Sarah's Tutorial: Corbin's Bend, Book 2 (9 page)

Sarah didn't know what to do. Was she supposed to do what she'd done with Fred, and what the girl in the porno had done with the big cock, and make that bobbing sort of motion? She started to bob ever so slightly, but John said, "No, Sarah." His cock felt, on her tongue, much bigger than it had looked. Desperate, she looked up, into his eyes.

"Do I have to get the paddle, young lady? You know where your eyes are supposed to be!" Abashed and nearly frantic now, she returned her eyes to John's crotch. Her jaw had definitely started to ache.

Then John held her head firmly in place, and thrust himself, slowly, deep into her mouth. She gagged instantly, and let go of his thighs, and even tried for a few seconds to push him away, but he held himself in, while she retched, and he said "That's it. So nice... mmm." Then, after a moment that seemed like an eternity of suffocating agony for her, he pulled out until only the head of his cock, which now felt much, much too big, remained inside her lips. He did not release her head, though she coughed around his cock, but instead thrust in again, and then again, and then again, making satisfied noises that fired Sarah's blood even through the ordeal of pleasuring him this way–or, rather, being used for his pleasure this way. Then, finally, he released her head and stepped back, and she, too startled to find her balance on her knees, fell forward onto her side on the carpet, just barely catching herself with her forearms.

John pulled the desk chair back to the desk, and sat in it. Then he said, "Come here, young lady," and opened his thighs again. Sarah got back to her knees and crawled between his thighs. The fear and desire mingled in her chest so thoroughly that she felt she had no will at all, but only did what John told her to do, which, each time, made both the fear and the desire increase.

"Look at me." She realized that without thinking about it she had been following the rules, looking only at the cock that had commanded the back of her throat so terribly just a moment before. It was still hard, still menacing. She looked up at John.

He had a slight sardonic smile on his face. "Blow jobs are nice," he said. "And in a moment, I'm going to let you show me what you can do under that heading, with your hands and all the artifice you've acquired–provided you understand that I'm going to come in your mouth, and you're going to swallow or be punished."

Terror and arousal. She made a little noise in her throat, and felt her thighs growing slick.

"But what I enjoy much more is better described as face-fucking. As you just saw, being face-fucked is harder for a girl to become accustomed to than giving a blowjob. I am a patient man. I hope we have a long time ahead of us for you to overcome your gag reflex, so I can have the pleasure of your mouth to which I am entitled. I will never punish you for not being able to suppress your gag reflex."

He turned to his desk, and fetched something like a little belt from behind the laptop.

"Before I let you pleasure me, though, it's time for a very important little ceremony. I am going to collar you, Sarah Jane Harshaw. Are you prepared to wear my collar?"

She didn't think there was anything she had ever been more prepared for. "Yes, sir."

"This collar might mean many things. It might not mean exactly the same thing to you that it does to me. There are those in what's called 'the lifestyle' who wear their collars all day. I don't think that's practical for us, although at some point, should we continue, I would like to give you something to wear to symbolize your submission, which you would never take off."

"Like a ring?" Sarah instantly blushed. She hadn't meant...

John chuckled and reached down and spanked her hard with his hand, three times.

"Yes, young lady, like a ring. The spanking is for speaking out of turn and not calling me 'sir'. You had better get over my lap."

Thus Sarah received her first lap spanking from John. Then, with a very red bottom and a very warm pussy, she knelt before him and held her ponytail out of the way while he buckled the collar around her neck.

"Sarah?" he asked. "Out of curiosity, what does the collar mean to you, right now?"

"That I belong to you, sir. That I am for your pleasure." She blushed again.

"I think you had better pleasure me with your mouth, then, now."

When, at the end of her reasonably accomplished blowjob, he held her face down upon him, and shot his essence into her mouth, she could already feel that she had a little more control over her gag reflex than she had before. And she swallowed John's semen, though it made her throat burn a little.

He raised her up, set her on his knee, and kissed her mouth, and said, "You are a very good girl, Sarah, and I love you very much."

"Oh, sir," she replied, and snuggled up against his chest.

*****

She learned a new lesson almost every day: new critical methodologies in Roman history, new submissive postures, new rope configurations, new things to be beaten with or fucked with. The most heavenly sessions were when they actually did talk about her thesis, and then she would say something sassy, and get the look, and then she would be over his knee, or over his desk, or over the kitchen table, and she would be his, all his, every spank a proof that she was what he wanted, and he was what she wanted.

The first time he caned her was a direct result of one of these tutorials. She had seen John's cane, in its place of honor on the bookcase in his office, had even dared to touch it when he wasn't looking. Her fear of it was huge and delicious, for she knew that sooner or later she would feel it across her bottom, and yet she couldn't imagine what it would feel like.

John asked her whether she had read a certain article about the rape of Lucretia that he had told her to read, and of course she hadn't. "I would hate to think, Miss Harshaw," he said, "that our erotic pursuits are getting in the way of your studies."

"Oh, no, you wouldn't," Sarah said, without thinking about it.

"That's the kind of answer that gets young ladies caned, Miss Harshaw," John said. "Would you care to rethink it?"

"No, sir," she replied, annoyed at his implication that fucking her was less important than teaching her Roman history.

"Go to the office, young lady, and get over my desk. I will be there to punish you in a few moments."

"With the cane?"

"Yes, Miss Harshaw, with the cane. It is high time you understood that your education is not a proper object of your disdain."

Had he been looking for an opportunity to use the cane on her, or did he really think the tutorial was more important? She was surprised at how angry she was about it. Who the fuck cared about the rape of Lucretia? Did John really love her, or was she just his latest tutee?

She was so pissed off that she actually didn't get over the desk, but rather stood there in his office, fuming. He found her standing in the center of the floor, looking at him. She was naked but for her collar, of course, but that didn't matter at all, since she was so used to it by now. This incident happened in perhaps the third week of October.

"Do you really think..." she began.

"Get over my desk, now, Miss Harshaw." He did not raise his voice. As far as Sarah could tell, John never, ever raised his voice. But the tone of it instantly reasserted his dominance over her. Her pussy tingled and flowed and she obeyed.

She heard him take the cane from the bookshelf with a little rattling sound.

"Sir..." she said. "I'm sorry."

"Not as sorry as you're going to be, Miss Harshaw," he said, drily, and began to cane her. After six, she did actually scream "Yellow!"

"Listen to me, young lady," he said, right after that. "My love for you is the most important thing in the entire universe as far as I'm concerned. I'm willing to proceed on the supposition that the same is true, in the converse, for you."

Sarah quietly sobbed. Had she ever, ever, ever felt anything more painful than the six welts across her bottom, John's welts? She didn't think so.

"But that doesn't give me a license to harm your prospects, if we stoop to that Victorian phrase. What if I died tomorrow? What if our relationship couldn't continue, for any of a number of very good reasons?"

"There's no good reason. None," she said miserably.

"Grant me this, Sarah. Perhaps there are good reasons. I can't think of any right now, but perhaps there are. I would owe it to you, and you would owe it to yourself, that you were prepared to continue with your studies. You are brilliant. I don't know if you're going to write a book about Livy, or about Roman history, or about anything related. Frankly, I don't know if people will still be writing things called 'books' ten years from now. But you have a gift for classical history, and probably for a lot of related things, and I'm not going to let you waste it because I want to fuck you in the ass every night for the rest of eternity."

"Oh, God... John..." The pain from the cane welts had begun to fade, and it was communicating itself to Sarah's pussy in a truly extraordinary way.

"What?"

"Um... make love to me?" That was the first time Sarah ever uttered that phrase.

He kneeled behind her now, the cane thrown aside, with his face buried in her ass and she was screaming. She came, and then he carried her the short distance over to the office couch, settling her on top of his cock, holding her burning bottom cheeks in his big hands.

"I'm going to teach you to ride me, now," he said softly, and he began to guide her upon him, until they moved in rhythm. "Does that feel nice, sweetheart?" he asked.

"Oh, fuck. Oh, yes, sir."

John tsked at her foul language and looked up into her face. She saw an expression in his eyes she hadn't ever seen before. Certainly it was not in any way a submissive expression, but it wasn't really dominant–just... loving. He wanted to make her feel good. That she feel good was his will for her at that moment. She felt tears well up in her eyes.

"Sir... thank you for caning me."

He smiled up at her. "Any time, young lady."

She rode, sighing, for a little while longer.

"Such a nice little pussy, Sarah, but it's time for you to get off. I want to come in your bottom."

By now, she knew what his favorite thing was: to see himself inside the bottom he had punished, and to give her one of those incredible squirting orgasms while he rode her hard.

He arranged her over the arm of couch and anointed her rectum. Dutifully, but also blushing with a shame that never seemed to go away, she pushed and opened to him, and received his cock inside the place that nature had not intended to receive cocks.

"There we go, young lady," he said with satisfaction, and from the beginning, thrust vigorously, as she gasped and moaned. "Do you like to get what you deserve, girl?" John grunted.

"Yes! Yes, sir... oh, sir... thank you..." and then the long drawn out cry of her climax.

After that, it was hard for her to think of the cane without a certain fondness, despite the pain.

Chapter 12

The whole thing blew up at the beginning of December, on the first Sunday of Advent. Sarah had spent the night before with John, of course. He had caned her for apparently expecting that he would give her an extension on her final paper for his course. Afterwards, during aftercare, she had giggled and pulled the paper out of her bag, at which point he had told her that she would be wearing her butt plug continuously for the following twenty-four hours, to remind her she was a sassy little slut.

As Sarah drove from John's house to her parents', looking forward to church and feeling all Advent-y, remembering the year she had been the one to light the first candle on the Advent wreath at their old church in Boulder, she realized with a horrible start that she hadn't talked to Marilyn the previous day. Surely, Marilyn wouldn't call her parents–she'd call Sarah first.

Sarah checked her phone. There were three messages from Marilyn. Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Marilyn called." There was no greeting. Just her mother at the open front door as Sarah came up the walk.

Sarah looked back at her mother, desperately trying to locate defiance, and coming up only with alarm.

"Where were you, Sarah?"

Sarah found a tiny little spark of rebellion when she heard not only concern, but also a noticeable element of indignation in Maeve's voice, as if to say "Why didn't you tell us?"

"If Marilyn called," Sarah said fiercely. "I'm pretty sure you already know."

Maeve responded in fury–fury like Sarah had only seen on her face once before, when Sarah's brother Jeff had set himself on fire.

"Sarah Jane Harshaw, I never thought I'd raised a disrespectful daughter! When you're asked a question, you answer it!"

"I was with him. Alright? Yes! I was with him."

"What were you doing?"

"What do you think we were doing, Mom? I'm twenty-one. Sex is something that sometimes happens."

"But he's your professor! That's not right, and you know it–even if he apparently doesn't."

"Sandy Ridge doesn't have a policy about that. We checked."

"Not having a policy and something being wrong are two very different things, young lady!"

"Goddammit! I am not your young lady anymore!" Sarah hadn't intended to let the emphasis she felt slip in–the emphasis on “your”–but it had. And her mother was a very good listener.

Sarah watched Maeve figure it out. "Not my young lady. Meaning that you're his young lady. Sarah, what kind of relationship is it that's going on here–are you seriously thinking that he's going to play your Head-of-Household, and you're going to be his taken-in-hand?"

Sarah refused to look at her. "You are, aren't you? Well, your father and I are never going to let that happen! Real domestic discipline marriages are built on love, and I can tell you this: that 'professor' of yours doesn't love you. To him you're just a piece of student ass."

"Oh my God. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!" Sarah screamed, right there on the steps of her parents' home. That was when her father appeared, looming behind her mother.

Joe Harshaw said, "Get your supposedly grown-up behind in here right now, Sarah. Go to the family room and get the spanking chair, and put it in the living room, then get over it for a whipping."

Sarah thought she was losing her mind. "Oh, please, Daddy. That's ridiculous."

"Fine," said her father. "I didn't really want to write that tuition check anyway."

"What?"

"You know exactly what your father is saying, Sarah," her mother replied. "Do as you're told. It's impossible to have a rational conversation with you when you're shooting off that foul mouth of yours."

Fuming, Sarah obeyed, thinking that she was willing to take a symbolic spanking over her skirt just to get this whole charade out of the way. It was always going to be difficult, she told herself. She just had to steel herself, and she and John would get through it. The spanking was an embarrassing thing to happen, of course, and it was going to hurt more because of what John had instructed her to wear underneath her clothes today, to remind her of him, but John's cane felt so much more painful than anything her father had ever done, and she was now so used to it–really, in certain ways, loved it so much–that she wasn't concerned at all about the pain.

"This is going to be over your underwear, Sarah," her father said, and flipped up her skirt the way he had used to when she was young.

She heard him draw breath sharply, and heard her mother gasp. That–the raising of her skirt–she had not expected, and now she couldn't deny to herself that she was in bad trouble, of a non-erotic nature, with terrible non-erotic consequences looming ahead.

Where they had expected to see the shapely-but-innocently-clad-in-modest-briefs backside of their adult daughter, Maeve and Joe Harshaw found themselves looking at the posterior of an experienced submissive. Three things were immediately apparent about it: Sarah was 1) not wearing underwear, but she was wearing 2) a butt-plug, and 3) six lovely welts from Professor John Dunn's cane.

She heard disgust in her father's voice. "Get up, Sarah. It's obvious my strap didn't have the intended effect on you when you were younger, and I can't imagine it will do so now."

Sarah felt the tears coming into her eyes, of rage and of sadness, as she smoothed her skirt down and stood up in the most dignified manner she could manage. Neither of her parents would meet her eyes. She took a deep breath and spoke.

"I'm sorry you had to see that. I... I'm sorry you don't approve of what I'm doing with Professor–with John Dunn. I'm sorry I turned out this way, but I did. I know you think it's disgusting and perverted, but it's what I need."

"No you don't!" her mother shouted, meeting her gaze at last. "It's the last thing you need! Let's just pretend we didn't see the evidence that you're doing filthy things with that... that pervert. Let's just think about the fact that he's your professor! I..." her voice trailed off.

"Well, he won't be for long," Joe said, grimly.

"What are you talking about?" Sarah said.

"We're going to go the administration of that college of yours and have him dismissed, that's what."

"It's not against the rules, Daddy! We made sure of that."

"It may not be in the handbook," Joe replied. "But no dean wants a story like this one going around. He'll talk to... that pervert, and that pervert will leave, and that will be that. I only hope we can persuade you that this is a passing thing, like I know it is."

Sarah felt her hands ball up into defiant fists, even as her face twisted with sorrow that everything was ruined. Her parents were never, ever going to understand. She tried to speak evenly, but she felt like she was choking on her tears, on the shattered joys that those tears mourned. Over. It couldn't be over, but she knew already that it was.

"I know you will never accept this part of me," she said, looking from her father to her mother, and then back. "But let me assure you of... one... fact. This is not a passing thing. This is who I am."

With a final, anguished look at each of them, and without another word, she left the house. She had no idea at first where she was going. She just drove the early morning streets of Corbin's Bend. If she went to John... but he would already be at church... should she go to church? Could Father Henry talk some sense into her parents? Surely her parents weren't going to church, were they? She turned around and headed for St. Michael's. She would be five minutes late for Mass, but suddenly she felt that St. Michael's was where she needed to be, with John or without him.

What she found when she arrived, though, was worse than she could possibly have imagined: her parents and John stood outside the church door, deep in conversation. Their faces all looked very grim, but they were not shouting. To her distress, John's head hung down as he listened to Joe, clearly delivering some version of "If you ever lay another hand on my daughter, I'll kill you."

She parked and got out of the car as fast as she could. But John was already walking away, from church, from her–though surely he hadn't seen her yet. Still it seemed it must be Sarah he walked away from, with bowed head, like that. She looked at her parents, who were looking at one another with expressions of slight confusion on their faces, as if the conversation had gone very differently from how they expected it would go. Sarah thought she could also read satisfaction in those expressions, but she saw that with a terrible sinking feeling. Satisfied was the last thing she wanted her parents to be, since she knew they would never be satisfied as long as she and John were together.

They had turned to enter the church door when they noticed her running towards them. She knew the tears streamed down her face now, and that she must look a fright. Joe and Maeve, to her astonishment, met her with concern and love, with no trace of anger. What the fuck had John said?

"I don't know what he said, but it's not true," she said as soon as she reached them.

"Shh, sweetie," said her mother. "Let's not talk about it now. Let's just go to Mass." As Sarah looked into her mother's eyes, all the defiance seemed to go out of her. At the same moment, out of the corner of her eye, she saw John's car pulling away. Crying, she fell into Maeve's arms, and let her mother lead her into church.

Sitting in a pew at the back, out of view of Joe, Maeve took a pair of panties, in a clear plastic bag, out of her purse, and slid them over to Sarah, who blushed furiously, but folded them small, and concealed them in her hand, and went to the little church bathroom, where, whimpering only a little bit, she removed the butt-plug, dropped it in the plastic bag, and put on the blue cotton briefs, wondering whether she had been wrong, and it all was just a passing thing. Girls in blue cotton briefs don't want to be fucked in the ass by their professors, do they?

She returned to church and sang, "Creator of the stars of night, thy people's everlasting light, o Christ, thou savior of us all, we pray thee, hear us, when we call." Lord Jesus, Sarah thought, tell me who I am, for right now I have no idea.

After church, she went back to her parents' house for Sunday dinner. Her brother Jeff, a senior in high school who probably wasn't going to go to college and who had stopped going to church (except of course for the true holy days of obligation: Christmas and Easter) the previous year, was there. October and November had begun to assume in her mind a feeling of unreality, as if they had happened to someone else. Not a word was uttered about what had happened before church, though at one point during dinner Sarah caught her mother looking at her askance, when she squirmed a little on her seat to take a bit of pressure off a cane welt. Other than that, she was Sarah Harshaw, straight-A student, good girl, pride and joy. Sarah Harshaw, sex slave, seemed to have disappeared forever.

When Joe and Maeve sat her down in Joe's office after dinner, then it seemed to be that other person, the one with the butt plug, who wept uncontrollably when they told her about the conversation with Professor Dunn. He had stood there and let Joe call him vile names, in Joe's “quiet yell” as Sarah always thought of it. He had said, if they were to be believed, "I'm so, so sorry. I'll make it right. Sarah just finished her work in my class, and I promise not to see her again."

"But..." Sarah said, "but he has..." She remembered the pictures, thought of how she had felt when he took them, and let out a choking sob. John hadn't said anything about the pictures because he didn't want her parents to know about them, because that would make it harder for Sarah to convince them that she wasn't irredeemably lost. If the pictures came out, of course, he would indeed bring her down with him, as he had said that first amazing night in his office. No, she couldn't stop thinking of it as amazing. She couldn't.

Maeve looked at Joe, then at Sarah. "We think we should leave it at that. If the story came out, your reputation..."

"Oh. My. God," Sarah said. "If you think..." but she couldn't continue, because that other girl, the sex slave, was crying too hard.

"If he even talks to you," said Joe in the quiet yell. "No, if he comes within fifty feet of you, you are to call me and tell me immediately, young lady."

The girl nodded. She didn't want to think anymore.