Archive-name: Slaves/mindscp3.txt
Archive-author: Arnora Dunestan
Archive-title: Mindscapes 3
She looks at her schedule for the term and smiles to herself. Her only
class on Tuesdays, and the last of two classes on Thursdays, happens to
be in the Math building, and since she must stay on campus Thursdays for
weekly evening meetings, she realizes just how much time she has to spare
for ... other things. It has been a long term, four months since she
last saw him. He had left without saying goodbye, even though she had
spent day after day passing through the C&D lounge, hoping to see him.
Even now there is a nagging voice of disappointment that he won't be
there when she gets there. Trying to remain undaunted, she packs her
paperwork into her pack and takes another quick glance around her before
taking that final walk to the lounge.
He is not there.
With several hours to go before she must leave for her class upstairs, she
breathes a familiar sigh and drops herself and her pack onto an empty
couch on the far side of the room, away from the doors, wondering once
again how or why he would have left without a word to her. In a way she
is surprised at the bitterness of that disappointment, knowing full well
that she had once hated him for the bruises and markings left on her
body, and the sense of shame he made her feel, shame not only for her
actions, but for her enjoyment of their games. Now she would be more than
content just to be kneeling at his side, with little more than a casual
touch from him now and then as an afterthought. Burying herself in her
book, she sharply drags her mind away from her daydreams and into focus
on her reading.
It is a long cold walk from where he parked his car to the Math building,
but it is so good to be back that he is undaunted, although a coffee is
starting to feel like a splendid idea. There is another reason, he
knows, for his desire to stop at the third floor. He wants to see if
she has waited for him, if she has still maintained her old habits and
routes on campus. He does not allow himself to think that she may have
graduated, or left for a work term, or simply given up waiting. He has
had plenty of cause to wonder if simply disappearing was as good an
idea as originally he had thought; yet they had started in anonymity, and he
had chosen to finish that way as well, in spite of all the potential
consequences. Now, however, he is back, and he braces himself for the
impact of seeing her again.
It isn't enough. He draws up short just outside of the lounge, almost
spilling the hot coffee he's just poured into his insulated mug. As
if no time had elapsed ever, there she sits, curled into a lounge chair
and buried in a book. In that split second, he notes the new clothes,
the new coat, the new haircut that frames her face in a softer, more
flattering style. He is unprepared for the emotional surge, and the
abrupt realization of how much he has missed her. He almost feels shy,
but the old reflexes are being stirred, as are a few ... other things.
Quickly he puts aside the urge to run to her and hold her and apologize
for leaving her; he is quite certain she would not know how to take that
kind of behaviour from him. He did teach her better than that. A smile
spreads over his lips as he wonders just how much of that teaching she
will have retained after four months with no practice.
A seat just behind her becomes available, and he slips himself into it
as surreptitiously as possible, trying to avoid attracting her notice. In
sidelong glances he admires how good she looks in her stirrup pants and
loose, baggy sweater. His hands remember the feeling of her skin, hot
from a spanking or damp from exertion. His mind fills in the scents and
sounds of her breathing, the sensation of her fingernails drawing blood
across his back as he rewards her good behaviour. Soon his own head is
reeling with the strength of his arousal, and he gives in to the
inevitable.
She feels the discomfort long before she mentally pinpoints the source.
Someone is staring at her, which she hates. Yet as she looks around the
room, none of those who are using the lounge meet her eyes, and she
wonders if someone made it to the seating arrangement behind her without
her notice. Trying to be nonchalant, she drops her book beside her and
stretches, attempting to work casually into turning around. She never
makes it that far, for before she can twist her body around, her
outstretched arms are grasped at the wrists and her hands are bent behind
her head. Stifling a surprised cry, she whips her head around to look, and
in spite of the hair blocking her vision, she knows who it must be. His
grip weakens for a moment and she breaks his grip to throw herself into his
not-altogether-unwilling embrace.
He feels her body trembling against him and tightens his arms around her -
briefly. Then, gently, he disengages himself and puts her at arms' length,
taking in every detail close up. She is still kneeling on the couch, but
submits willingly to his visual exploration, knowing that there will be more,
much more, to come. Renewing his grip on her wrists, he asks,
"Do you have a class?" She nods.
"Eleven-thirty till one, upstairs."
"Here?" He grins; this is almost too perfect, for his last
class will end at 12:30. He glances at the lounge's wall clock. It is
shortly after ten. Plenty of time for a tease. His only regret is that,
at this early hour of the day, there are far too many people around to
risk anything in either the stairwells or the elevator. They must go
to his office - and soon. Silently he beckons for her to follow him,
leaving her scrambling to pick up not only her own things, but his as well.
The coffee makes for a very delicate balancing act up three flights of
stairs.
In his office, in the familiar surroundings of what has served better as a
playroom than workspace in the past, she sets down her load; after setting
the coffee on the edge of his desk, she stands, turning to face him and
smiling. The vehemence of the slap which greets her smile sends her to her
knees.
"Ah, how quickly you have forgotten, pretty," he whispers,
straddling her where she has fallen. "You do not stand in my presence
unless told to, and on top of all this, you are still dressed." He wraps
his hand in a fistful of hair and pulls her head back to look at him. "Take
your pants off." Seating himself on the edge of his desk, he keeps the
grip in her hair. She sniffles, but makes no move to wipe the surprised
tears from her cheeks. The sting of the slap fades quickly enough, she
knows, and the delay will only make him angry. Conscious of his maintained
contact, she wriggles out of her pants and, without prompting, also
removes her underwear and socks. When they have been neatly added to her
coat and pack, she assumes the postion he taught her, knees spread wide,
hands laced at the back of her head, and waits patiently for him to tell
her what he wants.
"Lie stomach down on the desk," is the command which comes down to her.
The surface of the desk is as smooth and cool as she remembers; the edges cut
slightly into her shins, and she wriggles up so that both her head and her feet
hang over the ends of the desk. He watches her settle herself with
something approaching satisfaction. All of the old feelings and attitudes
are flowing back into him, back through him, and he watches from inside
himself as the persona of her master takes hold of him again. It is good to
be back, he thinks. From the bottom drawer of his desk he removes the old
fleece blindfold and ties it almost reverently over her eyes, pulling it
snuggly down over her nose to block out all light. From behind the books on
the recently re-installed shelves, he takes a new toy, one she hasn't
encountered before. A little over two feet long, the crop has a wicked
little flap of leather at its tip; it is a real riding crop , not a switch
as he has trained her with previously, but one he has actually hunted for,
going out of his way to find country tack shops to investigate. Such
stores have provided him with a myriad of ideas, many of which he plans to
introduce in the future. For now, however, it amuses him to watch her
flinch involuntarily to the sound of his testing the crop against the
air. It is obvious she is not familiar with the sound.
It is a cutting sound, and she braces herself for the cutting pain, feeling
the flesh on her buttocks warm itself in anticipation. She hates the
switch, hates the arousal it produces in her body, hates the way she always
seems to turn towards the painful contact she knows is coming. Now, it
would seem he has a similar new toy, and she tries to prepare herself
for the inevitable, wondering if he is aware of her current state of tension.
He has left her hands free, and of her own accord, she brings them behind her
back, locking her hands around her wrists. With her head down over the
edge of the desk, she finds this creates something like a delicious stress
along her spine. Then she waits.
He watches. A few experimental thwacks of the crop on the desk near her
head have upset her concentration a great deal, and it pleases him to
watch her try to move her body away from both the caress of the leather
flap, or the stirring of air as he flashes the crop above her skin. When the
blow finally falls, it is very obviously not where she had been anticipating.
The sting in her feet jerks her into a fetal position without even thinking.
She reaches down to rub the attacked soles and encounters only his steel
grip, followed immediately by the crack of a blow across the offending
palm. She squeals and pulls away from him. With a tight grip, he pulls
her feet back down to the end of the desk, spreading them to the corners
to expose her inner thighs. He follows the curve of her legs with an
approving eye; she has been working out, he notices. Supple skin shows
the tightness of the muscles in her legs which were strong before, and
now he wonders what it would be like to feel those newly-defined
muscles clench around him ...
She senses his distraction and lies still, knowing that disturbing his
contemplation would displease him. There is a sense of moisture
forming between her body and the desk, and her back tenses at the
thought of his touch, or that of the crop . With a patience she did not
possess those long months ago, she waits, trying to still her own
impatience from the inside, without attracting his wrath. In time, she
is rewarded, but the origin of the trace along her spine is the crop ,
not his warm fingers. Travelling with an exacting precision, it follows
the bump of each vertebrae down her back, one slow bone at a time. When
he brushes past the sensitive muscles in her spine, she tenses, trying
to supress that delightful shudder. His response is the application
of the crop to the soft spot between her thighs. Then he starts over.
By the time he reaches the small of her back without disturbance, the welts
are rising on her legs and buttocks, but she does not flinch as he pulls
her back to the edge of the desk, pressing her feet into the floor. He
leaves her hands to grasp the edge of the desk, then steps away from
her long enough to step out of his own pants.
"That was much better, pretty," he whispers, "and you deserve
a treat." With that, he spreads her labia wide and plunges himself
into her. There is no thought, no deliberation to the action; they have
both waited long enough. There is a brief hint in his mind of all the
things which he will do to her as he wishes, but he has missed her too
much to relinquish the joy he now takes in her body, her presence, her
wanting to be there. They synchronize. They fall into the patterns
and rythms established long ago, not the movement of a master taking
his slave, but of two bodies who have learned the reactions of, and how to
react to, each other. The muscles of her vagina hold him in an
embrace which will extend into a real one later; she gives him everything
she can, and in return, they give each other release, slow, shuddering
fulfillment. He collapses against her flushed skin. She can feel his
sweat through his sweater, and delights in the scent of him filling
her nose. Lips press softly along her spine, and she waits as he pulls
away; yet rather than dress as she expects him, he peels off his shirt
and sweater, and drops himself into the great chair behind his desk.
Reaching out, he takes her hand in his larger one, and pulls her into his
lap. She needs no permission to snuggle her head against his shoulder as
he leans around her to retrieve a towel from a bag near the chair.
Ever so gently does he dry the streams of perspiration which have
trickled over her body, though, with a wry grin, he does allow her to dry
between her legs herself. Without a word, she resettles herself against
him, encircled by his arms, his breath in her hair as their bodies climb
down from that exquisite peak. Slowly does he turn her chin to his face,
pressing his lips almost reverentially against her own. There is no need
for more now; there will be time enough for play in the future.
The room grows dark before either one of them thinks to stir; he
is almost certain that she has fallen asleep when he moves to brush the
hair from her eyes. Soon she will leave, but now he knows he has, in fact,
come home again. He puts his head back and rests.
Jan 20/92
Arnora Dunestan
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