Girl (9 page)

I do look around then. It’s a classic schoolroom, with the desks perfectly lined up. There are others in the seats in front of me: a girl with long blonde hair woven into a single braid, a delicately built boy with fair skin and dark hair, another girl who’s chin-length hair is bright pink—she has a pair of red roses tattooed on the back of each shoulder. And in the front of the room is a boy—no, clearly a man, despite his predicament—who is so spectacularly beautiful he takes my breath away. He has smooth, golden skin, a hard-packed muscular body with strong thighs and shoulders and a broad chest.

But it’s his face that makes me feel as if I might melt into a pool of pure liquid fire. A finely sculpted jaw and chin, high, high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes that look even more golden than his skin, from where I sit. His mouth is strong and incredibly lush at the same time, a hard pout on it, and I can hardly blame him. He is mounted on a cross beside the teacher’s desk, arms spread, wrists cuffed by heavy metal shackles. His knees are drawn up and bent so that his feet are flat against the crossbar of the big wooden cross, ankles heavily shackled. And despite the tall, pointed dunce cap on his head, he is glaring angrily at the room, which may be the most enticing thing about him.

I have never seen a slave with such fire in his eyes. With such tension in every beautiful muscle while he is made to hang there as if crucified, and I suddenly understand that he is as impaled as I am, hanging from the cross. He is like some kind of caged beast up there, a primal rage just barely contained, and I’m fascinated.

Oh, to touch him… My fingers itch with the need to feel that fine, golden skin. My mouth burns with the yearning to press kisses on his dusky nipples, one of which is pierced. To wrap my lips around his thick, golden-headed cock, which is every bit as beautiful as the rest of him, and just as hard, the head so swollen, his lust barely contained. I wonder what a terror he would be if he weren’t chastised, bound, his ass skewered. A shiver runs through my entire body.

To have that beautiful beast on me. In me.

Suddenly the door slams open and I jump, my pussy jarring against the hard wooden shaft inside me. It hurts, but I welcome it. Want it. Want the Master, who has just entered the room, to see what a good Girl I am, impaled and still in my seat. But I have
not
been a good Girl, lusting after this new slave at the front of the room. The bad slave.

Oh yes. Even better.

I bite my lip and try to calm down.

The Master walks in and sits down at the desk, paging through a notebook, ignoring us so completely he might have been alone in the room. He is stunning, as always, with his slightly mussed hair, his fine bone structure, his large hands. Even the crispness of his shirt seems erotic to me, revealing his tattoos almost carelessly—although I am sure this man does nothing carelessly.

I want to fidget, for reasons I can’t explain. Why do I feel a need for him to notice me, when I am no one in this House? I glance over at the bad slave and see his expression hasn’t changed. But no, I’m wrong about that. He is silently fuming more than ever, his nostrils flaring. I squirm the tiniest bit simply to feel the dildo inside my squeezing, wet cunt. To imagine it is this slave’s rigid cock.

The slave, and not the Master?

What is wrong with me? I am half in love with my lovely new Master already—more than half—and yet this slave boy has so easily distracted me. My gaze flicks back to the Master, who, as if he senses my disobedience, looks back at me, then rises to his feet. Keeping his gaze on mine, he moves toward the bad slave, one of those long, wooden pointer sticks in his hand.

He asks me, “Does this slave’s predicament amuse you, Girl?”

I flinch, but don’t dare to answer.

“Or are you thinking, perhaps, that you’d love to be in his position? It can certainly be arranged.”

He turns to the bad slave and smacks his chest with the pointer stick, hard enough to leave a long, pink welt. The slave doesn’t move a muscle.

“This is what happens, Boys and Girls, to bad students. To slaves who have a smart mouth. And this is only the beginning of the punishment he will receive today. You see, Christopher here lacks the appropriate respect for myself and my staff. And he is
very
bad at answering the test questions. Aren’t you, Christopher?”

I am shocked to hear this slave called by name! But I remember the name from the Master’s conversation with Mistress Alexa yesterday. I am just as shocked when the bad slave spits on the floor.

The Master grabs his chin in a hard, vicious hand and squeezes, holding Christopher’s angry gaze to his own as he beats his thighs with the pointer stick. When it breaks, the wood splintering with a jolting crack, he drops it, releases Christopher’s face and walks away. At his desk, he opens a drawer, takes a white handkerchief from it and wipes his hands carefully.

He says, “Shall we?” as if nothing has happened.

Christopher, for his part, wears the same angry glare, his cock harder than ever, his mouth more set. My body surges with heated desire. Who is this slave that he can take a beating like that without moving, without flinching? His thighs are striped with pink welts, and I want to kiss them away. I want to kiss his beautiful hard-on away too.

Who is this slave that he still has a name in this place?

The Master pulls another pointer stick from behind the desk, where I imagine he has a good supply of them, goes to the blonde and grabs her long braid, yanking her head back. “Girl, tell our newcomer what to expect here in my classroom.”

“Yes, Master,” she says in a soft, timid voice. “We will be asked questions by the Master, or by the schoolmaster, Mr. Clare. If we are correct, we may be allowed to kiss the Master’s hand. If we are unable to answer correctly, we will be advanced one row, until we reach the front of the room. If, in the front row, we get a wrong answer, we will earn a beating with a ruler, or…something worse. Is that right, Master?”

“Very good, darling Girl,” he says, leaning down to brush a kiss across her cheek, and I am filled with jealousy.

If only he would kiss
my
cheek, call me “darling.” Or if only Christopher would.

I silently berate myself as I try to focus only on the Master. He moves toward the Boy with the dark hair.

“Boy, first series of questions. Define a light year.”

“Yes, Master. A light year is the distance light can travel in vacuum in one year’s time.”

“Very good.”

He extends his hand, and the slave turns so that I see his face in profile. He is beautiful, as we all are here in our own way, with sharp features, like a faun. He places a soft kiss on the back of the Master’s hand.

“Now answer this: name the spiral galaxy nearest to the Milky Way, and its distance in light years.”

“Yes, Master. The nearest galaxy to ours is the Andromeda Galaxy, and it is…over two million light years away…?”

“You sound uncertain,” he says, tapping the pointer against the toe of his polished shoe.

His dark hair is a little more mussed than usual after his small struggle with Christopher, and he is so stunningly handsome I find it difficult to look at him. Yet at the same time the only thing that can really tear my gaze from him is the sullen Christopher and his beautiful erection. I force myself to keep watching the Master, as I’m fairly certain he’ll catch me if I don’t, and I have no idea how bad the punishments are in the schoolroom. This thrills me a bit—more than a bit—but not enough to risk it. As I said, I am mostly a good Girl.

The Master taps the Boy’s calf with the pointer stick. “Is that the best you can do?”

The Boy bites his lip. “Master, Andromeda Galaxy is two point five million light years from the Milky Way.”

“Ah, very good.” He lets the Boy place another kiss on his hand. “And what is the most commonly used measure of distance in astrometry, the branch of astronomy that deals with measurements and positions of celestial bodies?”

“That is the parsec, Master.”

Again the slave is allowed to press his lips to the back of the Master’s hand, while I panic in my seat. I couldn’t possibly answer these questions. But as much as I crave the Master’s hand beneath my hungry lips, I am still eager for the punishment. I want to move up the rows until my cunt and my ass are penetrated in the front of the room. To please the Master in this way, which, I am certain, is more satisfying to him than our ability to answer the questions. This idea makes me relax a bit. But only a bit. There is still the narrow pointer stick and the Master is creative in his use of us.

“Girl,” he says suddenly, making my head jerk up, and I realize I’ve been daydreaming. But he’s addressing the Girl with the pink hair. “Which of the Greek philosophers said ‘No intelligent man believes that anybody ever willingly errs or willingly does base and evil deeds; they are well aware that all who do base and evil things do them unwillingly’?”

She sits perfectly still, but I can see the tension in her shoulders—until the Master, out of patience, slams her desk with the stick.

“Answer,” he demands sharply, making me shiver.

I want that harsh voice aimed at me. And I don’t want it. I fear it. Oh, but fear can be such a delicious thing.

“Master, I think it was Diogenes.”

“Wrong,” he says as he smacks her thigh with the pointer stick.

Her body goes loose, and I understand this reaction so perfectly, the release that comes with an anticipated punishment. Then he marches to his desk at the front of the room, presses a button on a device I hadn’t noticed before that looks like an old-fashioned intercom.

“Advancement,” he says.

A moment later the door opens and two men come in, both of them burly in build, and I recognize one of them as Gilby. They unhook the pink-haired girl’s leash and lift her, moving her up one row and lowering her onto the phallus so quickly I barely have time to take in what’s happening. It’s then I see that all of the dildos in that row are carved with intricate patterns, and I can only imagine how they feel. My cunt squeezes the hard shaft inside me, which is suddenly far too small. How I want to be that Girl! I tremble with need at my school desk. Even more so when Christopher raises his chin and his urgent, angry gaze finds me. His golden eyes lance through me like flame and smoke and the keen edge of a knife. He is sublimely savage, this bad slave. The longer he stares at me, the more deeply I feel it. Feel
him
.

I cannot believe he is looking at me. I feel my mouth fall open a little, and a small smirk appears at one corner of his wicked lips, a dimple flashing for a moment in his cheek.

Ah God. I could die now. Come now.

Come. Now.

My cunt squeezes.

No!

I take in a breath. I hate to do it but I have to look away.

And suddenly the Master advances, his gaze on mine. He presses the tip of the pointer between my breasts. Lovely little pain.

“Girl, your first question. Who painted the infamous
Garden of Earthly Delights
?”

I almost want to get the answer wrong, but this I know. Art has long been an obsession of mine.

“Hieronymus Bosch, Master.”

“Ah, the new Girl answers correctly. You may kiss my hand.”

He extends it and it is all I can do to control myself, to place a quiet kiss there rather than licking it, sucking on his fingers.

“And now tell me, what element on the periodic table included in those below the atomic number ninety-two is not naturally occurring?”

My mind scrambles for information it doesn’t have, then freezes, my tongue going numb.

I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know!

I cannot say this. But I must.

“Master…is it uranium?” I say, trembling all over, knowing I’m wrong.

“Incorrect.” His voice rings in the room before he slams the pointer stick down on my thigh.

I squirm—I can’t help it.

“Try again,” he commands.

I make an effort to focus, but my thigh stings, and my body wants
more
.

“Colbalt, Master?”

“Incorrect! The correct answer is technetium.”

He smacks my thigh with the pointer once more, then again and again in the same hurting spot. My hands are balled into tight fists as I struggle not to cry out.

He pauses. “Advancement,” he announces. “Front row for her.”

Even before the two enormous henchmen arrive to unleash me and carry me up the rows, my body is melting, aching with desire. They bring me to the very front of the room and the breath goes out of me as I spy the two-headed dildo in the seat. Fear and desire are like fire and water in my system, my clit pulsing, my cunt contracting. Then they are lowering me onto it, the beaded shaft burning as it presses into my ass. The larger phallus slips easily into my wet pussy. I can feel them both inside me. And through the haze of needing to come, I feel both ashamed and glorious, as well as shocked that I ended up here in the front row. I don’t know how this has happened to me, and yet it has, and I can do nothing.
Nothing
. Beautifully humiliating.

The Master ignores the entire process, turning his attentions to Christopher once more. He presses the end of the pointer beneath Christopher’s chin, forcing his head up. Those golden eyes are still glittering with rage. I am still wet and wanting him. Wanting them both—my beautiful Master and this beautiful slave, whose naked flesh and naked anger drive my yearning for him to inexplicable heights.

“Christopher, I would advise that you answer correctly,” the Master says in a low, threatening tone.

Christopher’s only answer is a flaring of his nostrils, his golden eyes flashing. But his cock jumps.

The Master gives a low chuckle and slaps at the cock with his hand, then does it again. The head is going darker, and I can only imagine the need for release burning through the bad slave’s veins, his balls, that gorgeous, succulent cock. I swallow hard.

“We begin,” the Master says. “Christopher, here is your question. Jane is walking her dog, Spot. She sees her friend, Dick, walking toward her along the same long, straight road. Both Dick and Jane are walking at three miles per hour. When Dick and Jane are six-hundred feet apart, Spot runs from Dick to Jane, turns and runs back to Dick, and then back and forth between them at a constant speed of eight miles per hour. Dick and Jane both continue walking toward each other at a constant three miles per hour. Neglecting the time lost each time Spot reverses direction, how far has Spot run in the time it takes Dick and Jane to meet?”