, and in it, a very hot young woman. He checked his wact. 8:15 AM. She's late. We'll deal with THAT fault immediately. He picked out a 12" ruler and put it on his desk. one per minute. He grinned to himself.

He looked around the room. His desk and chair, a lamp, a soft plush carpet, soft pastel walls with some very stylish wall hangings and framed photos on the wall. What you didn't see was the array of cameras that recorded everything in the room from four different angles. Nor could you see, unless you looked very closely, that there were points in the weall that would pivot and lock, exposing heavy rings for binding victims to the wall.

Aside from those sparse furninshings, there was nothing else.

In the full length mirror on the wall opposite those hidden rings, he saw his reflection. Tall and powerful, wearing a sand colored golf shirt and tight jeans that showed off his muscled thighs and his package. Sandals finished the outfit.

***** ***** *****

The knock came on the back door of the cottage.

"It's unlocked. Come in." No friendliness, no warm greeting. This one was late, and she looked like she was ready to flirt, not work.

Cyn

“It’s unlocked. Come in.” The deep voice, despite its sensual, smoky timbre, sounds cold, distant. A powerful voice, controlled, calm, commanding, full of assurance.
The shiver turns momentarily to a tremble and then the warm course of rebellion flows through her, her self-assurance returning in spades. She has no choice but to attend, rebellion heating her cheeks to a rosy glow, opening the door with a mutinous scowl on her face.

Arrogantly, she enters, her eyes scanning the room, refusing to take in the man behind the voice until she’s ready. Uneasily, she takes in the furnishings…one desk, his…

Finally, her gaze turns upward to the man standing behind the desk. Tall, dark haired, dark eyed, golden skin…she feels a soft tug deep in her belly…her curiosity aroused. She’s aware of how young and fresh she looks, ripe, like a peach. She feels his perusal like a touch, from her feet, over the lithe curves of her thighs and hips, causing an unexpected ripple across her abdomen before moving higher. Her blush deepens with his continued scrutiny, nipples tightening to hard buds.

Striding across the room feeling the gentle sway of her hemline caress the flesh high up her thighs Cynthi presents herself in front of him with a cheeky little half step and shuffle, her shoulders thrown back, breasts thrust forward, hands clasped behind her back, a mockery of the “at ease” position.

“Reporting as ordered, Sir.” The sarcasm in her voice is unmistakable…as is the unmistakable stutter, her words dying away, eyes pinned, captured by his. In them, none of the familiar appreciation, sensual interest; simple cool, calculating assessment is all they hold. She bites her full, bottom lip in awkward embarrassment, feeling rattled, apprehensive, wary.

The swinging hips, the flounce in her step, the sing-song voice...this harlot was a natural flirt. Orinarily, he would have smiled, winked, offered to let her sit where she liked. But then, this WASN'T school, was it?

He glared at her, tapping his hand against his thigh menacingly. She stopped in midstride and suddenly just stood. He watched her carefully. Her breasts bobbed under the blouse. either no bra or something flimsy, and a very nice set under it. Those will look good....

She came to an "at-ease" and put her hands behind her back, her shoulders back, offering him those succulent breasts. She mockingly said, "Reporting as ordered, Sir." But the mockery broke and she ended up stammering out the "Sir".

For he had picked up the ruler and now was slapping it against his thigh as he walked across the room and then around her, inspecting.

"Well, you got the Sir right, Cynthia Morgan." His voice dripped with sarcasm. But, you're 15 minutes late and unprepared for class, to boot You have to learn, now, that this is NOT regular school." He used the ruler to lift the hem of her skirt in the back. When she tried to stop him, he swatted her hands with the ruler sharply. "Do I have to get the cuffs already, Cynthia?" He knew that she hated her full name, preferring "C" or "Cyn".

"A thong, too...you aren't dressed for school, at least. This will make your punishment go better. Now, approach my desk, grasp the edge, and then move your feet back and spread your legs. One stroke for each minute late and 5 more for forgetting your notebook."

"Well, DO IT!" He barked.

It was as if she’d walked into a Candid Camera set, she thought, her eyes surveying the room as if she’d really find cameras there…either that, or the Twilight Zone. A shiver of apprehension cascading over taut nerves.

Even at her substantial height, he towered above her. His aura; one of power, confidence and sleek, unyielding authority. As uncharacteristic to her as this whole scene was to reality, Cyn stood there frozen, her senses torn between incredulity and apprehension.

The chill of the ruler against the warm flesh of one thigh caused her to flinch; the raw heat and power of his hand swatting her own away as, with futility, she attempts to catch her hemline; the warm humid air against the full curves of her bottom…she bites her lip, her mind unable to accept this altered form of reality.

“Well DO it.” Echoes around the small confines of the room, bouncing off walls, snapping her out of her own sense of languor, the heat of embarrassment and outrage staining her cheeks, coloring her voice.

“You can’t do this!” A remnant of her earlier quaver makes it almost a question, if not a plea, before some of the fire returns, her demeanor stiffening with outrage and something…else.

“I may be young, but I wasn’t born yesterday. You can’t treat me like this!”

Lennie Merullo

"I can't? Hmmmmmm, you may be right. You CAN leave if you want, but then you won't graduate, will you?"

He smiled; he'd heard the protestations before. "you can't do that to me!" "That's against the law!" "That's not the way a teacher is supposed to act!"

All of those things were true, but that hadn't stopped him before and wouldn't now. Young Miss Cynthia Morgan was a stuck up, obnoxious, flirty bitch and she needed to be brought down a peg or two. He knew the type: a few screams, then, eventually, submission. The longer the struggle, the more satisfying the victory.

He looked at her and whispered, "you can go back to high school and old Val for another year, Cynthia. Or you can make up your mind that THIS is your only chance to make up those courses, girl."

He paused. His eyes bore into hers. Her resolve shook momentarily. He pushed on.

"You listen to me. If you turn and walk out that door, fine. Don't come back. If you stay, you take your punishment for being late & we get to work. Believe me, this isn't "regular school", Cynthia Ann Morgan" (he emphasized her middle name), and I'M in charge! If I send a note to Guidance saying you completed the course work, you'll get your diploma and go to party your sweet ass off at college. Otherwise, it's back to dried up old Val and Engish fucking 12 for another year."

"Now, choose. Over the desk or out the door!"

Cynthia Ann Morgan

This is a surreal moment in time. Cynthia can’t help the wry smile that comes to her lips as her mind applies last week’s vocabulary word to the situation she finds herself in. She squirms a little where she stands, reliving the moment.

She’d leaned over to her best friend, Emily, sarcasm replete in her soft whisper. “Surreal, like we’ll ever use THAT word! Why can’t they give us a practical vocabulary list?” Perhaps she needed to be more careful about what she wished for…

Mr. Merullo was right, as much as she resented it and his stance, his confidence and determination to pursue this made that obvious. Glaringly obvious. Humiliation floods her, eroding her own self-confidence.

She glances at the door. What could she do? If she left her parents would question her blatant flaunt of authority. She HAD been a little wayward and willful this year, her thoughts focused on the delights of her first year away from home. If she tried to tell them what had happened - what WAS happening - would they even believe her? Mr. Merullo was a pillar of their small community, he and his wife contributing heavily to the social and political venues of their small town. And her friends…what would her friends think? She couldn’t possibly spend another year in high school…how humiliating would that be?

Her gaze wanders to the desk, it’s beautiful walnut sheen declaring itself much older than she was. It’s height was just such that, if she set her palms against it’s hand carved border, moving her feet backward as ordered, the full taut curves of her ass would be out on display, the short skirt not intended for modesty. Shame, hot and searing, floods her the telltale color in her cheeks proclaiming it.

She WOULDN’T spend another year in this one horse town and she WOULD party her sweet ass off. Her resolve in place, eyes flashing to the dark ones boring into hers, intent, gauging her response, she nods, greens eyes spitting emerald sparks.

Refusing to give him the pleasure of her verbal surrender Cynthia walks forward, nearly stumbling in her fury. From a short distance in front of the heavy wooden desk she places each palm, shoulder width apart on the ornate carvings, wondering if her blush of humiliation can be seen clearly on her other cheeks, as well.

Facing away from him, her shame hidden from the intensity of his gaze, she feels the soft slither of her hemline rising over the sensitive flesh of her thighs. The momentary reprieve from that determined focus, a brief respite, turns the heat of embarrassment into an alien alchemy of sensual sensation, caressing her belly with its heat. As the material slips higher yet, cool air bathing her flanks and buttocks she hears him quietly draw near.

“God.” A soft moan, only in her mind, as she stills like a wary animal under the approach of a predator. The breath she’d been unaware she’s even holding chuffs from her in an exquisite flood of unease, anxiety and anticipation as he looms behind her before reaching one large, callused hand between her knees and jerking them roughly apart.
With an awareness that is nearly painful - pure humiliation - she realizes her excitement; welling up like an unsolicited stranger, between her thighs. Biting her lip, restraining the soft “ah” of surprise she feels her own wet response slicking the hot flesh of her sex. Her mind squirms, writhing in mortification, wondering if he would notice.

He watched her decide and move. Not a word was said, but her attitude was apparent. In five steps across the room, her body showed her "yeah, whatever" emotions. She had decided to take it and yet not give in to him. He felt his cock lurch as she placed her hands flat on the desk and slowly pushed forward.

Her legs spread and her skirt rose. Her perfect ass was slowly exposed to him, but not quite ready yet. He moved behind her and slid his hands alog her knees, nudging them further apart. He heard a moan explode softly from her lips. He felt her thigh muscles twitch under his touch as he slid his heavy hands up along them. All the time, she was trying to control herself, but when his fingers flickered across her pouch, she groaned and pushed back against his fingertips. He moved his hands across her ass and then back down to her sesx, cupping it as he whispered, "This can be so much easier if you just follow my orders, Cynthia."

Then his other hand spanked her ass as hard as he could, first one cheek, then the other. The redness rose immediately s her cries...the surprised yelp of a little girl who honestly thought it would NEVER happen to her.

I'm probably the first person to ever spank this tight firm ass. She sure needs it.

He continued to spank her until he got to five. He stroked her ass and whispered, "That was for being unprepared. Are you ready to take the ther fifteen?"

Cynthia

http://cynsation.741.com/images/spank.jpg

Her sense of disbelief turned to denial in seconds. Cyn wondered how many other girls had felt this same sense of shame, of humiliation at his hands, over this desk. She was trembling with the force of the opposing emotions roiling in her mind. Shame, helpless anger, an occasional hot flash of rebellion, and the beginnings of warm excitement were flooding her mind and body simultaneously.

Her trembling only increased with his proximity and she could feel it in the sway of the soft fabric of her hemline against exposed flesh. Rough and demanding, the hands at her knees had made her moan, much to her own horrified dismay. And then…

The heat of his hands on the insides of her thighs had warned her, she’d just refused to accept it. When his touch had brushed against her THERE she’d frozen. A quiet, pleading “no” had slipped past her lips as apprehension and disbelief flooded her mind.

Even Jimmy Cavanaugh had only touched her THERE once – and only to continue to hold his interest against the inroads of Mary Jane Jalic. With a flush of mortification, a tremble of fury, she admitted to herself that it hadn’t felt quite like this, either. Well, of course it hadn’t! Jimmy wasn’t a perverted old man! She should just leave! Her eyes glance over at the door, knowing it’s not an option.

With anger flooding hotly through her, muscles stiffening against his next touch, her hands had slipped off the edge of the desk. Straightening her back in defiance and repositioning her hands she’d pushed herself back against his hand, his fingertips stroking her intimately before running over the firm smooth curves of her cheeks. She’d found herself holding her breath, quivering beneath that touch, suddenly more sensitive down THERE than she’d ever been. When he’d cupped her sex in his hand she’d felt her own slick moisture sneaking from her sex, wetting the tiny scrap of silk between her thighs.

“This can be SO much easier if you just follow my orders, Cynthia.” She feels an almost hysterical bubble of laughter bursting within, her own teeth, cruel in the need to repress, savaging her lower lip. Yeah, sure it could. A shiver of cold thought in her mind; she wonders where this is going…where it will end.

The descent of his hand, strong, fast, achingly sharp, connecting with the curve of her ass kills the laughter in a heartbeat. Instead, whimpers of incredulity spill from her savaged lips, the flashing sting, quick and hot, of each stroke followed by the duller ache of slow, throbbing soreness swamps her mind. No, God no…this couldn’t be happening.

“That was for being unprepared. Are you ready for the other fifteen?” His voice, huskier with exertion had moved to her side, his warm touch on her shoulder and arm leaving a trail of goosebumps. She’d started to lift her eyes to his in defiance, but the waves tender, throbbing heat from her ass were causing other sensations, beginning at her sex and pooling deep in her belly. Her eyes had fallen to his other hand, in it the ruler, and felt her bottom clench, a warm surge of fear her first reaction. It was the second reaction that dazzled her mind…recognizing the slow wash of hunger the sight of that ruler had released.

“No! Please Sir…please Mr. Merullo…God, please! You can’t do this to me…”

Cyn had stiffened partway through his "examination" and he heard her gasped "nooo" as he felt her rapidly moistening sex. Maybe...just maybe a virgin? He inwardly shook his head and smiled. How had that happened, or not happened? he laughed to himself.

After the first five blows - hard ones, his hand still stung - she wailed, begging for mercy, “No! Please Sir…please Mr. Merullo…God, please! You can’t do this to me…”

"Oh, but I can and I will, Cynthia Ann. You see, as I said this is NOT school, and there are almoat no rules that I need to follow. Just a very few between myself and my partner. If you cooperate, you get what you want and what you truly need, with a minimum of pain. If you do not cooperate, you either get hurt and then get what you want & need, or you get your teasing ass out of here!

Now, then, fifteen more... if you stop your whining that is. Otherwise, it'll be 25."

He stopped and listened while he pressed her back down onto the desktop. She descended into soft sobbing, no more begging now. He resumed the spanking, with the flat corked surface of the metal ruler, counting them off. By 5, she was wailing; by 10, crying uncontrollably. Her ass was a bright hot red and he stopped. No Permanent Marks He sighed knowing that livid purple bruises would qualify.

She lifted her head slightly and glanced back at the sweating, aroused teacher. She awaiting the last 5. He looked in her eyes. There was fear, anger, pain, and something else in her eyes. He thought he knew, but had to be sure. One more time he slid his hands up her thighs.

Before, there had been shock, muscular reaction like the desire to flee, a gasp of horror. Now, it was different. There was still a reaction, but she seemed to be pressing back, straight back, not up. And when he his hand cupped her sex, he found it was flowing. She pushed back against his hand and groaned.

He took the last 5 on her sex...5 open handed spanks, light enough to not truly hurt, yet heavy enough to make the impression he desired. Cynthia Ann Morgan knew that she was his, at least for now.

Cynthia

She stiffens, poised, ready for the spanking, unaware of how appealing, how fucking sensual the pose is, her buttocks, reddened by his hand, high and proud.

“Oh but I can and I will…”

Outrage, sheer, pure fury, swims through her senses. With an audible click, she shuts her mouth. Mental mutiny isn’t very satisfying, not nearly as much as storming out that door will be, but she can do that later, at 11:00. Meanwhile, she WILL get what she needs out of this.

The force of the first five strokes, like liquid fire across her cheeks, pushes her forward on the desk, her hands finally resting against the far edge, her hips pressed up against the front. Friction from that movement leaves the crisp lace of her bra taunting her nipples to brazen peaks so hard she can feel her pulse pound within them.

With stunning clarity, she recognizes the warm pulse of her cunt, the aching peaks of her breasts, the hot flashing heat of her buttocks for the indicators they are, frantic arousal.

The cries ringing from her lips for the next count of five sounds, to her, of clear sensual fervor, rousing bright color to her cheeks and even her chest, her humiliation complete. She can feel the soft spill of arousal between her legs, the small scrap of silk between her thighs no longer enough to contain it. The eager swell of her clit, engorged, and pushing back it’s hooded cover as it does when she’s lying at home in her bed, playing with it. Sensitive, so incredibly sensitive, her labia aching with need.

So stunned by this flood of sensation it takes her a minute to realize the strokes have stopped. Lifting her head, she glances back at the man standing behind her. Panting with the exertion of his acts, his hair in appealing disarray its dark brown color gleaming like sable, he looks intently at her, pinning her with his gaze. Eyes black with his arousal, they smolder, drawing a soft tug of response from her belly.

Without dropping his eyes, he reaches one large hand out, caressing her hip, sliding between her cheeks to press against the hot, wet fabric that hides her sex. Dropping her head down, against one arm in shame, she can’t stop the low, sensual whimper as she presses back against his touch with an alien hunger that leaves her needing more.

Removing his fingers to her soft moan of distress, the final five strokes land where his fingers had been, that greedy sensitive flesh igniting with a heat she’d never dreamed of. One…two…she presses her breasts down hard against the desk, biting her lips to prevent the soft pleas that want to spill from them. Three….four…God, she’s on fire, her sweet response dripping down the inside of her thighs! Five… she trembles, arching her back, widening her stance without even realizing it.

Silence stretches between them except for their breathing, harsh pants from both of them, echoing about the small room. She wants to glance back at him, plead with him…for…what? Something. She stands there, trembling, her head hanging, burning with humiliation and an aching frenzy that she doesn’t understand.

Lennie Merullo

The punishment completed, he got down to business. He went to the closet and brought out a standard student desk and chair.

"Sit down," he barked. Cyn looked up surprised. She moved silently to comply. The chair was hard, offering no comfort for her red-hot butt or sex. He placed a book in front of her. "Read pages 17-25 and then write the reaction essay at the close of the reading. It's 9:00, now. You have until 10:30. We'll see how well you do on this assignment. Then I'll decide what your homework will be."

He sat behind his desk and watched her. She seemed stunned by the work. He chuckled to himself. And he noticed that even after her spanking, she seemed to still be the flirt. Her nipples were rock hard, poking through her blouse. Her eyes were still on fire with lust. She chewed on the end of her pen, looked up at him occasionally, spread her legs, sucked the tip of her pen, licked her lips, did all the things he expected from a teasing schoolgirl.

He was erect, painfully erect after spanking her. He needed relief, but that could wait. He fantasized about how he would take her, break her cherry (now he was pretty damned sure she was a virgin), make her into "His Girl" for the summer. And he thought of how much Janice would love to share in some of the fun before they were done. He felt his cock twitch in his jeans, knew it would be utterly obvious when he stood. Finally, he did stand and walked toward her slowly. She looked up at him, her hot eyes taking in all of him. He thought he heard something from her, but couldn't tell what it was. He came over and looked down at her from above her desk, right down her blouse to the beautiful peaches hanging there, hard nippled and full. He licked his lips this time, and brushed his hand down her back.

"Any questions, Cynthia?"

Cyn

Bent over the desk, breath reduced to ragged pants, she hears him moving away from her. She stands, releasing the desk hesitantly, pushing the short hemline of her skirt down over the red-hot flesh of her bottom, her palms running over each aching curve.

“Sit down.” Her eyes fly to his cheeks crimson beneath his impatient gaze, dropping her hands guiltily. She’s moving before she consciously makes the decision to do so, the wet silk between her legs clinging intimately, rubbing against sensitive flesh that is begging for…something. Quickly she lowers her gaze away from him, slipping past him and sliding into the desk, gingerly, its hard seat an agony.

Study? She was supposed to concentrate after THAT? She squeezes her thighs together, pressing her hungry sex against the chairs seat; opening the book to the page he’s indicated. He looms above her for a moment and she keeps her face averted, shame and pleasure warring within her. Her eyes fix, without realizing it, on his belt, widening at the evidence of arousal. His cool tones and impatient gestures wouldn’t have suggested this and she feels a shiver course through her, the warm pulse centering in her belly.

Spreading her knees, the pencil tip playing across her lips, she tries to imagine him doing…other…things to her. What would it be like to hold that magnificent erection in her hands? Or bring it to her lips? Sightlessly gazing at the white page in front of her, her tongue sliding gently over the eraser of her pencil, green eyes hot with the images in her mind. Its press, long and hard, against the rich material of his slacks fascinates her and she regrets his retreat to his desk.

She's hot…hungry cunted, her nipples, brushing against the desk, achingly hard. The subtle movement of her hips against the wood isn’t enough for her, she wants to slip her fingers beneath her skirt, beneath the soaked panties and stroke the hot wet flesh beneath. She glances up at Mr. Merullo who appears to be engrossed in his own reading material, a frown on his handsome face. But no…she can’t!

Three or four times over the next hour she glances up at him, turning an unread page each time, rattling the page and still he doesn’t look up. Greedy and wanton for more she slips her right hand beneath the desk, watching for his response. Nothing. She breathes a little easier, her excitement rising like a tide within her. Gentle fingers run up the lithe expanse of thigh, prying the wet silk away from hungry flesh, her eyes flying to his with the faint slurp of the material. Nothing. Two fingers, spreading her lips, brushing against that sensitive little nub that wasn’t so little now. She lost her focus, amazed with its swollen hunger and the riot of sensation that storms her belly with the lightest touch. Spreading her thighs wider, slow circles over its hood, lost in the moment.

“Any questions, Cynthia?”

Oh God! Her eyes snap to his, mortification flushing her whole body, jerking her hand away. She groans softly, finding him towering above her desk, his gaze intent, his erection straining the material of his trousers, mere inches away. The hand on her back, strong, hard callused, makes her quiver.

“N.n.no Sir. No questions.” She bites her lip, tearing her eyes away from that which fascinates her so.

As he looked down at her, he noticed it all, the fevered expression, the burning eyes, the painfully hard nipples, the aroused scent wafting from her. He was totally aroused, wanted to drop all pretense and take her NOW! His cock screamed for him to fuck her, but his mind kept control. It was not time...not yet. She could be taken higher, farther onto the edge.

He touched her arm and whispered, "you haven't written your response essay yet." He turned the page of the booklet to the question and spoke softly to her, reading the essay assignment.

In this chapter from I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou describes her first experience with sexual arousal and intercourse. Her description makes her feelings, both physical & emotional, explicit for the reader. In an essay, use her writing as a model and describe the reactions you feel as you read this chapter now. Also, describe how this scene would be different if it were you instead of Maya in the scene. How would you have that arousal & intercourse occur? Be frank and open.

As he spoke, he kept contact with her; his hand on her arm, then her shoulder. He heard her slight gasp and moan as he touched her, whispered in her ear. This was not a new assignment; he knew it worked, had worked for the past eight summers on a variety of girls. He knew it would work on Cyn just as well, give him the key to his final domination of her.

"I'm sure you understand the assigment, Cynthia Ann. You have 45 minutes to complete it. And, as you write, let your fingers keep doing what they were doing before. I enjoy watching you.

"At the end of the 45 minutes, I'll look this over and we can discuss how you feel & what your assignment will be for tonight. Do well, and I'll give you a special reward. Do not, and I will punish you."

He moved away from her, returned to his desk, aware of her eyes following him. He looked up and caught her glance. He smiled briefly, then slowly sat and picked up the book he had been reading. He read his book and watched her struggles to control her arousal and to write for him.

She droops in her chair limp with relief, hot color flooding her cheeks in a reaction that has become very familiar today. Somehow, he hadn’t noticed. Dropping her slick shaking hand to her knee, she hears his words without really understanding, reading the words on the page that he flips to.

His touch against her shoulder, her back, fuels the fire in her belly, so close to her that that compelling hardness, pressing fiercely against his slacks, is just inches from her touch. She licks her lips, cringing at the rush of arousal dripping from her sex with the direction of her thoughts. She tries to concentrate on the words in front of, reading, re-reading, her eyes growing large, incredulous at the material before her.

“…let your fingers continue…I enjoy watching you.”

Oh God. Shame runs rampant heightening her color to crimson, the words, like a caress, stroke an inner release, her body begging for more than the sweet release she knows in her own quiet bedroom. The image of his masculinity, hard, throbbing in her fingers; of his cock – that’s what the women said in the videos she’d found in the back of mom’s dresser – sliding over the lush wet hunger between her thighs. She can envision her back arched, thighs splayed wide to accept him, coarse, naughty words spilling from her lips as she arches into him…as he…

Her fingers have already crept back under her skirt, his back to her as he walks back toward his desk. Her thighs are wet; the seat beneath her is wet as her fingers play over swollen hungry lips, dipping gently between them, gasping at the sensation and the image of him, there.

“No,” the cry, half moan, half whimper gets away from her and she buries her head in her book, closing her eyes, reveling in the slow stroke, the lapping waves of arousal that have started to wash her belly, muscles tightening inside…deep inside…What would it feel like?

Her modesty combats the aching tides within, resisting the final hungry surge that lies just around the corner leaving her biting her lip in frustration. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she realizes her forty-five minutes are slipping away and the heated flesh of her cheeks, pressed cruelly against the wooden seat makes her mind up for her.

She reads, following the story line about Maya and her friend Vivian with interest. She gasps with the author’s descriptions about Mr. Freeman and Maya, his greedy use of her innocence to fulfill his own sexual needs….her acceptance, reveling in the simplicity of being held close. A sad, compelling passage.

She’s sees the irony in her own situation and starts her essay.

Forty-five minutes later, three sheets of paper and a multitude of scratched out words, she watches with foreboding as he walks back over to her desk. She has exactly…nothing, unable to put her jumbled thoughts and incoherent desires into words.

He has watched her struggle, both with her body and with the assignment. As she stroked herself and stoked her arousal, he knew she was barely maintaining control of her body. Once, twice, thrice, he sensed that her orgasm was only marginally held off. Three times he watched her muscles tense, her breathing grow shallow and rapid. But three times he saw her withhold the pleasure from herself.

Why is she punishing herself? He wondered, for he knew that she must have a deep-seated need to deprive herself of release. Each time he felt his own arousal return, his tumescence grow to new lengths. He wanted her, but he needed the clue, the key.

As the time period ended, he cleared his throat and rose to stand over her. He picked up the papers and read. She had made a grand effort to get it right. Her ideas were jumbled, ranging from fear of sex to an overwhelming need for love and acceptance. She understood what young Maya had gone through, how she had fallen for Mr Freeman, how she had feared that she was a lesbian, how she found love in the arms of the woman and sexual acceptance, followed by rejection and shame, in the arms of Freeman.

Then he read her own thoughts and desires. She needed warmth and love, it was true, and desparately wanted further arousal, but there was something more underlying it. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was somewhat of the same need that Maya felt: the need to be controlled, held, kept safe and warm, but still be kept. But it was jumbled, confused, unrefined.

He smiled at her. "This is a good beginning, but you need to pull the threads together. You need to get focused and to do that, you need to relieve the tension that is in you right now." His hands touched her shoulders and massaged them. "You need to give in to the urges that are raging in you now. And you need a voice to make you let go." His voice, steady and calm, lowered to an insistent whisper. He moved his lips to her ear. "You need to let your desire flow, Cynthia Ann, let it out. You will moan for me, call me, 'Sir", and you will ask for release. You will be rewarded for doing this, Cynthia. Listen to your inner voice and follow it and Me."

She looked up at him, her breathing more ragged than before, her eyes clouded over, her still hands on the desk top, but her fingers stretched out, needing to be elsewhere. He touched her again, sliding his hands lower to stroke her collarbone. And then she spoke....

Cyn

“I…I .don’t know how,” the whisper, nearly inaudible, is wrenched from her lips, tears of humiliation, an incandescent pool, welling from her eyes. The tide within her has expanded, from her belly to her aching sex, from her aching sex to her throbbing nipples.

And now, with the slow caress of his hand, it encompasses the pulse in her throat that his fingers stroke to liquid heat. Her modesty was the first layer to go, her desire overwhelming her mental boundaries, her hand stroking herself for both their benefit…but now… She shrugs helplessly, sweet young body singing songs it’s never sung before, her eyes finally lifting to his in a look of pleading…

“Please?”

He whispers, "Yes, you do... you know how to ask..." His hands are stroking her skin just under the collar line of her blouse now. His voice is velvet, soothing, yet there is an iron will beneath the velvet surface, an edge that he controls.

The murmur of "please" followed by the delayed, "Sir," brings his voice back to her ear.

"Please, what, Cynthia? You have to say it to get it. Say it, speak your deepest desire to your Teacher, Cynthia Ann, and it will be yours." His lips are at her throat now, kissing it, his hands exploring the tops of her breasts. Her moans and tears are having an effect on him, but it is not pity, for he has heard the tears before.

"Say the words, Cynthia, give in to the need. Surrender yourself to me, to my voice, to your need that only I can fulfill today." The edge returns and he softly yet sternly clips the next words. "Tell...me...what...you...need...Cynthia Ann Morgan... Tell me... what you are....

"and....

"to whom you belong"

Bewildered by him, bewildered by the aching yearning in her soul she trembles beneath the soft flood of his words, like water, soothing in their strength, but baffling in their intent.

What does he want from her? What does she want? Tell him what she needs? How can she when she doesn’t know herself?

He’s kissing her neck in a way no teacher should, making her moan with the press of each kiss. He’s touching her in a way no man has, his hands against the full swell of her breasts, teasing but not touching the nipples, hard, hard, hard, below his caressing fingers. He’s pressed himself against her back, that fascinating swell, his cock, pressed against the arch of her hip.

“Sir, please…” she tests the words on her lips, her voice barely a whisper

"sir, please..."

"Yes, Cynthia, go on." His need was urgent, but his voice did not betray it. She was his to mould now, to shape, but not with his fingers. His voice, his will --- those were the tools he would use now. His fingers left her breasts, moved out from under her blouse, to fleetingly tease the nipples from the outside...his fingertips just brushing them as he spoke again.

"You must, you WILL, say the words. Say the words that you cannot not, should not say, Cynthia. Tell me what you need so very much. The words will set you free, give you what you need."

As he spoke, he half-lifted her to stand before him. She moved as if by another's will, his will. And he ran his hands down her sides to her thighs, naked under his touch, his powerful fingers pressing on them, lifting the hem of her skirt. He pressed her back into his body, letting her feel his hardness against her buttock and her back. His voice flowed into her ear,

"Say the words, MY Cynthia, become Mine. Tell Me what you need."

Cyn

Her frustration and humiliation have reached a boiling point, the shimmering trail of tears over her cheeks unobserved. The press of him, intimate against her sore cheeks, hard and throbbing against her made her breath catch, a soft sob spilled from her, her body shaking beneath his.

Tell him what she needed? She needed to be fucked, like the wanton women in those videos…she wanted to be his whore. She wanted to spread her legs for him, feel that throbbing organ slide against the heat of her cunt, inside those swollen lips, where no one had ever been before. But she didn’t think that was what he was asking her and the shame in admitting this, if it wasn’t the right answer, was more than she could bear to think of.

Tell him who I am? To whom I belong? Her face rose to his, turning back over her shoulder, catching the hot, sharp hunger in his gaze, feeling it in the hard press against her tender ass. At this moment she doesn't know who she is, this greedy woman hungry for abandon. Her eyes beseech his, begging for the answers.